The king scowls. “Ponthieu? What? Impudence.”
Through the windows Eléonore sees a man in armor pulling a woman to the door, where a row of knights stands on guard. She hears the clang of swords and the clatter of a blade to the stones. She cranes her neck to see the fight. “Let them enter,” King Henry grumbles.
Moments later the Count of Ponthieu stands before them, his helmet under one arm, his daughter beside him, sullenness puckering her face. She is tall, with hair as sleek and shiny as sable—drawing Henry’s eye. Eléonore remembers Uncle’s warning: King Henry is notoriously fickle. You must captivate him now, or he may change his mind before the wedding.
“I came to discern whether the rumors are true,” the count says, fingering a mole on the side of his nose. “Now, Your Grace, I must ask: How can you marry this one”—he gestures toward Eléonore—“when you are already married to this one?”
Gasps fill the hall. Joan of Ponthieu shoots a defiant gaze at Eléonore, as though she would challenge her to a duel. Eléonore’s blood quickens. The skinny waif would not stand a chance.
“But Sir Simon, you know the betrothal has been contested,” Henry says. Eléonore’s pulse thuds in her ears. Her King Henry, already promised to another? Why has no one told her? She turns accusing eyes to Uncle.
“Until the matter is settled, Your Grace, you are still bound to my daughter,” the count says.
“We are too closely related.” Henry’s voice rises. “I expressed this concern from the beginning, Lord Ponthieu, but you pressed me to move forward. You said you held influence with the pope.”
“And I do,” the count said. “But not as great an influence, it seems, as Queen Blanche.”
“To hell with that woman!” Henry cries. “Does she think she rules the world?” Eléonore frowns. Would King Henry prefer to marry this girl? His face pinkens, and the muscles in his neck bulge.
Eléonore reaches over and touches his arm. “Breathe,” she whispers. Her mother’s advice, and most beneficial.
Henry takes a deep breath before continuing. “The White Queen aims to withhold from me the lands France stole from my father. Ponthieu is too close to Normandy for her comfort. And she has Pope Gregory’s ear. If she wants him to annul our contract, he will do so.”
“I am willing to wait for his ruling. My daughter’s honor hangs in the balance, as does that of your new intended bride.”
“I have waited long enough for marriage!” Henry bangs a fist on the table. “It might be years before he decides.” He turns wild eyes to Eléonore.
Uncle rises from his seat. “Your Grace, I have information that can help in this matter. If you will meet with me privately.”
“I do not see how involving other parties would be beneficial,” the count says.
“Quiet!” Henry roars. “I have not given either of you permission to speak.”
With a trembling hand he touches the platter of food in front of them. She watches, fascinated. Will he hurl it at the count, or at her uncle? Uncle, back in his seat, mouths a command to her: Do something.
Joan smiles at Henry, aiming to beguile him with her buxom figure. Eléonore places a hand on her own, still-flat, chest. Should she intervene, or would she only agitate Henry more? His eyes linger on Joan of Ponthieu, the forbidden fruit. He licks his lips. Eléonore leans toward him.
“My lord,” she whispers.
He draws his gaze away from her competitor. She places her hand on his, possessing him.
“Our meal is interrupted, as you noted. May we dine, and then discuss this matter? I have traveled so far today.” She gives him the wide-eyed look that always melted Papa’s resolve. Joan of Ponthieu might have the body, but Eléonore has the heart-shaped face, the long lashes, the perfect smile. And, at the moment, she has the King of England’s full attention.
“Of course,” Henry says. His smile is the sun emerging from behind the clouds. He claps his hands, and servants come running. “Set up tables for the count and his entourage,” he commands. “We will meet in my chambers once the feast is finished.”
“And my uncle, too?” she murmurs. “He met with the White Queen during our visit to Paris. He spent quite a lot of time with her.”
“We do desire the attendance of the bishop-elect of Valence,” Henry says. “We are most eager to hear your news, sir.”
Eléonore sends a look of triumph to Uncle, whose grin is as satisfied as if he had already filled his belly.
Eléonore
Ruffled Feathers
Westminster, 1236
BEFORE THE CORONATION, she sits in her chambers, thumbing through the Lancelot du Lac Henry had given her the previous day; and writing to Marguerite about their journey to Glastonbury. They were real! Arthur, the great king who fought off the Saxons and brought peace to England; the Round Table and its knights; the Lady of the Lake; the magical sword; the wise Merlin; the noble and pious Guinevere—they are all real, as I have argued. The monks told of a leaden cross bearing their names and bones buried under a tree. Eléonore could not contain her excitement: proof at last! But she had not seen the artifacts. The monks have reburied them, and stand vigil day and night to guard them against robbers.
Henry promised to build a shrine in their chapel if they will let me carry the relics in a special ceremony, she writes. He is the most generous man I could ever imagine. Perhaps, in time, I will not shrink from his caress.
She strikes out this last line. What does Marguerite know about a man’s caress? King Louis is young and handsome, unlike Henry, but his mother keeps him from her. After two years of marriage, they have not been able to consummate, she whispered to Eléonore in Paris last month. Henry, on the other hand, has no difficulties in the marriage bed. The problems are all Eléonore’s.
She cannot bear to look at him, at his drooping eyelid, at the hair blanketing his chest, his back, his neck, his feet. He reminds her of an ape, even in the dark or especially so, when she cannot see his gentle eyes but can only feel his hair scratching against her smooth body. When he kisses her, his beard tickles her skin, filling her with revulsion. She knows the quantity of hair has nothing to do with his age, but she cannot help thinking, Old.
“My lady, His Grace has come to see you,” Margaret says. She turns the letter on its face and rises to greet him, sweet Henry, smiling shyly after their night together. He has a gift for her, he says, and takes her by the hand.
“Not another gift! Henry, this is too much.” In the six days since their wedding he has given her a belt with a diamond-studded holster and matching dagger; cloth of taffeta, velvet, and the finest silk woven with gold thread; a ring in the shape of a lion—the Plantagenet symbol—with emerald eyes; necklaces, bracelets, cups and, best of all, books: his copy of The Great Books of Romances, a psalter, a book of hours, a bestiary, and a collection of songs from Provence, all gilded and illuminated in rich colors as well as silver and gold.
“Nothing but the best for my queen,” he says, as they step into the great hall and she sees the palfrey, a beautiful dappled mare with a yellow mane wearing a saddle with stirrups of gold. She will look splendid riding it in today’s procession, he says.
She strokes the horse’s cheek and murmurs to her. Sweet baby. If only Henry’s hair felt as soft, or if only her heart were. His smile is indulgent: he hopes those are tears of joy? She nods, blinking and turning away from him, hating to lie.
He is trying to buy her affection. The adornments and entertainments at their wedding ceremony will be the talk of Canterbury for many years. Her coronation is sure to be equally opulent. Already she has seen lions in cages, dancing girls in exotic costumes, and a cake as big as a house that surely contains something fanciful within.
“It thrills my soul to bring you happiness,” Henry says, pulling her close for a kiss that she must return, and eagerly.
“I am happy,” she says, laughing, wiping her mouth quickly against her sleeve. “So you can stop spending the kingdom’s treasury, if th
at is what it is for.”
“It is—but there are other reasons to put on a spectacle today.” He helps her onto the horse and she walks the beauty around the hall. The Count of Ponthieu, he tells her, has been granted an audience with the pope. He will argue that their marriage is invalid and that Eléonore is not the true Queen of England.
“Ponthieu? I thought he had given up this fight,” she says, dismounting. “What about the White Queen? Didn’t she attack him?”
“Blanche, too, thought Ponthieu had given up. His reputation for obstinacy appears well deserved.” Someday, they may need the barons to attest that they paid homage to Eléonore as queen. “I have planned an event that they will not forget.”
THE ENTIRE CITY of London, it seems, has come to the procession, all dressed in their finest garments and ornaments: thousands lining the streets to gawk at the three hundred sixty knights and nobles on splendidly bedecked horses, each carrying a gold or silver goblet for the feast; at their king, in his purple, green, and red silks and plush furs; and, most of all, at Eléonore, who sits high on her horse in a dusty rose gown, mantle of gold and ermine, and glittering necklace of rubies—another gift from Henry—and tries not to shiver in the January chill although she has never felt so cold. Already the Earl of Norfolk has been heard to complain about the king’s giving them an “alien” queen. Only an hour from gaining the crown, she does not want to remind the English that she is, as Norfolk (preposterously) said, “nearly French.” Everything must be perfect on this day, and the English, so often conquered in the past, deplore the very idea of foreign rule.
Her hopes for perfection soon fly apart, however, when the heavy cathedral doors open with a mighty crash during the coronation ceremony. The Count of Ponthieu runs down the aisle, cutting through the crowd with his sword. A woman shrieks; a child begins to scream, nicked on the shoulder by the blade. Henry, sitting on the throne beside Eléonore, leaps to his feet. “Seize him!” he shouts.
It takes four strong knights to subdue him bodily—but they cannot silence him. “This coronation is illegal, for they are not truly married,” he cries, struggling against his captors. “It is a travesty and a sham. The king has already betrothed himself to my daughter.”
The archbishop sets down the incense. “This is a grave allegation. Where is your proof?”
The count waves a parchment. “Here is the verba de praesenti he signed with my seneschal, naming Joan as his wife.”
Eléonore stares at the man who may or may not be her husband. He signed a verba de praesenti? Is she an adulteress, then? She scans the crowd for Uncle, finds him through her tears.
Uncle steps forward to address the archbishop. “We have already dealt with this . . . most delicate situation at Canterbury, before the wedding.” The marriage to Joan is invalid, he says, because of a prior agreement the count signed with Queen Blanche of France.
“He lost a battle with the French, but she allowed him to keep his lands and castles in exchange for the right to choose his daughter’s husband. Since the queen is contesting the verba de praesenti before the pope of Rome, it obviously violates this agreement.”
“And we are too closely related,” Henry says. “Cousins in the fourth degree.”
“My lady, since you are most affected by these charges, I ask what you desire.” The archbishop turns to Eléonore, his expression grave. “If Pope Gregory rules in the king’s favor, then nothing will change. But should he rule for the Count of Ponthieu, he will annul your marriage. You will lose everything—and your children will be considered illegitimate. They will inherit nothing.”
Eléonore’s racing pulse sends her to her feet. Lose everything—when she stands on the cusp of having it all? Her children illegitimate? She is only the daughter of an impoverished count. What sort of future could she make for them?
The cathedral is hushed with expectation. All eyes are on her, waiting for her to do something, to say—what? She needs time to think. Her pounding heart urges her to flee, to escape from these eyes, this terrible pressure, this husband who has humiliated her so. He signed a verba de praesenti. Why didn’t he tell her? Under Eléonore’s accusing glare, he seems to crumple. His eye droops so sadly, it might slide off his face completely. He has never looked so old—or so pitiful.
“I only wanted a family,” he murmurs, so low that no one else hears. “With you, Eléonore.”
Tears spring to her eyes. In seven days with Henry, she has seen only kindness, generosity, and passion. My lion, she called him. But even a lion has weaknesses: Henry’s is a yearning for the family he never had.
She reaches over and slips her hand into his. Her thumb slides over the hair on his fingers, hair like the silk on a baby’s head. Standing with him, she looks out at the people who would call her queen. What kind of queen would she be, to shrink from this small test? She narrows her eyes at the Count of Ponthieu, still and subdued but his eyes defiant. She thinks of Margi, who, as the Queen of France, may help her to defeat him. A frisson of excitement shivers through her. Eléonore always did love a contest.
AFTER THE CEREMONY, Gilbert Marshal, the Earl of Pembroke, waves a wand to clear a path for Henry and Eléonore from the chapel to the banquet hall, while nobles of the Cinque Ports carry silken cloths lined with silver bells on their lance tips to shelter the royal heads. The nobles vied for this privilege, as have others serving the royal couple during the feast—including Simon de Montfort.
“Will the Count of Ponthieu feast with us today?” he asks Henry, a twinkle in his eyes. “Shall I add a drop or two of something to his hand-washing water? A tincture of spiderwort to hasten his digestion of the meal?”
Uncle, awarded a seat at the king’s table for his help with Ponthieu, gestures toward the young man.
“See how skillfully Leicester comports himself?” he says to Eléonore. “Take note, as well, of your husband’s delighted response. Simon de Montfort is a shrewd and ambitious man. You should befriend him.”
She smiles broadly as Montfort offers her the basin. “To what do I owe the honor of being served by you today, monsieur? This has been the Earl of Norfolk’s task.”
His intimate gaze sends a ripple down Eléonore’s spine. “The English nobles do love money, my lady.”
She plunges her hands into the water, then dries them on the towel he provides. “You paid Norfolk? How much?”
“Not nearly enough for the privilege of serving the world’s most beautiful queen.”
She reaches into the pouch on her girdle and pulls out several coins. “Would this be adequate recompense?”
His gaze flickers over the silver. Ah! He, too, loves money. “Please take this, monsieur, as my gift.”
“Thank you, my lady, but I cannot—”
“Shh! Do not let the king hear you refuse his queen’s gift, monsieur. He has a terrible temper.”
He accepts the coins, kisses them, and tucks them into his pouch. “I will sew them into my chemise, to wear next to my heart.”
“If he does sew them in, they won’t remain there for long,” Uncle says when he is gone. “The Earl of Leicester is in dire need of an income.”
Simon, being a younger son of the Count of Montfort, seemed destined for the clergy, Uncle tells her. But he had other ambitions. He talked his eldest brother into signing over the rights to the earldom of Leicester, then traveled to England and petitioned Ranulf, the Earl of Chester—Leicester’s custodian—to turn the title and lands over to him. Soon he had won Ranulf’s affection, and Leicester, too.
“Simon arrived at the court five years ago under Ranulf’s sponsorship, and has remained here ever since,” Uncle says. “He continually gains influence over the king and the court.”
“He must be glib-tongued, indeed,” Eléonore said.
“See how easily he extracted coins from you.”
Eléonore grins. “You advised me to befriend him, didn’t you?”
“And you used a most expedient method. Leicester’s castle was aba
ndoned for many years, and is in ill repair. The earl needs an income—a substantial one—if he is going to rebuild it.”
“He needs to marry an heiress.”
“It is his only recourse. Unfortunately, heiresses are scarce these days. And Montfort has little to offer except good looks and a golden tongue.”
SEATED BEFORE THE scowling barons’ council, Henry gives Eléonore a look as if to say, do you see what I must endure?
He clears his throat, tries again. As ruler over Germany and Italy, the Holy Roman Emperor is a valuable friend to England, he says. The fifty or so barons, seated in the great hall before them, begin to mutter. Some fold their arms across their chests.
“The pope is more powerful, and he hates Frederick,” says the gray-bearded Earl of Kent. “Why not follow the example of the French king, and remain neutral in their dispute?” He shakes his shaggy head. “As your former guardian, Henry, I thought that I had taught you to choose more wisely.”
“You are not my guardian now, Sir Hubert, but my royal subject,” Henry snaps. “And you are to address me as such.”
He is losing his temper again. It is time for Eléonore to step in.
“The king has already pledged the dowry for his sister’s marriage to the emperor,” she says. “He did so in good faith, certain that you would recognize the value of having Frederick for an ally. Was he wrong?”
“He was wrong to pledge a dowry that he could not pay,” the Earl of Kent grumbles.
“So you think the alliance is without value?” she asks.
He bunches up his face. “I did not say that, my lady.”
“How much is it worth, then? Five thousand silver marks?”
“Certainly—”
“Ten thousand? Twenty? Or perhaps we should ask how much we would spend to defend ourselves should the emperor attack? Because if we do not pay, he will attack.”
Gilbert Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, stands to speak. “Do not forget, Your Grace: Your authority depends on your barons’ submission. We are loath to submit to another increase in taxes. What happened to the portion you took from us so recently? Wasn’t that supposed to pay the empress’s dowry?”
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