Captive Queen (15 page)

“It seems your fame has spread,” Eleanor said uneasily, wondering what else Henry had heard. Surely he had his hands full enough in England without going to the trouble of sending for a troubadour to entertain his knights?

“That is what the duke’s messenger told me, madame. But alas, I cannot bear to leave here, or say farewell to the person who is the most dear to me.”

“When the duke sends such a summons, you may not ignore it,” Eleanor said. “His patronage will be most valuable to you and add to your fame. You are a fortunate man.” Truth to tell, Bernard’s excessive displays of devotion were becoming a little exhausting, and she would not be sorry to see him go, for what had begun as a pleasant interlude was now becoming merely prolonged tedium, and a little embarrassing. Besides, she would soon be reunited with Henry. When the spring came, he had sent to say, he hoped to return to her. She was counting down the days until then.

Bernard was miserably aware that Eleanor was making no protest at his going to England, and hurt to realize that she was not even showing any sorrow. In the privacy of his chamber he wept bitter tears over her unkindness and the prospect of being parted from her, this wondrous being whose presence was so essential to his happiness. He tried to console himself with the notion that she was merely protecting herself by being so distant toward him—after all, his love for her was a secret, and she would not betray it by showing emotion in public—and even ended up convincing himself that this separation would secretly be as distressing for her as it was for him.

When he arrived, London was overcast, freezing, and deep in snow. To a man of the South, it felt like the edge of the world. Mourning the tragedy of his exile, he looked at the ice-bound river banks and thought longingly of far-off Aquitaine, and its beautiful duchess—and suddenly, miraculously, it seemed as if those banks were crowded with flowers, red, white, and yellow, in a glorious sunburst of color. He could almost smell their scent, and felt faint with longing. Then he looked again and the illusion was gone. He was convinced it had been a good omen that presaged his speedy return to his lady.

His need became an obsession. When he thought of Eleanor, his heart filled with joy and misery in equal measure. He was a man possessed. Shivering in his meager lodging in the shadow of Westminster Abbey, he composed song after song in her honor, as he waited for the duke’s summons to Westminster.

When it came, Bernard was disconcerted to find that Henry FitzEmpress—a steely-eyed, hawklike, terrifying young man—did not seem to be interested in discussing the martial songs he had been summoned to write. Instead, he began firing questions at him about his life at the court of Poitiers.

“Does Madame the Duchess welcome many troubadours like yourself?” he inquired aggressively; almost accusingly, Bernard thought. He had met with his duke in the lofty, magnificent stone hall that adjoined the King’s palace; it had been built, he had learned, by the Conqueror’s son, King William Rufus, just over fifty years before—and, like everywhere else in this godforsaken city, it was freezing.

“Yes, my lord. Her court is an academy of great culture,” Bernard enthused, shivering.

“And she has singled you out for special favor?” Henry went on.

Bernard nodded happily. “She has been most kind to me, a humble poet.”

“How kind?” Henry snapped. “I have heard disquieting rumors about you. Now I want the truth!” His face was suddenly puce with anger, his voice menacing.

Bernard quailed before him. Now the awful realization dawned, and he knew exactly why he had been summoned to England. Poor lady, he thought: this man surely is the Devil’s spawn, as people say.

“Sire, as God is my witness,” he declared hotly, “I have never compromised Madame the Duchess’s honor. It is more dear to me than my life. And she, sweet lady, would never condescend so far, I know it. She is much too virtuous. I beg you to believe me, sire.”

Henry looked at him hard. He wanted—needed—to believe him.

“These poems, though,” he said. “They speak of love.”

“Unrequited, sire,” Bernard told him, then pulled himself up. What was he saying? This harsh young man did not seem to understand the conventions of courtly love, so he hastened to explain. “In my land, it is permissible for a humble minstrel like myself to pay his addresses to the lady he loves, however exalted she be, or even wed to another. He might love her, but he would be most fortunate indeed if that love were ever reciprocated. I am devoted to Madame the Duchess, I do not deny it, but I never dared hope for her favors. I am content, as are many, to worship from afar. It is the custom. My lady has proved a most kind mistress to her servant, but that has been all, I assure you. I have been like a man without hope, sighing with love for her.”

“You dare to stand before me, Bernard de Ventadour, and brazenly tell me you are in love with my wife?” Henry was incandescent with rage.

“In my country, such things are accounted no insult to either wife or husband,” Bernard explained desperately. “It is permitted for the poet or the squire to bestow his devotion on some great lady, and hope for her favors, be they ever so small. There is no shame or evil in it.”

“And in my country, they would cut your balls off if you were so impertinent!” Henry hissed.

“I have been a madman,” Bernard said fearfully. His face was ashen.

The duke looked at him, fury and contempt mingling in his expression. Bernard quailed, terrified of what he would do.

“You need to be taught a lesson,” Henry growled. “Guards! Take this varlet to the Abbot of Westminster and tell him to lock him in a cell and feed him on bread and water to cool his blood, while I decide what to do with him.”

Strong hands laid hold of the unfortunate troubadour, pinioning him, and he was marched away forthwith, struggling and wailing, beseeching his lord to have pity on him. Henry watched him go, grimvisaged. He had been so consumed with jealousy that he had come near to killing the wretch in cold blood. It was best for Bernard de Ventadour that he was out of the duke’s sight.

   Bernard had been three days fretting and weeping in his freezing cell before Henry calmed down and relented. Having thought the matter over with a cooler head, he decided that the wretched man was clearly harmless; he himself could not, if he were honest, imagine Eleanor ever wasting her time on him.

He sent orders to Westminster Abbey, commanding that his prisoner be brought before him, and when the trembling troubadour arrived, shivering in a coarse, chafing monk’s habit, the duke strode up and down for a bit, then came to a halt before him.

“Don’t worry, I won’t make a eunuch of you,” he barked. “My lady has told me something of you troubadours, but evidently I was not listening properly. I had not realized that such—games—were customary in Aquitaine. Well, henceforth, things will be different. I rule Aquitaine now. In future, kindly address your poems to some whore or serving girl.”

Bernard visibly slumped in relief, yet had the temerity to look grieved. “My lord has not understood the custom.”

“My lord
has some choice words to say about that custom,” Henry flared. “Now, to business. My knights are waiting to be entertained, so I suggest you put on some decent clothes and go and get your lyre.”

Bernard was only too glad to scuttle out of his master’s presence. But he did not relish his new duties, and pined still for Aquitaine. A week later, encountering the duke in the gardens, and spurred by the courage born of desperation, he threw himself to his knees.

“Sire,” he entreated, “how long am I to stay here in England?”

“Until I say you can depart,” Henry said.

“But it is so cold here, and the court is a rough, unfriendly place. There are no ladies to lighten it.”

“The Queen is dead, so what did you expect? The King does not need ladies to attend upon him!” his master retorted.

“I beg of you, sire, allow me to go home to Poitiers, where I can mingle with fair and courteous ladies and chevaliers!” the troubadour pleaded.

“No!” Henry barked. “You must stay here, if only for the sake of my lady’s reputation. And do not ask me again, for the answer will be the same.”

11

   As Eleanor’s colorful cavalcade wended its stately way through the wooded hills of the Haute-Seine toward Rouen, the capital city of the Dukes of Normandy, she could barely contain her excitement. The news brought back to her by the outriders that she had sent ahead, impatient to be at the center of things, was excellent.

“Lady, the lord duke has returned triumphantly to his duchy and is even now lodged in his palace!”

“Lady, he has been received with joy and honor by his mother, the Lady Empress, and his brothers, and by all the people of Normandy, Anjou, and Maine!”

They would be celebrating in Poitou also, at Eleanor’s behest, but she had not stayed to participate. At the first news that Henry had crossed the English Channel, she hastily gathered together a retinue, settled her little son in a horse litter with his nurses, and traveled north. Now she was approaching Henry’s greatest city—for he had chosen to make it his seat of government for all his domains—and her mind was in joyous turmoil, her body tense and alive with desire. It had been sixteen long, dragging months since she had laid eyes on him, her beloved lord, and now it was only a matter of minutes before they would be reunited.

Had she been anticipating a private reunion, with just the two of them present, she would have been delirious with anticipation. Even a public reunion on familiar ground would have set her heart beating wildly. But she and Henry were to be restored to each other not only in the presence of his entire court, but also under—she anticipated—the eagle eye of his mother, the formidable Matilda. This would be her first encounter with her mother-in-law, and she was dreading it. Hence her mixed—and very turbulent—emotions.

Before her lay the fair and bustling city, set among murmuring streams, meadows, and woods, and encircled by strong walls. As Eleanor rode through the massive stone gates, a slender, elegant figure in rich red silk on a dancing white horse, the people cheered. They had a warm affection for their duchess, for she had brought great lands and prestige to their duke, and done her duty by presenting him with an heir. And just look at him, tiny William, Count of Poitiers, gurgling and pointing on his nurse’s lap as he was borne into Rouen in his fine litter! The delighted citizens waved back. Such a sturdy child, and strong! He would be another like his sire, they told one another.

Eleanor passed through narrow, cobbled streets lined with the timbered houses of prosperous merchants and fine churches. Presently, she saw before her the impressive Romanesque cathedral of Notre Dame, with its high, tiered tower dedicated to St. Romain. Inside, she was told, were the tombs of Henry’s ancestors, the early Dukes of Normandy, right back to the Viking Rollo, who had seized the duchy in the tenth century. Impatient though she was to see her lord and to have her meeting with his mother over and done with, she graciously acceded to the citizens’ pleas that she enter the cathedral and marvel at its glories.

When she emerged, her eyes dazzled by sunlight after the gloom of the dimly lit interior, she became aware of the crowds parting for a small party of horsemen who were riding toward her across the market square, their hooves clattering on the cobbles. She squinted at them as they pulled up a few feet away, then as their leader dismounted, recognized the wonderfully familiar hunting attire and realized, her heart leaping with joy, that it was Henry, come to welcome her. Shaking with excitement, she sank to her knees as he approached.

“Eleanor, you should not kneel to me!” he exclaimed, grasping her delicate hands in his strong ones and raising her to her feet. She looked at him and marveled. A youth had gone away sixteen months before, and come back a man. A new maturity cloaked him with ease and invested him with greater authority and assurance. At twenty-one, Henry was battle-hardened, taut of muscle, ferocious with energy. His cropped red head jutted forward from his bull neck as he bent and kissed her full on the lips.