Devil's Consort (106 page)

And what of me? I made an excellent regent for him, as I knew. I could hold the reins for him during his
absence, I could rule in his name and in my own most effectively, as well as any man. He’d be a fool not to leave me here in Rouen to uphold law and order in his absence. Would I not do the same, in his position?

I sighed over the weight of my belly. I saw no lasting comfort in our relationship together. Henry was a driven man and I must fit into this vast empire he was creating from these disparate portions of land. I knew it, had always known it, and must bow to the inevitable. Henry had never led me to believe otherwise.

Surprising myself, I retired from the bustle of hall and courtyard, even of solar—how, by the Virgin, could Henry’s exigencies even infect the peace of my solar?—so I retired into the chapel where, despite the cold and my ungainliness, I knelt before the altar. I would rule alone and I would do it well. I would, of course, never beg him to stay. It would be crass of me, neither would Henry agree—so I must not submit to such weakness.

I wept. I might deny it but my cheeks were wet and cold.

The priest bustled in.

‘Lady …’

I wanted neither his presence nor his empty phrases of consolation and advice and so leaving him to the office of the day I climbed to the wall-walk to pace and watch the ever-changing life in the town below. Well muffled as I was against the autumn chill that touched the leaves with crimson and gold, I knew that this was no time for campaigning—far too late in the year—but
that would not stop Henry. I leaned on the wall. With Henry gone, where would I go? Back to Angers? No. Far better Poitiers. I would carry this child in my own Maubergeonne Tower. And when Henry returned, as one day he must, I would come to him again.

My lips twisted with scorn. How had I become this poor creature at his beck and call? Perhaps the distance between us would cause the longing to fade and I could live my life to my own direction. I shivered as the wind picked up, spurring me to turn and beat a retreat.

‘Eleanor!’

Henry was below me in the courtyard, looking up. I took a breath, arranged a cool smile and walked towards him as if the turmoil in my heart that matched that around us did not exist. He strode towards me, face vivid and alive. Never was he so animated as when action beckoned. I stretched my lips to preserve that smile and would have continued down the steps if he hadn’t bounded up them to meet me, loping along the wall-walk with a pair of hounds at his heels. I sniffed. Perhaps the bitter wind would mask the true reason for any remnants of tears on my cheeks.

‘You’re hard to find, lady.’ He took my hand and raised it to his lips, quaintly formal since we were buffeted by dogs and a howling gale.

‘And you’re so busy you’d find difficulty locating your own head!’

But I let him kiss my cheek. Looking at me through
narrowed eyes, he rubbed the pad of his thumb over my cheek and licked the moisture.

‘Tears? Surely not.’

‘Not! The wind’s cold, that’s all. This is a day for celebration.’

‘Then what’re you doing up here?’

‘Thinking.’

‘Come and think in your own chamber. I can pack for an army but God knows what a child of one year would need.’

A child!

I swallowed. He was taking William. He was taking our son with him but leaving me.

Suddenly the tears were hard to control—until, beneath my cloak, I clenched my hands into fists so that my nails scored into my palms—but how I kept the smile in place I could not have said. I forced my mind to sift through Henry’s intentions. Well, it made good political sense, did it not, to take the baby to show him to his new people and display for the English magnates the infant heir to the throne? Excellent sense. Could I think of one good reason against it? I could not. For a moment I felt raw anguish that I would miss the baby. How strange when I had never missed my daughters other than a transitory concern for their well-being. What an unnatural mother I must be. But Henry had made the right decision, the political decision. William had his own household, his nurse and servants to answer his every need, he was robust and healthy. Why
not take him to England? The royal accommodation at Westminster must be quite as acceptable as that at Angers or Rouen, even after years of destruction and civil war. Stephen must have lived in some level of royal state.

What better place for William than the kingdom he would one day rule?

‘I’ll come,’ I said, ‘but I don’t see why you need me. Agnes would have done the job just as well.’

With his hand around mine, first smoothing out my fingers, Henry all but dragged me along. ‘You’re half-frozen. You should have more care of yourself and the child. And since when were you going to pass authority on your appearance to the decisions of your tiring woman?’

I did not understand. ‘Appearance?’ My steps faltered, except Henry gave me no choice but to trip over his heels.

‘Well, I expect you’ll have something to say on what you wear for your coronation!’ Impatience made him clasp my hand even tighter and bustle me along.

I stopped and dug in my heels. Which brought him to a halt at last.

‘What’s wrong now, Eleanor?’ A snap of intolerance when his whole world was waiting for his attention. ‘We haven’t time, whatever it is. I want to be on my way by dawn.’

‘Am I not staying here as Regent?’ I asked carefully.

‘Do you want to?’

‘I thought you would need me to stay.’

He frowned. ‘Did I say that?’

‘No.’

‘Then what’s …? Ah! You thought I’d leave without you, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

He was facing me, hands biting into my arms through the heavy cloth and fur of my cloak. ‘It will be the most important day of my life when they put that bloody crown on my head. I want you with me. Beside me.’ ‘Oh.’

He shook me gently. ‘Eleanor, sometimes you are nothing more than a foolish woman!’

‘How was I to know? You left me before.’

‘But not this time.’ And he was pulling me along again. ‘We’ll be crowned together and this child will be born in England. Does that satisfy you?’ Not waiting for an answer, he swung me against him, his arm around my shoulder, my back to the fortress wall. ‘We won’t always be together. You know that. Our life is not made for comfort and our own personal choice of how we live it. Our birth makes us subject to higher things.’ His kiss was hard and sure. ‘But for this momentous achievement, the crown of England, my own birthright, we will stand together.’ He kissed me again. ‘Do you agree?’

‘Yes.’

Always partings. Always differences. How clearly he saw things. And so did I. I knew it and accepted it.

‘Always remember this moment, Eleanor, standing on the wall at Rouen with the world at our feet. It’s ours to take, our empire to hold and rule, our line of inheritance to create through our children.’ He smoothed his hand over my rounded belly in a proprietorial gesture. ‘And never forget this. I love you.’ He lifted my chin. ‘Look at me. You’re very quiet—always a cause for suspicion in a woman!’ He growled a laugh. ‘What do you have to say that I won’t like?’

‘Nothing!’

‘Then tell me what I will like!’

All my anxieties had vanished. I was cold and damp and ungainly but I had never been more content than I was within the shelter of Henry’s arm on the walls of Rouen.

‘My heart is yours,’ I informed him. There! I had said it at last!

‘Excellent.’

‘And I love you too.’ Why had I found it so difficult?

‘I know you do. So you should. And you’ll come to England with me.’

‘Yes.’

‘Which reminds me.’ Before I could react to his deplorably smug assertion that he’d always known I had more than a passing affection for him, we were almost running down the steps, but Henry’s arm was firm and
supportive around my waist. ‘Did you hear what the courier had to say about Louis? He’s taken a new bride. The Castile girl, Constance. They were wed at Orleans early this month.’ ‘Oh.’

I think I was taken aback. I knew Louis would wed but it was still a strange thought.

‘Louis in alliance with Alfonso of Castile,’ Henry continued. ‘D’you suppose it’s to bolster his strength against my waxing moon of glory?’

I laughed. Louis’s marriage meant nothing to me after all. ‘I’m sure of it. Unfortunate girl! I’ll offer up a Mass for her survival through a lifetime of intense boredom. And that she puts Louis out of his misery and manages to bear a son.’

Henry’s eyes rested, briefly, on my face but I had no difficulty in meeting his speculative gaze, which was entirely too sharp and knowing. He nodded his head.

‘Louis was never good enough for you. I’m better. I’ve always said that.’

And pushing me inside the door of the keep, Henry was already marching in the opposite direction towards the stables.

‘One more thing.’ He paused, turned his head. ‘I won’t take that maggot from Ventadorn with me to England.’

‘Why not?’

‘And have him mooning over you? By God, I won’t. And he can’t sing a rousing tune to save his life. I’ll
leave it to you to tell him. If I set eyes on him I might just wring his neck for decamping without leave.’ So he would decide whether my troubadour travelled with me or not, would he? He saw the glint in my eye. ‘Will you argue the point?’

I thought about it. And thought better of it.

‘No, I’ll not argue.’

‘Good. He’d have my men crying into their ale for unrequited love. Now, go and do it, my love …’

I think he’d already forgotten me but my heart was light and I went to oversee the packing of my travelling chests, trying to decide how to tell my troubadour that his dear love was abandoning him. Henry’s word was law.

Upheaval greeted me in my rooms. What to take? How to choose between one gown and the next? Shoes with or without gold embroidery. Mantles with or without ermine trim. In the end I took them all. And as an afterthought, ten warm undershirts. As Henry said, who knew what I might need and England was a cold country.

Queen of England?

I liked the thought.

Nineteenth day of December, 1154:
Westminster Abbey, London.

I
T IS
so cold. I clench my jaw against it and try to forget my first impressions of this city that will be my home for at least some parts of every year. All dirty snow banked beside the roads, compacted ice to trap the unwary, the layered filth and excrement of a city under stress, and the Thames frozen over. However much I might yearn for Aquitaine, this is where I must be when Henry demands it. That much I know.

The vast space above my head intimidates me with its dark gloom, the air keen in my nostrils with the slice of a hunting knife, despite the brazier some thoughtful soul has placed beside me. Every time I take a breath my lungs wince, even though two of my undershirts are stretched across my girth. My exhalation puffs out
in white mist, as it does from every baron of England who has had the sense to present himself here today. Any lord who has chosen to absent himself on the pretext of ill health or bad weather—well, I don’t envy his next interview with his new overlord. It might just be at the point of a sword.

Henry Plantagenet has come to claim his own. And I have come with him.

I can barely feel my feet. My fingers are red and raw with the cold as I fist them inside my mantle. I’m paying a heavy price for being here. Chilblains with their irrepressible itch. But nothing—nothing!—can spoil this day.

To my left in the shadow of a squat pillar stands Aelith, who seems to have made her life with me permanent in her widowhood, even to coming to England with me. I am not sorry. I enjoy her company when Henry—as he invariably is—is distracted. She watches in solemn support as she has done since that day when we waited together for Louis Capet to arrive in Bordeaux to claim his bride. My attention is caught. Beside her my fifteen-month-old son squirms in Agnes’s grip and whimpers. I sense the start of a storm. He’s too young for this but I would have him here. He may not remember, but I will tell him how he saw his mother and father crowned King and Queen of England. And then the storm is averted for young Geoffrey reaches up his hand and distracts my son with an impish smile over some shared mischief. Geoffrey is a good boy.

Archbishop Theobald of Canterbury approaches with solemn pomp. His broad face is beaming in satisfaction in getting what he wanted for England. I slide a glance to Henry. All I see there is red-hot impatience for this to be over, but for once carefully banked. Henry knows the importance of this, the impression he must make.

Behind us stretches a month and more of endless waiting at the port of Barfleur, a month of tempest, gales and violent seas that kept us penned like sheep for market. Until Henry could wait no longer. He was no sheep but a predator—and as restless as one of the caged lions I had seen in Byzantium. I smile a little as I recall.

‘We’ve been here a month,’ he had all but shouted, stabbing his finger in accusation at no one in particular.

‘We are all aware of that,’ I had remarked calmly, although his frustration had driven me to distraction.

‘And over there—I could almost spit the distance!’ He jabbed the finger in the general direction. ‘Over there is England, six weeks without a king. Who knows what mischief’s afoot with me shackled here by one bloody tempest after another?’

‘There’s nothing you can do. They know you’ll come when you can.’

He flung down the book that had kept his attention for all of five minutes. ‘I’ll risk it. I’ll go tomorrow, no matter what.’ He marched to the door, shouting orders as he went.

I had expected this, but still it lapped around my heart, a rising tide of fear.

‘Henry—don’t! Remember the
White Ship,’
I called after him. That terrible tragedy, the irreplaceable lives lost. When Henry the First had lost his only son, William, casting the country into bloody civil war because the barons would not accept a woman, Henry’s mother, Matilda. Was I to lose him to the sea, as that first Henry had lost the light of his life? I could not bear to lose Henry to the waves.

‘Bugger the
White Ship!’
he shouted back.