The Young Lion

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  He stepped back. ‘Well, perhaps …’ He turned to Guillaume. In Catalan he said, ‘She asks me to marry her then refuses a kiss!’

  Guillaume said, ‘You’ve hooked the fish.’

  Henry and his brother bowed, turned, and walked off into the dark, past the goat, which, for a second time leaped up, bleating.

  When they had mounted and were out of earshot, Henry said, ‘If she won’t be so amiable as to give me a kiss …’

  Guillaume laughed aloud. ‘That woman will chase you from now until Doomsday. She is hooked.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Henry asked after a while.

  His brother shrugged.

  ‘You inherited that intuition from Papa.’ Henry laughed.

  ‘Maybe. What are you going to tell Rachel?’

  ‘I’ll tell her the truth.’

  ‘She’ll be angry.’

  ‘Yes. So am I. I won’t beg kisses from the Duchess of Aquitaine. She can kiss my arse.’

  They stayed the night with Cholet, and before they left the next morning, a post-rider arrived with a letter for Henry. He strolled with Guillaume onto the château’s balcony to read it. Eleanor’s note was short. ‘I apologise,’ she wrote. The curious thing was: she had written it in blood.

  Guillaume said, ‘What did I tell you!’

  ‘God’s teeth!’ Henry exclaimed. ‘I’m beginning to feel sorry for her. She has no one to advise her. She can’t trust any of the prelates. They’re all Louis’s vassals, except … what about Father Bernard?’

  He wrote back immediately, a note enclosed in a letter apparently from the Baron de Cholet, suggesting they meet in the labyrinth at Chartres, on a date she should nominate, but at least three days after the fifth of March.

  Henry arrived in Rouen just in time for his nineteenth birthday celebration, held at midday. Matilda had invited Rachel to assist her as hostess. Rachel seated herself with the rabbi and a half-dozen of Rouen’s most prosperous merchants and their wives. Mother may be ready to pawn her jewels for England, Henry thought. I may not need Eleanor’s money. Inside, he boggled at the idea of having as his legal wife the richest woman in the world. And the most dangerous, his father had said.

  Easter was early that year and Lent had already begun. Although some people still ate meat during Lent, they did so sparingly, usually choosing instead fish and vegetables. The Jews were fasting for Passover. They ate vegetables and fruit, but no bread because they feared leaven, despite Rachel’s assurance the unleavened loaves came from the Jewish baker. ‘We can’t be too careful,’ the rabbi’s wife apologised. We were never as fussy as this in Antioch, Rachel thought. As well as the solemnity of the season, the birthday celebration, coming less than six months after Geoffrey’s death, was restrained. Matilda, Henry and Rachel wore black. There were more clergy present than the palace had seen in three hundred years. The Archbishop blessed Henry. He was due to set out immediately after the banquet for Orléans. A carriage of five horses awaited him outside the palace. Before departing he drew Henry aside, his expression dolorous.

  ‘Are you aware, lord Duke, of the frightful decision that confronts Mother Church in these days?’

  ‘Tavern gossip says it may concern the royal marriage.’

  The Archbishop nodded. ‘Terrible, frightful,’ he muttered.

  ‘Will the Princesses be declared illegitimate?’

  The Archbishop, who was not a bad sort of fellow in Henry’s view, whispered, ‘A sin committed in ignorance …’

  Henry was tempted to remark, ‘Like Eve’s?’ but responded with a grave nod.

  The Archbishop shuddered. ‘Legitimate? Or illegitimate? And which parent shall have them? Only prayer will lead us to the answer.’ His ringed hand rose to his forehead, as if already his head ached from the conundrum he and his brother clerics faced: not only would they need to admit that they and the Pope had been in error for fourteen years and that the royal marriage was invalid, they would also have to consider the question of the Princesses. Were innocent girls to become bastards overnight?

  Henry knew from Eleanor’s remarks that every detail of the divorce had been established already. ‘It must trouble their parents greatly.’

  ‘Greatly! Oh, the difficulties I have to face …’ The Archbishop heaved himself into his well-padded coach and waited for an acolyte to place a footstool beneath his finely shod feet before crying, ‘Off! Off we go! Goodbye, my dear Young Duke.’

  Guillaume had not attended Henry’s birthday. Instead he had travelled to Barfleur to meet a group of English nobles. As the men walked ashore their pleas began:

  ‘Henry must invade as soon as possible!’

  ‘Freemen have lost their lands to castellans, and turned into outlaws!’

  ‘Villeins and slaves are joining them. Every day children and babies die from hunger!’

  ‘Our village churchyards overflow with little mounds of earth marked with a couple of sticks tied at right angles!’

  ‘The parents are too poor to buy wood for a cross!’

  ‘During winter the old people died!’

  Guillaume arrived with the English in Rouen on the sixth day of March. Henry received them, and begged them to wait a few days longer before they made plans on where and when he should invade. He had to leave for a meeting related to the invasion, he explained, but would be back to discuss their military options within five days and invited them to pass the time enjoying the delights of his territory, especially hunting and falconing. A note from Eleanor had been delivered on the day of his birthday, appointing their meeting in Chartres for the eighth of March. He would need five or six changes of horses to make it in time. Guillaume would stay with the English in Normandy. ‘Guillaume, Mother: entertain them for me,’ he said and left.

  He took Rachel into the guest apartment and, for the first time since their daughter had been stillborn, lay with her, holding her to his chest while they stroked each other’s faces.

  ‘I have to go, I’m already running late,’ he finally said.

  Henry arrived at Chartres Cathedral just before three o’clock on the morning of the eighth. Father Bernard, who had attended the service of matins, waited in the doorway for him to dismount. The light of a torch made him visible, and beside him Henry saw a bear.

  ‘Douglas!’ he shouted, his fatigue vanished as they rushed to each other’s embrace. After a moment Douglas held Henry at arm’s length to stare into his face.

  ‘You sleep,’ he said.

  Father Bernard nodded. Henry was so exhausted he allowed Douglas to carry him to a cot in a cell. The four knights who had ridden with him were conducted to other cells. Father Bernard gave them milk to drink and pieces of black cloth to put over their eyes so they could sleep until sext, at noon. Henry would be woken for terce, after which he could breakfast then enter the labyrinth.

  The Queen had arrived late on the afternoon of the seventh, accompanied by her maid and four knights. Once inside the abbey, she had removed all her rings and necklaces, her fine hose and silk shoes, and changed into the dun-coloured nun’s habit that Bernard had sent her via Henry. A veil of itchy, coarse fabric covered half her forehead and all her hair. A modest wooden rosary and a small book of prayers completed her outfit.

  Douglas woke Henry a little before eight in the morning. Dawn had broken and in the daylight Henry could see that his friend appeared unaged and as strong as ever. His hair was loose; his beard covered his chest in a dark brown bush. The monks followed him around, whispering in Latin to each other about his strange clothes, his outlandish hair and the most extraordinary fact of all: Father Bernard enjoyed his company. He had arrived on a small boat on the River Eure, accompanying two barrels of the holy father’s medicine. They were so enormous an ox-cart was needed to convey them from the river. ‘Should see me out,’ Bernard had remarked. After matins they had retired to Father Bernard’s study with a monk from Scotland as interpreter. The Scottish monk refused to reveal to the brethren what was said but he did mention
that Father Bernard and the stranger enjoyed several cups of medicine, and laughed frequently. ‘He laughed!’ monks whispered in excitement.

  ‘Walk well inside,’ Bernard told Henry at breakfast. ‘I’ll bring her to you. If you need me to mediate, leave her, memorise where she is and come to fetch me.’

  As Henry arrived at the maze Bernard said to the monk on duty, ‘Nobody is to enter except a nun, whom I shall accompany.’

  A novice carried his small folding seat. Bernard conducted a nun in a dun-coloured habit and veil, grey pilgrim’s cloak and sturdy nun’s shoes, to a spot deep in the maze where Henry waited. Then he returned to the entrance and, out of view of the monk on guard, set up his small chair to wait.

  Both Henry and Eleanor were nervous. As the Queen approached him, Henry stood with lowered eyes and hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘Highness,’ he murmured.

  ‘We agreed you could call me Eleanor.’

  ‘We did not agree that I could kiss you, Eleanor.’

  ‘You may,’ she said. She offered her cheek. Henry took her by the chin and kissed her mouth. He had not expected to enjoy the kiss, but after a moment’s stiffness, she yielded. It was so long since he had kissed any woman except Rachel, the experience was strange. Interesting, rather than exciting, he thought. Her mouth was smaller and less moist than the one he loved. He drew back, then kissed her again. The second time her breathing deepened and her mouth filled with saliva. Henry coiled his tongue around hers, the image in his mind of the dragon in the Michael chapel. Eleanor felt the surge of heat in her vagina that Geoffrey, naked or clothed, could bring upon her. But the son is unlike the father, she thought. Not suave, not so assured. Not a man who would sweep her to the stars in a frenzy of lust. He was young, fierce, volatile and enticing. He was, she feared, more intelligent than she. But then, he’s a man, and they’re all somehow stupid, she thought. Except Father Bernard – but he’s not really a man. He’s of some different species.

  ‘You’re the loveliest nun I’ve ever tongue-kissed,’ Henry said. ‘I’d like to donate to your order.’ He waited until his arousal dissipated and he was confident of thinking clearly. He knew she was comparing and contrasting him with his father. ‘My lady, we have a very narrow window through which we must climb if we are to marry without Louis’s knowledge, while allowing me time to attack England. But we are both agile, I think.’ He raised an eyebrow at her.

  She nodded.

  ‘So we agree: we shall marry. I shall protect you from all other men.’

  She nodded again.

  ‘I’ll require your vassals and maybe gold to help my attack on Stephen.’

  She nodded less enthusiastically.

  ‘And if, God willing, I become King, I’ll require children from you. Sons, if you don’t mind.’

  Eleanor smiled slightly. ‘With you, Henry, I think I’ll get sons.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ he said briskly. He had decided not to tell her that if she produced only more daughters he’d adopt Rachel’s son as his heir.

  There was a long pause. ‘I won’t trouble you to receive me other than for the getting of sons. An annual visit during the Christmas Court should be sufficient.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And my own freedoms?’ Her eyes hardened with what he recognised as unyielding willpower.

  ‘As long as there’s no cuckoo in the Plantagenet nest, and you’re discreet, you’re free to take lovers. But not members of the baronage. I won’t tolerate my senior vassals in our bed.’

  She had been so moulded by the strictures of Paris she had not anticipated the offer of such liberty. She almost laughed with delight. ‘At last I can live with the privileges of a man! After my years as a prisoner, I can barely imagine the joys of freedom! There are many, not in the baronage …’

  Henry grinned. ‘If I were a woman, I’d prefer a troubadour to a duke.’

  He reddened, remembering the purple bruises on his father’s neck. To cover his gaffe, he began to talk too much. ‘Except my father, of course. He was irresistible. If my brother were not a knight and now Commander of Cavalry, he could be a troubadour …’

  Eleanor ungloved her hand and laid it gently on his. ‘Henry, we share love for your Papa. And for your wife,’ she said.

  He gave a sigh of thanks.

  ‘May I keep my own court?’ she asked.

  ‘You may live as you please, as long as any children you have are mine.’

  She looked into his face and suddenly, despite the ugly veil that covered all her hair and drained the bloom from her cheeks, he felt the full force of her beauty. It was like a soft blow in the solar plexus that flowed down to his genitals and up to his heart. He was momentarily speechless.

  I’ll overcome him, Eleanor thought. He’ll be my puppy.

  An image of Douglas appeared in Henry’s mind. It put him in charge of himself again.

  ‘My lady,’ he said urgently, ‘we must discuss practical issues. March the thirtieth is Easter. You believe you will be free by then. We could marry immediately and I could sail that day for England. But such a quick re-marriage for you would be an affront to the clergy, not to mention Louis. The King will be humiliated by our marriage whenever it takes place. We must both understand the implications of that.’

  ‘Like many meek people, Louis can be vicious,’ Eleanor said. Her tone was flat.

  ‘So,’ Henry continued, ‘a hasty marriage would enrage the King and affront the clergy. We’d have two enemies immediately.’

  ‘Louis would try to seize Aquitaine to punish me,’ Eleanor said.

  Henry thought, he’ll try to seize Rouen first. It’s closer. ‘The more prudent course is to delay,’ he said. ‘There’s still a certain unwillingness among the pious to go to war before Pentecost. However, once you’re divorced, every hour you delay before re-marriage runs the risk of your being seized by fortune-hunters. I cannot be suspected of being your protector …’

  She looked at him with concern, even distrust. Their difficulties were mountainous.

  ‘However, I have a solution,’ he added cheerfully. ‘We’ll leave this maze for a conference with Father Bernard.’

  She made no move. ‘Henry,’ she asked, ‘why has Father Bernard promoted our union? He has, you know. Although he talks in riddles he plants seeds in one’s mind … Why you?’

  Henry cocked his head. ‘You don’t think I’m worthy of you?’

  She coloured. ‘Not at all! I beg your pardon for expressing so inadequately the query in my mind.’

  ‘What is that query?’

  ‘Bernard forbade marriage between you and my daughter Marie on grounds of consanguinity. Two years ago he forbade a divorce between Louis and me. Now he approves it. In both cases, it was a question of consanguinity. But Henry, you and I are more closely related than Louis and I. Is his behaviour not … inconsistent?’

  Henry laughed. ‘Obviously, Father Bernard has been saving you up for me.’ He was already bored with the conversation. He wanted Father Bernard to witness what they had agreed, especially Eleanor’s contribution to the war. He was keen to return to Rouen and Rachel.

  ‘Did he speak to you of the dream of the embalmer’s daughter?’

  Henry caught his breath. ‘I hate that dream!’ he said. ‘I hate it!’

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘Because the great tree fights itself,’ he answered angrily.

  He knows more than he’s willing to say, Eleanor thought.

  She needed to jog to keep up with him as he walked her to the entrance of the labyrinth. Father Bernard had heard them coming, folded his chair and moved outside. ‘Don’t tell me you two met in there!’

  ‘I was lost, Father,’ Eleanor replied. Her head was well lowered so the monk could not see her face. ‘This kind man showed me the way through.’

  ‘We don’t let anybody die in the maze, do we, Brother?’ Turning to Henry he said, ‘Let’s go and see the swans.’

  The river was only a cou
ple of hundred yards distant, its gentle flow bearing four white swans. The birds, seeing them, sailed towards the reedy bank. To Eleanor’s delight, once they reached it they lifted their black webs and slowly, with heavy solemnity, waded ashore. Bernard tossed them bread from a pocket in his gown. Each ate, then lifted its long neck up, then down. Henry felt slightly dizzy. He was fatigued from hours of riding the day before, but there was something about the movements of the birds that confused him. They pointed to the sky with their bills, then touched them to the earth. Like the horses, when I travelled with Douglas, he thought.

  He turned around and standing beside them was Douglas. None had heard his approach. He and Henry gripped each other in a passionate embrace, Douglas yelling in Gaelic, Henry in French. Eleanor stared. Douglas had replaited his hair, tying its skinny brown snakes with woollen threads of many different colours. The effect was alarmingly barbarous.

  ‘Who is this man?’ she whispered to Henry in Latin.

  ‘Your protector,’ Father Bernard answered for him. A swan was rubbing its bill against Douglas’s outstretched hand, massaging one side of its head, then the other, as if in a trance. The other huge birds waddled forward and did the same.

  ‘They’re all tame?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘They’re all wild. They arrived this morning.’ He tossed more bread, which they gobbled down. Then they waddled back to the reeds on the bank and gently launched themselves onto the river.

  ‘Where’s the fourth?’ Eleanor asked. ‘There were four.’

  Douglas said something in Gaelic that Henry understood.

  ‘Must have wandered off to those trees,’ Bernard said.

  ‘You can trust a swan,’ the monk was saying. ‘They’re strong, you know. Strong as …’ He turned to Douglas, ‘… just feel his arm.’

  Eleanor unwillingly touched Douglas’s upper arm. He flexed his muscles, making her fingers jump. Henry stared at him, entranced. He’s a Swan Knight. Why didn’t I realise that before?

  ‘Now, I must take my medicine, so we’ll adjourn to my apartment and draw up a deed of agreement,’ Father Bernard said.

  On their stroll back to the abbey, Eleanor glanced at Douglas several times. He seemed unaware of her presence. I may as well be transparent, she thought angrily. He smelled strongly of drink and unwashed clothes.