by Alison Weir
Eleanor sank down into a chair, feeling as if she had been winded. She could not speak, so great was her disappointment.
Glanville was looking at her, not unsympathetically. No fool, he would have guessed that she might misunderstand the reason for the rejoicings.
“Are you able to give me news of my sons?” she managed to ask.
“I am at liberty to say that the breach between them and the King has been healed; he has excused their treason on account of their youth. In the circumstances, the King has been very generous, although I am not allowed to discuss the terms of the peace settlement with you, my lady. What I can say is that, out of affection and love for the princes, he has proclaimed a general amnesty.”
Eleanor rose to her feet, hope springing again.
“So I am to be freed after all?” she asked eagerly.
“No, my lady, I am afraid not.” Glanville’s face was pained.
Eleanor almost reeled at his words, as did Amaria, who burst into noisy tears. This was altogether too much to bear.
“Then how can it be a general amnesty, if I am excluded?” Eleanor shrilled.
Glanville looked uncomfortable. Clearly, he was debating with himself how much he dared say to her. “I am probably exceeding my orders,” he said, “but the King made known his belief that his sons had been led astray by troublemakers. He named the King of France … and yourself.”
Of course. Someone had to take the blame and be punished. Henry needed his sons: they were his heirs, although she suspected that he had conceded them even less than before as the price of making peace. It was politic, indeed necessary, to restore good relations with them as soon as possible. But for that to happen, there had to be a scapegoat, someone at whom people could point a finger and think: she was the evil genius behind their rebellion. They were not to blame.
She could never, in her worst nightmares, have envisaged that Henry could be so vengeful.
——
The King had triumphed, and for a time the talk in the marketplace and inns of Sarum was all of that. Good King Henry, the people called him, forgetting their horror at the murder of Becket and how they had vilified him then. All that mattered to them now was that he had been victorious against his enemies, as kings should be. Some could remember the trials of the weak Stephen’s reign, and knew how to appreciate a strong ruler like this one. For weeks the taverns resonated with the sound of ballads bawled tunelessly in honor of the King’s real—and imagined—exploits.
Clearly, Queen Eleanor, the one who was shut up in the castle and had not been freed—heads nodded significantly over that—was much to blame. She had caused the war, beyond any doubt, and that devil, Louis of France. She was an unnatural woman, betraying her lord like that. But no one was really surprised. There had been other rumors over the years, scandalous ones at that, and probably all true, given what they knew now. The people fell to whispering …
Yet as time passed, in its normal seasonal cycle for the good folk of Sarum, but dismally slowly for Eleanor, incarcerated in her tower, the mood of the people changed. By varied and circuitous routes, other rumors had reached them, rumors that offended their peasant sensibilities and their ingrained sense of right and wrong.
“The King is living openly with his leman!”
“He flaunts his paramour for all to see!”
“They call her the Rose of the World. My eye! Rose of Unchastity would be a better way of putting it!”
Henry was again the object of rank disapproval and derision, and the women were even more censorious than the men. “Since the world copies a bad king, he sets a bad example,” they complained. “Why, our husbands might think to follow it!” And tongues clucked in outrage.
Eleanor did not hear any of this, although Amaria could have told her a thing or two. She refrained, of course, not because she had been specifically instructed to keep quiet about such matters, but because she felt sorry for her mistress, whose emotions were very fragile where the King was concerned. The poor lady had troubles enough, and Amaria was not about to add to them.
But Eleanor was not to be kept in ignorance for long. Unexpectedly, she had a visitor, the ascetic Hugh of Avalon, Henry’s good friend and mentor. Eleanor had always liked and respected Hugh, that saintly man, that good and fearless man, who never shrank from speaking his mind, and whose unbounded charity was famous. Of a noble Burgundian family, and a monk of the Grande Chartreuse, Mother House of the austere Carthusian Order, he had just arrived in England at the King’s urgent request to head Henry’s new monastic foundation at Witham in Somerset.
Kneeling to receive Prior Hugh’s blessing, Eleanor wondered what had brought him here. She did not think it was merely to offer her some spiritual consolation, although she would be glad of that for, try as she might, she could not warm to the chaplain whom Henry had appointed. She feared, though, that Hugh of Avalon might be the bringer of bad tidings—another blow from Henry—and she was right.
“My daughter,” the prior said, in his deep, commanding voice, “I have come on a somewhat delicate but necessary mission.”
Oh no, Eleanor thought, but she observed the courtesies and invited her visitor to sit down.
“This is very sad and regrettable, this estrangement between you and the King, my lady,” Hugh began, regarding her with great warmth and humanity.
“It is no mere estrangement. I am his prisoner. He cannot forgive me for taking my sons’ part against him.”
“Of that, in charity, I will forbear to speak,” Hugh told her, seeing her distress, and knowing that anything he could say would only add to it. “But I must open my mind to you plainly, and tell you that I have always held the union between you and King Henry to be adulterous and invalid.”
“Adulterous?” echoed Eleanor, her mind rejecting the wider implications of what he was saying, and thrusting to one side the memory of Geoffrey in her bed, and the secret, shameful barrier to her marriage with Henry that her trysts with his father had created. What would the holy prior say if he knew about that? But she could never speak of it, and Henry knew it. Nor, she realized, could he, because he had married her knowing of the impediment. To admit that would be to declare their children bastards.
She had feared for a moment that Hugh of Avalon had somehow found out about her affair with Geoffrey. But he could not have, she told herself. Even Henry would not be so rash or vicious as to endanger his sons’ rights. But it had been a nasty moment, and she waited in trepidation to hear what the prior had to say.
“The annulment of your first marriage was, in my opinion, on questionable grounds,” Hugh told her. “You had married King Louis in good faith. A dispensation could without difficulty have been procured, and penances undergone for the lack of it. Yet you chose to leave your husband and take another, to whom you were even more closely related in blood. Because of that, no good could have come from that second union—which time, indeed, has proved. And therefore, the King wishes to end it by entering a plea of consanguinity.”
Eleanor listened to all this in shock. End their marriage? But of course, it was the logical thing to do, the coup de grâce, for it was finished already, all but dead from several mortal blows, a mere memory from the past. Yet she had never anticipated that Henry would actually try to divorce her. And why now? The time to have done it would have been when he learned of her fateful disobedience.
She shook her head disbelievingly. “And where do I stand in this?”
The prior took her hand and held it as he did his best to make the unpalatable palatable. “The King will claim that both of you entered into the union in ignorance of any impediments; that being so, your children will continue to be regarded as legitimate, and the succession will not be endangered.”
Eleanor was doing some quick thinking. If Henry was arguing that theirs was no marriage, then he had no claim to her lands—or on her person! Freedom was beckoning …
“If I was never married to the King, then I am not his subject, and
cannot be accused of committing treason against him,” she said. “If I give my consent to this divorce, then he will have no grounds for keeping me here, and must free me. Wait, good prior! Let me speak.” She held up her hand to still his objection. “I am sovereign Duchess of Aquitaine. Once I agree to this, my domains must be restored to me, and I must be freed to go back and rule them as an independent prince; and on my death, they will pass to my sons. It will mean the empire being broken up now, but in time all our domains will be reunited.”
“Ah,” enunciated the prior, and in that one syllable managed to make it very plain that things would not be as simple as that. “The King also wishes to object that you have committed adultery, by your own admission.”
“If I am not his wife, how can I have committed adultery?” Eleanor was quick to object.
“It is a technicality, my lady. At the time you rebelled against the King and committed adultery, you believed you were his wife. Anyone who deliberately takes an action that threatens the King’s safety and the weal of his realm is either his enemy or commits treason. By your adultery, you could have impugned the succession.”
“At my age?” she cried.
“Well, maybe not,” Prior Hugh conceded with a faint smile. He did not relish this unpleasant mission. “But the Pope will take a dim view of your conduct, of that there can be no doubt. He may be of the opinion that the King is right to keep you as his prisoner.”
Eleanor was furious. “Henry wants it both ways! He doesn’t want me as a wife anymore, but he’s prepared to play any trick to keep my lands, to which, when our marriage is ended, he can have no lawful claim.”
“He proposes that Duke Richard can continue to rule Aquitaine in your stead, as your heir, as he is doing now. I believe that was what you wanted anyway.”
Richard! Eleanor was overjoyed to hear any news of him, let alone such good news, but the injustice of Henry’s purpose rankled bitterly.
“Richard was to share power with me; that was what was agreed, not that he should rule alone. He is but seventeen.”
“Old enough to have reached man’s estate,” Prior Hugh observed. “He has gained renown as a great warrior, but one could wish that he had learned more wisdom. Alas, I fear he has brought nothing but strife to that untamed land of yours. I should not be telling you this, but the people erupted in anger when they learned that you were not coming back, and Richard has been exacting a terrible vengeance to bring them to heel and establish his rule.”
This was not what she had expected to hear. Richard had been brought up to have all the knightly virtues: to strive to be valorous, to protect the poor, the weak, and the innocent; he was a well-educated young man, a troubadour reared and nurtured as a true son of the South; and she had done her very best to instill in him a great love of his heritage.
“What has he done?” she asked tremulously, forgetting for a moment the proposed divorce and her grievances against Henry.
Prior Hugh looked pained. “You could not say he has been inefficient, for Aquitaine is quiet now, and in subjection to him. Yet it is small wonder, as he has been ravaging the land with great savagery, reducing castle after castle, and sparing not man, woman, or child. The details of the atrocities committed by his men do not bear repetition.”
“Tell me!” Eleanor urged, unable to believe what she was hearing. Richard was her son—she could not credit that he had done these things. Surely he had done them at the command of his father—he could not, of himself, have inflicted these wrongs on the domains he had claimed to love, or on its people. They were her people. She wanted to weep for them, and for the land of her birth; they had, after all, been fighting for the return of their duchess, and protesting at the imposition of an overlord who had no right to usurp her place entirely. If they had borne these cruelties, then she could bear the telling of them.
Hugh’s fine-boned face betrayed great emotion as he spoke. “Those who opposed the duke were mutilated: some had their eyes gouged out, others had their hands cut off. It is said that their women were raped—forgive me, my lady—by Richard and his soldiers. By all reports, he was merciless. Aquitaine has been ruthlesly quelled, and now lies under his iron gauntlet.”
And this was my own son, my beloved, Eleanor thought, unable to speak. “May God forgive him—and comfort the afflicted,” she murmured at length, deeply moved. She could not come to terms with the idea of her Richard as tyrant, torturer, rapist … This could only be Henry’s doing. She had to believe that.
“You realize, Father Prior, this makes me even more determined to fight for my rights,” she declared. “Aquitaine needs me, and I should be there.”
“You must do as your conscience dictates, my lady,” Hugh replied gravely. “I have conveyed the King’s wishes to you, as I was bound to do, and told you my opinion. I might add that you will have a battle on your hands, for he is determined to keep you here. The last thing he wants is for you to return to Aquitaine. He says he cannot have you free to plot more mischief against him with your sons and your vassals. He fears that you might remarry—and to a lord hostile to him.”
“So he seeks a way to set me aside without any loss to himself,” Eleanor fumed. “But if it will prove so difficult to divorce me, why is he doing it?”
“I do not like to tell you this, but he wishes to remarry,” Hugh of Avalon said gently, although his words came like a slap in the face. It was too much to take in; it had all been too much to take in, after months of quiet, uninterrupted monotony.
“Who?” she asked, thinking of Rosamund. Was Henry really going to marry his mistress, the daughter of a mere knight? He must have lost his wits completely!
“The Princess Alys of France,” the prior said, his mouth turned down in disapproval.
“But she is Richard’s betrothed!”
“Aye, but betrothals can be broken as well as marriages,” Hugh reminded her. “Already, the King has sent to Pope Alexander, asking him to dispatch a legate to England to hear his case against you. The matter is being kept secret, of course, and the King insists specially on your discretion, since annulling your union is a serious step and may have far-reaching consequences.”
“And I suppose that if I try to proclaim my objections to the world, although there’s little chance of my being heard, then he will withdraw my privileges!” Eleanor said scornfully.
“He has not said so, and I should hope that he would never go so far,” Hugh replied as he got up and made to leave.
“Father Prior,” Eleanor said quickly, “you are a wise man, known for your integrity. What would you counsel me to do? If I agree to this divorce, might things go better for me?”
“My lady, I would advise you to pray for guidance, and to await the Pope’s pronouncement. He will deal with you fairly, you may be sure. He is not the kind of man to be bought by kings.”
——
When Hugh had gone, she did as she’d been bidden, sinking to her knees, praying for herself and Henry, praying for Richard, whose immortal soul was surely in peril, and seeking a way forward in her present dilemma. She had long accepted that her marriage had ended, and could understand the necessity for Henry to remarry, but she was surprised to find herself near to weakening tears at the realization that he wanted to set her aside for this young girl of—what was it?—thirteen! Dear God, she thought, could You not at least have spared me this?
She knew that Henry’s love for her was long dead. He hated her: he had proved it again and again. Why, then, did she sometimes, in the dark wastes of the night find herself still wanting him, still nourishing the smallest of hopes—against all reason, and in spite of all he had done to her—that they might be reconciled in the future? Why?
The answer was not far to seek. Because no man had ever stirred her as Henry had, or inspired such violent emotions in her. No man could touch him. There would always be something between them, some vestige of the great passion they had once shared. And, even in the face of all that had happened, she still
wanted him in her bed. That was almost the worst of it; in fact, it had been one of the worst things about her imprisonment, being shut away from the company of men—and of one man in particular. Even now she would find herself aching for his touch, for the feel of him inside her, for the joy he had brought her …
She was growing older: the years were passing relentlessly. Soon, her juices would run thin and she would be an old woman, and her powers of seduction, of pleasuring a man and receiving pleasure herself, would diminish. Isolated here, she was aware that for her time was running out, but there was no means of fulfilling that surging need in her. She had thought that, deprived of any stimulus, it would lessen, and she would learn to focus more on things of the spirit, as she had not done in her reckless youth and turbulent married life; that she would discover the inner peace that enables one to open the mind and heart to the love of God—but she had been wrong, so wrong. It had gotten to the point where she even toyed with the idea of trying to seduce the handsome Ranulf Glanville, who was such a congenial supper companion, and who might not be impervious to the suggestion that he stay a little later … But it was not Glanville she wanted.
It was Henry. But Henry wanted to divorce her. And if he had his way, she would never bed a man again. And now her tears did flow at that dreadful prospect.
Four months she waited for further news. Four long, unending, miserable months, during which she wore herself out speculating what the Pope might say or do. Then, at last, Prior Hugh returned. She forced herself to be calm when she received him, and resolved to deal with whatever news he brought with calm reason and as much wisdom as she could muster.
It was November, and cold; the wind was howling across the plateau that was Sarum, and whistling through the window slit, and it was impossible to keep the brazier alight for long. So Eleanor sat shivering, swathed in her furs, and Prior Hugh gathered his inadequate woolen cloak about his habit as they talked.
“His Holiness sent a legate, the Cardinal of Sant’ Angelo,” he told her. “He came on the pretext of resolving a dispute between the sees of Canterbury and York. He met with the King at Winchester, and your husband raised the matter of the annulment. Regrettably, he also tried to bribe the cardinal with a large sum in silver coin, but the cardinal would not take it. Nor would he even listen to the King’s pleas. He merely warned him that divorcing you would involve great risks, and refused to discuss the subject further. He left for Italy soon afterward.”
