Captive Queen (45 page)

There was balm to her hurt pride in the courtly adoration of the troubadours who had flocked to her court, overjoyed to be once more dedicating songs of love and beauty to their famed duchess. Their praises warmed her heart, for she knew she was no longer the glorious young woman who had inspired such chivalrous verse in the past; and yet still they sang of the incomparable loveliness of their noble Eleanor.

It was a luxury, after so many years of what now felt like exile, to be living in the midst of a civilization that celebrated love in all its forms. Indeed, it was a delight to sit in a sun-baked arbor of an afternoon, discussing with her lords and ladies this most fascinating of subjects, with her courtiers gathered around, hanging on her every word.

“They do not speak of love in the kingdoms of the North as we do here in Aquitaine,” Eleanor told her astonished listeners. “They think that love, as we honor it, is merely an excuse for adultery. My Lord Henry could never understand our culture.”

“Love,” declared the young troubadour Rigaud de Barbezieux, “is the bedrock of happy relations between men and women.”

“There can only be true happiness when lovers meet on an equal footing, which is rare,” Eleanor said. “But there is no equality in marriage, and our courtly code dictates that the suitor is always a supplicant to his mistress.”

“Then how can men and women ever come together as equals?” Torqueri asked, her smooth brow puckered in a frown. “It can never be in a world in which we women are treated either as chattels or whores.”

“I thank God that our customs in Aquitaine favor women.” Eleanor smiled. “Torqueri is right. In the North, women
are
just chattels. But here, thanks to our freer society, they live on pedestals! You see why I wanted to come home!”

“Did they not treat you with respect in the North, madame?” a young lady asked, shocked.

“Yes, of course—I am the Queen, and they dared not scant their respect. But woe betide any troubadour who praised my beauty in a song, or dared to imagine himself in my bed! I tell you, they cannot understand that it is a harmless conceit.”

Bertran de Born, a wild and dangerous young man who was as skilled with the sword as with the lyre, bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. “Whoever said it was harmless?”

“A woman is not supposed to condescend to give her favors to a man of lesser rank,” Mamille reproved primly.

“Then, since marriages are made for policy, how will she find love?” Bertran quizzed her. “In truth, no man looks to find love in the marriage bed.”

“I would question that,” Eleanor put in, enjoying this discussion immensely.

“Madame, begging your pardon, I contend that true love cannot exist between husband and wife,” Bertran challenged. “It must be looked for elsewhere. And I have to say that, although the object of one’s desire is not supposed to condescend to a humble suitor, many do!” There were cries of outrage from the ladies present.

“Sir, you are lacking in chivalry, and breaking the rules of the game,” Eleanor chided.

“But, madame, you cannot agree that love can flourish within marriage,” Bertran persisted.

“I would not believe it,” Rigaud murmured.

Eleanor’s smile faded. It was as if a cloud had passed over the sun. “I believe that love may be found in marriage,” she said at length, “if the partners be two kindred souls, which is rare, I grant you. But …” Her voice grew distant, her tone chill. “But where the husband insists on being master, and has the right to take what he wants, rather than sue for it, love cannot flourish, for I truly believe, as I said before, that love must be given freely in a relationship of equals.”

“But that leads us back to the burning question. How can men and women ever enjoy such a relationship?” Bertran protested. “In marriage, the husband is lord; in courtship, the mistress grants favors, if it please her.”

Eleanor laughed suddenly, and tapped him on the shoulder. “You tell us, Messire de Born! What about all those ladies who have condescended—of whom you have just spoken? You must know all about love in a partnership of equals!” There was general laughter, as Bertran smirked and nodded, conceding defeat.

“Love?” Torqueri giggled. “What does he know of it? All he thinks of is that unruly little devil in his
braies!”

“I object to the word ‘little’!” Bertran roared.

“I should know,” retorted Torqueri archly, to more splutterings of glee. It was all very pleasant, Eleanor thought, sitting here, feeling completely at home and enjoying such idle discourse. Love, she reflected, was perhaps not the most important thing in the world, despite what the troubadours claimed; and there were many compensations for its loss. She knew now that she could live alone, at peace in her own company, and that she could face the future with equanimity. The battle had been a long one, but she had won it.

38

   Henry had aged in the two years since Eleanor had last seen him. His red hair was streaked with gray, there were lines of strain etched on his face, and he had put on more weight. He greeted her formally with a kiss on the cheek, one prince to another, his face betraying no emotion; then, taking her hand, he led her into the grand Hall of the Exchequer in Caen, his courtiers bowing as they passed.

“I would not have summoned you North in the depth of winter had it not been important for us to show solidarity on this issue,” he explained.

“You are resolved on having Young Henry crowned King of England now, I understand,” Eleanor stated.

“Yes. It is customary in England to wait until a ruler succeeds, but all the French kings back to Charlemagne have had their heirs crowned in their lifetimes, and I am of the opinion that it is a good way of safeguarding the succession. No doubt the English will grumble, as they dislike anything that breaks with tradition, but they will get used to it. There is but one obstacle to my plan.”

“Becket,” Eleanor said without hesitation.

“Yes,” Henry sighed, “but we will discuss that over dinner.” He led her into a fine vaulted chamber hung with tapestries portraying hunting scenes. “Some wine?”

“Thank you,” Eleanor said politely, trying to recall the passion that had once existed between them and failing, for it seemed they had become two strangers. “Did you have a pleasant Christmas?”

“Yes,” Henry replied. “I kept it at Nantes in Brittany, with Geoffrey and Constance. It’s a pity you were not there at Rennes last spring, to see Geoffrey invested with the ducal crown.”

“I am sorry I could not be there. I was on progress in Aquitaine. But Geoffrey told me all about it, and Constance was full of it, and puffed up with her own importance, the little minx.” She grimaced at the memory.

“Geoffrey will have his hands full with that one.” Henry chuckled. “Thank God he won’t be bedding her for several years to come.”

“So all is quiet in Brittany now?” she could not resist saying. It was ancient history, the rising of Eudes de Porhoët, but she wanted to make Henry sweat a little over it. He gave her a quizzical look, then turned away.

“You heard,” he said.

“All Europe heard!” she answered tartly. “How could
I
fail to hear?”

“Eleanor, I did not ask you here to fight with you.” Henry’s tone was almost pleading. “You asked for your freedom, and you have it. At least allow me mine.”

“Naturally,” she said sweetly. “I trust that Rosamund—‘Fair Rosamund,’ as I hear they now call her—how charming that sounds!—wasn’t too upset by it. She is still your mistress, I take it?”

“Vixen!” Henry barked. “You haven’t been here five minutes and you’re picking a quarrel with me.”

“Yes, but I’ve been storing up a few things to say to you over the past two years,” Eleanor riposted.

“Actually, it is good to see you,” Henry said. “Don’t spoil it.”

“How touching!” she exclaimed, smiling a touch too gaily.

“We need to work together now,” he told her, frowning. “Shall we call a truce?”

“A truce!” The smile seemed to be fixed on her face. “If you will.”

   They dined in the solar, the servitors having withdrawn after laying out the food on a side table, from which they helped themselves.

When they were seated, Henry wasted no time in returning to the subject of Young Henry’s coronation.

“What I want,” he began, “is to see Thomas restored to his rightful place in Canterbury, and an end to this interminable wrangling. It is fitting that the Archchbishop of Canterbury perform the ceremony.”

“But I heard you had quarreled again with Becket last year?”

Henry sighed deeply. “Indeed I did. Louis had offered to mediate—once more—and, at his suggestion, I sent to tell Thomas that I would support his reinstatement if he would retract his condemnation of the Constitutions of Clarendon. And he agreed, Eleanor! He said he would do it.”

“So what went wrong?” She’d heard several garbled versions of what had actually taken place and had not known which to believe.

“He came to see me. We hadn’t set eyes on each other for four years, so you can imagine how I felt. He fell on his knees, then prostrated himself fully before me, begging for mercy.”

“He was ever one for the grand gesture,” Eleanor observed acidly.

“You sound just like my mother, God rest her,” Henry objected.

“Your mother was a very wise woman—she had the measure of this man.”

“Look, I am trying to tell you what happened,” Henry protested.

“Go on then,” she said coolly.

“Well, I thought that would be it. We’d exchange the kiss of peace, he’d go home to Canterbury, and we’d all live happily ever after.”

“Henry, this is Thomas Becket we are talking about. Nothing is ever straightforward with this priest. What did he do?”

Henry flung her a hurt look, but resumed his tale without rising to the bait. “He ruined it all. He said he would submit to my pleasure in all things saving the honor of God, and that it did not become a priest to submit to the will of a layman. By which I knew, beyond doubt, that we were back to where we’d started.”

“And what did you do?”

“I lost my temper. I swore at him and walked out, with everyone in an uproar, and Louis trying ineffectively to tell Thomas that he was being too obstinate. And that was that. Becket stormed back to his cloister, and has been sulking there ever since, God damn him.”

Eleanor rose, took her plate to the buffet, and speared two more pieces of chicken with her knife. “So where do we go from here?” she asked.

“I propose—and I want your approval for this—to have our loyal friend Roger, Archbishop of York, crown Young Henry instead.”

Eleanor turned and stared at him. “You know that Becket would see that as a gross insult?”

“I do,” Henry replied defiantly, “and I know too that it would offend those who love tradition. But I cannot afford to let this infernal priest interfere with my plans. Do you agree?”

“Absolutely. It might be a way of bringing Becket to heel.”

   But it was not.

“He has threatened me with excommunication if I order Archbishop Roger to officiate at the crowning,” Henry roared. “What’s more, he has complained to the Pope, and His Holiness has forbidden it, also on pain of excommunication. And any bishop or priest who takes part in the ceremony will also be subject to anathema. It is not to be borne, and by the eyes of God, I will defy them both! I am going to England now, to see the thing done, and I want you to stay here and govern Normandy in my absence.”

“You know you have my support,” Eleanor told him. He looked at her for a lingering moment, his expression warmer than she had seen it in years. But he said nothing; his mind was on practicalities.

“Close all the ports and keep them closed until you hear from me,” he commanded. “We don’t want our friend Thomas crossing the Channel and spoiling things.”

“What of your bishops?”

“Leave me to bully them. They know what’s good for them. When all is ready, I will send for Young Henry. I leave it to you to ensure that he comes with a suitable escort. Add a couple of bishops for good measure, so that the people may believe this is done with the blessing of the Church. You’ll know how to cozen your prelates.”