Gifts of the Queen (28 page)

As for the queen, the failure of Boissert Field had had effect on her, too. The Norman barons' defeat meant the failure of her plan, as I found out, to discomfort the king, although at that time I had no proof of what her plans had been. She stayed outside the town, housed in one of those religious buildings I had admired along the way, more like to an English country house, bigger than a house although not as strong as a castle, set about with many gardens, but fortified. They say she later shared King Henry's triumph and journeyed with him to meet each of her formal vassals; but first, seeing how he had triumphed in all things, she kept herself apart. And knowing what he guessed of her intrigues, she may have felt it wiser to stay away. They said she feared the spread of plague, the autumn being unusually hot; they said she preferred the country air, thought of her child's health—all lies. Poitiers was
her 
city, where she had been brought up, where she had fled after leaving King Louis's court, where she had been wed to Henry; it was a city she dearly loved. Nothing would have kept her out of it save anger and pride. And these she nursed secretly, as she did her fear of her husband and her thought of revenge.

I arrived at Poitiers, full of hope, certain all misunderstandings would be put to rights, convinced one word from her would suffice; so sure of her, you see, that I thought at first it was merely ill timed that when we arrived at her court she was riding out, her falcon on her wrist, her falconer beside her, ladies swarming around. In the confusion of so many horses and riders I would have been jostled against the wall had not Walter thrust himself in front to take the strain. I caught but a glimpse of her, and she, I suppose, none of me; but I thought, When she hears I am here, she'll burst open the door in her impetuous way, and run in. Why little Ann, she'll say, her face alight with mischief as if she were but ten years old, why Ann, you've stolen a march on those stupid men who thought to keep us apart.

And so, not unduly alarmed, I left Walter to see our men housed and fed, and followed her stewards up the wide shallow stairs to wait her return. All day I waited; all day I expected her; and at night, after the feasting, after I convinced myself that she had some high ranking guest perhaps whom she had not been able to dismiss who kept her then at night, I was sure, she would come.
Kings and queens do not keep faith long.
So Raoul had warned me, but I had not believed it then, and now I found it to my cost (although that was but half of it). When old companions are out of sight, there are too many new ones over-eager to fill an empty place, too many enemies waiting to whisper sly reports. By daybreak, confused, sleepless, I determined I would seek her out.

I knew enough of court etiquette of course to realize I broke the rules. It was not for me to approach her, nor should I address her out of turn. I should presume nothing unless she permitted it. Even to me, by then, it seemed that I had made a grave mistake to have come at all. I could not, perforce, ask Raoul for advice—there was no one else to ask—yet a year ago, she had begged for me, sent for me with many loving messages. I could not accept that she had changed, or, if so, understand what had caused such change. Only that I had refused to come to her? But that was a thing I must explain myself, and then, I thought, she would relent. I believed, you see, that she was as constant as I was, not realizing that constancy too can be judged in many ways and even my own was open to doubt.

The room where I was lodged was not large nor richly furnished, a fact which, if I had had any sense, should have alerted me. It had one advantage; it looked down into a corner of the outer yard where she and her courtiers went to and fro. When she returned from Mass next day, I watched the way she took through a narrow gate into the gardens, which were set into shapes and squares with grassy plots or turf meads in between, such as poets like to praise. Down among them, I was soon lost, wandering along one gravel walk to the next. The morning air was still, hot as an English summer day, the scent of flowers hanging like incense such as I had smelled at Saint Purnace Church, but fresher, unpicked. Despite the lateness of season, there were flowers in bloom, and herbs that I should have loved to study and learn about. Even in my haste, I noted how the flowerbeds were watered by streams that cut their way in channels across the grass. There was no sound, the queen and her court seemed melted away, only the splash of those little streams, the cooing of doves by the courtyard gate. I had despaired of finding her when a child's voice alerted me. It was the fretful cry a tired child makes, and in between the clipped hedges, he presently came stumbling along, not more than two years old, but dressed like a little man, in his lavish clothes, stiff jewel crusted gown, embroidered belt and dagger sheath, a small velvet cap set on his red hair. It tumbled off as he fell down. The gravel paths grazed his knees and he began to howl, the more when I ran to pick him up. I knew him at once, his paternity stamped on him from red hair to clear white skin to temper which made him pout and scream.

God's mercy, Prince, I thought, trying to set him on his feet, although he kicked and fought, such rage will stand you in good stead one day. He plumped down on the ground with a kind of mulish obstinacy which I had seen his father show, pulling at his Moorish boots with that look his father had when he wanted a thing and was not sure how to get it.

Queen Eleanor came after him through the hedge, his nurses scuttling in her wake, afraid to make a move unless she bid them. She was smiling, throwing some quick and clever remark over her shoulder to her companions to make them laugh. But when she turned from them, the smile died, a different expression crossed that fine-shaped face; she came toward the prince with the look of one who will not let anything hinder her and, seeing it, he began to scream louder than before. I had never seen her show interest in her children—a cool and distant mother had she ever been—and might have been amazed that she came to fetch him herself had not it occurred to me she had had him brought there for a purpose of her own, which his fit of childish anger did not suit. As soon was proved. But when she saw me, I forgot such thoughts, and all my hopes died on her look.

'You,' was all she said, but with such contempt to make me cringe. No word of greeting, no surprise, no smile to light up those luminous eyes. She closed her mouth up tight, the arrogant tilt of her head more pronounced than usual. Neither childbearing nor child losing could dim that impetuous mind or still that quicksilver tongue.

I was still crouched over her son. Not knowing I did so, I stretched out my hands, a suppliant. 'Lady Queen,' I almost breathed the word, forgetting how she hated importuners—begging was a sign of weakness, a cry for mercy which might have roused pity in another, but angered her. 'How have I offended you? Send me hence if you will, but do not ignore me, I beg.'

She clapped her hands, sending the women scurrying to pick up the child. 'Bear him off,’ she cried, 'unruly brat. Lord Ademar came to see a prince, not have a baby spit at him.'

To me, she said, 'God's wounds, get up. We stand on no ceremony here, too far from court or courtly ways. I hear your husband. Count Raoul of Sieux, has come to make peace with the king. Are you come to make peace with me? After Boissert Field I doubted if either of you would dare.' I knew better than to stem her anger. 'Aye,' she said, 'I speak of Boissert, where you spoiled my plans, sent those Normans home like whipped curs. Who are you to be so bold? I knew you as a simple girl, I knew your count as a beggar himself.'

I began to say. They were traitors all, but bit off the thought. If traitors then, what was she? It was against her husband they conspired.

'Fool,' she said, angrier still, as if she guessed what I would have said. 'They would never have won, no danger of that. Left to themselves, they would have pricked Henry's pride, no more. Louis would not have let them move against the Vexin, would have taken care of them. Why had you and your Raoul,' she sneered the word, 'to interfere? Should I thank you for it? Should Ralph de Boissert's death go unavenged? Should Isobelle de Boissert be cast aside?' The bitterness in her voice was as sharp as a knife blade. 'I thought, since I had helped him, your lord might rather have helped me. Scorning Isobelle himself, is he so dog-in-manger to resent her betrothal to Geoffrey Plantagenet? It was a wedding I had arranged. Lord Raoul could have shown his thanks for his own marriage by leaving that one alone. Her lands would have contented Geoffrey Plantagenet, and now they are lost. What other lands shall he get in their place? Not mine I trust. I like him well but not enough to give him my lands.'

Too miserable to answer (for what had I known of her plans?), I muttered, 'I came to see you as a friend,' a reply as obviously displeasing, for she stamped her feet, tore at the fringes of her sleeves until the threads broke and a line of pearls went cascading to the ground. Still on my knees, I began to search for them among the gravel stones.

'Let be,' she cried. 'More care for them than all the other treasures I gave you, strewn about for other men to gather up, as if gifts were worthless as straws. I never gave you jewels to rebuild Sieux to my despite. Do not add hypocrisy to ingratitude.'

'No ingrate I,' I said, almost angry in my turn at the thought. 'Who accuses me speaks false. Ever have I counted you my benefactor and my friend.' It was perhaps the repetition of the word 'friend' or my show of anger—she did not like milk-sops—that made her pause, fingering the torn threads of her sleeve.

'Simpleton,' she said. 'You think, perhaps, having beauty still, your smiles will have all men running at your beck and call; you think the world owes you some joy, because you are young. Youth will not last long. Do you think Geoffrey Plantagenet cared for you? Why should you make him change his plans? Men are always greedy, wanting something new. Do not expect such attention to last.'

I had seen her in moods like this, but certainly never directed against myself, and certainly, I think, never so fierce, so uncontrolled, although I sensed in part she spoke to turn the blade against her own breast. And certainly never so openly jealous of anyone. I was abashed. Jealousy I had known, but not like this.

'And do you think to flaunt your beauty here,' she said, 'to gloat on me?' She darted a look in the way she had, glancing out from those large almond-shaped eyes. 'I am not yet powerless—men still serve me—for all that Henry woos them from my side. And as you have had a son, so shall I. Many more,' and her face was twisted now with pain, with fear. 'I am not too old for sons.'

Behind her bitterness was a cry for help. Hearing it, how could I deny her? I got up, took her hand; cold it was, the long thin fingers shaking in my grasp. 'Dear my Queen,' I said, 'there is no one in the world younger than you, no one more apt to win the hearts and devotion of men, no one more the king cherishes.'

She made no reply, gripped my hand tight until the rings she wore bit into my flesh, stared off into the distance with unseeing eyes. And I think now, in my old age, although I would not have thought of it then, there are women, royal or not, who take the decline of beauty, the waning of their charms, harder than others do, the more perhaps the greater their beauty was. And there are those too who take grief, the death of a child, the loss of a husband's love, so hard that it becomes a cancer, hidden from the world, eating into their flesh to make them lash and rage. Yet, looking at her as I did then, no one would deny she was still beautiful; no one could have guessed how many cares, how many sadnesses she had endured.

And I thought. Surely she who has known so much grief will not begrudge me my little part of happiness.

Presently, she stirred, as if remembering who and where she was, as if she remembered me. 'So, Ann,' she said, 'you have come. Too late. I asked for you once and you refused when I most needed you. So now I presume you think to join my little court. I have done with state affairs; we talk of love. You should know what that means, having a husband so new-wed,' she added waspishly, and before I could guess what she was about, she took me by the hand, half-led, half-dragged me behind the hedge.

A group of her companions were waiting there, most of them men, although I had understood only women were with her. Some were lying on the grass, their heads arranged on a lady's lap, others were leaning against the trees in graceful attitudes, hands on hips, as if posing like statues. I did not know their names then, nor did she present them, but the way they sprawled at ease in the warm October sun and the way their equerries waited for them, holding their horses, richly bridled and saddled for their pleasure, spoke of luxury and power. They were dressed in hunting clothes but for the most part unbuttoned, unbraced, and so languid in their movements, their way of speaking, you wondered if they would ever have the energy to hunt at all. But that was just their manner I think.

One of them, the most important one I presume, rose to his feet as we appeared, led the queen back to where a sort of throne had been made for her upon the turf, built up with furs and cloaks, and when he had seated her there, he took up a floral wreath that lay beside her and pinned it on her hair. I must confess I had never seen her look so fair, as young and gentle as a maid, the Queen of Flowers, such contrast to that angry woman who, I hoped, was left on the other side of the hedge. There is a song sung of her, that all men know I think, and I remember it in part, but even now that I speak of her, it seems to suit her, and conjures her up for me:

Queen thou art and arbiter
Of honor, wit and beauty 
Of largess and loyalty,
Lady, thou wert born in fortune's hour. . .

Well, it was long ago and much has been done and said since then, but I still remember the pride, yes, and the love I felt for her, despite the wrong she did to me.
The great are ever fickle.
Aye, so, but that does not mean we lesser folk can turn aside our affections as easily, do not suffer when we are cast aside.