Devil's Brood (35 page)

This was the first time that Richard had been personally confronted with the unpleasant realities of war—that it was not all glory and blaring trumpets and swirling banners. It was not a lesson he’d ever wanted to learn. Looking around for as many of his men as he could find, he said tersely, “Let’s go.”

R
ICHARD MANAGED TO ESCAPE
from Saintes as his father was sweeping into the town. The rebels retreated into the cathedral, held out for a day, and then surrendered. Henry captured more than sixty knights and over four hundred archers, plus all their supplies, weapons, and horses. The cathedral of Saintes and many of the nearby houses were badly damaged, the acrid odor of smoke lingering over the town long after the fighting was done.

H
ENRY SPENT THE REMAINDER
of the spring chasing rebels and fortifying his border strongholds. The news from England continued to be bad, as one after another of his castles fell to the ravaging Scots army. After taking and turning over the castle of Ancenis to Maurice de Craon, Henry summoned his lords and bishops to a great council in Normandy on the Nativity of St John the Baptist.

H
ENRY REACHED BONNEVILLE,
the site of the council, on the evening of June 23. The castle was neither comfortable nor spacious, having been constructed in the eleventh century, and many of his barons had been compelled to seek lodgings in the nearby port of Toques. Henry was indifferent, as usual, to his surroundings, and was soon settled in his bedchamber. He was tired, for he’d been in the saddle since dawn, but these days his thoughts raced and ricocheted around his brain so wildly that sleep was becoming a luxury, one even a king could rarely afford.

“Stay for a while,” he said, and Willem smiled, took a seat on a nearby coffer as Henry dismissed his squires. The earl made easy conversation for a time, soon saw that Henry was not really listening, and fell silent, waiting. Henry walked back and forth, too edgy to sit still. He was already regretting asking Willem to remain, and he was about to tell the other man that he could go off to bed when one of his squires hurried back into the chamber.

“My liege, men have just ridden into the bailey, are seeking an audience with you straightaway. I told the steward that they should wait till the morrow, but when he told me who they were, I thought you’d want to see them. It is the Bishop-elect of Winchester and your uncle, the Lord Ranulf.”

Henry nodded. Richard of Ilchester was one of his most trusted officials. As Archdeacon of Poitiers, he’d supported Henry unwaveringly in the clash with Thomas Becket, even enduring excommunication at the archbishop’s hands. His reward for such loyal service was the bishopric of Winchester. And Ranulf was known to be very close to the king, bound as much by affection as by blood. Their presence here in Bonneville conveyed a message in and of itself, and it was not an encouraging one.

The two men were soon ushered into his chamber. They both looked exhausted, and as soon as greetings were exchanged, Henry told them to find seats, ordering his squire to fetch some wine. They waited until it had been served and they were alone again with Henry and Willem before revealing the urgency of their mission.

“My liege, we have been sent to entreat you to return to England as soon as possible.” The bishop sagged back in his chair, never taking his eyes from Henry’s face. “If you do not, you are in danger of losing your kingdom.”

Henry said nothing, his gaze flicking from the bishop to Ranulf, who took that as his cue to speak up. “My lord king, the bishop speaks true. We have not been able to keep the Scots from ravaging the border lands, and they’ve been raiding into England. They have taken castles at Appleby, Leddell, and Harbottle, and Robert de Vaux has been so hard pressed that he was forced to seek a truce, agreeing to surrender Carlisle if you cannot relieve him by Michaelmas. The Scots king then sacked Warkworth and slaughtered many of the townspeople.”

The bishop leaned forward, his fists clenching on his knees. “We have naught but dire news, my lord. The rebellion has flared up again in the Midlands. They attacked and burned Nottingham and the garrison at Leicester is still holding out, refusing to surrender. And bandits and masterless men are taking advantage of the unrest to commit crimes of their own. The king’s roads are no longer safe; it is as if we are back in the dreadful days when Stephen ruled. There was rioting in London, my liege—in London!”

Henry’s continuing silence was beginning to unnerve them, for they were accustomed to his taking command of a crisis, taking decisive action. Just when the stillness in the chamber was becoming intolerable, Henry turned and looked at the bishop as if he were seeing him for the first time. “You are half dead on your feet, Richard. Go to bed. You, too, Uncle.”

The bishop did, but Ranulf stayed, sensing that Henry’s need for comfort was greater than his own need for sleep. When he looked over at Willem, the earl raised his shoulders in a silent shrug, for he, too, was at a loss. They watched Henry in silence, neither one knowing what to say, and both started when he suddenly spoke out.

“Ranulf? Did you know that the Count of Flanders has sworn upon a fragment of the True Cross that he will invade England within a fortnight from tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Ranulf said, “I know.” He knew, too, that Count Philip had already dispatched an advance guard of three hundred knights, but he could not bring himself to say anything about it, not sure if Henry had heard, and not wanting to give him any more grief.

Henry was staring down at the ashes in the cold, empty hearth. “My French spies tell me that Louis and Philip and their lackeys hope to lure me to England so they can attack Normandy once I am gone.”

“That may well be true, Harry,” Ranulf said carefully. “But England is already in flames. Can you stand by whilst it burns?”

“I truly thought I’d won this accursed war last year with those victories at Dol and Fornham St Genevieve. But this rebellion is like a snake, shedding one skin only to grow another. Does it ever end?”

“You will prevail, Harry,” Willem declared. “I have no doubts whatsoever. I know Philip of Flanders well, and he is no match for you on the battlefield. As for that fool on the French throne, he is no more a leader than that beggar we passed on the road this noon. Men would not follow him out of a burning building. And your sons…” Here he paused, his voice trailing off, and Henry gave him a ghostly grimace of a smile.

“Ah, yes,” he said, “my sons, my loyal, loving sons.”

Ranulf sat up straight, remembering that he did have news that might give Henry comfort. “I can think of no better words to describe Geoff. Have you heard what he did, Harry? He called out the men of Lincoln as their bishop-elect and lay siege to Roger de Mowbray’s castle at Kinnardferry. He captured Roger’s son and razed the castle to the ground. He then joined forces with the Archbishop of York and took de Mowbray’s castle at Kirkby Malzeard.”

“Did he, by God?” This time Henry’s smile was more convincing. “He is a good lad, is Geoff.” He’d picked up his wine cup, but now set it down, untouched. “I thought I told you to go to bed, Uncle. You, too, Willem. I need you both alert and awake for the council on the morrow.”

Willem did as he was bid, but Ranulf still hesitated. “I am not tired,” he lied, “if you want to talk…”

“No,” Henry said, “I am going to bed myself.”

“Shall I summon your squires?”

“No…not yet. I want to be alone for a while.”

Ranulf looked searchingly into the younger man’s face. Priests often spoke of life as a “vale of tears,” warning that “all is vanity and vexation of spirit,” reminding their flocks that “man that is born of woman is of few days, and full of trouble.” Yet he doubted that most Christians, sinners though they be, ever reached that dark, desolate place where hope withered on the vine and the voice of the Almighty was silent. But he had—he’d lost the woman he’d loved, a friend closer than a brother, and all sense of purpose. Stricken by grief and guilt, he’d wandered alone in the wilderness, caring for naught until he rediscovered divine mercy and his faith in a Welsh mountain valley. He had never forgotten, though, the pain of feeling forsaken by God, pain he saw reflected now in his nephew’s eyes.

“God’s Blessings upon you,” he said, but no more than that, for he knew Harry’s anguish was beyond his power to heal. He could only pray that the Almighty and Jesus, the Only Begotten Son, would take pity upon Harry, show him the path to salvation in his time of greatest need.

E
LEANOR HAD NOT FULLY
appreciated what a charmed life she led until it was taken away from her. From birth, she’d had the best that their world had to offer, never thinking to question her good fortune. She’d chaffed under the constraints imposed upon women by society and the Church, but she’d not wondered why she’d been so blessed. People were expected to accept their lot in life as God’s Will, which was easy to do for a woman born beautiful and a duke’s daughter.

In the months since her betrayal in Loches Forest, though, the reality she’d known had vanished, leaving her a stranger in an alien land. The most mundane tasks were now a challenge. For the first time, she faced the normal vexations and disappointments of daily life. She’d only brought a few gowns with her, and she’d lost so much weight that they no longer fit all that well; moreover, they would eventually become threadbare and worn if she could not replace them. Accustomed to having servants who heated her baths, she now had to make do with a basin and cold water. Washing her long hair was a test of endurance. In the past, she had only to express a wish for a delicacy, however exotic, and it would appear upon her table as if by magic. Now the monotony of her meals had robbed her of her appetite, and she found herself craving oranges from Spain and wine from Gascony and spices from Cyprus and Sicily.

But her physical privations were tolerable. It was her emotional hardships that were scarring her soul. Theirs was a world in which only hermits and recluses scorned the company of others; until her captivity, she’d never slept alone in a chamber before. Her concept of privacy went no further than being snugly cocooned behind bed-hangings with her husband. Now there were days when she did not hear the sound of another human voice. She was not a woman to thrive in solitude, and the loneliness of her confinement was hard to bear.

So was the boredom. When she remembered how glibly she’d complained of the tedium of her life at the French court, she winced for the young, spoiled girl she’d once been. With nothing to occupy herself but her own thoughts, she was unable to escape the misery of her plight, reliving that harrowing confrontation with Henry and seething at her abandonment by her craven allies. At least anger provided its own energy. Far more frightening was what followed—the loss of hope as she reached two unwelcome milestones. June marked her sixth month as a prisoner. And in June, she’d observed her fiftieth birthday. As a child, that had seemed such a vast age to her. Now she saw it as a death sentence, for how likely was it that she’d outlive the husband who was nine years younger than she?

You’ll never see the sun again,
he’d warned, and she had no reason to doubt him. In her time of greatest need, her deliverance depended upon a spiteful former husband and her callow young sons. How had she ever let it come to this? That was a question she could not face, and to avoid it, she’d turned to the Almighty for support and solace. Her religious faith had been the conventional kind, practiced but not pondered. She’d dutifully attended Mass, distributed alms, made generous donations to abbeys like Fontevrault, and felt that she’d kept up her end of the bargain. She’d rarely prayed for specific boons, except during those unhappy years when she’d been unable to give Louis a son, scorned by her critics as a barren queen, and those prayers had gone unanswered.

At Falaise, she’d asked the Almighty to let her sons win this war, knowing that nothing less would gain her release. But as summer bloomed and her hopes withered, she’d begun to offer up a more desperate prayer, beseeching God to end her confinement any way He chose, for she’d also begun to fear that in such utter despair lay madness.

J
ULY DAWNED WITH STORMS AND HIGH WINDS.
Eleanor closed the shutters against the rain and spent much of her time trying to sleep, the only means of escape available to her. And so she was in bed on a wet, dreary afternoon when she heard footsteps out in the stairwell. It was pride rather than curiosity that induced her to sit up and straighten her clothing, for she did not expect this to be a visitor she wanted to see. It had been more than a fortnight since Perrin had waited upon her. A fellow guard had complained that he was unduly friendly with the royal prisoner, and duties had been found for him elsewhere. Losing her only link to the outside world was the final straw, and soon afterward she’d spiraled down into a deep depression.

She’d gotten to her feet by the time a brusque knock sounded and the door was pushed open to admit Maurice de Craon. She greeted him coolly, hoping she’d managed to conceal her unease; she very much doubted that his arrival heralded good news.

“Madame,” he said formally. “As a courtesy, I am informing you that you should make ready to depart on the morrow. We will be leaving at first light.”

Eleanor abandoned her attempt at studied indifference. “Where,” she said sharply, “will we be going?”

The Angevin baron regarded her in silence for a long moment, his dark eyes alight with grim satisfaction. “Barfleur,” he said, “where
you
will be taking ship for England.”

E
LEANOR WAS SURPRISED
to find that she’d have company on her journey to Barfleur: her fellow prisoners, the Earl and Countess of Leicester and Hugh of Chester. They were just as startled to see her, apparently unaware that she was sharing their confinement, and she spared a grateful thought for her chatty young source, Perrin. Of the three, imprisonment seemed to have left the lightest mark upon Peronelle, which made sense, for she’d known that as a woman, she’d have the best chance of regaining her freedom. Her husband appeared to have aged, to have lost some of his bluster. But the one most affected by captivity was the Earl of Chester. Hugh was thin and pallid. Always high-strung, he looked almost haunted now, and Eleanor glanced away, hearing Maud’s accusing words echoing on the wind:
It is not enough you’ve poisoned your own well. No, you must poison mine, too!

It took nearly three days to reach Barfleur, for the downpour continued and the roads were deep in mud. Barfleur was the primary port for Channel crossings and the largest town on that rock-hewn peninsula. But the royal castle was a few miles to the south, and it was there that Eleanor expected to pass her last night on French soil. She was to get a shock, though, as the castle walls came into sight, for a familiar red and gold banner flew from the keep—signaling that the King of England was in residence.

Eleanor’s tired body tensed; it had never occurred to her that she’d be sailing back to England with Henry. The other prisoners had seen the royal standard, too, much to their dismay. They exchanged nervous looks as they were escorted into the bailey, for they were no more eager than Eleanor to confront the king. Despite the chill dampness of the dusk, sweat mingled with rain drops upon the Earl of Leicester’s ruddy face as he remembered his last meeting with Henry, remembered with appalling clarity that he’d drawn his sword upon his sovereign. The nasty weather notwithstanding, the bailey was crowded with spectators, nudging and jostling one another as they sought to get a good look at the new arrivals.

Eleanor knew she was the true attraction. They were there to gape at the captive queen. Well, if they wanted a show, by God she’d given them one. “My lord de Craon,” she said imperiously, waving aside a groom and waiting for the baron himself to assist her in dismounting. He did, with poor grace, scowling as she took time to adjust the hood of her mantle and straighten the cuffs of her gloves. He gestured toward a corner tower, but just then the door to the great hall burst open and Joanna came flying out. Heedless of the rain and mud, she splashed across the bailey to fling herself into Eleanor’s arms.

Eleanor’s hood fell back, and she was soon as wet as her daughter, but she did not care, and they clung together in a wordless embrace that ended only when she glanced up and saw her husband standing in the doorway of the hall. Hugh and Leicester at once dropped submissively to their knees, but Henry never took his eyes from his wife, and she shivered, for if looks were lethal, she’d have died then and there in the bailey of Barfleur Castle.

E
LEANOR WAS ESCORTED
to a small bedchamber on the upper story of the keep. Her reunion with Joanna had been a brief one, cut short when Henry sent someone out to retrieve the girl, using the bad weather as a pretext. Eleanor had assured her daughter that they’d meet again, although she did not know if that were true or not. It seemed the ultimate irony to her that she could lose her children twice in one lifetime, and while she damned both Louis and Henry, she cursed, too, a society in which fathers were given so much power and mothers so little.

After realizing that she’d not heard a key turning in the lock, she dared to open the door, only to discover an armed guard. He saluted her politely, as if he were posted there for her protection, and she puzzled him by laughing shrilly. She forced herself to eat some of the meal brought by a silent servant, but she kept listening for the sounds of footsteps in the stairwell. When she finally heard a murmur of voices, she watched the door open, with mingled hope and dread, not knowing if it would be her daughter or her enraged husband.

“It’s me, Maman!” Joanna’s pronouncement was superfluous, her smile joyful. Eleanor had just gathered the girl into her arms when she added happily, “I brought you another visitor!” And to Eleanor’s amazement, her daughter-in-law stepped, smiling, into the room.

T
HAT WAS THE BEST
evening Eleanor had known in months. The girls were as delighted to see her as she was to see them, eager to share their news, to tell her of the fall of Poitiers and Marguerite’s ill-fated visit, the capture of Saintes, and the return of the Count of Flanders to the rebel coalition. They’d been living in Rouen, they explained, until they were urgently summoned to Barfleur by Henry, and they would all be going with him to England as soon as the weather cleared. And as she listened, Eleanor felt hope beginning to spark midst the ashes of a dead fire. This sudden change of plans could only mean that the war was going badly for Henry in England.

J
OANNA AND MARGUERITE
had kept their visit short, understanding that they’d lose the privilege if they abused it, promising to return upon the morrow. Joanna had seemed surprised when asked how they’d managed to get permission, saying airily that “I asked Papa,” as if his consent had never been in doubt. Eleanor knew better, and grudgingly gave Henry credit where due; he could easily have kept Joanna away, just as Louis had done with their daughters. But once he’d agreed, it would not be that easy to change his mind, which meant that she’d be able to see Joanna and Marguerite again. There would be opportunities, for it was not uncommon to wait days, even weeks, for a favorable wind.

They’d been stranded in Barfleur for almost a month as they’d waited to cross the Channel for Henry’s coronation, finally sailing in heavy seas when his patience ran out. That was not a memory to give Eleanor comfort; it was painful to remember the jubilant woman she’d been on that November eve twenty years ago, willing to depart in a gale because she was so sure that God was on their side, so confident that she and Henry were masters of their own fate, destined to rule over the greatest court in Christendom and not to drown like those poor doomed souls on the White Ship.

The next day was even more rain-sodden and windy, and Eleanor’s faith was rewarded in mid-afternoon when Joanna and Marguerite were ushered into her chamber. Joanna brought wilted flowers from the castle gardens and Marguerite, with surprising practicality, had herb packets: agrimony for fever, pennyroyal for cramps, and chamomile for headaches. Adding shyly that chamomile was also said to be useful for melancholy. She had apologies to offer, too. Alys had wanted to come, she explained, but she had lost her nerve at the last moment.

“She said she did not know what to say to you. I told her that did not matter, but she still balked, saying she’d come next time.”

“You cannot blame the lass,” Eleanor said dryly. “Her lessons in manners never included one on captive queens.” Glancing over at Joanna, she said, “What of John? Did your father forbid him to come?”

Joanna looked uncomfortable. “No…Johnny would not come with us. He said Papa would not be happy with him if he visited you.”

Eleanor looked away, saying nothing. She had no qualms about her older sons, feeling that they’d been old enough to make up their own minds. Her conscience was not so clear when it came to her youngest two. She’d hoped that she’d be able to keep John and Joanna out of the fray, and it was only after her capture that she’d admitted what a frail reed that hope was. She was sorry that John had felt the need to choose between them, but it stung that he’d chosen his father, for Henry had spent even less time with the boy than she had.

Joanna picked up a wafer uneaten from Eleanor’s dinner, and when Eleanor nodded, she crammed half of it into her mouth. “I have a surprise for you, Maman,” she announced. “I am going to fetch it now, will be back soon.” And before Eleanor could object, she’d darted out the door.

Past experience had taught Eleanor that Joanna’s “surprises” ought to be approached with caution. But she welcomed this opportunity to speak alone with Marguerite. Neither of them felt comfortable speaking too candidly in front of Joanna, whose loyalties were already bruised and bleeding. As soon as the door closed, Eleanor leaned forward and touched her daughter-in-law’s hand in a gesture of encouragement. “How did you and Joanna win Harry over? I truly would not have expected him to let Joanna see me.”