Captive Queen (19 page)

   “This should make a good impression on my new subjects!” Henry declared, waving an expansive hand at the long procession of magnates and bishops, each with their retinues and baggage carts, that trailed into the distance behind them. Inwardly, Eleanor thought that the English might see the King’s great train as a pack of scavengers come to bleed their country dry, but she was confident that Henry’s reputation was such that his followers would heed the honorable lead he intended to give them, and deal honestly with his new subjects.

She smiled up at him from her litter; she was too far advanced in pregnancy to ride beside him, and not relishing being jolted along the rutted tracks that passed for roads, but was making light of her discomfort and trying to relax on the piled cushions beneath her, pulling her fur-lined cloak closer about her to protect herself from the freezing wind. She would not complain, she had resolved, because she knew Henry wanted to get to England as quickly as possible, and she just wanted the long journey to be over.

It was when they were making an overnight stop in Caen that Henry espied Bernard de Ventadour skulking among the varlets of his household.

“What’s
he
doing here?” he muttered to himself, and beckoned the troubadour over. Bernard, who was hoping that his master had not seen him, and was on the point of fleeing, had the grace to look terrified.

“Sire?” he almost squeaked.

“I thought I told you not to leave England without my permission!” Henry said fiercely.

“I—I know, sire, but your whole retinue was returning with you, and your knights needed entertaining …”

“Blast my knights!” Henry roared. “You disobeyed me, you scum.” The troubadour quailed.

“Now hear this,” Henry went on, “and never disobey me again, or you will rue it painfully. You are to leave here now, without delay.”

“But sire, where shall I go?” asked Bernard.

“Anywhere but here!”

“But I cannot go back to Ventadour …”

“No, that you cannot, and my good lady has told me why.” Henry had the satisfaction of seeing the young man wince. “You’ll have to find somewhere else.”

Tears filled Bernard’s eyes. “This is a great grief to me, sire,” he wept. “I know not what to do or where to go.”

“Take my advice and go as far away as possible. You might try your talents with the Count of Toulouse.”

“Sire, may I speak frankly?” Bernard was frantic.

Henry folded his arms and looked at him. “I’m waiting,” he said brusquely.

“There is a lady, sire—”

“By God there is!” Henry erupted.

“Nay, sire, not Madame the Duchess—another lady.” Bernard hung his head.

“Hah!” Henry pointed at him. “Another lady! You don’t waste much time.” And he doubled up with laughter.

“Sire, I love her, and could never leave her …”

Henry stopped laughing.

“Toulouse!” he barked. “Get your gear and go. And let me not see your face again.”

Bernard scuttled away. There was no lady; his heart was broken and he knew himself defeated. That night, lodged at an evil-smelling inn, he hastily composed a poem to Eleanor, in which he mournfully sang her praises for the last time and told her that her lord had forced him to leave her. Then he gave it to his servant, who galloped off in search of the royal cavalcade. Eleanor, reading the grubby parchment two days later, sighed in exasperation, then screwed it up and threw it in the River Vire.

   Henry peered over the stone parapet of the tower of St. Nicholas’s Church, the wind and rain lashing his face and soaking his short woolen cloak. Below him, the shallow waters of the port of Barfleur churned and seethed in the storm, and there was not a soul to be seen in the prosperous little village; the inhabitants, grasping lot though they were, had all retreated to their houses in the teeth of the bad weather.

“How much longer are we to be holed up here?” he fumed to the ship’s master.

“I beg ye, be patient, Lord King,” the weather-beaten man shouted against the gale. “Them currents down there can be mighty swift. Ye’ll have heard of the White Ship.”

Henry had heard of it, too many times, from his mother, whose brother had gone down with it on that terrible night thirty-four years before, and he’d heard of it again over the past few days, from the mariners, who always seemed to relish recounting tales of disaster. Of course, if the White Ship hadn’t sunk, drowning the heir to England, he wouldn’t be standing here now, waiting to take possession of that kingdom. And standing here was all he seemed to be doing; he was almost stamping with impatience.

“By the eyes of God, it’s not far to sail!” he argued. “Do you realize, man, that England has been without a king for six weeks? Why, my very throne might be in jeopardy because of this delay.”

“Lord King,” the master said evenly, “it is not me that commands the heavens.”

“No,” Henry muttered, “but when
I
command you to set forth, I expect to be obeyed. That’s five times you have defied me now.”

“And it might be five times I’ve saved your life, Lord King,” the man replied sagely. “Better for England to have a king across the sea than no king at all.”

There was no arguing with that, but Henry was not in the mood to be put off by wise words of caution.

“Thank you for your consideration,” he snapped sarcastically. “God knows, we might be here forever. No, my mind is made up. We sail today.”

The seaman was about to protest again when Queen Eleanor, her heavily pregnant figure swathed in a black hooded mantle, suddenly appeared at the tower door.

“I had to get some air,” she said, turning her face up to the elements, not minding the buffeting wind and smattering raindrops. “They’ve lit so many braziers I am suffocating in my chamber. Petronilla especially feels the cold. God’s blood, it’s wild, this weather!”

She battled her way through the tempest to Henry, who folded his arms around her.

“My lady, our ship’s master here is unwilling to put to sea,” he told her, “but I am of a mind to brave the elements and be on our way.”

“That’s madness, Lord King,” the master cried, “especially with the Lady Queen near her time.”

“Well, my lady?” Henry asked, ignoring him. “What do you say?”

“A little weather never bothered me,” Eleanor replied, more cheerfully and bravely than she felt. She knew that Henry would have his way, whatever anyone said, so it was prudent to make the best of things—although that sky looked black and angry, and the gusts were fearsome …

“I would not put you through this,” he told her, “or young William, but God knows what’s happening in England without me. Is Archbishop Theobald truly the man to keep those unruly English barons in check?”

“The last reports suggested he was doing brilliantly,” Eleanor reminded him.

“Yes, but for how long?” Henry fretted. He knew, none better, how those same barons had defied the weak Stephen: how they had built their castles without waiting for his license, then terrorized the countryside, using the civil war as a pretext for unspeakable depredations and atrocities. No, his mind was made up. There was greater risk in staying here than in braving the sea.

   Eleanor thought she would never see daylight again, shut up as she was with her women in this pitching, stinking cabin with its alarmingly creaking timbers. Outside, the unforgiving Channel continued its howling, relentless assault, surging against the vessel’s sides and tossing it mercilessly on the crashing waves. The wind screamed, and the ship rolled, and every time it did, the ladies emitted little shrieks or threw up once more into the overflowing basins.

All I will ever ask you for, O Lord, is for my feet to be on dry land, Eleanor prayed silently, as she lay on her wooden cot, clutching at the side for dear life, and trying to ignore the heaving of her own stomach. Beside her lay little William, tight in the crook of her arm, and in her swollen belly the babe kicked, affrighted no doubt by the unaccustomed tumult.

She could hear men shouting above the storm, and the tethered horses neighing and rearing in terror. The baggage stored in the hold was inexorably sliding about as the ship lurched from side to side, and ominous thumps announced its latest whereabouts. She had not seen Henry once since they set sail, for the master had been firm about the women keeping to their quarters, and for all she knew—or cared, she told herself—her husband could have gone overboard. He might at least have come to inquire how she was coping in this hell.

She buried her nose in the rough pillow to escape the stench of vomit and the latrine pail. How long had they been at sea? She had utterly lost track of time, and only knew that they had all endured hours of torture locked in this fetid cabin. In the next cot, Petronilla was weeping noisily. She had consumed a lot of wine in a hurry before forcibly being persuaded to board the ship, and had paid dearly for it since, but it loosed her tongue, and her terrified ramblings were threatening to drive the other women hysterical.

“We’re going to die,” she moaned. “I will never see my sweet babes again.” This only provoked more frightened sobs and squeals. Any minute now they would all be wailing uncontrollably.

“Enough!” Eleanor said sternly. “Sailors face these storms all the time, and survive them.” She was gratified to hear herself sounding more confident than she felt. The women subsided, suppressing their cries and their fears. She spoke more gently to them, offering words of comfort and reassurance that she wished she could believe herself.

The night hours—presumably it
was
night—seemed endless. For most of them, Eleanor remained in that twilight state between sleeping and waking, too strung up to fall into slumber and so attain the oblivion she craved. At one point, though, she must have nodded off, for when she next came to, a watery light was penetrating the oiled linen stretched over the single window, and the sea had miraculously stilled. God had answered her prayer.

She offered little William her breast; mercifully, he was his usual, sunny self, unfazed by the terrible hours they had just endured; how blissful it must be, she thought, to be so young and innocent that one has no conception of the perils and dangers of this world. She kissed her son’s soft, downy head, feeling for the hundredth time that sweet surge of all-consuming maternal love, this time coupled with thankfulness that both of them had been safely delivered from the tempest. As soon as they made land, she promised, she would seek out the nearest church and express due gratefulness to God.

She rose, shook her women awake, and made them fetch fresh garments and a comb from the iron-banded chest that housed her most prized possessions and had not therefore been entrusted to the hold. This day she must dress like a queen, for she and Henry were setting foot for the first time in their new kingdom, and their subjects would surely come crowding to greet them. She donned her rich Byzantine robe, which fell in stately folds over her high belly, and let her long hair fall regally loose under a simple gold circlet. Then she emerged from the noisome cabin into the fresh, cold morning air, to find Henry standing not a few feet away at the ship’s side, looking across a calm estuary to wide, sandy beaches and a vast expanse of woodland beyond.

“My lady,” he said, doffing his cap. His barons and clerics bowed courteously as Eleanor came to join him. She noticed he had forsaken his customary hunting gear for a fashionable tunic ornamented with wide bands of embroidery, worn beneath the short cloak he had recently made popular, earning himself the nickname “Curtmantle.” His coppery hair curled endearingly around his ears beneath the ducal crown of Normandy. He looked every inch the king, with his high, majestic features and erect mien, and her earlier resentment was forgotten in the heady joy of the moment: she was grateful to be alive, and proud to be standing beside him as his consort.

   There was no one to greet them when they disembarked. Of course, no one knew when or where to expect them. They were, for the moment, a small party, because the other ships were scattered in the storm and had hopefully made land farther along the coast.

“We ride at once to our capital city of Winchester to secure the royal treasure and receive the homage of our English barons!” Henry announced to his company, and himself led the way on his magnificent battle charger. “The others had instructions to meet up with us there if we got separated,” he explained to Eleanor. “I have sent ahead to Archbishop Theobald, commanding him to summon the magnates.”

It was a cold day, but bright with winter sunshine. The land lay damp and glistening after the storm, and the litter’s wheels made sucking noises as they were dragged resisting through the mud on the waterlogged track. The Abbess Isabella had been right, Eleanor reflected, looking out eagerly from her litter: this kingdom of England did look a lot like Normandy and the Île de France. It was green and well wooded, gently undulating with shady glades, glittering streams, heaths, and moorland. For most of their journey, though, they were riding through a great forest, its dense trees—mighty oaks, as well as chestnut, ash, and beech—bare of leaves. Here and there deer could be glimpsed in the distance, and solid, sturdy little ponies, most of them bay, brown, or gray.

“Good hunting hereabouts!” Henry enthused. “This is the New Forest, established by William the Conqueror, purely for the pleasures of the chase. The forest laws he laid down are very strict. None must poach the king’s deer on pain of death—or, in his day, mutilation.”

“Mutilation?” Eleanor’s eyebrows shot up.

“My great-grandfather was a just but harsh king. He abolished hanging, but replaced it with castration or mutilation.” Henry grinned. “It was very effective, of course. In those days you could walk from one end of the kingdom to the other with your bosom full of gold, and no man would dare molest you.”

“That’s hardly surprising!” Eleanor giggled.

“My great-uncle, King William Rufus, was shot dead with an arrow in this very forest,” Henry went on. “He had fallen out with the Church, and was generally unpopular. Some said he preferred boys to women, and the bishops, God bless them, got themselves all worked up over the extravagant clothes he and his courtiers liked to wear. His death was supposed to have been a tragic accident, with a man called Tyrell shooting the King instead of the beast he said he was aiming for, but I often wonder.”