Beloved Enemy (38 page)

Beneath the keep lay the town itself, the spires of its parish churches rising like needles from the cluster of thatched roofs and barns. Outside the curtain walls, the king’s forces covered the open country of the Thames valley like a blight: pavilions, siege-engines, horses, and clumps of armed men were scattered everywhere. A strong wooden tower resting at the foot of the bridge over the Thames effectively blocked all supplies into Wallingford.

Henry’s jaws tightened. “God’s eyes! The first thing we must do is demolish that tower and victual the castle. A miracle the garrison has held out as long as it has.”

“But the men have ridden all night, my lord,” said Robert de Beaumont, earl of Leicester, whose recent defection from Stephen’s side to his own had brought thirty midland castles into his camp. “They must eat and rest.”

“Not until we have done what we came to do.” Henry ignored the plea in Leicester’s voice. “Now the end is finally in sight and you ask me to stop?”

In his desperate, impatient march across the southwest of England, Henry had forced men and horses through driving rain, slippery mud, and swollen rivers until they dropped on the road from exhaustion. Nor did he need Leicester to tell him the condition of his troops. Henry knew only too well that his men, wet and hungry, shivered with cold and staggered from weakness, scarce able to hold their weapons. Was he not in a similar condition? But castle after castle had fallen to him. More and more defectors from Stephen’s side had swelled his ranks. How could he let up now? When he was so close? If he was merciless to his men, he was no less so on himself.

I’m on the eve of a great victory, he explained to an invisible Eleanor. I may not cease until it is won or I die in the attempt. You understand, Nell.

“But my lord,” said Leicester. “It’s inhuman to drive the troops this hard. You cannot expect—”

“Expect, expect?” Henry hissed the word through clenched teeth. “Let me tell you what I expect. That those who serve me are more than human, that they will rise to unimagined heights of valor and strength. If their limbs ache from weariness, if their bellies groan with hunger, what does that signify when our cause is just?” He fixed the earl with a steely gaze. “And our cause
is
just. There is no room in my camp for weaklings or the faint of heart.”

“I am your man, my lord,” replied Leicester in a barely audible voice.

Henry clamped his helmet firmly back upon his head, and waving an arm for his troops to follow, started down the muddy slope toward the castle and the glorious battle that now, at long last, awaited him.

“Stephen’s barons claim they will not fight, my lord. At this very moment a furious debate rages inside the royal pavilion between the king and his advisors.”

Henry, sitting in the great hall of Wallingford two days later, could scarcely believe the evidence of his ears as he looked up at Robert of Leicester, who had just approached the high table.

“Not fight? Men sworn to serve their anointed king? It is nothing less than treason. Does Stephen agree?”

From somewhere in the hall Henry could hear the sound of a rebec and the plaintive voice of a minstrel. He must send for that impertinent troubadour Eleanor had dismissed. Bernart something. He would know how to compose stirring
chansons
of derring-do.

“On the contrary, King Stephen is violently opposed to them. But the king is under pressure from his magnates, the archbishop of Canterbury, and his brother, the bishop of Winchester, to reach an accommodation with us.” Leicester paused. “Everyone is sick unto death of this conflict. Magnates and clergy alike want peace.”

Down the line of trestle tables echoed a chorus of agreement.

A dull pain throbbing in his temples indicated to Henry that one of his headaches was on the way. Although he had every reason to rejoice, as he and the leaders of his army were feasted, he felt frustrated. Did everyone suppose that because the enemy was now driven back across the Thames and supplies once again reached the castle, he would be satisfied? Well, he wasn’t, Henry brooded. Routing a host of troops back across the river was a far cry from the valiant clash of arms he had expected. He had been waiting to fight Stephen since his knighting by the king of Scotland four years ago. This time no one was going to cheat him of his chance at valor and glory.

His cousin William, earl of Gloucester, leaned across the table.

“This war claimed my father’s life. You have not lived here as we have, Cousin, you cannot know how terribly the people have suffered. How we all have suffered.”

“So you told me on our hair-raising trip to London when I was ten years old; I have never forgotten.” He laid a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “But am I not here to relieve everyone’s misery by defeating the usurper?” Henry removed his hand to tear off a wing of roast fowl. “Make no mistake, William. I will avenge my uncle’s death and all the other deaths by doing battle with Stephen. Now, there’s an end to it. Will someone get rid of that
trouvère
before I go mad?”

From the corner of his eye Henry saw his cousin of Gloucester exchange a glance with Leicester. His gaze switched back and forth between them. What were those two plotting? He was about to speak when Leicester took a deep breath, obviously steeling himself.

“My lord, last night some of us met secretly with Stephen’s barons—”

Hands balled into fists, Henry jumped to his feet.

“Please!” Leicester’s voice rose. “Let me finish, I beg you. In truth, we would do almost anything to avoid further bloodshed. A compromise has been suggested which the magnates of both sides may look upon with favor. Just listen to—”

But Henry, the blood beginning to pound like an anvil in his temples, was beyond listening. They were trying to thwart him, cheat him of his longed-for battle. Any moment now the bubble of crimson rage would burst inside his head and he would lose control.

“There will be a battle, I tell you.” He heard a stranger’s voice shouting at the top of his lungs. “By God’s eyes, there will be a battle between Stephen and me if I have to challenge him to single combat!”

Henry raced down the hall and flung himself out the door. Behind him the silence in the hall was like death.

In Angers, Eleanor waited for news of her husband. She had heard of his safe landing in England, then nothing further. But even lack of news could not dim her radiant happiness.

“Sometimes I’m so happy it frightens me,” she told Petronilla, who had finally joined her. “At any moment I may wake to find it is all a glorious dream and I’m still married to that French eunuch, suffocating in that gilded Parisian dungeon, with Abbé Suger and Bernard of Clairvaux as my jailers.”

“Do not speak ill of the dead,” said Petronilla, subdued and far more serious since the death of her elderly husband, Ralph. She signed herself.

They were walking arm in arm on the flintstone ramparts of Angers Castle. Looking out over the red roofs of the city, Eleanor could see beyond the old Roman walls to where the converging Loire and Mayenne rivers sparkled like blue-green jewels in the July sun.

“Not only do I finally feel fulfilled as a woman,” she continued, ignoring her sister’s remark, “but I am also with child, and Henry sufficiently trusts my judgment to appoint me his deputy in Angers.”

“There is no question that you are blessed, Sister,” said Petronilla.

“I know, I know!”

Behind her came the melodic sounds of a rebec and the lilting voice of Bernart de Ventadour following at a discreet distance. Eleanor threw him a brilliant smile over her shoulder.

Petronilla frowned. “You show that troubadour too much favor. There is talk that he has become infatuated with you.”

“In six weeks time I shall be delivered of a babe—a son—that should stop tongues wagging.” She gently patted her rounded belly. “There is little I can do about his infatuation even if I wanted to—and I don’t. It’s all quite innocent as you are well aware.” She laughed. “But you know how I adore being adored.”

Petronilla wagged a cautionary finger. “Prudence, prudence. No breath of scandal must reach your husband’s ears. Not after what you told me.”

A picture sprang to Eleanor’s mind of Henry thrashing wildly about on the rushes shouting imprecations at Bernart. She shivered, retreating from the grotesque memory.

“I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of,” she said, amused but sad that the once-flighty Petronilla should be the one to preach caution. “Henry will be most pleased when he hears how well I’ve done in his capital.”

Unwittingly, Eleanor had fallen in love with Angers. Upon her arrival she had not known what to expect and was pleasantly surprised to find it a mellow city of ancient churches and monastic schools, where philosophy and poetry had long flourished under the benign rule of the counts of Anjou. To the comfortable, imposing castle set high above the city, Eleanor had transported her household from Poitiers. Troubadours, poets, and chroniclers soon followed. Here, free from restraint, disapproving eyes, or malicious tongues, she set about creating her own court, infusing it with all the enthusiasm and gaiety of her Aquitainian heritage. Much as she missed Aquitaine, she was gratified to hear that Angers was responding favorably to her presence.

Shortly after her conversation with Petronilla it became evident that Bernart’s attentions were crossing the boundaries of propriety. In song he accused Eleanor of first enticing him, then spurning his advances. She was, he sang, noble and sweet, tormenting his dreams, causing him to suffer the most appalling agonies. When he sang of offering himself as her bedside slave to draw off her boots when she retired, Eleanor knew he had gone too far.

Before she could act, however, a message finally arrived from Henry to say he had arrived at Wallingford and was preparing to do battle with King Stephen. In his letter Henry also mentioned, casually enough, that he wanted Bernart de Ventadour to come to England at once and exhort his men to battle by composing stirring
chansons de geste.
Did Henry have unknown eyes and ears spying on her? The possibility made Eleanor uneasy.

“Is it necessary I go?” Bernart asked Eleanor, as he knelt before her in the great hall of Angers Castle.

His crisp black hair curled appealingly over a high pale forehead. Liquid brown eyes gazed longingly up at her. Really, he was quite irresistible, but she was proof against his charm. In fact, her husband’s summons very neatly removed a potential dilemma: how to get rid of Bernart gracefully, without calling attention to the fact.

“The count of Anjou has ordered you to England; naturally you must obey.”

Eleanor experienced a momentary regret. There was a side to her nature that basked in the chivalrous admiration Bernart showered on her. Secretly she thought it a shame that a woman was not allowed to indulge all the diverse aspects of herself. As men did. To expect one lone male to provide all one’s needs was, perhaps, asking too much. She dismissed the thought. After all, she loved her husband to distraction and he was riding into grave danger to win them both a crown. The loss of her favorite troubadour was of no importance whatsoever.

“That Norman duke has the soul of an acquisitive merchant and the predatory instincts of a greedy hawk,” Bernart cried. “He can never love or understand you the way I do. Like most men he regards you only as a prized possession, somewhere between his favorite gyrfalcon and his champion hound. Secretly he considers you his inferior. It is typical of such a knight.”

“Be careful how you speak of my lord,” Eleanor retorted, glancing round to make sure no one had heard him. “What you say is nonsense. Thus far he has treated me like an equal.”

Bernart raised his brows. “Tell me, Lady, what was the name of Charlemagne’s queen, empress, whatever? Or the paladin Roland’s wife?”

“Really, who can remember? If I ever even knew.”

“Exactly. What was the name of Charlemagne’s sword?”

Eleanor shrugged impatiently. “Everyone knows that. Joyeuse.”

“Roland’s?”

“Durandel—oh!”

“I see I have made my point.”

Only too well, Eleanor thought, rather shaken.

“I will immortalize you, Domna, in my verse and song. Centuries from now, your name will still be remembered.”

“For which I will always be grateful. Your songs, they please me well. But my husband does not regard me as some chattel, I assure you.”

Bernart lowered his voice. “I did not think to find you so blind. Duke Henry will never think of you as an equal. That does not bode well for one who believes herself superior to all men.”

Color flooded Eleanor’s face. “You go too far, minstrel. It is high time you removed yourself from my court. A journey to England will cool your hot blood and muzzle your impetuous tongue. If I find you have been unwise enough to repeat such slanderous thoughts elsewhere …”

Bernart bowed his head in submission. “Divinity, I am your devoted slave. Never would I be so indiscreet—” He deftly caught the purse of silver coins she flung at him.

He left the next day. Eleanor knew she would miss Bernart’s worshipful attentions but it was a relief to have him gone. Man’s superior! How had he divined those secret thoughts that lurked, half-formed, in the hidden recesses of her mind, when she herself had never fully viewed them? It was disquieting.

A sennight after Bernart had gone, another troubadour appeared, sent by the master, he said, with a song for her.

She said in accents clear

Before I did depart,

“Your songs they please me well.”

I would each Christian soul

Could know my rapture then,

For all I write and sing

Is meant for her delight.

Yes, indeed. She would miss that impudent rogue.

Meanwhile she had her unborn child to occupy her mind, a civilized court to preside over, her own lands to keep a watchful eye on, and Henry’s safety to pray for. Not that Eleanor doubted his eventual success. Every instinct told her that the Angevin star was in the ascendant.

On the seventeenth day of August Eleanor gave birth to a son in Le Mans. He had a patch of russet hair and blue-gray eyes. Beside herself with triumph and joy, she kept examining the tiny pink evidence of his sex, hardly able to believe what she saw. She named him William, after the great Conqueror, and the Troubadour, as well as her own father. At long last she was vindicated. The stain of her two failures to bear Louis an heir was wiped clean.