But now, at long last, Henry had sent for her. Did this mean that he had made peace with his sons, and that they had insisted on her liberation? G.o.d, let it be so! she prayed.

Two of the most awful aspects of her captivity had been not receiving any news of or communications from her children, and being cut off from the rest of humanity. She missed her sons dreadfully, more than she could ever have expected; she could not bear even to think of her beloved Richard. It was torture to her, not knowing if he was safe or well. Would Henry even inform her if he had died? She could not quite bring herself to believe that he would not, but the Henry who had shut her up here was a vengeful man; he was no longer the idealistic prince she had married, but a king who cared nothing for the sensibilities and opinions of others. So she agonized over her sons, fearing that their father might have turned them against her, or that they were wounded, even dead in the fighting, and no one had told her. But surely if that had been the case, she would have known it in her bones, or at least picked up some hint of it from Amaria.

She knew virtually nothing of what had been going on in the world beyond her window, just the odd bit of information that she had been able to glean or extract from the waiting woman. Against all her expectations, Amaria and she had become almost friends during the months of living in close proximity to each other; it could not have been otherwise, or they would both have been at each other's throats. Yet there remained some unbridgeable distance between them, for it soon became clear that Amaria was an uneducated woman of few words and fewer ideas. It was also plain that, however much Amaria might privately sympathize with her mistress, she was in fear of her superiors and the King, and therefore determined to obey her orders to the letter, refusing to discuss with Eleanor anything beyond domestic and mundane subjects. And Eleanor was, of course, the Queen, a fact of which Amaria was still slightly in awe.

Amaria's initial hostility had quickly evaporated, Eleanor was quick to realize, yet to begin with, she had embarked on her task with the feudal peasant's resentment toward those of higher rank, and the woman's inverted sn.o.bbery had made her suspicious from the first, especially after she heard gossip about what the Queen was supposed to have done. But Eleanor had subtly won her around, not by overtly protesting her innocence, as many prisoners in her situation might have, but by letting slip the odd, telling remark, or occasionally betraying the depths of her anguish for her sons; and by and by Amaria had come to realize that the situation was far more complex than she had at first surmised.

And Amaria, to her astonishment, soon found herself liking the Queen, very much indeed. So now she was pleased for Eleanor that the King had summoned her, although she felt a touch anxious that her services would no longer be required once the Queen was set free. She had served her mistress well, and with as much kindness as she dared-there were now four books, a chess set, a lyre, and three more dresses in the overflowing chest-but my lady might not wish in the future to be reminded of this dark period in her life, or of the servant who had shared it with her.

"Do not look so worried, Amaria," Eleanor said, catching her mood. "When I am restored to court, I promise you I will make you one of my waiting women. I shall always be grateful for your kindly treatment of me in this my prison."

Dared she let her heart sing at the prospect of freedom? She kept looking at the slit of blue sky, thinking that she would soon be out in the world again and able to enjoy the rest of the summer. But what did Henry really intend? After all that had pa.s.sed between them, he surely could not want her to live with him again as his wife. If he meant to continue as before, with her ruling Aquitaine and him the rest of his empire, then he would not be summoning her to Barfleur. Barfleur was one of the ports from which they had often taken ship for England. It was years since Eleanor had seen England. For her, England was now and forever a.s.sociated with that terrible visit to Woodstock and the miserable birth of John that followed it.

But if Henry wanted a reconciliation of sorts, and for her to accompany him to England as his queen, then so be it. She would go, and meekly do as she was bid-and make the best of it, avoiding all occasion for conflict. Anything would be preferable to this. Her heart leaped at the possibility that she might see her sons again soon.

Watching the Queen standing at the window, deep in thought, Amaria reflected sadly that these months of confinement had aged her. Eleanor was fifty-two, and looked it. The red in her graying hair had faded to the color of straw and gone thin on the skull; her eyes and the corners of her mouth were circled by fine lines; her skin had paled through lack of exposure to sunlight. Yet she retained-and always would-that exquisite bone structure that lent her her peculiar beauty. The King would find his wife changed, but still, despite everything, attractive.

Eleanor's spirits sank rapidly when she saw that she was to be accompanied by a heavily armed escort. There could be no doubt that Henry meant for her to travel as a prisoner, under guard. Unless he was bent on making some dramatic gesture such as liberating her before the eyes of their sons, she had to face the fact that her future still looked bleak. She toyed feverishly with the idea of making a dramatic personal appeal to Henry, of debasing herself before him and promising anything-anything-to regain her freedom.

It felt strange to be on horseback again; she was stiff and out of condition, she realized. But expert rider that she had been all her life, she soon became acclimatized to being back in the saddle. Yet her pleasure in once more feeling the heat of the sun and the soft breath of the July breeze was subsumed by her inner dread and bleak disappointment. She could take no pleasure in the flowers that bedecked the hedgerows, the green fields peopled by villeins stripped to the waist and singing as they toiled on their strips, the sparkling rivers and streams, or the rich, golden countryside in all its summer beauty. It was as if her life was being held in suspension until her fate had been revealed to her.

As they rode into Barfleur, Eleanor could see a great fleet of at least forty ships waiting in the harbor. So they were bound for England, as she had antic.i.p.ated. But why so many ships? Then she saw a great company of soldiers waiting to board some of the vessels anch.o.r.ed at the farther end of the quay. So Henry was taking an army with him. Surely he could not still be at war? She began to feel distinctly uneasy.

Her escort led her past the squat fortified church tower where she had once waited with Henry for a tempest to cease, so that he could cross to England and claim his kingdom. That had been all of twenty years ago. Where had the time gone? And look where it had brought them! But there was no leisure to reflect, as the captain was leading them toward the quayside, where she could see a large gathering of people, many of them well-dressed women, waiting while their baggage was stowed on board the flagship. As she drew nearer, she recognized many familiar faces.

There was Henry, his face weather-beaten and tanned, standing with his hand on the shoulder of a stocky boy with dark, copper-gold curls. It was John, grown up fast, she realized with a jolt, looking around anxiously for his older brothers. But there was no sign of them. In fact, it looked as if Henry had rounded up all the females in his family. She caught her breath as she espied her daughter Joanna, pretty as a partridge, looking apprehensively in her mother's direction; it was such a joy to see Joanna again; she hoped that her daughter did not think ill of her, that Henry had not poisoned her young mind with calumnies.

There was Queen Marguerite, sixteen now, and the living image of Louis; Alys, her younger sister, Richard's betrothed, a willowy brunette who must now be about fourteen, and surely ripe for marriage. The insufferable Constance was staring at her with undisguised contempt; already, even at twelve years old, she was posing provocatively, her clinging white bliaut accentuating every detail of her wide, curvaceous hips and small b.r.e.a.s.t.s; unlike most girls, she kept her hair cropped short, which gave her an elfin appearance, but did not, in Eleanor's opinion, look attractive or suit her. But Constance always was one to be different and draw attention to herself. Gentle Alice of Maurienne stood with her, casting wistful glances at the oblivious John, her betrothed, and watching over them all was the King's b.a.s.t.a.r.d sister, Emma of Anjou, a capable matron in widow's garb who looked the image of her father, Count Geoffrey. Eleanor supposed that she had been summoned by her brother to take the place of the mother who had been shut up in prison. A little way off a cl.u.s.ter of n.o.ble girls and ladies chattered excitedly; no doubt they had been summoned to attend on all the King's womenfolk.

As the Queen's escort dismounted, the captain held Eleanor's bridle as she climbed off her horse. The King broke away from his party and walked slowly toward them, his face impa.s.sive. Eleanor curtsied formally, then rose in trepidation to face him. He looked at her blankly, with no trace of emotion.

"I will not say you are welcome, Eleanor," he began, his voice husky. "You'd know I didn't mean it. But I trust you had a good journey."

"Why have you summoned me, my lord?" she asked. There was no point in continuing with the pleasantries, even though everyone was watching them with avid interest.

"I am taking you-and these young ladies-to England. Thanks to your efforts, we are still at war." He glared at her. "Even the Scots are joining the fray now, as if Louis and our beloved sons are not making enough mischief. They are all threatening England with invasion, and my justiciar there is bombarding me with appeals for help. No doubt it pleases you to hear that, madame."

Eleanor could not ignore the barb. "I am very sorry for your trouble," she said, "but you only brought it upon yourself."

"So you had nothing to do with it?" he sneered, his manner icy.

"I never incited anyone to invade England. And I don't see how my presence there will help your cause."

Henry grinned at her nastily. "Did you think I would leave you in Rouen, with war breaking out on all fronts, and Paris not that far off? One of our sons-nay, Louis himself, possibly-might take it into his head to free you and exploit once more your treacherous heart. I'm not a fool, Eleanor. You are going to a more secure prison in England, where you can stay out of trouble."

It was as if a dead weight were pressing on her chest. She feared she might faint again, as she had when he last told her what her fate was to be. To have her hopes of freedom suddenly raised and then as speedily dashed was devastating. But she managed to maintain her composure.

"Where are you sending me?"

"I am thinking about it. Where would you least like to go?"

She almost said Woodstock, and stopped herself in time. Any prison, however grim and gloomy, would be preferable.

"While my sons are in peril, I care not where I go," she answered. "But what of these young girls, their wives?"

"They will be well looked after. I am sending Marguerite, Constance, and Alys to Marlborough Castle, as hostages for the good behavior of their lords and King Louis. My sister will have the care of them."

"And Joanna and John?"

"Joanna goes with them. John stays with me from now on. Of all my sons, he is the only true one." Henry's face had softened at the mention of the youngest of his brood.

"Might I be permitted to embrace my children?" she ventured.

"You weren't worried about embracing them when you packed them off to Fontevrault," Henry retorted.

"You packed them off there," she threw back.

"Be honest, Eleanor: you couldn't wait to see the back of John, baby that he was."

She was taken aback. "It is another thing for which I have you to blame," she accused him.

"Me? What have I got to do with it?"

"It's a long story, and you would never understand it," Eleanor said wearily.

Henry shook his head in exasperation. "Eleanor, I don't have time for this. We must board our ship soon, to catch the tide. Tell your woman to bring your gear."

It was 1154 all over again, except that one would not have expected the voyage to be so rough in July. As soon as they put to sea, the waves swelled, heaving so violently that the ship was pitched and tossed to within a timber's breadth of breaking up.

The women, Eleanor included, were all confined to a cabin in the forecastle; some were seasick, most were very frightened. Nine-year-old Joanna crept warily to her mother's side and clung to her.

"There, there, sweeting," Eleanor murmured, glad beyond measure to be able to embrace her child, and grateful for this small blessing amid all the fear and misery. But when she tried to comfort the wailing Constance, the girl shook her off rudely. Eleanor recoiled; she would do no more for Constance, she vowed.

Outside, they could hear the sailors shouting warnings. The rain came, pattering furiously against the wooden walls and roof. The terrible motion of the waves was relentless. Eleanor tried to pray but could not focus her mind. Did she really want G.o.d to spare her? Would it not be best for everyone, herself included, if she drowned and sank to the bottom of the sea?

Then they could hear the King's voice, roaring above the storm, addressing the ship's company: "If the Lord in His mercy has ordained that peace will be restored when I arrive in England, then may He grant me a safe landing. But if He has decided to visit my kingdom with a rod, may it never be my fortune to reach the sh.o.r.es of my country!"

G.o.d was merciful. Soon afterward, the sea calmed and they sighted Southampton by nightfall. But Henry had less mercy than his Maker. As soon as they disembarked, and the royal party had been given bread and fresh water for their saddlebags to stay them on the journey, he turned to Eleanor, whom he had contrived until now to ignore, and bade her walk a little way off with him.

"I am for Canterbury, to do my penance at last at the tomb of the holy blissful martyr, as they now call my late lamented Thomas," he told her. "You did know that he had been made a saint?"

She did. She experienced a wicked pleasure at the thought of the monks of Canterbury lashing Henry's back; G.o.d knew, he deserved it, and not just for his unwitting part in Becket's murder!

"Yes," she replied. "That was before you locked me up."

He let that pa.s.s, his mind racing ahead. "I have decided to send you under guard to Sarum Castle, where you will remain during my pleasure. Be clear, Eleanor, that this is your punishment for jeopardizing my crown-and for willfully destroying our marriage."

"For that, you have only yourself to blame!" she cried, stung to anger.

"All the world condemns you as a traitor to your lord and king, Eleanor. You should hear what they say about you! Do you think that, after what you did, I could ever trust you again?"

"Trust is a mutual thing," she said bitterly. "You broke mine years before. Your contribution to our marriage was one long betrayal! You were destroying it long before I came out in support of our sons."

He shrugged. "Men sow their wild oats. What makes you think that you were so special among wives that you should expect fidelity? You had my love, G.o.d knows-and you killed it."

"Ah, but that was after Rosamund had stolen that love. You didn't love me anymore; you loved her-you told me so yourself. It was quite affecting!" She spoke the words with scorn, but deep inside the wounds were yet tender: she could still feel the pain. And the prospect of her continuing imprisonment was terrible to her. "Henry, how long do you mean to keep me shut up?"

He had been about to make some tart response to her remark about Rosamund but her sudden changing of the subject put that out of his mind. He wanted to hurt her, wanted to pay her back for the long and bitter year of struggle, strife, and hard fighting for which she, in part, was responsible.

"For as long as you live!" he said venomously.

49.

Sarum, Wiltshire, 1175

The forbidding stone keep of Sarum sat solid and foursquare in a windswept position on a gra.s.sy mound atop a hill. The hill was in fact an Iron-Age fort, but no one knew much about "the old ones" who had built and occupied it. There were vague rumors that those humps on the top of various hills in the vicinity were their burial mounds, but no one wanted to go near them for fear of the evil shades that might be lurking there, protecting the dead. Later, the site had been colonized by the Romans; bits of masonry and pottery surfaced in the soil from time to time, and once, a fragment of a mosaic pavement, which had the town dwellers shaking their heads and murmuring about heathen spirits. Sarum-or Salisberie, as some now liked to call it-was the source of many legends, and the latest ones were already in the course of being embroidered from the gossip about the Queen of England, who was shut up in the castle.

n.o.body had seen her, although she had been there for many moons. She had arrived in secret, at dead of night, and-rumor had it-was kept locked in a secret chamber high in the gloomy keep. Why she was there, no one knew for sure, so discreetly had the business been handled, but the word in the taverns was that she had somehow been responsible for the terrible wars that had raged in England and over the sea for the past year and more. A ferocious conflict it had been, between the King and his sons, who had throughout been abetted by the King of France-and G.o.d knew, the French were never to be trusted. It had been an unnatural war, with son against father, husband against wife-if rumor spoke truth. But what could you expect, when the King and all who were of his blood were descended from the Devil?

It was over now, the war, and the quarrel. That was all thanks to St. Thomas the Martyr! No sooner had King Henry done penance at Canterbury for his part in the saint's wicked murder, than-G.o.d be praised-the holy, blissful Becket had won for him a victory against the Scots. The Scottish King, William the Lyon, had been taken prisoner, even as King Henry lay smarting from his stripes, a sure sign of Heaven's forgiveness and approval. With G.o.d and St. Thomas as his allies, Henry FitzEmpress had been seen to be invincible; and King Louis had taken fright and made the Young King and his brothers call off their invasion-the news had been all over the marketplace, brought by carriers in their carts and a man with a dancing bear, lately come from London.

Next the townsfolk heard King Henry had returned to Normandy in triumph, the craven French King had sued for peace, and the English princes had made their submission, on their knees, to their father, who had given them the kiss of peace. A treaty had been signed, and they promised never again to rise against him. My, there had been such a ringing of bells throughout the land in celebration as never before!

Eleanor had heard the bells, clanging deafeningly from the tower of the half-built cathedral that stood, dark and squat like a crouching beast, on the hill beneath the castle mound. She knew those bells must betoken something momentous, some great victory-but whose? Had Henry triumphed over their sons at last? Or had he been defeated, and-joy of joys-would her sons soon come to free her?

Her heart ached for freedom. This was a bleak, inhospitable place-and a dirty one, for water was scarce. Isolated on its hill, and surrounded by strong walls and a deep, wooded ditch, Sarum was cut off from most civilized amenities. And the wind! It roared. Amaria had told her that in the cathedral a clerk could not even hear the man next to him singing. Even in summer the blasts whipped and whistled around the castle and its battlements, rattling doors and shutters; in winter the wind came in gales, lashing the walls and howling mercilessly through the window slits, repeatedly extinguishing the fires they tried to keep blazing in the inadequate braziers. Eleanor's first winter here had been a martyrdom. She had been so cold, colder than ever before in her life. She had suffered miseries with chilblains, and could only thank G.o.d that she had not yet fallen victim to the rheumatism that was chronic in this benighted place.

Otherwise she had to admit that she had little cause to complain. Far from being immured in a dank prison, as the townsfolk imagined, she was housed and served as befit a queen. The chambers a.s.signed to her were no worse than those in her palaces, and equipped with luxuries such as the cushions and rich hangings to which she was accustomed. That had been a welcome surprise until she realized that it betokened the permanence of her confinement. All the same, it was good to enjoy once more the privileges of her rank, even if she was deprived of her freedom. She was served reasonable fare, on silver plates, and the good wines of Bordeaux in jeweled goblets. She had even been provided with illuminated books from the treasury at Winchester, an ivory chess set, and the finest silks for her embroidery. For all this, though, the allowance allocated by the King for her household was small, and did not allow for the employment of more than the one maid.

She was grateful that Amaria had been allowed to accompany her to Sarum, yet exasperated that they were still required to share the same bed. At least she had tactfully succeeded in educating Amaria in the necessity of daily washing herself and changing her body linen, but all the same, they faced an uphill struggle to maintain hygiene in the face of the meager supply of water, and the sometimes brackish mess that pa.s.sed for it in their washing bowl. She never ceased complaining that they were forced to go about smelling of damp weeds.

Her custodians were men of standing, much trusted by the King: the lawyer and diplomat, Ranulf Glanville, was the very man who had captured the Scottish King the previous year. He told her so himself: it was one of the few items of news she had been permitted to receive. Glanville was an energetic, versatile man, wise and well spoken. He had a.s.sisted Henry in his legal reforms, and even written a treatise on the laws and customs of England. Eleanor liked him, for all she suspected that his fidelity to the King precluded him from entirely approving of her, and she had early on taken the initiative in inviting him to dine with her. To her surprise, Glanville readily accepted, and his presence at her table was now a regular arrangement. Their lively and witty conversation, which never, by unspoken mutual consent, strayed to contentious matters, helped considerably to enliven the dreary monotony of her days.

Her other custodian-she was impressed to find that Henry had deemed two necessary to keep her under lock and key-was one of the royal chamberlains, Ralph FitzStephen. He was more taciturn than Glanville, yet although he never scanted his respect toward her, she knew he was wary of her, and she could not warm to him. She knew instinctively that if she wanted any favors, it was Glanville whom she should approach. And indeed, he did his best for her. He allowed her to take the air on the battlements, when the wind permitted; otherwise, it was dangerous to go up there, and she-and the guards who had to accompany her-would run a very real risk of being swept over the parapet if they defied the elements.

When the weather was clement, she would climb to her high eyrie and gaze out across the mighty ramparts and the teeming, overpopulated town they protected to the vast sweep of the Avon Valley beyond, with its gentle hills that led to the eastern edge of the New Forest, invisible in the far distance. Then she would turn and look wistfully southward, where-hundreds of miles distant-lay Aquitaine. It pained her to think of the land of her birth, which she feared she might well never see again, yet her heart was drawn toward it inexorably. In her mind, she often traveled the hidden, lushly wooded valleys, the sundrenched hilltops and narrow gorges, and feasted her eyes once more on the mighty castles on their craggy heights, the mellow stone churches and pretty villages, the ranks of vines, and the glittering rivers. Aquitaine was a constant ache in her heart.

Did her people feel grief and anger at the cruel way in which their d.u.c.h.ess had been treated? Her imprisonment must have had an unwelcome and brutal impact on their lives, for Henry, in the wake of the war that-she guessed-had almost succeeded in toppling him from his throne, would not scruple to lay his heavy hand of authority on his domains. (No one had thought fit to tell her that Richard now sat in her place in Poitiers, accepted by her subjects and acclaimed as the doughty warrior he had proved himself to be. Richard, who was there at Henry's command, and subject to his vigilance ... ) Perched in her lofty refuge, her useless veil in her hand, ignoring the wind whipping the tendrils that had escaped from her plaits, and with her face pressed forlornly against the rough stone of the crenellations as she stared fixedly into the distance, Eleanor had often reflected that the prophecies had been misleading. The "King of the North Wind"-that was Henry-still wielded his scepter over Aquitaine, but the "Eagle of the Broken Covenant"-that had to be herself; she was beginning to understand its meaning now-had yet to discover why she should especially rejoice in her third nesting. The cubs had awakened, roared loud, as Merlin long ago predicted; but the only person who remained loaded with chains, as the seer had described, was their mother.

Her inner torment was ceaseless. Her harp was turned to mourning, she told herself, reverting in her distress to the language of the troubadours, on which she had been reared. "My flute sounds the note of affliction; my songs are turned to lamentations," she grieved.

There was only Amaria to whom she could unburden herself, although Amaria was still scared of her superiors, and usually just sat and listened, clucking sympathetically here and there.

"I had a royal liberty!" Eleanor told her, over and over again; she was remorseless with herself. "I lived richly, I took pleasure in the company of my women and delighted in my music. I was a queen with two crowns! I had everything. But now I am consumed with sorrows-my heart is ravaged with tears. I cry out unanswered!"

Then she would grow defiant, her old spirit burgeoning. "Never fear, I will not cease to cry!" she a.s.sured Amaria. "I will not weary; I will raise my voice like a trumpet, so that it may reach the ears of my sons. They will deliver me!"

Hearing the bells, her breast was filled with hope surging anew, and she was in a ferment, desperate to know what they betokened. She could not sit, but got up and paced about, up and down, up and down the chamber, hugging herself tightly, as Amaria watched her, dismay all over her face. She had been in the cathedral this morning; she had gone, as she often did, to be shriven, not liking that snooty chaplain charged with the cure of the Queen's soul. And she had heard of the King's victory. But, as usual, she forbore to say anything of what she heard beyond these walls.

Eleanor was well on the way to convincing herself that Richard and the Young King-and perhaps even Geoffrey-were coming to free her. "The day of my deliverance is here, I know it!" she breathed. "And then I shall come again to dwell in my native land. Please, O G.o.d, let it be so!" Amaria looked away, unable to bear much more of this.

The door to the chamber opened. Ranulf Glanville stood there, his attractively craggy, clever face wearing a look of jubilation. For one blissful moment Eleanor thought he was going to tell her that she was free. She even got as far as thinking that she would be bountiful toward him when she was restored to power, for he had been a considerate gaoler ... But with his first words her hopes were savagely dashed.

"My lady, I am commanded by the King to inform you that your sons have submitted to his authority, and that King Louis has conceded defeat. The bells you can hear are being rung in celebration of the peace that has been agreed. They are being sounded everywhere, for the whole of England rejoices!"

Eleanor sank down into a chair, feeling as if she had been winded. She could not speak, so great was her disappointment.

Glanville was looking at her, not unsympathetically. No fool, he would have guessed that she might misunderstand the reason for the rejoicings.

"Are you able to give me news of my sons?" she managed to ask.

"I am at liberty to say that the breach between them and the King has been healed; he has excused their treason on account of their youth. In the circ.u.mstances, the King has been very generous, although I am not allowed to discuss the terms of the peace settlement with you, my lady. What I can say is that, out of affection and love for the princes, he has proclaimed a general amnesty."

Eleanor rose to her feet, hope springing again.

"So I am to be freed after all?" she asked eagerly.

"No, my lady, I am afraid not." Glanville's face was pained.

Eleanor almost reeled at his words, as did Amaria, who burst into noisy tears. This was altogether too much to bear.

"Then how can it be a general amnesty, if I am excluded?" Eleanor shrilled.

Glanville looked uncomfortable. Clearly, he was debating with himself how much he dared say to her. "I am probably exceeding my orders," he said, "but the King made known his belief that his sons had been led astray by troublemakers. He named the King of France ... and yourself."

Of course. Someone had to take the blame and be punished. Henry needed his sons: they were his heirs, although she suspected that he had conceded them even less than before as the price of making peace. It was politic, indeed necessary, to restore good relations with them as soon as possible. But for that to happen, there had to be a scapegoat, someone at whom people could point a finger and think: she was the evil genius behind their rebellion. They were not to blame.

She could never, in her worst nightmares, have envisaged that Henry could be so vengeful.

-- The King had triumphed, and for a time the talk in the marketplace and inns of Sarum was all of that. Good King Henry, the people called him, forgetting their horror at the murder of Becket and how they had vilified him then. All that mattered to them now was that he had been victorious against his enemies, as kings should be. Some could remember the trials of the weak Stephen's reign, and knew how to appreciate a strong ruler like this one. For weeks the taverns resonated with the sound of ballads bawled tunelessly in honor of the King's real-and imagined-exploits.

Clearly, Queen Eleanor, the one who was shut up in the castle and had not been freed-heads nodded significantly over that-was much to blame. She had caused the war, beyond any doubt, and that devil, Louis of France. She was an unnatural woman, betraying her lord like that. But no one was really surprised. There had been other rumors over the years, scandalous ones at that, and probably all true, given what they knew now. The people fell to whispering ...

Yet as time pa.s.sed, in its normal seasonal cycle for the good folk of Sarum, but dismally slowly for Eleanor, incarcerated in her tower, the mood of the people changed. By varied and circuitous routes, other rumors had reached them, rumors that offended their peasant sensibilities and their ingrained sense of right and wrong.