The Young Lion

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  Guillaume advanced upon the man. ‘You may stay,’ he said. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘But if one word of what I tell the Duchess leaves this chamber, I’ll seek you out, wherever you are, and I’ll kill you.’

  The man bowed and was gone. Her mouse, Guillaume thought. She’s like a cat that catches a mouse then lets it go, for the sport of catching it again. He knew that in her heart, his sister-in-law loved the daring of fighting men. How could she not? They were of the class into which she was born; they were her own qualities. It was inevitable the Rumlar would lose his appeal: one day she’d tear off his head and eat him.

  ‘You Plantagenet men are all bullies,’ Eleanor muttered as she watched the door close.

  ‘Papa wasn’t a bully.’

  ‘Of course he was,’ she retorted. ‘The only man who stood up to him was that monster, Estienne de Selors. Once Estienne was dead, dear Geoffrey bullied Louis half to death.’

  ‘May I sit down?’ Guillaume asked. He kept his eyes fixed on her face. After a few moments she became aware of how visible her crotch was, and coolly laid her fan across her lap.

  As Guillaume spoke, telling first of the murder, then of her husband’s madness, the colour drained from Eleanor’s face, to return like a crashing wave, with gasps and howls of dismay. ‘My Xena!’ she cried. ‘My beloved girl!’ She rocked back and forth, weeping so loudly it brought timid knocking on the door from Orianne.

  ‘Stay out!’ Guillaume shouted.

  ‘And my Henry mad with grief?’ she wailed. ‘Then I’m doubly mad! My Henry! More beautiful than dawn.’

  She shook so convulsively Guillaume summoned Orianne to fetch cool water. He saw the Rumlar lurking at the end of the corridor. ‘Our Duchess is deeply distressed. Do you have something to calm her?’

  He could sense the question in the man’s slanted eyes: is her husband dead? ‘It’s in my chamber.’ He went rushing down the stairs.

  By the time the physician returned Guillaume had explained to Eleanor he was taking Rachel’s baby to England, as their only hope of mending Henry’s soul. He was seated beside her on the bed, his arms around her, while she wept into his chest. She was still weeping and shaking, but the storm of anguish had abated.

  The Rumlar stood in the doorway watching them, warily but helplessly, like a starved deer. Guillaume felt ashamed for having threatened him, an unarmed man, a man who perhaps never in his life had held a sword, a man who less than an hour ago exulted in the trembling happiness of love but was now cast away from the woman he adored as if he were a dirty shoe.

  Guillaume beckoned him. ‘Sit with us, master.’

  He approached cautiously and perched at the end of the bed, but Guillaume signalled him to move closer.

  He loosened one of Eleanor’s arms from around his neck and passed it to the physician. As the Rumlar felt her pulse his demeanour changed, and as he looked into Guillaume’s face the younger man saw a depth of wisdom that abashed him, as Rachel’s expression sometimes used to. They were both people of antiquity, and a mysterious sweet melancholy rested in the depths of their dark, liquid eyes. He suddenly recalled the last spade of earth thrown across Rachel’s coffin, and coughed to prevent himself sobbing. He unwound Eleanor’s other arm so he could stand.

  ‘Please look after my sister-in-law,’ he said. ‘I must leave.’

  Eleanor, who had been so silent and still she seemed unconscious, sprang to life. ‘No! I’m coming with you,’ she said. ‘I’ll guard Henry’s child as if he were my own. I’ll bring him up as one of ours.’

  Guillaume winced. Matilda will not agree for the boy to travel with Eleanor, he thought. ‘It’s too dangerous a journey. Isn’t that correct, master? The Duchess should not undertake a sea voyage …’

  ‘She certainly shouldn’t ride.’

  She glared at her lover. ‘I’m as strong as a horse. I’m never seasick. And my husband needs me.’ She shook the physician’s hand from her wrist. ‘Orianne!’ she shouted.

  As the heat lifted and the hot, cloudless sky turned gold then darkened like a stain, Guillaume set out in a carriage drawn by five horses and accompanied by two women. One was Orianne. The other was in the drab habit of a nun. ‘A nun with child!’ Eleanor exclaimed. She trilled with laughter. ‘Did she lie with a bishop, do you think, Guillaume?’

  Her maid fussed with the stuffing she had sewn inside the habit, positioning it above the Duchess’s swollen belly. ‘You only look fat, my lady,’ the girl said earnestly.

  By midnight Guillaume had dropped them off at the wharf, where the fast rising tide smacked and sucked on its piers and against the hulls of fishing boats preparing to set sail. Torches dotted their decks with orange flames. Everything smelled of the sea, fish, rope, tar and rancid, oily torches. As the nun picked her way along the wharf towards the large smack that Guillaume had hired, men bobbed their heads and crossed themselves, some calling for a blessing on their catch. They groped Orianne with equal fervour.

  In less than an hour Guillaume returned with three nurses and the toddler. Eleanor took him from a nurse without a word. He remained sleeping in her arms. The night was fine and just after dawn a stiff southerly sprang up, pitching the boat through the shallow sea, waking the baby, frightening the nurses and Orianne, and making Guillaume queasy. Meanwhile, he gleaned intelligence from the sailors, some of whom traded east along the coast and to the upper reaches of the Thames. Wallingford was holding, they told him, and the rebels had made inroads into London. But in the countryside to the east of the capital, the situation was dire: whole villages destroyed, orphans wandering the lanes and burnt fields, eating grass seeds. The King had taken revenge on Hugh Bigod, who had suddenly switched to the rebels, and seized his castle of Ipswich. Nobody to the east of London felt safe. ‘And the Duke of Normandy?’ Guillaume asked.

  ‘The Duke leads the rebels. He’s here, there and everywhere, a will o’ the wisp. People see him in a flash, then he’s gone again. Now he’s sailed to Flanders to hire more mercenaries.’

  Guillaume asked, ‘Where did you hear that?’ The sailor looked over his shoulder and whispered, ‘A Highlander got drunk and let it slip that our Duke had sailed to Dunkerque. The other Highlanders became furious and hauled him from the tavern. Beat him senseless, people say.’

  In Latin, he and Eleanor agreed she must remain in the nun’s disguise until they reached Coventry.

  It took Aelbad ten days to find his liege, for mistakenly he rode first to Nottingham, only to discover it had been sacked by Henry’s forces. In a small town on the River Cam it was a market day and there, still dressed in his maid’s clothing, Aelbad sang for pennies. Several men took a fancy to him, and to disguise his boy’s voice, Aelbad answered only in song. ‘I saw in a vision that I sang to a prince,’ he trilled. One of the men said, ‘Well, girlie, you’ve got a way to go. Prince Eustace is camped ten leagues distant.’

  At the door to Eustace’s tent, Aelbad walked straight up to guards who blocked the doorway with halberds. He declared, ‘I’m not a girl. I am the Prince’s man. Announce me.’ His voice brought Eustace forward to peep through an eyelet near the opening to his tent. He studied the child for several minutes, assessing his height, examining his hands, as well as he could see them, studying the colour of his skin. To the guard who entered the tent he said, ‘Order him to write his name backwards. And something for me in Latin.’ On the slate the guard handed him, Aelbad wrote his name backwards, and in Latin: I killed the Duke more than ten days ago. Eustace gave a shout of joy, ordered him to be brought inside and embraced his creature with both arms. ‘Your righteous deed explains rumours I’ve heard – that the Anjevin has sailed to Flanders for mercenaries,’ he said in Latin. ‘Aelbad, you have made me King!’ He kissed the boy’s forehead, but drew back. ‘You stink like a pig’s backside, child,’ he said. ‘Bathe. And tell the barber to cut off your hair. It’s time to resume your proper shape.’

  Aelbad’s pale eyes rested on Eustace. ‘My liege,’ he
mumbled, ‘there was a reward …’

  The Prince chuckled. All he could think of was the death of his rival and that now, despite the rebellion, his road to the throne lay open. The rebels would collapse as soon as he could get the news out that the Anjevin Pretender was dead. He gave a long, voluptuous sigh. ‘My Aelbad. What a memory you have. What was it I promised you?’

  The boy made a quick decision to tell another lie. ‘Gold sufficient to buy a stone house, a flock of fifty sheep and the land for them to graze.’

  Eustace laughed. ‘Either you’re lying, boy, or I was mad. Which is it?’

  Aelbad fixed on the Prince’s face with mischief sparkling in his eyes. ‘Aren’t I naughty?’ He cut a little caper around the inside of the tent, flipping his skirts from side to side and up and down. ‘You didn’t promise me anything. But, lord, you did say you would reward me handsomely.’ He fell to his knees, still grinning.

  ‘You do amuse me, Aelbad. You’re the wickedest child I’ve ever met.’

  ‘I should hope so, lord Prince. I’m a danger even to myself. That’s what my mother used to say. She was a horrible bitch.’

  Eustace gave another pleasant sigh. After the horrendous winter, the hard fighting through spring and now into summer, with almost the only favourable news being his father’s capture of Ipswich and their forces holding Norwich and some of London, it was a delight to have good news – the best news – and to have his imp back at his side. In private moments Eustace considered Aelbad a kindred spirit: low-born and a bastard, but devilishly clever, amusing and able to overcome obstacles – as he, King Eustace, was. It was Aelbad who had suggested that by persuading Louis to assault Normandy when he did, the Anjevins’ attack on England could be delayed until the weather turned foul. Eustace had summoned Aelbad to sing to Louis before he made his case to the French crown. He was almost speechless when the King agreed.

  ‘Off you go to bathe,’ he said. While Aelbad was gone he turned over in his mind an appropriate reward. Despite his age, the youth’s knowledge of figures suited him to be chancellor. Unless, of course, he wanted the Church. But Eustace left off these thoughts to worry about his lack of proof that the Pretender was dead.

  A handsome boy clad in cream linen, his hair bobbed to the tips of his earlobes, returned to the tent.

  ‘I want a detailed description of how the execution was managed,’ Eustace said. ‘My father will not be satisfied with anything less.’ Nor my uncle and the Archbishop of Canterbury, he thought.

  Years earlier Aelbad had understood that the most convincing lies were those that told the whole truth, but for one fact. He obliged his liege with an account that took almost an hour, while the Prince took notes in his own hand. ‘That Earl!’ he muttered. ‘I’ll destroy Coventry. Not just his castle and manor. The town and the monastery as well. Ranulf supports the Benedictines.’

  Aelbad included every detail, including how he got hold of a Cupid’s Arrow, thanks to the visit of foreign ladies.

  ‘Who were the ladies?’ Eustace demanded.

  ‘From southern lands. Their skin was dark.’

  Aelbad wished he had glossed over them. He had heard from Ranulf’s servants that relations of the Anjevins had come to visit, but he had no idea that one would be in the Duke’s bed. Did I murder the Harlot Queen of France? he wondered. He did not mind if he had, but the possibility made him more anxious to finish this interview with the Prince and make his escape. His liege, however, was fixated on the women. Who were they? Why were they there? Were they Lombardis? Did certain nobles from Lombardy support the rebels?

  Aelbad shook his head, helpless for an explanation. ‘My lord, I ask for no house, no land, no sheep. Only for what little reward you think befits me,’ he concluded. ‘To serve you better, I want to further my studies at a college in Oxford.’ He crossed himself. ‘I defended the realm!’

  The normal curl of cynicism left Eustace’s lips. ‘You touch my heart,’ he said. ‘I’ve a reward in store for you after I ascend the throne. Meanwhile, here is a sign of my gratitude.’ He handed the youth a bag of gold, enough for a stone house, a flock of fifty sheep, land on which to graze them, horses and household servants.

  For a second time that day Aelbad fell to his knees. ‘May I have your permission to leave, sire?’

  Eustace ruffled his hair. ‘Of course. Study, then return to me.’

  The boy had observed much while he travelled the countryside looking for his liege. Only a fool could imagine you’ll succeed against the rebels, he thought. He had no intention of studying at the new college at Oxford, but he needed to find a safe hiding place against the day when his Prince discovered he had lied. Leaving Eustace’s camp, he decided to present himself as a penitent at St Edmund’s Abbey, only a few leagues distant. Aelbad’s father, in one of his many attempts to atone for his vices, had done penance there himself.

  The group which had travelled from Barfleur took a coach of twelve horses in Southampton and reached Coventry in less than two days. Guillaume sent post-riders ahead with a note to Isabella:

  Dearest Mama,

  The Duchess has insisted on coming to see her husband. I apologise for any embarrassment, but could not prevent her. She has shown the utmost tender care for little Geoffrey.

  Your loving son,

  G

  His mother gave a quiet snort and passed the note to the Countess whose blue eyes became as round as the bowls of spoons. ‘The former queen of France! Here?’

  Isabella nodded.

  ‘Ranulf says she’s a Visigoth. And fabulously beautiful. Is she?’

  ‘My husband thought so,’ Isabella replied.

  The Countess gasped and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I’m so sorry. I had heard … something.’

  Isabella shrugged. ‘It’s nothing. Everyone knew towards the end. But I don’t especially want to meet her.’

  The Countess chose her most sensible English- and French-speaking maid to accompany Isabella downriver and back to Normandy. They left only an hour before Guillaume and his precious cargo arrived. The Countess looked puzzled as he handed each woman down from the coach. ‘Who’s the fat nun?’ she asked in English.

  The fat nun suddenly turned her head. Beneath her duncoloured headscarf came a ray from a pair of eyes as penetrating as a tigress’s.

  ‘I am Eleanor, Lord of Aquitaine,’ she said. ‘And you are?’

  What perfect teeth, was all the Countess could think. She took the regally proffered hand of her guest. She was meant, she realised, to kiss it.

  Eleanor introduced her maid and said she would like to bathe and dress properly before she met her husband. ‘Where is he at the moment?’

  ‘In the stables, my lady.’ Ranulf’s wife did not have the courage to mention that for the past five days Henry had taken to sleeping with a mare, using her wither as his pillow.

  ‘Excellent. Dear Countess, see that he stays there until I and little Geoffrey are ready,’ Eleanor said. She graced her hostess with another radiant smile and was off, following the servants who carried her luggage.

  She reappeared after dinner, her hair falling loose over her shoulders, dressed in a gown of dark, flaming orange, offset by a purple sleeveless robe and amethysts around her neck. The Countess guessed she was six months pregnant. She led by the hand a beautiful little boy whose head was a mass of black curls. ‘Papa,’ she coached him. ‘Say “Papa”.’ The child dutifully repeated the word, but suddenly broke free and rushed towards a dirty, dishevelled man who had ambled indoors.

  ‘Papa!’ he cried. ‘Papa!’

  Henry stopped, agape. ‘Geoffrey?’ he whispered. ‘My boy? My Geoffrey?’

  The child ran to him, arms uplifted for his father to hoist him to his chest. Henry snatched him up, panting like an animal that has just escaped death. He buried his face against the child’s neck. ‘Horsey!’ Geoffrey commanded. Henry put him down, dropped to all fours, and Eleanor, whom Henry had not yet noticed, lifted him onto his father’s back. Geoffre
y sank his fingers into the copper mane as Henry cantered back and forth for him on the flagstones of the corridor. After a few minutes Henry stretched flat on his stomach for the child to alight, then rolled over to grab him, sitting him on his chest and bouncing him up and down, both of them laughing until tears ran from their eyes. Quite suddenly the son lay his head on Henry’s chest, and was asleep. Henry continued lying on the stone floor, gazing at the ceiling in a wonderment of joy.

  Eleanor realised she had been holding her breath. ‘I had no idea,’ she murmured to the Countess. ‘Guillaume told me he had gone mad. But I had no idea …’

  She approached him tentatively, as an animal leaves the cover of trees to approach something unfamiliar, possibly dangerous. When she was close she knelt beside him. He turned, looked at her and blinked. ‘Eleanor?’ he asked. ‘My beautiful Duchess?’ She stroked his forehead with her small, cool hand. He lifted it to his chapped lips. With his arms holding the sleeping child to his chest, he sat up so their eyes were level. She was astonished by the change in him. He was still as gorgeous as a rainbow, but it was a rainbow that hung in a different sky, against a background of bruise-coloured clouds. There was a deep sadness in his gaze she had seen only in older men – in the Rumlar, in Louis often. Once or twice in Geoffrey.

  ‘You have suffered great misfortune,’ she said gently.

  He nodded and handed his son to a nurse. ‘Rachel saved my life. She ran in front of the stiletto, so it struck her instead of me. She had a baby inside her. I’ll show you their grave.’ He took her hand and ambled outside to the flowering tree that in spring sunshine glistened like a graceful mound of snow. It had dropped an inch of white petals across the grave. ‘The tree is crying,’ Henry said.

  Eleanor held both his hands tightly. She in her gorgeous robe and he in his filthy clothes knelt on the bare ground. Eleanor began to sob. ‘I loved her, Henry. I loved her more than my own blood sister.’