The Secret Eleanor

by Cecelia Holland

  “My lord!” The Fleming struggled to sit, his face dripping sweat. He was half naked, and Claire looked away.

  The Duke ignored him. He turned to Thomas.

  “That’s a lute. Is this your wife? You’re a trouvère?”

  “So I think you northerns call us, yes.”

  The Duke smiled at him. “That was a nice trick, taking him down. You’re coming with me, to Rouen. It’s almost Christmas, and my mother likes music.”

  Twenty-five

  LIMOGES

  DECEMBER 1151

  Eleanor had changed the whole room around, put Marie-Jeanne and Alys to work, and now, bereft of anything else to do, she sat by the window sprinkling bread crumbs on the ledge for the birds. Petronilla stood across the room, waiting for the kitchen boys to come back with wine and Advent cakes. With a qualm, Eleanor saw something new in her sister’s looks; Petronilla stood straighter now than before. She had always seemed such a mouse: round-shouldered, and small, and meek. Now she was beautiful, when every day Eleanor felt uglier.

  In spite of her size, she felt herself turning invisible. More and more, the others were attending Petronilla, the real Queen, leaving Eleanor off in her corner, anchored by her lump of baby, overlooked and forgotten. She struggled with an unaccustomed sense of envy—she who had never known a rival. Her legs began to twinge, and she shifted her ungainly weight around on her stool. This had to happen this way, she told herself. Petronilla was saving her much pain and almost certain exposure, and giving up her own good name to ridicule and gossip in the process. But a cold jealousy coiled around her heart like a thorny briar.

  The cakes came, spreading their spicy scents into the room; the two pages put everything around on the low table, which was set in the midst of every brazier in the tower. The scent of Eastern spices mingled with the smoke. Eleanor turned back to the birds, crumbling bread in her fingers.

  Abruptly they all flew off in a tiny whirring of their wings. A sudden rapid knocking banged on the door, and everybody turned. Petronilla glanced now toward Eleanor, unsure, so at least in Eleanor’s presence she did not dare play Queen. Eleanor nodded to her.

  “That’s de Rançun—let him in.” She looked past her sister, toward Alys. “Let him in.”

  Alys opened the door, and the knight came charging in, his face bright. He went straight past Petronilla and came down on one knee before Eleanor.

  “The King has announced the council to declare the annulment of your marriage. For Beaugency, at Eastertide. It’s done, Your Grace. Thierry has suddenly withdrawn to his own lands.” His smile spread across his handsome, sun-burnished face. “And you and your court are to go back to Poitiers, after Christmas, and wait there, until the council meets. You’ve won. You are Duchess of Aquitaine, with no one your master. You shall be free to marry whom you wish.”

  Eleanor let out a whoop, like a country girl at dance. The other women screamed and cheered. In their midst, Petronilla turned and smiled at her sister, and their eyes met. Eleanor’s suspicions vanished; she was a fool, after all, making trouble out of nothing. She started up off the stool, her arms out, to embrace Petronilla and their victory.

  Then, all through her, a great spasm clenched her, so that she staggered and fell back again upon the stool. She doubled over, her arms across the mound of her belly, and she gave a groan that shook her.

  The women all rushed at her, surrounding her; Petronilla cried, “What is it? Is it now? Oh, God—”

  Eleanor straightened. The twisting pain subsided a moment. “Take me—” She shut her eyes. Everything buckled and caved in around her. She felt him lift her up and carry her off, and then she was drowning in a dark, pain-shot sea.

  It was too soon, too soon to bear it; the baby could not live, and she, likely, would not live, it was too soon.

  Her body ached and cramped and bled. She could feel the wet blood pooling under her now. “Eleanor.” That was her sister. “Drink this.” She struggled to lift her head. “Here.” A wet cloth touched her lips, and she sucked on it and tasted the herbs.

  She stiffened herself against the next wracking, crushing pain. She could hear the other women talking around her, but nothing mattered except the pain. They brought her wine, and she threw it up again. They carried her out of the bed to change the linens, and the bedclothes were sodden with wine and with blood.

  She moaned, the dark closing in dank and stinking around her. She had kicked up her heels at virtue all her life, and now she would pay, all her sins gathering, debts clamoring to be paid. They bundled around her bed like a crowd of ugly little gnomes, holding out their dirty hands. She trembled at the moment when she would ladle out her life to pay their pestering demands. Her body throbbed and kinked again, and she felt a fresh hot spurt of blood against her thighs.

  Someone else was feeding her a foul drink, spoon by spoon. She heard voices around her.

  “Has she lost the baby?”

  “No. No.” A stranger, a dark, southern woman’s voice. “The baby is where it belongs. The potion may stop her pangs. She’s strong, the baby is strong. God be with her.”

  She hung on that. God was with her. She was strong. She refused to die. She had dreamed and risked too much to end it all like this. Marie-Jeanne took hold of her hand and kissed it. Another pain wracked her. Eleanor shut her eyes, hoarding the life in her, gathering it back together in drop by drop of pain.

  The strange woman had gone. Marie-Jeanne and Alys brought her food. She did not see Petronilla. She ate some, and this she did not throw back. She drank some wine with more herbs. Slowly she realized she had not felt a throe in long moments.

  “Petronilla.” She struggled to lift her hand up. To tell Petronilla it was over. “Petra. Where is my sister?”

  “My lady—she went to church—it was thought—people would talk—” Alys’s hand gently folded hers back under the covers. “Sleep, my dear, good lady.”

  Petra. She went to be me. She went to take my place again. The old suspicion leaped up through her weariness like a flame in the dead grass.

  I could take your place, Petronilla had said, before them all.

  Everything rearranged itself around her, what her sister had said, had done, what Eleanor had let her do. She felt herself slipping, falling, leaving a space behind, which Petronilla took as if by right. No, no, I won’t let her have it. Yet she was gliding into sleep, exhausted, the women murmuring around her.

  The church was drab and darkened still; on Christmas every candle would be lit, every statue and vessel and painting unveiled, glorious and golden, to welcome the newborn Christ.

  O come, O come, Emmanuel—

  Petronilla took comfort in the dark. She had left the others with Eleanor, and so she could be who she was, here, alone. She bent herself in prayer, begging for her sister’s life.

  Over and over she remembered the moment in the tower room when the news had come of their release, and Eleanor had collapsed. This was a warning, she thought. A message. Eleanor would pay for what she had done, somehow, and if Eleanor, then surely Petronilla.

  She dared not think much about what would happen if Eleanor died. Losing her sister would only be the beginning. She would be trapped. She remembered bitterly how much she had loved pretending to be Eleanor. Now she wanted desperately to be able to stop. She prayed for Eleanor, for Eleanor’s baby, but she did not pray for herself; she had gotten herself into this.

  She thought of her sister: her bright green eyes, her laughter, her face flushed with some excitement, alive, alive, alive. She begged God for her sister’s life, unable to think of anything worthy to offer in exchange.

  Afterward, with her four knights, she went out onto the pavement in front of the church, and de Rançun lifted her up into the saddle. He would not meet her eyes; he looked downcast and miserable. She gathered the reins. After days in the stable the Barb was eager, and she was fighting with him over the bit and did not see the crowd of strangers pushing toward her until de Rançun shouted.
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br />   “Give way! Yield to the Queen!”

  She swiveled her head around to look, the horse finally gathered on the reins; Geoffrey d’Anjou on a tall bay stallion blocked her way. A half dozen men in bright red coats packed the narrow gate behind him. De Rançun was still behind her, with the other knights, and she was alone in front of the young Angevin.

  She shrank back; Geoffrey d’Anjou’s eyes were bright as nailheads, his gaze fixed on her like a beam. She felt that gaze pin her in its unblinking scrutiny, and she thought, He knows. Then on his black horse de Rançun rode up beside her and bellowed again at Anjou. “Clear the way!”

  Anjou ignored him. He spoke to her, leaning forward a little, beseeching. “You force me to this, Eleanor. You won’t see me—you don’t answer my notes—” The men behind him were pushing toward him, their eyes on de Rançun and their hands on their swords.

  She felt herself recoiling, fear rising into her throat, and a sudden urgency. She could not let them fight; she could not get caught between them. Nor could she let Anjou seize her. But the only way out was past the boy on his tall stallion, and suddenly she realized how Eleanor would take this, and she launched herself forward.

  “By God’s blood,” she cried, furious, as her sister would be furious. “How dare you! Get out of my way, sir! How dare you impede me!”

  Anjou’s face was high-colored and shining with purpose. “I want you to go with me—just for a little while—let me show you my heart—”

  That, she knew, would ruin everything, and the rising panic made her tremble. The Barb began to dance under her, snorting. She flung herself into the drama of Eleanor, her only refuge.

  “Get out of my way!” She rode the Barb straight at him, toward the gate; de Rançun followed along beside her, and the rest of her court came hurrying after. Anjou hesitated, and for an instant she thought he would stand, that he would seize her and carry her off, but instead he reined his horse aside and flung one arm to hold his men back. As she passed him, she leaned from her saddle to stare him in the face. “And take this to your heart, sir—I want never to see you again!”

  He flushed to the roots of his yellow hair, looking suddenly younger even than he was; she was past him in a moment. In the gateway his men still milled around, but de Rançun spurred ahead of her a stride and called out, “Way for the Queen of France!”

  The Angevins crowded back into the courtyard. Petronilla let the Barb trot fast out the gate, into the open bustle of the street; she was sweating under her coif. Her hands hurt. De Rançun slipped past her to lead the way; as he did, he smiled at her, approving.

  The knights ranged up alongside them. The court came up around her, and in a comforting swarm of armed and mounted men, she wended her way quickly through mobs of curious eyes, riding over the bridge across the river. On the street beyond, children were sledding along on lumps of ice, and de Rançun and his men rode forward to shoo them out of her way. She let the horse climb the steep slippery cobblestones at his own pace, his head down, his hooves skidding on the icy ground.

  Eleanor, she thought. Eleanor, I am coming.

  In the castle gate she slid down into de Rançun’s arms. For an instant their eyes met. She saw the same dread in him she felt in herself. Turning, she went swiftly into the tower, to go up and take her place again beside her sister. She was on the stair when Alys came down, her face glowing.

  Petronilla caught her wrists; the woman’s joyous face told her before she asked, with a gulp, “My sister?”

  “She’s getting well. She’s kept the baby.” Alys threw her arms around her and they hugged. “She’s eating. Her eyes are open. She wants wine.” She kissed Petronilla and slipped on by her, down the stairs, and Petronilla rushed up to her sister’s room.

  All the women were clustered around the bed. Petronilla elbowed her way through them, sank down onto the bed beside Eleanor, and put her hand on her sister’s hand, and on the pillow the wan face turned toward her.

  “Enjoy the music, did you?” A whisper. Eleanor was pale as ash, the shadows under her eyes like coal dust, her voice tired and slack, but she looked better than she had for days.

  Petronilla was laughing, helpless, glad. She clutched her sister’s hand. “Oh, Eleanor, you are well. Thank God. Thank God. It’s a sign, Eleanor—” She was weeping all down her face; she lifted a corner of the bed linen and wiped her eyes.

  Eleanor made a skeptical sound in her chest. “It would have been a sign had I died, yes.”

  Petronilla pressed Eleanor’s palm against her face. “It is a sign. God favors us.” She straightened, putting out her hands; she saw in her sister’s hollow eyes the urge to argue. “No, don’t talk. Rest.”

  Eleanor’s mouth kinked. There was more color in her face now than when Petronilla had come in. Her eyes shut and her head moved on the pillow. “Whatever that means.”

  Petronilla left her, went off across the room, let the women take off her outer clothes. Surely the sign was meant for her, too, she thought. She had prayed, and God had answered her. God favored her, too. She was right to do what she thought right. She felt lighter than she had in a long while, reassured.

  “Tell me you are well, my lady.”

  “Oh,” Eleanor said, glancing away. She was sitting in the midst of a ring of braziers; it was the first day she had left the bed since she fell. “I am fine, Joffre.” He seemed very serious. She smiled at him, to put him in a better humor. “It was nothing, just a woman’s problem. It’s over now. What matters is the news you brought me, that day. Are you not happy for me, now that I will be free of Louis?”

  He pushed one of the braziers aside and sat down on his heels before her, to be eye level with her. “I am,” he said, “most truly and completely happy, as you know, my lady. But also, you know, you must marry again.”

  She snorted at this obvious point. “Yes. Aquitaine is full of quarrelsome barons; I shall need someone to knock their heads together.”

  He blurted out, “I want you to marry me.”

  She began to laugh, astonished. “Oh, very clever. I am going to rule my quarrelsome and jealous nobles by marrying one of them. That’s not going to work, my old friend.” She stopped; he was turning dark red, and too late, she saw he had meant it differently. She gave another, half-choked laugh. “Joffre.” She put her hand on his. “Joffre. I can’t do that. Every lord in Aquitaine would rebel.” Then, curtly, to shut him off, she went on, “We shall not speak of this anymore.”

  He lifted his head; people were coming up the stairs, and he got swiftly to his feet and moved away. She felt his reproachful, angry, jealous, wretched mood, even with his back turned to her, and a little thorn of guilt pierced her heart. She would make it up to him, somehow. But she knew there was no way to make it better, save to give him what he wanted, which she would not do. He turned and went on down the stairs, past Alys and Marie-Jeanne, going away.

  Twenty-six

  ROUEN

  DECEMBER 1151

  The Empress Matilda never left the hall of the Duke of Normandy in Rouen, the chief city there. She was old and she enjoyed her comforts. Instead everybody came to her. Everybody needed her, because she ruled the place with her son at war. So she heard news from all over, and that made them need her even more. Just before Christmas she encountered a rumor she intended to find false, and so when she heard her son Duke Henry was north, she sent to him to attend her as soon as he got to Rouen.

  Henry had been going south to toss his brother out of his last castle when the packet from Louis to Stephen fell into his lap. As soon as he read the letter and the list of Thierry’s spies, he knew it meant the end of Stephen’s chances. Thierry’s net of spies was everybody worth anything in England. No one wanted Stephen to be King.

  But to serve his interests, the list had to be shown to the right people and accompanied by the right money. The winter was closing in on them; he had to plan now for what he meant to do in the fighting season next summer. He forgot about his brother and turn
ed at once toward Rouen, where he could get things done.

  Two days after he seized the letter, he and his men rode into Rouen past a stream of noisy people bringing in a yule log, all decked with mistletoe and holly. Its boisterous escort, singing rude and holy songs, and tossing wineskins back and forth, reached for nearly half a mile to the city, and his men were singing along with them by the time they reached the gate. Henry joined them, now and again, although he had no voice for it. He liked Christmas; everybody came together, and he could get a lot done.

  Inside the gate, he sent his guards to Robert de Courcy’s house, off by the river, where he stayed while he was in Rouen. His other choice was the Duke’s hall, where his mother lived, and he did not care to have her oversee everything he did. But he had to go there first. He kept the trouvère and his woman with him, to present to his mother for Christmas.

  They rode along the main street of the town, full of wagons and donkeys and people going to market. The high-timbered buildings with their wattled fronts looked battered. He reined his horse around the ponds of mud that cluttered in the street. He caught a few dark looks thrown his way, but he ignored them. His father had burned much of Rouen when he overran it some years before in taking Normandy, and they still disliked Angevins here. Nonetheless, he gave them good rule and they obeyed him. He went across the main square, where some peasants were setting up a platform for a Christmas pageant, and turned into the lane by the little old church that led to the Duke’s hall, surrounded by its stone and withy fence.

  At the gate the sentries saw him and straightened like bolts. He rode in the gate, the two singers at his heels.