Captive Queen

14 Westminster, 1155

Eleanor awoke to the sun streaming through the glazed windows of her bedchamber. The June day was going to be beautiful, and she looked forward to walking in the palace orchards with her ladies and courtiers. She would take two-year-old William with her, and four-month-old Henry, a handsome, adventurous baby who never cried and who resembled his father in looks and character. Both infants had been presented to the barons and clergy at Wallingford, where the lords had sworn allegiance to little William as the heir to England. Young Henry, his father had declared, would one day have Anjou.

At the thought of her husband, Eleanor frowned. She was uncomfortably aware that the space beside her in the bed was conspicuously empty, and would be so for some weeks to come. Having vigorously set his new kingdom in order, and made ambitious plans for the future, Henry was away hunting in Oxfordshire with his new friend and chancellor, Thomas Becket.

Becket was everywhere these days, with an elegant finger in every pie. Eleanor still found it hard to credit that this hitherto unknown and relatively lowly fellow could so quickly have been advanced so high. It was just six months ago, only that long, that Archbishop Theobald had presented his most promising clerk to the King at the Christmas court.

“My Lord King, may I warmly recommend my servant Thomas Becket for the vacant office of Chancellor of England,” he had said, indicating the tall, dark, elegant man at his side. Eleanor watched Thomas Becket fall to his knees before Henry, had been aware of her husband, expansive with good wine, warmly greeting the clerk.

“Welcome to my court, Thomas,” he had said, regarding him speculatively. “My Lord Archbishop here has given me glowing reports of your abilities. Do you think you can serve me as well as you have served him? Are you worthy of the high office for which he has recommended you?”

Thomas Becket had bowed his head. “My prince, I will dedicate myself utterly to you,” he vowed. “I will make myself worthy of your trust.” Coming from most other people, the words might have sounded extravagant, flattering, empty, but when the clerk raised his handsome face to his king and smiled, his apparent sincerity was striking. Either he was a good actor, Eleanor thought, or he was that rare breed of man whose word is his bond, and whose integrity shines clear. She still was not sure, but in that moment, she saw Henry take an instant liking to Thomas Becket, witnessed the rapport that immediately sprang up between the two men, and felt faintly uneasy when the King unhesitatingly raised the newcomer to his feet and approved the appointment almost at once.

“But you hardly know this man,” she ventured to remonstrate later, when they were alone.

“I take him on Theobald’s recommendation,” Henry answered reasonably. “He is a shrewd judge of character.”

Eleanor had since come to wonder if even the sage Archbishop could make a mistake—or if she was being unfair to the newcomer. Becket, thirty-six, well educated, intelligent and able, and of good Norman stock, coming from a wealthy London family, was—on the surface—the ideal administrator and diplomat, as he had already proved on several occasions. She had learned that even before he came to Henry’s notice, he had taken minor orders and rendered valuable service to his mentor, Theobald, who rewarded him with rich church livings and benefices. Becket’s meteoric rise had made him the object of other men’s envy, and the jealous back-biters at court were already whispering that he had grown lax and idle in his parochial duties, and too ambitious and overworldly for a cleric. What Becket sought, it seemed to those who jealously kept him in their sights—including the Queen—was power, wealth, and glory.

——

She supposed, to be fair, that her overt suspicion of Becket was the reason why Henry had not initially told her that he was going hunting with his new friend. When he informed her, without offering any reason, that he would be away for a few days, and she unthinkingly asked where he was bound, he glibly told her that he was going to make sure that the castles of certain barons who had caused trouble during the anarchy of Stephen’s reign had been dismantled, as he had ordered; but he’d looked like a small boy playing truant from his lessons.

She’d smelled a rat then. Something was not right. He was lying to her! She knew it.

“Where are these castles?” she pressed him.

“In the midlands.” Again she sensed he was making it up. And the lie was easily exposed, for only hours afterward she had heard the justiciar speaking of the King’s hunting trip.

“I thought you were going to inspect fortifications,” she had challenged Henry.

“I am,” he said. “Is a man not allowed to combine business with pleasure?”

It was a less than satisfactory answer, and it left Eleanor wondering why Henry felt the need to be so evasive. It was only when she saw Becket riding away with him, chatting and laughing, that the truth dawned on her. He had wanted to get away and spend time with his friend, and thought his wife would not approve; that she might feel slighted because he should prefer her company to Becket’s.

He would have been right. She did feel slighted. She also feared that there was something wrong about all this. What were they up to? Wenching? Whoring? Drinking? No, that could not be—Becket never drank, nor did he frequent women. Even so, Eleanor could not suppress her conviction that something odd was going on.

Who would ever have thought that Henry would desert her for the company of a member of his own sex? But that was what he had done. There had been no falling out between husband and wife. Indeed, Henry was as ardent a lover as ever on the nights he came to her bed; yet it gradually dawned on her that he now preferred to spend his waking hours with Becket—the insidious Becket, who had become his indispensable comrade and adviser in such a breathtakingly short time.

Her mind in tumult, Eleanor thrust aside the brocade coverlet, pulled back the bed curtains, and slipped out of bed, padding across the green and red tiled floor to the garderobe in the fastness of the thick stone wall. There, having relieved herself, she took a loose robe from its peg and went to rouse the two damsels in attendance, who were sleeping on bench beds along the chamber wall. Her eye was drawn, as it often was, to the new tapestry woven in vivid blues and reds, which hung high on the pale stone wall above the fireplace—a real innovation, this last, a hearth built into the wall. It was the very latest in comfort, and Eleanor was hoping to persuade Henry to have more constructed in his castles and palaces. So far, though, he had shown scant interest in the idea, for material luxuries meant little to him, but Eleanor was not giving up yet. She liked her creature comforts.

The tapestry depicted the Wheel of Fortune, an ever-present reminder of the ultimate futility of striving for earthly happiness. She wondered now why she had chosen it, and thought that she might one day replace it with something more cheerful—a scene from one of the legends of King Arthur, perhaps, or the romance of Tristan and Yseult, tales much beloved by her.

She had only days before taken up residence in the newly renovated palace of Westminster, a strong and beautiful complex of honey-colored buildings surrounded and protected by a mighty outwork and stone bastions. The palace rose majestically above the broad, rippling Thames, and was surrounded by woodlands to the west and a teeming suburb to the east, with Westminster Abbey opposite. Eleanor had already been to pay her respects at the tomb of its founder, the Saxon King Edward the Confessor, whom many now accounted a saint. That was hardly surprising, Eleanor thought, smiling, when he had refused to bed his wife and get an heir because of his piety!

The Queen’s bedchamber, solar, and bower were in the fine new royal apartments built by King Stephen. To the south, nearer the river bank, lay the older part of the palace raised by William Rufus, and now given over to the royal departments of state, the Treasury, Chancery, and Exchequer. Rufus’s huge hall adjoined it; reputed to be the largest hall in Europe. Henry was planning to set up a court here, where his justices would implement his laws. He had also spoken to Eleanor of his idea of appointing jurors—twelve good, true men—to decide verdicts, in place of trial by ordeal or combat. She was so proud of him when he showed such passion for good government and the welfare of his subjects.

After mass, Eleanor broke her fast with bread, fruit, and ale, then conferred with her steward about the appointment of a master cook; the food in England, she had discovered, left much to be desired. After that she summoned her clerks, listened to petitions, and dictated letters. Henry had always trusted her to deal with routine business in his absence. “By English law,” he had told her after the coronation, “you, the Queen, are a sharer in my imperial kingship.” She had been thrilled to hear him say that.

Business done, she and her ladies amused themselves by making music, one of Eleanor’s favorite pastimes. Mamille played the pipe, Torqueri the tabor, and Petronilla the harp, as Eleanor strummed a cithara. The others joined in clapping, and before long someone suggested they dance. Soon they were caroling around the bower, skirts and veils flying.

Eleanor reflected that they were very lucky to enjoy lives of such leisure and luxury. The Queen’s lodgings were a haven of retreat from Henry’s chaotic court, and beautifully appointed, with her chambers boasting every comfort: fine carved furniture, carpets imported from the Orient, plump cushions and silken hangings, even glass in the windows. She supposed she must thank Becket for that. Only weeks before, during the first days of spring, she had grown impatient of staying at the dark, cramped palace of Bermondsey, and urged Henry to put in hand restoration works at Westminster. He himself had conceived great plans for Westminster, so he’d willingly agreed and immediately appointed Becket to oversee the refurbishment. Becket had thrown himself into the task with his usual enthusiasm and flair, and in a matter of just weeks the great palace had been transformed, down to the very last detail. Nothing was overlooked.

Despite her reservations, she had found Becket easy to work with, and grudgingly admired his smooth efficiency. He had deferred to her in every possible way. Would Madame the Queen prefer this damask or that silk? Should he order silver or gold candlesticks for her chapel? Maybe her chair of estate was too high, and he should obtain a footstool? Was the canopy of estate to her liking? She was sufficiently fair-minded to admit that she’d had no cause for complaint.

And yet … she could not like him. There was something about the man that repelled her, something she could not define, which was strange, because Becket was exceptionally good-looking, with his proud, finely chiseled features, and she usually responded warmly to handsome men. But there was a coldness about him when he was in her presence, a coldness that was never apparent when he was in Henry’s company, and she sensed also an aversion to herself, for all his courtesy. Maybe he was aware of her resentment, which would not be surprising, for she found it hard to unbend to him as she did to most other people. But she felt it was more than that. It was almost as if they were rivals.

It soon seemed to Eleanor that Becket stood with the King as Joseph had with Pharaoh.

“He is too smooth in his dealings,” she’d said carefully to Henry. She had to tread cautiously because he would hear no criticism of his friend. She forbore to add that she suspected Becket of also being self-seeking and manipulative, and that—the antipathy between them aside—there was something about him that repelled her, something she could not explain, even to herself.

“Is that a fault?” Henry had asked. “He has great talent and boundless energy, which he is willing to expend in my service.”

“He is vain and ambitious,” Eleanor persisted. “The good Archbishop looks to him as a champion of the Church, but he is far too worldly in my opinion.”

“I want him to champion me,” Henry had said defiantly.

Since then, that was exactly what Becket had done, serving his new master in every way he could, and making himself indispensable. And Henry had quickly grown to love him, this man who was fifteen years his senior; indeed, he had become increasingly in thrall to him, treating him as a brother and an equal—and, Eleanor wondered, perhaps finding in him a substitute for the father he had loved and lost.

“If you ask me,” Henry’s real brother, the obnoxious Geoffrey, had said, scowling, “there’s more than is seemly in this friendship.”

They had been seated late at the dinner board at Bermondsey, watching Henry and Becket chatting animatedly with a group of young barons. The King’s love for his new friend was evident in his open countenance, his warm regard, and his bodily demeanor. Eleanor, who did not shock easily, rounded furiously on Geoffrey.

“That is preposterous,” she hissed. “The King is a paragon of manhood in every respect—and I should know!”

Yet alone in her chamber that night—for Henry was still carousing with Becket and their cronies—Geoffrey’s words had played on her mind, despite her ready dismissal of them. Could the virile young man who had bedded her passionately no less than three times the previous evening, and on countless occasions before—and who had boasted of his previous affairs with women—have suddenly become unnaturally attracted to a man? To this pernicious Becket? It was inconceivable.

Inconceivable or not, she’d lain there torturing herself. She’d heard of men who were so lusty, and so lacking in morals, that they would fuck anything that moved, women, men, children, even animals. She could not believe that Henry, lecherous as he was, was so mired in filth that he could stoop so low. But if one listened to the teachings of the sterner clerics, men who indulged in this kind of fornication were irrevocably damned for all eternity, condemned both in Heaven and on Earth. People were not as tolerant these days as they once had been, and she’d even heard of some poor wretches who had committed such grievous sins being burned at the stake for heresy. She could not imagine her husband being one of their kind, or doing anything to merit such punishment.

But the doubt would not be stilled. When Henry finally lurched into bed, drunk and smelling of wine, she’d turned to him in what had become desperation.

“Henry, have you been staying up late with Becket again?” Her voice sounded shrill, shrewish.

“What if I have?” he muttered, slurring his words slightly. “Thomas is my friend. He is witty c-company. We have some good times together.”

“You spend too much time with him,” she accused him. “People are beginning to talk.”

“They’re just envious,” Henry grunted.

“No, it’s not that,” she said slowly.

“Then what?” His jaw jutted forward.

“They are saying that it is not seemly, this friendship.”

“What?” Henry roared. “Who is saying this? Who has such an evil mind? I’ll have him strung up, I’ll—”

“It’s Geoffrey,” Eleanor told him.

“By the eyes of God, what gets into that Devil’s spawn?” Henry spat, still outraged. “How dare he say such things, and to you, my wife? He will pay for it, by God, he will pay for it.”

“Oh, leave him be,” Eleanor said, relief flooding through her, for Henry’s reaction had convinced her that her irrational fears were groundless. “He is just jealous. Perhaps he thinks he should be your chancellor.”

“Heaven forbid,” fumed Henry. “That’s it. I’m packing him off to Normandy tomorrow. Our revered Lady Mother can keep an eye on him. And for now, Eleanor, I intend to prove to you just how wrong that whoreson Geoffrey was!”

“You are too good to me, sire,” Becket protested, looking up from the document he had just read.

“Think nothing of it,” Henry said. “Those revenues will help you to live in the style to which my chancellor should be accustomed.”

“I am not worthy,” his friend declared. “I have not merited such largesse from you.”

“Nonsense!” Henry snorted, getting up to pour himself more wine. They were in his solar and had just finished going through the day’s business. It was after the final account parchments had been rolled away that Henry had presented Becket with his gift. It was a grant of several manors with a good yield in rent—and it was not the first such grant that Becket had received.

“You know your courtiers grow envious of me,” the chancellor said slowly, relaxing his lean frame in his chair. “I’ve heard them complaining that there is none my equal save the King alone.”

“Bah!” Henry scoffed. “None of them have half your talent, or your energy. Do you want some of this?” He came over and handed his friend a jeweled goblet.

“I see you are using my gift,” Becket said.

“Splendid, aren’t they,” Henry observed, holding up his own goblet to the light.

“I had them sent especially from Spain,” Becket told him. “It was the least I could do, given how generous you have been to me.” He was regarding the younger man with obvious affection.

“Thomas, you have earned it a thousandfold!” Henry retorted. “I want no false modesty.”

Becket smiled, absently fingering the sumptuous silk of his tunic. “I cannot tell you how much I value your friendship, my prince.”

“That makes two of us.” Henry’s voice was gruff. Truth to tell, he could not have said, even to himself, what it was about Becket that drew him, and he often asked himself how, in such a short time, he had come to love this man. He could explain it only by telling himself they were kindred spirits, that they shared the same interests, and that Thomas’s company was enormously stimulating.

“We must plan another feast,” he said, as an idea was born. “We’ll have it at your house and invite my jealous courtiers. Let them see me giving you all the honor and favor that you merit.”

“Would that be wise?” Becket wondered. “It might be a better idea to hold the feast here, in the palace, since your barons are always grumbling that there is little enough pomp and ceremony at court, and it would look as if you were doing them an honor too.”

“I’m bored by pomp and ceremony,” Henry retorted. “Still, you have a point. And there won’t be much pomp and ceremony when the nobility of England are in their cups!” He chuckled at the thought. “Do you remember them last time, sprawling in the rushes and groping the wenches?”

The chuckle became a belly laugh, and Becket smiled too.

“You plan it, Thomas,” Henry said. “You’re good at these things.”

“What of the ladies? Shall I invite the Queen?” Becket asked.

Henry grinned at him.

“Better not! We’d have to be on our best behavior, and she’ll only complain when we all get drunk.”

“When you get drunk, my prince,” Becket corrected.

“I’ll make a man of you yet, my friend!” Henry jested.

——

Eleanor no longer worried that there might be anything more than friendship on Henry’s part for Becket, but she knew that they were unusually—and disturbingly—close. This was not the kind of comradeship that flourished between fighting men thrown together on military campaigns, but a sort of thralldom, in which Henry hung upon Becket’s every word and preferred his advice to everyone else’s. She had gradually become painfully aware that she was being supplanted, that her husband no longer sought her counsel first, and that he was spending more time with Becket than he did with her. He came to her bed frequently enough, though, and paid her every courtesy out of it, and on the surface all was well between them, but she sensed, more strongly than ever now, that in every other way that counted, Becket was her rival.

It seemed he was deliberately trying to usurp her place in Henry’s affections—and in the affairs of the realm. There had been that crucial matter of patronage. From the time Eleanor had first come to England, she had been deluged with petitions and requests by those who knew her to be influential with the King, and it pleased and flattered her to know that she had the power to change the lives of others for the better. But only a month ago it had been made plain to her that her enjoyment of that power was under threat.

Becket had come upon her as she sat with her clerks, going through the latests pleas from her petitioners. They had made two piles of the parchments—one for those to be ignored, and one for those the Queen would lay before the King, with her own recommendations. But suddenly, almost symbolically, a shadow loomed over the table and the documents, and when she looked up, she saw Becket standing before her. In the fleeting second before he made his bow, she had seen the contempt in his eyes.

“What can I do for you, my Lord Chancellor?” she had asked courteously.

“I think, Madame the Queen, that it is more a case of what I can do for you,” he answered, refusing to meet her gaze, but fixing his eyes on the parchments. “With your leave, I will look after these petitions.”

She was shocked, outraged! The petitions were addressed to her, and it was her privilege, as queen, to deal with them. How dare this upstart deacon insult her so?

Even the clerks were gawping at Becket’s presumption. One man’s jaw had dropped in horror.

Fury blazed in Eleanor’s eyes as she rose from her chair. “My Lord Chancellor, you are new to your office, and quite obviously have much to learn,” she said in clipped tones. “You will not be aware that these are petitions meant for the King, and that they have been sent to me, his queen, by right, in the hope that I can persuade him to grant them.”

Becket’s response was infuriating. He merely smiled and held out his hand. “On the contrary, Madame the Queen, I think you will find that the King wishes me to deal with them. If you would like to ask him, I’m sure he will confirm that.”

She was speechless. Never had she been so slighted, not even by those dismissive old clerics at Louis’s court.

“Leave them here,” she said, her voice steely. “I command it. I will indeed speak with the King. Now you have my leave to go.”

Had she imagined it, or had Becket actually shrugged before he withdrew, bowing and giving that maddening, contemptuous smile? He would not get away with his insolence, she vowed, as she hastened in rage to seek out her husband.

She found Henry soaking in his bath, humming to himself as he was washed by his valets. As she burst into the chamber, almost breathing fire, he waved the men away, frowning.

“Sweet Eleanor, what is wrong?” he cried as he rose and reached for a towel to cover his nakedness. But she wasn’t interested in his body at that moment.

“It’s your Lord Chancellor, that insolent man Becket!” she seethed. “He has dared to demand that I turn over my petitions to him. He says that you wish it!”

Henry’s face flushed, and not with the steam from the tub. There was an awful silence. Eleanor stared at him, horrified.

“It’s true,” she accused him, unable quite to believe it. “You do wish it.”

Henry found his voice. Tying the towel around his waist, he came to her and put his arms around her. His skin was damp and he smelled sharply of the fresh herbs that had scented his bathwater.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Thomas suggested that he might be of help with the petitions, and I thought it a good idea, especially since you have the children now, a royal household to run, and many other duties.”

“A queen’s role is not all domestic!” Eleanor flared. “It is my royal privilege to exercise patronage and use my influence, and you know how much I value that.”

“It is of no matter,” Henry hastened to reassure her. “I will thank Thomas for his thoughtfulness, and tell him that you will continue to deal with the petitions as before.” He bent and kissed her, clasping her face in his hands. “There—does that pacify you, my beautiful termagant?”

It was easy to say that it did and so end the quarrel, but Eleanor had come away with the feeling that Henry had been a fool in allowing Becket his head in this matter, and the even greater conviction that she was now—willingly or not—engaged in a power struggle with the chancellor, who was clearly out to subvert her influence, supplant her in the King’s counsels, and have her relegated to the domestic sphere, where he obviously thought women belonged. And the awful truth was that Henry could not see it! He thought Becket was merely being kind. She could have howled with frustration.

But she had won the first round in the contest, and at least she knew her enemy, whose smile was rather more forced when they next came face-to-face; and she was resolved to fight him with all the subtle weapons at her disposal. She’d known it would be a secret struggle, no doubt of it, because Henry did not understand subtlety, and she would be fighting Becket on his own terms. It had not been long, however, before she realized, to her dismay, that she was losing the battle.

Becket was clever. He was unfailingly faultless in his manner toward Eleanor and took care never to scant the respect due to her as his queen. She was always invited with the King to his house in London, a splendid establishment provided and maintained by Henry, and as palatial as any of the royal residences. In fact, the first time she saw it, she felt indignant that this upstart chancellor should be living in even more regal state than his master. But she had sat there with a smile fixed on her face, dining off gold plate laden with the finest fare, drinking from crystal glasses encrusted with gems that glittered in the flickering light from the great silver candelabra, and served by the sons of nobles, who had been sent to Becket’s household to be schooled in courtesy, martial arts, and those things that befit fledgling aristocrats. She had graced the table, holding her own in the lively and witty conversation that flowed around it, yet aware that her opinions counted for very little with her host, whose courtesies belied his shut-off look whenever she ventured to hold forth.

She watched him covertly all the time, this tall, slender clerk, with his dark hair, his finely chiseled features, and his aquiline nose, watched him charming barons and prelates alike, talking of anything and everything from hawking and chess to the business of the kingdom, his eyes alight with zeal as he spoke of his plans for the future. And Henry was captivated, hanging on every word. Seeing them together, you would have thought that Becket was the King, in his magnificent robes of silk and brocade, not Henry, in his plain woolen cloth tunic and short mantle, or his accustomed hunting gear. Eleanor thought Becket’s vanity and taste bordered on effeminacy, and she was inexplicably repulsed by his small, tapering hands, which were like a woman’s. She did not want those hands to touch her, and tried not to recoil when the chancellor bowed before her on greeting and took her hand in his own to kiss.

Not that Becket’s hands would have touched women very often, she thought. It was well known that he had taken a vow of chastity in youth, and that he avoided encounters with the fair sex if he could. She had sensed his aversion to herself, and noticed that he kept his converse with the ladies to a courteous minimum. She often wondered if he did prefer his own sex, as rumor had covertly speculated. But one thing was certain—he was not promiscuous in the least, and that was something she did not have to worry about: Becket, unlike many other courtiers, would never seek to be Henry’s accomplice in fleshly pleasures, encouraging him to go whoring or to frequent brothels. It was a small thing to be grateful for.

At the moment when Eleanor was dancing with her ladies at Westminster, Henry and Becket were riding south from Oxford, talking animatedly of yet another hunting trip they were planning, this time to the New Forest; it was to take place as soon as Henry and Eleanor had returned from their coming great progress through England, to see—and be seen by—their new subjects.

“We will stay at my hunting lodge at New Park, near Lyndhurst,” Henry declared. “Perhaps you would like to come too?” he jested to the little boy who was perched before him on his saddle. He winced as he remembered Joanna de Akeny’s tears as she had given up young Geoffrey into his father’s care; he never had been able to deal with a weeping woman. Anxious to escape, he assured her that he would look after the lad well, and that a great future lay ahead of him as the King’s bastard son, for sons, whichever side of the blanket they were born, could be great assets to a king. Joanna had wept again, this time tears of gratitude.

“Sire, have you considered how the Queen might react when you arrive with Master Geoffrey?” Thomas had inquired gently as soon as they were on the road. He had not anticipated this hunting jaunt encompassing a visit to Henry’s former leman, and was astonished to find that Henry intended it as cover for taking custody of his son. He could only deplore Henry’s morals—or lack of them. His king had no self-control!

Henry had considered it, briefly, but it had not occurred to him that Eleanor would be offended by a bastard child conceived and born before they had even met.

“I doubt it will concern her very much,” he replied. “The boy is no threat to her or the children she has borne me.”

“Women can be sensitive about such things,” Thomas said. “She might take your acknowledgment of Master Geoffrey as an insult to herself.” He forbore to add that Eleanor might react even more violently were she to find out about Henry’s covert dalliance with Avice de Stafford, one of her damsels. Henry had boasted of this conquest to Thomas while in his cups one night—although now he probably had no recollection of ever mentioning it. Thomas shuddered at the thought of Henry and Avice together, much as he had shuddered several times during the past months whenever Henry casually referred to other amorous exploits, all of them casual encounters, and none of them troubling his conscience. Becket was well aware, as Eleanor was not, that the King’s reputation was already such that the barons had taken to keeping their womenfolk out of his way.

“The Queen is a woman of the world,” Henry declared confidently. “She is not easily outraged.” Thomas knew this too; he had not forgotten what he had heard in Archbishop Theobald’s household, from his friend John of Salisbury, who had worked for the Papal Curia when Eleanor was trying to obtain a divorce from Louis. John had confided to him several interesting, even scandalous, pieces of information that he could never repeat. And there had been colorful rumors going the rounds for years. Becket had heard them repeatedly, from many people. If ever a man needed evidence that women were frail creatures, what Thomas had learned of Eleanor would suffice.

“Do you think me a fool to acknowledge my son?” Henry asked, fixing his steely gaze on his friend.

“I should have advised discretion,” Thomas said candidly. “But it is a private matter for my lord himself to decide.”

“I intend to advance the boy. He could prove useful to me in time. I remember my bastard uncle, Robert of Gloucester. He was a rock of support to my mother in her quarrel with Stephen.”

Becket glanced down at the child; the boy was listening intently. He had intelligent eyes. A child to watch, certainly. Henry was right.

“Might I suggest a career in the Church?” he ventured. “Although his bastardy might be a bar to high ecclesiastical office.”

“Popes can be bought,” Henry said. “I could make young Geoffrey here Archbishop of Canterbury! Or even chancellor, when you are in your dotage, Thomas!” He winked, then began chuckling. “My barons won’t approve, of course!”

“Then they will have to do as the Queen must, and put up with it,” was the apposite rejoinder. The King smiled ruefully. As ever, Thomas had got his measure.

“I think the Queen does not like me,” Thomas said.

“Nonsense!” Henry replied. “You have been a staunch friend and a great support to me. How could she not like you?”

“I fear she resents my influence. I suspect she would like to be first in your counsels.”

“I dare say she would,” Henry said, “but she is a woman, with a woman’s limitations, although she is more able than most. She has no need to be jealous. I sleep with her, don’t I?” Becket winced, but Henry did not notice. “And I allow her considerable power. I trust her to rule in my absence, and even when I am here, she can issue writs and official documents under her own name and seal. I’ve even told her she can sit in my courts and dispense justice if she wants, and settle disputes on request. So why should she resent you?”

“Then mayhap I have imagined her resentment,” Thomas conceded, keeping his doubts to himself. He suspected that Eleanor already regarded him as a rival. God knew, that was how he regarded her.

“The Queen knows you are invaluable to me,” Henry went on. “Where else would I find a man of such diligence and industry, experienced in affairs, and able to discharge the duties of his office to the praise of all? Who else is such a staunch friend to me? Thomas, I tell you, you are my right-hand man. I put all my trust in you. Together, we will make this kingdom great!”

“My lord flatters me,” Thomas said, with that slow, gentle smile that was so endearing. “I am ever happy to be of service with my small talents.”

“You speak like a courtier!” Henry scoffed. “Accept praise where it is due, man. You earned it by your merits.”

They rode on companionably for some time, past the peasants toiling on their strips of land, and beasts grazing in the fields, with Henry pointing out butterflies, cows, and pigs to the inquisitive Geoffrey, and answering his persistent, incisive questions.

“This child is clever!” he announced delightedly. “He wants to know everything. Young William is all bombast and will make a great warrior, but this one has a brain.”

“I shouldn’t let the Queen hear you saying that!” Thomas warned.

Henry laughed, then drew his habitual short mantle around him. It was unseasonably cold for June. He felt a momentary yearning for the warmer climes of Anjou and Aquitaine.

Presently, the sky darkened and it began to rain. Soon it was sheeting down, and fearful of being soaked to the skin, they tethered their horses under a tree and sought shelter in a church porch, huddling in their cloaks. Suddenly, they realized that they were sharing their sanctuary with a beggar, shivering in his meager wet rags. He regarded them hopefully, as if he had guessed they were persons of some importance.

“Who is that man?” Geoffrey asked.

“He is a poor vagrant,” Henry explained.

The poor vagrant continued to regard him with speculative eyes. The King turned to his friend.

“Would it not be an act of merit to set the boy an example and give that poor old man a warm cloak to shield him from the rain?” he asked, a glint of mischief in his eye.

“It would,” Thomas agreed, missing the glint, and thinking this was uncharacteristically generous of Henry.

“Yours be the merit then!” the King announced gleefully, and whipping Becket’s expensive cloak from his shoulders, thrust it at the astounded beggar, who gathered it around him and scuttled off without a word, leaving Thomas with no choice but to accept his loss; but he was angered and shocked, realizing in that moment that Henry could be unthinkingly cruel. It was the first time he had felt anything other than love for the younger man, and he was further grieved with Henry for making him feel that way. As he stood there, shivering in the damp porch, it even occurred to him to wonder how far his unpredictable master, in times to come, might put their friendship to the test.

Eleanor stared as her husband stood before her, giving the strange little boy a push in her direction.

“Bow to the Queen,” he instructed, as the black-haired child stood there uncertainly. Henry grabbed him by the collar and jerked his head forward. “Like that!” he said. “Eleanor, this is Geoffrey. He is my natural son, born before our marriage. I have brought him to court to receive an education and to be company for our boys.”

Eleanor froze. She knew that kings and lords took mistresses as a matter of right and sired bastards unthinkingly, especially those whose arranged marriages were unhappy. Her father and grandfather had done it, and to prove it her two illegitimate brothers were even now in her household, eating her out of house and home. No prude herself, she knew too that Henry had had mistresses in the past, and accepted that, but being confronted with the living evidence of his rutting with other women was a shock to her. In a flash she realized what the true purpose of the hunting expedition had been.

“I bid you welcome, Master Geoffrey,” she said coolly, stiffly on her dignity. It had been impressed on her as a child, by Grandmère Dangerosa, that a wife never upbraided her husband for his infidelities, but maintained a lofty silence. That was all very well, but only up to a point. There were questions that had to be asked.

“Who is his mother?” she asked lightly, as if this were a normal conversation to be having with her husband.

“The lady of the manor of Akeny in Oxfordshire,” Henry told her, his tone defensive. “I was lonely on my forays into England. I took my comfort where I could. I’m sure you can understand that.”

“I can,” she replied, her tone softening. “How old is Geoffrey?”

“He is five years old.”

Eleanor relaxed a little. The child smiled at her winningly. “I can read, lady,” he told her proudly.

“Can you now?” she responded, warming to his sunny nature despite herself.

“He is a marvel,” Henry declared, clearly bursting with pride, “and will be a fitting playmate for William and Henry, who will benefit by his example.”

Eleanor, still schooling herself to the dignified acceptance that Dangerosa had enjoined, rang the tinkling little bell she kept for summoning her damsels.

“Welcome to court, Master Geoffrey,” she said. “I hope you will be happy here.” She told herself she could hardly blame this little lad for his father’s sins, and that Henry had in no way betrayed her; he had just omitted to tell her of the boy’s existence. When Torqueri arrived, she instructed her: “This is Master Geoffrey, our Lord the King’s son. Take him to the nursery and tell them to treat him with honor, and kindness, for he may be missing his mother.”

Hiding her astonishment, Torqueri took Geoffrey’s hand and led him away.

“We have a new litter of puppies,” she could be heard saying. “The Lord William will enjoy showing them to you.”

When they were gone, Eleanor looked at Henry.

“Am I to expect any other additions to my children’s household?” she asked.

“No,” Henry lied, knowing there might one day be several moments of reckoning in regard to a number of other bastards he had carelessly sired, but confident that he could bluff his way through them if or when the time came.

He rose and walked over to his queen; he still found her utterly beautiful with her coppery locks loose, her deep-set green eyes regarding him seductively—he thought—and her full lips ripe for loving. He bent and kissed her.

“You are my lady,” he whispered hoarsely. “You have my heart. None can touch you.” It was true, and he meant it absolutely. Frantically fucking Avice de Stafford in a garderobe when overcome by lust did not count at all against his sexual cherishing of his wife. He tightened his arms around her, wanting her urgently.

“Send your women away,” he murmured in her ear. “I can hear them clucking in your bedchamber. I want to be alone with you, and get another heir to England!”

An hour later, as they lay peacefully entwined between the tumbled sheets, Henry gazed down at his lovely Eleanor and traced a trail with his rough fingers from her breast to her hip.

“If only all my other kingly duties were as pleasant!” He grinned.

“And my queenly ones!” She smiled back.

Henry caught sight of the hourglass on the table and frowned. “My God, I had best go. I’m already late for a meeting with my barons of the Exchequer to discuss improving the coinage.”

He stood up and stretched, the sunlight from the window anointing his muscular, naked body. Eleanor gazed at him lazily, admiring the perfection of his broad shoulders and taut buttocks.

“Will you join me for dinner tonight, my lady?” he asked, pulling on his clothes.

Now it was Eleanor’s turn to grimace.

“If the food is palatable,” she said. These days Henry was busy all the time and didn’t care too much what he ate, usually gobbling it up and leaving the table within five minutes. Consequently, the fare served at his court was poor, and she had taken to having her own meals prepared by her own cook, and eating them with Petronilla and her chief ladies in her solar. When he had leisure, Henry would join her, but as he had explained, a king had to have a visible presence at his court, so it was expedient that he made it his usual habit to dine in the great hall with his household. On feast days and holy days, though, Eleanor always took her place there at Henry’s side, and put up with the appalling food. This day was neither feast day nor holy day, but she sensed that he wanted her to be with him after that ecstatic session in bed, and knew that she should seize the moment.

“I will expressly order my cooks to make sure that it is to your liking,” he promised, pulling on his boots. “And we will have some music, to delight you.”

“You delight me,” she told him, rising in all her naked beauty and clasping her arms about his neck.

“Witch!” he growled, kissing her. “Would you detain me with your wiles? What of the coinage? My barons await me.”

“They can wait a little longer,” Eleanor purred, employing her tongue to artful effect and pulling him down with her once more on the bed.

At the board of the Exchequer, the lords sat looking at one another and drumming the table with impatient fingers, watching the sand drizzling slowly through the hourglass and wondering what had become of their king.

At his place at the high table on the dais, Becket, watching Henry’s unruly barons arriving—half drunk already—for dinner, reflected that his friend John of Salisbury had been right when he’d compared the English court to ancient Babylon. All scandal, debauchery, and frivolity were here, encouraged by sensuous music and bawdy mimes and dramas. He had heard that they were to have some entertainment later this evening—more ribaldry, he supposed—but that was fortuitous in a way, since it would ensure that the King actually sat down to eat, and everybody else could finish their meal—although, thought Becket with distaste, perhaps that was not such a boon.

He could only disapprove of the excesses he witnessed at court, and regretted that Henry did nothing to curb them. But, of course, the King would do no such thing, for he indulged in such excesses too, swearing, drinking himself into oblivion, and whoring with the best of them. It was not dignified behavior in a king. That was why Becket was happier when he could entertain Henry in his own house, and afford him the elegance, luxury, and sophistication that were deplorably lacking at court. He sensed, though, that Henry cared far less for these things than he did, and that the person who gained the most pleasure from them was himself. It flattered his vanity to be able to lavish such bounty on his king, and show him how things should be done.

The company was standing now—or trying its best to—as Henry entered the hall, holding the Queen by the hand. They’ll have to be on their best behavior now, Becket thought, amused, knowing how Eleanor was a stickler for observing the courtesies. Someone belched loudly, and she glared, quelling the unfortunate culprit, who hung his head in unaccustomed shame.

Henry escorted her to her seat at his right hand; Becket, standing to his left, bowed as she sat down. He heard her murmur to her husband, “Your barons could at least comb their hair before they come to table. They’re a disgrace.”

As Becket suppressed a smile, Henry looked about him, puzzled.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said. “As long as they serve me well and do as I tell them, their appearance matters not one jot to me. But since it obviously does to you …” He rose to his feet and raised one hand.

“Silence!” he bawled above the hubbub, and upward of fifty faces turned toward him.

“I have a new edict for you,” he announced, smirking. “At the express wish of the Queen, no man is henceforth to come into her presence with his hair uncombed. And that means you, my Lord of Arundel!” He frowned disapprovingly at an earl who was engrossed in picking nits out of his greasy locks. The fastidious Becket shuddered.

Everyone laughed, even Eleanor. Then she noticed that there were no napkins on the table, and grimaced.

“Summon the ewerer,” she murmured to the steward, as Henry sat down beside her. He made a face and smirked as, presently, reasonably clean napkins were brought and distributed along the tables.

“Anything else you would like, my lady?” he asked, only half joking.

“No, thank you. I am looking forward to the culinary delights in store for me!” Eleanor replied, recalling the green, rancid meat she had been served the last time she dined in the palace hall. Even the garlic sauce that smothered it had not disguised the foul taste and smell. But tonight Henry had assured her, she would have a feast fit for the Queen she was.

The chief butler and his acolytes came in with great flagons of wine, and a thick, murky brew of indeterminate color was poured into Eleanor’s goblet. She sipped it warily. It was horrible, greasy and foul, and tasted like soot. Almost banging down her goblet, she decided to treat herself to some quality wine from her city of Bordeaux when she returned to her chamber. Next to her, Henry was imbibing thirstily, but she was aware of Becket also disdaining to drink. A faint pucker of distaste pursed his thin lips. It wasn’t often that Eleanor found herself and Becket to be kindred spirits.

The first course was the wild boar that Henry had killed while out hunting that very morning, so it was fresh, and only slightly overcooked. The second course was trout, long dead. Eleanor smelled one whiff and recoiled in disgust.

“That fish cannot be less than four days old!” she complained.

Henry took a mouthful. “Hmm, it is a bit off.”

“Sire, it is so off that it should be food only for worms,” Becket said. “I marvel that the King is so badly served.”

Eleanor bit back a mischievous suggestion that Becket take on the cooking for the court in addition to all his other duties. She knew he was speaking the truth, and that he was supporting her, but she felt he had no right to be saying such things, which amounted effectively to a criticism of his master.

“Tell them to send something else,” Henry commanded, “or I will be paying a visit to the kitchens.” After ten minutes a dish of jugged hare arrived, along with some capons in saffron sauce. Eleanor tasted both cautiously, but they were equally delicious. A plump partridge followed.

“It’s remarkable how the threat of a royal inspection can work wonders,” Henry observed dryly.

The Abbot of Winchester, who was in London on business, and the King’s guest by virtue of his standing, sampled the partridge and complimented his sovereign on his table. “Our bishop allows us only ten courses at meals,” he lamented, clearly anticipating more to come. Henry stared at him.

“Perish your bishop!” he exclaimed. “In my court we are satisfied with three courses. In a moment the tablecloth will be lifted, so hurry up and finish, as we have some minstrels waiting to play for us. From Germany, you understand. They have come a long way.”

The portly abbot looked crestfallen and hastened to eat up his partridge, as if it might be snatched from him at any moment. Eleanor tried to hide a smile.

When Becket, as the King’s chaplain, had risen to thank God for His bounty, the minstrels were ushered in.

“They are called minnesingers,” Henry said. “The German equivalent of your troubadours, Eleanor. I trust they are more respectful.” Eleanor chose to ignore the barb. Henry never had come to terms with the troubadour culture in which she was steeped.

The lead singer was a beautiful young man with long red hair, full lips, and sad eyes. He fixed them boldly on Eleanor as he rose from an elaborate bow.

“This for you, meine Königin,” he announced. A hush fell on the court as he began singing, his voice as poignant as his expression, his words imbued with yearning and erotic meaning:

The sweet young Queen

Draws the thoughts of all upon her,

As sirens lure the witless mariners

Upon the reef.

If all the world were mine

From the seashore to the Rhine,

That price were not too high

To have England’s Queen lie

Close in my arms.

There was a stunned pause as the singer fell silent. Drunk as they were, Henry’s courtiers had seen their master’s face darken, and were refraining from applauding in case of provoking his notorious temper. Eleanor sat tense in her chair, relishing the tribute paid to her in the song, and smiling fixedly, yet graciously, at the young singer, as courtesy—and the best traditions of the South—demanded. She did not dare look at her husband.

“You are bold, minstrel,” Henry said at last. “Overbold, methinks.”

“Lord King, I mean no offense,” the young man protested, clearly surprised that anyone should take his song amiss. “The beauty of the Queen is sung of even in my land. Her fame is great. Our young men sigh for a glimpse of her.”

“Yes, yes, so it appears,” said Henry testily. “Well, you can stop sighing and play us something more appropriate. And remember, minstrel”—he leaned forward menacingly—“the only arms in which this beautiful queen will ever lie are mine!”

There was general mirth as the discomfited youth bowed and hastily launched into a well-known song about the heroic Chevalier Roland, which was much more to the martial taste of the barons and knights present, who clapped and roared their approval. Eleanor now ventured to look Henry’s way and, to her astonishment, found him smiling at her.

“Yon bold fellow has some nerve, but he has put me in mind of how fortunate I am!” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “Will you lie close in my arms tonight, my lady?”

It was at that moment that Eleanor caught sight of Becket’s face over Henry’s shoulder, and saw the fleeting, anguished look of naked longing and pain that was quickly replaced by the chancellor’s usual suave, aloof expression. Becket had been looking at Henry; he could not but have seen the courtly gesture and heard what the King had said.

So that’s how things are, Eleanor thought. He suffers an unrequited love, a love to which he dare not ever own up, for he knows it is forbidden and that it will never be returned, and he is sworn to chastity. But he is jealous. He knows that this is one part of Henry’s life over which he cannot hold sway; that in the final reckoning, I will always be the victor. Yet strangely, she felt no sense of triumph—only sadness for the sterility and emptiness of her rival’s existence.

Henry was leaning over and nuzzling her neck. She watched Becket murmur his excuses, bow, and leave the hall, his young attendants scrambling to follow him.

15 Wallingford, 1156

Eleanor sometimes wondered what she was doing, riding around England seven months into her latest pregnancy, issuing writs and charters, and ensuring that the kingdom was efficiently governed during Henry’s latest absence. He was in Normandy, paying homage to Louis for Aquitaine at last, and curbing the ambitions of little brother Geoffrey, which even the formidable Empress had failed to hold in check.

Eleanor had with her a sizable retinue, which included her sons, her sister Petronilla, and her half brothers, William and Joscelin. They were now lodged at Wallingford, in the impregnable castle that had been of such strategic importance during Stephen’s wars, but were given to the Queen as part of her dower.

Already Eleanor’s brothers were becoming restive. They had made no secret of the fact that they disliked England. It was too cold, and the food was ghastly. Soon, they warned her, by her leave, they would return to the sunnier climes of Aquitaine. That gave her a pang. She always tried her best not to think of her own land, knowing that it might be many moons, and probably years, before she saw it again. Understanding their homesickness, she had told William and Joscelin that they might depart whenever they wished, with her blessing; she would not keep them here against her will. She knew they would go soon. They were not creatures of the court, but men of property who had fiefdoms to look after. She would be sorry to see them go, but glad for them, all the same.

Eleanor was resting in her bower with her feet up, reading letters, when Petronilla, a little blurred at the edges with wine, as she so often was these days, knocked and entered.

“Eleanor, I think you should come and see young William. He has developed a fever in this last hour, and the nurse is a little concerned.”

Weary and ungainly as she was, Eleanor got clumsily but hastily to her feet, her heart full of fear. Children died young—it was a common occurrence—and she had only yesterday given thanks to God for being blessed with such healthy boys. Had she been too complacent? Had there been some symptom she had missed? She had last seen William after dinner; he seemed well enough then, had eaten up every morsel, so she had been told. Maybe she was overreacting—but she did not think so. She had appointed the best nurse to be had, and if she was concerned enough to summon her mistress, when usually she dealt competently with childhood ailments herself, then there must indeed be cause for worry.

As swiftly as she could she ascended the turret stairs to the princes’ apartments on the topmost floor of the keep, a weepy Petronilla lurching in her wake. Bursting into the boys’ bedchamber, she found William lying hot and sweating beneath the rich covers, surrounded by his own nurse and Young Henry’s, the rockers who tended Henry’s cradle, and the nursery servants. As they all stood aside to allow the Queen to approach the bed, she could see from their expressions that her alarm was justified. In the far corner the bastard Geoffrey stood taking it all in, his little face taut with fright. There was much love between him and his half brothers.

“William, sweeting,” Eleanor said, sinking to her knees and clasping her son’s limp hand. He did not respond. The fever was at its height, and he was barely conscious, moaning fitfully in his stupor, his black curls on the pillow wet with perspiration. This could not be happening! He had been well and thriving only hours before!

Eleanor felt her son’s brow. It was burning.

“When did this come on?” she asked, her voice abrupt with terror.

“An hour ago, lady,” Alice, William’s nurse, replied. There were tears of distress—and fear—in her eyes. “Young ones of that age—he’s not yet three—take ill quickly; they’re up and down like windmills.”

“He’s so hot!” Eleanor cried, running her hands over his small body, frantic to do something to alleviate her child’s plight. “We must uncover him.”

“That be dangerous.” Alice frowned, aghast. “He’d catch cold and it could kill him.”

“Then what are we to do?” the Queen almost sobbed, gathering her child to her breast and rocking him in her arms. “Oh, my boy, my little boy! Get better for Mother, please!” She turned desperately to the attendants. “Have the physicians been sent for?”

“They are here,” said Petronilla, her face white, her voice shaking. “And the chaplain.”

At mention of the chaplain, Eleanor began to tremble, and tightened her arms around William’s fevered body. His head was against her shoulder, damp and tousled; his eyes were closed. How could her sweet, innocent child be struck down so rapidly? It was like a nightmare from which she would surely soon wake.

The physicians gathered by the bed. They pulled back the covers and took turns examining the patient, their faces grave.

“It is an imbalance of the humors, my lady,” one pronounced. “We could try bleeding him, although it might be best to let him sweat it out.”

“I will make up a remedy of caraway, cucumber, and licorice,” said a second. “They are all trusted cures for fever.”

William was tossing fitfully. Eleanor felt his brow again. It was hot. Her hands roved searchingly over his restless little body and touched dry heat; he was burning up, and no longer seemed to be aware of her. She was praying inwardly, desperately bargaining with God, willing Him to restore her son to health.

I will promise anything, Lord, she vowed, anything at all, in return for his life.

Just then William’s body stiffened and his limbs went rigid. His head jerked back and his arms and legs began to convulse. His skin seemed to drain of blood and took on a blue tinge.

“Dear God, do something!” Eleanor screamed at the doctors in panic.

“It is the fever, my lady,” they told her helplessly, with tears in their eyes. “It has reached its crisis. We can but wait for it to pass. The Lord William is in God’s hands now.”

The terrifying jerking ceased almost as suddenly as it had begun. William’s body went limp and mercifully he lay at peace, his breathing shallow.

“Thank God!” Eleanor sobbed, collapsing to her knees by the little bed and clasping the child tightly, rocking him gently in her arms for what seemed like an eternity, not daring to let him go. Behind her the physicians were shaking their heads. They had seen the tiny hand fall lifeless onto the coverlet. It was only when Eleanor had finally laid her son gently back on the pillow that she realized he had gone from her forever.

16 Rouen, 1160–Four Years Later

Eleanor smiled despite herself as the fair-haired little girl, unsteady on her feet, was escorted by her guardian, the Chief Justiciar of Normandy, up to the altar rails of the cathedral of Notre Dame. There, awaiting her, stood her bridegroom, the Lord Henry, heir to England, Normandy, and Anjou, fidgeting in his best tunic and cloak, his red curls crowned with a small gold circlet. His father, King Henry, was smiling too, well satisfied with this new marriage alliance, and, standing beside him, the Empress was nodding her approval. This was a fitting match for her grandson.

The bride, not quite three years old, performed a wobbly curtsey to the King and Queen and, at the bidding of the justiciar, placed her hand in that of the Lord Henry. Then the papal legate stepped forward and began intoning the marriage service.

Eleanor watched, her younger children at her side. Matilda, who had been born during that terrible time of mourning for poor William, was the physical image of her grandmother, for whom she had been named, yet a much gentler soul. Her pleasant, placid round face was framed by the red-gold locks of her race. She was a good, dutiful girl, and one day would make some lucky prince a fine wife.

Geoffrey, two years old, black-haired, handsome, and willful, clung to Eleanor’s hand. As the King and Queen’s third living son, he was already aware of the need to assert himself against his older brothers, and knew that he came lowest in their pecking order. But he had the tenacity to hold his own and to make his mark, Eleanor thought. No one will make a fool of my Geoffrey.

Behind her, firmly constrained by his nurse, the plump and motherly Hodierna, fidgeted Henry and Eleanor’s middle son, three-year-old Richard, a handsome, robust, and vigorous little boy with angelic features and the Plantagenet red hair and temper. If any of the Queen’s children could be said to have replaced her precious William, it was Richard. When they had laid him in her arms, bloody and bawling after he came bursting from her womb, ready to take on the world, she had looked upon him and instantly fallen in love. It was wrong, she knew, but he was by far her favorite of all her brood. She could not help it. She loved him so fiercely that it almost hurt, and lived in dread that anything evil would befall him. It was inexplicable, but her fears for him were far greater than her fears for her other children. She had not realized it was possible for a mother to feel such love.

There was an old, cryptic prophecy of Merlin’s, so legend had it, that predicted the “Eagle of the Broken Covenant” would rejoice in her third nesting. Since Richard’s birth, Eleanor had often wondered if she was the eagle the magician had foretold; an eagle whose wings had stretched out over two kingdoms. And could her divorce from Louis be the broken covenant? Richard was her third son; she rejoiced in him already, but the prophecy indicated that she would have even more cause to do so in the fullness of time. One day, Henry had agreed, Richard would succeed her in Aquitaine. She could not have imagined anything more fitting, or a better cause for rejoicing.

She would not allow herself, on this happy day, to think of the two sons who were missing from her brood. Little William was a constant ache of longing in her heart; the memory of him always brought tears to her eyes. She would repeatedly relive the shock of his death as if it had happened yesterday; the pain of her loss never got any better. And little Philip, dead before his navel healed. He was a poignant ghost, a fleeting joy in her life, who had also been cruelly snatched away.

Resolutely, she put away her painful memories and looked on smiling as her eldest son made his wedding vows. Young Henry was a true knight in the making, but headstrong and unruly, needing a firm hand. She could tell he was impatient to be back in the palace courtyard, playing with the royal wards who were his companions, skirmishing with wooden swords and shields, or competing noisily with miniature bows and arrows. This marriage would make little difference to his life, for the Princess Marguerite would be brought up away from the court—although that was a sore point with Eleanor—and taught those things that were deemed fitting for girls, as well as the duties of a future queen.

Eleanor was struck by how much like Louis the little girl was. The same fair hair, the fine features, the gentle charm. Pray God she shows more spirit, she thought. Marguerite was Louis’s daughter by his second wife, Constance, and ever since her birth, Henry had schemed to marry her to his heir. If Louis died without a son to succeed him, Marguerite would be his coheiress with her half sisters, Eleanor’s daughters, Marie and Alix. There could be rich pickings for the husbands of those princesses, and even a kingdom to be won, if might could triumph over right. That was Henry’s long-term ambition and hope …

It was Becket who had gone to Paris and negotiated the new alliance—Becket, with his magnificent escort and lavish gifts to impress and sweeten the French. He was received like a visiting prince. The immediate benefit of the marriage alliance had been a new peace between Henry and Louis, who were now the very best of friends, all past wrongs and differences forgotten. Henry had paid a state visit to the French king in Paris, and they even went on a pilgrimage through Normandy to Mont Saint-Michel. The baby Marguerite had by then been handed over by her mother to Henry, and Louis had visited her in the castle at Neubourg, where he pronounced himself more than satisfied with the arrangements made for her care.

These arrangements were the one jarring note in the negotiations. Eleanor could not forget it. Henry might have been forgiven for the past, but she clearly had not. Louis had insisted that under no circumstances was his daughter to be brought up by Queen Eleanor. It was for that reason that the child had been placed under the guardianship of the kindly Justiciar of Normandy, Robert of Neubourg.

Eleanor was furious.

“Does he think me morally unfit, or a bad mother?” she stormed at Henry in the privacy of their chamber. “That I will corrupt his daughter, or not look after her properly?”

“Let it be, Eleanor,” Henry said wearily. “What is important is this alliance. Neither Thomas nor I wanted to jeopardize it by arguing the matter. Marguerite is Louis’s daughter, and he must do as he thinks best regarding her care.”

“He has insulted me,” Eleanor raged, “and you and your beloved Thomas are letting him get away with it!”

Henry eyed her balefully. “Your animosity toward Thomas is beside the point—and irrational, as I keep telling you.”

“Your mother doesn’t think so,” Eleanor told him. “She disapproves of him as heartily as I do, and makes no bones about saying so, yet you do not dismiss her criticisms as irrational.”

“Not to her face,” Henry muttered. “I owe my Lady Mother some filial respect, but there are times when I can do without her advice. And yours, my lady!”

And there the matter was left. Eleanor had to swallow her pride and accept the ban on her involvement in Marguerite’s upbringing, and she had long guessed that she would never woo Henry away from Becket, although it was not for want of trying. Becket was the chief counselor to the King now, the man whose advice Henry took before all others, and indeed the most powerful subject in the realm. There was no gainsaying him.

Louis knew nothing of this wedding. He had not expected it to take place for some years, but Henry, with his usual bullheaded determination, went ahead regardless.

“There is news from France,” he told Eleanor. “Queen Constance has died in childbed.”

Eleanor stared at him. “God rest her,” she said at length, genuinely grieved for Constance’s little girl, who had been so cruelly bereaved. “Poor Marguerite.”

“She barely remembers her mother,” Henry stated, “so the loss will not affect her too greatly.” Eleanor reflected that this was probably true, but even so …

“Did Constance die giving Louis a son?” she asked.

“No, another girl. Alys, I think her name is. Thomas did tell me. He also heard that Louis did not mourn his wife greatly, but complained about the frightening superfluity of his daughters—as well he may! The news is that he plans to marry again this very month.”

“Good God, he doesn’t waste time!” Eleanor exclaimed. “Constance can hardly have been cold before he thought to replace her in his bed. Not that he would have done so for carnal reasons, knowing Louis. He must be desperate for an heir. Who is she, this new bride?”

“Adela of Champagne,” Henry told her. “She is the sister of the Counts of Champagne and Blois, who, I am told, are to marry your daughters by Louis. In effect, Louis has taken to wife the sister of his future sons-in-law. It’s almost incestuous!” He spat out the words as his brow puckered. “I don’t welcome this marriage. If Adela bears a son, it’s good-bye to my hopes in France. And even if she doesn’t, her brothers are my enemies, and they may make trouble between Louis and me. Nothing would please them better than to see this alliance broken. And if that happens, Louis will get to keep the Vexin.” That rich Norman borderland was Marguerite’s dowry; Henry had ceded it to Louis some years before, and was now delighted at the prospect of getting it back. “There is no time to lose!”

Immediately, Henry had summoned Marguerite to Rouen, quickly procured a dispensation from the Pope, and set in train brisk preparations for the wedding.

The nuptial mass over, the King and Queen headed the procession that followed the newly wed infants back up the nave and out into the chilly, brittle November sunshine. Crowds had gathered, and blessings were called down upon the two children, who made such a pretty tableau standing there in their gorgeous robes, holding hands and smiling shyly. There were sentimental sighs and aahs from the people, who were well aware that these two little ones represented the future. Then the men-at-arms stepped forward, and a path was made through the crowds, as it was time to go back to the palace for the wedding feast.

The King seated himself at the high table, with the Queen on his left and Young Henry and Marguerite in the place of honor on his right, next to the Empress, while the Princess Matilda, somewhat overawed by the grand occasion, sat gravely between Eleanor and Becket. The tiny French princess was evidently enjoying herself, clapping at the capers of the Empress’s jester and cramming tasty morsels of food into her rosebud of a mouth.

“How think you King Louis will react when he hears of his daughter’s marriage, my son?” the Empress asked as the first course was brought in.

“He cannot complain,” Henry said smugly. “The contract has been signed, and his consent to the nuptials is implicit in it. There was no need to consult him at all.”

“He might not agree with that,” Eleanor put in, helping herself to some roast pork from a golden salver. “This won’t be the first time we have deceived him over a marriage, my lord!” She smiled at Henry archly.

“Ah, but in this case he has given his consent, in writing. There’s no arguing with that.”

Becket leaned across.

“He might feel that he has been insulted, sire. He could say that the terms of the treaty have been breached, and withhold the dowry.”

“I think not,” Henry said, grinning wickedly. “I have already sent to the Knights Templar, who have been keeping custody of the Vexin, and they have willingly agreed to surrender it to me. And I have decided to take Marguerite into my own household now that she is married to my son. She will be a hostage against any reprisals that Louis might contemplate.”

Eleanor’s head jerked up at that. “And who will be in charge of her upbringing?” she asked.

Henry laid his hand on hers. “Why, you, of course!” he said with a wink.

“But that is against King Louis’s express wishes,” the Empress said, before Eleanor could answer.

“I will not have my wife slighted,” Henry declared. “And who better to be as a mother to our new daughter?”

“You did not say that before!” Eleanor fumed later, when they were in bed and Henry had laid purposeful hands on her, thrusting his knee between her legs. “You have only made this decision because it suits you to do so. My feelings don’t come into it.”

“Yes they do,” he said, mounting her. “And yes, it makes good political sense to have Marguerite with us, in your care. I knew it would please you.” Eleanor was about to argue that he had missed the whole point of her complaint when Henry’s mouth came down hard on hers and he entered her forcefully. Despite herself, she was swept along by the familiar tide of ecstasy, and had no choice but to give herself up to it completely. As so many times before, they made violent love, rolling in the bed, clinging together, and kissing as hungrily as if their lives depended upon it.

Lying spent in Henry’s arms afterward, Eleanor felt such a surge of love for this complex, difficult man that it was like an emotional orgasm, leaving her breathless and near to tears. Involuntarily, she clung to Henry as if she could never let go, and found herself wishing that things could always be this perfect between them.

When she was calm again, they lay there replete, just looking at each other, with Henry’s rough hand resting lightly on her breast. We don’t need words, she thought. We have been married for eight years, and still it can be so good. She basked in the knowledge that her body continued to captivate Henry, and that, for all her thirty-eight years, she was yet a beautiful woman. Despite his dependence on the ever-present Becket, Henry still needed her. She had been at his side all through that great progress of England they made three years earlier; she had seen the wild northern shires and witnessed the submission of the Scots; she had been with Henry when they renounced the wearing of their crowns in Worcester Cathedral, sharing in an act of humility in honor of the crucified Christ; she had ruled England for eight months after that progress, when Henry was absent in France; and she had shared her husband’s joy and pride in their growing family, and borne the pain of his grief and her own in their terrible loss. She had never forgotten Henry’s ravaged face when she came face-to-face with him at Saumur in Anjou, five months after William’s death. Later, back in England, she wept with him before the little tomb in Reading Abbey, where their son had been laid to rest at the feet of his great-grandsire, the first King Henry. It was the heritage of these shared experiences, and the enduring rapture of their physical love, that had become the bedrock of their marriage.

Henry was sleeping now, snoring lightly against her shoulder. Her eyes wandered the length of his body, feasting upon strong limbs and toned muscles. Louis had looked defenseless in slumber, but not Henry. He was like a dormant lion. She wished they could be back in Poitiers together, as they had been the year before. They had lain night after night in her richly hung chamber in the Maubergeonne Tower, exploring new ways to make love and sleeping late in the mornings. In Rouen she was always the guest of the Empress, and felt she was there on sufferance; but in Poitiers she was the duchess—never mind her queenship—and could fully be herself on her home territory. How she yearned for the wild, summer-kissed beauty of her domains! That was where she truly belonged, not in these chilly northern lands, where the freedoms of the South were so much frowned upon.

Henry, however, had been in Poitiers for a purpose. In fact, it had been her idea that he should attempt to enforce her ancestral rights to the southern province of Toulouse. But she set herself up for some prolonged grief, for she had been left fretting in her tower while he rode south at the head of a large army—and she was still fretting, months later, when he rode back in a foul mood, having failed in his purpose. For as soon as he laid siege to the city of Toulouse, Louis had come to its defense, and Henry could hardly fight the overlord with whom he had so recently made that advantageous alliance. So he had been thwarted of Toulouse, and thereafter stayed in Normandy, dealing with pressing affairs there and sulking. Eleanor he had sent back to England, where once again she found herself ruling as regent, touring the kingdom, issuing writs, and dispensing justice. And there she had remained until Henry summoned her back to Normandy for the wedding.

Louis would not make too much trouble, she was certain of that. He might bluster and protest at the marrying of his daughter without his knowledge, but he knew that Henry FitzEmpress was more than a match for him, so it was fairly safe to say that Henry would get away with what he had so impudently done.

17 Domfront, 1161

Eleanor bit on the sheet and bore down hard, her chin pressed against her chest. The pain was unendurable, and the need to scream overpowering, but even in extremis she remembered that she was Queen of England and Duchess of Normandy and Aquitaine, and must behave as her dignity required.

“Nearly there, Lady,” the midwife said. “One more push.”

Eleanor somehow found the strength to make a final effort. This was her ninth confinement, and she had never suffered such a difficult travail; all her previous babes had slipped out easily into the world with the minimum of trouble and fuss. But she had not had an easy pregnancy, what with one problem or another to deal with—and no end to it in sight.

She pushed—and the tiny head emerged into the midwife’s capable hands, followed by a slippery shoulder—and then the rest of this new little stranger.

“A fair princess, lady!” the midwife announced, beaming, as the infant started squealing. Eleanor, almost drained of energy, took her daughter into her arms and found herself gazing at the very mirror image of herself.

“There’s no doubt as to what your name will be, little one.” She smiled, kissing the crumpled face. “You will be Eleanor, like me.” Henry could never object to that.

Relaxing in bed after the birth, too elated at the safe delivery of so pretty a daughter to sleep, Eleanor recalled how her husband had said that, unlike poor Louis, he was rich in sons and would welcome a girl, because girls could be married off for policy or profit. It was true, but she sometimes wished that Henry would stop seeing his children as pawns to be moved about in some giant game of political chess. There was no doubting that he loved them, but it grieved her that he could speak of disposing of them profitably without a qualm. Marrying off a daughter often meant sending her far away to a distant land—and the pain of a parting that might be forever.

She was not pleased with Henry. She felt he had behaved with less than his usual wisdom in recent months. It had all begun when news of the death of Archbishop Theobald reached them in Rouen, brought by Gilbert Foliot, the Bishop of Hereford. Henry had been shocked and grieved.

“Theobald was my true friend,” he said. “I owe my kingdom to his support.”

“God rest him, the good man,” Eleanor murmured, crossing herself. “He has earned his place in Heaven.”

The Empress got to her feet stiffly—she suffered miseries from painful joints these days—and rested a hand on her son’s shoulder.

“He must be replaced,” she counseled. “England cannot long be without an Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“I agree, sire,” Bishop Foliot chimed in. He was a portly, bushy-browed ecclesiastic, a traditionalist much respected for his integrity and learning. Eleanor had always admired his directness and fearless honesty. You always knew where you were with him.

“Yes, but who could fill Theobald’s shoes?” Henry asked, obviously reluctant to have to consider replacing his old friend.

The answer was obvious, Eleanor felt: it could be none other than Foliot himself. He would be an outstanding choice, having all the requisite qualities and experience.

Matilda evidently felt the same, for she too was looking hopefully at Foliot.

“You have not far to seek, my son,” she said.

“Indeed, I have not,” Henry answered her, his eyes lighting up, but not on the expectant bishop. “Thomas Becket shall be my archbishop.”

“Thomas Becket?” echoed three dissonant voices in unison. Oh, no, Eleanor thought; Becket would be a disaster. He was far too preoccupied with earthly glories, and insufferable enough as it was.

“Have you gone mad, Henry?” the Empress cried, abandoning her customary self-control and deference. “He is too worldly a man for high ecclesiastical office.”

“That is exactly what I was going to say, sire,” chimed in Foliot. “And he is not even ordained a priest.”

“Then show me a better candidate,” Henry challenged.

“I said before, you have not far to look,” the Empress bristled.

“I want an archbishop who is on my side, and prepared to work with me, not against me,” Henry declared.

“My Lord King, all your bishops are ‘on your side,’ as you put it,” Foliot said smoothly, unruffled by the implied slur. “And, unless I am very much mistaken, none has ever worked against you. We are loyal to a man, depend upon it.”

“True, very true—to a point!” Henry rounded on him. “But, if put to the test, your first loyalty would be to the Church. Am I correct?”

“It would be to God,” Foliot stated firmly.

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Henry sniffed, with a rueful smile. “As long as God is on my side, at least. Anyway, the matter must wait. Louis is threatening war, although I doubt he will exert himself greatly. Even so, I must strengthen my defenses on the Norman border, in case he tries to take back the Vexin. And then I have to go south to Aquitaine, for there is trouble in Gascony—again.”

“To Aquitaine?” Eleanor echoed joyfully. “I will go with you, my lord! I can stay in Bordeaux.” It would be wonderful to see her domains again, to feel once more the heat of the southern sun, hear the lays of the troubadours and the summer buzzing of the crickets, taste succulent duck and rich truffles, and see the majestic hills and sparkling rivers of her homeland.

“No,” Henry said.

It had been that adamant refusal, and what followed, far more than the matter of Canterbury, that drove a wedge between them. She had insisted, cajoled, and begged, but Henry proved immovable, arguing that her condition prevented her from traveling far. This was nonsense, she countered, arguing that during her earlier pregnancies, she had journeyed hundreds of miles around England during his absences, right up to her ninth month. She was as strong as an ox, she told him, and had never felt better. But still he had refused. And soon it was to become clear why.

She had stayed in Rouen with the Empress, fretting at her enforced idleness and wishing beyond hope that she was in Poitiers and Gascony with Henry. He sent messengers fairly regularly, though, with news and solicitous inquiries as to her health, and the first tidings of his venture were good. He had besieged and taken the strong castle of Castillon-sur-Agen within just one week, and the rebel lords were so overawed—utterly terrified, in fact—by this feat that all resistance quickly melted away.

It was the next reports from Henry that made Eleanor see red. She had left her uncle, Raoul de Faye, in charge of her domains, but Henry made it quite clear to Raoul, when he saw him in Poitiers, that he had a poor opinion of Raoul’s ability to function effectively as the duchess’s deputy, and overruled him on several important matters. Raoul, in turn, had written to Eleanor to voice his protest and warn her that her subjects were up in arms about it, complaining that the duke was infringing on their liberties. And they had even more cause to gripe when Henry began installing his own Norman administrators in positions of influence.

As soon as she heard of this, Eleanor had written to him in furious haste, demanding to know what he thought he was doing. He replied briskly that it was desirable that Aquitaine, like Normandy and England, should have strong, centralized government, and that he meant to enforce it upon her unruly, whoreson barons if it was the last thing he did! Which it might be, she thought savagely.

At the same time, another letter arrived from Raoul. “The people have withdrawn from their allegiance to the King of the English,” he wrote, deliberately omitting to refer to Henry as Duke of Aquitaine, his proper title in the duchy. “They complain that he has pruned their liberties. They have even approached the legates of the Pope, showing them a chart of lineage and asking them to dissolve your marriage to the King on the grounds of consanguinity.”

When she read this, Eleanor’s blood ran cold. Beside herself with frustration, she took the letter and sought out the Empress, thrusting it in front of her.

“See what your son has done!” she cried.

Matilda said not a word, but read the parchment. “I should not worry yourself, Eleanor,” she said coolly. “The legates will not dare to offend the King; they are only in Aquitaine because they seek his support for their master, Pope Alexander.”

“I am aware of that,” Eleanor retorted. “What angers me is that Henry has once more alienated my subjects—and gone against my wishes.”

“Strong measures are never popular,” Matilda observed, “but sometimes they are necessary. Your Aquitainian lords are a menace, you must admit.”

“I will write to Henry,” Eleanor fumed. “I will protest at his interference in my domains. How dare he!”

“Because he has every right,” Matilda pointed out. “He is your lord, and he is their duke.”

“He should have consulted me!” Eleanor raged.

“He does not need to,” Matilda told her. Eleanor sensed she was enjoying seeing her daughter-in-law discountenanced. She snatched back her letter, swept out of the room, and dashed off a response to Henry, castigating him for his folly and for arousing the ire of her subjects.

His reply made her want to howl with rage. He had ignored all her complaints! There was not a word in justification or apology. He wrote only that the legates, who were falling over themselves to humor him, told him that the Pope had agreed to canonize King Edward the Confessor. He himself, he continued, was still in Poitiers, where he had inspected the building work at the cathedral and found it satisfactory; she might like to know that he had ordered the building of a new church, new city walls, new bridges, a marketplace, and shops, and that he was having the great hall of her palace refurbished with bigger windows.

Her heart lay cold, like a stone in her breast. All this he had put in hand without consulting her—and he’d ducked out of discussing the larger issues. Was it for this that she had wed him? What had become of their shared vision for the future, their marriage of lions? Henry’s behavior was a betrayal of their marriage and all it stood for. It was not to be borne! So here she was, lying in with her new daughter, her heart torn between love for this exquisite child and a burning resentment against her father.

18 Bayeux, 1161

Henry had sent to say he would rejoin her in Bayeux, and there she resentfully repaired with her children and their nurses, thankfully leaving the unsympathetic Empress in Rouen. During the days before Henry’s arrival, to distract herself from the coming confrontation that she must have with him, she took Young Henry and Richard to see the glories of the cathedral of Notre Dame, where they were shown a wonderful old strip of embroidery depicting the whole story of King William’s invasion of England in 1066. It was hanging in the apse of the church, and the little boys stood there marveling at the colorful, lifelike figures of the soldiers and horses, staring open-mouthed at the battle scenes, and listening entranced as Eleanor recounted to them the stirring story of the Conquest.

“There is King Harold, with an arrow piercing his eye,” she said, pointing. “And there he is, being felled to the ground with an axe.”

“I’m going to be a soldier when I grow up, and I’m going to kill people with axes!” Henry boasted.

“No, I am!” cried Richard fiercely, not to be outdone. Eleanor rejoiced that these boys of hers had such spirit.

“You both will be soldiers,” she said firmly. “Very brave soldiers, like your father.”

Mollified, the two lads contented themselves with buffeting each other surreptitiously.

“Come now,” said their mother, aware of the watching clergy exchanging disapproving glances. “We must offer prayers for your father’s safe return.” Firmly, she guided them into a side chapel and pushed them down to their knees, constraining them to quietness.

Husband and wife faced each other across the castle courtyard, as Henry clattered in at the head of his retinue and leaped off his horse at the dismounting block, where Eleanor was waiting for him, her children standing behind with her ladies and the knights of her household.

“Welcome back, my lord,” she said, her face expressionless as she offered the customary stirrup cup and waited for Henry to greet her. He brushed her lips briefly, then stood back, looking at her quizzically, his face weather-beaten and tanned, his unruly hair more close-cropped than usual.

“My lady,” he said formally, raising her hand for a second kiss. “I am well pleased to see you, and looking forward to meeting my new daughter!”

Eleanor beckoned, and the nurse stepped forward with the infant, who regarded the big strange man solemnly for a moment, then broke into a gummy smile.

“You’re a little beauty, aren’t you?” Henry murmured, taking her into his arms and touching her downy head gently with his lips. He looked up at his wife. “You have done well,” he said in a softer voice. “Princes will be clamoring for her hand, if she fulfills this early promise. She is just like you.”

Eleanor accepted his compliments with the barest hint of a smile.

“Won’t you come within, my lord, and take some refreshment after your journey?” she asked formally, taking the baby and handing her back to her nurse. The other children now ran forward, clamoring to greet their father, and after boisterous greetings, they entered the castle together.

Later, when dinner was over and their offspring were in bed, Henry came alone to Eleanor’s solar, where she served him strong cider distilled from the apples that grew plentifully in this part of Normandy.

“Nectar!” he pronounced. “My, that’s potent!”

“Henry, we need to talk,” Eleanor began, bracing herself.

“Indeed, we do,” he said quickly. “The Archbishop of Rouen has just had a word. He is fretting about Young Henry’s education.”

“Is he? Why?”

“He is concerned that the heir to England is still living with his mother and has not even begun his lessons.”

“I have taught him much!” Eleanor exclaimed indignantly, immediately on the defensive, and fearful of what Henry was about to propose.

“Yes, I know that, but it wouldn’t count with our friend the Archbishop. He was going on at some length about how I was different from other kings, who are all rude and uncultivated, in his opinion at any rate. He was waffling on about how my wisdom and prudence—as he put it, God bless him—had been informed by the literature I read in my youth, and he told me that my bishops unanimously agree that my heir should apply himself to letters, so that he can be my true successor.”

“And so?” Eleanor asked warily.

“Well, I take his point. Young Henry is now six, and it’s time he was sent away to be educated.”

It was indeed the custom for princes and sons of the nobility to be placed in great aristocratic households to be nurtured and schooled away from their parents, mothers and fathers considered too loving and indulgent to do the job properly. Eleanor knew this, and accepted it. It was just that, the time now having come, she was devastated at the thought of being parted from any of her children. She had kept Young Henry close to her all his life; given what had befallen two of his brothers, she could hardly bear him out of her sight. Parting from him would be like losing a limb. How would he fare without her? Who would tend to his hurts, or calm his fears, or kiss him good-night? She could not bear the thought of him crying into his pillow, alone and homesick.

Henry said gently, “I know it will be hard for you, but you must realize that a boy cannot grow to manhood tied to his mother’s apron strings. He has to learn to be independent, to fight his own battles and to grow brave and strong as befits a warrior. But you will see him from time to time, more than most mothers see their sons. I have hit upon the ideal arrangement.”

“You have?” Eleanor asked, unable to hide the eagerness in her voice.

“Yes.” Henry smiled at her. “He is to be placed with my Lord Chancellor, my devoted Thomas.”

“Becket?” Eleanor echoed sharply.

“Yes, Becket. Why not? He has a great household, into which he has already accepted several noble boys. They will be companions for Young Henry. He will be well looked after.”

Eleanor was about to protest, but she could see the wisdom in the plan. Becket was often in attendance upon the King, and she and Henry were frequent guests at his table. Her lord was right: there would indeed be plenty of opportunities for her to see her child.

“When will he go?” she inquired.

“After Christmas,” Henry informed her.

She had three weeks, she reckoned quickly, before they took Henry from her. She vowed to herself that she would spend every possible moment with him. This was going to be far worse than parting from Marie and Alix had been. She’d had so little to do with them, those sweet girls, had been kept at a distance and never got to know them well. But Young Henry had been with her from birth, and she loved him fiercely; not quite as much as she adored Richard—her lion cub, as she thought of him—but deeply and protectively. Yet it would not be good-bye, she told herself resolutely. She must not think of the parting as final; she would see her son again, soon enough. And she would still have Richard, and Geoffrey, of course: if she could help it, she would never let her darling Richard be taken from her. He was to be her heir, so surely she would have some say in his upbringing. They would have to snatch Richard over her dead body.

“It is a wise decision,” she said evenly, conceding defeat. “But there was something else I wished to discuss with you, and that is what you have done in Aquitaine.”

“Aquitaine is quiet now,” Henry said, his tone final, indicating that was the end to the matter.

“Quiet, but seething under the surface, so I hear,” Eleanor persisted.

“From your uncle Raoul? I didn’t notice him keeping your unruly vassals in check!” Henry smirked unpleasantly.

“No one has ever succeeded in doing that, not even my father or my grandfather,” Eleanor snapped. “The geography of my lands does not lend itself to unity; can’t you see that?”

Henry rose and began pacing up and down the room.

“Well, I’m not content with my authority extending only to the regions around Poitiers and Bordeaux,” he told her. “With my officials in place, answering directly to me, I intend to bring some order to your domains.”

“You are alienating my subjects by doing that!” Eleanor flared. “They resent having strangers lording it over them. Things were bad enough before, when Louis sent in his Frenchmen to rule in his name; when I went home and they were sent away, the people rejoiced. It was very moving to see that. It meant everything to them to be governed by their own. Henry, I want my subjects to love you, but if you persist in this folly, they will only hate you.”

Henry had been listening with an irritated expression. He stopped his pacing by the door and turned to face her.

“I’m not doing it to win popularity,” he declared. “I mean to have your vassals bend to my will, like it or not. They must recognize my authority, and you must support me in enforcing it.”

“Then you must go about it a different way!” Eleanor flung at him.

“No one says ‘must’ to me,” he snarled. “I don’t take orders from you, or anyone. You are in no position to dictate to me, Eleanor. Might I remind you that a wife’s duty is to obey her husband, to rear his children, and to warm his bed when he so desires. And there it ends.”

“If you think I’m in any mood to warm your bed after you’ve insulted my intelligence, then let me put you straight now!” Eleanor riposted, her face flushed with anger.

“Please yourself!” Henry said testily, and went out of the room, leaving Eleanor wanting to scream with frustration. She could never win with him. He was utterly incapable of seeing her point of view, and once his mind was made up, there was no moving him.

The King stormed down the spiral stairs and into the great hall of the castle, nearly colliding with two of the Queen’s ladies, who were making their way up to her chamber with their arms full of freshly laundered veils and chemises, smelling of sweet herbs. One of the ladies looked him boldly in the eye. She had a heart-shaped face set off to perfection by the widow’s wimple that framed her chin and her rosy cheeks. He knew who she was—what man didn’t? Rohese de Clare, Countess of Lincoln, had the reputation of being the most beautiful woman in England. It was well known that during the five years since her husband’s death, she had resisted all offers of remarriage, and it was also bruited about that it was because she enjoyed taking her pleasure where she listed, although Henry was of the opinion that people would say such things about such a lovely widow.

Now he was not so sure. His eyes locked for a moment with the countess’s, then the moment passed and she and her companion dipped into quick curtsies and hurried on. But his blood was up. He was furious with Eleanor for questioning his rights in Aquitaine—again—and powerfully intrigued by the enigmatic Rohese. He’d long admired her from afar but had never quite seen in those slanting green eyes and pouting lips what other men had. There was something almost childlike about the woman, although the look she had just given him was anything but childlike. Now he could see what had made her so admired—and the promise in that brief moment of eye contact had fired his imagination.

That evening, after supper, he sought her out, and finally came upon her standing, wrapped in her cloak, gazing out over the battlements at the green fields of the Cotentin below.

“I thought you would come, my Lord King,” she said in a modulated, mellow voice. Again her eyes met his, boldly, vibrant with promise.

“People speak truth when they say you are beautiful,” Henry told her. “My wife is beautiful too, but in a different way, and I like variety.”

She came to him then, and he folded her in his strong arms. Both of them were trembling with desire.

“I want you,” Henry muttered gruffly against her veil. His hands delved inside her cloak, roved eagerly over firm breasts and hips. Rohese parted those full lips for him to kiss, and he obliged, tenderly at first, then hungrily, devouringly …

When they had taken their fill of each other, Henry returned alone to his bedchamber thinking how marvelous it had been simply to swive a woman without the added complications of having to enter into any other congress or pay heed to her whims. He loved Eleanor, there was no question about that in his mind, but she would insist on prolonging these endless, fruitless power struggles, and interfering in matters that were not her concern. He valued her judgment, of course he did, but only up to a point. She was a woman, God damn her, and as his wife, she owed him due obedience; he thought he had been unusually generous in allowing her some say in the governance of his domains.

He was still angry with her. Her denying him her bed yet rankled. Not that he would have sought it after their quarrel, but it was his right! It infuriated him that she had such scant regard for his rights. Sleeping with the beautiful Rohese had been his means of taking revenge on her, and he meant to go on exacting that sweet revenge. Even if Eleanor never got to know about it, he would enjoy his victory in private!

He lay down in his bed. His body was sated and ready for sleep, but his mind was strangely ill at ease. He was a plain man, a direct man, so this puzzled him. It would not have occurred to him to feel guilty for betraying his wife.

It was some time, in fact, before he realized that what he was feeling was an odd sense of loss.

19 Falaise, 1162

They were keeping Easter at Falaise, the birthplace of the Conqueror, and the court was lodged in the massive fortress that dominated the town from its high position on the escarpment overlooking the River Ante.

“This was where William’s father, Duke Robert the Magnificent, was staying when he espied the woman Herleva,” Henry told Eleanor as they stood in the bailey staring up at the great buttressed keep with its Romanesque windows. “She was extraordinarily beautiful.” When he mentioned Herleva, he was thinking of Rohese.

“I heard he was called Robert the Devil,” Eleanor said wryly.

“Indeed he was, at least to begin with.” Henry grinned. “You see, I am doubly descended from the Devil!”

Eleanor made a face. “I can believe that!” she said, a touch tartly. “Wasn’t Herleva meant to be washing clothes in the river at the time?”

“She was, or so the story goes. She was a tanner’s daughter from the town. The duke saw her and fell in love instantly. She bore him two children. He couldn’t marry her, of course, as he had a wife already, so their son was called William the Bastard before his victories earned him the name of Conqueror.”

They strolled around the bailey and entered the little Chapel of St. Prix, where Henry pointed to an iron-studded door.

“That leads to the crypt, where I store some of my treasure. There are only two keys. I have one—and Thomas has the other.”

At the mention of Becket, Eleanor frowned. If anyone should have held the second key, it was herself, but again Becket had usurped her.

“I wanted to talk to you about Thomas,” Henry said. They sat down on a stone bench beneath the window.

“I have made up my mind that he is to be my archbishop. No, wait!” He held up a hand to still her unvoiced protest. “Thomas is my friend, and loyal to me. The Church has become too powerful, and I have radical plans for reforming the abuses within it. I know he will support me.”

“What makes you so sure?” Eleanor asked, her expression troubled.

“His unstinting and faithful service over these past years speaks for itself,” Henry said warmly. “With my true Thomas as Archbishop, I foresee no trouble in implementing these very necessary reforms.”

“Then you have made up your mind,” Eleanor stated, knowing that nothing she could say would make any difference. She knew too, in her bones, that Henry was making a bad decision for all the wrong reasons, and feared that no good would come of it. Others, wiser than herself—among them the Empress Matilda and Bishop Foliot—had voiced their concerns, but Henry paid them no heed. Well, he must go to Hell in his own way.

“I have made up my mind,” Henry said firmly. “You could at least look cheerful about it!”

She smiled distantly. “Let us hope that your confidence in Thomas is justified.”

“Oh, it will be, it will be,” he assured her blithely.

——

They were enthroned on the dais in the hall when Becket came in response to Henry’s summons. Eleanor noticed how regally he was dressed, his embroidered scarlet tunic and blue cloak in stark contrast to the plain, mended garb of his master. But Henry had never cared much for the trappings of majesty. He let Becket be his ambassador in such things: Becket’s magnificence could proclaim the wealth and status of the King of England.

Henry leaped up from his throne and embraced his chancellor warmly.

“Thomas, I have a mission for you.”

“Yes, my lord?” Becket’s handsome face bore an eager look, as if he could not wait to hear about this latest duty that Henry was now to require of him.

“First, I want to ask after your adopted son, the Lord Henry. How is he?” the King inquired.

“He is well, my lord, and his diligence at his studies is indeed praiseworthy, although I daresay he would rather be learning swordplay than attending to his letters.” Becket smiled.

“I pray you, my Lord Chancellor, remember his mother to him,” Eleanor said wistfully.

“Rest assured, my lady, that he includes you in his daily prayers without fail,” he told her, then turned back to the King. “Does this mission concern my adopted son?” he asked.

“Yes. I want you to take him to England and have the barons swear fealty to him as my heir,” Henry commanded. “You are to leave at once, so that the ceremony can take place at Whitsun, but first, have the boy brought here now to say farewell to us.”

“If my lord will grant me leave,” Becket said, bowing and departing.

Eleanor was thrilled. She was to see her son, albeit briefly. It had been four long months since she’d set eyes on him.

When Becket returned later, bringing the seven-year-old Henry with him, Eleanor noticed the change in the boy at once. He seemed taller, more self-assured; on greeting, it became clear that there was, for the first time, a palpable distance between him and his mother. He bowed gracefully over her hand and stood a little stiffly when she opened up her arms to embrace him. His father’s boisterous hug he bore more readily, and it was brought home to her that in her son’s eyes, she had diminished in importance, although his courtesy toward her was faultless. It nearly broke her heart, but she remained smiling, and resolutely kept her distance.

“I see you have taught the lad courtly manners!” Henry observed, ruffling his offspring’s red curls. “Well, my Lord Henry. You are to go to England to receive the homage of my barons, as my heir. All you have to do is sit there and look happy about it. Just remember you are not king yet!”

They all laughed, but there was an excited and defiant glint in the boy’s eyes that rode ill with the humility he was supposed to show to his royal father. Eleanor alone noticed it, and felt a fleeting chill in her heart. Was her son, young as he was, ambitious to fill that father’s shoes? Had Henry’s words brought home to him the reality of his great destiny? Both of them had done their best to prepare Young Henry for eventual kingship, but maybe he had not quite understood what it would really mean—until now. Or maybe he was just excited at the prospect of a sea voyage and of being made to feel important, as any young boy would be. She shrugged off her fears. She was overreacting, she told herself, a bad habit of hers. It was the prospect of yet another parting from her son that was making her so sensitive, undoubtedly.

“Go and make ready, my young lord,” Becket was saying. “And walk! A future king does not run, but maintains a dignified pace.”

Henry burst out laughing. “I think I ought to take some lessons in kingship from you, Thomas!”

Becket bestowed that slow, attractive smile of his. “I too will go and prepare for the journey, my lord.”

“Wait,” Henry said. “You do not yet fully comprehend your mission.”

“My lord?” Becket, for once, looked bewildered.

“It is my intention,” Henry said, gazing upon him affectionately, “that you should become Archbishop of Canterbury.”

A look of horror fixed itself on Becket’s face. He stood there, seemingly unable to speak. Eleanor had never seen him so discomposed.

“My lord,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with shock, “do not do this, I beg of you.”

The smile froze on the King’s face.

“Come now, Thomas. Surely you can see the wisdom in my decision,” he said evenly.

“Lord King,” Becket replied desperately, “I beseech you to reconsider, for many good reasons. I know that if you make me Archbishop, you will demand many things of me—things I might be unable to grant. Allow me to speak plainly. Already it is said that you presume much in matters affecting the Church. If you seek to push through reforms that conflict with the honor of the Church, I would be bound to oppose them.”

“But Thomas, you have said yourself that the Church is in need of reform,” Henry protested.

“As your chancellor, I might voice such an opinion, but as Archbishop of Canterbury, I would be in a difficult position. And my enemies would be waiting to exploit that, to drive a wedge between us. Sire, England is not lacking in good churchmen who could ably fill Archbishop Theobald’s shoes. There is Bishop Foliot, for one, although I have never liked him; yet he would be the ideal choice. I am not even a priest, and I have never celebrated a mass!”

“It’s no good, Thomas. My mind is made up,” Henry declared with an air of finality. “I have thought long on this, over many months, and I know that you are the right man for the office. And you know, as well as I do, that you can be ordained priest one day, and consecrated Archbishop the next. I promise you, we will work together for the good of the Church—and of England. Now, no more arguments.”

Becket knew when he was defeated. He stood there miserably, looking as heavyhearted as a man who has just been sentenced to some terrible fate. Not for the first time, Eleanor felt pity for him. She knew his arguments were well founded, knew too that he would be at a disadvantage from the start. But both he and she were powerless to gainsay Henry once his mind was made up.

Becket had risen from his departing bow when the King bade him pause.

“I will have letters prepared, informing my English barons and bishops of my decision,” he said. “I must stay here in Normandy, but my son will be a witness to your enthronement. There is one other matter. I want you to purchase gold for the fashioning of a crown and scepter for Young Henry. I am minded to have him crowned in my lifetime, after the custom of the French kings.”

“Very well, sire,” Becket said, his voice unsteady, his face hollow. Eleanor was torn between elated surprise at her son’s coming elevation to kingship and dismay at Henry’s folly in believing that his friend would be able to render him unstinting loyalty once he was safely installed at Canterbury.

The court was still at Falaise when, in May, reports reached Normandy of Becket’s formal nomination as Archbishop in the presence of the Lord Henry and the King’s justices; then came the news of his ordination as a priest, and his consecration in Canterbury Cathedral the very next day. He had been overcome with emotion, it was said, and wept when the Archbishop’s miter was placed on his head. Eleanor wondered uncharitably if he had done that for effect; Thomas had a great sense of occasion, she knew, and a flair for the dramatic gesture. It appealed to his vanity.

The next news was brought by an unexpected visitor, the new Archbishop’s secretary, John of Salisbury. Eleanor had long known of John by reputation. He had studied in Paris and worked in the Papal Curia before entering the household of Archbishop Theobald, by which time he had become famous as a man of letters, and he was now accounted one of the greatest scholars and thinkers of his time.

“He has no great opinion of me!” Henry grimaced, after John had been announced and they were waiting for him to come into their presence. “He thinks my court too frivolous.”

“He sounds a lot like Abbot Bernard,” Eleanor observed dryly, thinking of that austere old terror who had long since gone to his reward.

“I think it was Abbot Bernard who recommended our friend John to Archbishop Theobald,” Henry told her.

A tall, dignified cleric in his early forties was ushered into the solar. John of Salisbury was known to be high-minded and uncompromising, yet his manner toward his King could not be faulted.

“Greetings, John,” Henry said.

“Greetings, sire. I trust that you and the Queen are in health. My Lord Archbishop sends his fealty and his love, and has charged me to give you this.” He held out a richly embroidered purse with drawstrings and placed it in Henry’s hands. Henry looked dumbstruck.

“The great seal of England?” he queried, in apparent disbelief.

“The very same, sire,” John replied gravely. “My master has sent me to tender his resignation as chancellor. He begs you to excuse him, but he wishes from now on to devote his life wholly to the Church.”

“What?” Henry was ashen, and also angered. “I need him both as my chancellor and as my archbishop.”

John of Salisbury regarded his king with something akin to pity. “My master has said that the burdens of both offices are too heavy for him to bear.”

“Does he no longer care to be in my service?” Henry burst out. There were tears in his eyes. Eleanor could not bear to look at him, or to witness his crushing disappointment, which seemed almost akin to a betrayal.

“Lord King, he has changed. You would not credit it.”

“In what way has he changed?” Eleanor asked sharply.

“A miraculous transformation took place just after his consecration, my lady.”

“Miraculous?” echoed Henry. Eleanor, remembering how Becket had always reveled in playing his roles to the hilt, thought that perhaps John should have said “calculated” instead.

“As soon as he put on those robes, reserved at God’s command for the highest of His servants, my Lord Archbishop changed not only his apparel, but the whole cast of his mind. Overnight, he who had been a courtier, statesman, and soldier, a worldly man by any standards, became a holy man, an ascetic even. He has changed from a patron of play-actors and a follower of hounds to a shepherd of souls.”

“Thomas? An ascetic?” Henry could not believe what he was hearing. He looked utterly bewildered. Eleanor said nothing. She was thinking that, having ceased to be the patron of play-actors, Becket seemed to have become one. She could not credit this transformation as sincere, let alone miraculous. Becket had never done things by halves.

“Yes, sire,” John was saying. “He has so completely abandoned the world that all men are marveling at the change in him. He has cast aside his elegant robes for a monk’s habit, and beneath it he wears a hair shirt, to keep himself in mind of the frailty of the flesh; my lord, it swarms with vermin. He drinks only water that has been used to boil hay. He has sold all his worldly goods, and now performs great acts of charity and humility. He washes the feet of thirteen beggars every day, and gives them alms. He asks his monks to whip his bare back in penance for his sins. His nights are spent sleepless in vigil.”

Henry was listening to all this with his mouth agape. It seemed incredible to him, who loved Becket, but not to Eleanor, who did not, and who viewed him with suspicion. She sensed that Becket was reveling in his new role, and enjoying the fame it was bringing him. How else could such a radical change be explained?

The King, still stunned, summoned Bishop Foliot and made John of Salisbury repeat to him what he had said of Becket’s transformation. Foliot, the only bishop who had opposed Becket’s election, looked grimly skeptical.

“My Lord King, you have wrought a miracle,” he said dryly. “Out of a soldier and a courtier, you have made an archbishop. And a saintly one, it seems.”

Eleanor made a face. The bishop looked at her, realizing that she was shrewder than he had hitherto supposed.

Henry was crestfallen. “I know not what to think,” he said. “I feel as if I have been abandoned. I feel as if I have lost a friend.”

20 Woodstock, 1163

Eleanor was walking with her children in the park that surrounded the royal manor of Woodstock. Earlier they had visited the menagerie established there by their father, and young Richard and Geoffrey were enthralled to see the caged lions, leopards, lynxes, and camels that had been sent as gifts to the King by foreign princes.

Matilda and little Eleanor were particularly taken with a curious stick-backed beast.

“Hedgehog!” Eleanor cried in delight.

“No,” her mother said, “it’s a porcupine.”

They stood watching it rootling about for a few more minutes, then Richard dragged them back to see the lions, shouting, “Raaarr!! Raaarr!” Eleanor smiled lovingly upon him, then her thoughts strayed to her eldest son, whom she still missed painfully. He had remained in Becket’s household, and she had not seen him since February, when she organized a little festival for his eighth birthday. But it fell somewhat flat. He was very grand now, Young Henry, too old to be thrilled by birthday treats, and all too conscious that he was his father’s heir.

The July sun was warm, and when they returned to the Queen’s enclosed garden, a pretty arbor made enchanting with its flowery mead of delicate, heavenly colors, and its laden fruit trees, they were served ale that had been hung in buckets to cool in the moat. There, Henry joined them, fresh from hunting deer in the park. He was feeling particularly pleased with himself, for only the day before, every one of the princes of Wales had come to Woodstock to pay homage to him, following his vigorous suppression of a Welsh uprising in the spring.

When the children’s nurses had taken them back to the manor house to have their supper, Henry and Eleanor sat on a stone bench, basking in the late afternoon haze and talking of his ambitious plans to enforce law and order in his kingdom. This was his cherished project, and he had been working on it from the moment of his accession.

“What worries me the most is the increase in crimes committed by the clergy,” he said. “And the law, as it stands, allows them to get away with it!”

This was a topic long familiar to Eleanor. She had heard him grumble about it many times before. But there was a new determination in his voice when he spoke again. “I intend to put an end to this anomaly,” he declared.

He could never have guessed, she was to think years later, looking back on this summer’s day, how brutally that resolve would impact upon his life.

“It’s wrong, and it must be ended,” Henry went on. “If a lay person commits a crime, they end up in my courts and are punished according to their desserts, and often severely. That is the law of the land, and it is just. I have seen to that.” He got up and began pacing up and down in his usual restless manner. “But anyone in holy orders, even the lowliest clerk, if he commits a crime, be it murder or theft or rape, can claim benefit of clergy and be tried in the Church courts. And you know what that means.”

“The Church is not allowed to shed blood,” Eleanor said.

“Exactly. So it imposes the lightest penalties. Murder a man, and as long as you’ve got a tonsure, you get three Hail Marys! But if you or I were to commit murder, Eleanor, we would be hanged.” Henry’s face was flushed with anger. This issue rankled with him, and had for a long time. She suspected there was only one reason why he had not decided to act until now, and that was because he had not wanted to provoke a quarrel with Becket. Relations between them since Henry’s return to England had been at first wary and then amicable, but increasingly there was a distance between them that had never been there in the past, and she guessed that Henry grieved for what he’d lost, and feared to upset the equilibrium of what remained of the friendship. Even so, either he had become sufficiently vexed by the matter of the criminous clerks, as he called it, to put Becket to the test, or had managed to convince himself that his beloved Thomas really was on his side.

“No, my love, I have decided,” Henry was saying. “All offenders must be tried in the royal courts, without exception.”

He sat down, and Eleanor laid her hand on his. It was becoming increasingly rare for them to share such private moments of tenderness these days. Henry was always too busy with the many cares and duties that went with ruling such vast and far-flung domains, while she, for her part, was preoccupied with the demands of her growing family. And above all that, they existed in a state of truce, skirting around the issues that divided them. It did not make for intimacy.

“Some will see that as an attack on the Church itself,” she said.

“I know that. I expect some resistance. But I am determined to have my way.” His jaw was thrust forward, his gray eyes steely with determination. It would be a brave man who defied him.

——

The next night, he came to her in some anger and distress.

“Thomas defied me!” he raged. “We were in council, and in order to replenish my treasury, which keeps emptying at an alarming rate, I proposed that the profits from revenue collected in the shires by my sheriffs be diverted to the crown. It’s a thoroughly reasonable proposal, but what did my Lord Archbishop do? He opposed it. He defied me openly. He made me look a fool!” Henry was almost shouting.

“What did your barons say?” Eleanor asked gently.

“They supported Thomas. Bastards, the lot of them!” His face was puce.

Eleanor, shaking her head in despair, snuffed some candles, took off her nightrobe, and slipped naked into bed.

“Perhaps my Lord Archbishop wishes to show that he can assert his authority as primate of England,” she suggested, as casually as she could. Privately, she wondered if Becket had gotten wind of the bigger issue that was soon to be made public, and was testing the water to see how much support he might expect to gain.

Henry sat down heavily on the bed and began stripping off his clothes. At thirty, he was still broad-chested and muscular, but he had the beginnings of a paunch, the result of enjoying too much of the good, sweet wines of Anjou.

“Does he indeed? Well, I’ll not let him best me again!” he vowed, and climbed in beside her. “But let us not waste time on Thomas. I came here for another purpose.” Gathering her in strong arms, he kissed her avidly, and she marveled at how her body still had the power to arouse him. She was forty-one now, and there was a light silvering of gray in her still-thick hair. Faint lines ringed her eyes, her lips were not as full as they had once been, and her jaw less defined; her breasts were soft from too many pregnancies, and her stomach rounded. Yet she still knew how to tease and please Henry, and her eager fingers and tongue could always find ways to bring him quickly to the point of ecstasy, as she was proceeding to do now, rejoicing to feel his penis grow instantly hard in her hand, and feeling her own surge of pleasure at his touch. They came together, as they always did, in a mad fervor of passion, and when it subsided, Eleanor lay slick and hot, with Henry’s weight upon her, marveling at how they could still take such joy in each other after eleven years of marriage and seven children.

Presently, Henry fell asleep, his arm flung across Eleanor in its usual position. When he awoke in the small hours, the candle had burned down, and in its dwindling light he lay gazing at his wife, recalling their lovemaking. She was still a magnificent woman, he reflected, and he still loved her. He might make secret trysts with Rohese de Clare—indeed, he was so captivated by her erotic appeal that he could not give her up—but Eleanor had his heart, and often his body, which was something of a marvel to him. When he was with her like this, he could forget for a space how deeply Thomas had wounded him by betraying their friendship. Never in history, he told himself, had a prince done so much for a subject, only to have it cast back in his face. It was as if Thomas was determined to assert his authority above that of his king! That he could not—and would not—tolerate. If there was to be a power struggle between them, then so be it. But why should Thomas wish to initiate such a thing, when he owed so much to him, and after they had enjoyed the most enriching of friendships? Dear God, Henry thought, must he keep torturing himself by remembering those heady days when he and Thomas had been close and carefree, heedless of the storms that were swirling threateningly on the horizon? He’d loved Thomas, loved him as a brother, and had believed that Thomas returned that love. It seemed he had been wrong about that, devastatingly wrong. And at the very thought, Henry of England buried his lionlike head in the pillow and wept.

Eleanor awoke in darkness and lay there gazing through the high, narrow window at the starry night sky. A light, warm breeze drifted across the pillow, gently stirring the tendrils of her hair. England’s climate might be as cold as that in northern France, but the summer months could be delightful, although not as blazingly hot and glorious as in Aquitaine. For the thousandth time she struggled to suppress a longing for the land of her birth. It had been four long years since she was in Poitiers, and longer since she’d seen the vast golden swaths of the South. Soon, she must contrive to go back, make any excuse. Her mind was full of plans.

Suddenly, she became aware of a harsh, muffled sobbing, and realized to her horror that it was coming from the pillow next to hers, and that Henry was weeping. She had never seen her tough, strong husband cry, and was at a loss to know what to do. Should she pretend she was asleep and hadn’t heard? Would it embarrass him to have her witness his vulnerability? Or should she follow her instincts and comfort him, as she comforted her sons when they came to her in tears over some childish hurt?

He had his back to her. She reached out a tentative hand and placed it on his bare shoulder.

“Henry? What is the matter?” she whispered.

He froze for a moment, then his shoulders slumped and he dragged his forearm over his eyes.

“I am betrayed,” he murmured brokenly, “betrayed by the one who has the most cause to love me.”

For answer, Eleanor drew him into her arms, pulling his head against her breasts. Normally, such intimate contact would inflame his desire, but not tonight. He just lay there, his eyes closed, sunk in misery.

“Henry,” she said at length, “you should not let Thomas affect you so. He is not worthy of this mindless devotion.” That roused him, and he drew back and stared at her through the gloom.

“Thomas was the best servant a king ever had,” he said hotly, “and the best friend. You never liked him. You’ve always been jealous of him—admit it!”

“I admit I resented his hold on you,” Eleanor said carefully, anxious not to make this situation any worse than it was. “I wanted you to seek my advice and opinions, not his. That was only natural. Yet it did seem to me—and others—that you were in thrall to him, and that worried me, because I feared you would one day find him wanting in some way, as is sadly the case now. And I was not the only person who felt you had advanced him too greatly, as you well know.”

“I am not in thrall to him,” Henry snapped. “What rot!”

“Then why are you so hurt?”

“I feel betrayed!” he blurted out. “Anyone would, if they had done as much for someone as I have for Thomas, and then had it thrown back in their face!”

“Then let anger be your guide, not hurt,” Eleanor urged. “You have his measure now. You will be prepared when he thwarts you again, and displays such base ingratitude—as he will! Do not let him get away with it a second time.”

“It’s not as simple as that,” Henry said, a tear trickling down his cheek. “I loved that man like a brother, yet suddenly he is my enemy.”

“Oh, Henry, can you not see what others see?” Eleanor sighed. “Love can make us blind to others’ faults. Always remember, whatever he does, you are his king. He owes you fealty and duty. You must swallow your pain and make him obey you, as all your other subjects are bound to do.”

“You don’t understand at all, do you, Eleanor?” Henry was almost shouting. “He has a higher allegiance than his duty to me. He tells me he has God on his side, and I can’t fight God!”

“Thomas is a man, for all that he is an archbishop,” Eleanor flung back passionately, “and it’s as a man that you must deal with him, on the level. All this boasting of putting God first is more of his play-acting, yet you could never see it. He’s reveling in this role and playing power games with you. And you’re letting him do it!”

“Enough!” howled Henry, his face ravaged in the moonlight. “I won’t listen to your venom. You always hated Thomas.”

“It’s not venom, it’s common sense!” she cried. “You would see it if you weren’t so besotted with this man! By God’s blood, Henry, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear that you love him in the way that he loves you.”

He stared at her, shocked into silence for a moment. “What do you mean by that?” he asked, slowly, menacingly.

“I saw it years ago,” she went on, “and if I could see it, then others must have seen it too. The way he looked at you. He wanted you, Henry. It was glaringly obvious. If you hadn’t been so blinded by love for him, you’d have known.”

The slap landed stingingly on her cheek, leaving her as shocked as he. Henry had never raised a hand to her before, unlike many other husbands she had heard of.

“You are truly sick in your mind if you think such things,” he snarled. “I can only think it’s your foul jealousy that has led you to make such vile allegations.”

“Believe that if you wish,” Eleanor said quietly, her palm pressed to her burning cheek. “I will say nothing more, for I know that what I am convinced is the truth is painful. But when he hurts you again, Henry, I will be here. I love you. I would do nothing to harm you or betray you.”

In later years, she was to look back on those words with bitter regret, and to that night as one that marked a turning point in their relationship. Suddenly, she had become the enemy too, for daring to probe the raw place within her husband’s heart. He had come to her for comfort, and she had only made matters worse. She was overwhelmed with the hopelessness of it all. Thomas Becket was still standing between them, more potent as an adversary than he had ever been as a friend.

21 Westminster, 1163

Henry stood up and there was an instant hush. The barons and bishops who had gathered for this meeting of the Great Council were packed into every cranny of the lofty, stone-vaulted chamber, and all were craning forward to hear him speak. The word was that something momentous—and controversial—was in the wind.

“My lords,” the King began, “I am minded to address a legal anomaly in my realm: the issue of criminous clerks, those who have been leniently sentenced by the Church courts because they have claimed benefit of clergy. It seems, good sirs, that these men, because they are in holy orders, are literally getting away with murder in some cases, and I will not tolerate it any longer!”

There was general murmuring at this, and a few “ayes” from the barons, while Archbishop Becket and the prelates sat stone-faced.

“I am resolved to require the Church courts to hand over those offenders who have broken my laws to my courts for corporal punishment!” Henry declared firmly. “This is no new thing, my lords, but a return to the customs of King Henry, whom you all honor as the ‘Lion of Justice.’”

There were a few puzzled faces, as people struggled—and failed—to recall the first Henry enforcing such a law. The King smiled grimly to himself. In truth, he had made that bit up, hoping he would not be challenged on that point.

He sat down in his chair of estate, glaring at his councilors, almost daring them to disagree with him. “Well, my lords? What say you?” he rapped out.

Becket rose to his feet. His face was thunderous.

“Lord King, like everyone else here present, I am aware of abuses within the Church courts. But as your archbishop, and primate of all England, I cannot sanction any infringement of the authority and liberties of the Church.”

Henry’s expression was glacial. He sat rigid on his throne, gripping its wooden arms. “Are you defying me, my Lord of Canterbury?” he asked, his tone intimidating. But Becket stood his ground.

“Lord King, when you raised me to be Archbishop, you conferred on me a sacred trust. I would be betraying that trust if I failed to protect the Church’s immunity from secular interference.”

“You are practiced at betrayals, priest,” Henry muttered. A few caught his words and exchanged speculative glances. The expression on Becket’s face revealed that he had heard them too. He swallowed, then regained his composure.

“I am utterly opposed to this proposed reform, Lord King,” he stated, then looked sternly at his bishops, challenging them to support him. Some gazed at the floor, others seemed suddenly to have discovered something fascinating about their episcopal rings.

Bishop Gilbert Foliot stood up.

“I am with you, Lord King,” he announced defiantly. “It is the spirit of the law that counts, not the letter, be that law human or divine.”

“Thank you, my Lord of Hereford,” Henry said, gratified. “At least one of my clerics has some sense. What do the rest of you say? Who is for me?”

To a man, the barons raised their hands, and a few bishops tremulously followed suit. Becket rounded on them.

“Whom do you serve first, God or the King?” he barked. Across the chamber, his eyes met Henry’s. There was hatred in both men’s faces, and, in the King’s, pain also. But Becket was a man on a mission. He knew himself to be in the right. Earthly friendship must give place before the honor of God and His Church.

“I command you to oppose this so-called reform,” he instructed his clergy. “Every one of you, without exception.”

“Be careful, Thomas,” Henry growled. Becket ignored him.

“Those opposing, stand up!” he commanded. “There is more at issue here than your obedience to the King. You have your immortal souls to consider.”

No one moved for a moment, then one bishop stood up, followed by another, and another, until they were all standing, apart from Bishop Foliot, who remained resolutely seated.

“My Lord Bishop of Hereford?” Becket prompted. “I hope you are thinking of God, and of your conscience.”

“God and my conscience are in complete agreement,” Foliot retorted, folding his arms across his ample paunch.

“Very well,” Becket said in a dissatisfied voice.

“Enough of this charade!” Henry snarled. “You, my bishops—you will all swear obedience to the ancient customs of this realm. I command it!”

“But that would mean us swearing to uphold this law that you say King Henry passed,” Becket said.

“It is my right to require such an oath,” Henry told him firmly. “My laws must be upheld, and if my bishops don’t set a good example, what hope in Hell is there for the rest of us?”

Wincing at the King’s casual mention of Hell, Becket turned to his colleagues. “You must take the oath, as your duty to the King requires,” he told them, “but you must add the words ‘saving our order.’ Is that clear?”

“By the eyes of God!” Henry thundered. “Let me hear no word of your order! I demand absolute and express agreement to my laws.”

“Then, in all conscience, my King, I cannot require the bishops to take this oath,” Becket insisted. At that, Henry saw red. Shaking with anger, he got up and strode furiously from the chamber.

All of a sudden there were frenzied sounds of activity from the palace courtyard below, the shouts of agitated men, the whinnying of horses, the trundling of carts.

“Get your women to pack,” Henry told Eleanor as he burst into her chamber.

“What has happened?” she asked, rising to her feet and letting her embroidery fall to the floor. Little Matilda and Eleanor abandoned their skittles and looked up at their father warily. His rages terrified them. Mamille, seeing their anxious faces, set down her goblet, knelt on the floor, and rolled the ball in an attempt to distract them.

“It’s Becket!” Henry hissed. “He defied me again! In council, in front of all my lords, temporal and spiritual. He took the part of his criminous clerks; he opposed my reforms; and he forbade the bishops to swear an oath upholding my laws. Such defiance is treason!”

Eleanor poured him some wine and handed it to him, forbearing to speak. He gulped it back and resumed his tirade. “It is not to be borne! He shall pay for this.”

“What will you do?” Eleanor asked. She had resolved never to criticize Becket again, but to remain quietly supportive of Henry when he needed her to be. That way, she hoped to repair the damage she had done on that awful night in July.

Henry sat down heavily in her vacated chair, staring into the fire, breathing furiously. When at last he spoke, his voice was calmer, deadlier. “For a start, I’ll confiscate the rich manors and castles I bestowed on him when he was chancellor. He’ll find out what the loss of my favor must mean to him.”

He got up and began pacing. His daughters, at their mother’s nod, scuttled out of the way and retreated to the safety of the window seat, where they sat watching him fearfully. Eleanor smiled at them encouragingly, then turned back to their father.

“Is it right that, after what he has done, Thomas still has care of our son, your heir?” she inquired.

“No, by God, it is not right!” Henry stormed. “I will remove the boy from his household at once.”

“Let him come back to me,” she urged, but he looked at her as if she were mad.

“He is eight now, and far too old to be governed by women,” he said dismissively. “He shall have his own establishment and servants.”

Eleanor quelled her surging disappointment and reasoned that this would be more fitting for a king’s son.

“As long as I may see him from time to time,” she said hopefully.

“Of course,” Henry told her, but his mind was clearly on other things, festering over Becket’s betrayal. He was like a man possessed. She longed to comfort him, but knew very well that he would not welcome it.

“Shall I still get packed?” she asked. “Are we leaving here?”

Henry sighed. His rage was subsiding, now that he had thought of the means to have his revenge. “No. Forget it. I spoke in haste. I’ll go hunting tomorrow, and no doubt I’ll feel better afterward. Then I’ll be able to think clearly and decide what to do next.”

She smiled. “You had better go down and tell them to unload the carts and the sumpter mules.”

“I’ll be popular!” he said with a tired smile as he left her.

The highest in the land had gathered in the barrel-vaulted gloom of Westminster Abbey. Candles flickering in their tall sconces illuminated the faces of the great and the good, here to witness this momentous event. Word had recently come from Rome: the Pope had spoken. Nearly a hundred years after his death, King Edward the Confessor was now officially a saint, and Henry, in honor of his canonization, had built him a glorious shrine. Today, his remains were to be translated to their splendid new resting place, a masterpiece of stone, Purbeck marble, and mosaic, surmounted by an intricately carved wooden canopy.

The court and all the lords of England, spiritual and temporal, were crammed into the Confessor’s new chapel and its precincts. Eleanor was standing in her place of honor at the front with the King and their children, glad to have her eldest son at her side for once. Young Henry had grown in height and dignity these last years, and now wore his exalted status like a mantle. They had Becket to thank for that, she could not but admit it.

Becket was here too today, which was why the atmosphere in the abbey was so tense. He and Henry had faced each other across the floor of decorated tiles, and the air between them almost crackled with hostility. Yet on the surface, all was genial, with King and Archbishop exchanging the kiss of greeting, and Becket proceeding to conduct the long service with grave dedication, his clever, chiseled face set in a lofty, detached expression.

Beside Eleanor, Richard fidgeted. He never could stand still, loving to be off riding his palfrey or practicing the swordplay at which he was becoming so adept. But his mother’s warning hand on his shoulder quelled his restlessness. How like his father he is, Eleanor thought. Her gaze swept her other children, who were all on their honor to behave composedly. They were standing solemnly, overawed by the august gathering and the sense of occasion that inspired the stately proceedings.

Henry watched the ritual with narrowed, steely eyes. He had longed for this day, could not do enough to honor the memory of this saint whose canonization he had pressed for so passionately—and now it was all spoiled by the presence of Thomas Becket. Damn him, he thought, as fresh rage infused him. What was the matter with Thomas? It seemed he was deliberately doing everything in his power to provoke his king. Take that matter of William of Eynsford, one of Henry’s vassals. It had been but a petty dispute over some land, but my Lord Archbishop must take umbrage and excommunicate the man! Thomas had known that would infuriate him, but it hadn’t deterred him. What was Thomas trying to prove? That he was more powerful than the King?

Receiving a surreptitious nudge from Eleanor, Henry realized he had forgotten where he was and why he was here. He pulled himself up: this business of Becket was becoming an obsession. Get public opinion on your side, his mother, the Empress, had written. Well, he would do that. But first he must try to focus his mind on the present.

They were opening the vault now. Sixty years before, the monks of Westminster had lifted the lid and found the Confessor’s corpse whole and uncorrupted. Henry was glad he had ordered the abbot secretly to peek into the sarcophagus to confirm that it was still intact, if only for the sake of his daughters, whose eyes were wide with apprehension; Matilda had her hand to her mouth. Young Geoffrey, he noted, was watching it all with avid interest, unshrinking. A clever boy, Geoffrey, fearless and cunning; he would go far, his father thought proudly.

There was a reverent hush as the corpse of the saint was gradually exposed in its cloth-of-gold vestments, its skin parchmentlike and brown, the eyes sunken, the nose still firm. After the King and Queen and the peers had a chance to view it, it was wrapped in precious silk cloths, then reverently lifted into its dazzling new gold coffin encrusted with gems, which Henry and his principal barons hoisted onto their shoulders and conveyed in solemn procession through the abbey cloisters before reverently placing it in its new shrine. Then the Te Deum Laudamus was sung in joyful celebration.

The ceremony over, the King bowed low before St. Edward’s shrine, swept unseeing past Archbishop Becket, and led the way out of the church. He should have felt jubilant on this great occasion, but all he wanted to do was weep.

22 Berkhamsted, 1163

It was Christmas Eve, and the Yule log had just been dragged into the great hall by several beefy serfs, while the castle servants were busily picking out the best branches from the great piles of evergreens strewn across the floor; these would be used to decorate the hall. The younger royal children scampered among them, full of excitement, eager not to miss out on the festive fun. They had already been shooed out of the kitchens, where the Christmas brawn was seething in its pan, and great joints of meat were roasting over the spits.

Upstairs, the King was bursting into the Queen’s bower with his usual lack of ceremony. He wore a look of triumph.

“He has submitted!” he announced without preamble. “He has sworn to uphold the ancient customs of England—without qualification!”

Eleanor stood up, laid down the rose silk bliaut she was embroidering as a gift for young Matilda, and smiled.

“I think we have Bishop Foliot to thank for that,” she said. Henry had cunningly translated Foliot to the important See of London, so that he would be on hand to advise his king and lead the opposition to Becket. One by one, persuaded by Foliot’s eloquent arguments, the bishops had gone over to Henry.

“And the Pope!” the King cried jubilantly. “Don’t forget Alexander needs my support. He ordered Thomas to submit, and told him he could expect no help from Rome if he did not. So Becket is defeated on all sides. Eleanor, this is the best Yuletide gift I could have received!”

Eleanor twined her arms around his neck; these days, they were not so openly demonstrative toward each other as they once had been, but she was so pleased to see Henry’s face lit up by his victory that she could not help herself. She knew he was reluctant to display his inner hurts to her nowadays, yet he would not despise her sharing his victory. But although he briefly returned the embrace, he soon disentangled himself and went to warm his hands by the fire. They were rougher than ever now, scabbed and callused from hours spent in the saddle, gripping worn leather reins.

He stood with his back to her. She could not—thank God!—know that he had just come from the arms of Rohese, that Thomas’s messenger had encountered him as he’d left her chamber. He had been too spent to respond to Eleanor, too focused on Thomas’s submission.

He turned around.

“Thomas showed good taste when he did up this place,” he said slowly, looking at the rich hues of the expensive hangings, the decorated floor tiles, the painted and gilded furniture, and the delicate ironwork on the window bars and the fire screen. Eleanor agreed with him. She too had been conscious of the all-pervading, unseen presence of Becket in this castle, once bestowed so lovingly, which Henry had taken from him. Was there no escape from the man? She feared she would scream if she heard the name Thomas Becket again. He dominated their lives to an unacceptable extent. If only Henry had not been so besotted, was not still obsessed! She bit down the need to lash out verbally.

He was looking at her—a touch shiftily, she felt. Was he embarrassed by his obsession with Becket? Had it occurred to Henry that he ought to draw a line under this finished friendship, that it was unfair to her to prolong the agony any further? Evidently not, for when he spoke again, it became clear that his mind could focus on only one thing—or one person, to be more exact.

“Of course, I only have Thomas’s promise privately, in a letter,” Henry said. “He must submit publicly to my authority.”

“Is that wise?” Eleanor asked, taking up her embroidery again. “He must feel he has been humiliated enough.”

“It is necessary,” Henry said coldly. “He must be seen to submit, then my bishops will know without a doubt where their allegiance should lie.”

“I am sure you know best,” Eleanor said sourly, unable to help herself. Let be! Let be! she was crying inwardly.

Henry came to stand in front of her, looking down sardonically.

“Oh, I do,” he said softly. “And I hope you will be there to see it happen.”

“You may count on that,” she replied briskly. “And now, let us think of our children, and our guests, and do all honor to this season of Christ’s birth.” And put Becket out of your mind. Those words lay unsaid, like a sword between them.

23 Clarendon, 1164

Eleanor seated herself beside Henry, huddling inside the heavy folds of the gold-banded crimson mantle that swept the floor around her feet, and extending one gloved hand to straighten the circlet that held her linen veil in place. They were enthroned in the spacious hall at Clarendon, the magnificent royal hunting lodge near Salisbury. The lords and clergy were swathed in furs against the January chill, and as soon as the King sat down, they settled with a rustling of silks on their benches. Archbishop Becket sat slightly apart, his face grim beneath his bejeweled miter, his white hand clenched around the staff of his crozier.

Henry leaned across to Eleanor.

“This should be plain sailing,” he murmured. “I have already taken counsel of my civil and canon lawyers, and they tell me that my Lord of Canterbury has no grounds whatsoever for opposing my proposals.”

“I pray God that he will see it that way too, and that we can have an end to this quarrel,” Eleanor said low, her fingers mindlessly pleating the rich brocade of her bliaut.

Henry bristled. “It was not of my making. I merely seek to extend the same justice to all my subjects. But let us not waste time. They’re all waiting.” He sat up straight in his seat.

“My lords,” he began in a ringing voice, “I have summoned you today to ask for your endorsement of a new code of sixteen laws, in which are enshrined the ancient customs of this realm. I am happy to tell you all that our good friend here, Archbishop Becket, has already sworn to uphold these customs, so you need have no qualms about approving them.”

Becket’s expression was unreadable; it seemed he was keeping a tight rein on himself. But then he would, Eleanor thought: everything he did was studied, lacking in spontaneity. She did not believe he would acquiesce as meekly as Henry anticipated. He would be looking for a loophole. He would not go down without a fight.

The Archdeacon of Canterbury, who was acting as Henry’s unofficial chancellor, since no one of Becket’s stature and abilities could be found to fill his shoes, stood up and unscrolled the parchment on which were listed the new laws. There was a lot of nodding and a few ayes from the company as they listened intently to the first two articles, and Becket seemed to relax a little. So far it was all just a reiteration of the old and familiar customs, as Henry had said.

Henry was watching Becket too, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Eleanor wondered what game he was playing. Almost certainly he had something up his sleeve.

She did not have to wait long to find out, for the archdeacon—a man who was not stupid, and who knew he was about to summon up a tempest—cleared his throat and read article three, as Henry sat smiling complacently.

“The King has decreed that, henceforth, criminous clerks be handed over to the royal courts for sentencing.”

Becket leaped to his feet.

“Lord King, there is not, nor ever has been, any law in this realm to that effect!” he protested. The bishops looked unhappily at one another.

“Be that as it may, there is such a law now,” Henry said softly, his tone menacing.

“It is laid down in Holy Scripture: render unto Caesar those things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are His,” Becket rejoined. The bishops were now writhing in distress.

“You have sworn to obey me!” Henry snarled.

“I swore to uphold the ancient laws of this land,” Becket flung back. “You have duped me, sire—and all of us.”

“How dare you!” roared Henry, rising, trembling with fury. “Swear, priest! By God, you will swear!”

Becket ignored him. He turned to the assembled clergy and addressed them. “My Lords Spiritual, you know very well that these new laws encompass not just the laws of the late King Henry, but also this new, pernicious law of the King’s, made plain to you just now, and contrary to the honor of God and His Church. I therefore command you, on your allegiance to me and to our Heavenly Father, not to accede to these unjust demands.”

“What of your allegiance to me, your king!” Henry bawled as the bishops began murmuring their assent, and Eleanor started to fear that her husband would soon be throwing himself on the floor, howling in ungovernable rage. “By the eyes of God,” he roared, his hand flying to his scabbard, “must I obtain that obedience at sword point?”

“Lord King, these are men of God,” Becket flung back at him, extending his arms in a protective gesture, like a shepherd shielding his sheep. His eyes, direct and challenging, locked with Henry’s bloodshot ones and held them. It was Henry who looked away first, but not before Becket had espied the tear that trickled down his cheek, which he quickly wiped away with his sleeve on the pretext of blowing his nose. Henry did not see the look of regret and compassion that fleetingly softened the Archbishop’s basilisk gaze.

“Are you going to continue to defy me, Thomas?” Henry asked hoarsely, quieter now.

“No, my King,” Becket replied. “If you asked it, I would perjure myself.”

“There will be no need,” Henry said, his mood lightening as he sensed victory. “Just say you will swear to my laws. That’s all that’s needed. It’s really very simple.”

“Saving your pardon, sire, I will swear in good faith to uphold these laws, and I will order my bishops here to do the same. But I deeply regret I cannot put my seal to this parchment.”

“Just swear, that’s all I ask,” Henry conceded. He thinks he has won, Eleanor thought, that he has outmaneuvered friend Becket. But I fear this is only the beginning. She bent her head as tears welled in her own eyes. She could see her future mapped out, the long, tortuous years ahead, overshadowed by this difficult, contentious, self-important priest, with herself losing Henry in the process, and Henry losing his very soul, until the grave swallowed them all up. It was an unbearable prospect.

Becket had sworn, and his clergy with him. But he went about the palace with lowered face and bitter eyes. One day, entering the chapel ahead of her ladies, Eleanor was horrified to see a man, naked to the waist, kneeling on the chancel steps. His exposed back was crisscrossed with bloody lacerations, and as she watched, unable to tear her eyes away from this grisly vision, she saw the barbed discipline flung again and again over his shoulder, flagellating and tearing his white skin. At her gasp, he flung the whip down on the tiles, his head jerking round. It was Becket, his face a mask of grief. She stared at him for a long moment, then hastened away, shooing her tardy women before her so that they should not intrude on the Archbishop’s private hell.

Word soon got around that Becket regretted what he had done and was punishing himself with heavy penances. He even tried to flee the kingdom, but was halted by the King’s officers on the very seashore.

“We can’t have the Primate of England sulking in France,” Henry sneered, his face dark with anger. “How would that look?”

“I would let him go,” said Bishop Foliot, his bushy brows creased in a frown. “The Pope could not approve of him deserting his flock, and I have little doubt he would agree to your replacing Becket with someone more amenable.”

“I could not agree with you more, my Lord Bishop,” Eleanor put in. “We have heard enough of this priest!”

“You speak truth, Foliot. Thomas must go,” Henry agreed. Eleanor looked at him in surprise.

“All your bishops will support you,” Foliot assured him. “He is too unstable for high office in the Church. He is bringing it into disrepute!”

“He has gone out of his way to undermine my new laws,” Henry fumed. “Well, I will use them to get rid of him. I have decided to have him arraigned for the misuse of moneys entrusted to him as chancellor. Let’s see if that doesn’t shift him!”

“Was there a misuse of moneys?” Foliot asked.

“No, but it will serve our purpose!” Henry said grimly.

Eleanor was watching him. He was a man on a quest, driven by a zealous desire for revenge. Only a man who had loved so deeply could hate this much, and yet … She was sure that he was still hurting, deep inside, and that no cure, be it revenge or reconciliation, would ever heal the gaping wound of Becket’s betrayal.

24 Northampton, 1164

“As Archbishop of Canterbury, I am not subject to the jurisdiction of the King!” Becket’s normally impassive face was flushed with fury.

Henry leaned forward on his throne.

“Thomas, you have not been charged as an archbishop, but as my former chancellor,” he explained, pleasantly enough. “Now, if you would be so good as to account to me and this court for the disposition of the moneys that passed through your hands back then, we can clear this matter up.”

Becket looked at him in hatred.

“I think you are out to ruin me, sire!” he breathed.

“I?” inquired Henry. “I thought the spur was on the other foot.”

Becket pursed his lips, then turned to the clergy, seated by order of rank on the benches behind him. “My Lords Spiritual,” he cried, “I beseech you, advise and help me! I ask for your support.” There was an embarrassed shuffling, as the ecclesiastics shifted position, looked down at their feet, and generally tried to avoid meeting his pleading eyes. Only Bishop Foliot fixed his gimlet gaze directly on the Archbishop.

“By your folly, you have brought yourself to this!” he accused Becket. “But if you will submit to the King, as he lawfully requires, then you will have our perfect allegiance.”

Becket looked profoundly shocked.

“Lord King,” he said, turning back to Henry, who was glaring at him implacably, “might I have time to consider my position and prepare an answer for you?”

“Of course,” Henry replied. “I am not a monster. I’m a reasonable man. But don’t even think of leaving the kingdom! Have I your word on that?”

“Yes, sire,” Becket replied, meekly enough. “You have my word.”

Eleanor was kneeling in the chapel. The candles on the altar illuminated in warm tones the painted statue of the Virgin and Child, and it seemed that Mary was smiling sadly in poignant reproach.

On the prie-dieu before the Queen lay the letter she had received that day, a formal missive from Louis, informing her of the marriages of their daughters, Marie to the Count of Champagne, and Alix to his brother, the Count of Blois. Her first thought had been that it was hard to believe that her little girls were now young women of nineteen and fourteen, and married to boot!

She rarely thought of them these days, and could barely remember their faces now, although of course they would have changed much in the years since she had seen them—and yet she was astonished to find that she was deeply upset at not having been invited to their weddings. The reason, she knew, was not far to seek: Louis thought her a bad, uncaring mother who had abandoned her little girls without a thought, to marry her lover. Well, she would prove him wrong. She would write to her daughters and express her joy in their marriages and her warm wishes for their future. There must be an end to this silence. She owed them some share of the kind of deep and abiding love she felt for her other children, the children she had been allowed to nurture from birth. She would write today. Even if there was no reply, she would have salved her conscience.

Eleanor was in her customary place of honor beside Henry when Becket was again summoned to court. She heard his sharp intake of breath when the Archbishop made a dramatic entrance, clothed in his rich vestments and carrying his episcopal cross, which was normally borne before him by one of his monks.

“Why is he doing that?” she whispered, shocked at Becket’s aggressive stance, when he should have been suing for Henry’s favor.

“I think he is claiming the Church’s protection against my ill will,” Henry muttered dourly. Bishop Foliot, seated within earshot at the end of the nearest bench, looked up and said, quite audibly, “He was always a fool, and always will be!” Becket glared at him.

“Well, Thomas, what have you got to say for yourself?” Henry asked, his gray eyes bearing down on his former friend.

“Lord King, I am come to remind you that you yourself have long since released me from all my liabilities as chancellor,” Becket told him with a defiant stare.

“God’s blood, man! Are you to deny my justice at every turn?” Henry blustered.

“I think, sire, that there is less in this of justice than malice,” Becket retorted, and as Henry roared oaths at him, he swooped down on his bishops. “I forbid you to sit in judgment of me!” he shouted at them.

Henry leaped to his feet. Eleanor found herself gripping the arms of her throne; she could have killed Becket with her bare hands. How dare he provoke Henry in this way? Henry, who had done so much for him, and loved him too well.

Henry stepped off the dais and bounded forward until he was standing toe-to-toe with Becket.

“You have gone too far this time, Thomas!” he snarled. “Now, my lords and bishops, you see his venom plainly. He defies not only his king, but the Pope himself. Now, listen. You will all write to His Holiness and inform him that this priest has breached his sworn oath to uphold the laws of England, and you will request that he be deposed from his office.”

There was a stunned silence as Becket gathered his wits.

“You have planned this, haven’t you?” he flung at the King’s retreating back, at which Henry, mounting the dais on the way back to his throne, rounded on him, shaking with rage.

“You—” he spluttered, barely able to speak. “You viper! My lords, let us proceed to the judgment at once. This priest is condemned out of his own mouth.”

“I will not hear it!” Becket thundered. “You have no right. God alone can judge me!” And holding aloft his great golden cross, he stalked from the hall to furious cries of “Traitor! Traitor!”

Eleanor could not sleep. The momentous events of the day kept playing on her mind, and at length she rose from her bed, wrapped herself in a fur-lined robe, stoked up the glowing coals in the brazier, and settled herself on the seat in the window embrasure, gazing out at the stars that glittered over the dark, sleeping town. Her chamber overlooked the curtain wall of the castle, and on the bailey side, in the courtyard, the sentries had built up a bonfire, at which they were warming their hands as they stamped their feet on the damp earth. A solitary soldier was patrolling the walls; she watched him casting a cursory glance over the distant landscape before disappearing through the door that led to the opposite tower and the continuing wall walk beyond it.

It was then that she espied two dark, hooded figures emerging on the outer side of the castle. They must have come through the now unguarded postern gate almost directly below her. She peered at them with interest, then realized they were monks. What business they had, to be about after curfew, she could only imagine: maybe they had been summoned from the nearby priory to attend someone in the castle who was sick, or maybe they were two members of Archbishop Becket’s entourage escaping for a stolen hour to the taverns and brothels of Northampton. As the figures disappeared into the night, Eleanor forgot about them, and dousing the candle, climbed wearily back between the sheets. She thought she could sleep now.

“Becket has fled,” Henry said a week later, climbing into bed beside Eleanor. Suddenly awake, aroused by the import of his words, she was surprised to find him in her chamber; these days, he did not come to her as often as she would have liked, and he had been so drunk at dinner that she’d feared he might collapse in a stupor where he sat. But soon she realized that he had not come seeking her body, but to talk over this latest outrage of Becket’s.

“So he has gone?” she said. She was not surprised. Nothing Becket could do surprised her now.

“Yes. He disguised himself as a monk and fled across the Channel. He thinks he is safe—but I have not finished with him yet!” Henry’s voice came out as a hiss.

“You are well rid of him,” she said tartly.

“That may be so, but is England well rid of its archbishop?” Henry retorted. He had a point, she conceded.

She sighed. She was truly pleased to see him. She had missed the warmth of him lying next to her, the sudden passion that sprang up between them, the drowsy peace and contentment that came after their coupling. She knew she was advancing helplessly into middle age, that the burnished beauty of her youth was beginning to fade, and that Henry was yet a man in the vigor of his prime. He was highly sexed—as she had good cause to know—and she often wondered if he sought sexual release anywhere else. She had no proof, but her common sense—and the odd, careless whispers of gossip she had not been meant to over-hear—told her it was more than likely. Nevertheless, she could not bear to dwell on the possibility of her husband being unfaithful. But it was coming to something, she reflected bitterly, when he came to her bed primarily to talk about the friend who had become his most bitter enemy.

Well, she would not be defeated in the bedroom by Becket! She was a woman of experience and she had weapons at her disposal. Smiling welcomingly at Henry, she raised herself up on one elbow, letting her chemise fall open to reveal her voluptuous breasts.

“Would you prefer to talk?” she murmured, but Henry’s troubled eyes, deep pools of gray fire, had suddenly lit up, and he reached for her, burying his face in her neck, biting her hungrily as his hands roved over her body. He was not a man to waste time, and within seconds they were locked together in the old, familiar way, lust igniting powerfully as so many times before. All that Eleanor wanted at this moment was to feel him inside her and never let him go.

When, later, they had slid apart and Henry lay catching his breath beside her, she turned her face to his.

“Becket was disguised as a monk, you say?”

“Yes,” Henry grunted.

“It’s strange,” Eleanor recalled, “but some nights back—it was the night after you confronted Becket—I was watching from my window and I saw two monks leaving the castle. I did wonder what they were doing. You don’t think …?”

“My God, that must have been him!” Henry cried, sitting up suddenly. “He left that very night. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“There was nothing to say. I thought them of little consequence. I had no idea, in fact I’d forgotten all about them until now.” Eleanor realized she was stammering.

“Of course,” Henry relented, subsiding onto the pillows beside her. “How could you have known?” His body was tense, rigid, his attitude no longer that of a lover but of a man in pain. “By God, I will find him,” he muttered. “There is not a place in all Christendom where he can hide from me.”

She had lost him once more. His thoughts were clearly over the sea with his Thomas. He was obsessing again over how he could carry on the fight with his renegade archbishop. He was lying there, his troubled gray eyes staring up at the vaulted ceiling, unaware that she was still there beside him. It was useless. Her heart heavy, she rolled over, turned her back to him, and pretended to go to sleep.

25 Marlborough Castle, 1164–65

Another Christmas, and here they were in the Great Tower of Marlborough Castle, perched high on its mound on the edge of Savernake Forest, where Henry was hoping for some good hunting. Geoffrey, Henry’s bastard, now fourteen, had just drawn the bean from his slice of the traditional cake, and was in consequence proclaimed Lord of Misrule for the evening. He had begun his sovereignty by issuing the most daring forfeits, and was even now challenging every handsome man in the room to kiss the cheek of the Queen.

“That should narrow the field!” Eleanor laughed. She loved the levity of the Yuletide season.

“By God, I’ll have their balls if they show the slightest scanting of respect!” Henry growled good-naturedly.

It was a shame that the French envoys timed their arrival just now, when the court was at its merriest. A page came and whispered in the King’s ear, and his grin faded.

“I’ll be back shortly,” he told his wife, and she watched as he threaded his way through the revelers, absentmindedly ruffling his giggling daughter Eleanor’s dark curls on the way. After waiting in vain an hour for him to return, the Queen could bear it no longer, and so murmured her excuses and hurriedly made her way up the spiral stair to the King’s solar, the sounds of jollity receding as she ascended. There was a light under the wooden door. He was there, as she had expected. She turned the iron ring. As she entered the room, Henry turned a ravaged face to her.

“What has happened?” she asked, forbearing to go to him, and horribly aware of the aching distance between them.

“Louis!” he snapped. “He has offered Thomas his support and asked His Holiness not to heed any unjust accusations against him.” He got up and began stomping up and down the room, working himself into an incandescent rage. “But Thomas had got to the Pope first, and do you know what he did? He complained that I had harassed him!”

“But Henry, the Pope is on your side and always has been,” Eleanor soothed.

“Not anymore!” Henry’s mouth was twisted in an ugly, anguished grimace. “He has threatened me with excommunication!” he roared. “By the eyes of God, that priest will be the death of me! I will tolerate him no longer. Let them do their damned worst! I’m going to bed.”

He was beyond consolation, beside himself with anger and pain. His face red and livid, he tore the cap from his head, threw it on the floor, then unbuckled his belt and tossed it to the far side of the room. Nearly weeping with frustration, he shrugged off his cloak and his fine, long robes, donned in honor of the season, and kicked off his braies; then, naked and trembling, he ripped the silken coverlet from his bed and sat down heavily on it, his hands and face working in distress. Overcome with frustration, he abruptly clawed back the sheet, grabbed a handful of straw from his mattress, and stuffing it in his mouth as if to stop himself from howling out loud, began chewing it voraciously.

“Henry …” Eleanor began, but he flung out an arm to silence her, his outthrust jaw chomping, his face a mask of agony. Then he got up, walked to the fire, and spat out the straw. “Just go,” he said.

He remained in a foul mood throughout the festivities, his anger at Becket, Louis, and the Pope gnawing at him remorselessly. On St. Stephen’s Day, Eleanor attempted yet again to talk to him, but he silenced her with a glare. No one could reach him; he was too deeply sunk in ire and misery. That evening, deeply concerned for him, she decided to try again. She found him calmer, however. He was sealing a document, which he then handed to one of his clerks.

“This is my revenge!” he declared.

“What is?” she asked, wondering what on earth it could be, and if it would provoke more trouble.

“An order for the banishment of every one of Thomas’s relatives from England,” Henry said with grim satisfaction.

“But they have done nothing wrong! And there are many of them, women, children, old folk.” Eleanor was appalled.

“About four hundred, I think,” Henry said with some satisfaction. “They will be stripped of all their possessions and deported. Let them beg for their food!”

“Henry, I beg of you, rescind that order!” she pleaded, falling on her knees. “It is cruel, it is vindictive, and it is born purely of unbridled passion, which is unbecoming in a king of your wisdom.”

He stared coldly down at her. “Get up. It’s no use, Eleanor. These tactics are necessary. Thomas is in Rome, beyond my reach, but this should bring him hurrying back. Let him see the consequences of his defiance; let him feel the heat of my anger, and know what it is to be my enemy.”

Eleanor rose to her feet, shot him a withering look, and was about to leave when Henry grabbed her hand.

“I have thought of a way to force Pope Alexander and King Louis to abandon Becket,” he said. “You had better hear about it, as it concerns our daughters.”

“Our daughters?” Eleanor echoed. “How can they be involved? What new scheme is this?”

“I intend to make an alliance with the German Emperor, Frederick Barbarossa,” Henry revealed smugly. “That will put the noses of His Holiness and King Louis out of joint, I can tell you, because our friend the Emperor is Louis’s enemy, and he has supported Alexander’s rival, the antipope Victor. I’ll wager that Louis and Alexander will do anything to stop me from allying with Frederick, and that the very prospect of it will make them shit themselves and drop Becket like a hot cake!”

“But where do our daughters fit into this?” Eleanor asked, wondering if this plan was as foolproof as it sounded.

“I have proposed that the alliance be cemented by two marriage treaties,” Henry explained. “It is my intention that Matilda marry the Emperor’s greatest vassal and ally, Henry the Lion, Duke of Saxony, while Eleanor will wed the Emperor’s young son, Frederick. I have written requesting the Emperor to send his envoys to Rouen to draw up the agreements. I hope to meet them there in February.”

“Are your plans so far advanced?” Eleanor asked, utterly dismayed at this news and at the prospect of losing two more daughters—cherished daughters this time—and furious that Henry had said nothing of this business until now, when he must have been planning it for weeks. “Did you not think to discuss it with me first? They are my children too.”

“I am discussing it with you now,” Henry said. “You of all people know very well that kings marry their daughters for policy. These are advantageous marriages that will benefit us all.”

“You are using our daughters to be revenged on Becket!” Eleanor cried.

“That would be one advantage of the treaty,” Henry admitted, “but there would be many others.”

“I do hope so!” she retorted. “And when are you sending our little girls to Germany? Henry, they are so young! Eleanor is but three.”

“That is to be decided, but it will not be for a while yet,” he told her.

“Then I must be grateful for that small mercy,” Eleanor hissed, and hastened from the room before the tears fell.

She stood her ground all through January and into February. She would not go to Normandy to witness the selling of her daughters in a hopeless cause. She was adamant about that. Henry shrugged and did not bother to argue with her.

“You can stay here in England,” he said.

“I shall go to Winchester with the children,” she told him. “Then perhaps I might travel a little. Shall I act as regent for you?”

“No,” Henry replied crushingly. “My justiciar can act in my absence.”

She hid her distress and wondered—not for the first time—why he was increasingly reluctant of late to allow her any autonomy in state affairs. At one time, he unhesitatingly would have relied upon her to rule in his absence, but that had been before this distance had opened up between them. It had been four years now since she had issued a writ in her own name. It was all Becket’s fault, she believed. Becket had been the sole cause of the discord between them.

“When the treaty is signed, I want you to summon the Great Council to Westminster to confirm it,” Henry commanded her. “I shall then send the Emperor’s envoys to pay their respects to you in England, and to meet Matilda and Eleanor. You will receive them with all honor. I know you will not fail me.” His tone was aggressive.

“You can rely on me,” Eleanor said coolly. “I know how these things are done.”

On the last night before Henry’s departure for Normandy, he came to her bed and took his pleasure of her, little caring whether or not he was welcome. She lay beneath him, wishing she could give him more, but her heart was too bitter against him. She did not like the man he had become, the vengeful, petty man who could use his own daughters to score points against his enemies. She grieved to find his heart closed to her, to have him treat her as an adversary, and, worse than that, a mere chattel he could use at will. It seemed that no one could oppose Henry these days: he would not brook it. You were either for him or against him.

They said their farewells in public the next morning, Eleanor standing by Henry’s great charger with the warming stirrup cup.

“God speed you, my lord,” she said formally.

“Join me as soon as you can,” he said, bending down in the saddle to kiss her hand. Then he wheeled his horse around and was off, clattering through the gatehouse, his motley retinue and cumbersome baggage train lumbering in his wake.

26 Rouen and Angers, 1165

It was May before Eleanor was reunited with Henry in Rouen, and by then she knew she was pregnant again. He was delighted by the news, but it only saddened her, for this was the first of her children not to have been conceived in love. Yet she supposed the infant would be as precious to her as the others when it arrived.

She was shocked by the change in the Empress. Matilda had aged much in the years since they had last met and was now quite frail and stiff in her joints. Eleanor had brought Richard with her, and the younger Matilda, and had to sternly enjoin them not to behave so boisterously around their grandmother.

The Empress had mellowed with the years. There was little left of the antipathy she had once shown toward her daughter-in-law. Eleanor found it comforting to sit with the older woman and confide her opinions of the quarrel between Henry and Becket, and was gratified to have her own position bolstered by the old lady’s wise views robustly expressed.

“That man has written repeatedly to me, claiming that Henry is hell-bent on persecuting the Church,” she revealed. “Of course, he got no satisfaction from me. I ignored all his letters.”

“It is Henry who worries me,” Eleanor confessed.

“Henry was a fool to advance Becket,” the Empress declared, sipping delicately at her wine cup.

“He is obsessed with him. He will not listen to reason.”

“But Henry is right!” his mother said sharply. “He has good reason to be angry. Becket is a menace, and he appears deliberately to have provoked Henry from the moment of his consecration.” She leaned forward, her faded blue eyes steely beneath paper-thin lids. “This issue of the criminous clerks—it is all wrong, and must be stopped. Becket is a fool to take his stand on that.”

“I know, but it seems to me he has taken his stand on so many things that we have all lost sight of what the quarrel was originally about.” Eleanor sighed. “I have done my best to support Henry, truly I have, but he does not appear to need my support. I too am the enemy these days. I have criticized his need for vengeance too often.”

“You were right to do so,” Matilda pronounced. “Someone needs to keep my son in check. He is too passionate and headstrong for his own good.” She leaned her bewimpled head back against her chair. “Alas, I fear this will end badly. It goes on relentlessly.”

“It dominates our lives to an unacceptable extent,” Eleanor told her. “It has spoiled my marriage. I pray God it is resolved soon.”

“Amen to that,” the Empress murmured. “But I suspect it will not be.”

Eleanor spent a mere fortnight with Henry before he was off on his horse again, bound this time for Wales, to teach a lesson to the Welsh princes who had united to cast off his rule.

His mood had been kinder these past few days. She wondered if his mother had said anything to make him treat her more tenderly. He’d come to her bed every night, and they had made love frequently—not as fervently as they once had, but with something of their former passion and a sense of closeness. Eleanor dared to hope that if things went on like this, they would in time recapture some of the joy they had once taken in each other.

She knew for certain that matters were mending between them when Henry told her, two days before he left, that he was entrusting the government of Anjou and Maine to her while he was overseas.

“I want you to go to Angers,” he said. “Take up residence there; be a visible presence in my dominions.” It was wonderful—and heartening—to have him pay her such a compliment.

She went, her heart singing, to Angers. Once installed in the massive fortress that dominated the town, she sent to Poitiers, requesting that her faithful uncle, Raoul de Faye, come to join her to assist her in her great task. Henry had never had a good opinion of Raoul’s abilities, but Eleanor had found him to be a true and loyal deputy these past few years, dedicated to her service and diligent at attempting—not always successfully, she had to admit—to keep her troublesome lords in check. Anyway, Henry was far away, fighting the Welsh. The decision to send for Raoul was hers to make.

Raoul came. Eleanor had never before noticed how elegant and attractive he was; for years she’d had eyes for no other man than Henry, and the two men could not have been more different. At forty-nine, Raoul was just six years her senior, long wed to Elizabeth, the heiress of Faye-le-Vineuse, who had borne him two children. He had all the charm and humor of her mother’s family, the seigneurs of Châtellerault, and Eleanor felt entirely comfortable in his company. He was courtly in manner, ready to do her service in any capacity, and full of good advice, much of which she was happy to heed. Most important of all, he shared her tastes in music and literature, and in doing so proved himself to be a true son of the South.

The long hours they spent together discussing the affairs of Anjou and Aquitaine—how she delighted in hearing news of her own land!—lent an intimacy to their relationship. She found herself eagerly anticipating their meetings and captivated by Raoul’s wicked smile and sharp wit. He was capable of saying the most outrageous things—court gossip was his specialty, particularly the amorous exploits of the Queen’s ladies—and she enjoyed his earthy turns of phrase. She found herself laughing a lot of the time she was in his company—something she had not done very much with Henry in recent years. It was all exceedingly pleasant.

She was aware, of course, of something flowering between them. She knew instinctively that Raoul wanted more from her than an uncle should expect of a niece, but she could hardly blame him for that. Her scandalous affair with another uncle, Raymond of Antioch, was universally notorious, and gossip about it had been circulating for years. Raoul would surely have heard it and perhaps concluded that she would not be averse to a similar dalliance with him. The idea amused Eleanor, although she did not consider it seriously. She was content to enjoy flirting with him, indulging in the old familiar game of courtly love—so much a part of their common culture—and keeping him tantalizingly at arm’s length. There was no harm in that, was there?

There were, of course, more serious moments, as when they discussed the problem of Becket.

“I have never met him, but I know I would detest him,” Raoul declared loyally. “He is a dangerous man, and the King your husband is well rid of him.”

“But he is not rid of him, that’s just the point!” Eleanor exclaimed. “However far away he may be, Becket is a constant presence in our lives, stirring up trouble.”

“If I were the King, I would find a way to silence him,” Raoul declared.

“And think what a furor that would cause!” Eleanor rejoined.

“It could be managed … discreetly,” he suggested. She wondered if this was a game, if he was really in earnest.

“And tongues would wag. No, my dear uncle, it wouldn’t work. And Henry would never agree to it. He has many vices, but murder is not one of them.”

“Forgive me, I spoke only in his interests,” he hastened to assure her. “I would rid him of that bastard archbishop if I could.” The hostility in his voice was palpable.

“Why do you hate Becket so?” Eleanor asked curiously.

“Because he has been the cause of your pain,” Raoul answered, his hand closing on hers.

They were alone in her solar, seated at the table with a bank of scrolls and tally sticks before them and the sun streaming in through the windows. Eleanor silently withdrew her hand.

“You are still very beautiful,” Raoul said softly. “You have a fine bone structure that will never age. You are incredible.”

“Flatterer!” She smiled.

“It is the truth. I know beauty when I see it.”

She laughed. “You expect me to believe that—me, an old married woman, pregnant with her tenth child? Look at me, Raoul!”

He did, intently, his deep-set, dark eyes full of yearning, and suddenly they were no longer laughing.

“It is now, especially, that you should be cherished,” he said. “Does the King your husband cherish you as he should, sweet niece?”

“Henry cannot help the fact that the Welsh are in rebellion,” she answered lightly.

“But if he were here, would he be cherishing you as you deserve?” her uncle persisted.

“Of course,” Eleanor answered, although her voice betrayed a lack of conviction. The recent renewal of the bonds she shared with Henry was too fragile, too precious, to be taken for granted. He had never been one to cosset her when she was carrying his children, but then she herself had not encouraged it, preferring to carry on much as normal. Raoul, on the other hand, was a true son of the South, a ladies’ man in every sense, courtly and extravagantly devoted. He would not understand how she and Henry functioned together. He didn’t like Henry anyway, never had—and now he had an ulterior motive for finding fault with him.

He was frowning, still looking at her intently.

“You know he is unfaithful to you,” he said. His words hit her like a slap in the face. She reeled inwardly from the blow. Coming out of the blue, it forced her to confront a truth she had long feared to face. She had wondered countless times if, when they were apart, Henry took his pleasure where he would, but she’d had no proof. And there were those rumors she had heard … She had dismissed them as mere gossip. Yet now it all made sense; and there was no surprise in her. Of course Henry had been unfaithful. How could she ever have doubted it?

“Explain exactly what you mean by that!” she cried, rising and going over to the window, keeping her back to Raoul so he should not see how profoundly he had shocked her. If what he said were true, she would not want to look a fool—the poor, ignorant wife, the last to find out. Already, she feared, she had betrayed herself by her violent response.

Raoul swallowed. He had not expected her to react so explosively. He had thought only to cozen from her an admission of what she already knew, so they could forget Henry and proceed to amorous matters. Clearly he had miscalculated. Still, he had said the words and, hurt her though he knew he must, had no choice but to qualify them.

“When he was in Poitiers, there were women,” he said, swallowing again. “He made no secret of it. They were whores, brought up from the town. Everyone was drunk. It was the same each night.”

Eleanor took a deep breath. It was not as bad as she had feared. She was surprised to find that she was not as hurt by these casual betrayals as she would have expected. What she had feared most, could not have tolerated, emotionally, and as a wife and queen, was her husband becoming involved with one particular woman. It was almost a relief to hear that Henry had resorted to whores.

“Well, he is a man!” she said, as lightly as she could, and turned to face Raoul with a brittle smile. “Women learn to shut their eyes to such things. They mean nothing.”

Raoul guessed she was putting on a brave face, and resolved not to repeat what Henry had said in his cups about a beautiful mistress called Rohese …

He stood up and put his arms around her. He knew it was unfair to take advantage of her when she was so vulnerable, yet he could not help himself. She was still lovely, even in her maturity, and he wanted her. But although there was a brief moment when he thought she would yield, she gaily disentangled herself.

“Raoul, my life is complicated enough, not so much by other women, as by another man!” she told him. “And no, there’s no need to look so shocked. It is nothing like that, at least on Henry’s part.”

“You mean Becket …?” Raoul was staggered.

“I would swear to it. I could understand if it was that; it’s Henry being in thrall to him that is beyond me. He’s never explained it satisfactorily, and I don’t suppose he knows himself why Becket has this hold over him.”

“Becket is older,” Raoul ventured. “Mayhap Henry reveres him as a father figure, or elder brother. Maybe there is something in Becket that Henry would like to be.”

“Or maybe he gave Henry the kind of companionship that I could not,” Eleanor added bitterly.

“I don’t think it has anything to do with you,” Raoul comforted her.

“Oh, yes, it does! As soon as Becket came on the scene, I was second in importance to Henry. Before that everything had been wonderful between us. We were a formidable partnership. That all finished with Becket. There are moments when it’s there again, just within my grasp, but not for long. Always that man intrudes. And another thing. My Lord Bishop of Poitiers is here. I expect that this matter he wishes to discuss with me concerns him too. Raoul, I am going to give him an audience in a few minutes. I want you to be there when he comes.”

“You know I will,” Raoul said, gently touching her cheek.

“Raoul!” she reproved. “You know there can be nothing between us.”

“Ah, but I may live in hope, like a true troubadour,” he said, and smiled sadly.

Eleanor received Jean aux Bellesmains, Bishop of Poitiers, in her solar. She was seated in her high-backed chair, her yellow samite skirts fanned out at her feet, a gold coronet on her snowy veil. Behind her stood Raoul, his hand grasping the finial on her chair back.

The bishop bustled in self-importantly. Eleanor remembered that he had been with Becket in Archbishop Theobald’s household, that they became friends, and that, even though he owed his bishopric to Henry, Jean aux Bellesmains had stayed staunchly loyal to Becket. She sensed that this interview wasn’t going to be easy, but sat smiling pleasantly, asking how she could be of service.

“Madame the Duchess, I come on behalf of His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury,” the bishop said grandly, almost as if he were throwing down a gauntlet. “He sends his duty and affection to you, his dear daughter in Christ, and begs you most earnestly to intervene on his behalf in this quarrel with the King your husband.”

As Eleanor caught Raoul’s sharp intake of breath, she quickly collected her wits. She had not expected Becket to approach her, of all people.

“I am flattered that His Grace believes I could help him,” she answered, “but he cannot but be cognizant of the fact that, since he and my husband became such good friends, my influence has declined.”

Before she could say anything further, Raoul interrupted. “The Archbishop, of all people, should know that a wife’s first duty is to her husband, and that to him she owes obedience. How, then, could she intervene on behalf of the man who has deliberately defied him and made himself his enemy?”

Eleanor’s face briefly registered amused surprise. Not an hour before, Raoul had been doing his best to make her forget her duty to her husband!

The bishop flushed with anger. “Surely one’s first duty is to God, my Lord of Faye?”

“Let’s leave God out of this,” Raoul retorted. “This is about one man’s vanity.”

“It is about far more than that, and you know it!” Jean aux Bellesmains turned to Eleanor. “Madame, I did not come here hoping for much. But if you would consent only to act as a messenger—”

“No! How can you ask that of her?” Raoul interrupted.

The bishop glared at him. “Can you not let Madame the Duchess answer for herself, my lord?”

“Yes, Raoul, please allow me to speak,” Eleanor insisted. “My Lord Bishop, it is my greatest desire to see my husband at peace with all his subjects. But as my lord here has said, it would not be appropriate for me to become involved in this quarrel. All I can do is pray every day for its happy resolution.”

The bishop shot her a withering look.

“In truth, I am not surprised, madame. I myself told His Grace that he could hope for neither aid nor counsel from you, and John of Salisbury said the same. He shares Becket’s exile, you know, and his many privations. But I see you have put all your faith in my lord here, and that he is hostile to His Grace.”

“How dare you speak to me like that!” Eleanor flared. “You are impertinent, my Lord Bishop. You would not address me thus if the duke were here, or so insult his deputy.”

Jean aux Bellesmains bristled with outrage, which loosened his tongue.

“Maybe you have not heard what people are saying, madame, and maybe I would be doing you both a kindness by informing you. There are conjectures that grow day by day in regard to the influence that my Lord of Faye here appears to wield over you. Some say they deserve credence. I say, have a care to your reputation.”

Eleanor stood up, quivering with rage. “I have never in my life been so insulted!” she hissed. “You will quit my presence right now, my Lord Bishop, and never return until you have abased yourself and craved my pardon for the baseless accusations you have made. Rest assured, my lord shall hear of them. He will not be pleased. In fact, if I were you, I would make sure I was not in Poitiers when he returns there.”

The bishop stared at her, aghast.

“Madame, in my disappointment, I forgot myself,” he babbled. “I apologize unreservedly! I make a thousand apologies! I lay myself at your feet—”

“That will not be necessary,” Eleanor said coldly; privately, she would have loved to see this pompous fool groveling on his knees. “I accept your apologies—and I will hear no more of these calumnies, you understand?”

When he had backed out of the room, assuring her of his love, loyalty, and discretion, Eleanor turned to Raoul.

“You heard what he said, my uncle.” Her face was serious. “I pray you, keep a wise distance. And please don’t speak for me in future!”

“Eleanor, I would die to serve you!” Raoul protested.

“You might well, if Henry gets word of this!” she told him with a grim smile.

27 Bredelais Castle, the Welsh Border, 1165

Henry slowed his horse to a trot. He had far outgalloped his companions, who were some way behind with the huntsmen, carrying with them the game they had caught that day. Ahead, in the distance, loomed the castle of Bredelais, the home of their host, Sir Walter de Clifford, whose services in the so far unsuccessful campaign had nevertheless been admirable. But the tide seemed to be turning, thank God, and, flushed with success, both in the field of battle and in the chase, Henry was in a holiday mood, looking forward to a merry supper with his genial host and his lordly companions.

Behind him, he could hear faint shouts and guffaws. Close by, a cuckoo called. It was the early evening of a glorious summer day, with the sun sinking to the west in a blaze of gold and roseate hues. God, but it was warm. He had long since stripped off his tunic and stuffed it in his saddle bag, and wore only his shirt and hose. He trotted along whistling, feeling as if he had not a care in the world. He even thought he might ask for a bath to be prepared on his return. That should set them scuttling!

He steered his mount through some woodland, keeping the castle always in his view through the trees, and emerged onto a grassy meadow, a vast green expanse that swept up to the moat. There was a girl there, kneeling in the long grass, her tight-laced dress a vivid blue against the emerald sward. She had her back to him, so he could not see her face. Long fair tresses rippled unbound and uncovered over her shoulders, proclaiming her a maiden as yet untouched, and her fine raiment bore testament to her gentle birth. She was gathering flowers, and made, in all, a pretty, fetching sight.

His eye roving on the slender lines of her body and hips, Henry felt the familiar upsurge of lust. He had not been so aroused by a woman in a long time. Rohese he had abandoned months before, tired to satiety of her all too familiar charms. Eleanor was in Angers, pestering him with demands for aid against some rebellious vassals, and no doubt bitching about Becket to anyone who would listen. Try as he might, he could not recapture the happiness he had once shared with her. There had been a fleeting resurgence of it, back in the spring, but it had as briefly waned, at least on his part. He could not forgive Eleanor her hostility to Thomas, her searching questions, her neediness. He loved her still, and knew he always would, but not in the way she wanted. It grieved him, but there it was. Something that had died could not be brought to life again.

He was thirty-two, a man in his prime, even if he was putting on a bit of weight, and naturally there had been women, plenty of them, conquered, used, then as quickly forgotten. But now that he had seen this exquisite young girl, it came to him in a blinding instant that something precious had long been absent from his life, and that he needed far more than a quick roll in the hay with any easy trollop.

But this was no hoyden to be pursued for his gratification: this, he guessed, must be one of the daughters of his host, who had a large brood that included five strapping sons. He wondered why he hadn’t seen her the night before, when Lady Clifford presented her family to her king.

The girl had heard his horse approaching. She turned around suddenly, and the flowers spilled from her lap, scattering in a riot of delicate colors over her gown and the grass. She was utterly enchanting. Her skin was like cream, her lips full and round like dark cherries, her cheeks flushed with surprise, her eyes the blue of cornflowers. As she rose, her gown settled becomingly; the jeweled girdle wound around her waist and hips revealed a slim figure, the low, scooped neckline and tight bodice accentuated small, high breasts. Henry felt his erection harden. He must have her, God, he must have her!

Of course, she would have no idea who he was. She had not met him the night before. As he slowed his horse to a standstill, she was already backing away, the flowers forgotten.

“Fair maiden, have no fear!” he called gently. “I am your king, and your father’s guest. I wish you no harm.” I wish you in my bed. That was what he really wanted to say to her.

The girl looked flustered. Her creamy cheeks blushed strawberry red, and she sank into a curtsey. “Sire, I beg your pardon!” Her voice was low and melodious, with a delightful Welsh accent. Henry heard it and was utterly lost.

“Up!” he instructed, with a winning smile, dismounting beside her. “No need to stand on ceremony, fair maiden. What is your name?”

“I am Rosamund,” she told him. “Rosamund de Clifford.”

“Rosamund,” he repeated. “Rosa mundi. The rose of the world. A beautiful name, in English or Latin.”

She said nothing, but just kept on blushing. Henry held out his arm to her and, leading his horse by the reins, proceeded to walk with her toward the castle drawbridge, where the sentries could be seen dozing at their posts in the heat. The touch of her small hand on his skin was heaven.

“Tell me, Rosamund, why were you not here to greet me last night?” Henry probed.

“Lord King, I returned only this day from the good nuns of Godstow, with whom I have lived these past three years.”

Henry was intrigued. “Am I to understand that your parents intended to make a nun of you?”

“No, Lord King, they wished me to receive a virtuous education that would serve me well when God sees fit to send me a husband.”

“Very wise, very wise. You are far too pretty to spend your life in a cloister!” Rosamund blushed becomingly again.

“How old are you, my little nun?” Henry teased.

“I am fourteen, Lord King.”

“And have you come home to be married?”

“I know not, sire.”

Henry was captivated—and dismayed. He had lusted before after virgins from good families, and it always ended badly, with irate fathers summarily shoving their daughters into convents or hastily marrying them off. Most of the women he had bedded over the years were either married women, or whores—or his wife. He knew very well that Rosamund was virtually beyond his reach—unless he proved himself the monster he always claimed jokingly not to be. He knew very well that no decent man worthy of his knighthood—or his kingship—would so dishonor a maiden of noble birth, for that would irrevocably ruin her chances in the marriage market and sully her reputation forever. Men who were not as decent might not scruple to do so, but Henry now had daughters of his own, and would have cheerfully run through any bastard who ventured to compromise their honor. He told himself he could not do such a thing to sweet Rosamund, or to her father, his loyal and likable host.

But just then he glimpsed Rosamund peeping coyly at him from under her lashes. Her artless look betrayed her. She found him attractive, he would swear to it! She might well be amenable … In which case he would not, could not, feel so guilty about robbing her of her maidenhead. He realized—for he was, as he liked to boast, a plain man, always brutally honest with himself—that, dismally soon, all his chivalrous scruples were falling by the wayside. It could only be Rosamund’s fault: with that shy glance, she had disarmed him. By the eyes of God, he wanted her!

Of course, he had to relinquish her arm when he brought her to her father’s castle, and let her lady mother—gushingly grateful to her king for escorting the girl home safely—cart Rosamund off to her chamber so she could wash and change her clothes for the feast that was planned for the evening. It was painful for him to let her go, but he murmured a few gracious words, then retired to submit to the attentions of his valet.

Later, seated at the place of honor at the high table, he selected a chicken leg from a proffered platter, gnawed upon it absentmindedly, then turned to Sir Walter.

“I met your daughter Rosamund today,” he said, striving to make himself heard above the chatter and laughter. “I thought her a most virtuous young lady.”

Sir Walter looked along the board, beyond his great, strapping sons, to where Rosamund sat with her sisters. Henry’s eyes followed; they had been straying in that direction all evening. The girl’s eyes were modestly downcast as she ate her food daintily, but her golden tresses fanned over her shoulders and breast like a burnished cape, and her lips were ripe for kissing. She looked a picture of beauty, and Henry found himself aching with desire—yet again.

“Aye, sire,” Sir Walter said complacently. “She’s a good girl. The nuns have done well with her. I’ll have to find her a husband soon.”

“She is not yet spoken for?” Not that it made much difference. She soon would be. Any man worthy of the name would snap her up in a trice.

“No, sire. I have many children to settle in matrimony.”

“I know all about that!” Henry smiled. “I have many of my own.” But the recall of them did not act as a deterrent, and he paused for a moment, plotting frantically. “How would it be if Rosamund came to court to wait upon the Queen? She would be well looked after, and I myself would take an interest in finding a suitable match for her.” Never a truer word had been spoken, he mused.

“Lord King, I would be honored!” effused a surprised Sir Walter. “And my daughter too, depend on it.”

“Queen Eleanor is in Anjou just now,” Henry said, “but some of her English ladies are at Woodstock, awaiting her return. I myself am bound for there when my Welsh rebels have been taught some respect.” It was a lie, but Sir Walter was not to know that. “I and my men would happily escort your daughter to Woodstock, or you could arrange for her to travel in the company of your own men-at-arms later on.”

As Henry had anticipated, the proud, ambitious father jumped at his offer, and so it was decided that Rosamund should go to Woodstock.

It had been that easy.

That night, Henry lay awake, aware that what he was about to do was a great sin and an even greater wrong. Yet he was unable to help himself: he could not resist the allure of Rosamund. He had to have her—he was mad to have her. His penis throbbed insistently at the very thought of her. He could think of nothing else.

A little voice at the back of his mind warned him there would be a reckoning. He did not doubt it, but he did not care. The devil in him, that diabolical legacy of his heritage, was driving him on, urging him to take what he wanted. He would defy the world, if need be, to have this girl. It was as bad as that.

When the time came to leave for Woodstock, early in September, there were no tearful good-byes, unlike three years before, when Rosamund had first gone to Godstow; she had now grown used to being apart from her family. Like a lamb borne to the proverbial slaughter, she went meekly with Henry, her manner trusting and respectful. If she suspected there was more to this than her going to serve the Queen, she gave no sign.

28 Woodstock Palace, 1165

Rosamund looked around the sunny, whitewashed stone bower with delight. It occupied the top floor of a turret, and at the bottom of the spiral stair a low wooden door opened onto a pretty pleasaunce, or garden, made colorful with violets, columbines, and roses around a lush greensward, shaded with hornbeam, hazel, and ash trees. She had beheld that with wonder, and when she saw the chamber that had been prepared for her, her cornflower-blue eyes widened even farther. This was a bower fit for a queen. In fact, although she was not to know it, it was the Queen’s. The bed had silken drapes, bleached cotton sheets, and a bright checkered coverlet. There was a window seat cut into the thickness of the wall, a chest supporting great golden candlesticks of an intricate design, a fine oak chair and two stools on the tiled floor, and carved pegs on the wall for her gowns.

Henry watched with pleasure from the doorway as his desired one exclaimed at her good fortune.

“Lord King, do all the Queen’s ladies live in such luxury?” she asked. Her manner toward him was always deferential. His gaze lingered on her.

“No,” he said at length. “This is especially for you, because you are beautiful.”

“But what will the other ladies say?” She looked frightened.

“Nothing, my sweet. There are no other ladies!” He grinned at her.

“I don’t understand.” She looked at him in puzzlement.

Henry hesitated. One false move now and all might be lost. Was it best to be honest with her? Or to keep up the charade a little longer, and give her feelings for him more time to grow and flourish?

He did not think he could wait that long. Already, people were looking askance at them both and whispering. On the way here his retinue had apparently assumed that he was escorting her back to Godstow—or so he had gathered from remarks he overheard. There had been genuine astonishment, followed by dark and disapproving looks, when he brought her to Woodstock. But he was beyond caring. He was the King, and his actions were not to be questioned.

His conscience told him he could give up the idea now and send the girl back, unsullied in body and reputation, to her father. It was not too late to do the honorable thing. But that devil, the devil that ruled his sexual impulses, was rampant in him, and not to be gainsaid. He crossed the floor and put his arms around Rosamund.

“I want you to stay here with me,” he said hoarsely, as he felt her body stiffen. His own was stiffening too, not out of alarm, but from lust. He felt he was in paradise, holding her so close. He had not wanted a woman so much since he first set eyes on Eleanor. He thrust the thought of Eleanor away quickly.

“Lord King, I beg of you …” Rosamund whispered, her breath coming in little gasps. “It would be wrong!”

“Is loving someone so very wrong?” Henry asked. “I think I have loved you since the moment I saw you. Your father gave me permission to bring you here—and here we are.” And may God forgive me the deception, he thought. The devil in him stirred again.

“My father? I thought I was to serve the Queen, sire?” Her eyes were wide with incomprehension.

“And so you are, in due course. But your father knows that royal favor and preferment can be won in many different ways,” Henry said. “He has entrusted you to my care, and I have undertaken to find you a husband in due course.” Perish the thought! “But for now, all I want is to serve you, and make you mine. Will you be mine, Rosamund?”

He saw, to his consternation, that she was weeping.

“Do not cry, sweeting,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “All will be well, you have my word on it. I will cherish and protect you, never fear.”

He tipped her chin up with his finger and looked down into her wet blue eyes. God, how lovely she was!

“Could you love me a little?” he asked her. “I think you do!”

She stared at him as if drinking him in. “I do not know,” she whispered. “I cannot. It would be wrong. I find it hard to believe that my father meant for me to become your leman, Lord King. I cannot bring dishonor on my house. It would be a sin, and we would both burn in Hell for it.”

“Fairy tales for children!” Henry scoffed. “But even if there were a Hell, I would gladly burn in it for all eternity for just one night with you.”

“There is a Hell!” she assured him, with some spirit.

“What a little nun they have made of you,” he teased, pressing her closer to him. “Listen, Rosamund, the only Hell is the one we make for ourselves on this earth. The rest is just a myth put about by the Church to frighten us into being good.”

She recoiled from him, and he let her go.

“I fear that is blasphemy, Lord King,” she whispered.

“It’s one of my many vices,” he replied cheerfully.

“I must not gainsay you, sire, but I think you are in error.” She looked like a terrified rabbit. Henry roared with laughter.

“There speaks the abbess in the making!” he chuckled. “Well, virtuous maiden, I will leave you to your chaste bed. We will talk some more tomorrow.” In truth, his desire had subsided with his laughter, but he knew when to leave well enough alone. He raised her hand and kissed it in courtly fashion, then gazed up into her incredible eyes.

“Until then, fair Rosamund,” he said, and was gone.

Rosamund had not known until now what it was to want a man. In fact, having been living in a convent since she was eleven, she was more or less ignorant of what passed within the marriage bed; she only knew that it was rather naughty, and that you had to let your husband do this naughty thing without complaining or resisting. This she had learned from the whispered confidences of the other girls of gentle birth entrusted to Godstow’s care.

She had grown up knowing that a suitable husband would one day be found for her, and always imagined—if she thought about it at all—that he would be around the same age as herself, which was nonsense, really, because plenty of her kind ended up with older—or even aging—spouses.

But here was the King, old enough to be her father, a loud, rough, brisk, and in some ways alarming man, and something inside her was responding strangely and powerfully to him. He was not handsome like the knights in tales of chivalry, but stocky and thickset, with a tousled head of red hair, a rough man, but attractive in that foreign, Gallic way, with an overpowering physical presence. Like Eleanor, fourteen years before, Rosamund had looked once and fallen headily for him.

If this wanting feeling, this uncontrollable tension between her thighs, this sudden sweet awareness of her body, was desire, then all of a sudden she could understand why people did mad things for love: why knights fought dragons, or maidens languished in towers … or convent-educated girls compromised their virtue as, yes, even she was tempted to do.

She had said all the right things, all the things that a virtuous girl should say to an overbold, predatory male. She had put up a convincing display of maidenly modesty. Yet underneath it all there had been the urgent and enchanting dictates of her body, compelling her to surrender, and the excited response of a young mind flattered that a king should say he loved her. It was an irresistible combination. She did not delude herself that she loved the King in return; immature though she was, she suspected that he might well have used the word “love” merely to cozen her. She had no idea what love really felt like. Certainly it did not appear to exist between most of the married couples she had seen. She had been taught that it was a wife’s duty to love the husband chosen for her, but that was not the kind of love that drove men to distraction, or sent them on quests, or made them fight duels.

Her mind was in a ferment. What if this were the only opportunity she would ever have of knowing that kind of love? Should she not seize it with both hands, and follow the demands of the flesh?

She fell asleep wondering what it would be like to lie in the arms of the King of England.

29 Angers, 1165

Eleanor was lying in after her confinement, cradling her newborn daughter, Joanna, in her arms, when a letter arrived from Champagne. She opened it with trembling fingers, supporting the baby against her shoulder, and read the neat, pointed script of some unknown clerk. Her daughter Marie politely sent her greetings and inquired after her mother’s health. She herself was well and happy, and wished Madame the Queen to know that she remembered her in her prayers.

That was all, but it was something, and it was more than she had received from Alix, who could not have remembered her in any case. It was but little, but it was something—something she could build on.

30 Woodstock, 1165–66

The siege did not last long. When the last defense had been torn down, Henry came to Rosamund in her silken bower, and she received him with open arms. She was tight when he entered her, and gasped a little as her maidenhead fractured, but thereafter she twined herself sinuously around him as if she would never let go. Afterward he lay there with his head on her breasts, stroking her firm, flat belly and thinking that it had been a long time since he had experienced such joy with a woman. Pleasure, yes—but not this surging tide of delight and well-being. Once, he had known a similar joy with Eleanor, and something of that survived still, when they were together; but when he was apart from her, he felt detached and even hostile.

He would not think of Eleanor now, not when his fair Rosamund lay beneath him, his for the taking again as soon as he caught his breath and rested a bit. Rosamund, whose blond tresses lay tangled across them both, tickling his cheek, and whose straight limbs with their pearly sheen lay stretched out with abandon. His fingers crept to the cleft of her sex, parted it and slid farther, as her eyes widened in surprise and she began to moan with unexpected pleasure. God, she was beautiful, he thought, raising himself on one muscular elbow and raking her with his gaze as his kneading became more insistent—beautiful in a different way from Eleanor, for there was a fragility about Rosamund, and an innate delicacy. She was aptly named, with her petal-soft skin and her rosy cheeks! He knew he could never bear to be parted from her.

Henry could not leave Rosamund alone. He kept wanting her, at all hours of the day and night, and exulted in the breathless fervor with which she returned his ardor. Yet, so young and inexperienced was his love, for all her growing artfulness in bed, that every time they made love it seemed like the first time—as if he were deflowering her all over again. It was utterly irresistible!

He tarried at Woodstock all through the autumn, kept Christmas there, then made excuses to stay until the spring. He called in masons and master builders to construct a new tower for his lady, and gardeners to lay out a labyrinth for her delight, planting the young hedges of yew and briar in an intricate circular pattern. He knew that the time would come when he must leave Rosamund, and that she would be lonely and in need of recreation, and with the summer coming, this maze would divert her and the damsels he had appointed to wait on her. It never occurred to him that, one day, it would become the source of many rumors and legends.

When he wasn’t dallying in bed with Rosamund, Henry was hard at work formulating his planned legal reforms, and in the depths of winter he went to meet with his Great Council at Clarendon, where his new Constitutions, as he was pleased to call them, became law. One in particular gave him great satisfaction, for it meant that Becket’s criminous clerks would no longer be entitled to claim benefit of clergy. Henry had won his long, hard battle—but he doubted he had won the war.

The wounds dealt by Thomas still festered. Lying awake at night, he would torment himself by reliving the heady days of their friendship, or engage in bitter disputes with the absent Archbishop, saying all the clever things he wished he had said at the time. Occasionally, with Rosamund sleeping peacefully beside him, he would let the tears fall, and wonder when he would ever be free of this turmoil. He had loved Thomas—so why had Thomas defied and abandoned him? At such times he would reach out for the sweet girl lying beside him and try to lose himself in her, to blot out the pain and the anger. He never discussed Becket with her; he did not want to sully her purity by unburdening himself. She was his refuge, his peace, his joy: that was all he needed from her.

He could no longer tarry: he was needed in Maine, to quell some godforsaken rebel vassals; his ships were even now waiting at Southampton.

He kissed Rosamund long and lovingly in farewell, his heart aching. God knew when he would see her again. She stood on the mounting block, slender and utterly alluring in her soft wool gown, and lifted the stirrup cup to him as he sat on his horse at the head of his retinue, ready to depart. He made himself say his last good-bye, his voice gruff with emotion. Parting with her was unbearable, tragic, not to be borne …

He rode south determinedly, making good time, but they had not gone far when, driven by his unspeakable need, he suddenly wheeled about and cantered back toward Woodstock, his astonished train in his wake, struggling to keep up. When they arrived, he leaped off his lathered steed, raced up the spiral stairs two at a time, and burst into Rosamund’s chamber, scattering her women with a wave of his hand. As soon as the door banged behind them, he crushed her to him, devouring her with kisses.

“I had to come back to you, to see you one more time!” he gasped.

Rosamund was momentarily too stunned to respond.

“What will people think? That I keep you from your royal duties?” she asked, sounding panicked, but letting him do with her as he would.

“I care not a fig for what they think!” Henry growled. “All I know is that I have to have you once more before I cross the sea. I had to see your face, oh my darling!” His hands were everywhere, his eyes were drinking her in. He was desperate to bed her, could wait no longer. As they tumbled between the sheets, the outside world forgotten, downstairs in the hall and the courtyard, the King’s household officers and men-at-arms exchanged knowing glances, then shrugged and grinned at one another.

31 Angers, 1166

Eleanor saw Henry and his long line of followers approaching as she was taking the air on the battlements of the castle of Angers. She paused and stared. So he had come at last. Finally, he had bestirred himself and remembered that he had a wife. There was bitterness in her heart. She had not set eyes on him in more than a year; he had not come to greet his new daughter, Joanna, and had not even come for Christmas. That was a cruel blow, for never before had they spent a Christmas apart, and she had still been under the impression that things were mending between them. He could at least have thought of the children’s disappointment, if not hers, she thought, aggrieved.

She had wondered if Henry heard wanton talk of her closeness to her uncle Raoul, or if Jean aux Bellesmains had blabbed of his damned suspicions. Or, worse still, had Raoul kept something back when he had spoken of Henry having other women? That would hardly be surprising, given her reaction. But supposing there was another woman? If a love affair was the cause of Henry abandoning his wife and family for so long, then it surely posed a serious threat to all that she held dear. The prospect was nightmarish, and she had worn herself down with wondering and playing out horrible what-if scenarios in her mind. She wished she could let it all go and not care, but that was proving impossible.

For the thousandth time she pulled herself up. Henry was a king, and, in the wider scale of things, women meant little to him beside his vision for his kingdom and the demands of his far-flung domains. Had that not been the case, his amours would have been notorious rather than discreet, and she would surely have known about them. He was not the kind of man to let a female sway or rule him. Even she herself, his queen, had been kept firmly in what he perceived to be her place, much to her chagrin. No, Henry would not shirk his duties and obligations for so long just for the sake of a woman. And if he had heard evil gossip about his wife, he would no doubt have acted upon it, much as he had all those years ago when he banished that poor fool, Bernard de Ventadour; he would never tolerate any hint of scandal attaching itself to his own.

Having reasoned yet again with herself, she realized that she was no nearer to understanding what was going on than she had been before, and, with her thoughts in turmoil, smoothed her skirts, adjusted her veil and circlet, and descended the stairs to greet her husband.

They faced each other across the polished wooden table in the solar. Henry’s eyes were wary. He looked almost sheepish, guilty even. Her heart plummeted and again she wondered why he had come.

“I trust you had a good journey,” she said, for the second time, betraying how nervous she was. “Some wine?”

Henry sat down, kicked off his boots, and gratefully accepted the goblet.

“I trust you are well, Eleanor,” he said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here earlier. I was at Clarendon, making sure that my new laws will be properly enforced.”

That had been back in January. It was now Easter. What had he been doing in the meantime? His ships had been waiting at Southampton for weeks.

“I regret you had all that trouble with my barons in Maine,” Henry was saying.

“I have never been treated with such contempt!” Eleanor fumed, anger flaring at the remembrance, and momentarily distracting her from her fears. “Your Norman captains refused to heed my orders. They said they would not take them from a woman.”

“I know, I know,” Henry admitted. “They had no right to say that, and they will be called to account, you may depend on it. But the rebels are crushed. On my way here I taught them a lesson they will not easily forget.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” Eleanor said tartly. She was aware that this conversation was being carried on purely on the surface, and that each was taking the measure of the other and wondering where they really stood. The air was almost crackling with the things they were leaving unsaid.

“Would you like to see our new daughter?” she asked.

“By all means,” Henry smiled, “and our other children.” He would not meet her eyes.

“You will find them much grown,” she told him. “It is so long since you have seen them.” It was a barb, and it hit home. She actually saw him wince.

The baby was brought by the nurse and placed in the King’s arms. Henry gazed down at the copper-haired infant on his lap, with her chubby cheeks and gummy smile, and thought how like Eleanor she was. He chuckled at her, well satisfied, and gave her his blessing, his callused hand on her downy head.

“She’s a pretty one,” he pronounced. “Fit to be a queen, which one day, no doubt, she will be. I hear that Louis at last has a son. Are you thinking what I am thinking?”

“Am I to understand that you have abandoned your plan to marry Matilda and Eleanor in Germany?” Eleanor asked in astonishment. “I thought you were trying to discountenance Louis to pay him back for his support of Becket?”

“I never pass up an opportunity to discountenance Louis, you know that, Eleanor!” Henry grinned, lightening the atmosphere a little. “But I did have hopes of one day annexing France to my domains. All dashed now, of course—if that boy lives. So we rattle Louis now, while planning for the future. His son will need a wife someday, and it would be to my advantage, and that of my heirs, to have an English queen on the French throne.”

“It is a wise plan,” Eleanor had to concede.

He nodded. “I think so. And as I haven’t changed my mind about the alliances I have negotiated for Matilda and Eleanor, I will be putting this little one forward as the future Queen of France. It will be a great destiny for you, sweeting,” he murmured, smiling down at the baby.

“Well, I can only hope that the French court has livened up a bit by the time she gets there,” Eleanor said, her tone still tart.

“She will liven it up, I make no doubt. She has her mother’s charm, I can see it.” He was placating her, she knew it.

“Charm availed me little at Louis’s court,” she sniffed, unwilling to bend. “But it would be a great match, and it could bring a more stable peace between England and France.”

“No doubt the princes of Europe are all rubbing their hands in glee in the hope of securing such a rich matrimonial prize for their daughters as the new heir to France,” Henry observed wickedly. “But I think we have a strong advantage. I can always dangle the Vexin as a carrot!”

“They said Louis was overjoyed to have a son at last,” Eleanor recalled, remembering how, strangely, she had felt so pleased for her former husband when she was brought the news. He had waited an unconscionably long time—and she herself had failed him in the one thing that mattered. Now his prayers had been granted, and she was glad. “There were great rejoicings, I heard. Much will be expected of this little prince. Already they are calling him Philip Augustus, like the old Roman emperors.”

“I heard he was named after the month he was born, and that he’d been nicknamed ‘the God Given’,” Henry said. “Well, I hope, for his sake, he doesn’t take after his father with names like that! He’ll have to live up to them!”

He handed the baby back to the nurse, picked up his goblet, drained it to the dregs, and reached for the flagon.

“Well, I will have one more cup of wine, and then I will change my clothes and slough off the dust of the road and go greet my beloved barons of Anjou.” He poured the red liquid. Eleanor watched, wondering if they would ever again be close enough to get beyond the pleasantries and generalities.

“Is there any news of our friend the Archbishop?” Henry asked, his flippant tone not quite masking his obsessive interest.

“Yes, but it’s not good,” Eleanor told him. “He is still living in the abbey at Sens, and still threatening to excommunicate you. It is said that he is angered by the Constitutions of Clarendon.”

Henry scowled. “He should get over it and accept that change is necessary. My patience is wearing thin.”

It’s about time, Eleanor thought, but she forbore to say anything; she hesitated to disrupt this uneasy peace between them. So she just smiled and called for the nurse again, asking her to bring the other children to greet their father.

Henry came to her bed that night and paid the marriage debt. At least, that’s what it felt like, a duty to be done. Never before had he seemed so uninvolved when making love to her. She lay there afterward, sleepless and in turmoil, suspecting that what she’d long dreaded had come to pass: that he no longer loved her, and all that was left to them was a marriage of convenience, which fulfilled the purpose for which it had been made. Her personal feelings were not supposed to matter, when one looked at the wider picture. But they did, oh, they did!

She looked at Henry’s sleeping back, its solid form white and shadowy in the moonlight that flooded the room through the tall window. It had struck her anew, when she first saw him on his return, how manly he looked in the strength and vigor of his maturity; a little thicker about the girth, true, but still a muscular bull of a man, broad-chested and leonine of feature. How she loved and wanted him! She could not help herself. Of all the men she had known—and known in the biblical sense—none could touch him. Yet she feared he was hers no more. Her pillow was sodden with her tears.

32 Chinon, 1166

The court was staying at the Fort St. George, Henry’s magnificent castle of Chinon, which straddled a high spur above the River Vienne, when both the King and Queen sickened. Eleanor knew very well what was causing the familiar nausea: she was pregnant for the eleventh time, made fruitful with the seed planted that tragic night at Angers, the night when she realized that she had lost Henry in all the ways that were most important to her. Since then, matters had not improved between them, and now it seemed that there was an unbreachable distance. They still observed the courtesies, and they talked like civilized beings; he had frequented her bed on several nights, but it was like coupling with a stranger. She knew he sensed her withdrawal from him, a retreat less tactical than instinctive, born of the need to protect herself. She told herself that love was not essential in a royal marriage: she was Henry’s wife and queen; she was Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine, Queen of England, Duchess of Normandy, Countess of Anjou and Maine. She was undefeatable, a match for any light-of-love to whom her lord might take a passing fancy. She dared not let the facade drop; she must think of herself as invincible.

Henry appeared not to be troubled by her studied amenity; she believed he welcomed it, for it absolved him of any need to put things right. There was no point in him trying to do that if his heart wasn’t in it. She did not want him to play a role for her: she needed his honesty, but she was damned if she would probe for it, for she feared to provoke any painful revelations. But now, here she was, pregnant with his child once more, another reason why the pretense that all was well must be maintained. And she must tell him her news.

She came upon him in their solar as he sat stitching a tear in his hunting cloak, and sat beside him on the wooden settle, struggling to suppress the rising bile in her throat. The thought of the coming months depressed her: she was weary of childbearing, had suffered it too often. She was forty-four, and she’d had enough. This, she vowed, would be the final time.

“I am to have another child, Henry,” she announced quietly. He paused in his mending.

“You are not pleased,” he said.

“If I spoke the truth, no. However, it is God’s will, and I must make the best of it. But I pray you, let this be our last child.” She looked at him as she spoke, but he would not meet her eyes. “You understand my meaning,” she persisted, her heart breaking. She had the horrible, sinking feeling that she was closing a door forever—and perhaps closing it prematurely.

Henry did not answer. The needle flew in and out.

“Henry?”

“It’s your decision,” he said.

“Do you care?” she ventured, thinking that she might as well be dead, and knowing she was about to shatter the fragile equilibrium between them.

Now he did raise his head and look at her. His eyes were guarded, his expression unreadable. There was a slight flush on his bristled cheeks; was it anger? That would be something … Surely he would not agree, uncomplaining, to what she asked. As her husband, he could insist on claiming his rights—and who knew, a miracle could happen and they might recapture the joy they had shared. She would endure ten more pregnancies for that, if he would just intimate, by one word, that he still wanted her.

“It’s your decision,” he said again, turning back to his handiwork. “You’re the one who has to bear the children. Whether I care or not is beside the point.”

“Are you accusing me of deliberately ignoring your needs?” Eleanor cried, forgetting her resolve to maintain a gentle and dignified detachment.

“I’m saying I don’t need this at this time!” Henry snarled. “I’ve got Thomas threatening to excommunicate me and proclaiming to the whole of Christendom that my Constitutions of Clarendon are unlawful. There’s trouble in Brittany, where my vassal, Count Conan, is unable to keep order, and your Aquitainian lords are up to their usual tricks. I’m not feeling well, Eleanor, in fact I’m feeling bloody awful, and you choose this moment to tell me you don’t want to sleep with me anymore!”

Relief flooded through her. He was ill. That explained much. Maybe things were not so bad after all. Then the implications of his being ill hit her like a blow.

“You are ill?” she echoed. “Why didn’t you tell me, Henry? What is wrong?”

“I feel sick to my bones,” Henry said, glad to be able to offer Eleanor an explanation—albeit a temporary one—for his coolness toward her; he could never have admitted that he no longer loved her as he had, that there was a new love in his life now. Overburdened by cares as he was, the sweet image of Rosamund remained with him constantly, his longing for her a continual ache in his loins. If that was a sickness, then yes, he was ill. But there was more to it than that.

Thomas was threatening him with anathema. Flippant as Henry could be in regard to religion, he still feared eternal damnation, and of being cast out from the communion of the Church. Where would that leave him as a ruler who held dominion over all the territories from Scotland to Aquitaine? When a man was excommunicated, all Christians were bound to shun him; he could not receive the Blessed Sacrament, or any of the consolations of his faith. He would be as a leper.

He knew, though, that it was forbidden to excommunicate a man who was sick. The Church, in her wisdom and mercy, held that the sick were weak in judgment and incapable of rational thought. It would make good sense, therefore—for so many reasons—to take to his bed and feign illness.

So he took to his bed, and had it given out that he was laid low by a mysterious malady. He even fooled his doctors, groaning and rolling his eyes in mock pain as they approached. A mystery illness indeed, they agreed, conferring privately among themselves. Had they not seen the King in such evident discomfort they would have said there was nothing wrong with him.

Eleanor was at her wits’ end. Henry had not thought fit to take her into his confidence, so she was terrified of him dying, and distraught at the doctors’ failure to cure him. When she came to sit beside him, he affected to be all but comatose, suffering her ministrations in silence and wishing she would go away. Nothing further had been said by either of them on the subject of their quarrel: the issue remained unresolved, although, a thousand times each day, Eleanor crucified herself for what she had said. She made bargains with God; she demanded that He heal Henry; and when He had done that, she beseeched Him to make things right between them. Daily, on her knees, she nagged, pleaded with, and bullied Him as if He were one of her subjects.

Henry had lain abed for two months, and Eleanor was beginning to lose all hope of his recovery, and to worry if Young Henry was ready for the heavy task of ruling the empire, when news came from Vézelay.

“Becket has excommunicated all those who formulated the Constitutions of Clarendon,” announced the Empress, who, frail as she was, had traveled from Rouen to be with her ailing son. Wearily, she climbed the stairs to the Queen’s bower to convey the latest tidings to her exhausted daughter-in-law.

Eleanor swayed. It had come, this news they had all dreaded, the fear of which—she had begun to suspect—was one of the causes of Henry’s malady.

“Sit down, Eleanor!” the Empress commanded. “You must think of the child you carry, and take comfort from the fact that Henry is not included with the rest, on account of his illness. Even Becket did not dare to go so far.”

“Thanks be to God,” Eleanor breathed fervently, collapsing onto a stool with relief. “We must tell Henry at once.”

They found him propped up on his pillows, partaking of a little pottage. When they told him the news, his face contorted and he wept in such rage that they both feared he might suffer a relapse.

“The bastard! I will have him. I will ruin him! He will not defy me again, I swear it, by the eyes of God!” And then he fairly leaped out of bed, this invalid who had been almost at death’s door, with all trace of his illness gone. His wife and his mother looked at each other in astonished incomprehension. Then, as Henry shouted for water to wash in and clean clothes to put on, realization dawned—and, for Eleanor, the bitter understanding that he had not been ill at all, but carried on this long-drawn-out charade without a word in her ear; that he had let her suffer prolonged anguish and fear, and not thought to alleviate her misery. How, she wondered bitterly, could things ever be right between them after this?

Henry was still yelling his head off, heedless of his mother’s admonishments.

“My son, you must have a care to your health!” she enjoined him.

“There’s nothing wrong with my health!” he retorted, then his furious eyes met Eleanor’s appalled ones, and he had the grace to look guilty. But the moment was fleeting.

“I will write to the Pope, and to Frederick Barbarossa,” he vowed. “I will demand that the excommunications be revoked.”

“I have no doubt His Holiness will comply,” the Empress said. “He needs your support, and the Emperor Frederick’s. I, for my part, intend to write to Becket and give him a piece of my mind for showing such base ingratitude for all the favors you have showered upon him.”

“Thank you, Mother. Someone needs to make my Lord Archbishop see sense.”

“I shall warn him,” Matilda went on determinedly, “that his only hope of regaining your favor lies in humbling himself and moderating his behavior. I shall go and write the letter now, so that he may see how angry I am. And, my son, I rejoice to see you restored to health. Your recovery is no less than miraculous.” Her tone was sardonic.

When she was gone, and the sound of her footsteps had faded down the stairwell, Henry looked again at Eleanor, who had said not a word.

“I couldn’t tell either of you,” he explained. “You had to believe I was ill, so that others would be convinced.”

“You think I can’t act as well as you?” she answered in an icy tone. “You don’t know the half of it!”

Henry raised one eyebrow questioningly, but did not rise to the bait. He could not be troubled with confrontations with Eleanor at this time; his mind was busy elsewhere.

“I will have that priest!” he seethed. “I will crush him to the ground.”

33 Rennes, 1166

Eleanor was present in the cathedral of Rennes when Henry formally took possession of Brittany, having deposed his ineffectual vassal, Count Conan. It was a triumphant day, coming as it did so soon after the Pope had ordered Becket to annul his sentences of excommunication and molest his king no more.

With Henry formally invested with the insignia of the newly created Duchy of Brittany, the Archbishop now sealed the betrothal of eight-year-old Geoffrey to Conan’s daughter Constance, a proud little lady of five. Try as she might, Eleanor could not take to this blond-haired madame, with her pixie face, winged eyebrows, and posturing, imperious manner. She had been spoiled and allowed her head, and Eleanor feared that Geoffrey would have his work cut out to control her in the years to come, unless she, Eleanor, took steps to discipline the little minx. And that she would do, she promised herself. Constance could have her moment today, but after that she must be taken in hand.

Eleanor gazed fondly at Geoffrey as he joined hands with his pouting betrothed. He was a dark, handsome boy, devious by nature, it was true, but clever and charming. He was to be Duke of Brittany when he married, Henry had decreed, but until then his father would hold and rule the duchy for him. It was gratifying to have the boy’s future so happily and advantageously settled, and the problem of Brittany brought to such a satisfactory conclusion.

There was but one jarring note to mar this day of celebration, and that was Eleanor’s nagging awareness that although Young Henry’s and Geoffrey’s futures were mapped out—Henry was to have England, Anjou, and Normandy—and brides had been found for both of them, Henry had as yet made no provision for her adored Richard, his middle son.

She tackled him about this as they presided at the high table over the feast that followed the ceremonies in the cathedral.

“It more than contents me to see two of our boys settled,” she began diplomatically, “but tell me, what plans have you for Richard?” Her eyes rested on the nine-year-old lad with the flame-red curls who sat gorging himself on some delicious Breton oysters and scallops farther down the table. A strong child he was, a vigorous child, who was surely destined to make his mark. What she was really determined upon was to make him heir to all her dominions; and she believed that was what Henry too had in mind for Richard. It would be entirely fitting.

“Not yet,” Henry said, his mouth full of lamb. “But, since you mention it, I have something in mind for Young Henry, and I should like your approval.”

“And what is that?” Eleanor asked.

“I want to make him your heir in Aquitaine.”

“No!” she told him, shocked. “Why Henry? What of Richard? That would leave Richard with nothing!” Her face had flushed pink with fury, and a few of the revelers were looking at her curiously.

“Calm yourself,” Henry muttered. “Do you think I would not see Richard well provided for? Does it not occur to you that it would be better to keep this empire of mine in one piece, under one ruler? There is strength in numbers, Eleanor, and by God I need all the strength I can get to keep your vassals in order. It’s one thing to confront them with the Duke of Aquitaine, quite another when that duke is also to be King of England, Duke of Normandy, Count of Maine, and Count of Anjou. You must see that!”

Eleanor did not. All she was aware of was the need to fight for the rights of her beloved. “Richard is but two years younger than Henry. You know he has the makings of what it takes to rule Aquitaine, he is a true child of the South, and I want him as my heir, and to see him settled as Henry and Geoffrey are settled. It would only be fair.”

Henry turned to her, his face set. “Trust me. I will see Richard settled.”

“With what?” she asked defiantly. “All your domains are spoken for. What if you died after naming Henry my heir? Richard would be left landless!”

By now a lot of the guests were watching them speculatively as they quarreled. Eleanor saw it but did not care. All that mattered was Richard’s future. But Henry, seeing that their discord was observed, resolved to put an end to it.

“It’s no use arguing, Eleanor,” he said. “My mind is made up. I but asked for your approval as a courtesy. You know I do not need it. There is no more to be said, except that after these celebrations are over, I intend to deal once more with your ever-impudent seigneurs, and then go to Poitiers, where I shall hold my Christmas court and present Young Henry to your people as your heir. I should like you to be there too, obviously, to show some solidarity.”

“Never!” she retorted furiously. “I will go to England and stay there until this child is born. I will not be witness to an act that effectively disinherits Richard. Instead, I will help Matilda to prepare for her wedding journey next year.” She had decided all this on impulse, in the heat of the moment, and was wondering, even as she said it, if she would come to regret it, for going to England would mean that she would certainly not see Henry again for months. Was it wise to leave him to his own devices at a time when relations between them were so distant? She knew she might be sentencing herself to a lengthy period of emotional turmoil—but it was too late to retract. The words were now said, and she could not unsay them. Besides, she knew she had right on her side.

Henry was frowning, but he was immovable.

“You may go where you will,” he said. “I will make the arrangements.”

34 Woodstock and Oxford, 1166

It was cold in the wilds of Oxfordshire, and there was a promise of snow in the leaden air. The sky was lowering, the skeletal trees bending before the icy wind. Eleanor sat huddled in her litter, her swollen body swathed in furs, aware that she should find some place of shelter soon, for it could not be long now before this babe was ready to greet the world.

Poor child, she thought: it had been conceived in sorrow and would be born in bitterness, for Henry had let her go without a protest, and she’d had no word from him since. He was angry at her defiance, of that there could be no doubt, but she still maintained adamantly that she had a just grievance: the thought of Young Henry having Richard’s inheritance was an open wound that would not heal.

She was weary of the ceaseless jostling with Henry for autonomy in her own lands, enraged with him for slighting her adored boy, and tortured by the crumbling of their marriage. It was a relief to be away from him, and yet … and yet, for all that, she missed him, wanted him, needed him … The pain was relentless. She tortured herself with speculation about the possibility that she had been supplanted by another woman. There was no proof, nothing at all, but what else could have caused such a change in his manner toward her? Had he simply ceased to care for her?

She rested her head back on the pillows. It was no good tormenting herself with these disturbing thoughts—it was not beneficial for her, in her condition. She must think of her coming child.

They had been making for Oxford, hoping to get there by dusk, before the snow fell, but their battle with the elements delayed them, and the Queen now had no choice but to order that they divert to Woodstock for the night. The royal hunting lodge was a favorite residence of Eleanor’s; she had a suite of rooms there, and was hoping the steward would have kept them in a habitable condition. She did not think she could face freezing chambers, an unaired bed, or damp sheets; what she needed right now was a roaring fire, warming broth, a feather bed, and the ministrations of her women. She was weary to her bones.

At last the litter was trundled across the drawbridge, the men-at-arms clip-clopping on either side. As the little procession drew to a standstill, Eleanor parted the leather curtains of her litter, allowed her attendants to assist her to her feet—and then gaped in astonishment. For she saw that Woodstock now boasted a new, fair tower of the finest yellow stone. It was perhaps only to be expected, for Henry had been indefatigable in improving or rebuilding the royal residences, and he had spent much time doing so not long ago. What was surprising was what lay before it, nestling within the curtain walls. It was some kind of enclosed garden—indeed, the most curious of pleasaunces—and it certainly had not been here when she last visited. She walked heavily toward it, almost in a daze. Henry had been here for much of last winter and spring, she remembered. Had he gone to the trouble of ordering it planted for her, for some future visit? And that tower? Was that for her too?

She soon saw that the pleasaunce was in fact a labyrinth, laid out in a circular design with young yews and briars; a paved path disappearing into its depths could be glimpsed at the entrance. The maze was not large, but it looked enticing, even magical—and not a little sinister—in the light of the torches carried by her people against the deepening dusk. Had Henry gone to the trouble of having this intricate thing laid out just for her? How strange! He had had no idea that she would come here in the foreseeable future.

There was a grassy path skirting the labyrinth; one branch of it led to the tower, the other to the older hall with the King’s and Queen’s solars above, but Eleanor walked past that one. She had noticed a light in the tower, at one of the upper windows; it was flickering behind grisaille glass, such as that usually found only in great churches. Could some personage of importance be lodging here? Or, more likely, was some servant about his or her duties? That would account for the light.

Suddenly, a door opened and the steward materialized breathlessly out of the gathering darkness. His face was red, his manner flustered.

“My lady, welcome, welcome!” he cried, bowing hastily. “We had no idea you were coming. I will make all ready. I pray you, come in and get warm.” He indicated that Eleanor should go before him into the large room at the base of the solar block, but she swept on.

“In a moment, I thank you. But first, I have a mind to see that impressive new tower,” she told him.

His face blanched. “Madame, I should not advise it. It is, er, unfinished, and may not be safe.”

“Someone is up there!” Eleanor pointed, and strode in ungainly fashion toward the studded wooden door at the base of the tower.

“My lady!” the steward protested, but she ignored him.

“Open the door!” she commanded. Unhappily, he did as he was bidden, and the Queen brushed past him and began climbing the spiral stairs. She was out of breath by the time she reached the first-floor chamber and had to stop for a few moments, her hand resting on her swollen belly. Clearly, there was no one on this story, and the steward had spoken the truth: the tower was as yet unfinished. Half-completed murals adorned the lime-washed walls; the wooden floor was stacked with ladders, crocks of paint, brushes, and stained rags.

When she had rested a bit, she took the stairs to the next level, a vaulted storeroom containing several iron-bound chests, some stools, and very little else. No one here either. Determined to satisfy her curiosity, she dragged herself up to the topmost story, panting determinedly, and found herself outside a narrow wooden door. Light streamed from beneath it.

Eleanor took a deep breath and depressed the latch. The door swung open to reveal a pretty domestic scene. The room was warm, heated by the coals in a glowing brazier. An exquisitely beautiful young girl was sitting before a basin of chased silver, humming as she washed herself with a fine holland cloth by the dancing light of many wax candles. She wore only a white chemise, draped around her waist, exposing her upper body. In the instant before the startled nymph gasped and covered herself, Eleanor’s shrewd eyes took in the small, pink-tipped breasts, the long, straw-colored tresses, the firm, slender arms, and the damp, rose-petal skin.

“Who are you?” she asked, aghast, already dreading the answer.

“I am Rosamund de Clifford, madame,” the girl said, her expression guarded. She had no idea who this intruder was; the woman was bundled up in a thick cloak, and the white wimple beneath it, although fine, was of a type worn by many middle-and upper-class matrons.

“And what is your business here?” Eleanor could not help her hectoring tone. She had to know who—and what—this young female was.

“I live here by order of my Lord the King,” Rosamund answered, a touch defensively. “May I ask who it is who wishes to know?”

Eleanor could not speak. Her heart was racing in horror. Was this child—for she could be no more than that—the reason for Henry’s strange, distant behavior? Had he installed her here as his mistress? Or—her mind raced on—was this Rosamund some bastard child of his?

“I am Queen Eleanor,” she said, her voice sounding far more confident than she felt, and was gratified to see the girl gather her shift about her and drop hurriedly into an obeisance.

“My lady, forgive me,” she bleated.

Keeping her on her knees, Eleanor placed one finger under Rosaimund’s chin and tilted it upward, daring her to meet her eye, but the young chit would not look directly at her.

“I will not beat about the bush,” the Queen said. “Tell me the truth. Are you his mistress?”

Rosamund began trembling like a frightened animal.

“Are you?” Eleanor repeated sharply.

“My lady, forgive me!” burst out the girl, beginning to cry. Eleanor withdrew her hand as if it were scalded. She thought she would die, right then and there, she felt so sick to her stomach. He had betrayed her with this little whore. This beautiful little whore. Her hand flew protectively to the infant under her thudding heart.

“Do you realize that this is his child?” she cried accusingly.

Rosamund did not answer; she was sobbing helplessly now.

“Tears will avail you nothing,” Eleanor said coldly, wishing she too could indulge in the luxury of weeping, and marveling that her emotions had not betrayed her further. But it was anger that was keeping her from collapsing in grief.

“Do you know what I could do to you?” Her eyes narrowed as she moved—menacingly, she hoped—closer toward the sniveling creature kneeling before her. She was filled with hatred. She wanted this girl to suffer, as she herself was suffering. “I could have you whipped! If I had a mind to, I could call for a dagger and stab you, or have your food poisoned. Yes, Rosamund de Clifford, it would give me great pleasure to think of you, every time they bring you those choice dainties that my husband has no doubt ordered for you, wondering if your next mouthful might be your last!”

“My lady, please, spare me!” the girl cried out. “I did not ask for this.” But Eleanor was beside herself with rage.

“I suppose you are going to tell me that you went to him unwillingly, that he raped you,” she spat.

“No, no, it was not like that!”

“Then what was it like?” She did not want to—could not bear to—hear the details, but she had to know.

“My lady will know that one does not refuse the King,” Rosamund said in a low, shaking voice. “But”—and now Eleanor could detect a faint note of defiance—“I did love him, and what I gave I gave willingly.”

Her words were like knives twisting in the older woman’s heart.

“You loved him? How touching!”

“I did—I still do. And he loves me. He told me.”

“You are a fool!” Eleanor’s voice cracked as she spat out the words. “And you won’t be the first trollop to be seduced by a man’s fair speech.”

Rosamund raised wet eyes to her, eyes that now held a challenge. “But, madame,” she said quietly, “he does love me. He stayed here with me all last autumn, winter, and spring. He built me this tower, and a labyrinth for my pleasure. And he has commanded me to stay here and await his return.”

Eleanor was speechless. Her wrath had suddenly evaporated, swept away by shock and grief, and she knew she was about to break down. She must not do so in front of this insolent girl, must not let her see how deeply those cruel barbs had wounded her, far more than her empty threats could have frightened her adversary. Like an animal with a mortal hurt, she wanted to retreat to a dark place and die.

There were voices drifting up from the stairwell; her attendants would be wondering what was going on, were no doubt coming to find her. She must not let them see her here, a betrayed wife with her younger rival.

“Never let me set eyes on you again!” she hissed at Rosamund, then turned her back on the girl, glided from the room with as much dignity as she could muster, closing the door firmly behind her, and descended the stairs.

“The sewing women are up there,” she announced to the ladies who were climbing the stairs in search of her. “I was admiring their skill.” She was surprised at her own composure. “It seems that the steward was right, that many works are being carried out here. This place is wholly unfit for habitation. Like it or not, we must make for Oxford.” She knew she had to get away from Woodstock as quickly as possible. She could not endure to share a roof with Rosamund de Clifford, or even breathe the same air. She must go somewhere she could lick her wounds in peace.

“Now?” echoed her women. “Madame, you should rest before we attempt to move on.”

“There will be an inn on the road,” Eleanor said firmly.

The King’s House at Oxford was a vast complex of buildings surrounded by a strong stone wall; it looked like a fortress, but was in fact a splendid residence adorned with wall paintings in bright hues and richly appointed suites for the King and Queen. Here, in happier days long past, Eleanor’s beloved Richard had been born, slipping eagerly into the world with the minimum of fuss. But this latest babe, unlike its older siblings, did not seem to want to be born, and small wonder it was, Eleanor thought, when the world was such a cruel place.

She had no heart for this labor. She pushed and she strained, but to little effect. It had been hours now, and the midwife was shaking her head in concern. It had been a great honor, being summoned at short notice to order the Queen’s confinement, but the good woman was fearful for her future—and her high reputation in the town—for if mother or child were lost, almost certainly the King would point the finger of blame at her.

Petronilla, tipsy as usual, for she had resorted to the wine flagon to banish her demons, was seated by the bed, holding Eleanor’s hand and looking tragic, as the other ladies bustled around with ewers of hot water and clean, bleached towels. Petronilla knew she would be devastated if her sister died in childbed; she adored Eleanor, relied on her for so many things, and knew her life would be bleak without her. No one else understood why Petronilla had to drink herself into oblivion. Other people looked askance and were censorious, but not Eleanor. Eleanor had also known the pain of losing her children. She too had suffered that cruel sundering, had learned to live with empty arms and an aching heart. Petronilla knew, as few did, how Eleanor had kept on writing to those French daughters of hers, hoping to reseal a bond that had long ago been severed. She knew too that there had been no reply, apart from on one occasion, when hope had sprung briefly in her sister’s breast; but evidently, the young Countess Marie had not thought it worth establishing a correspondence—and Petronilla supposed that one could hardly blame her.

Yes, Eleanor too had her crosses to bear—and probably more than she would admit to. Something odd had happened at Woodstock, Petronilla was sure of it. Before that, Eleanor seemed strong and resolute, a fighter ready to take on all challengers. Now she appeared to have lost the will to live. It was incomprehensible, the change in her—and terrifying. Gulping back another sob, Petronilla reached again for her goblet.

Eleanor lay in a twilight world, enduring the ever more frequent onslaughts of pain as her contractions grew stronger, then retreating to a place where no one could reach her. She almost welcomed the agony of childbirth: it was far preferable to the agony that Henry and his whore had inflicted on her. He had inflicted this ordeal on her too, yet she would have welcomed it a thousand times had it been the result of an unsullied love between them. But that was all finished. He had betrayed her, and she was done with him. This would indeed be her last child. She knew it.

The ordeal went on for hours. They brought her holy relics to kiss, slid knives under the bed to cut the pain. None of it did any good, and, had Death come for her, she would have welcomed him. It was not until the dawn, on Christmas Eve, that the infant who was the cause—and the fruit—of her agony finally came sniveling into the world, a tragic bundle of bloodied limbs and dark red hair.

“A boy, my lady!” the midwife announced jubilantly, breathless with relief.

Eleanor turned her face away.

“Will you not look at him?” Petronilla asked, her heart-shaped face bleary with wine, yet full of concern.

Eleanor made herself look. The infant, wiped and swathed in a soft fleece, had been laid on the bed next to her. She contemplated its crumpled, angry little face and watched dispassionately as it broke into mewling cries of outrage at being cast adrift into the wicked world. She wanted to feel something for it, the sad little mite; after all, it was not this babe’s fault that she herself was in such misery. Yet it seemed she had nothing left to give, no spark of loving kindness or maternal feeling. She felt dead inside. Nevertheless, this was her child, she reminded herself sternly. She must do something for it. Hesitantly, she touched the tiny, downy cheek and gave her son her blessing.

“What is he to be called?” Petronilla asked.

“What day is it?” Eleanor asked wanly.

“Christmas Eve. Even now they are bringing in the Yule log.”

“St. Stephen’s Day is two days hence,” the Queen said wearily, “but I can hardly call him after the martyr, for the English do not hold King Stephen in much repute. I mind me that the Feast of St. John the Apostle and St. John the Evangelist is in three days’ time. I shall call him John.”

Petronilla gazed down at her new nephew.

“I pray God send you a long and happy life, my Lord John,” she said, aware that what should have been a happy occasion was, for some reason beyond her comprehension, a very sad one.

35 Argentan, Normandy, 1167

“Welcome, my lady,” Henry said formally, bending over his queen’s hand. Their eyes met coldly as she rose from her curtsey. He had put on weight in the fourteen months since she’d seen him, Eleanor thought, and his curly red hair was silvered with gray; that came as a shock, and an unwelcome reminder that they were neither of them getting any younger. Henry looked ragged at the edges, as indeed he was, for he was worn down by the cares of state, his interminable quarrel with Becket—and the recent death of his mother.

Indomitable to the end, the Empress had breathed her last in September, at Rouen, after a short illness. Eleanor could not mourn her deeply, but she knew that Henry must be missing her sorely. Matilda had ruled Normandy for him for years, and given him the benefit of her wise counsel in many matters. Now she was gone, and there would be a void in his world. Even so, Eleanor could not bring herself to feel much grief for him: he had wounded her too deeply.

They avoided looking at each other as Henry escorted her into the castle of Argentan, her hand resting lightly on his. Courtiers were packed against the walls to watch them pass, their King and Queen, come together after so long to hold their Christmas court. There had been much speculation as to the true state of affairs between them, and whispered gossip about a fair maiden shut up in a tower somewhere in England, but the long separation could equally be accounted for by the demands of policy. Eleanor had been in England, preparing for her daughter Matilda’s wedding to the Duke of Saxony; and Henry had been in Aquitaine, suppressing yet another revolt, and then in the Vexin, negotiating an uneasy truce with Louis.

“I have missed my children,” he muttered as they proceeded into the hall, now hand in hand. “I trust they are in health, and that our Matilda went cheerfully to greet her bridegroom.”

“She did,” Eleanor replied tersely, remembering the busy weeks of choosing a trousseau and packing it into twenty chests, and Matilda clinging to her, weeping, at Dover, begging her mother at least to cross the sea with her and delay the inevitable, awful moment of parting. She remembered too calling upon all her inner reserves of strength so she could stay calm and positive, and let herself allow this beloved child to go alone to her destiny. Oh, how she missed her, the sensible, gentle girl. It had been like having a limb severed. But Henry would not be interested in any of that, she thought sourly. To him, his children were pawns to be pushed around on a chessboard whenever it suited him.

“How is Young Henry?” she inquired, her voice like ice. She had neither forgotten nor forgiven Henry’s presentation of the boy as her heir to her subjects at Poitiers the previous Christmas. She still thought it outrageous, and the matter of Richard’s inheritance remained unresolved.

“You will see a change in him,” Henry said gruffly. “He is twelve now, and already he seems to be verging on manhood. He will make a great king when the time comes.” As would Richard—the thought came unbidden to Eleanor, who said nothing. She was mentally upbraiding herself for her resentful feelings toward Young Henry, because it wasn’t his fault that his father had overlooked Richard in advancing him; it was just that … well, she knew in her bones, with all a mother’s instinct, that Henry was not cut out to be Duke of Aquitaine. He lacked the soul of a troubadour, unlike Richard, who was already as accomplished at composing elegant lays as he was in the martial arts. Her people would understand that—look how they had loved her grandfather!—but try explaining it to Henry, she thought grimly.

“Aquitaine is the reason I have summoned you here,” Henry said, handing her courteously to her seat at the high table. It was as if he had followed her train of thought. Instantly, she was alert and on the defensive, prepared to defer for a time the matter of Rosamund de Clifford, which she had firmly resolved to broach with Henry. All the way here, sailing to Normandy in the foremost of a flotilla of seven ships, all laden with her movable goods and personal effects, she had argued with herself—agonized, rather—over whether to confront him with what she knew. Do it, and the thing would lie like a sword between them, severing the present from the past. Say nothing, and the pretense that all was well could be maintained, and a sort of peace achieved. A sort of peace? How could that ever be, when she knew the truth and was bursting to challenge her husband? And so she had turned it round and round again in her mind, torturing herself, not knowing what best to do. Really, she wanted to scream and rage, to rake her claws down Henry’s face and devise some apt revenge on that little bitch. But in the end she decided that she must confront her husband with what she knew, and see what his reaction would be. Yet now, with Henry’s abrupt mention of Aquitaine—she had guessed he would not have summoned her for her own sake—she was ready to set aside the matter of Rosamund.

When the company was seated and the first course had been served—a barely palatable dish of chunks of rabbit marooned in greasy gravy—Henry turned to her, his expression unreadable.

“As you know,” he said, “I’ve spent the autumn riding around Aquitaine quelling rebellion. Your vassals are worse than most, and they hate me.”

“You have given them little reason to love you,” Eleanor could not resist retorting.

“It’s not even worth the effort. In fact, I have also given up trying to make them obey me. You’ve always wanted power in the duchy, haven’t you, Eleanor? Well, it’s your turn now.” There was a hint of dark humor in Henry’s face.

“My turn?” she repeated, unable to still the excited racing of her heart.

“Yes, yours,” Henry told her, with the hint of a smile. He was enjoying disarming her. “Your presence in Aquitaine, and the reassertion of your authority as its duchess, might make all the difference. Your rebellious subjects love you, and if they see me devolving my power on you, they might yet cease constantly opposing me.”

Eleanor could not speak. He was asking her to go back to Aquitaine as its sovereign duchess. This was what she had longed for all through the fifteen years of her marriage—no, in fact it had been her dream ever since she was borne off to Paris, a bride of fifteen, by Louis. Aquitaine was her home, the place she wanted most of all to be, that enchanted land of the South, the land of mighty rivers, wooded valleys, wine and song. She wanted to fall to her knees and praise God for this sought-after blessing. She even felt some gratitude toward her faithless lord, although that was mixed with resentment, because he had been ignoring her urgent advice on courting her vassals for years, and had only belatedly come to this eminently sensible decision.

“Now you see why I asked you to bring all your belongings,” Henry said.

“I thought you were planning to set up home with me again,” she told him with an acerbic smile. He had the grace to look uncomfortable.

“Eleanor, circumstances have kept us apart,” he said. And Rosamund de Clifford, she thought bitterly. “Will you do it?” he went on. “Will you go back to Aquitaine as its ruler?”

“Did you have to ask?” she replied.

To Eleanor’s astonishment, Henry followed her up to her solar at the end of the evening. He was a little drunk after all the carousing, and they left behind them most of the barons of Normandy slumped asleep over the tables or sprawling drunk on the rushes.

Henry waved her ladies away.

“I will be the Queen’s tirewoman tonight,” he told them, his speech slurred. They scattered, giggling and exchanging knowing glances. Evidently all was well between their master and mistress …

Once the chamber door closed, Eleanor turned to face him.

“Why are you here?” she asked coldly. He came lurching toward her.

“You of all people should know that,” he replied. “State business—the getting of heirs.”

“We have enough heirs,” she said, her voice strident. “I told you, I wanted no more children. And you know very well we have nothing to say to each other.”

“I didn’t come here to say anything,” Henry jested. “You’re still a beautiful woman, Eleanor. Time was, you would have been eager to bed with me.” He was becoming petulant.

“That was a long time ago. Before Rosamund de Clifford usurped my place.” Eleanor’s tone was frigid. It was only her body that betrayed her, responding involuntarily to the familiar nearness and scent of this man whom she had loved so wholeheartedly. She was shocked to realize that she still wanted him, despite the hurts he had dealt her.

But now it was out, the thing she had dreamed of saying. The gauntlet had been cast down.

Henry halted, stopped dead in his tracks, instantly sober. Lust withered and died. His eyes took on that shifty look she knew so well.

“Who told you that?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“No one! I saw for myself. And she told me, your little whore, how you love her, and she loves you. It was so touching I almost wept.” She felt like weeping now, but would have died rather than let him see her cry. “A pretty bower you’ve built for her at Woodstock—and that labyrinth, Henry: did you think to ward me off when I came seeking revenge? Did you think I wouldn’t find my way into that fine tower you’ve built for your leman?”

Henry was speechless with surprise: who could have predicted that, of all the houses she had to choose from in England, his wife would turn up at Woodstock? And Rosamund, the silly little fool, why had it pleased her vanity to brag of his favor and his love? With an effort he found his voice.

“I can explain,” he said, in the time-honored manner of cheating husbands.

“I’m listening,” Eleanor answered, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“I don’t have to justify my actions to you or anyone,” Henry went on defensively, “but for the sake of courtesy, I want you to know the truth. I did have an affair with Rosamund, I admit it, but I haven’t seen her in eighteen months.”

“An affair? You told her you loved her! Or did you deceive her, much as you’ve deceived me?” Eleanor was in a ferment.

“No,” Henry said quietly. “I said I would tell you the truth.” He paused. “The truth is that I do love her. I can’t help it. I miss her desperately. And I know she returned that love—I hope she returns it still.” His voice was hoarse.

Eleanor could not speak. His brutal words echoed in her ears. I do love her, I do love her … It was the cruelest betrayal. She wished she could fall down and die, she wished she had never uttered the name Rosamund, she wished that Henry and his trollop were burning in the fires of Hell …

He had forsaken her, his aging wife, the mother of his children, for a younger woman, as so many men did; for a woman so young and beautiful that there could be no hope of him abandoning her.

“So this is the end for us,” she stated flatly.

“That’s up to you,” Henry said.

“Is this why you want me to go to Aquitaine?”

He snorted. “You know me better than that. Kings can’t afford the luxury of putting their pleasures before the demands of state. I want you to go to Aquitaine because your presence is needed there. It has nothing to do with Rosamund. If it did, then I would have been in Woodstock with her, instead of chasing after your rebellious vassals.”

“But, of course, it’s very convenient for me to go to Aquitaine just now,” Eleanor said caustically. “As soon as I’ve gone South, no doubt you will summon your whore here to rut with you.”

“No,” Henry replied, his voice leaden. “I have to treat with Louis.” He sank down on the fur-lined counterpane that covered the bed and buried his face in his hands. “I did not look for this to happen, Eleanor. I still love you, as my wife, you must believe that.”

“I know nothing!” she snapped. “Or I wish I did. And I don’t want to be loved as your wife. I want you to love me as you once loved me. When you were mine. Before Rosamund.”

Henry threw back his head and laughed mirthlessly. “You’ve got it all wrong, Eleanor. Our marriage was made for policy, as much as for love, and I not only loved you, I lusted after you as I had lusted after no woman before you. But lust like that doesn’t last. It dilutes in the marriage bed after long years of usage. I was never wholly yours, as you think. There have always been women along the way. I have a devil in me, and I can never be content with one woman, not even Rosamund. I’ve bedded quite a few since I left her in England. It’s not in my nature to be faithful, yet I am quite capable of loving you as my wife, and of lusting after you yet—and of loving her too.”

Eleanor had been listening in mounting horror, unable to accept the magnitude of Henry’s betrayal. She had wondered and speculated, all through the years; she’d heard what Raoul de Faye told her, but never truly believed … until she went to Woodstock. At the memory, the dreadful tears welled.

“You love her the way you once loved me,” she muttered, bitter.

“We are a partnership, Eleanor,” Henry was saying. “You are Aquitaine, and I am England, Normandy, and the rest. Together, we straddle much of the western world. Nothing can sunder us, not even hatred. To be invincible, we have to work together, to give a semblance of being in harmony. Our personal feelings do not count.”

“You talk very lightly of hatred!” she flung at him. “You make a nonsense of my feelings, and then preach to me about partnership. Come, Henry; I am not a fool. You itch for that strumpet, and you want me out of the way. No, don’t dispute that!”

“I will dispute it!” Henry shouted. “I love and honor you as my wife—”

“Honor? You don’t know the meaning of the word!” Eleanor screamed, tears coursing down her cheeks, and slapped him hard across the face. “That’s for every time you’ve fucked where you shouldn’t!” She lashed out again, her fury out of control.

Henry caught her wrists, his face a mask of wrath. His grip hurt.

“How dare you strike me, the King!” he roared.

“I struck my faithless husband,” Eleanor choked, crying helplessly now. “Henry, you have hurt me, to the quick. You have betrayed my bed and my trust. You have made me realize I am old. If I felt joy at going back to rule Aquitaine, it is dead now. There can be no more joy for me in this world. You have killed it. I hope you are satisfied!”

Henry said nothing, but suddenly slid his arms tightly about her and held her until the storm of weeping had passed; she could not see his face with hers pressed wetly against his beard, and wondered why she wanted to. Even when the tears dried and she was still, she stood there in his embrace, wanting to free herself, yet needing to be held there forever, and dreading the moment ending. It was a bitter realization that the only man who could comfort her was the man who had dealt her a mortal hurt. But just then she felt him stir against her.

“No!” she declared, beginning to struggle. “Not that. Never that.”

“You are my wife,” Henry muttered. “It is my right.”

“Then you will have to rape me!” she spat.

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, then let her go. When he spoke again, his voice was barely controlled. “Very well. I was trying to mend things between us, but you have made yourself clear. From now on we will observe the courtesies, and no more. You will not mind, I take it, if I indulge my lust in other beds?”

“Do as you please.” Eleanor seethed with the desperation of one who realizes she has deliberately, impulsively burned her bridges. “I will go to Aquitaine, and we will keep up the pretense that all is well between us, if that is what you wish.”

“You know very well I wished for something rather different,” Henry told her.

“No, my lord, it’s you who have got it all wrong,” Eleanor said, resolutely wiping away the last of her tears. “Our marriage is dead. You cannot have us both.”

36 Fontevrault, 1168

They were riding south together, making for Poitiers, a veritable army of lords, servants, and soldiers at their heels. Henry had insisted on escorting his wife, warning her that the times were lawless and that his mailed fist stretched only so far. They traveled in hostile silence.

Eleanor was in turmoil, resentful that her joy in her yearned-for return to Aquitaine as its rightful ruler had been ruined by the dread knowledge that it effectively signaled her separation from Henry, a situation that was her doing but in no way her fault. Every mile was taking them nearer to that parting, after which they would go their own ways, partners in a marriage, yes, but miles apart in far more than distance. She ached for inner peace, and could only pray that, once settled in her beloved domains in the South, she would find it.

There was to be more than one parting. With the King and Queen rode their children: Young Henry, now styled Count of Poitiers, fair of face and shooting up in height, wearing his royal status with all the assurance of his race. He would be remaining with his father from now on, to learn the business of government. Richard, eleven years old, long-limbed and blue-eyed, already a hardy warrior who was praised alike by the captains who drilled him in military exercises and the tutors who taught him Latin and book learning. He was to accompany his mother to Aquitaine with his brother Geoffrey, dark and handsome Geoffrey, who was patiently suffering the twittering of vain young Constance, who rode by his side; he would be wasted on her, this clever boy, Eleanor thought. Then there were the little girls, Eleanor and Joanna, golden-haired images of herself, but gentler, and far more docile and biddable.

They were very subdued today, her daughters. It had been decided, by Henry, with her reluctant approval, that they should be brought up by the good nuns of Fontevrault until such time as they were married. Eleanor knew there could be no better education for girls of high birth. Her family—and Henry’s—had a long tradition of sending daughters to Fontevrault. But the decision saddened her. She would miss Eleanor and Joanna, and felt that in some way she was abandoning them, much as she had abandoned two other little girls all those years before. Recently, at long last, in response to her own importunings, she received another letter from Marie, to which she had felt constrained to reply in conventional fashion. She took pride in the knowledge that the young Countess of Champagne had inherited her own love of music and poetry, but there was no true bond there—it had been loosed long ago. It was like writing to a stranger. She did not have the will to pursue the correspondence further.

She smiled encouragingly at her little girls as a pang gripped her heart. It was for the best that they be entrusted to the good sisters of Fontevrault, she told herself. Henry had warned her that she would have enough on her hands trying to control her rebellious vassals, and that most girls of high birth were reared by nuns. Yet she had prided herself that, contrary to the common custom of royalty, she had until recently kept all her children with her. She wondered if this consignment of Eleanor and Joanna to a convent was some form of revenge on Henry’s part, or if he feared she might go behind his back and make alliances between his daughters and Aquitainian lords, to keep the latter sweet. He would not want to waste the fruit of his loins on such ingrates—she understood that.

That left young John, little more than a year old. Try as she might, Eleanor still could not bring herself to love him, this child conceived in sorrow and born in betrayal. His existence conjured up too many memories of that terrible Christmastide when she had gone to Woodstock and come face-to-face with catastrophe and ruin, and then endured that bloody, agonizing travail at Oxford. No, John was the fruit of a marriage in its death throes, and sometimes she could not bear to look upon him. His nurses had the care of him.

John was going to Fontevrault too. Young though he was, Eleanor urged Henry to consider him for a career in the Church, and Henry had agreed. As the youngest of four sons, it did not seem likely that there would be much of a landed inheritance for him, so the Church seemed an obvious choice. John would be brought up as an oblate, in preparation for his ordination to the priesthood. The gift of a son to God would undoubtedly be one of the best ways of storing up treasure in Heaven, for both parents. And God knows, we need it, Eleanor thought bitterly. She would not miss her last-born; indeed, she was thankful that others would have the rearing of him. Her guilt was overwhelming.

But there was one other whom she would miss, whose smile would never again gladden her day. Poor Petronilla had died three months before, the victim of her own helpless predilection for the fruit of the grape. At the end she had been comatose, her skin yellowed, her belly horribly distended. Eleanor had wept pitifully for her sister, but could not deny that death had come as a merciful release. But there was now an empty space in her life, which Petronilla had once filled; there were too many empty spaces, she reflected mournfully. Sadness seemed to be her lot these days.

Amiable Abbess Isabella had gone to her well-earned rest many years before, and it was her successor, Abbess Audeburge, who was waiting to receive them; her monks, nuns, and lady boarders drawn up in a respectful semicircle behind her. As the royal cavalcade drew to a halt, the entire convent fell to its knees and the abbess stepped forward. Audeburge was a capable, dynamic woman whom Eleanor had long liked and admired. She knew she could not have entrusted her children to a better guardian. And her confidence seemed to be justified, for when Eleanor and Joanna were formally committed to her care, Abbess Audeburge bent to kiss them affectionately and summoned forward two of her boarders with a parakeet and a monkey to distract her new charges, instantly winning their hearts. Then she reached out her strong, aristocratic hands to take John from his nurse, removed his thumb from his mouth, and gentled him, receiving a tentative smile in return. Before Eleanor knew it, the good-byes had been said and her children spirited away by a bevy of smiling nuns.

They could not tarry. After mass in the soaring white abbey church, Henry paid his respects to the abbess and prepared to depart. He had planned to escort Eleanor to Poitiers and see her safely installed there, but was warned of a serious revolt farther south. The Count of Angoulême had allied with the particularly troublesome seigneurs of Lusignan and other malcontent lords, who had all risen in the latest protest against Henry’s rule.

“You cannot deal with this alone,” Henry told Eleanor when they brought him the news, some little way north of Fontevrault. “I will summon my lieges and ride south with you to Lusignan. Your presence at my side will remind these arrogant fools to whom they owe allegiance. Then you can return by a safe route to Poitiers, and I will teach your rebels a lesson.”

“They will resent it,” she had warned, in clipped tones.

“Are you going to face them in battle?” Henry retorted. “Besides, in defying me, they defy you. I want to see Aquitaine settled before I leave you in charge.”

Eleanor had not answered, but rode on, tight-lipped.

37 Lusignan and Poitiers, 1168

They rode south, toward Lusignan. As they approached, they could see its castle, nestling on a hill above the Vonne Valley. Eleanor recalled Henry telling her, in happier days, that his diabolic ancestress Melusine had commanded it to be built.

Poitiers, Eleanor’s destination, lay not far to the east. As speed was essential to frustrating the rebels’ plans, Henry, hell-bent on marching on Lusignan, was unable to escort her to her city. Instead, he had summoned Earl Patrick of Salisbury, his military governor and deputy in Aquitaine, to ensure that the duchess reached Poitiers in safety. And here was Earl Patrick now, riding along the dusty road, a small force of men-at-arms at his heels.

Eleanor knew and liked Patrick. He had given long years of loyal service to the Empress Matilda and to King Henry, and during the year he had been in Aquitaine, proved himself an able, sensible ruler, forging a tactful and politic friendship with her seneschal, Raoul de Faye, and treating her vassals in a conciliatory fashion. She hoped he would stay on, after the handover of power had taken place; she would value his company and his sound advice.

But first there was Henry. The moment of farewell had come. It would not be a final farewell, of course, but there was little likelihood of them meeting in the near future. It seemed strange, that such a great passion should meet its sorry end on a remote country roadside, with no formalities and no one else even being aware of the cataclysmic event that was taking place.

Henry was impatient to be gone, to fight his battle and to have the awkward moment over and done with. He reined in his restive mount, leaned across his saddle, gave Eleanor the briefest of kisses, and gruffly wished her Godspeed. She remained seated erect on her palfrey, regarding him with sad eyes, which he would not meet.

“Good-bye, my lord,” she said softly. “I pray God keep you safe, and that we may meet again in this world.”

Henry nodded to her—she suspected, indeed hoped, that he could not trust himself to speak—then wheeled around and shouted to his train to follow him. Eleanor watched as he rode away from her toward Lusignan, clouds of dust in his wake. Then she turned to Earl Patrick, forced a bright smile, and spurred her horse in the direction of Poitiers. Home. She was going home, after her long exile.

For all Eleanor’s sorrows, it was wonderful to be back in residence in the Maubergeonne Tower. The duchess’s apartments had recently been refurbished, and were both spacious and luxurious. Eleanor walked about them hugging herself and fingering in delight the soft squirrel counterpane on the bed and the silky fabric of the cushions. Every room was vivid with color: deep indigo blues, forest greens, and warm reds. There were hangings depicting erotic scenes of nymphs bathing in mythical streams and lovers entwined in forbidden pleasures. Vases of aquamarine glass and porphyry graced the brightly painted cupboards and windowsills. In the duchess’s solar, a silver ewer of wine had thoughtfully been placed on the wide table before the fireplace, and an ivory chess set was left awaiting her pleasure, while in the corner of the room, a portable altar stood on an armoire spread with an embroidered cloth.

Supper was a delight. Truffles! She hadn’t tasted them in years, and they were as ambrosia to one who’d had to put up with the less refined cuisine of England. They were followed by a plate of duck roasted in its own fat, which was utterly delicious! And peaches and apricots, plump and juicy, such as were never seen in the kingdoms of the North. It was a happier homecoming than she had anticipated.

As she lay back on fine linen sheets in her bathtub, with Mamille and Torqueri and Florine washing her with herb-scented water and massaging limbs that were aching after days in the saddle, Eleanor began to unwind and to feel a sense of well-being that had long been absent from her life. Here, she was the duchess. She could please herself. She did not have to consider the moods and caprices of her husband. Almost, she felt a sense of liberation.

To boost her new confidence, she began ordering the finest textiles to be made into gowns and cloaks, and commissioned the goldsmiths of Poitiers to make her elegant jewelery—circlets, bracelets, and brooches—in the latest styles. Wearing her fine new attire made her feel more like her bold former self again, and helped her slough off the feelings of worthlessness that had been the legacy of Henry’s betrayal. She forced herself not to think of him, and to embrace her new life wholeheartedly. For this was what she had long wanted, she told herself. Yet not like this, not like this! cried her persistent inner voice.

Resolutely, she occupied herself with the business of ruling her duchy, taking a particular and genuine interest in every aspect of its welfare. Daily, she would occupy her high seat at the head of the council table and patiently listen to the arguments and advice of her seigneurs. Important decisions always had to be referred to Henry for ratification, and there was a constant stream of messengers between Aquitaine and the North. No one, especially Eleanor, liked this alien interference in the affairs of her domains; the duke had never been accepted by her people, and he was hated and resented. But power over her lands was his right, as her husband, and she kept reminding herself, in all fairness, that Henry was allowing her a considerable degree of autonomy.

When she was not in council, she was out riding or hawking, or supervising the children who were left to her. Presently, with Henry’s blessing, Young Henry and his wife Marguerite traveled south to enter her household, joining Richard, Geoffrey, and Constance; and with this blithe crowd of young people to cheer her, life in the palace was lively and joyful, a panacea for Eleanor’s inner heartache. She was never alone; she had made sure of that, having summoned sixty ladies to wait upon her and cheer her days, and there was always dear Raoul de Faye to give her succor and advice in the business of governing—and to pay her meaningful compliments, as if he still hoped to win her favor in more intimate ways.

This was very heartening, for she was forty-six years old and given to looking anxiously in her mirror for the dreaded signs of encroaching age. Yet the image reflected back in the burnished silver was of a fine-boned woman with lips that were still full and eyes that could flash wittily and invite to conversation … and more. Beneath the veil, her red-gold hair was paler than it had been, and well silvered with gray, but it was still long and luxuriant, and rippled down over breasts that were yet full and voluptuous. Maybe, she thought wistfully, just maybe, she might even take another lover, since Henry was no longer interested. But it would not be Raoul. She loved him, and depended on him, as a friend and an uncle, but she did not want him in her bed.

Patrick proved himself to be a charming and witty companion. She sensed that he liked her, and could see in his hazelnut-colored eyes the kind of admiration she had inspired in men many times in the past. It was balm to her bruised pride. She thought that Raoul saw it too, and was jealous. But Raoul was not to nurture his jealousy for long.

The spring being glorious, with flowers budding unseasonably early and the winds mild and gentle, Eleanor planned a hawking expedition with Earl Patrick. Word reached them that Henry had efficiently crushed the rising at Lusignan, then ridden north to treat with Louis—the news that he had gone so far from her sparked a twinge of anguish in Eleanor’s breast—and now Patrick deemed it safe to ride out for the day.

“There have been no recent reports of any trouble,” he smiled, “so I’ll leave my armor at home, and we’ll take just a small escort.”

It was good to be out in the sunshine, Eleanor found, even though her heart was heavy. She was surprised to discover herself thrilling to the sport, watching her mighty falcon soar into the blue sky and swoop with unerring precision to catch its prey, then return to her outstretched hand and settle on her glove, meekly accepting its gay scarlet hood and the jesses with which she tethered it.

“Bravo, my lady!” exclaimed Earl Patrick. The men-at-arms clapped and cheered admiringly from a distance; they themselves would never be privileged enough even to touch a royal bird like Eleanor’s.

The ambush, when it came, was sudden and deadly, with mounted armed men closing in on them from every side, uttering bloodcurdling war cries.

“It’s the Lusignans!” the earl cried, frantic. “À moi! À moi!”

Eleanor quickly collected herself; in that instant, she could see herself being captured and ransomed, if not worse. But as she made to gallop away, Earl Patrick, shouting orders to his men, dismounted from his horse, quick as lightning, and grabbed her bridle.

“Take my steed, my lady, you’ll not find a faster in Christendom.” She wasted not a moment in swapping mounts, as the earl told her to make for a ruined castle a mile distant and wait for him there.

Their assailants were almost upon them as Eleanor, spurring her borrowed steed, deftly evaded them by almost flying through the only gap in their ranks, then cantered off like the wind toward safety. They would have come after her had not Earl Patrick and his escort engaged them furiously in battle. As the Queen rode away, she could hear the clash of steel and the shouts of men receding into the distance, and was in a fever of anxiety to know which way the combat was going.

Having ridden for several miles and reached the sanctuary of the ruins, Eleanor stood fuming in the peace of the afternoon. How dare the Lusignans make an attempt on her person! No doubt they wished to wring concessions from Henry. Wait until he heard! Then she paused. She was ruler here now, not Henry. Undoubtedly he would come and deal with them, if summoned; he would be furious on her account, if only because she was his queen and duchess, but she decided now that she must prove to him that she did not need him, and show him that she was capable of dealing with problems efficiently by herself.

She waited an hour or so, becoming increasingly anxious. Then she heard horses’ hooves, and shrank back behind some lichen-covered masonry until she could assure herself that it was her escort—or what was left of it—come to find her. She shuddered. How bad had it been?

“Lady,” said the captain, a big, florid man, “I bear heavy news. Earl Patrick is dead, stabbed in the back by the traitors as he donned his hauberk.”

“Oh, dear God!” Eleanor wailed. “That chivalrous man! Those bastards! I will repay them, by God, for they have added grievous injury to grievous insult.” And she smote her balled fist in her palm. Then fear gripped her.

“Are they defeated, these rebels? Where are they?”

“Gone back to their castle,” the captain told her. “It was the young knight, John the Marshal’s son William, who held them off, with great courage and skill, until he himself was wounded and captured. They took him with them, my lady, no doubt hoping for a fat ransom.”

“And they shall have it,” said Eleanor, fighting down her fury and thinking of the tall, dignified young man who had so bravely defended her. He was, she was aware, a soldier of fortune, who had made a reputation as a champion in tournaments, winning many rich prizes. She herself had watched him distinguish himself in the lists and been much impressed.

“They are bringing Earl Patrick’s body, lady,” the captain told her, indicating a small party of his men approaching on horseback. She froze as she espied the bloody corpse of the former governor slumped across a saddle, but resolutely walked forward to pay all due honor to it, bowing her head in grief and respect.

“We will have him buried in Poitiers and pay for masses to be said for his soul,” she declared, suppressing her emotion. There would be time enough for weeping later. “Letters must be sent to his family in England.”

And so it was done, and the young William Marshal was, at length, ransomed. When he presented himself before the duchess, brimming with gratitude, she gave him a gift of money and expressed concern about his wounds.

“They are healing, my lady,” he said cheerfully, “yet no thanks to Guy of Lusignan. He and his followers refused to have them dressed.” As Eleanor gasped in horror, he smiled at her. “It is no matter, for I count it an honor to have served you thus, my Queen.”

“It is rare to find such loyalty,” Eleanor told him. “They tell me you fought as a wild boar against dogs. I owe you much, possibly my very life. Rest assured, the King my lord will come to hear of your valor.”

It occurred to her, as she kept a proprietorial eye on William Marshal in the weeks that followed, and her admiration for him grew, that he would make a fine mentor for Young Henry; and in due course, with the King’s approval, he was appointed guardian, tutor, and master of chivalry to the prince, a role Becket had once filled. Thankfully, there was little risk of this fine knight causing such grief as Becket had. He filled the role magnificently, and Eleanor rewarded him lavishly, with horses, arms, gold, and fine clothing. William was proving to be, she knew—and as her contemporaries would soon come to agree—one of the best knights who ever lived.

Henry had met with Louis, and for once Eleanor had cause to be grateful to her former husband. They had thrashed out a peace, and Louis gave Henry wise advice regarding the disposing of his empire after his death. Her heart was immeasurably gladdened when the King’s messenger brought news of the agreement that had been reached.

“The Lord Henry is to pay homage to the French King for Anjou, Maine, and Brittany; the Lord Geoffrey is to hold Brittany as the Lord Henry’s vassal; and the Lord Richard is to pay homage to King Louis for Aquitaine, and be betrothed to the French King’s daughter, Alys.”

Richard was to have Aquitaine after all! Her prayers had been answered. Her first thought, as she went rejoicing to her chapel to give thanks, was that Henry had done this for her, as a peace offering. Then she remembered that he had ignored her pleadings and her displays of anger on numerous occasions before, and that he never did anything unless there was a political motive. The truth, she guessed, was that Louis, fearing the power of his Angevin vassals, had urged the division of Henry’s domains on his death, and made that a condition of the peace. She wondered if Henry was making a virtue of expediency, and began to fear that he might well renege on the new treaty as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

She had written to Henry, informing him of the outrage committed by the Lusignans, as her duty bound her; and, as she anticipated, he sent immediately to inform her that he was coming to teach the traitors a lesson they would never forget. She hoped that he would stop by in Poitiers to see her, so she could thank him for settling Aquitaine on Richard, and thereby mend matters between them a little. But the next she heard, from another exhausted travel-stained messenger, Henry had been unexpectedly diverted from his purpose and had to march on Brittany to quell a rising by Eudes de Porhoët, the father of Count Conan.

“But Conan’s family are our allies!” she exclaimed. “Eudes’s granddaughter Constance is married to the Lord Geoffrey. His daughter Alice is in the custody of the King, as surety for her father’s friendship. This is madness.”

The royal messenger flushed and looked at her somewhat shiftily, she thought.

“You must tell me what has happened,” she commanded, her tone sharpened by alarm.

The man looked at his feet and twisted his felt hat in his hands.

“It is said that the Lord King lay with the Lady Alice, and that she has borne him a child that died. Her kin have risen up in anger, for the young lady was a hostage in the Lord King’s household.”

At his words, Eleanor froze. Was there no end to Henry’s betrayals? And when would he cease having the power to hurt her? She had liked to think that she was free of him, and was stronger for it, but tidings like this proved to her that she was still in some thrall to him.

She dismissed the messenger and withdrew to her bower, trying to seek solace in music and the chatter of her ladies. But however hard she tried, she could not dismiss from her imaginings the horrible, disturbing image of Henry making Alice de Porhoët pregnant.

Sick to the heart, her delight in Richard’s future being settled so happily deflated, Eleanor resolved to stay in Aquitaine for good. She told herself, firmly and adamantly, that she would never go back to Henry and live with him as his wife. From now on they would be political allies, no more. She would henceforth invest all her love and care in her heir, her beloved Richard, and forget her faithless husband. Nowadays she had come to the comforting realization that her love for Richard was greater than what she had ever felt for Henry—apart from the passion that her husband had inspired in her physically. But that had died long ago.

Richard was now eleven, shooting up and developing strong muscles. She took great pride in his prowess, both in book learning and military exercises. She marveled at his dexterity in Latin, and herself taught him to play the lyre and to compose verses in French and Provençal; his voice was high and true, and she thrilled to hear him singing with the choir of her private chapel. Tall, ruddy-haired, and slender, he was in most respects his mother’s son. He had her straight-nosed profile and fine bone structure. There was little of Henry in him—save for a streak of Angevin devilment and ruthlessness, already apparent. Never mind, she told herself: a ruler needed to be firm and establish his authority, and he must be fierce in battle. Richard had what it took, in abundant measure. He was her true heir in every way, for he had the South in his blood, as she did. He would do well: he was destined for greatness. She knew it in her bones.

For much of that year, Eleanor stayed in Poitiers, governing her domains with wisdom and firmness. Her presence in the duchy did much to heal the wounds dealt by decades of foreign rule by both her husbands in turn, and she was intent on making every effort to win back the love and loyalty of her vassals.

As soon as she had reestablished herself in the duchy, she made a progress through her lands, her purpose being to greet and cultivate her lords, and be seen by them. If force had failed to establish central authority in Aquitaine, she would do it by love and peaceful persuasion. She traveled south, stopping first at the flourishing port of Niort, where she held court in the massive square fortress built by Henry, and was feasted by the locals with eels and snails from the nearby marshlands, and little cakes studded with angelica, a local delicacy. She promised that in due course she would grant the town a charter and new privileges, and was gratified by the delighted response of the worthy burghers.

Then she rode farther south to Limoges, to repair the damage done by Henry nine years before, when he ordered the walls to be torn down. She admired the new fortifications, granted boons, and received local lords, then moved on to the Périgord, land of the great rivers, the Vézère and the Dordogne, a region populated with flocks of plump ducks and gray geese. Here, she gloried in the deep-cut valleys nestling beneath limestone cliffs and caves, the lush dark woodlands, the fields of maize, the orchards of walnut trees, the bustling towns and hilltop villages, the mighty castles and humble churches, all basking in the golden sun. The people came with their gifts and their blessings, even the seigneurs who ruled these often lawless valleys bent the knee to her and swore fealty. She began to feel whole again, enveloped by the love of her people, cherished in the heart of her duchy, feted by the highborn and the lowly.

She swept westward to Bayonne on the coast, near the foothills of the mighty Pyrenees, and then north again to Poitiers, staying at castles, manor houses, or abbeys on the way. Everywhere she went, her subjects came thronging, calling down blessings upon her and bringing her their humble petitions and grievances. She read them all, dispensing justice with fairness and humanity, and earning herself a reputation for wisdom and generosity. She had left Poitiers a sad, disillusioned wife struggling to break free of the past; she returned to it a happy, confident, and jubilant woman, thankful to have won her independence.

Eleanor had written to tell Henry of her resolve to separate from him for good. It had been one of the most difficult letters she ever composed in her life, but she felt better after she set her mind down on parchment; in fact she felt strangely liberated. Love for which one paid a high price in sorrow and humiliation was just not worth having. She might have feelings for Henry still, but overriding those, at least for the present, was relief at having distanced herself from the torment their marriage had become.

He wrote back: “I am as troubled as Oedipus about the rift between us, yet I will not oppose your decision.” Oedipus! Great Heaven! Did he now think of her as a mother figure, no more? God’s blood, she swore to herself, that trollop Rosamund was welcome to him!

There was balm to her hurt pride in the courtly adoration of the troubadours who had flocked to her court, overjoyed to be once more dedicating songs of love and beauty to their famed duchess. Their praises warmed her heart, for she knew she was no longer the glorious young woman who had inspired such chivalrous verse in the past; and yet still they sang of the incomparable loveliness of their noble Eleanor.

It was a luxury, after so many years of what now felt like exile, to be living in the midst of a civilization that celebrated love in all its forms. Indeed, it was a delight to sit in a sun-baked arbor of an afternoon, discussing with her lords and ladies this most fascinating of subjects, with her courtiers gathered around, hanging on her every word.

“They do not speak of love in the kingdoms of the North as we do here in Aquitaine,” Eleanor told her astonished listeners. “They think that love, as we honor it, is merely an excuse for adultery. My Lord Henry could never understand our culture.”

“Love,” declared the young troubadour Rigaud de Barbezieux, “is the bedrock of happy relations between men and women.”

“There can only be true happiness when lovers meet on an equal footing, which is rare,” Eleanor said. “But there is no equality in marriage, and our courtly code dictates that the suitor is always a supplicant to his mistress.”

“Then how can men and women ever come together as equals?” Torqueri asked, her smooth brow puckered in a frown. “It can never be in a world in which we women are treated either as chattels or whores.”

“I thank God that our customs in Aquitaine favor women.” Eleanor smiled. “Torqueri is right. In the North, women are just chattels. But here, thanks to our freer society, they live on pedestals! You see why I wanted to come home!”

“Did they not treat you with respect in the North, madame?” a young lady asked, shocked.

“Yes, of course—I am the Queen, and they dared not scant their respect. But woe betide any troubadour who praised my beauty in a song, or dared to imagine himself in my bed! I tell you, they cannot understand that it is a harmless conceit.”

Bertran de Born, a wild and dangerous young man who was as skilled with the sword as with the lyre, bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. “Whoever said it was harmless?”

“A woman is not supposed to condescend to give her favors to a man of lesser rank,” Mamille reproved primly.

“Then, since marriages are made for policy, how will she find love?” Bertran quizzed her. “In truth, no man looks to find love in the marriage bed.”

“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 passed 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 relationship of equals.”

“But that leads us back to the burning question. How can men and women ever enjoy such a relationship?” Bertran protested. “In marriage, the husband is lord; in courtship, 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 partnership 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 passed.

“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 passion 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 God 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 Porhoët, 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 Constitutions 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, God 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 God, 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, God damn 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 God, 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 assured 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 mass, and spent hours on her knees, with Marguerite at her side, beseeching God 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 embarrassed 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 multitude 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 Fréteval, 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 passed 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.”

“Was he conciliatory?” Eleanor wanted to know. “Did he come in the same spirit of friendship?”

“Yes, I think so,” Henry answered. “Although neither of us referred to the Constitutions of Clarendon. We’ll have to tackle that issue sometime, and until then I have forborne to give Thomas the kiss of peace, although I have promised to do so when I return to England. I just haven’t said when.” He looked at her with a trace of his former mischievous grin.

“So you gave him permission to return to Canterbury?”

“Yes, but before I could make any arrangements, I fell ill with that damned fever.”

Kneeling beside Henry now, and remembering how they had brought her piece after piece of ill news—that he was unwell, that his life was despaired of, that he had made his will—and how, for one long, dreadful day, she had believed a false report that he was dead, Eleanor shuddered. Confronting mortality certainly had a profound effect on her husband: it was he who had insisted on making this pilgrimage to give thanks for his recovery, and on her coming with him. Had he repented of his immoral life? Was Rosamund still his mistress? She dared not ask.

Their thanks offered, and feeling the better for it, they emerged into the sunlight and began the long descent to the valley below, where their horses waited. Then Henry rode with Eleanor north through Aquitaine, and at Poitiers he helped her catch up on the business left in abeyance during her absence. It was then that he told her he had broken their daughter Eleanor’s betrothal to the son of the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa.

“The Emperor is no longer my friend,” he explained. “It will be far more profitable to me to extend my influence south of the Pyrenees by marrying Young Eleanor to King Alfonso of Castile. She shall have Gascony as her dowry. Yes, I know, Gascony is yours,” he added hastily, seeing his wife’s face. “She shall have it only on your death.”

“Very well,” Eleanor agreed. “It will be a good match for her.”

It was soon time for Henry to depart for Normandy.

“I will be arranging a safe-conduct for Becket to return to England,” he said. “I will let Young Henry know that his reinstatement as Archbishop has my full approval. Then I shall meet again with Becket before he departs—and try to avoid mentioning the Constitutions of Clarendon!”

“May God be with you, my lord,” Eleanor said formally. In truth, she was sad to see him go.

“And with you, my lady,” Henry answered, his eyes searching hers, and meeting only an unfathomable stare.

40 Chaumont-sur-Loire, 1170

When the Archbishop entered the great hall of the castle of Chaumont, shivering in the dank chill of a November afternoon, the King rose to his feet, walked forward, and warmly embraced him. The two men gazed upon each other for a space.

“Welcome, my friend,” said Henry.

Thomas looked perturbed. “My lord,” he confessed, “I am afraid.”

“There is no need,” Henry reassured him. “All is ready for your return.”

“It is not that,” Becket said quietly. “My mind tells me that I will never see you again in this life.”

Henry stiffened. What was the man saying? His anger rose like bile.

“I told you, Thomas, I have smoothed the way for you. What do you take me for? A traitor to my word? Do you think I have plotted to have you done away with, and am sending you to your doom?”

“God forbid, my lord!” Becket cried. “Nothing was further from my mind. It was but a premonition of some evil.”

But Henry was barely mollified. “Then give it no credence!” he snapped. “I shall see you in England, make no doubt of it.”

“I hope so, my lord,” Becket said. “Farewell.” Henry just glared at him and watched him leave, a monk bearing his crozier in tow.

41 Bures, 1170

Henry had summoned Eleanor to keep Christmas with him at his hunting lodge at Bures in Normandy, and there she was, on Christmas Day itself, seated beside him at the high table, resplendent in her green fur-trimmed bliaut and her great mantle of crimson damask. Most of their children were present also, seated farther along the board, above the salt, as was fitting. Richard was beside his mother, next to Geoffrey and Constance; decorous Joanna and even John, now a tousle-haired, unruly four-year-old, had been brought from Fontevrault for the occasion; Young Eleanor, sadly, had to be left in the care of the nuns, for she was suffering from a winter ague and was deemed unfit to travel. The Young King was, of course, not here: he was in England, holding his first Christmas court at Winchester.

It was late, and, seeing the King and his lords becoming rather the worse for wear after a surfeit of rich food and wine, the Queen signaled to the nurse to take the younger children to bed. “You go too, Constance,” she said. The pert girl made a face but dared not disobey. After she was gone, Richard and Geoffrey fell happily to squabbling over a game of dice, and Eleanor tried to join in the increasingly incoherent conversation at the table.

She was just thinking of retiring for the night when the steward entered the hall and announced the arrival of the Archbishop of York and the Bishops of London and Salisbury. “They crave an audience, sire. They have come all the way from England,” he said.

“In this foul weather?” Eleanor was immediately concerned to know what their arrival portended. Surely the bishops would not have attempted to cross the turbulent Channel unless they had urgent news to impart.

Henry had suddenly sobered up.

“Show them in,” he ordered, then, belching, rose to receive them.

The formalities briefly disposed of, the tall and cultivated Archbishop Roger spoke gravely for all three, with the whole court hanging on every word.

“Lord King, we come to make complaint of the high-handed conduct of His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

Henry groaned. “What has he done now?” he hissed.

“He has excommunicated the three of us, this very morning, from his pulpit at Canterbury, for our part in the coronation,” the Archbishop announced. As the barons erupted in shouts of fury, Henry stared at him in shock.

“But that was all resolved,” he said.

“This is outrageous,” Eleanor murmured, appalled at Becket’s duplicity. “It is not the way to make amends!”

“Apparently it was not resolved,” Bishop Foliot of London growled. “It seems he has been cherishing his anger against those who defied him. I never had much opinion of him, as you know, and it seems I was right to doubt him. Sire, the Pope should be told of his disobedience.”

“By the eyes of God, Becket shall suffer for this!” Henry shouted, his voice vibrating with ire and indignation. “Is this how he repays my offer of friendship?”

“My lord,” said the Earl of Leicester, sitting nearby, “enough is enough. While Thomas lives, you will not have peace or quiet, or see good days.”

“By God, you speak truth!” Henry cried, furious and indignant. “Becket has gone too far this time. He is doing this only to spite me, and yet he brazenly claims to be defending the honor of God.”

“It is his own honor he holds so dear,” Eleanor said, keeping her tone even, for she realized that Henry was getting perilously close to a full-scale display of the famously ungovernable Plantagenet temper. “He is puffed up with the sin of pride. My lord, you must appeal to the Pope.”

“I will have him defrocked!” Henry spluttered, banging his fist on the table so hard that several goblets were overturned. “And then, when his office can no longer protect him, I will proceed against him as a traitor!”

“Get His Holiness on your side first,” Eleanor urged, but Henry wasn’t listening; he was so distracted with anger that he was beside himself, spewing a fiery stream of wild threats, to the point where his outraged courtiers ceased their indignant chatter and watched him in amazement. Presently, seeing he was the object of their incredulous stares, he ceased his tirade and stood there shaking in a menacing, deadly silence, raking the room with narrowed, bloodshot eyes. Eleanor shivered. She had never seen him so consumed with hatred. She ventured to lay a calming hand on his arm, but he angrily shook her off and directed his terrifying gaze at his nervous court.

“What cowards you all are!” he hissed. “I curse you all! Yes, a curse, a curse, on all the false varlets and traitors whom I have nursed and promoted in my household, who allow their lord and king to be mocked with such shameful contempt by a lowborn priest!”

There was a stunned hush. No one dared speak. Clearly, no one knew how to respond.

“Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?” Henry shouted, then sat down heavily and slumped with his head in his hands, his shoulders heaving as, all around him, people looked at one another helplessly.

Eleanor was up on her feet in an instant, folding her arms around Henry, all other considerations set aside in her desire to alleviate his pain. So engrossed was she in her efforts to console him that, like many others present at that fateful feast, she did not espy four stalwart knights slipping away from the hall, their faces alight with purpose, their hands grasping their sword hilts.

Henry came to her bed that night, for the first time in almost five years. He came for comfort, rather than for sex, although he would have died before admitting it. And she, knowing his need, welcomed him back, and they were gentle with each other, embracing tightly, not having to say anything. It felt strange—and unexpectedly delightful—to have Henry in her arms again. For this feeling she was ready to forgive him anything. She was deeply moved that at this moment of crisis he had turned to her before all others. And so, when the need for comfort translated itself into the need for something deeper, and he moved toward her in the old familiar way, and entered her, she felt only joy, and a beautiful inner peace that made her want to weep.

Their lovemaking was not the explosion of lust and fire it had once been—that was long ago, and they were both, quite obviously, older now—but it was gloriously satisfying, and her climax, when it eventually came—for she was quite out of practice, she thought ruefully—was shattering. It was as if all the pent-up desire of the barren, loveless years had been released in one go.

When the waves of pleasure had ebbed away, Eleanor lay quiet with Henry’s arm about her, thinking that the long separation had allowed time for her wounds to heal and for many matters to be put in perspective. The old saw about absence making the heart grow fonder was very apposite, she realized. And the sensual meeting of two skins between the sheets was sweetly conducive to full reconciliation. Rosamund or no Rosamund, if Henry wanted her, she was ready to go back to him.

But when at length Henry spoke to her, it was not about any future they might have together. “Eleanor, something is troubling me. Just before I left the hall, the steward told me that four of my knights had left the castle not long before. He thought it strange that they should go abroad so late on Christmas night.”

“Do you know who they were?” Eleanor asked.

“Yes. William de Tracy, who was once Becket’s chancellor; Reginald FitzUrse, Richard de Brito, and Hugh de Morville. Hugh’s done good work as my justice in the north of England. From what I could make out, they left just after …” Henry’s voice tailed off. He could not find words to describe his fit of rage.

Eleanor was suddenly suffused with alarm. She sat up abruptly.

“Oh, no! I hope to God they have not taken you literally at your word!”

“At my word?” Henry raised himself on an elbow.

“You do not remember? You asked for someone to rid you of Becket! You called him a turbulent priest.”

Henry leaped out of bed and reached for his robe. “I must summon the knights back!” he cried, and was out of the door before he had barely covered his modesty, shouting to his guards. But it was too late. The four knights were long gone.

Eleanor spent the next two days with dread in her heart. Henry was convinced that his unthinking outburst was going to have disastrous consequences, and privately she shared his foreboding. But her words were all of reassurance.

“My lord, you have sent men after them, so rest easy. And surely no man would even contemplate committing violence on the Archbishop of Canterbury?”

Henry turned frightened eyes to her. “They heard me denigrate his office. They might well be convinced that his removal would put an end to this interminable quarrel, and actually serve the Church’s interests.”

“I hardly think they will go that far,” Eleanor reasoned, with more confidence than she felt. “Mayhap they have gone to tell Becket a few home truths and frighten him into submission. After all, the Pope must support you; Becket cannot win. He is done for, this time.”

“Done for indeed, I fear,” Henry muttered. His face was shadowed with foreboding.

42 Argentan, 1171

Unable to bear the tension, the King abandoned the Yuletide festivities, dismissed his guests, and left with the Queen for Argentan. It was there that Brother Peter, a young monk from England, mud-spattered and exhausted from a hard ride, found him, just as he and Eleanor were entertaining Bishop Arnulf of Lisieux to supper in their private solar.

“Lord King,” the monk gasped, falling to his knees for sheer weariness. “I bring terrible news.”

Henry went white and clenched his knuckles. The bishop leaped up, scraping back his chair.

“What news?” Eleanor asked sharply.

“My lady, Archbishop Becket has been murdered, slain in his own cathedral two days ago, as he celebrated Vespers.”

Eleanor was momentarily speechless, unable to take in the enormity of what she had just heard. “Murdered?” she repeated stupidly. “The Archbishop of Canterbury?”

“He was cruelly slain by four of the King’s knights,” Brother Peter said, himself deeply distressed.

“Oh, God!” Henry wailed suddenly, beating his breast. “Thomas, my Thomas! May God forgive me—this is my doing. I have killed him, as surely as if I strangled him with my own hands.” Tears were streaming down his face and great sobs racking his stocky frame.

“May God avenge him,” the bishop murmured, crossing himself, appalled to the very core. “This is surely the worst atrocity I have ever heard of. It is unbelievable that anyone should commit such sacrilege as to slay an archbishop in the house of God.”

Henry turned a ravaged face to him. “It was done for me, at my behest. I am to blame. But as God is my witness, I loved Thomas, in spite of our quarrel. I spoke those words in anger. I did not mean them to be taken literally. I loved him!” His words were coming between short breaths; he was almost too paralyzed by shock to say more, and the bishop was staring at him, not quite comprehending what he was talking about. Eleanor went swiftly to Henry and would have comforted him, but he turned his back on her. “No—I am not worthy of consolation,” he wept bitterly. “Leave me to my terrible grief.”

She felt a pang of anguish at being rejected but thrust it away, realizing that Henry needed time to come to terms with what had happened. This was a matter for his confessor, not his wife, although in time he might come to confide in her. For now, she turned her attention to the poor, shivering monk, and herself poured him a goblet of wine. She also handed one to the weeping bishop, who gulped it back gratefully, then she offered another to Henry, but he was too distraught to notice.

“Now,” she said to Brother Peter, “please sit down and tell us everything that has happened.”

The young man did as he was bid, and piece by piece the whole tragic story came out. How Becket had gone back to England and, after all his fair words, defiantly excommunicated those bishops who had taken part in the coronation of the Young King. How the four knights turned up at Canterbury and threatened the Archbishop with dire punishment if he did not immediately leave the kingdom. How Becket calmly told them to stop their threats, as he was not going anywhere, and sent them away.

“All afternoon they were hanging around the courtyard, plotting together, shouting insults about His Grace to us monks, and putting on their armor,” Brother Peter related. Once he had overcome his initial diffidence and mastered his distress, the words had come tumbling out. “Then, when we proceeded into the cathedral for Vespers, they followed us almost to the very doors. Truly, sirs and lady, we were terrified. When His Grace the Archbishop entered the church, we stopped the service and ran to him, thanking God to see him safe, and we hastened to bolt the doors, to protect our shepherd from harm. But”—and the homely peasant face crumpled at the memory—“he bid us throw them open, saying it was not meet to make a fortress of the house of prayer, the church of Christ. And it was at that moment that the four knights burst in, with drawn swords …” Brother Peter could not go on.

“Take your time,” Eleanor soothed, offering him more wine, and some bread to soak it up. She was horrified at what she was hearing, but still in control of her emotions. The time for weeping would come later, but with Henry seemingly in a stupor, still standing with his back to them, while intermittently emitting pitiful groans and cries, and Bishop Arnulf awash with tears, someone had to remain in control.

“I must tell it all,” Brother Peter sniffed. “The world must know of this terrible deed.”

“We are listening,” Eleanor told him. “And you may rest assured that justice will be done.” She saw Henry flinch.

“We were that frightened when we saw the devilish faces of those knights and heard the clanging of their arms,” the monk continued. “Everyone was watching in horror—all save His Grace. He were calm, and when the knights asked where was Thomas Becket, that he was a traitor to his king, he answered, ‘I am here, no traitor, but a priest.’ There was no fear in him. He asked why they sought him, then he told them he were ready to suffer in the name of his Redeemer. And he were that brave—he actually turned away and began praying!”

Eleanor held her breath as the monk paused, forced himself to chew on some bread, for which he clearly had little appetite, and went on with his tale.

“The knights came forward. They demanded that he absolve the bishops he’d excommunicated, but he refused. ‘Then you shall die!’ they said. I will never forget those words. His Grace just looked at them, and told them he were ready to die for the Lord Jesus, so that, in his blood, the Church might find liberty and peace. They didn’t like the idea of him being a martyr, so they tried to drag him outside, laying sacrilegious hands on him. But he resisted, accusing them of acting like madmen, and fell to prayer. Then one knight raised his sword and smote him on the head, drawing blood. Brother Edward ran forward and tried to save His Grace, but they near sliced his arm off. Then it all happened very quickly. My lord was clinging to a pillar, and they hit him again on the head, but still he stood there. They struck him a third time, and he was bleeding badly when he fell on his hands and knees, calling us to witness that he was willing to embrace death for the sake of the Lord Jesus and the Church. He lay there on the paving stones; he were still alive and conscious, and then one of those devils went for him again, and sliced up the top of His Grace’s skull with such force that the sword broke. He spilled his blood and his brains all over the floor, defiling our holy cathedral. It was the worst thing I have ever seen in my life. Then the knights scattered, and we were left to minister to the poor Archbishop, who was then beyond mortal help. He’d embraced his martyrdom with powerful courage, and truly, as I do believe, his blissful soul is with God.”

There was an appalled silence in the solar as Brother Peter fell silent. Then the King emitted a strangled sound, as the bishop wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

“This surpasses the wickedness of Nero,” Arnulf pronounced. “Even Herod was not as cruel.”

“May God rest Archbishop Thomas,” Eleanor said. She was shocked by his murder, and shocked too to find herself wondering if it had been yet another of Becket’s dramatic gestures. It seemed he had almost welcomed martyrdom, had gone out of his way to court it. Yes, that would have appealed to his vanity! It would certainly have been the ultimate revenge on Henry …

Aghast at what she was contemplating, for it was unthinkable that she should be so uncharitable in the face of the terrible fate that had befallen Becket, she stood up, summoned the steward to arrange a bed and some food for Brother Peter, made it courteously clear to the bishop that it was time for him to leave, and then, when they were finally alone, turned her attention to her husband.

Henry was like a broken puppet, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, his breathing ragged. Wrapped in his torment, he did not resist as she led him to the bed and herself stripped off his tunic and hose. Recumbent, he lay there with his face working in distress, moaning and sobbing. When she tried to hold him, he shook her off again. There was no reaching him.

Rapidly, the dread news spread throughout Christendom. The whole world was—like Henry—in shock. The murder was unanimously condemned as being equal in iniquity to Judas’s betrayal of Christ, and King Louis loudly demanded that the Pope unleash the sword of St. Peter in unprecedented retribution. Everywhere, Becket was hailed unreservedly as a blessed martyr, and universally, people laid the blame for his killing at the door of the King of England.

“In truth, Becket is more powerful dead than he was alive,” Eleanor complained to her son Richard, as they listened to yet another tale of the good people of Canterbury flocking to the desecrated cathedral to smear themselves with the blood of their slaughtered archbishop, or to snip pieces from his stained vestments as relics. “Soon, they will be claiming that miracles are taking place at his tomb!”

“I heard him called ‘God’s doughty champion’,” the boy said. “His murder was a terrible thing, but people now forget his long disobedience to his king.”

“It is your father who is the villain now,” Eleanor observed bitterly. “I fear his fame will never recover. And the tragic thing is that he loved Becket, right to the end. He had no real wish to do him harm. And that, my son, is why you should always check yourself before uttering words in anger, words you do not really mean. Had your father done so, Becket would be alive today.”

Henry remained in seclusion for six weeks, refusing to attend to the business of ruling his vast domains. Shut away from the world, he put on a rough robe of sackcloth that he had smeared with ashes from the fire, in penitence for his terrible sin, although nothing, he was convinced, could ever truly expiate it. For three days he took no food, nor would he admit anyone to his chamber—not even his anxious wife. Soon, Eleanor was beginning to wonder if he had lost his reason; she even began to fear he might take his own life. It also occurred to her, although she begged God to forgive her for thinking it, that he was feigning such excessive grief in order to convince people that he could not possibly have desired Becket’s death.

In desperation, she summoned the Archbishop of Rouen, begging him to offer her husband some spiritual comfort.

“The King spoke quite lucidly to me,” the Archbishop told Eleanor after being closeted with Henry for some time. “He is not going mad, so you may put your mind at rest on that score. But he is suffering from an excess of remorse. He holds himself entirely responsible for Archbishop Becket’s murder, even though it had not been his desire or intent. Yet he knows he has brought upon himself the censure and condemnation of the whole of Christendom, and in my presence he called upon God to witness, for the sake of his soul, that the evil deed had not been committed by his will, nor with his knowledge, nor by his plan.”

“I believe that to be true,” the Queen said. “I know him well, and I was there. I heard him say those words. They were spoken in the heat of the moment. Devious and quarrelsome he may be, a tyrant and murderer never.”

“You speak truth,” he replied. “The hard part will be convincing the rest of the world of it. But the King your lord has willingly agreed to submit, through me, to the judgment of the Church, and, showing great humility, he has promised to undertake whatever penance she should decide upon.”

“What more can he do?” Eleanor asked despairingly.

“What of the murderers, those satellites of Satan? Is there any news?”

“They have disappeared, by all reports, although I have ordered the King’s officers in England to make a thorough search.”

“They are dead men already, or as good as,” the Archbishop commented acidly. “The Pope will certainly excommunicate them.”

“I pray he will not excommunicate my lord the King also,” Eleanor said.

“I hope not. The King has decided to send envoys to His Holiness, who will protest that he had never desired the sainted Becket’s death.”

“Alas, I fear that His Holiness will heed the general opinion, which is much to the contrary,” Eleanor worried. Waiting for the Pope to speak would be like having the sword of Damocles hanging over their heads.

Underlying her fear was anger. Henry was a great king; he did not deserve such calumny. Even in death, Becket was hounding him.

Eventually, Henry emerged from his long seclusion, thinner and aged by several years. He had recovered his composure, though, and was ready to take up the burdens and cares of government, but was still weighed down by remorse. Grief and guilt were eating at him, and made him short-tempered and difficult to live with.

Eleanor might have been a distant stranger. Henry had rejected all her offers of comfort in the time of his direst need, and he had nothing to give her now, nor did he appear to want even her companionship. He had withdrawn into himself, his emotions drained. With her fledgling hopes of a permanent reconciliation dashed, she felt that she had little to offer him, and that it might be better for both of them if she were to return to Aquitaine, at least for a short time. Maybe her absence would work its magic, as before. She was not surprised when Henry agreed to her going without protest.

“You are needed there,” was all he said.

As soon as the weather improved, and the roads were passable, she made her farewells, told Henry that he could be assured of her prayers, for the Pope had not yet spoken, and reluctantly rode south.