Beloved Enemy (49 page)

“You must get up, Madam. The chaplain just woke me to say the king is ready to leave.” It was the voice of Emma, one of her women.

“Now?” The tiny room was in darkness but for the pool of light cast by the flickering torch. “At supper the king said we would not move on until noon at the very earliest. Have the bells rung for Prime?”

“Not yet, Madam. The first cock was crowing just a moment ago. The king wishes to move on at once.”

The first cock indeed! Eleanor started to laugh then groaned aloud. Sweet St. Radegonde, it seemed like she had just fallen asleep. “All right. I will need a moment to dress properly.”

Sometimes, she suspected Henry took a perverse delight in unsettling everyone. She sternly reminded herself of his oft-repeated dictum that a king must know his country and his people; the only way to accomplish this was periodic visits to outlying parts of the kingdom. Since Eleanor wholeheartedly agreed, she had little cause for complaint.

Emma lit the candle in its iron holder then wakened the two women sleeping on straw pallets. Eleanor sat up and yawned, shivering in the chill of a September morn. Her limbs ached, her neck was stiff, but she felt warm and peaceful inside. It hardly seemed possible she had made love on these straw pallets on the dirt floor of this—well, hovel was the only word for it.

When, as now, the court was on the move, many wagons carried all the administrative records, bedding, furniture, plates, pots, hangings, and linen, to make habitable the chill interiors of remote stone castles or primitive wooden halls. But last night, at Henry’s whim, the enormous royal train of 150 had been forced to camp in the middle of a forest, where none of these amenities were of any use. Indeed, Eleanor had witnessed several knights draw their swords over who would sleep in a tiny, evil-smelling hut that swine would have disdained.

“See if you can find some water to wash in,” she said to her women who, rubbing the sleep from their eyes, had stumbled to their feet. “And something to drink. It is too much to hope for a crust of bread.”

Uncomfortable as she was to have been awakened so early, it came as no surprise. Not after almost three years of living in England. When she and Henry were at one of their royal residences—Westminster, Windsor, Clarendon—life was invariably hectic, as Henry hurled himself into one activity after another, on his feet from morning until night, and expecting everyone around him to do likewise. But touring with him was unpredictable and chaotic in the extreme. After the birth of her last two children—another son, named Henry, born in 1155, two months after his father was crowned, and a daughter born the following year, called Matilda in honor of Henry’s mother—Eleanor had vowed she would no longer accompany him on these impossible tours. But when Henry cajoled her, she always gave in, her resistance melting like wax before flame.

Although Henry always promised to be consistent in his itinerary, the pattern never changed. If he announced to his vast entourage that they would leave at daybreak he was sure to change his mind and leave at noon. If he ordered everyone to be ready by noon, he would decide, like today, to depart at cock-crow. What a difference from the leisurely progresses of her grandfather and father, where every stop was carefully planned and adhered to, so as to ensure maximum comfort for everyone. The very idea of missing a well-prepared meal, at home or away, was unthinkable. “The Franks to battle, the Provenceaux to table,” was a common maxim.

Outside, Eleanor could hear the usual racket as the members of Henry’s traveling household bustled to load packhorses and mule-carts, saddle the riding horses, and grab something to eat from the remains of last night’s meal—if they were lucky.

“Are you up, Nell?” The familiar figure, clad in a short green mantle with draped green hood, and scuffed brown boots, burst into the hovel like a whirlwind of energy. “God’s eyes, you’re still abed.” Henry strode over to the stack of pallets, knelt down on one knee, pulled her to a sitting position, and gave her a great hug. “You’re not ill?” He felt the rounded curve of her stomach, just beginning to bulge with their fourth child.

“No, no, I’m fine. But you said we wouldn’t leave until noon.”

His lips lingered on hers. “Did I? Hmm. I must reach York before Vespers, catch the sheriff there off-guard, and see if he’s attending to his duties in the proper manner.”

“York! Where are we now?”

“Somewhere in the wilds of Yorkshire, I should think. Does it matter? Up, my lady, up, up, up! Make ready. No time to waste.” He jumped to his feet, pulling her with him. “What a sour look! You should be purring like a tame cat after last night.”

He was gone before she had time to protest. But he was right. She did, indeed, feel like purring.

An hour later, followed by a long line of creaking wagons, they were on the road—if one could call this muddy, deeply rutted track left by the Romans a road. In wet weather it would become an impassable bog. When she was carrying a babe, Eleanor sometimes felt more comfortable riding in a litter, but this morning the thought of being jolted up and down through such terrain was more than even her hardy constitution could bear, and she had opted to ride a gentle mare.

Riding next to Eleanor on a large bay stallion, Henry talked earnestly to Thomas, the chancellor, who rode on his other side. She had fervently hoped that Henry would leave him in London, but he had not done so. Eleanor knew Henry took Becket with him everywhere, implicitly trusted his judgment on every issue that concerned the realm, and, generally, regarded him as a boon companion. Although she had made successful attempts to get along with her husband’s chief magnates, such as the co-justiciars, Richard de Lucy and the aging Earl Robert of Leicester, as well as the nobles of Norfolk and Salisbury—even the archbishop of Canterbury had somewhat thawed toward her—the initial dislike between the Norman chancellor and herself had only increased since Henry’s coronation.

It was ridiculous, but Eleanor forced herself to face the humiliating truth: she was jealous. It was not an emotion she had experienced before Henry, and when she recognized its true nature, she was shocked. In her exalted position, there was something shameful in feeling as she did about Thomas.

She did not harbor such feelings about the scholars and wise men—John of Salisbury, Gilbert Foliot, bishop of Hereford, Hugh of Lincoln—whose interests Henry shared and who were always to be found about his court.

Nor did she feel the same about the various doxies she knew Henry dallied with when he was away from her bed and on his own. Jealousy would have been justified in those instances. Except that Eleanor’s sense of pride would not allow her to be seriously troubled by them. Casual fornication, a practice most men indulged in away from their wives, was without significance, and better ignored. After all, Henry was still insatiable where she was concerned, she reflected. In truth, she had never even felt curious about the lowly creatures upon whom he slaked his lust.

Eleanor shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, wishing she had something more substantial than sour ale and last night’s tough game and half-baked bread in her stomach. Well, it would just have to sustain her until Henry chose to stop or they came to a town or village. From the look of this God-forsaken country, that could be hours away.

The rolling green downs and grassy meadows of the midlands had changed to desolate untamed moor pocked with brown gorse, purple heather, and rocky crags that thrust upward from the earth like giant fingers. The weather had held for the last few days but in the pink light of dawn Eleanor noted banks of dark clouds gathered menacingly on the far horizon that could easily result in one of those fierce drenching rains for which the region was famous. A brisk wind whistling down from the Scottish marches had a sharp bite to it that penetrated the heavy cloak lined with red fox fur Henry had had made for her. Holy Mother, how she missed the balmy air of Aquitaine.

“I would have thought the queen would prefer the comfort of the litter,” Thomas said, sliding his dark eyes toward her.

Clearly he resented her presence and would have preferred to have Henry all to himself. So would she.

“Eleanor is a remarkable woman, Thomas. How many wives bounce back from childbed with such ease, travel everywhere while carrying a new babe—another son I feel sure—sleep uncomplainingly in the most wretched hovel, and still manage to look as beautiful and fresh as a rose in bloom?”

Henry’s freckled face broke into a broad grin and he reached out his hand to squeeze hers. Eleanor’s heart turned over. The uncomfortable nights and exhausting days, the dismal food and undrinkable brown ale suddenly became mild pinpricks because he had praised her for enduring them.

The look on Thomas’s face would have curdled milk, she noted with pleasure.

“This will be my third son,” Henry continued, “while poor Louis of France, who has not yet recovered from the loss of Aquitaine—or Eleanor—has only just now married again. I wager he’ll have only more girls with this Castilian wife. Was ever man so cursed?”

Ever since he became king, Henry appeared to gloat over every misfortune that befell Louis. Although it was true that as Henry’s star continued to rise Louis’s descended, Eleanor felt it unseemly to take such satisfaction in his rival’s ill luck. No good would come of it. Now she crossed herself, almost ashamed of her superstitious forebodings.

Unaccountably, the wind died; a pale sun rose into a slate blue sky; the dark clouds vanished. Like everything else in this strange land, even the weather was unpredictable. Off to the right, Eleanor could see the white spire of a church; to the left a small castle hugged a distant hilltop.

Henry turned toward Thomas. “I think it time a stable peace was negotiated between Louis and myself. Something to my advantage, naturally.”

Thomas nodded. “Indeed. I will think of a plan.”

As she listened, a sudden inspiration came to Eleanor. “Henry, I’ve just thought of something. If Louis—”

Thomas interrupted her with an indulgent laugh. “Do you leave the affairs of the realm to us, Madam.”

Ignoring him, Eleanor continued: “If Louis does have another daughter with his new queen—why not offer him our son, Henry, in marriage to her? Then as her dowry, ask for the Vexin back.” She had not suggested their eldest son, William, as the boy, now four, was weak and sickly; despite their constant prayers neither she nor Henry expected him to survive.

“By God’s splendor, what a bold idea!”

Eleanor knew that Henry had always resented giving up the Vexin, that much-prized Norman border territory, as the price for being recognized duke of Normandy.

“Think of the implications,” Eleanor said. “If Louis continues to produce nothing but daughters—who will ultimately reign over France?”

Henry caught his breath. He clapped a hand to his head. “Of course, of course! Henry III, Plantagenet, as the princess’s husband. Our son, king of France and England! What a political genius you are, Nell.” He laughed. “Thomas, you had better look to yourself lest I replace my chancellor with my queen.”

Eleanor was delighted at Henry’s response. At the glance of icy resentment Thomas sent her, she gave an inward shrug. Let the chancellor look to his own laurels. She pushed back the hood of her dark blue traveling cloak. Late morning now, the sun was growing warm.

“How far must we go?” she asked.

“Not far now. We’ve just passed Kirkstall, I believe,” Henry said, pointing to the south, “and are approaching the environs of York.”

Eleanor stifled a sigh of weariness. By Henry’s reckoning, “not far” might mean anything from two to seven hours.

Ahead lay a village of thatched cottages. Behind the village rose a large manor house. On the outskirts of the village a crowd of people were gathered before a huge oak tree with spreading branches whose leaves were just starting to turn a mixture of rust and gold. Under the tree a man sat in a high chair draped with scarlet cloth. He was flanked by two men seated on stools. Behind them stood a priest holding a box. Next to him was a young monk clad, like the priest, in a cowled white robe.

Henry drew rein near the tree then held up one hand. Behind him the long procession ground slowly to a halt.

The man in the chair glanced at the red-and-gold banner with three lions, rampant, carried by the herald. He leapt to his feet and approached Henry with a fawning bow.

“Your Majesty, it is a great honor to have you pass through our humble domains. I am Raoul de Fiennes, lord of this manor, at your service.”

With his long face and large yellow teeth, he reminded Eleanor of a horse.

Henry glanced around him. “What’s happening here that draws such a large crowd?”

“This morning I dispense justice, Sire. Nothing of importance, only the crimes of village folk.” He gestured to the two men sitting on stools. “Here are my steward and my marshal who will act as advisors. Behind them stands Father Joseph of the Cistercian monastery at Fountains Abbey, ready to administer any oaths on his box of relics.”

“Indeed, I am impressed. No wise man acts without counsel,” said Henry. “Now, my lord, we have not yet broken our fast this day. Do you think you will be able to provide nourishment for my entourage?”

De Fiennes looked at the vast train of men and horses, visibly paling as he managed a sickly smile. “Of course, Sire, we will do our best to oblige. My men will return at once to the manor …” He turned to his men and said something in an undertone. They sprang up and ran toward the village.

Henry smiled. “Excellent. Meanwhile Thomas and I will advise you in their stead.”

“There is no need—”

“But I insist. Justice is one of my great interests, and my chancellor, Thomas, has studied law in Bologna. Fortune smiles on you today, my friend.” He beckoned to one of his clerks.

Eleanor repressed a laugh. The poor man did not look at all pleased with what fortune had brought him. Shortly thereafter she was seated on a rough wooden bench while Henry and Thomas occupied the stools of the absent men.

They would never get to York at this rate, Eleanor thought with a yawn, untying the strings of her cloak. She looked with distaste at the rumpled skirts of her dove gray tunic. How she had looked forward to sleeping in a proper bed, soaking her limbs in a tub of hot water, and changing her clothes. She had seen Henry try important cases in the Curia Regis, the English royal council and court of justice, and had tried enough herself in Poitiers to find the prospect, at this moment, not even mildly interesting. Why Henry would waste precious time in this backwater she could not imagine. Her belly rumbled and she wondered what they would be given to eat.