There was just one obstacle: he had a wife already, of course. But both Eleanor and the Pope had proved obdurate, to his chagrin. Neither bribes nor veiled threats could move His Holiness, and that b.i.t.c.h at Sarum was determined to hold onto her lands, come what may. Small good they would do her, shut up as she was, he thought vindictively.

He went to see Rosamund, although it caused him infinite pain to do so; he visited as often as he could get away, and each time he found her in worse condition. He realized she was gone from him forever, the woman he had loved, and in her place was a wraith whose mind was focused on repentance and the hope of Heaven to come. That much, and no more, had the nuns done for her.

Each time he left her, he was in a ferment of grief and longing for what could no more be. Back at court, seated restlessly at his place at the high table, or departing for the hunt, he would catch sight of Alys, alluring and sinuous in her clinging silk bliauts, and feel the old familiar excitement burgeoning. After a time, he became aware that she was watching him too, with her catlike eyes, and posing provocatively to catch his attention. Richard, he knew, had little time for her; Richard was too preoccupied with fighting and whoring, and Alys meant little to him, beyond the fact that she was a great prize in the royal marriage market.

The Pope had not spoken in his favor; Eleanor had refused to go into a nunnery. He was as far from remarrying as he was from growing wings and taking flight, but he wanted Alys in his bed, and no longer cared whether she was there legally or sinfully. And neither, it seemed, did she.

He had stolen to her chamber one night after she spent the evening sending him significant glances across the teeming, noisy dining hall. He found her waiting for him in the firelight, clad only in a chemise so fine in texture that it was diaphanous. He took one look and was d.a.m.ned.

Barely had he caught his breath, it seemed, than Alys too was pregnant. Of course, he had to send her away, to a convent in the wilds of Norfolk, while warding off eager inquiries from Louis as to wedding plans. It was at that point that the news he most dreaded to hear came from G.o.dstow. Rosamund was dead.

So here he was, approaching the church door in trepidation, come to mourn his love in private. The abbess had been waiting to greet him at the gatehouse, and given him permission to enter the enclosure, marveling at how the King had aged since he had first come there with his lady love. He was now a broken man of forty-three, grizzled of hair and portly of body, his ravaged face grooved with the lines of care and sorrow. Whatever the right and wrong of it, he had truly loved his mistress-no one could doubt that.

Henry found himself alone in the church. A single lamp burned in the chancel, signifying that G.o.d was here in His house. The King bowed his head in respect, then paced slowly toward the altar and the freshly laid tombstone before it. She was there, beneath the chancel pavement, his Rosamund, no longer fair but food for worms. The thought broke him. He sank to his knees before the grave, weeping uncontrollably, vowing that he would build a fine stone sepulchre to the memory of his beloved, and have it adorned with silken palls and lit by candles. It should be lovingly tended by the nuns; he would pay them handsomely, he swore, and grant many favors to the abbey.

So lost in anguish was he that he did not see the sad-faced, cobweb-fine gray shadow glide slowly up behind him with its filmy arms outstretched, and hover there for a long, wistful moment before vanishing into the gloom of the vaulted chapel-but he felt even more bereft.

53.

Winchester, 1180

Eleanor was fifty-eight, and she had been a prisoner for seven long and difficult years. Yet nowadays her prison was a gilded cage appropriate to her rank, for after her visit to Winchester, the security that surrounded her had been relaxed by degrees. The monotonous tedium of Sarum was gradually ameliorated, as the King had been increasingly pleased to permit her to lodge at different places-in Northamptonshire, in Berkshire, and at the royal castle at Ludgershall in Wiltshire. Always, she was in the custody of the charming Ranulf Glanville or the taciturn Ralph FitzStephen, and attended by the faithful Amaria. Henry had never allowed her any additional personal servants.

Now she was comfortably installed at Winchester again, in greater state than hitherto, occupying well-appointed chambers, with the choicest food on her table and a newly appointed chamberlain to order her small household.

By and by, the rules had been relaxed, and she was permitted to write the occasional letter-although not to her sons; Henry still did not trust her enough for that-and to receive news of the outside world. Ranulf Glanville, whom she now accounted a dear friend, often imparted snippets of information at the dinner table. Amaria, in her forays to the market and through seemingly idle chatter with the castle servants, picked up a lot more, which, these days she was less reluctant to repeat to her mistress. Thus it was that Eleanor learned of Rosamund's death, although not of the strange rumors that had begun to circulate about it, or of the great scandal of the King living openly with their son Richard's betrothed; both Glanville and Amaria were anxious to protect the Queen from anything that might cause her pain and distress. Yet the gossip on both counts was rife throughout the kingdom and beyond.

Eleanor indeed wondered why Richard's marriage to Alys had not yet taken place. Both were of age, and ripe for bedding-and Aquitaine needed an heir. The Young King had sired a son on Queen Marguerite three years ago, although sadly his little William died soon after birth. Eleanor felt deeply grieved that she had never seen any of her grandchildren; it was a continuing sorrow to be cut off from her flesh and blood.

Had Louis been pressing for Alys's marriage? He had good reason to chafe at the delay, but she suspected that Henry had some devious reason of his own for putting it off. And Richard seemed to be in no hurry. She heard that he was still much occupied with enforcing his authority in Aquitaine-and shuddered to think what that might mean.

By all reports, Matilda was contentedly producing baby after baby in Germany, and Joanna seemed to have settled down happily in Sicily, although something Ranulf let slip had disturbed Eleanor.

"They say that King William has adopted many of the customs of his Moorish subjects," he told her, "and that Queen Joanna lives entirely in seclusion."

"Don't tell me he has a harem!" Eleanor had interjected sharply. She'd seen harems in Constantinople and the lands of the Turks during the long-ago crusade, and knew what ills they concealed.

Ranulf looked ill at ease. "I did hear something of the sort," he disclosed, "but the Queen his wife has her own apartments."

So poor Joanna was having to deal with her lord's infidelity right from the first, Eleanor thought, dismayed. If she had been given her head, she would have hastened across the seas and s.n.a.t.c.hed her daughter back, but there was no hope of that. She must endure the knowledge of Joanna's situation, just as Joanna herself was having to learn to bear it. But how uncivilized of King William to expect his wife to tolerate a harem in the palace! Eleanor was fuming inside.

It was Ranulf Glanville who informed Eleanor when John was made nominal King of Ireland, and when her daughter Eleanor was sent to Castile to marry King Alfonso. It was hard to believe that little Eleanor, with her heart-shaped face, was nineteen and a bride. How the years had flown-and so many of them, latterly, wasted. She felt weary with the futility of it all.

"The Lord Geoffrey has been knighted by the King," her custodian told her one rainy July evening.

"I rejoice that my lord now enjoys good relations with our sons," Eleanor replied, remembering that Henry and his three eldest had kept such a magnificent court together last Christmas at Angers that it was still spoken of with wonder.

"G.o.d be thanked, they are at peace at last." Ranulf's sentiments were genuine. "I hear that the Young King has been rushing around all over France fighting in tournaments and carrying off the prizes. His fame is sung everywhere."

"Henry will like that," Eleanor observed.

"Indeed he does. In fact, the King has been so delighted by the Young King's many triumphs that he has restored to him in full all the lands and possessions he had taken away." It did Eleanor's heart good to hear that, but-as always-there was, underlying her pleasure, a nagging sadness and resentment that she herself was never embraced by Henry's evident desire to set things right.

Richard, she later heard, had achieved great victories in Aquitaine.

"He is now acknowledged one of the great generals of our age," Ranulf told her proudly.

Yes, she thought, but at what cost? What violence and bloodshed has he committed, at Henry's behest, to earn that reputation? Her heart bled for Aquitaine, and she could take little joy in Richard's fame, although she was gratified to hear that he, like the Young King before him, had been received with honor by his father. Please G.o.d, matters were now mended between them.

"My lady, the King of France is dead," announced Amaria, coming into the royal lodgings with a basket of autumn herbs for the simples she liked to make, swearing by her own remedies for aching joints and blistered heels.

A great wave of sadness engulfed Eleanor. Whatever his failings, Louis had once, many years in the past, been her husband. She had done him many wrongs, and there had been some bitterness between them, but he'd been a good and devout man who stood by her and her sons in their hour of need, and done many good deeds in his days-and now he was no more.

She went to her chapel and sank to her knees to pray for Louis; he had been a saintly man, and surely his soul was even now on its winged flight to Heaven. She had known he was ill. The year before, he came to England on a pilgrimage to St. Thomas's shrine at Canterbury, in company with the thousands who now flocked to keep vigil at Becket's tomb, hoping for one of the miracles that the saintly Archbishop was widely reputed to work. Louis had needed such a miracle. He was in poor health and not really fit enough to make the journey. But Henry afforded him a splendid reception, and they went together in procession to the cathedral, where Louis made offerings of a great ruby ring and other precious gifts.

Then he had hastened back to France to prepare for the crowning of his heir, Philip Augustus, now grown almost to manhood. Louis had not been there to see it. A ma.s.sive apoplexy suddenly struck him down and effectively ended his reign. He had lingered for more than a year, as his crafty and ambitious son seized the reins of government-and now, poor shadow of his former self, he had gone to his much-deserved rest. His former wife paid him the compliment of her tears as she looked back on his virtues and tried to forget that he had once been a timorous young man who drove her to distraction because he was better suited to the cloister than to wielding a scepter and doing his duty by her in bed.

"It's odd that all that talk of divorce suddenly died down," Eleanor reflected as she and Amaria sat at their embroidery in a window embrasure, enjoying an unseasonably warm breeze. Over the years, she had painstakingly taught her maid the art of plying her needle to decorative effect, and Amaria proved a willing pupil. They were now working on an altar frontal for the chapel.

Amaria remained silent, but that was nothing unusual. She had the peasant's way of few words.

"The last I heard, Henry had appealed to the Pope, but that was years ago," Eleanor went on. "He must have thought better of it. Nevertheless, being thwarted by His Holiness should not stop him from marrying Richard to Alys. They should have been wed long since." She rethreaded some red silk through her needle, then looked up. To her consternation, she saw that Amaria's eyes were filled with tears.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Nothing," muttered the woman.

"No one weeps for nothing," Eleanor said. "Have you had bad news?"

Amaria shook her head. "Really, my lady, 'tis nothing."

"Now you have me worried!" her mistress declared. "Tell me what troubles you. I command it!"

"You won't like it," Amaria said in a low voice.

"Tell me!" ordered Eleanor, really worried now. "Has someone died?" Her heart was instantly pounding. If it was one of her children, she did not think she could bear it.

Amaria braced herself. "There be rumors that the King has got the Princess Alys with child." She omitted to mention that these rumors had been fueling the public imagination for years now, and that they alleged far more than she'd revealed.

Eleanor caught her breath. So ... Everything suddenly became clear. She instinctively knew that rumor spoke truth-or something like it. How could Henry have stooped so low? To compromise the honor of a princess of France was bad enough, but when that princess was his son's betrothed-that was another matter entirely! Disgust consumed her.

When she regained her composure, another thought struck home. How long had this been going on? Was it the reason why she had heard no more of a divorce? And had she been the only person left in ignorance of what was going on? If Amaria had heard these rumors, then it was a certainty that most of England had too.

She wondered if Louis had known, if he had spoken out. But surely not. He would hardly have gone to Becket's shrine with Henry in the circ.u.mstances. And Richard-where did he stand in all this? She was outraged on Richard's behalf, and incensed against Henry.

She turned to Amaria, who was concentrating furiously on her sewing.

"What more do you know of this matter?" she probed.

"Only what that rumor said, lady," Amaria lied. She was not about to repeat the gossip that accused Alys of having borne the King at least three children that died, or the shocked expletives of people scandalized to hear of Henry's vile behavior. Nor would she say anything of those other rumors ... Had it been the King who had put them about, perhaps seeking yet another pretext to put Eleanor away-this time for good?

But Eleanor was ahead of her. "Talking of rumors," she said, resolutely moving on from the horrible gossip about Henry, "I overheard Fulcold"-the chamberlain-"talking with Master FitzStephen the other day. They were in the outer chamber, but the door had been left open. I could not catch everything they said, but I am sure that I heard Fulcold say, 'All the world knows that Queen Eleanor murdered Rosamund.' And Master FitzStephen, dour old fellow that he is, actually laughed, so I supposed the remark to have been made in jest. But what an odd thing to say. How could I murder Rosamund, shut up as I have been these seven years?"

Amaria mentally girded her loins; Eleanor could almost see her doing it.

"There have been tales to that effect," she said at length.

"What tales? How could there be?" She could not credit it. Why should people always believe ill of her, especially when there was not the slightest justification for it? This really was too much!

"Aye, there be all kinds of silly stories. I took little notice of them, they was so far-fetched, and as I knew them to be false-and I said so often, mark ye, my lady! But folks likes to believe such things."

Eleanor knew that. They livened up the daily round of ordinary people's lives, provided the excitement that was lacking elsewhere. But she hated the idea of herself being the focus of such stupid and unjust calumnies.

"Tell me what they say of me!" she demanded, her anger rising.

"They say the King kept the Lady Rosamund-the Fair Rosamund, they call her-"

"Putrid by now, I should think!" Eleanor interrupted.

"They say you hated her, my lady, and that the King kept her shut up in a tower at Woodstock, for fear you would discover her, and had a maze put around the tower, so that you could never find the way in."

"There was a maze, but it was built for her pleasure," Eleanor said. "This is just nonsense."

"Aye, it is nonsense, I know. Then you are supposed to have found a clue of thread or silk from the lady's sewing basket, and followed it through the maze until you discovered her in her tower."

"And then I supposedly murdered her!" Eleanor sniffed furiously. "I should like to know how!"

"Saving your pardon, but there are lots of gruesome stories," Amaria admitted. "Some say you stripped her naked and roasted her between two fires, with venomous toads on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s; some say you let her bleed to death in a hot bath, some that you poisoned her, and others that you stabbed her with a dagger after putting out her eyes. I say some people have a vivid imagination."

Eleanor had been listening to all this in mounting horror. "How could people think these things of me?" she cried. "It is all lies, vile lies. Yet they believe it, against all logic. I dare say some think this supposed murder is the cause for which I am still shut up."

"A few do," Amaria confirmed. "Although I have heard other people scoff at the rumors. Not everyone believes them, mark me."

"But some do, and that is what offends me!" Eleanor cried. "How am I to defend myself against such slanders? I am powerless. Surely people realize that I could not possibly have had anything to do with Rosamund's death."

As the words were spoken, a salutary inner voice reminded her that she had once taken pleasure in imagining herself doing vengeful violence on Rosamund's body-and that she had rejoiced in the most un-Christian manner on hearing news of her rival's death. But I would never actually have done her harm, she told herself; G.o.d knows, I shrink from bloodshed. And when I was told of her sufferings before she died, I realized that what is written in Scripture is true: Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord: I will repay. And then I felt remorse for my unseemly joy in her death, and a belated pity for her.

"I will write to the King," she vowed. "I will acquaint him of these terrible calumnies and demand that he publicly refute them. He must know that, even had I had the opportunity, I do not have it in me to do such a thing."

Ralph FitzStephen looked dubious when the Queen asked for writing materials so she could send a letter to the King. She had never ventured to write to Henry before, and he wasn't sure if it was permitted or not; but, in the absence of specific instructions, he grudgingly gave his consent.

Eleanor's message was to the point: "Eleanor, by the grace of G.o.d, Queen of England, to her Lord Henry, King of England, greetings," she began. Then she simply said it had come to her notice that rumor unjustly accused her of murdering Rosamund de Clifford, and asked him to issue a public proclamation declaring her innocence. Left like that, it looked a bit abrupt, so she added two short sentences: "I trust you are in health. The Lord have you in His keeping." Then she signed her name, showed it to a suspicious FitzStephen, and sealed it.

There was no response.

54.

Winchester, 1181

Geoffrey and Constance were married-it had been a summer wedding-and Henry had gone straight back to England afterward and made his b.a.s.t.a.r.d son, the other Geoffrey, Lord Chancellor of England. Eleanor shook her head in dismay at both pieces of news. Devious her Geoffrey might be, but Constance was worse, and was probably running rings around him. As for the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, the King was heaping far too many rewards on him: he was Archdeacon of Rouen, treasurer of York Minster, and the proud owner of two castles in Anjou. She could foresee jealousy poisoning his relations with his legitimate siblings, and of course there was no telling where the young man's ambition might lead him. Henry, she feared, was making a rod for his own back.

Recent news from over the sea was not good. Joanna had borne, with great difficulty, a son who died at birth. And Matilda was in exile with her husband, who had quarreled with the Emperor and fled from Germany; the word was that the couple might seek refuge in England. Eleanor wept for her daughters, and prayed for Matilda to come home, that she might comfort her. It had been thirteen years since she had set eyes on her, and she hungered to see her. She longed to see all her children. Her heart quailed at the thought of another lonely, unhappy Christmas.

She would have thought that eight years of imprisonment had taught her patience and resignation, but it had not. She'd relived the events leading up to her sons' rebellion a thousand times and still felt, deep within her, that she had been right to support them. She knew that if she had her chance again, she would make the same choice, because it had been the only, the right, choice. A mother's instinct was to defend her children. Yet what a terrible price she had paid for it. Never hearing from them, by Henry's express order, she wondered if they still cherished the same affection for her-or if she was now but a distant memory in their young minds.

Thank G.o.d her spirit was still strong, unquenched by adversity, even if her body was aging. She had lost weight, and her mirror reflected a haunted face with the skin stretched lightly over the bones beneath; it was too pale from her long confinement, even if she was allowed to take the air in the garden these days. And there was always a yearning look in her eyes.

Of Henry, she rarely thought these days, unless it was with sadness or in pa.s.sing. There was no room left in her for bitterness. She had prayed often for the grace to forgive, and with the long pa.s.sage of time, found that such grace had been accorded her.

Occasionally, at night, when she lay awake with Amaria snoring peacefully beside her-she'd gotten used to that, but G.o.d knew it had taken all her patience-she would imagine that it was her husband who lay there in the darkness, and would remember his hand reaching across to claim her, and the weight of his body as he mounted hers. Those were the worst moments, for even now she could feel the surge of desire, almost to the point where she feared she might go mad if she could not a.s.suage it. Henry had been such an exceptional lover that she could never forget the joy and sense of liberation that she'd experienced in his arms. But then she would find herself back on the old treadmill, remembering that he had never been faithful to her, and that all the love they shared had not counted for much in the long run. Her memories were forever tainted; it was best not to think of the past, but to dwell on the mundane round of her daily life and the things of the spirit. But oh, how she yearned for a man to warm her bed in the darkest reaches of the night!

55.