Captive Queen (44 page)

   Patrick proved himself to be a charming and witty companion. She sensed that he liked her, and could see in his hazelnut-colored eyes the kind of admiration she had inspired in men many times in the past. It was balm to her bruised pride. She thought that Raoul saw it too, and was jealous. But Raoul was not to nurture his jealousy for long.

The spring being glorious, with flowers budding unseasonably early and the winds mild and gentle, Eleanor planned a hawking expedition with Earl Patrick. Word reached them that Henry had efficiently crushed the rising at Lusignan, then ridden north to treat with Louis—the news that he had gone so far from her sparked a twinge of anguish in Eleanor’s breast—and now Patrick deemed it safe to ride out for the day.

“There have been no recent reports of any trouble,” he smiled, “so I’ll leave my armor at home, and we’ll take just a small escort.”

It was good to be out in the sunshine, Eleanor found, even though her heart was heavy. She was surprised to discover herself thrilling to the sport, watching her mighty falcon soar into the blue sky and swoop with unerring precision to catch its prey, then return to her outstretched hand and settle on her glove, meekly accepting its gay scarlet hood and the jesses with which she tethered it.

“Bravo, my lady!” exclaimed Earl Patrick. The men-at-arms clapped and cheered admiringly from a distance; they themselves would never be privileged enough even to touch a royal bird like Eleanor’s.

The ambush, when it came, was sudden and deadly, with mounted armed men closing in on them from every side, uttering bloodcurdling war cries.

“It’s the Lusignans!” the earl cried, frantic.
“À moi! À moi!”

Eleanor quickly collected herself; in that instant, she could see herself being captured and ransomed, if not worse. But as she made to gallop away, Earl Patrick, shouting orders to his men, dismounted from his horse, quick as lightning, and grabbed her bridle.

“Take my steed, my lady, you’ll not find a faster in Christendom.” She wasted not a moment in swapping mounts, as the earl told her to make for a ruined castle a mile distant and wait for him there.

Their assailants were almost upon them as Eleanor, spurring her borrowed steed, deftly evaded them by almost flying through the only gap in their ranks, then cantered off like the wind toward safety. They would have come after her had not Earl Patrick and his escort engaged them furiously in battle. As the Queen rode away, she could hear the clash of steel and the shouts of men receding into the distance, and was in a fever of anxiety to know which way the combat was going.

Having ridden for several miles and reached the sanctuary of the ruins, Eleanor stood fuming in the peace of the afternoon. How dare the Lusignans make an attempt on her person! No doubt they wished to wring concessions from Henry. Wait until he heard! Then she paused. She was ruler here now, not Henry. Undoubtedly he would come and deal with them, if summoned; he would be furious on her account, if only because she was his queen and duchess, but she decided now that she must prove to him that she did not need him, and show him that she was capable of dealing with problems efficiently by herself.

She waited an hour or so, becoming increasingly anxious. Then she heard horses’ hooves, and shrank back behind some lichen-covered masonry until she could assure herself that it was her escort—or what was left of it—come to find her. She shuddered. How bad had it been?

“Lady,” said the captain, a big, florid man, “I bear heavy news. Earl Patrick is dead, stabbed in the back by the traitors as he donned his hauberk.”

“Oh, dear God!” Eleanor wailed. “That chivalrous man! Those bastards! I will repay them, by God, for they have added grievous injury to grievous insult.” And she smote her balled fist in her palm. Then fear gripped her.

“Are they defeated, these rebels? Where are they?”

“Gone back to their castle,” the captain told her. “It was the young knight, John the Marshal’s son William, who held them off, with great courage and skill, until he himself was wounded and captured. They took him with them, my lady, no doubt hoping for a fat ransom.”

“And they shall have it,” said Eleanor, fighting down her fury and thinking of the tall, dignified young man who had so bravely defended her. He was, she was aware, a soldier of fortune, who had made a reputation as a champion in tournaments, winning many rich prizes. She herself had watched him distinguish himself in the lists and been much impressed.

“They are bringing Earl Patrick’s body, lady,” the captain told her, indicating a small party of his men approaching on horseback. She froze as she espied the bloody corpse of the former governor slumped across a saddle, but resolutely walked forward to pay all due honor to it, bowing her head in grief and respect.

“We will have him buried in Poitiers and pay for masses to be said for his soul,” she declared, suppressing her emotion. There would be time enough for weeping later. “Letters must be sent to his family in England.”

And so it was done, and the young William Marshal was, at length, ransomed. When he presented himself before the duchess, brimming with gratitude, she gave him a gift of money and expressed concern about his wounds.

“They are healing, my lady,” he said cheerfully, “yet no thanks to Guy of Lusignan. He and his followers refused to have them dressed.” As Eleanor gasped in horror, he smiled at her. “It is no matter, for I count it an honor to have served you thus, my Queen.”

“It is rare to find such loyalty,” Eleanor told him. “They tell me you fought as a wild boar against dogs. I owe you much, possibly my very life. Rest assured, the King my lord will come to hear of your valor.”

It occurred to her, as she kept a proprietorial eye on William Marshal in the weeks that followed, and her admiration for him grew, that he would make a fine mentor for Young Henry; and in due course, with the King’s approval, he was appointed guardian, tutor, and master of chivalry to the prince, a role Becket had once filled. Thankfully, there was little risk of this fine knight causing such grief as Becket had. He filled the role magnificently, and Eleanor rewarded him lavishly, with horses, arms, gold, and fine clothing. William was proving to be, she knew—and as her contemporaries would soon come to agree—one of the best knights who ever lived.

   Henry had met with Louis, and for once Eleanor had cause to be grateful to her former husband. They had thrashed out a peace, and Louis gave Henry wise advice regarding the disposing of his empire after his death. Her heart was immeasurably gladdened when the King’s messenger brought news of the agreement that had been reached.

“The Lord Henry is to pay homage to the French King for Anjou, Maine, and Brittany; the Lord Geoffrey is to hold Brittany as the Lord Henry’s vassal; and the Lord Richard is to pay homage to King Louis for Aquitaine, and be betrothed to the French King’s daughter, Alys.”

Richard was to have Aquitaine after all! Her prayers had been answered. Her first thought, as she went rejoicing to her chapel to give thanks, was that Henry had done this for her, as a peace offering. Then she remembered that he had ignored her pleadings and her displays of anger on numerous occasions before, and that he never did anything unless there was a political motive. The truth, she guessed, was that Louis, fearing the power of his Angevin vassals, had urged the division of Henry’s domains on his death, and made that a condition of the peace. She wondered if Henry was making a virtue of expediency, and began to fear that he might well renege on the new treaty as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

She had written to Henry, informing him of the outrage committed by the Lusignans, as her duty bound her; and, as she anticipated, he sent immediately to inform her that he was coming to teach the traitors a lesson they would never forget. She hoped that he would stop by in Poitiers to see her, so she could thank him for settling Aquitaine on Richard, and thereby mend matters between them a little. But the next she heard, from another exhausted travel-stained messenger, Henry had been unexpectedly diverted from his purpose and had to march on Brittany to quell a rising by Eudes de Porhoët, the father of Count Conan.

“But Conan’s family are our allies!” she exclaimed. “Eudes’s granddaughter Constance is married to the Lord Geoffrey. His daughter Alice is in the custody of the King, as surety for her father’s friendship. This is madness.”

The royal messenger flushed and looked at her somewhat shiftily, she thought.

“You must tell me what has happened,” she commanded, her tone sharpened by alarm.

The man looked at his feet and twisted his felt hat in his hands.

“It is said that the Lord King lay with the Lady Alice, and that she has borne him a child that died. Her kin have risen up in anger, for the young lady was a hostage in the Lord King’s household.”

At his words, Eleanor froze. Was there no end to Henry’s betrayals? And when would he cease having the power to hurt her? She had liked to think that she was free of him, and was stronger for it, but tidings like this proved to her that she was still in some thrall to him.

She dismissed the messenger and withdrew to her bower, trying to seek solace in music and the chatter of her ladies. But however hard she tried, she could not dismiss from her imaginings the horrible, disturbing image of Henry making Alice de Porhoët pregnant.

   Sick to the heart, her delight in Richard’s future being settled so happily deflated, Eleanor resolved to stay in Aquitaine for good. She told herself, firmly and adamantly, that she would never go back to Henry and live with him as his wife. From now on they would be political allies, no more. She would henceforth invest all her love and care in her heir, her beloved Richard, and forget her faithless husband. Nowadays she had come to the comforting realization that her love for Richard was greater than what she had ever felt for Henry—apart from the passion that her husband had inspired in her physically. But that had died long ago.

Richard was now eleven, shooting up and developing strong muscles. She took great pride in his prowess, both in book learning and military exercises. She marveled at his dexterity in Latin, and herself taught him to play the lyre and to compose verses in French and Provençal; his voice was high and true, and she thrilled to hear him singing with the choir of her private chapel. Tall, ruddy-haired, and slender, he was in most respects his mother’s son. He had her straight-nosed profile and fine bone structure. There was little of Henry in him—save for a streak of Angevin devilment and ruthlessness, already apparent. Never mind, she told herself: a ruler needed to be firm and establish his authority, and he must be fierce in battle. Richard had what it took, in abundant measure. He was her true heir in every way, for he had the South in his blood, as she did. He would do well: he was destined for greatness. She knew it in her bones.

   For much of that year, Eleanor stayed in Poitiers, governing her domains with wisdom and firmness. Her presence in the duchy did much to heal the wounds dealt by decades of foreign rule by both her husbands in turn, and she was intent on making every effort to win back the love and loyalty of her vassals.

As soon as she had reestablished herself in the duchy, she made a progress through her lands, her purpose being to greet and cultivate her lords, and be seen by them. If force had failed to establish central authority in Aquitaine, she would do it by love and peaceful persuasion. She traveled south, stopping first at the flourishing port of Niort, where she held court in the massive square fortress built by Henry, and was feasted by the locals with eels and snails from the nearby marshlands, and little cakes studded with angelica, a local delicacy. She promised that in due course she would grant the town a charter and new privileges, and was gratified by the delighted response of the worthy burghers.

Then she rode farther south to Limoges, to repair the damage done by Henry nine years before, when he ordered the walls to be torn down. She admired the new fortifications, granted boons, and received local lords, then moved on to the Périgord, land of the great rivers, the Vézère and the Dordogne, a region populated with flocks of plump ducks and gray geese. Here, she gloried in the deep-cut valleys nestling beneath limestone cliffs and caves, the lush dark woodlands, the fields of maize, the orchards of walnut trees, the bustling towns and hilltop villages, the mighty castles and humble churches, all basking in the golden sun. The people came with their gifts and their blessings, even the seigneurs who ruled these often lawless valleys bent the knee to her and swore fealty. She began to feel whole again, enveloped by the love of her people, cherished in the heart of her duchy, feted by the highborn and the lowly.

She swept westward to Bayonne on the coast, near the foothills of the mighty Pyrenees, and then north again to Poitiers, staying at castles, manor houses, or abbeys on the way. Everywhere she went, her subjects came thronging, calling down blessings upon her and bringing her their humble petitions and grievances. She read them all, dispensing justice with fairness and humanity, and earning herself a reputation for wisdom and generosity. She had left Poitiers a sad, disillusioned wife struggling to break free of the past; she returned to it a happy, confident, and jubilant woman, thankful to have won her independence.

   Eleanor had written to tell Henry of her resolve to separate from him for good. It had been one of the most difficult letters she ever composed in her life, but she felt better after she set her mind down on parchment; in fact she felt strangely liberated. Love for which one paid a high price in sorrow and humiliation was just not worth having. She might have feelings for Henry still, but overriding those, at least for the present, was relief at having distanced herself from the torment their marriage had become.

He wrote back: “I am as troubled as Oedipus about the rift between us, yet I will not oppose your decision.” Oedipus! Great Heaven! Did he now think of her as a mother figure, no more? God’s blood, she swore to herself, that trollop Rosamund was welcome to him!