"Good morning," Amaria said guardedly, getting up and pulling on her gray gown over her shift, with no thought for washing herself. Peasant! Eleanor thought. She watched the woman clear the table and empty the washing water out of the window into the courtyard below. "Gardez l'eau!" she cried.

"I will fetch something to break our fast," she said then, and rapped on the door. Once she was gone, Eleanor fell to her knees and tried to pray; she had always heard ma.s.s before breakfast, but no provision appeared to have been made for her spiritual needs. That was something else she would have to ask for.

Prayer was difficult. The prospect of her imminent confrontation with Henry kept intruding, as did the memory of him threatening to kill her. When would he come, or summon her? Was he even here in Rouen?

She tried to focus her thoughts on Christ's sufferings. It had been easy to commune with her Redeemer in the richly furnished royal chapels or in the peace of Fontevrault and other great abbeys; but here, in this cheerless room, in the hour of her greatest need, He seemed to be elusive.

She made herself dwell on the five points of prayer. Give thanks-but for what? The ways of G.o.d were indeed inscrutable. What could be His purpose in inflicting this misfortune and suffering on her? To say she was sorry? But to whom? To Henry, the husband whom she was bound to love and owed all wifely duty-who was also the man who had betrayed her again and again, and fatally failed to do the right thing by their sons? No, rather should she say sorry to Young Henry, to Richard, and to Geoffrey for failing them. Pray for others-G.o.d knew, when it came to her sons, and her other children, she did nothing but pray for them. And she prayed for her land of Aquitaine and its people, and for all Christ's poor, and for those who needed succor in this miserable world.

Pray for oneself. Her heart swelled with need. Help me, help me! she could only plead, for she could not focus her thoughts sufficiently to enumerate her troubles. G.o.d knew them, though. She trusted that He would be merciful.

Listen to G.o.d, to what He is saying. She tried-how she tried!-to still her teeming thoughts in order to clear her mind and let Him in. But she could not do it, and so, if there had been a still, small voice attempting to speak to her, she did not hear it.

What she did hear was Amaria returning with a tray of bread, small cuts of meat, and ale. Eleanor was not hungry but forced herself to eat a little, as Amaria took the stool opposite and began stuffing the food unceremoniously into her mouth. Eleanor recoiled. Had the woman never been taught that mealtimes were not just occasions for satisfying the needs of the body, but for good manners, courtesy, conversation ...

She tried. "Do you live near here?" she began.

Amaria stared at her coldly, chomping noisily on her bread.

"No, lady," she said.

Eleanor tried again. "Do you have family nearby?"

"No."

"Then where are you from?"

"Norfolk."

"So what are you doing in Normandy?" Eleanor's natural inquisitiveness was beginning to a.s.sert itself.

"My husband were one of the Lord King's captains, and went with him everywhere. I missed my man, so I got a post as a laundress in the King's household, so as I could travel with him."

"Is he here with you, your husband?"

"He be dead," came the flat reply.

"I am sorry to hear that," Eleanor said kindly. "Have you been a widow long?"

"Three months. Anyway, what's this to you, lady?"

"I just thought that if we are to bear each other company all the time, we might try to get along in a friendly manner, so that it will be more pleasant for us both."

"For you, you mean." There was contempt in the rustic voice.

"Of course. But you would benefit too."

There was a pause as Amaria thought about this. "I'm not supposed to talk much to you, lady," she said, "just to see to your needs."

"I will not ask you to talk about why I am here," Eleanor promised. "Just about yourself and matters of general interest. I am interested to know how you came to be in attendance on me."

"When the Lady Alice de Porhoet was here as hostage, my husband had charge of her, and I helped look after her. That were some years back, but since then I've acted as waiting woman to other visiting ladies, on occasion."

"Were some of them hostages, like the Lady Alice?"

"I don't know. All I were told was that I had given satisfaction and that the Lord King were pleased with me. I reckoned that were why I were sent for the other day and told as I was to have charge of you, lady."

"Did they tell you why I am here?" Eleanor asked.

"No, just that you were the King's prisoner."

"But you have heard rumors, yes?"

The surly look was back, the woman's lips pursed. "I can't talk about that."

"Fair enough," Eleanor said evenly, anxious not to kill off this fragile rapport before it had gone beyond the budding stage. "Tell me, do you have children?"

"I have the one boy, Mark, who's twelve. He be in the cathedral school at Canterbury. He's a clever boy. Going into the Church." Amaria's eyes suddenly softened with pride and she looked quite different. Eleanor could even see that she might have been pretty once.

"You must be so proud of him," she said. "I am a mother too, so I understand how you must feel. Our children are the most important thing in the world, aren't they?" She wondered if Amaria was astute enough to get the message she was trying to put across, if the woman realized that she was trying to tell her that whatever she had done, it had been for her sons.

Amaria was regarding her with a puzzled but concerned frown, but quickly looked away when Eleanor smiled hopefully at her. "I must clear these things," she said, and began piling up the breakfast clutter.

"I need some necessaries," Eleanor said.

"In the chest," Amaria said. Eleanor knelt, lifted the lid, and found a pile of clean clouts for the monthly courses that, in her, had long since ceased, fresh chemises, headrails, and hose, all strewn with fresh herbs, and two gowns, one of Lincoln green, the other of dark blue woolen cloth, both plain and serviceable. Nothing regal or grand here-being stripped of the trappings of her rank was clearly all part of her punishment. She wondered, with sinking fear, which gown she would wear to her execution.

"I can see that you had a hand in preparing these," she said appreciatively to Amaria. "Thank you." The woman looked nonplussed; plainly, she did not know what to make of her queen. Maybe she had been expecting a monster, Eleanor thought, and has been surprised to find that I am a creature of flesh and blood much as she is-and that I love my sons as much as she clearly loves hers. That, at least, was something upon which she could build.

"There is one other thing," she said, getting to her feet. "I should be grateful to have the consolation of faith in this my ordeal. Might it be possible for a priest to be sent to me?"

"I will ask, lady," Amaria said, and rapped again on the door.

She was back within a quarter of an hour. "Father Hugh will come tomorrow morning to hear your confession and say ma.s.s," she told Eleanor. Already her manner was warmer.

As Amaria busied herself with making the bed, Eleanor sat down in the single chair and wondered what on earth she was going to do during the long hours that stretched ahead. She desperately needed something to occupy her, to keep her mind from wandering down fearful paths. But there were none of the things with which she was used to pa.s.sing the time: no books, no musical instruments, no embroidery, no ladies to challenge with games of chess or riddles-and, of course, no possibility of riding out for the hunt, or even walking in the gardens. Her imprisonment, although it was not as bad as she had antic.i.p.ated, felt suffocating; she could not bear it a moment longer.

But she must. She must do something.

"Tell me, Amaria, how do you like to pa.s.s the time?"

"I sew," the woman said. "And I used to like tending my little garden, but the cottage is gone now. No need for me to keep it on."

"Do you think I could help with some sewing?" Eleanor asked. "I have nothing to do."

"There's a pile of sheets need turning," Amaria said.

"Then let's set to," Eleanor said gratefully.

"I'll fetch them." The woman's face creased into what could have pa.s.sed for a smile. "Strikes me I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be sitting mending sheets with the Queen of England!"

It was the afternoon of the second day, and the pile of sheets seemed only a fraction lower than on the previous morning. Eleanor was sitting there wishing that she had something more mentally stimulating to take her mind off her predicament, but was thankful that at least Amaria had grown, if not exactly friendly, then more amiable. They had managed to keep a steady conversation going, touching on food, childbirth, travel, and a host of other mundane things. Eleanor was desperate to confide in the woman, but dared not risk compromising the delicate accord between them. But she needed to unburden her fears to someone. The priest had been no good; he was an old man, doddery and deaf, and heard her whispered confession with sage weariness, then mumbled some undemanding penance. She had performed it immediately, reciting her Hail Marys as she bent to her needle. It was a tough challenge, she realized, sitting here sewing with nothing else to distract her fevered mind, and thinking she might go mad.

Yet she was not to fret in idleness for long. Suddenly, the door opened and the captain of the guard entered.

"Make ready, lady, the King comes this way," he announced, then backed out of the door. "You, woman, follow me," he said to Amaria, and then Eleanor found herself alone, facing her destiny. Dread filled her soul as she heard Henry's spurs clinking at a brisk rate up the stairs, then the spears parted once more and he burst into the room, a portly figure in his customary plain hunting gear, his bull head thrust forward, his red curls and beard threaded with iron gray, his eyes icy with fury and hatred. Eleanor took one look at him and knew this was not going to be easy. Had she ever hoped it would be?

She curtsied and bent her head, observing the proper courtesies. Of course, it might have been more politic to kneel, or prostrate herself, as a supplicant, but she was not the one at fault here, she reminded herself. Not that maintaining that position would help her, she knew, but she could not accept that she was in the wrong.

"There are no words to describe what I think of you," Henry growled without preamble. She looked up, but he would not meet her steady, hostile gaze. "This is the bitterest betrayal of my whole life," he declared, his face puce with anger and distress.

"There was no reasoning with you," Eleanor said evenly. "You could have seen it coming. G.o.d knows, I tried to warn you what might happen if you persisted in your unjust treatment of our sons. Did you really expect me, as their mother, to stand by and let you do it?"

"Do you know what you have done?" Henry snarled. "Half of Europe is up in arms against me, and that includes your wh.o.r.eson va.s.sals of Aquitaine! They make this quarrel their excuse to rise in protest at what they like to call my oppressive rule."

"Look to yourself, Henry!" Eleanor flung back. "Look who is really to blame."

"Don't try to excuse your conduct," he spat. "You have offended grievously, and you are trying to shift the blame on others. Thanks to you and your sons, my kingdom is under threat; why, I could even lose my crown! Is that the act of a dutiful and loyal wife? It is outrageous, beyond belief! I tell you, Eleanor, you could look at all the old chronicles and find numerous examples of sons rising up against their father, but none of a queen rebelling against her husband. You will make me the pity and laughingstock of Christendom. They are even saying that this is G.o.d's punishment on me for entering into an incestuous marriage. Incestuous? Diabolic, more like!"

He was beside himself; there could be no reasoning with him, so it was not even worth trying.

"What are you going to do?" she challenged, trying to keep her voice steady. "Are you going to put me on trial, to be judged by your twelve good men and true?"

He glared at her. "By rights, I should have you hanged as the traitor you are. But count yourself extremely fortunate that I have no wish to parade my shame-or yours-in public. I have made no announcement of your arrest, nor do I intend to proclaim your disaffection. I want no more scandal, as you have caused scandal and damage enough. The whole of Europe will no doubt be whispering of it by now-I hope you realize that. G.o.d, Eleanor, did you really want to hurt me so much?"

"Hurt you?" she echoed. She was safe, she was safe-and could therefore speak out. "I think the boot was rather on the other foot. What of all your women over the years, all the times you betrayed me? What of your foolish thralldom to Becket, on whom your love was wasted, and for whose counsel you forsook mine? What of the way you rode roughshod over my advice on how to rule my domains, with consequences you now have to deal with? And, worst of all, what of the injustice you have shown our sons?"

"I never realized you hated me so much," Henry said, his face working in rage and self-pity. "By the eyes of G.o.d, I have been nourishing a viper in my bosom!"

"I loved you!" Eleanor cried. "But you destroyed that love, and I had to watch you do it. I can never tell you how deeply you have injured me. All these years ..."

She buried her face in her hands and began to sob, all the pent-up tension and fear of the last days finding its release in a flood of tears. "Alas, it is too late for us!" she wailed.

"None of my so-called betrayals justifies your treachery," Henry said brutally.

"So punish me!" she screamed, wanting there to be an end to this horrible wrangling between them, wanting to hurt him where he would feel the most pain. "Do your worst. Ask yourself how deep my betrayal went! Put me to death, and then spend the rest of your life wondering."

Henry thrust his face into hers. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded, his tone menacing.

"Ah, so you do care!" Eleanor pounced. Henry gripped her arms.

"Tell me!" he barked. "Have you been playing the wh.o.r.e, Eleanor?"

"No more than Fair Rosamund has, or the Lady of Akeny, or Rohese de Clare, or any of the legions of other s.l.u.ts you have bedded, Henry!"

"You will tell me!" he roared.

"And have you make war on a great lord?" She was enjoying having her revenge, in a bitter sort of way; as if it was her last chance to do so, as if it no longer mattered what she said or did.

"Who was he?" Henry was beside himself. "Tell me!"

"Ah! You'll just have to keep guessing-and wondering if I found him a better man than you!"

The taunt went home. Henry was almost foaming at the mouth. In a moment he would be thrashing on the floor, chewing the rushes.

"Oh, but he was a well-endowed stallion!" she baited him.

"You've done it for yourself now," he seethed, baring his teeth.

"So what will you do to me? Hang me now?"

"No. That would be too easy for you." His breath was coming in short pants. He was almost out of control. "You must hate being shut up here. It's true, isn't it? I can see from your face. Well, my faithless lady, I'm going to leave you locked up to think on your sins while I deal with the G.o.d-awful mess you have caused. And, Eleanor," Henry added, his bloodshot eyes narrowing, "I hope you rot here."

His p.r.o.nouncement almost winded her; all sense of triumph fleeing. He had the power, she did not. It was as simple as that. She was to be confined here, in this miserable room, for G.o.d knew how long. The prospect was grim, ghastly ... She could not breathe, she was stifling. Shut up, imprisoned, never to walk in G.o.d's fresh air, never to smell the scent of growing flowers, never to hunt, to feel the wind in her hair, the thrill of the chase. Cut off from her children; exiled from her beloved Aquitaine. It was too cruel a punishment. It would kill her. Already the world was dimming ...

As Eleanor collapsed to the floor in a faint, Henry looked down pitilessly on her and barked for her servant.

"Lay her on the bed," he commanded Amaria as he flung himself out of the room, desperate to be gone. "She'll come round soon. Or she's faking it, which wouldn't surprise me."

But Eleanor wasn't faking it. For a few blissful moments she was dead to the world, unaware of the darkness and oblivion closing around her.

48.

Barfleur, the English Channel, and Southampton, 1174

The Queen had been suffering her terrible imprisonment for more than a year when the summons came for her to be conducted to the King at Barfleur on the Norman coast.

"The King has summoned me?" Eleanor repeated incredulously, when the captain of the guard informed her of his instructions.

"Make ready," he told Amaria, ignoring the Queen's question.

She could not believe it. The dragging months of her confinement had been the worst time of her life; she had thought they would never end, that Henry meant to keep her immured here forever. She had not seen him since that catastrophic day when he condemned her to be shut up here, nor had there been any message from him. It had been as if she were dead and buried-as well she might be, she had thought bitterly. It had changed her, this year of extreme trial; it made her feel as if she had suddenly become anonymous, as if the living, breathing ent.i.ty that was Queen Eleanor had ceased to exist and that in her place there was only a barely existing sh.e.l.l of the woman she had once been. She felt demoralized and isolated, starved of lively conversation and of all the things that had made life pleasant and joyful.

For a long time she had burned with resentment at the injustice of her punishment, and with hatred for Henry, fanning the flames with thoughts of vengeance, and what if ... Yet after a while she discovered that it was best not to nurture her grievances, unless she wanted them to destroy her. That was when she had learned a kind of acceptance, was able to adapt to her circ.u.mstances and take pleasure in small, everyday things, and to shut her mind to thoughts of what could or should have been. The worst of it had been not knowing when-or if-she would ever be free.