“That does not sound like Harry,” she said. “God knows, he could be stubborn once he made up his mind, but he was rarely arbitrary, and the only time he was truly unjust was when he exiled Becket’s kin and household in a fit of fury.”
Emma shrugged again. “Well, if he has indeed changed for the worse, you must bear some of the responsibility for that, no?”
She’d half-expected Eleanor to flare up, and was surprised when the other woman nodded. “Yes, I suppose I must.”
“Good heavens,” she said, faintly mocking but without real malice, “has captivity caused you to examine your conscience, Sister?”
This time it was Eleanor’s turn to shrug. “It helps to pass the time,” she said composedly and, as their eyes met, Emma was suddenly glad that she’d followed this inexplicable impulse and detoured to Sarum.
“I promised you scandal, too,” she said. “But alas, it is not one you’ll take pleasure in, for it involves your niece, your sister Petronilla’s elder daughter.”
“Isabelle? What has happened?”
“It seems she took those troubadours’ tales about courtly love too much to heart, or at least her husband thought so. Flanders was apparently not fertile ground for notions of romance and besotted swains and unrequited love. Philip caught Isabelle with one of his knights in compromising circumstances. She swore that they were not lovers, as did the man, but Philip was not convinced. He ordered the knight to be beaten nigh onto death with a mace, then hung by his heels over a cesspit until he suffocated.”
“Jesu,” Eleanor breathed. “What did he do to Isabelle?”
“Well, he would not end the marriage, for then he’d lose her inheritance, Vermandois. So he somehow ‘persuaded’ her to assign her rights to him.” Emma dropped all pretense of insouciance and said, with a hard edge now to her voice, “Better we not know how he managed that.”
“Indeed,” Eleanor said, just as grimly. “God help the girl. It does not matter if she was guilty of adultery or not, does it? The mere appearance of impropriety was enough to damn her.”
Emma nodded, and they both fell silent for a time, contemplating the bleak future of Isabelle of Vermandois and the sad fate of her alleged lover. “I never thought I’d say this,” Eleanor said finally, “but I am glad that my sister is dead. She’d be half mad with fear for her daughter, whilst knowing there was little she could do.”
Emma decided to overlook the unsatisfactory quality of the wine and drained her cup. “There is something else you need to know, Eleanor. Last month, Harry met with Cardinal Ugo Pierleoni, a papal legate he’d invited to England.”
“Harry sought the cardinal out?” Eleanor was astonished, for no papal legate had set foot on English soil during the twenty-one years of her husband’s reign. It did not take her long to guess why Henry wanted to consult a papal legate, and she said, with a thin smile, “So he wants to see if the Pope would be agreeable to the dissolution of his marriage.”
“Well, ostensibly the cardinal’s mission was to settle the interminable feuding between the Sees of York and Canterbury, but I think you can safely assume that the question of your marriage came up in conversation.”
“He’d have no trouble finding grounds for annulment,” Eleanor conceded. “Louis and I made use of that reliable pretext, consanguinity, and Harry could invoke it, too, for we are actually more closely related by blood than Louis and I were. Or if he wanted to break new ground, I suppose he could raise the specter of treason. But then he’d find himself in the very same predicament that faced Louis. Once our marriage was ended, he’d lose any claim to Aquitaine. Somehow I cannot envision Harry being quite as trusting as Louis, bidding me farewell to return to my own duchy, knowing how happy the French king would be to come to my defense, how eager to fulfill his obligations as my liege lord.”
“I agree,” Emma said. “However much Harry might want to rid himself of you, he’d not be willing to yield up Aquitaine, either to you or Richard. It is a tangled coil for certes, a Gordian knot. But this I know. If there is a man capable of escaping that maze, it is my brother.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said reluctantly, “you may well be right. At least I will not be taken by surprise now. Thank you, Emma, for the warning.”
“You are welcome.” Emma rose without haste, smoothing her skirt and adjusting her wimple. “There is one more matter,” she said, “one more good deed I can do for you. Rhiannon told me about the milkmaid.” Her gaze flicked toward the oblivious Edith, an expression of disdain turning down that lovely mouth. “I think I can do us both a good turn, for one of my ladies-in-waiting has been pining away in Wales. I’d send her back to Normandy, but she has no family there. She’s thrice a widow, but barren, and she is too proud to impose upon cousins. Why not speak with her? If she suits you, I’ll be spared her sulks and complaints, and at the least, you’ll have an attendant who speaks French.”
“Would she be willing? It could be argued that serving me is a form of captivity in and of itself. Since she’s not taken vows, I assume the quiet of the cloister holds no appeal for her.”
Emma’s smile was dismissive. “Trust me, she’ll thank God fasting for the chance to escape from Wales.”
Eleanor let her reach the door before she spoke again. “Emma…I have to ask, if only out of curiosity. Why did you come to see me? Why did you warn me that Harry is pondering an annulment?”
Emma paused, silent for so long that Eleanor decided she was not going to answer. “Let’s just say,” she said, “that it was a gesture of good will, one unhappy wife to another.”
Amaria de Torigny was a still-handsome woman in her forties, with wide-set dark eyes, strong but comely features, and more curves than were fashionable. She bore Eleanor’s scrutiny with equanimity, and answered readily enough when she was asked of her history. Yes, she was indeed kin to the abbot of Mont St Michel, a second cousin, she believed. And yes, she had been wed three times and thrice widowed, first as a lass to a neighbor old enough to be her grandfather, then to a Norman knight, and lastly to the steward of the Breton lord, Andre de Vitre, adding that she’d entered the service of the Lady Emma after her last husband’s death.
“And you have no wish to try matrimony a fourth time?” Eleanor queried, both curious and wanting to be sure Amaria could be content in the seclusion of Sarum.
“It would take a brave man to take me to wife, given my sad marital history. To be widowed twice is not so out of the ordinary, but when you lose a third husband, people start to take notice,” Amaria said, so matter-of-factly that Eleanor almost missed it, the faintest gleam of very dry humor.
“And you have no close kin?”
“Yes…I do, Madame,” Amaria corrected, sounding surprised. “I have several brothers and a sister who is a nun at Fontevrault Abbey, and of course, my Laval cousins.”
“I must have misheard the Lady Emma,” Eleanor said, “for I thought she said that you had no children or family back in Normandy.”
“The Lady Emma misspoke. I bore my second husband two babes, one who died when we overlay her in our bed and one who was stillborn. And the Laval cousins I mentioned are kin to Lady Emma’s late husband.”
Eleanor was quiet for a moment, assessing what she’d so far learned. This was a strong woman, strong enough to have buried two children and three husbands and survived. Yet there was something that did not ring true about the entire matter. Emma was not particularly interested in the personal lives of others, and may well have forgotten that Amaria had lost two babies in infancy, assuming that she’d even known. But how could she have forgotten that Amaria was kin to her husband?
“You are wondering what pieces are missing from this puzzle,” Amaria said unexpectedly. “May I speak candidly, Madame?”
“I wish you would.”
“The truth is that the Lady Emma had her own reasons for her offer to you. I have been with her for a year and a half now, and I think I have worn out my welcome. But I am her late husband’s cousin, and so
she would not want to dismiss me out of hand. If I entered your service, my lady, my family back in Laval would feel that she’d done right by me. It is true you are in disgrace, but you are still the Queen of England, and that would not fail to impress my brothers.”
“What have you done to displease Emma?” Eleanor asked, although she thought she already knew the answer to that.
“I have my share of failings, Madame, as do we all. But the one that seems to vex the Lady Emma the most is my unfortunate habit of speaking my mind too forthrightly. I’ve never learned the art of dissembling, and it seems that is highly valued in a lady’s maid. Apparently too much candor can become tedious, or so Lady Emma tells me.”
“I suspected as much,” Eleanor said, suppressing a smile. Any woman who’d tell a queen to her face that she was “in disgrace” would not flourish in the artificial, mannered society of the highborn. The “art of dissembling” was more than a virtue in the corridors of power; it was a survival skill.
Amaria was watching her intently. “I suppose I’ve ruined my chances,” she said, sounding resigned but not apologetic. “I did not think it was likely you’d take me on, in truth. Thank you, my lady.”
As she started to rise, Eleanor waved her back. “You are too hasty, Lady Amaria. As it happens, I think you’ll do very well.”
“Truly?” Amaria hid neither her surprise nor her pleasure. “I’d never have wagered on that outcome, my lady!” she said and grinned. “If my outspokenness did not put you off, I feared you might be suspicious, wondering if this was not a plot concocted by Lady Emma and the king to place a spy in your household.”
Eleanor laughed outright. “The thought did cross my mind. But I could see no profit in it. You see, Amaria, the victor rarely bothers to spy upon the vanquished.” She rose then, indicating the interview was over. “You may tell the Lady Emma that I will be pleased to have you join my household, such as it is.”
Amaria had gotten to her feet as soon as Eleanor rose. “You will not be sorry, my lady. Well, at least I hope not,” she amended and curtsied before moving toward the door. There she paused. “Madame…I would not pretend to know the king’s mind, have only seen him briefly. But at Windsor he seemed surprisingly tense and troubled for a man you call the ‘victor.’” And then, fearing she’d overstepped her bounds before she’d even entered Eleanor’s service, she curtsied again and backed out the door.
Eleanor sat down again on the settle. There was some satisfaction in the image conjured up by Amaria’s words. As wretched as she was, she wanted Harry to be miserable, too. And yet, she was aware of an underlying sense of sadness. Theirs may have been the first war in which there were no winners, only losers.
C HAPTER T WENTY-TWO
February 1176
Woodstock, England
Meliora watched from a distance as the king emerged into the manor bailey. He did not look happy, and her spirits sank; it must not have gone well with Rosamund. She waited until he’d entered the great hall before making her way to the royal bedchamber. There she found Rosamund huddled on the bed, weeping as if she’d never stop.
“Ah, lamb…” Scrambling up onto the bed, she gathered the younger woman into her arms. “The king would not agree, then?”
“No…” Rosamund looked up, blue eyes swollen to slits, her face streaked with tears. “I tried so hard to make him understand, Meliora. I told him how much I wanted to retire to the nunnery at Godstow, that I could no longer live in a state of sin. But he became very distraught. He asked if I still loved him, and of course, I had to say that I did and I do. He insisted that was what mattered, and we could find a way to ease my mind. He said he could not bear to lose me-”
She sobbed again, seemed to have so much trouble catching her breath that an alarmed Meliora slid off the bed and brought her a cup of wine, urging her to drink. Rosamund obediently took a swallow, and then wiped her face with her sleeve. “Tell me what to do, Meliora. I cannot bear to cause him such pain, but this is the kindest way…I know that. If I cannot convince him of this, though…”
Meliora found herself blinking back tears of her own. “You may have to tell him the truth, lamb,” she said softly. But as she expected, Rosamund shook her head vehemently.
“No! I will not do that to him. I will not make him watch me die!”
Meliora did not know what to say, and rocked Rosamund in her arms until her sobs subsided and eventually she fell into an exhausted sleep. Only then did she get her mantle and leave the chamber.
Outside, she halted in confusion, unsure what to do next. She considered the idea of going to the king herself, but not for long. She could not betray Rosamund’s confidence. Nor had she the courage to confront the king, to argue without the one weapon that might sway him. Who in Christendom did?
An icy rain had fallen earlier in the day. It was dry now, but the bailey was still muddy and windswept as she started toward the chapel, intending to beseech the Almighty to aid His daughter Rosamund in her time of travail. She’d only gone a few steps, though, before she came to an abrupt halt, staring at the man who’d just exited the great hall. The Lord God had answered her prayers, for there was one at Woodstock with the courage to tell the king what he did not want to hear, and the moral authority to prevail without revealing Rosamund’s illness.
“My lord bishop!” As Roger turned, she hastened toward him, would have sunk to her knees in the mud before him had he not stopped her. “I am Dame Meliora, Your Grace, handmaiden to the Lady Rosamund. Can you spare a few moments for me? It is a matter of the greatest urgency-the state of my lady’s immortal soul.”
“ Why did you insist upon dragging me out to the springs, Roger?” Henry cast a pessimistic glance at the overcast sky. “We’re likely to have to swim back to the manor.”
Roger decided they’d come far enough and slowed his steps. “I wanted to speak with you in privacy,” he said, “with no fear of prying eyes or pricked ears.”
“About what?”
“Sin.”
Henry’s brows shot upward. “You do remember, Cousin, that you are not my confessor?”
“I am not jesting, Harry. This is too grave a matter for that. I need to speak with you about the Lady Rosamund Clifford.”
“Indeed?” Henry’s voice had hardened; Roger could see the tightening of the muscles along his jaw. “Rosamund is none of your concern, my lord bishop.”
“Harry…you must let her go.”
“She spoke to you about this…about Godstow?” Henry sounded incredulous and then, defiant. “As I said, this is none of your concern. Let it be, Roger.”
“I cannot do that, my lord king, for the stakes are too high. If you love her-and I think you do-that is why you must let her withdraw to the nunnery at Godstow priory.”
“I do love her,” Henry said, “and that is why I will not let her go. This is but a whim of hers, a fancy that will pass. I know her, Roger. You do not.”
Roger was silent, marshaling his arguments, regretting his promise to Meliora that he’d say nothing of Rosamund’s suspicions, the recurring pain in her breast. Henry was scowling, but Roger took heart from the fact that he’d not stalked away in a royal rage. He hoped that meant his cousin was not as free of misgivings as he claimed. “I am willing to risk your anger,” he said quietly, “for royal favor means little when balanced against eternal damnation. It is my concern for her immortal soul that bids me be so bold with you. She gave up much for your sake, Cousin…her maidenhead, her honor, marriage, and motherhood. Would you have her give up her chances of salvation, too?”
“Damn you,” Henry said, low voiced. He’d backed against a nearby oak, a massive tree barren of leaves, gnarled and ancient. “Damn you,” he said again, even as his shoulders slumped and the color drained from his face.
The Benedictine nunnery of St Mary and St John the Baptist had been founded in the year of Henry’s birth. Situated on an island between two streams of the River Thames just north of Oxford, it had always been
a haven for Rosamund; she’d been educated there and still had a deep and abiding love for the convent and the nuns who’d schooled her in her youth. Standing in the familiar priory precincts to bid farewell to the king, Rosamund experienced a sense of utter unreality. Was this a dream or had her long love affair with Harry been one?
They had exchanged their private farewell the night before at Woodstock, and so they were formal now in the presence of Prioress Edith and the other nuns. Henry kissed her hand and she made a respectful curtsy, even though she knew that the nuns were well aware of their scandalous liaison.
“I have to attend a great council with the papal legate next month in London,” Henry murmured, too softly for any ears but Rosamund’s, “and then I’ll be holding my Easter Court at Winchester. I will stop to see you on the way.”
“Go with God, my lord,” she whispered, seeing him through a blur of tears.
“ Come,” Prioress Edith said briskly as soon as Henry and his men had departed. “We have prepared a guest house for you.”
Rosamund was honored that the prioress herself had chosen to escort them. She’d known they would make her welcome; the king’s favor would be a great blessing for the priory. But she was touched to find so many of the nuns waiting for her at her new lodgings. As her anxiety about her reception had increased, the pragmatic Meliora had pointed out that she’d been very generous with the convent since becoming the king’s mistress. To Rosamund, that counted for little against the shame of adultery. So far, though, she’d encountered no hostility or disdain, neither overt nor implied. Nuns who had taught her in her youth greeted her warmly as a former pupil, not as a wanton seeking redemption.
Seeing the exhaustion etched into Rosamund’s face and posture, the prioress sent the other nuns off to their duties, leaving Rosamund alone with Meliora. The older woman hovered nearby, not wanting to smother her with too much attention, too much solicitude. It was not easy, though, for she’d learned to love Rosamund as one of her own daughters.
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