The two men spoke in very unflattering terms about both of her brothers. She was surprised to learn that Richard would not be in London for the queen’s churching or the prince’s christening. According to the bishop, Richard’s god was money. He was likened to King Midas, everything he touched turned to gold, and she learned that it was apparently common knowledge that he was so avaricious and tight-fisted, he still had the first crown he’d ever made. At the moment he had no interest in England. As the Count of Poitou he lived entirely on the continent and was now busy currying favor to be elected King of the Romans. Rumors abounded that he was planning a Crusade because the Holy Land and the territories surrounding it was where the real wealth, riches, and treasures of the world could be found.
She was on the point of hotly defending Richard when Simon said, “The money you so generously donated to me for my trip to Rome went straight into Richard’s pocket. You tore the veil from my eyes the day you told me the church was based on a system of bribery, but it’s a bit of a bastard when you are obliged to grease your brother-in-law’s palm. Especially when he took control of Marshal lands that should have rightfully gone to my wife. It must have plagued hell out of his conscience, because he finally gave the money back.”
Eleanor was startled. Simon had never mentioned these things to her, although she did recall him saying he had always protected her from her brothers’ character flaws. She’d presumed he’d been alluding to Henry, of course. When the men’s conversation switched to the king. Eleanor thought, more than a little shocked, They are both guilty of treason.
“I have it on the best authority that Henry has been negotiating to have the crown of Sicily conferred upon his infant son’s head.”
Eleanor could keep quiet no longer. Her sister Isabella was married to Emperor Frederick of Germany who was also King of Sicily. “Negotiating with Frederick because he has no heir of his own?” she asked.
Robert coughed rather delicately for such a big man. “No, my dear. Negotiating with the Pope,” the bishop answered.
Eleanor was perplexed. She looked from Robert to Simon. “Frederick is King of Sicily. What does the crown have to do with the Pope?”
“Consensus is that Henry may have agreed to finance a papal war,” the Bishop of Lincoln said solemnly.
Eleanor recoiled. Either her brother was dabbling in vile, sickening intrigue or these men were malignant gossipmongers. Both alternatives were abhorrent to her.
Simon laughed and Eleanor heard bitterness in it. “Henry never financed anything in his life. He’ll squeeze the Jews and the barons dry.”
Just at that moment Rickard de Burgh arrived, and Eleanor was never so relieved to see anyone in her life. He was such a gentle, perfect knight that he would not sit and listen to them malign their monarch. Eleanor rose from the table. She would order the minstrels to bring their lutes. How had she allowed the conversation at her table to sink to such a low level? She rushed from the dining hall so quickly a wave of dizziness swept over her and she put out a hand to steady herself. Then she went cold as she heard Sir Rickard’s voice.
“Winchester has set a trap for you. I hoped you would remain at Kenilworth out of their reach.”
“I suspected as much when we received the generous offer of Winchester House,” Simon said quietly.
“Your enemies have poisoned the king against you. Henry went straight to Winchester with your suggestions of restoring power to Hubert and making Richard Marshal the justiciar. Richard Marshal was sent to Ireland and murdered. Winchester is terrified of your growing power in England. Now that you are here in London, I believe he will get the king to exile you.”
Eleanor was on the point of rushing back to the men to tell them they were fools and liars. Henry was her dearest brother, her friend. How could Simon listen to such lies? Simon knew better than any man alive how the king had arranged for their secret marriage in his own chapel. Henry would allow no man to poison his mind about Simon de Montfort.
“How was Henry persuaded against me?” Simon asked quietly.
Eleanor held her breath so she could hear the answer to the question she herself asked.
“Winchester simply pointed out to Henry that you patterned yourself upon Henry II. ’tis no secret you uphold the cause of English liberty as he did and are constantly calling attention to the genius of the laws he passed. Winchester accused you of ambition for the throne. Pointed out how you purposely got a royal princess with child so that you could marry into the Plantagenet line.”
Eleanor’s hand went to her throat. No denial issued forth from Simon de Montfort’s lips. Eleanor climbed slowly to the bedchamber and stood at the window with unseeing eyes. The tale of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine came flooding back to her. Henry, a mere count, had been so ambitious that he snatched the crown of England for himself. He needed a royal mate so he deliberately impregnated the King of France’s queen, which enabled her to get a dispensation for a divorce and marry Henry.
How blind she had been! The circumstances were so similiar she could not believe she had never before thought of them. Simon de Montfort had always been so sure of himself. He had pursued her relentlessly. He had not chosen her for love. He had chosen her for ambition! Her hand went protectively to her belly. She was just the vessel he had used to attain his goal.
She must go to Henry at once. No, it was dark; London was unsafe. She would not be permitted to leave the house tonight. Tomorrow … she would go in the morning. No, the queen’s churching was to take place in the morning. She would have to wait until she was inside the abbey before she sought out the protection of the king. She undressed and crept into bed. She would feign sleep tonight to buy her time until tomorrow.
When she rose she kept her maids in attendance so she would not be alone with de Montfort. The clothes she had brought to London for the festive occasion personified her innate good taste. She knew the court would be awash in cloth-of-gold, royal purple, and Henry’s inevitable green. She had had her husband’s new clothes coordinated with her own, keeping in mind his very masculine dislike for ostentation and “peacocking” in bright colors. For the christening of the prince where Simon was one of nine godfathers she had chosen deep, rich wine with matching cloak, its only ornamentation a ruby clasp. She would wear rose trimmed with silver. Today, for the queen’s churching, her gown was pale peach silk, while her husband’s garments were deep amber.
When he entered the chamber she busied herself putting her jet-black curls into place, her eyes not daring to meet his. He thought the pale peach made her look like an exotic flower, and he stood entranced. Before her maids and his own squire he said, “You are the most exotic, breathstopping creature I have ever known.” He dipped his head to kiss her. She managed to turn her face so that his lips found only her cheek.
“We must hurry. If we want a seat in the abbey we must be there two hours before the king and queen arrive. Remember they are in residence at Westminster and will walk in a procession from there to the abbey.”
“Yes, I know. The streets will be crowded. I know how much you dislike orders, Eleanor, but it is my express wish that you remain with your mounted guards until I lift you from the saddle. I don’t want you in jeopardy.”
She lowered her lashes and meekly acquiesced to his order. He looked at her askance, most suspicious of her demeanor. Then later, as she rode toward Westminster flanked by her guard, she could see the tall figure of the Earl of Leicester ahead of her. Mounted or standing he towered above his fellow men. She heard the cheers of the crowd but today, instead of pleasing her, it made her shiver. Many times she had heard him say “You can become whatever you behold.” Was his ambition of such magnitude it encompassed the crown of England?
She was glad she had chosen a light silk. The day was hot, almost sultry, and was sure to end with a storm. She wished she had never come to London. She wished she was home at Kenilworth with her baby and her ignorance. Ignorance was indeed bliss. She dreaded the thought of arrivin
g at the abbey. How could she choose between loyalty to a husband and loyalty to a brother and king?
Outside the church the crowds were heavy and the horses were skittish. She saw her husband dismount and hand his reins to his squire, then the crowds parted for him as he strode toward his wife. He raised his arms to her, and she lowered her lashes and allowed him to lift her to his side. Now she could see nothing. She was so small her head reached to most people’s shoulders. Suddenly she raised her eyes in alarm. Something was wrong. She heard her husband raise his voice and his tone was deadly. She glimpsed his face. It was carved in stone, black-browed, black-visaged. Then she realized what was happening. The royal guards at the abbey door blocked their entrance, refusing to admit them on orders of the king. On orders of the king! Henry must be mad, she thought. Insanity does not run in my family, it gallops!
The insult to a man like Simon de Montfort was catastrophic. Surely they knew his pride and his temper were unmatched. He grasped his wife’s arm in a steellike vise and propelled her back to their horse guards. His eyes were like black fire. “Eleanor, you will remain here with your guard,” he commanded, then he vaulted into the saddle of his destrier and scattered the crowd.
He stalked down the halls of Westminster so purposefully his silver spurs struck sparks upon the marble floor. With deadly accuracy he aimed for the long throne room. The Welsh guards on the outer door fell back automatically to allow access to the inner sanctum when they saw the war lord stride up. Running behind, trying to catch up to him, came Princess Eleanor Plantagenet. He was through one set of doors before he sensed someone following him. He turned furiously and when he saw her he raged, “Christ’s blood, don’t you know your life is in jeopardy?” He shoved her roughly behind the door to conceal her, then stalked down the long chamber.
All seemed to be confusion as the procession of courtiers tried to establish a pecking order. King’s Men always took precedence over Queen’s Men, except perhaps today for the event of the queen’s churching. The archbishops and bishops were all in line behind the old, failing Archbishop of Canterbury, but the king’s half brothers were arguing the toss with Thomas of Savoy’s brood of arrogant offspring, while a large-bosomed wet nurse kept the heir to the throne quiet.
One by one the assembly fell silent as Simon de Montfort swept down the room resembling the angel of death. He challenged Henry directly, but he could not utter the word “Sire” to save his soul. “Why do you forbid my presence in Westminster Abbey?”
The Bishop of Winchester stepped forward to answer the challenge. “You have been excommunicated,” he said with a sneer.
“By whom?” roared de Montfort. “By me,” Winchester thundered.
“On what charge?” demanded Simon, keeping a rigid control over his sword arm.
“That you seduced the Princess Eleanor and extorted consent for the marriage.” Winchester’s face was smug. He lowered his voice slightly and said with relish, “Remember, de Montfort, there are two groups of people—the pitiful and the pitiless!”
Simon knew a murderous urge to cleave him into two pieces. His eyes swung to Henry and he pointed his finger. “You arranged our wedding yourself in your private chapel.”
“Liar!” cried the king, courageous as a lion with his den surrounding him.
Eleanor had heard enough. “Henry!” she cried, and all eyes swung to the beautiful young woman in vibrant peach. She was more regal than any other in the room as she came to stand beside her husband. For the first time in her life she admitted to herself what Henry was. His lack of backbone sickened her. “I was ever your greatest champion … You have betrayed me.”
“Adulteress!” shrieked the queen.
Eleanor knew she must get Simon out of there before he drew his weapon and there was murder done. Simon tasted fear on his tongue … fear for his beloved wife who meant more to him than life. Her temper was so passionate she would end up in the Tower before the day was done. They clasped hands and withdrew in unison.
Outside Westminster Palace de Montfort’s men quickly surrounded the earl and countess, and they galloped through the city at full speed to Winchester House. When they arrived they found their entire household had been turned out into the courtyard and the doors barred against them. Rickard de Burgh was there and had a hurried word with Simon. “There are soldiers at all the city’s gates waiting to arrest you. You are charged with unlawful seduction, my lady is charged with adultery,” he said bluntly.
Eleanor was already giving orders to the servants to ready the wagons. “We are returning to Kenilworth immediately,” she announced.
Simon took her hand and looked down into her eyes which were so like deep, blue sapphires. “Nay, love, ’tis too late for Kenilworth. Warrants are out for our arrest. I won’t ever see you in the Tower and they’ll never take me alive. We’ll take ship across the Channel.”
“But my baby …” she cried in alarm.
“Will be safe at Kenilworth,” he insisted.
“No, no, noooo,” she wailed, but he had already swung her up into his powerful arms.
“Damnit, cast out your fear. In this life you get what you are afraid of!” He directed de Burgh, “Place the servants with the Bishop of Lincoln across the road, he will get them safely home.”
They went downriver to Tower Wharfe where they took ship for the continent with only the clothes on their backs.
39
Eleanor swung gently in a hammock that had been strung between two laburnum trees. Her hand shaded her eyes as she looked out across the sparkling Adriatic Sea. She lived luxuriously, her every whim catered to by an abundance of servants. At a glance her world appeared perfect, yet she was pensive, almost melancholy. She missed her son unbearably.
They had sailed to Bordeaux where Simon learned that not only were Richard and Isabella in Italy, but Eleanor’s sister Isabella who had married the Emperor of Germany was residing there as well. They went overland from Bordeaux to Italy, where they were welcomed with open arms. It was a happy family reunion for the Plantagenet brother and sisters. Eleanor and Isabella had not seen each other since they were children, and they reminisced for days, recalling incidents that brought both smiles and tears to their faces.
Eleanor was shocked at how matronly her sister looked though she was only one year older. She had to keep reminding herself that her brother-in-law was not only Emperor of Germany but was also the ruler of southern Italy and Sicily. He insisted that she and Simon take up residence in a great echoing stone palace overlooking the sea at Brindisi. In return Simon de Montfort willingly went off to northern Italy with Frederick to help him besiege the city of Brescia, leaving Eleanor to idle away her days with the two Isabellas.
Over and over Eleanor chided herself for being discontented. Here the sun always shone, the azure sea was ever warm, flowers bloomed in profusion while the sea breezes wafted their fragrance to perfume the air. Yet Eleanor was irritated by the excess. Too much food, fruit, good wine; too many servants, poetry and idleness. It was all very well for Simon. He was off doing what he did best, but she was left with too many empty hours on her hands—hours, days, and weeks in which she had nothing to do but think.
Her brother Richard and Isabella’s child was a boy named Henry of Almaine, and she delighted in helping Isabella care for him, in spite of the servants’ disapproval that royal ladies should so occupy themselves. She divulged that she was again with child and was amazed that they should envy her so much. She was homesick and longed for her baby son left behind at Kenilworth. She penned endless letters to Bette even though she could not read. The Franciscan brothers read them to Bette, Kate, and Emma and wrote replies back to the Countess of Leicester answering all her questions and reassuring her that, yes indeed, baby Henry was thriving in spite of his parents’ forced exile.
During her first weeks she could not shake off her feelings of betrayal. Henry, no doubt at Winchester’s instigation, had charged her with adultery. Surely none would ever believe she ha
d carried on a sexual relationship with Simon de Montfort while William Marshal had been alive? In truth she had been a sixteen-year-old virgin, not an adulteress. Henry had falsely laid shame upon a sister who had been a lifetime favorite. Worse, if she was found guilty, her children would be branded bastards.
In London she had chosen exile with her husband, closing her eyes to the fact that things might never be the same between them again. Now in her long idle hours the relentless thoughts crept up upon her stealthily, insidiously, demanding that she reexamine and reevaluate their relationship.
She longed to keep the knowledge buried deep within her heart and consciousness that he had married her because of ambition. But her thoughts were insistent, springing unbidden from her subconscious, forcing their ugly way to the surface so that there was no way she could ignore them any longer. Down through history men had used women as pawns to further their ambitions, but when she thought of Simon doing these things her throat tightened upon her unshed tears and her lips trembled uncontrollably. He had come into her life at a time when she had been so vulnerable, so lonely. His strength and love, his warmth and protection had attracted her, lured her. She had opened to him like a flower opens to the sun. That it had all been a carefully calculated seduction on his part made her feel as if a knife was twisting in her breast and her vitals. Her heart felt bruised and it ached with the poignancy of her newfound knowledge.
In her heart she always thought the name Eleanor had cursed her. How ironic that she had been named after her grandmother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, then suffered the same fate of having an ambitious, powerful man impregnate her to gain a royal wife. No one had ever wanted her for herself. She was valuable because of who she was, a Plantagenet princess, daughter and sister of Kings of England. Pressure had been brought to bear upon the Marshal of England to go through a marriage ceremony with her, then even greater pressure had been brought to bear upon him before he had taken her to live with him. Her dark thoughts skipped over the consummation.
The Dragon and the Jewel Page 41
