Captive Queen (43 page)

They were very subdued today, her daughters. It had been decided, by Henry, with her reluctant approval, that they should be brought up by the good nuns of Fontevrault until such time as they were married. Eleanor knew there could be no better education for girls of high birth. Her family—and Henry’s—had a long tradition of sending daughters to Fontevrault. But the decision saddened her. She would miss Eleanor and Joanna, and felt that in some way she was abandoning them, much as she had abandoned two other little girls all those years before. Recently, at long last, in response to her own importunings, she received another letter from Marie, to which she had felt constrained to reply in conventional fashion. She took pride in the knowledge that the young Countess of Champagne had inherited her own love of music and poetry, but there was no true bond there—it had been loosed long ago. It was like writing to a stranger. She did not have the will to pursue the correspondence further.

She smiled encouragingly at her little girls as a pang gripped her heart. It was for the best that they be entrusted to the good sisters of Fontevrault, she told herself. Henry had warned her that she would have enough on her hands trying to control her rebellious vassals, and that most girls of high birth were reared by nuns. Yet she had prided herself that, contrary to the common custom of royalty, she had until recently kept all her children with her. She wondered if this consignment of Eleanor and Joanna to a convent was some form of revenge on Henry’s part, or if he feared she might go behind his back and make alliances between his daughters and Aquitainian lords, to keep the latter sweet. He would not want to waste the fruit of his loins on such ingrates—she understood that.

That left young John, little more than a year old. Try as she might, Eleanor still could not bring herself to love him, this child conceived in sorrow and born in betrayal. His existence conjured up too many memories of that terrible Christmastide when she had gone to Woodstock and come face-to-face with catastrophe and ruin, and then endured that bloody, agonizing travail at Oxford. No, John was the fruit of a marriage in its death throes, and sometimes she could not bear to look upon him. His nurses had the care of him.

John was going to Fontevrault too. Young though he was, Eleanor urged Henry to consider him for a career in the Church, and Henry had agreed. As the youngest of four sons, it did not seem likely that there would be much of a landed inheritance for him, so the Church seemed an obvious choice. John would be brought up as an oblate, in preparation for his ordination to the priesthood. The gift of a son to God would undoubtedly be one of the best ways of storing up treasure in Heaven, for both parents. And God knows, we need it, Eleanor thought bitterly. She would not miss her last-born; indeed, she was thankful that others would have the rearing of him. Her guilt was overwhelming.

But there was one other whom she would miss, whose smile would never again gladden her day. Poor Petronilla had died three months before, the victim of her own helpless predilection for the fruit of the grape. At the end she had been comatose, her skin yellowed, her belly horribly distended. Eleanor had wept pitifully for her sister, but could not deny that death had come as a merciful release. But there was now an empty space in her life, which Petronilla had once filled; there were too many empty spaces, she reflected mournfully. Sadness seemed to be her lot these days.

Amiable Abbess Isabella had gone to her well-earned rest many years before, and it was her successor, Abbess Audeburge, who was waiting to receive them; her monks, nuns, and lady boarders drawn up in a respectful semicircle behind her. As the royal cavalcade drew to a halt, the entire convent fell to its knees and the abbess stepped forward. Audeburge was a capable, dynamic woman whom Eleanor had long liked and admired. She knew she could not have entrusted her children to a better guardian. And her confidence seemed to be justified, for when Eleanor and Joanna were formally committed to her care, Abbess Audeburge bent to kiss them affectionately and summoned forward two of her boarders with a parakeet and a monkey to distract her new charges, instantly winning their hearts. Then she reached out her strong, aristocratic hands to take John from his nurse, removed his thumb from his mouth, and gentled him, receiving a tentative smile in return. Before Eleanor knew it, the good-byes had been said and her children spirited away by a bevy of smiling nuns.

They could not tarry. After mass in the soaring white abbey church, Henry paid his respects to the abbess and prepared to depart. He had planned to escort Eleanor to Poitiers and see her safely installed there, but was warned of a serious revolt farther south. The Count of Angoulême had allied with the particularly troublesome seigneurs of Lusignan and other malcontent lords, who had all risen in the latest protest against Henry’s rule.

“You cannot deal with this alone,” Henry told Eleanor when they brought him the news, some little way north of Fontevrault. “I will summon my lieges and ride south with you to Lusignan. Your presence at my side will remind these arrogant fools to whom they owe allegiance. Then
you
can return by a safe route to Poitiers, and
I
will teach your rebels a lesson.”

“They will resent it,” she had warned, in clipped tones.

“Are
you
going to face them in battle?” Henry retorted. “Besides, in defying me, they defy you. I want to see Aquitaine settled before I leave you in charge.”

Eleanor had not answered, but rode on, tight-lipped.

37

   They rode south, toward Lusignan. As they approached, they could see its castle, nestling on a hill above the Vonne Valley. Eleanor recalled Henry telling her, in happier days, that his diabolic ancestress Melusine had commanded it to be built.

Poitiers, Eleanor’s destination, lay not far to the east. As speed was essential to frustrating the rebels’ plans, Henry, hell-bent on marching on Lusignan, was unable to escort her to her city. Instead, he had summoned Earl Patrick of Salisbury, his military governor and deputy in Aquitaine, to ensure that the duchess reached Poitiers in safety. And here was Earl Patrick now, riding along the dusty road, a small force of men-at-arms at his heels.

Eleanor knew and liked Patrick. He had given long years of loyal service to the Empress Matilda and to King Henry, and during the year he had been in Aquitaine, proved himself an able, sensible ruler, forging a tactful and politic friendship with her seneschal, Raoul de Faye, and treating her vassals in a conciliatory fashion. She hoped he would stay on, after the handover of power had taken place; she would value his company and his sound advice.

But first there was Henry. The moment of farewell had come. It would not be a final farewell, of course, but there was little likelihood of them meeting in the near future. It seemed strange, that such a great passion should meet its sorry end on a remote country roadside, with no formalities and no one else even being aware of the cataclysmic event that was taking place.

Henry was impatient to be gone, to fight his battle and to have the awkward moment over and done with. He reined in his restive mount, leaned across his saddle, gave Eleanor the briefest of kisses, and gruffly wished her Godspeed. She remained seated erect on her palfrey, regarding him with sad eyes, which he would not meet.

“Good-bye, my lord,” she said softly. “I pray God keep you safe, and that we may meet again in this world.”

Henry nodded to her—she suspected, indeed hoped, that he could not trust himself to speak—then wheeled around and shouted to his train to follow him. Eleanor watched as he rode away from her toward Lusignan, clouds of dust in his wake. Then she turned to Earl Patrick, forced a bright smile, and spurred her horse in the direction of Poitiers. Home. She was going home, after her long exile.

   For all Eleanor’s sorrows, it was wonderful to be back in residence in the Maubergeonne Tower. The duchess’s apartments had recently been refurbished, and were both spacious and luxurious. Eleanor walked about them hugging herself and fingering in delight the soft squirrel counterpane on the bed and the silky fabric of the cushions. Every room was vivid with color: deep indigo blues, forest greens, and warm reds. There were hangings depicting erotic scenes of nymphs bathing in mythical streams and lovers entwined in forbidden pleasures. Vases of aquamarine glass and porphyry graced the brightly painted cupboards and windowsills. In the duchess’s solar, a silver ewer of wine had thoughtfully been placed on the wide table before the fireplace, and an ivory chess set was left awaiting her pleasure, while in the corner of the room, a portable altar stood on an armoire spread with an embroidered cloth.

Supper was a delight. Truffles! She hadn’t tasted them in years, and they were as ambrosia to one who’d had to put up with the less refined cuisine of England. They were followed by a plate of duck roasted in its own fat, which was utterly delicious! And peaches and apricots, plump and juicy, such as were never seen in the kingdoms of the North. It was a happier homecoming than she had anticipated.

As she lay back on fine linen sheets in her bathtub, with Mamille and Torqueri and Florine washing her with herb-scented water and massaging limbs that were aching after days in the saddle, Eleanor began to unwind and to feel a sense of well-being that had long been absent from her life. Here, she was the duchess. She could please herself. She did not have to consider the moods and caprices of her husband. Almost, she felt a sense of liberation.

To boost her new confidence, she began ordering the finest textiles to be made into gowns and cloaks, and commissioned the goldsmiths of Poitiers to make her elegant jewelery—circlets, bracelets, and brooches—in the latest styles. Wearing her fine new attire made her feel more like her bold former self again, and helped her slough off the feelings of worthlessness that had been the legacy of Henry’s betrayal. She forced herself not to think of him, and to embrace her new life wholeheartedly. For this was what she had long wanted, she told herself.
Yet not like this, not like this!
cried her persistent inner voice.

Resolutely, she occupied herself with the business of ruling her duchy, taking a particular and genuine interest in every aspect of its welfare. Daily, she would occupy her high seat at the head of the council table and patiently listen to the arguments and advice of her seigneurs. Important decisions always had to be referred to Henry for ratification, and there was a constant stream of messengers between Aquitaine and the North. No one, especially Eleanor, liked this alien interference in the affairs of her domains; the duke had never been accepted by her people, and he was hated and resented. But power over her lands was his right, as her husband, and she kept reminding herself, in all fairness, that Henry was allowing her a considerable degree of autonomy.

When she was not in council, she was out riding or hawking, or supervising the children who were left to her. Presently, with Henry’s blessing, Young Henry and his wife Marguerite traveled south to enter her household, joining Richard, Geoffrey, and Constance; and with this blithe crowd of young people to cheer her, life in the palace was lively and joyful, a panacea for Eleanor’s inner heartache. She was never alone; she had made sure of that, having summoned sixty ladies to wait upon her and cheer her days, and there was always dear Raoul de Faye to give her succor and advice in the business of governing—and to pay her meaningful compliments, as if he still hoped to win her favor in more intimate ways.

This was very heartening, for she was forty-six years old and given to looking anxiously in her mirror for the dreaded signs of encroaching age. Yet the image reflected back in the burnished silver was of a fine-boned woman with lips that were still full and eyes that could flash wittily and invite to conversation … and more. Beneath the veil, her red-gold hair was paler than it had been, and well silvered with gray, but it was still long and luxuriant, and rippled down over breasts that were yet full and voluptuous. Maybe, she thought wistfully, just maybe, she might even take another lover, since Henry was no longer interested. But it would not be Raoul. She loved him, and depended on him, as a friend and an uncle, but she did not want him in her bed.