"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.

"G.o.d 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 c.u.mbersome 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 h.e.l.l-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 p.r.o.nounced. "Someone needs to keep my son in check. He is too pa.s.sionate 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion 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 ma.s.sive fortress that dominated the town, she sent to Poitiers, requesting that her faithful uncle, Raoul de Faye, come to join her to a.s.sist 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 Chatellerault, 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 antic.i.p.ating 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 a.s.sure her. "I would rid him of that b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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. .h.i.t 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 wh.o.r.es, 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 wh.o.r.es.

"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 d.u.c.h.ess, 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 G.o.d, my Lord of Faye?"

"Let's leave G.o.d 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 a.s.sured, 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, a.s.suring her of his love, loyalty, and discretion, Eleanor turned to Raoul.