The Sister Queens (39 page)

“I am less worried about Gascony than I am about us. You will not come to Windsor with me tomorrow; you scarcely seem to notice me anymore—”

“I did not come here to be nagged.” Henry cuts me off. With a defiant look he picks up his tunic and pulls it back over his head.

“Henry, please, why are you so quick to be angry with me?”

“I might ask why you are so quick to criticize. God’s blood, nothing I do suits you. You would do well to remember that
I am
the husband here;
I am
the king. It is not my role to please; it is yours.” With a vicious tug Henry tightens the girdle at his waist. “I believe I will sleep better tonight if I sleep alone.”

After Henry goes, I sit on the edge of my bed and cry. Tomorrow morning I leave for Windsor. To leave on such a note! Why oh why did I say anything at all this evening about our relationship? I could have talked of little things and allowed Henry to exhaust himself in my bed. Had I done so, I would have nothing to keep me awake this night but his snoring. Now I fear I will be sleepless with worry.

When Uncle Peter comes to take a private leave of me shortly after sunrise the next morning, he is quick to notice the dark circles beneath my eyes.

“Niece, I am glad you are leaving,” he says. “The country air will bring you better sleep.”

“I seriously doubt so. And though the river smells particularly bad this season, it is not London, its noise, or its filth that disturb my rest. I fear, sir, that I am losing the king.”

“Why, because he no longer comes when you crook your finger?” Peter seems vaguely amused by this, and I cannot reconcile it. After all, he is always first to remind me of my position at the pinnacle of Savoyard power in the English court. Surely it cannot please him that my influence wanes.

“It is no light matter. If I am diminished, Uncle, many will make the descent with me.”

“Eleanor, you must learn to distinguish between Henry the king and Henry the man. It would be troubling indeed if your power to influence the king politically were to seriously lessen, but that is unlikely in my estimation. Henry has surrounded himself with your kith and kin and continues to listen to their advice, even in the face of competition from the Lusignans. Of course, that could change, but I will do all I can to prevent it, and that includes pointing out to you what should be obvious.” My uncle Peter pauses for a moment to shift in his seat and take my hand. “Henry the man is not young anymore, nor is your marriage. You are in the middle of things. The time of grand passion may be past, but the time for hard work is not. If you can reconcile yourself to courting respect and not adoration; if you can keep your eyes and your energies focused on our projects, I believe all will be well.”

I feel my face warming. “Do you mean I must accept Henry’s diminishing regard? Accept it, though I have given him all a husband could want?” My voice catches. What I really mean and cannot bear to say aloud is that I have given Henry my whole heart and cannot imagine surviving the pain of having such a gift set
aside as if it were a tunic that no longer fits. Can this, I wonder, be what my dear sister has felt for most of the years of her marriage? Lonely and abandoned? How horrible. And though I have been sympathetic to her complaints, I suddenly wish there had been a deeper compassion in me as I listened to them. I understand them at this moment as I never did before.

“A husband’s wants change. Cannot a wife’s expectations do likewise?”

“No.”

My uncle sighs. “Come, Eleanor. I will escort you to your horse. The ride to Windsor offers you an excellent opportunity to think. You are always quick to know your own mind and slow to change it, but I have every faith that you will see the sense of what I say in the end. You are too practical to risk all we have built—patronage and power, your son’s legacy—merely to chase after the romantic stuff of troubadours’ tales.”

Each day I pass at Windsor I expect to receive a letter from Henry saying he is coming. When I am gone from London a week complete, I give orders that I am to be notified immediately, day or night, should the king arrive. When I am with my children a month and the trees in my garden are bare, I cease waiting for a servant to come running with word that Henry has arrived. Then, just as I begin to believe Henry will stay in London and I will not see him until I go to Westminster for our Christmas court, Margaret Biset returns to my chamber shortly after I have been put to bed. The king is here. I am on my feet and giving orders in an instant.

“Eleanor?” Henry looks up with surprise as I enter his apartments. He is seated. While one servant unclasps the cloak from about his neck, another begins to remove one of his boots. “I did not expect my arrival to wake you.”

“I had only just gone to bed, Husband, and I asked to be roused.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No indeed, now that you are here everything is right.” I smile in the sweetest manner possible. “I was only eager to see you and to make sure that you want for nothing after your ride. Are you hungry?”

Henry’s eyes drop to the platter I carry, filled with cold meat and other tidbits.

“I am.”

I bustle to Henry’s table and begin to lay a place for him while his second boot comes off. Uncle Peter was right; my ride to Windsor gave me time to think, as did the time I passed here without my husband. But my conclusions were not, perhaps, those my uncle predicted. I will not abandon the project of recapturing Henry’s love. I merely mean to wage my battle by stealth rather than bold action. I will be charming, agreeable, even diffident, as mild mannered as my sister Marguerite, even if it kills me. And while some part of me knows that this effort may be futile—after all, Marguerite’s docile nature did not bring her a happy marriage—I cannot think what else to try.

Henry dismisses the servants with a nod, takes a seat at the table, and tucks into the food. I say nothing, though I am eager to pepper Henry with questions about the capture of my cousin Gaston de Béarn in Gascony. Instead, I stand silent, waiting table for my husband and making certain his goblet remains full.

Henry swallows a mouthful of bread. “How are the children?”

“All well. I cannot wait for you to see Edmund. I think the new course of activity the doctor prescribed for him is making a difference, for it seems to me he stands straighter.”

“Marvelous.”

“Tell me about your journey.”

There is not much less engaging than an account of a ride over the same English roads I traveled myself six weeks ago, but, to my credit, I manage to keep my eyes upon my husband and feign interest and attention as he talks of his trip.

As he finishes his account, Henry reaches out for my hand. “I am glad you came to greet me.” He pulls me into his lap.

“Shall I stay the night with you?” My offer is contrary to our habit, which is to spend those evenings we pass together in my apartment, and the novelty appears to spark my husband. He answers me with a kiss, somewhat sloppy from the wine he has consumed. But no matter, a kiss is a kiss. I murmur appreciatively, making more of the gesture than it deserves. Flattery and feigned delight may not be palatable to me, but they are easier to stomach than estrangement. Marguerite was right—a bad peace is better than none at all.

“LISTEN TO THIS. ‘THE INFIDELS
turned and abandoned the fray, though they were mounted and His Majesty’s men on foot.’” Marguerite’s letter from the Holy Land arrived this morning, proclaiming a magnificent French victory at Damietta. As soon as I finished it, I came to Henry’s apartments, believing that within its pages I might finally have found an event, an aspiration, strong enough to completely restore the affinity between my husband and me.

We are at Westminster in preparation for Christmas. My campaign of sweetness and liberal praise has done much to keep us from arguing openly, and the approach of the festivities attendant upon the season has put Henry in a jovial mood; yet I remain unsatisfied. We still lack the fire of the first decade of our marriage and also the easy accord. We need a project to unite us. I had hoped
an addition to our family would do the trick—Henry has always been adoring and attentive when I am carrying his child—but our coupling is as infrequent now as it was frequent for so many years—infrequent and also uninspired. Is that, I wonder, why I have failed to conceive? Must I be satisfied to be fertile? There can be no other explanation as I am only twenty-six, certainly not yet past an age for the bearing of babies. Whatever the reason, if a child is not forthcoming, another undertaking must be found.

Perhaps if we go to the Holy Land, all will be well for us. My sister is happy there, just as she was in Cyprus. Her letter shows it. She is happy despite having been dissatisfied with her husband for many years. I have been discontented with Henry for a much shorter time, so surely my happiness will be more easily restored by a dose of crusading? Seeing the excitement in Henry’s eyes, I feel my hopes rise.

“Go on,” he urges, looking up from his table spread with drawings and notes in the clear, distinctive hand of Henry of Reyns concerning the ongoing work at Westminster Abbey.

“‘The sultan’s troops ran past the city, neglecting in their haste to sever the bridges. And so His Majesty reached the city walls without inconvenience or molestation, and, finding the gates of the city left open when its guardians who, no braver than their fellows on the beach, fled before our armies, the king entered the place and made it ours.’”

“Magnificent!” Henry says thumping his fist with satisfaction upon the tabletop and sending a sketch floating to the floor. “Such a victory.” For a moment he forgets that Louis is a rival. He sees not the man whose father once nearly stole the English throne but only the dramatic events in which the King of France has recently taken part.

“Henry, you should go to the Holy Land,” I say, coming
forward to scoop up the fallen paper and place it back before him. “Do you not long to see it, and to hear your prelates sing
Te Deum Laudamus
at the site of a triumph in battle?”

“By God I do, Eleanor.” Henry beams. Then his face falls suddenly. “Do you think I would have the support of my barons? They deny me their backing and thwart me in so many other endeavors.”

“They are a pack of obstinate fools.” I take Henry’s face in my hands and kiss him lightly on the end of his long nose. I wonder when the touch of gray appeared in the hair just at the center of his forehead. “But surely we can get fourscore or so to take the cross with you. And as for the majority of your subjects, they will surely be excited to see you follow in the footsteps of your uncle the Lionheart. When you come home covered in glory, those barons who make so bold in their criticisms of you now will be more careful in their talk and respectful in their tone.”

“You know, Eleanor, I do believe you are right.” Henry takes both my hands and squeezes them. He crumples Marguerite’s letter in the process, but no matter, it has already done its work.

“Louis of France’s crusade enhances his reputation. Why should not such an expedition also elevate mine? Am I not as brave as Louis? And as pious? Surely God will grant me the favor and success he has given the French king.”

“Let us take the cross! At Canterbury in grand style.”

“You will take the cross with me?”

“If you permit it. I would by no means miss the opportunity to see you riding across the desert sands, banners raised high and armor shining in the sun, like the great knights of the crusade poems.”

“Shall I bring you an infidel’s head as a tribute?” Henry asks, pulling me onto his lap.

I cannot help but imagine the scene: reclining under a golden tent,
high on some hill where I can see the armies clash below; Henry, storming back to me after routing the Saracens, carrying the turbaned head of an infidel general on the saddle before him.

“By all means. And reclaim the holy city of Jerusalem in the name of God and the Confessor so that poets will sing your praises for a hundred years,” I reply with excitement. What pleasure there would be in that! The unhappy lyrics of those dreadful songs composed half a dozen years ago when we failed in Poitou still haunt me but would be driven from my mind completely by such new tales.

A SCANT TWO MONTHS LATER I
sit in my rooms writing to my sister of the transformation that preparing to crusade has wrought upon my husband. As I dip my quill into my ink to sign my letter, I remember when, not so many years ago, she wrote a similar missive to me. The day is bright presaging spring and lifting the spirits of all my ladies to giddy heights.

I do not need the good weather to make my heart light. My own personal crusade conducted on English soil has been victorious. Lured by some combination of my changed behavior and the excitement of working together to prepare for our travel to the Holy Land, my husband’s attention and admiration have returned to me. I am once again not only the Queen of England but also the queen of his heart.

I give my letter to Willelma to dispatch, wondering how long it will take to reach Damietta, or to find its way into Marguerite’s hands if she has already moved on to other cities and other victories. Months, that is certain. What new adventures will she have in the meantime? And what exciting experiences has she had
already in the time it took her last letter, announcing that Louis and his troops were to depart for Cairo, to wend its way to me?

Maude de Lacy bustles in, carrying something large wrapped in fine linen. “It is here,” she proclaims, “the book His Majesty bid the Master of the Temple to send you.”

I am on my feet in an instant, carefully unwinding the cloth from around the volume while my ladies crowd in from every side. The
Chanson d’Antioche
! Henry thought of it last night as we were going to bed and ordered it brought for my pleasure this morning before Mass. I open it to a collective gasp of appreciation from my companions. The illuminations are marvelous. On the page before me I see a knight, armored in gold and seated on a magnificent white warhorse, skewering someone atop the city walls of Antioch.