The Captive Queen Part 27

"I would question that," Eleanor put in, enjoying this discussion immensely.

"Madame, begging your pardon, I contend that true love cannot exist between husband and wife," Bertran challenged. "It must be looked for elsewhere. And I have to say that, although the object of one's desire is not supposed to condescend to a humble suitor, many do!" There were cries of outrage from the ladies present.

"Sir, you are lacking in chivalry, and breaking the rules of the game," Eleanor chided.

"But, madame, you cannot agree that love can flourish within marriage," Bertran persisted.

"I would not believe it," Rigaud murmured.

Eleanor's smile faded. It was as if a cloud had pa.s.sed over the sun. "I believe that love may be found in marriage," she said at length, "if the partners be two kindred souls, which is rare, I grant you. But ..." Her voice grew distant, her tone chill. "But where the husband insists on being master, and has the right to take what he wants, rather than sue for it, love cannot flourish, for I truly believe, as I said before, that love must be given freely in a relations.h.i.+p of equals."

"But that leads us back to the burning question. How can men and women ever enjoy such a relations.h.i.+p?" Bertran protested. "In marriage, the husband is lord; in courts.h.i.+p, the mistress grants favors, if it please her."

Eleanor laughed suddenly, and tapped him on the shoulder. "You tell us, Messire de Born! What about all those ladies who have condescended-of whom you have just spoken? You must know all about love in a partners.h.i.+p of equals!" There was general laughter, as Bertran smirked and nodded, conceding defeat.

"Love?" Torqueri giggled. "What does he know of it? All he thinks of is that unruly little devil in his braies!"

"I object to the word 'little'!" Bertran roared.

"I should know," retorted Torqueri archly, to more splutterings of glee. It was all very pleasant, Eleanor thought, sitting here, feeling completely at home and enjoying such idle discourse. Love, she reflected, was perhaps not the most important thing in the world, despite what the troubadours claimed; and there were many compensations for its loss. She knew now that she could live alone, at peace in her own company, and that she could face the future with equanimity. The battle had been a long one, but she had won it.

38.

Caen, Normandy, and Poitiers, 1170

Henry had aged in the two years since Eleanor had last seen him. His red hair was streaked with gray, there were lines of strain etched on his face, and he had put on more weight. He greeted her formally with a kiss on the cheek, one prince to another, his face betraying no emotion; then, taking her hand, he led her into the grand Hall of the Exchequer in Caen, his courtiers bowing as they pa.s.sed.

"I would not have summoned you North in the depth of winter had it not been important for us to show solidarity on this issue," he explained.

"You are resolved on having Young Henry crowned King of England now, I understand," Eleanor stated.

"Yes. It is customary in England to wait until a ruler succeeds, but all the French kings back to Charlemagne have had their heirs crowned in their lifetimes, and I am of the opinion that it is a good way of safeguarding the succession. No doubt the English will grumble, as they dislike anything that breaks with tradition, but they will get used to it. There is but one obstacle to my plan."

"Becket," Eleanor said without hesitation.

"Yes," Henry sighed, "but we will discuss that over dinner." He led her into a fine vaulted chamber hung with tapestries portraying hunting scenes. "Some wine?"

"Thank you," Eleanor said politely, trying to recall the pa.s.sion that had once existed between them and failing, for it seemed they had become two strangers. "Did you have a pleasant Christmas?"

"Yes," Henry replied. "I kept it at Nantes in Brittany, with Geoffrey and Constance. It's a pity you were not there at Rennes last spring, to see Geoffrey invested with the ducal crown."

"I am sorry I could not be there. I was on progress in Aquitaine. But Geoffrey told me all about it, and Constance was full of it, and puffed up with her own importance, the little minx." She grimaced at the memory.

"Geoffrey will have his hands full with that one." Henry chuckled. "Thank G.o.d he won't be bedding her for several years to come."

"So all is quiet in Brittany now?" she could not resist saying. It was ancient history, the rising of Eudes de Porhoet, but she wanted to make Henry sweat a little over it. He gave her a quizzical look, then turned away.

"You heard," he said.

"All Europe heard!" she answered tartly. "How could I fail to hear?"

"Eleanor, I did not ask you here to fight with you." Henry's tone was almost pleading. "You asked for your freedom, and you have it. At least allow me mine."

"Naturally," she said sweetly. "I trust that Rosamund-'Fair Rosamund,' as I hear they now call her-how charming that sounds!-wasn't too upset by it. She is still your mistress, I take it?"

"Vixen!" Henry barked. "You haven't been here five minutes and you're picking a quarrel with me."

"Yes, but I've been storing up a few things to say to you over the past two years," Eleanor riposted.

"Actually, it is good to see you," Henry said. "Don't spoil it."

"How touching!" she exclaimed, smiling a touch too gaily.

"We need to work together now," he told her, frowning. "Shall we call a truce?"

"A truce!" The smile seemed to be fixed on her face. "If you will."

They dined in the solar, the servitors having withdrawn after laying out the food on a side table, from which they helped themselves.

When they were seated, Henry wasted no time in returning to the subject of Young Henry's coronation.

"What I want," he began, "is to see Thomas restored to his rightful place in Canterbury, and an end to this interminable wrangling. It is fitting that the Archchbishop of Canterbury perform the ceremony."

"But I heard you had quarreled again with Becket last year?"

Henry sighed deeply. "Indeed I did. Louis had offered to mediate-once more-and, at his suggestion, I sent to tell Thomas that I would support his reinstatement if he would retract his condemnation of the Const.i.tutions of Clarendon. And he agreed, Eleanor! He said he would do it."

"So what went wrong?" She'd heard several garbled versions of what had actually taken place and had not known which to believe.

"He came to see me. We hadn't set eyes on each other for four years, so you can imagine how I felt. He fell on his knees, then prostrated himself fully before me, begging for mercy."

"He was ever one for the grand gesture," Eleanor observed acidly.

"You sound just like my mother, G.o.d rest her," Henry objected.

"Your mother was a very wise woman-she had the measure of this man."

"Look, I am trying to tell you what happened," Henry protested.

"Go on then," she said coolly.

"Well, I thought that would be it. We'd exchange the kiss of peace, he'd go home to Canterbury, and we'd all live happily ever after."

"Henry, this is Thomas Becket we are talking about. Nothing is ever straightforward with this priest. What did he do?"

Henry flung her a hurt look, but resumed his tale without rising to the bait. "He ruined it all. He said he would submit to my pleasure in all things saving the honor of G.o.d, and that it did not become a priest to submit to the will of a layman. By which I knew, beyond doubt, that we were back to where we'd started."

"And what did you do?"

"I lost my temper. I swore at him and walked out, with everyone in an uproar, and Louis trying ineffectively to tell Thomas that he was being too obstinate. And that was that. Becket stormed back to his cloister, and has been sulking there ever since, G.o.d d.a.m.n him."

Eleanor rose, took her plate to the buffet, and speared two more pieces of chicken with her knife. "So where do we go from here?" she asked.

"I propose-and I want your approval for this-to have our loyal friend Roger, Archbishop of York, crown Young Henry instead."

Eleanor turned and stared at him. "You know that Becket would see that as a gross insult?"

"I do," Henry replied defiantly, "and I know too that it would offend those who love tradition. But I cannot afford to let this infernal priest interfere with my plans. Do you agree?"

"Absolutely. It might be a way of bringing Becket to heel."

But it was not.

"He has threatened me with excommunication if I order Archbishop Roger to officiate at the crowning," Henry roared. "What's more, he has complained to the Pope, and His Holiness has forbidden it, also on pain of excommunication. And any bishop or priest who takes part in the ceremony will also be subject to anathema. It is not to be borne, and by the eyes of G.o.d, I will defy them both! I am going to England now, to see the thing done, and I want you to stay here and govern Normandy in my absence."

"You know you have my support," Eleanor told him. He looked at her for a lingering moment, his expression warmer than she had seen it in years. But he said nothing; his mind was on practicalities.

"Close all the ports and keep them closed until you hear from me," he commanded. "We don't want our friend Thomas crossing the Channel and spoiling things."

"What of your bishops?"

"Leave me to bully them. They know what's good for them. When all is ready, I will send for Young Henry. I leave it to you to ensure that he comes with a suitable escort. Add a couple of bishops for good measure, so that the people may believe this is done with the blessing of the Church. You'll know how to cozen your prelates."

"You may safely leave all that to me," Eleanor a.s.sured him. "What of young Marguerite? Is she to be crowned too?"

"No. I dare not risk offending Louis at this time. He might be upset at my defying the Pope. Keep the wench with you. Tell her I will arrange a second crowning later, when Becket has come to his senses."

Eleanor was convinced that Henry was doing the right thing, and she was touched that he now had such a good opinion of her abilities as a ruler that he trusted her to hold Normandy in his absence; but her heart grieved that she would not be there in Westminster Abbey to see her son made a king. On the appointed day, Sunday, the fourteenth day of June, she had special prayers offered up for him at ma.s.s, and spent hours on her knees, with Marguerite at her side, beseeching G.o.d to bless and direct him in his high office.

With the Channel ports open once again, messengers were able to bring her reports of the coronation.

"The Young King cut a fine figure in his crown and robes of estate, my lady! People were saying he was the most handsome prince in all the world."

"He was debonair and gallant, every inch the King, and only a little lower than the angels!"

"Some called him beautiful above all others in form and face. He is blessed in courtesy, most happy in the love of men, and has found grace and favor with his future subjects."

Eleanor's spirit soared when she heard these paeans of praise, yet there was one report that did not come to her directly by way of a royal messenger, but through the gossip of a lady betrothed to a knight who had been at the coronation banquet and now come home to be married. Entering her bower, she overheard this damsel telling the others that the Young King had shown grave disrespect to his father. Then they suddenly realized that Eleanor had come upon them and there was an embarra.s.sed silence.

"Well?" Eleanor probed. "Pray continue."

"My lady, forgive me, I should not be saying this to you," the girl faltered.

"On the contrary, it is my son of whom you speak, and therefore my business. Go on!" she rapped.

"My lady, my betrothed told me that the Lord King insisted on acting as servitor to the Young King, and when he carried the boar's head on a platter to the high table, he jested that it was unusual to see a king wait at table. But the Young King replied that it was no condescension to see the son of a count wait upon the son of a king, and-and he was not joking, my lady."

Eleanor concealed her dismay well. "I suggest you cease telling tales like this about your betters, young lady," she chided. "Now, fetch my embroidery." The story rang true, though, and she decided to have a word with William Marshal, who was about to leave for England to head the new household that Henry had set up for the Young King, and tell him to exhort his charge, on her behalf, always to show the proper respect and deference for his father.

With Geoffrey and the Young King formally invested with the crowns and insignia of their future inheritances, it was now Richard's turn. As Eleanor's heir, he was to be installed as Count of Poitou in Poitiers, and it was there Eleanor traveled that summer. She thought she would burst with pride as she stood in the Abbey of St. Hilaire and watched as the Archbishop of Bordeaux solemnly gave her twelve-year-old hero the holy lance and standard of the city's patron saint. Then she escorted Richard to Niort, where he received the homage of the lords of Poitou, holding himself with dignity and pride.

Afterward she and he sat together on identical thrones at a feast to mark the occasion, which was followed by a series of tournaments that Eleanor had arranged for Richard's delight. Already he was chomping at the bit to take part in them himself, and his instructors told her that it would not be long before he was fully competent to do so. The prospect chilled her a little, for jousts were often brutal and bloodthirsty contests, but so great was her delight in her boy's prowess that she was determined to quell her fears for him. In a year or so, she promised him, he could have his wish.

39.

Rocamadour, 1170

Eleanor knelt beside Henry in the dim church, her eyes dazzled by the mult.i.tude of candles that blazed before the shrine of the miraculous black Madonna. This was one of the most holy sanctums in her domains, a place of pilgrimage for countless numbers of the faithful. Perched on a sheer cliff above the Alzou gorge, high above the straggling village of Rocamadour overlooking the River Alzou, the shrine could only be accessed by a steep stone stairway. In accordance with pious custom, the King and Queen had knelt on every one of its 216 steps as they made their slow ascent in the company of their lords and ladies and many humbler pilgrims. They had come to venerate blessed St. Amadour, who had escaped from his persecutors after the Crucifixion of Christ, then taken the Virgin Mary's advice and fled to this land of Quercy, ending his days as a hermit. His sacred bones lay beneath the floor of the Chapelle Miraculeuse, the holy of holies, and above his resting place had been reverently set the dark wooden statue of the Virgin and Child. Above that hung a bell, which was said to ring spontaneously whenever a miracle was about to take place.

Henry and Eleanor were not looking for miracles. The time for that, she thought sadly, was long past, although she was grateful they had at last reached a state of peaceable amity and accord. No, they had come, on this golden October day, to give thanks for Henry's recovery from the tertian fever that had very nearly killed him the previous August.

For this, Eleanor blamed Becket. Of course, the Archbishop could not have sent the fever itself, but by his conduct he had caused the King so much grief that he was more susceptible than usual to illness. Becket and the Pope had been outraged at Henry's defiance, and for a time there were fears that both the King and his kingdom would be placed under an interdict. But then Louis intervened, and the Pope changed his tune and insisted that Henry and Becket make up their quarrel. Henry had immediately declared that he was ready to make peace and, through the good offices of King Louis, met with Becket in the forest of Freteval, south of Paris, in June.

When the King's party and the Queen's joined up on the road to Rocamadour, a thinner Henry looking pale and exhausted after his illness, he told Eleanor what had pa.s.sed on that fateful day.

"I threw my arms around Thomas. I could not help myself," he stated, looking at her as if he expected her to make some biting remark. But she was so shocked at the change in him, and by his apparent vulnerability, that she had no heart to criticize.

"Who spoke first?" she asked.

"I did. I gave him fair words. I told him that we should go back to our old love for each other, and do all the good we could for each other, and forget utterly the hatred that had gone before." Henry's voice cracked with emotion. "I admitted I had been wrong to defy the Church over the coronation, and I asked him to return in peace to Canterbury and crown Young Henry again, with Marguerite this time. And he agreed."