Captive Queen (57 page)

But if Henry wanted a reconciliation of sorts, and for her to accompany him to England as his queen, then so be it. She would go, and meekly do as she was bid—and make the best of it, avoiding all occasion for conflict. Anything would be preferable to this. Her heart leaped at the possibility that she might see her sons again soon.

Watching the Queen standing at the window, deep in thought, Amaria reflected sadly that these months of confinement had aged her. Eleanor was fifty-two, and looked it. The red in her graying hair had faded to the color of straw and gone thin on the skull; her eyes and the corners of her mouth were circled by fine lines; her skin had paled through lack of exposure to sunlight. Yet she retained—and always would—that exquisite bone structure that lent her her peculiar beauty. The King would find his wife changed, but still, despite everything, attractive.

   Eleanor’s spirits sank rapidly when she saw that she was to be accompanied by a heavily armed escort. There could be no doubt that Henry meant for her to travel as a prisoner, under guard. Unless he was bent on making some dramatic gesture such as liberating her before the eyes of their sons, she had to face the fact that her future still looked bleak. She toyed feverishly with the idea of making a dramatic personal appeal to Henry, of debasing herself before him and promising anything
—anything
—to regain her freedom.

It felt strange to be on horseback again; she was stiff and out of condition, she realized. But expert rider that she had been all her life, she soon became acclimatized to being back in the saddle. Yet her pleasure in once more feeling the heat of the sun and the soft breath of the July breeze was subsumed by her inner dread and bleak disappointment. She could take no pleasure in the flowers that bedecked the hedgerows, the green fields peopled by villeins stripped to the waist and singing as they toiled on their strips, the sparkling rivers and streams, or the rich, golden countryside in all its summer beauty. It was as if her life was being held in suspension until her fate had been revealed to her.

As they rode into Barfleur, Eleanor could see a great fleet of at least forty ships waiting in the harbor. So they were bound for England, as she had anticipated. But why so many ships? Then she saw a great company of soldiers waiting to board some of the vessels anchored at the farther end of the quay. So Henry was taking an army with him. Surely he could not
still
be at war? She began to feel distinctly uneasy.

Her escort led her past the squat fortified church tower where she had once waited with Henry for a tempest to cease, so that he could cross to England and claim his kingdom. That had been all of twenty years ago. Where had the time gone? And look where it had brought them! But there was no leisure to reflect, as the captain was leading them toward the quayside, where she could see a large gathering of people, many of them well-dressed women, waiting while their baggage was stowed on board the flagship. As she drew nearer, she recognized many familiar faces.

There was Henry, his face weather-beaten and tanned, standing with his hand on the shoulder of a stocky boy with dark, copper-gold curls. It was John, grown up fast, she realized with a jolt, looking around anxiously for his older brothers. But there was no sign of them. In fact, it looked as if Henry had rounded up all the females in his family. She caught her breath as she espied her daughter Joanna, pretty as a partridge, looking apprehensively in her mother’s direction; it was such a joy to see Joanna again; she hoped that her daughter did not think ill of her, that Henry had not poisoned her young mind with calumnies.

There was Queen Marguerite, sixteen now, and the living image of Louis; Alys, her younger sister, Richard’s betrothed, a willowy brunette who must now be about fourteen, and surely ripe for marriage. The insufferable Constance was staring at her with undisguised contempt; already, even at twelve years old, she was posing provocatively, her clinging white
bliaut
accentuating every detail of her wide, curvaceous hips and small breasts; unlike most girls, she kept her hair cropped short, which gave her an elfin appearance, but did not, in Eleanor’s opinion, look attractive or suit her. But Constance always was one to be different and draw attention to herself. Gentle Alice of Maurienne stood with her, casting wistful glances at the oblivious John, her betrothed, and watching over them all was the King’s bastard sister, Emma of Anjou, a capable matron in widow’s garb who looked the image of her father, Count Geoffrey. Eleanor supposed that she had been summoned by her brother to take the place of the mother who had been shut up in prison. A little way off a cluster of noble girls and ladies chattered excitedly; no doubt they had been summoned to attend on all the King’s womenfolk.

As the Queen’s escort dismounted, the captain held Eleanor’s bridle as she climbed off her horse. The King broke away from his party and walked slowly toward them, his face impassive. Eleanor curtsied formally, then rose in trepidation to face him. He looked at her blankly, with no trace of emotion.

“I will not say you are welcome, Eleanor,” he began, his voice husky. “You’d know I didn’t mean it. But I trust you had a good journey.”

“Why have you summoned me, my lord?” she asked. There was no point in continuing with the pleasantries, even though everyone was watching them with avid interest.

“I am taking you—and these young ladies—to England. Thanks to your efforts, we are still at war.” He glared at her. “Even the Scots are joining the fray now, as if Louis and our beloved sons are not making enough mischief. They are all threatening England with invasion, and my justiciar there is bombarding me with appeals for help. No doubt it pleases you to hear that, madame.”

Eleanor could not ignore the barb. “I am very sorry for your trouble,” she said, “but you only brought it upon yourself.”

“So you had nothing to do with it?” he sneered, his manner icy.

“I never incited anyone to invade England. And I don’t see how my presence there will help your cause.”

Henry grinned at her nastily. “Did you think I would leave you in Rouen, with war breaking out on all fronts, and Paris not that far off? One of our sons—nay, Louis himself, possibly—might take it into his head to free you and exploit once more your treacherous heart. I’m not a fool, Eleanor. You are going to a more secure prison in England, where you can stay out of trouble.”

It was as if a dead weight were pressing on her chest. She feared she might faint again, as she had when he last told her what her fate was to be. To have her hopes of freedom suddenly raised and then as speedily dashed was devastating. But she managed to maintain her composure.

“Where are you sending me?”

“I am thinking about it. Where would you least like to go?”

She almost said Woodstock, and stopped herself in time. Any prison, however grim and gloomy, would be preferable.

“While my sons are in peril, I care not where I go,” she answered. “But what of these young girls, their wives?”

“They will be well looked after. I am sending Marguerite, Constance, and Alys to Marlborough Castle, as hostages for the good behavior of their lords and King Louis. My sister will have the care of them.”

“And Joanna and John?”

“Joanna goes with them. John stays with me from now on. Of all my sons, he is the only true one.” Henry’s face had softened at the mention of the youngest of his brood.

“Might I be permitted to embrace my children?” she ventured.

“You weren’t worried about embracing them when you packed them off to Fontevrault,” Henry retorted.

“You
packed them off there,” she threw back.

“Be honest, Eleanor: you couldn’t wait to see the back of John, baby that he was.”

She was taken aback. “It is another thing for which I have you to blame,” she accused him.

“Me? What have I got to do with it?”

“It’s a long story, and you would never understand it,” Eleanor said wearily.

Henry shook his head in exasperation. “Eleanor, I don’t have time for this. We must board our ship soon, to catch the tide. Tell your woman to bring your gear.”

   It was 1154 all over again, except that one would not have expected the voyage to be so rough in July. As soon as they put to sea, the waves swelled, heaving so violently that the ship was pitched and tossed to within a timber’s breadth of breaking up.

The women, Eleanor included, were all confined to a cabin in the forecastle; some were seasick, most were very frightened. Nine-year-old Joanna crept warily to her mother’s side and clung to her.

“There, there, sweeting,” Eleanor murmured, glad beyond measure to be able to embrace her child, and grateful for this small blessing amid all the fear and misery. But when she tried to comfort the wailing Constance, the girl shook her off rudely. Eleanor recoiled; she would do no more for Constance, she vowed.

Outside, they could hear the sailors shouting warnings. The rain came, pattering furiously against the wooden walls and roof. The terrible motion of the waves was relentless. Eleanor tried to pray but could not focus her mind. Did she really want God to spare her? Would it not be best for everyone, herself included, if she drowned and sank to the bottom of the sea?

Then they could hear the King’s voice, roaring above the storm, addressing the ship’s company: “If the Lord in His mercy has ordained that peace will be restored when I arrive in England, then may He grant me a safe landing. But if He has decided to visit my kingdom with a rod, may it never be my fortune to reach the shores of my country!”

God was merciful. Soon afterward, the sea calmed and they sighted Southampton by nightfall. But Henry had less mercy than his Maker. As soon as they disembarked, and the royal party had been given bread and fresh water for their saddlebags to stay them on the journey, he turned to Eleanor, whom he had contrived until now to ignore, and bade her walk a little way off with him.

“I am for Canterbury, to do my penance at last at the tomb of the holy blissful martyr, as they now call my late lamented Thomas,” he told her. “You did know that he had been made a saint?”

She did. She experienced a wicked pleasure at the thought of the monks of Canterbury lashing Henry’s back; God knew, he deserved it, and not just for his unwitting part in Becket’s murder!

“Yes,” she replied. “That was before you locked me up.”

He let that pass, his mind racing ahead. “I have decided to send you under guard to Sarum Castle, where you will remain during my pleasure. Be clear, Eleanor, that this is your punishment for jeopardizing my crown—and for willfully destroying our marriage.”

“For that, you have only yourself to blame!” she cried, stung to anger.

“All the world condemns you as a traitor to your lord and king, Eleanor. You should hear what they say about you! Do you think that, after what you did, I could ever trust you again?”

“Trust is a mutual thing,” she said bitterly. “You broke mine years before. Your contribution to our marriage was one long betrayal! You were destroying it long before I came out in support of our sons.”

He shrugged. “Men sow their wild oats. What makes you think that you were so special among wives that you should expect fidelity? You had my love, God knows—and you killed it.”

“Ah, but that was after Rosamund had stolen that love. You didn’t love me anymore; you loved her—you told me so yourself. It was quite affecting!” She spoke the words with scorn, but deep inside the wounds were yet tender: she could still feel the pain. And the prospect of her continuing imprisonment was terrible to her. “Henry, how long do you mean to keep me shut up?”

He had been about to make some tart response to her remark about Rosamund but her sudden changing of the subject put that out of his mind. He wanted to hurt her, wanted to pay her back for the long and bitter year of struggle, strife, and hard fighting for which she, in part, was responsible.

“For as long as you live!” he said venomously.

49

   The forbidding stone keep of Sarum sat solid and foursquare in a windswept position on a grassy mound atop a hill. The hill was in fact an Iron-Age fort, but no one knew much about “the old ones” who had built and occupied it. There were vague rumors that those humps on the top of various hills in the vicinity were their burial mounds, but no one wanted to go near them for fear of the evil shades that might be lurking there, protecting the dead. Later, the site had been colonized by the Romans; bits of masonry and pottery surfaced in the soil from time to time, and once, a fragment of a mosaic pavement, which had the town dwellers shaking their heads and murmuring about heathen spirits. Sarum—or Salisberie, as some now liked to call it—was the source of many legends, and the latest ones were already in the course of being embroidered from the gossip about the Queen of England, who was shut up in the castle.