Captive Queen (70 page)

Had Alys actually loved Henry? Did she love him still? Eleanor had to know. She needed to reassure herself that this had not been the kind of grand passion that Henry shared with the ill-fated Rosamund, that Alys was no real threat to her.

“Your life cannot have been easy, child,” she ventured. “You should have been married to Richard years ago, and become the mother of a fine brood by now.”

Alys flinched. Her recoil was unmistakable.

“I should have been
married
years ago,” she said pointedly.

“You can forget about that,” Eleanor retorted. “My marriage is valid. The Pope would not countenance its annulment.”

“You could have retired gracefully to Fontevrault!” It was an accusation.

“For which I have no vocation,” Eleanor replied calmly, although her ire was rising like bile in her throat. “It was all a ruse by Henry to gain possession of my domains.”

“It was far more than that!” Alys countered, her eyes flashing fire. They were green, like a cat’s, and full of venom. “You just didn’t want to lose your husband to another woman—a
younger
woman. You couldn’t accept that it was me he wanted for a wife, not you.”

“Next you’ll be telling me that he loved you!” Eleanor said scornfully. “Well, let me assure you I have heard it all before, with Rosamund.”

“He did love me—he loves me still!” Alys cried.

“How sweet!” Eleanor sneered, resolutely ignoring the flicker of fear that the girl’s words had ignited in her. “My, you are an innocent! Love indeed! What does that have to do with royal marriages made for profit and politics? Do you think, you foolish child, that love ever dictated Henry’s policy? I thought you would have more sense.”

Alys jumped to her feet, and as she did so, the folds of her
bliaut
rippled over her figure. She was, quite obviously, pregnant. Eleanor stared at her in horror.

“Is this not the fruit of love?” the princess cried triumphantly, smoothing her hands over her swollen belly.

“Any trollop can get a man to bed her,” Eleanor observed tartly, but her voice came out hoarsely through dry lips. “Love rarely comes into it. I suppose you are going to tell me that that is the King’s.”

“It is!” Alys insisted.

“Tell me, how could you so dishonor Richard, the man to whom you are betrothed?” Eleanor cried, rising, scandalized beyond measure. That Henry had not scrupled to take his son’s betrothed! She could hardly believe it, even of him, with his voracious appetites. “Shame on you for a harlot!”

Alys was weeping now. “He loves me!
You
will not stand aside and let us marry. It’s your fault!”

Eleanor ignored that. The desire to wound her rival was strong in her, and she could not resist it. “Did you know he has another mistress?” she taunted.

The barb went home. Alys gaped at her. “You’re lying—to spite me. I will not believe it.”

“Nor did I until yesterday afternoon,” Eleanor said, “and if it wasn’t for some clerk’s silly mistake, I would be in happy ignorance now. But how I found out is neither here nor there. Her name is Bellebelle. She sounds like a harlot. But you would know, of course. And you would know too that Henry is incapable of staying faithful.”

As Alys collapsed in tears, Eleanor looked down on her with distaste. “What matters most in all this is that my son, your betrothed, is spared any hurt,” she hissed. “If he knew of your shame, he would surely kill you—and his father too, and the world would applaud him for it.”

“He does know,” sobbed Alys, a note of defiance creeping back into her voice. “He does not care. He wishes only to wed me to spite his father and deprive him of the person he loves most. And he means, through me, to ally himself with my brother.”

Her words took Eleanor’s breath away. Richard knew. Of course he did. She remembered that strange look he had given Henry.

She left the girl weeping and stumbled blindly back to her apartments, her thoughts in turmoil. What have we come to, as a family, that Henry and Richard should effectively collude in such vile, underhand dealings? she asked herself. Was there no honor left in the world? And what of the silly, deluded girl—a princess of France, no less—who had been the unwilling pawn in it all? Philip would declare war if he heard of it!

But maybe, just maybe, he did know. He was capable of dissembling with the best of them, and maybe he was playing them at their own game, meaning to have the last laugh.

She began to make excuses, not for Henry—he was past redemption where women were concerned, in thrall to that unruly and mischievous member between his legs that seemed to have an independent life of its own, in defiance of all sense or morality! But Richard … Richard, she told herself, was merely being pragmatic—and chivalrous too, yes, in standing by his compromised betrothed. It took a very special man to do that. Most would have abandoned Alys, or demanded satisfaction from her seducer. But Richard was not most men: he was a lion among mortals.

Having consoled herself with such reasoning, Eleanor decided that she would say nothing of this to anyone. If that meant she was colluding too, then so be it. She could find it in herself to feel pity for Alys, unpleasant chit though she was, and as for Henry—well, what should she feel but disgust, that old, familiar revulsion at his concupiscence, but far more strongly this time, because he was injuring not only herself, and Alys, but—far more importantly—her adored Richard? Yet even that she would conceal, for Richard’s sake.

Had she really wanted Henry in her bed again? She must have been mad! Something had died in her this day, and she feared it might never be revived.

60

   It was on St. Andrew’s Day that Eleanor arrived at Westminster to be reunited with her husband and sons. Her presence, and theirs, had been required by Henry in the wake of the war that broke out in Poitou that autumn between Geoffrey and John on one side—Geoffrey being ever ready to assist in the stirring up of trouble—and Richard, valiantly defending his lands, on the other. It was only after a stern command from their father that the brothers had lain down their arms and come north to England. They were already uneasily installed in the Palace of Westminster when Henry came to greet Eleanor at the river stairs.

“Greetings!” he called chirpily as she stepped out of the boat. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “My lady, welcome. I have long looked for your coming.”

Instantly, she was wary. He wanted something from her. Aquitaine for John, no doubt! To what else could she attribute these fair words and cozening smiles?

“Greetings, my lord,” she murmured, thinking of Alys and the unknown Bellebelle, and disengaging her hand from Henry’s. She could not bear him to touch her at this moment. “So our boys have been fighting again. Do you really think they will make peace when you keep inciting them to war?”

“I incite them?” Henry threw her a sideways glance. She was going to be difficult. “They must learn to obey me.”

“They are grown men now, and have their own sense of what is right and just,” Eleanor told him. “Might cannot always triumph over right, Henry.”

“Why do you always like to make out that I’m in the wrong?” he asked aggrievedly, his good mood rapidly dissipating.

“If the cap fits …” She smiled.

“You and I need to have a little talk,” Henry told her brusquely. “I have summoned you to help me bring about a concord between our princes, not to join in the quarreling. I have summoned the Great Council as well, as we also have to confirm the election of the new Archbishop of Canterbury. Baldwin’s the man. A saintly soul he is too, a gloomy bag of nerves, in fact, and I’ve no doubt he’d prefer to remain a monk, but he’ll be useful to me.”

“You mean he won’t defy you as Becket did,” Eleanor murmured.

“Hardly!” Henry grinned. “Not with all his wavering and lack of guile. Just the right man for the job! There’ll be no obstinacy from this one.”

   When Eleanor had refreshed herself and rested after her journey, a page came to summon her to the council chamber. There, she found the King and her sons waiting for her, with the new Archbishop, who quavered a greeting, and the barons of England, resplendent in their fine tunics and heavy furred mantles of scarlet, blue, vermilion, or tawny.

Henry handed her to the seat of honor next to his—he
does
want something, badly, she thought—and then, the company being also seated, called upon their three sons to come forward and publicly make their peace before her. They stood forward, Richard’s and Geoffrey’s faces set, John’s triumphant—and stiffly gave one another the kiss of peace. Then they stood facing their parents, waiting to see what would happen next.

Henry turned to Eleanor. He’d given her no formal warning of what he was about to say—but she had guessed! “My lady,” he said in ringing tones, “I now ask you to approve the assignment of Aquitaine to the Lord John.”

Eleanor stared at him, fury mounting within her breast. How dare he! How dare he do this to Richard, to her, publicly, in the face of his entire council! She could see the flush of anger on Richard’s handsome face, hear his sharp, indrawn breath, sense Geoffrey’s secret enjoyment of this human drama being enacted before him—and catch John’s complacent, gloating smirk.

“My lord, we should discuss this privately,” she murmured, her profile rigid. She could not look at Henry.

“There is no need for discussion, my lady,” he countered. “I only wish to make a fairer distribution of my empire. Surely you can understand that?”

“All I understand is that you are depriving your rightful heir of his lawful inheritance in favor of your favorite son, who has yet to prove himself,” she said.

“Richard, always Richard!” Henry muttered, fuming. Then, in a louder voice, he reiterated his demand for Eleanor to approve the transfer of Aquitaine to John.

“No, my lord, I will not approve it,” Eleanor stated firmly.

The barons leaned forward, to a man. This was going to be interesting!

“I call upon you all, my lords of England,” the Queen went on, “to tell my lord the King if this is indeed a fair division of his domains.”

“I say it is not!” thundered Richard, who had been itching to speak.

“And I!” echoed Geoffrey. John glowered at him.

“Shut up,” Henry said brutally, his face puce with rage. Eleanor would pay for her defiance! By the eyes of God, she would pay! “Well, my lords?” His jutting jaw brooked no opposition.

The lords, who had been conferring perplexedly among themselves, looked at their sovereign warily. None of them wanted to see that spoiled brat John in control of Aquitaine, and none of them wanted to offend the man who might well be their future king, for Richard’s reputation was fearsome indeed; yet they were all afraid of Henry’s notorious temper.

The quavering voice of the new Archbishop broke the silence, to everyone’s astonishment. “Lord King, I say this cannot be a fair division,” the saintly Baldwin opined, and if an angel from Heaven had come down and voiced his view, Henry could not have been more shocked.

“And you thought he’d be useful to you!” Eleanor mocked quietly under her breath.

Some of the barons took courage from the brave old man’s stand and added their voices to his. Much gratified, Eleanor turned to Henry. “You must know, my lord,” she warned him, “that I can appeal this matter to King Philip, of whom I hold Aquitaine. And if I do, you know as well as I that he will support me, if only to discountenance you and drive a wedge between you and your sons.”

Henry threw her a murderous look. “I see I am defied on all sides. Very well. My Lord Archbishop, a word in private, if you please!” With that, he rose and stalked out of the council chamber in high dudgeon, with the faltering prelate scuttling in his wake. Poor old man, Eleanor thought, having to face the King’s wrath, and so soon after his election.

But she had won, she reminded herself exultantly, as she went to embrace her two eldest sons, John having flounced off in a sulk. It was some small, sweet revenge for Alys and Bellebelle!