The Captive Queen Part 36

She fretted, she worried. At length, she thought of approaching the Archbishop of Rouen, Rotrou, who, on the brink of the fatal rebellion, had exhorted her to return to Henry. Unlike Hugh of Avalon, he believed that her marriage was valid. A plea to him might help. So she wrote, appealing to him against being forced to enter the cloister against her will, and gave the unsealed parchment to Ranulf Glanville for inspection. He looked a little troubled at its contents, but agreed to dispatch it. She wondered if he would really do so.

But Glanville was as good as his word, and presently, a reply came from the Archbishop a.s.suring her that he would refuse to consent to her becoming a nun at Fontevrault against her wishes. Rotrou added that he had made his position known to the King, and warned her that Henry had said he would appeal again to the Pope to have their marriage dissolved. Ah, she thought, but that way, he won't get my lands! She might, she dared to think, have her freedom yet.

51.

Winchester, 1176

"Make ready, my lady," beamed Glanville, entering Eleanor's chamber one blazing August morning. "You are summoned to Winchester." It was clear that he was pleased to have some good tidings to impart at last.

Eleanor looked at him blankly. She could not take this in. Had Henry at last relented and granted her her liberty?

Glanville seemed to have read her thoughts. "The Lord King has betrothed your daughter, the Lady Joanna, to the King of Sicily. She is staying in Winchester, where preparations are being made for her departure from this realm, and the King has given leave for you to visit her there and make your farewells. You will, of course, travel under guard."

This unexpected kindness on Henry's part nearly took Eleanor's breath away. Was he finally thawing toward her? Was this the first step toward a reconciliation? For three years now she had been cruelly cut off from her children, deprived of the pleasure of watching them grow to maturity and playing her proper maternal role in their lives. Heaven only knew what effect this deprivation could have had on the younger ones, those poor, innocent victims; Henry hadn't thought of that, had he, in his need to exact vengeance on her? Yet in the wake of this one kind gesture from him, she was willing to put all that behind her. In the joyful antic.i.p.ation of seeing Joanna, she was prepared to meet him more than halfway on anything.

The royal apartments in Winchester Castle were abuzz with activity, with damsels scurrying about with armfuls of rich garments and chests full of jewels, merchants displaying their luxurious fabrics, and seamstresses st.i.tching away furiously at the eleven-year-old bride's trousseau. In the midst of it all sat Joanna, a slightly less brilliant mirror image of the young Eleanor, her fresh young face rosy with excitement. At the sight of her mother appearing in the doorway, she rose and swept a deep curtsey, her pearl brocade skirts fanning over the floor.

"My dear child!" Eleanor cried, unable to contain her emotion, and suddenly mother and daughter were in each other's arms, formality and the intervening years forgotten as they embraced each other with tears and laughter.

"So you are going to be married," Eleanor said when she had managed to compose herself. It did not do for this girl to be burdened with the undamming of the floodgates of her own sorrows.

"I am to take s.h.i.+p for Palermo and marry King William, my lady. My lord my father says he is a great prince, and that Sicily is a fair land."

Eleanor's heart almost bled for her daughter's innocent hopes. She prayed fervently that this marriage would turn out to be far happier than her own had been. Then she noticed Joanna looking at her blue bliaut. It was fine but old; all her gowns were old, for Henry had not thought fit to replace them, and the hem of this one was looking frayed. She could tell what Joanna was thinking, that it was unseemly for a queen to be clothed so meanly. But her daughter was prattling on happily about the wondrous wedding robes that Henry had provided for her, at enormous cost to himself. Clearly it mattered to him that his daughter impressed the world.

"I will ask him if he will purchase some fine robes for you too, my lady," the girl said touchingly.

"No matter," Eleanor said. "He has been kind enough in allowing me to visit you here."

"Oh, but I shall!" cried Joanna, her eyes s.h.i.+ning. "And I will make him let you come and visit me in Sicily. Have you ever been there, Mother?"

Eleanor's heart sank. Had Henry not seen fit to instruct anyone to break it to this poor child that her parting from her parents might be final? Joanna was going a long way off, to a distant kingdom, and there was no guarantee that they might ever meet again. Such was the fate of princesses who were married off to foreign princes. Look at Matilda, in far-off Germany; Eleanor had no idea when, or if, she might see her eldest daughter again; she missed her still, and always would-it was a sadness that would never leave her. It was always easier for the one going away, for they were embarking on their life's adventure; it was those left behind who felt the loss most keenly.

"I went to Sicily when I was Queen of France," she said lightly. "It is a beautiful country, with wondrous scenery and many ancient ruins, and Palermo is a fair town. King William is Norman by descent, as you are. But, daughter, do not look to have me visit you there. As you know, your father is displeased with me. It is a miracle that he has let me come here. I should not like you to look for my coming in Palermo and then be disappointed. But we can write to each other," she added quickly, seeing the sweet face about to crumple. "Now, are you going to show me your wedding gown?"

The days spent with Joanna were precious, golden days that pa.s.sed all too soon. The imminent parting lent them piquancy and brilliance. It was tragic to be restored to her daughter's company just when she might be separated from that daughter forever, but Eleanor did her best to keep happy and cheerful. Why waste this gift of time with lamentations? Joanna should take with her a joyful image of her mother, one she could cherish and hold in her heart.

"Will Father send you back to Sarum?" the child asked one day, as they took the air in the castle garden, two guards hovering discreetly in the background, as they always did. Eleanor had long since learned to get used to that, but she sensed that Joanna found it disconcerting.

"Yes, I'm sure he will," she said lightly.

"Why did he lock you up?" The naive question gave her a jolt.

"We had a difference of opinion as to the amount of power that the King should allow your brothers," she answered carefully. "Unfortunately, it led to war, and although I never intended that, your father holds me partly to blame."

"I heard him say he can never love or trust you again," Joanna said innocently, her little voice mournful.

Eleanor was shocked. No child should ever have to listen to one parent saying such things of the other!

"Were you to blame, Mother?" Joanna's look was searching.

Eleanor sighed. "I did not think so at the time. I thought I was right. But now I'm no longer sure. I just want the wounds to be healed."

"I want that too," the child declared, "but I don't think my brother the Young King does."

"Oh?" This was news indeed. She thought Henry and their sons had reconciled, and imagined the boys living in subjection to their father's heavy hand.

"The King my father kept his Easter court here. My brothers came too, but they were arguing all the time. Young Henry was angry about being kept idle in England, while Richard and Geoffrey were allowed to rule Aquitaine and Brittany. He accused the King of trying to oust him from the succession, but Father wouldn't listen, so he asked leave to go to Spain, to visit the shrine of St. James at Compostela, although I think he just wanted to go and meet his friends and cause trouble, or so Father said. He wouldn't let him go. Since then he has let Young Henry go to Aquitaine, but I think he has been stirring up the people there against Richard. Oh, and I heard he was taking part in a lot of tournaments."

So, Eleanor realized, all was clearly not well between Henry and his heir. If anything, and Joanna had it right, matters were worse now than before the rebellion. Of course, Henry would find it impossible to trust his sons after what had happened.

"What of Richard?" She asked. "Do you know anything of him?"

"No. He went back to Aquitaine. The people there hate him. Geoffrey seems to be all right in Brittany, apart from having to live with Constance!" Mother and daughter exchanged knowing smiles, although Eleanor was disturbed to hear that her subjects hated Richard.

"And Eleanor? And John?" she inquired.

"Eleanor is still at Fontevrault, Mother. She is going to marry the Infante of Castile, but I don't know when." Another daughter lost, Eleanor thought sadly. "And John is betrothed again, to Hawise of Gloucester."

"But he was betrothed to Alice of Maurienne!"

"She died of a fever," Joanna told her. "He says this new marriage will make him even richer." Another heiress, Eleanor thought, with a doleful pang for that sweet child Alice, dead before she had a chance to taste life's joys. This new marriage seemed a G.o.dsend, a sensible solution to the problem of John's lack of an inheritance.

"My father keeps John with him," Joanna was saying. "He calls him his favorite son. But actually, he likes Geoffrey best."

Geoffrey? Surely not! Then Eleanor realized that Joanna was talking about Henry's b.a.s.t.a.r.d son. He had ever favored the boy, she thought sourly.

"Geoffrey fought for him in the war," Joanna was saying. "He was very brave. My father said ..." Her voice trailed off and she flushed a deep pink.

"Yes? What did he say?" Eleanor prompted.

"He said that Geoffrey alone had proved his true son, and that his other sons were really the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"I see," said the Queen. She saw all too clearly.

It was gratifying to have the freedom of the castle, even if there were guards posted at every door. One day, wandering through the deserted state apartments, Eleanor stepped into the famous Painted Chamber, so-called because of the wondrous murals that Henry had commissioned for its walls, and found herself gaping in surprise. For where there had been a panel left blank, there was now a new and disturbing picture of an eagle, freshly painted, and on its outstretched wings and back were three eaglets, with a fourth, the smallest, sitting on its neck, looking for all the world as if it might at any moment peck out its parent's eyes.

As Eleanor stared, she heard a footfall behind her. It was Ranulf Glanville.

"Pardon me, my lady, but dinner is about to be served. Oh, I see you have noticed the painting."

"The King commissioned it?"

"Yes, my lady."

"The eagle is himself, I gather, but what does it all mean?"

The custodian spoke evenly, not relis.h.i.+ng what he had to say. "When some of us asked the King the meaning of the picture, he said that the eaglets were his four sons, who ceased not to persecute him even unto death."

"But John is just a child! How can he include him in this?" The rest she could understand, but at this cra.s.s folly, she was aghast.

"That is what some of the King's courtiers said, my lady. But he answered that he fears his youngest, whom he now embraces with such affection, will someday afflict him more grievously and perilously than all the others."

"That is nonsense," Eleanor snapped.

"I think one has to understand the King's frame of mind when he said it, my lady. He observed that a man's enemies are the men of his own house."

And the women, she thought, remembering her own part in her sons' revolt. But John! John would never betray the father who spoiled him so and lavished so much love on him.

Joanna had gone, off in her gay cavalcade to Southampton where her s.h.i.+p was waiting to take her across the seas. Saying farewell and standing there at the castle doors, watching her go, had been hard, but Eleanor had fought to maintain her composure. She had long grown used to dealing with sorrow, had coped with far worse ordeals than this, and kept her resolve to say good-bye to her daughter with a smile on her face.

She had expected to be taken back to Sarum immediately, but Ranulf Glanville was temporarily absent on the King's business, and no one mentioned her leaving. So she stayed on at Winchester, rattling around the luxurious royal chambers with just Amaria for company and her two sentinels on the outer doors. Henry, she reasoned, must be preoccupied with other, more pressing matters. For her part, she could only thank G.o.d for this welcome respite from the tedium and discomforts of Sarum.

Michaelmas; and she was still at Winchester. Through her windows, she could hear music and dancing and the cathedral bells ringing to celebrate the bringing in of the harvest. September drew mildly to a close. The weather turned colder with the coming of October, and still there was no summons back to Sarum. Then, one morning, the steward arrived with a leather traveling chest.

"My lady, this has come from the Lord King. It is for the use of you and your serving woman."

Eleanor, who had a.s.sumed that the arrival of the chest betokened that she was to pack and depart, gaped at him-and the iron-bound case-in astonishment. Could this really be a gift from Henry? Was it another peace offering? Had G.o.d at last turned his heart?

When the steward was gone and there was only Amaria to see, she lifted the lid in a fever of speculation, and drew from the chest, in some amazement, two scarlet cloaks, two capes of the same color, two gray furs, and an embroidered coverlet. Amaria let out a sigh of wonder.

"I think I know whence these proceeded," Eleanor said, her heart full. "I think I have my daughter Joanna to thank for them." Of course. Dear Joanna, who had seen her poverty, must have appealed to Henry. That in no way diminished his gesture, she told herself, for he could have ignored the appeal. Instead, he had sent these fine clothes, and had remembered Amaria too. It rankled a tiny bit that he had not thought to distinguish in status between his queen and her servant, for whom he had supplied identical garments, but he was a man who liked to dress plainly himself and cared little for the trappings of estate, so maybe it would not have occurred to him that she should have clothing of greater richness than her maid. At least he had sent it. That was something indeed, and they would now have good warm robes for the winter.

52.

G.o.dstow Abbey, 1176

The abbey was nestled on an island between streams gus.h.i.+ng from the River Thames. It stood solid and gray amid green fields, in which the good sisters could be seen toiling diligently. The work of the hands, Henry reflected, was almost as important to the Benedictine Rule as prayer, the work of G.o.d.

He had ridden over from Woodstock on this special pilgrimage. Going to Woodstock had been a torment: he'd barely been able to bring himself to climb the stairs to the dusty, deserted tower rooms, or walk past the overgrown labyrinth with its sinister tangles of briars. He'd realized almost at once that he should never have come, that being in the place that had housed his love would conjure up memories too painful to confront.

So he'd come instead to G.o.dstow, to seek peace in the abbey where his love had sought refuge. Well he recalled that awful day, two years before, when Rosamund had come to him, anxiety written clear on her sweet face, her cherry lips trembling ...

She had found a lump in her breast, she said, and was scared because her granddame had died of a canker in that very part of her body.

Henry thought that she was making much out of nothing. He felt the lump, declared it nothing but a spot, then, as l.u.s.t a.s.serted itself at the soft swell of his beloved's exposed bosom, he'd taken her without further ado, and stilled her fears-or so he had believed.

But the lump had not gone away. Over the months, it had grown, and the place became sore and nasty, and increasingly painful. Rosamund became tearful and at times hysterical, declaring that this was a punishment for the great sin she had committed in loving him. They must no longer bed together, she cried. Thoroughly alarmed by that, and by the state of the lump, Henry summoned his doctors, who had clucked on about an imbalance of the humors, and bled his dear love, applying leeches; but none of it did any good. Rosamund had steadily lost weight and grown frail. In the end there was nothing more the physicians could try.

"This is a judgment on me," Rosamund had said again. "I have sinned grievously, not only against G.o.d but against Queen Eleanor. What we have done is wrong."

"You can cease worrying about the Queen," Henry told her roughly. "I would have married you, had it not been for her obstinacy."

"No, Henry," she answered sadly. "That would not have been right. The Pope knew it, which is why he would not annul your marriage. Queen Eleanor is your wife, and the mother of your children, whatever she has done. And in committing adultery with you, I have wronged her deeply-and I am being punished for it."

"This is a vain fancy!" he had stormed, but there was no moving Rosamund. No longer was she the laughing girl he had loved, but a sick woman consumed with remorse.

"I wish I could make amends," she wept. "I cannot go to my rest with this great wrong on my conscience."

"Just confess it and have done!" Henry growled, his voice gruff with emotion.

"Let me send a letter to her, please. Just to explain my folly and say I am sorry for it."

He turned on her, shocked. "No. I absolutely forbid it. She does not deserve your guilt or your apologies. When I think of what she has done to me-"

"Please, Henry!"

"I said no." And he had got up and left her.

After that, Rosamund's condition deteriorated rapidly. His heart breaking, Henry agreed that she should go to G.o.dstow, the nunnery in which she had been raised, where the sisters could care for her; it would be convenient for Woodstock, whence he could visit her. He insisted on escorting her as she was carried to the abbey by litter; their progress had of necessity been slow, since she had become so weak by then. Once she was tucked up in her narrow bed in the infirmary, the infirmaress let him see her briefly. He found he could hardly bear to look upon Rosamund's wan, wasted face as she lay on the coa.r.s.e pillow, her fair tresses curling across it.

He had blundered back to court, for there could be no s.h.i.+rking the manifold duties of a king. Ever a plain, practical man, he faced the fact that his beloved was dying, and that he might never see her again, would certainly nevermore lie with her. His nights were a martyrdom, and in the end he could bear it no more and took to his bed a serving wench, a nameless, forgettable hussy who lay there mute with awe as he slaked his need and his desperation on her body. After that, true to form, he had repeatedly fallen prey to his l.u.s.ts. His most notable conquest was Ida de Toesny, an aristocratic girl of good family, who was already growing heavy with his child.

It had not been that long since his wife-he could not bring himself to say her name-had betrayed him. What she had done near cost him his crown, and a lot else besides. Well, she was paying for that, and she would pay more dearly yet, he thought in his grief and bitterness. Although he'd banned her from receiving any news, he hoped mercilessly that someone had told her how, after her incarceration, he had lived openly with Rosamund, blatantly flaunting her as his mistress for all to see. As for Rosamund begging to make amends to Eleanor-well, the poor lady was not in her right mind with this terrible illness. The guilt should all be his wife's. As for Rosamund writing to her ... The very idea!

Once Rosamund was gone from his daily life, and likely to die very soon, Henry found himself wanting to cry out his agony to the world. He needed desperately to be comforted. The pain he suffered was unbearable, exacerbated by the eternal gnawing craving to be revenged on Eleanor. It was then that the desire to take another wife flared again in him. To be honest, it had occurred to him not long after he had looked anew at Alys of France, Richard's betrothed, and realized that she was growing into a graceful beauty, with high b.r.e.a.s.t.s and voluptuously rounded hips and thighs. It now seemed to Henry that Alys would make the most suitable wife, with her royal blood and a figure fit for breeding. She could never replace Rosamund, of course, but marrying her might help ease the pain of his loss. And it would be a magnificent way of getting back at his faithless queen!

But Alys was a princess, the child of King Louis, who was now supposed to be his ally, and-to make matters infinitely more complicated-she was affianced to his own son. Despite the outward appearance of peace and amity that he had worked hard to establish, Henry was still sufficiently resentful toward Richard to take some pleasure in depriving him of his bride. By G.o.d, he was so disappointed in all his elder sons that he had even considered naming John the heir to all his domains!

Now that he had decided he wanted Alys, he knew he must act soon, before Louis started making noises about the much discussed marriage ceremony taking place.