Beloved Enemy (75 page)

He and his party entered the forest. The hounds started to bark and point their noses to the ground.

“They’ve scented game, Sire,” said one of the huntsmen riding up beside him.

Suddenly Henry drew rein. “The fish! God’s eyes, how could I have forgotten?”

“What fish do you refer to, Sire?” The huntsman peered closely at Henry’s face. “Your eyes are watering. A branch must have brushed across them. Do take care.”

E
LEANOR WAS SEATED IN
an armchair in the solar at Falaise, in the midst of dictating a letter to her uncle Ralph, seneschal of Aquitaine. Unaccountably, she had been plagued by a sense of doom ever since landing on the Normandy coast a sennight ago.

Henry was due to arrive tomorrow, and the prospect of seeing him oppressed her still further. She had not really talked to him since her confrontation with Bellebelle, and she could not decide exactly how she felt. Ambivalent. Certainly she had made her peace with the girl, unexpectedly establishing a bond of affection and respect between them, and she intended to do what she could to make the bastard Geoffrey’s life as pleasant as possible before he went to the canons of St. Paul.

Despite her understanding of the situation between Bellebelle and her husband, it was Henry she had not made peace with, Henry whom she had not yet forgiven. Try as she might, she could not let go her feelings of rejection and resentment.

“Read that last back to me, Master Roger,” she said to the clerk who served as scribe whenever she was in Normandy.

He picked up the wax tablet. “…‘the king wishes to nominate Thomas Becket as the next archbishop of Canterbury, while still keeping him as chancellor of England. My own feelings—’ ”

Her own feelings. Ralph knew her feelings, just as Eleanor knew what Ralph thought of Thomas Becket—details of which she had never repeated to a living soul. She recalled how her uncle had predicted that the chancellor would one day overreach himself. Thus far he had not done so, going from triumph to triumph without placing a foot wrong. But Becket in a position of power comparable to the king’s …

Eleanor sighed. There was no point in burdening her uncle with her own doubts—and that is all they were, doubts; no basis on which to pass judgment. Ralph knew only too well that she was jealous of the close comradeship between Henry and Becket, her feeling of exclusion when they were together. No, it was not a time to heap more coals on the fire. Especially as Ralph was having his usual difficulties with Henry’s lieutenant, the earl of Salisbury, in Aquitaine. She must continue to encourage him not to act precipitously. This was a never-ending attempt on her part to keep the situation in her duchy, always simmering, from actually boiling over. Sometimes she felt like a juggler with one too many balls in the air—which might all come crashing down upon her head.

“Rub out that last about my own feelings,” she said.

Restless, Eleanor rose to her feet, stretched, and glanced down at baby Eleanor asleep in her cradle. Then she briefly examined the huge altar cloth her women were embroidering for the cathedral in Rouen.

Presided over by the Empress Maud, the altar cloth would be an exquisite piece of work when finished. Her formidable mother-in-law’s exacting eye for perfection would not let it be otherwise. This morning the empress was sitting in the only other armchair, besides Eleanor’s, in the castle. With her ivory-colored wimple, purple tunic, and heavy gold cross hanging from a golden chain around her throat, she looked very regal, very correct.

Eleanor walked over to the recently enlarged window slit. Outside it was a gray and windy morn. The last day of April. In the courtyard below she could see her three sons—young Henry, Richard, and Geoffrey—engaged in their usual activity when they were all together: fighting. It needed at least two sergeants-at-arms to keep order among them. Matilda and Henry’s little French wife, Marguerite, were sitting decorously on a stone bench, watching the fray. Eleanor’s fondness for the princess continued to increase—despite her resemblance to her father, Louis of France.

Inside the solar it was dark and chill. Not even the brightly lit tapers gusting in their silver holders, the colorful blue, green, and crimson arras tapestries that hung over the thick stone walls, or the soothing sound of women’s voices could dispel the gloom that hung over her like a pall.

“Madam?” The clerk gave her an inquiring look. “Did you wish to add something more?”

Eleanor turned distractedly from the window. “I haven’t decided yet, Master Roger. Why don’t we leave the matter for now.”

The cleric nodded, picked up his stylus and wax tablet, and with a bow, left.

“Has Becket agreed to be both primate and chancellor?” The empress spoke for the first time. “I hadn’t heard that, but then Henry tells me very little these days.”

Eleanor hesitated. “I know no more than you, Madam, but as the See has been vacant for so long and the pope is pressing for it to be filled, my feeling is that Henry has persuaded Becket to accept the post. I imagine he will announce it at the Easter court.”

“Yes, I thought it would come to that in the end.” The empress gave Eleanor a sharp glance. “I detect you have the same reservations I have. A man who tries to serve two masters equally—king and God—falls prey to conflicting loyalties.”

Disconcerted by an observation that mirrored her own, Eleanor left the window slit, crossed the solar, and stood by her mother-in-law’s chair.

“Becket has been of immense help to Henry,” she said, out of her usual sense of duty to support her husband. “Much of the realm’s success has been due to the chancellor’s influence.”

“Naturally, he has served the kingdom like any loyal servant of the crown. So have you, for that matter.”

“I serve the crown? You mean the children.”

“Tut, tut, my dear, don’t look so stunned. And no, I don’t mean the children, though one is not ungrateful for such a large brood. It was your other contributions I had in mind.” The empress raised her brows. “Ignored by some, perhaps, but I have not forgotten that it was you who attended Theobald’s obsequies at Canterbury when it should have been the king and Becket. I know how many times you have traveled through England on Henry’s behalf, often big with child, issuing writs and charters, writing to nobles and prelates, settling disputes. Oh yes, I am well aware of the hospitals and convents built at your instigation!, your untiring efforts to reconcile differences between the crown and Aquitaine.”

Eleanor could hardly believe her ears.

“Nothing has gone unnoticed,” her mother-in-law continued, “or unappreciated. By your subjects; even by Henry himself.” She paused. “But of course he does not mention all that you’ve done. Merely takes them for granted.”

“As well as sole credit.” The words came out before Eleanor could stop them, and she could have bitten her tongue off. How like a whining victim she sounded.

Unperturbed, the empress squinted at a corner of the altar cloth. “Naturally. Henry is a great king but obsessed with the need to control everything in sight, to be the source from which all blessings flow. Whatever else he may be, fierce in his hatreds—and his loves—unfaithful, selfish, both loyal and treacherous by turns, he is certainly no woman’s minion, nor will he bask in her reflected glory. You do the work in the name of the crown; the glory is his.” She gave a delicate snort. “Really, my dear, what kind of man did you think you were marrying?”

What kind of man indeed! Eleanor was speechless. Henry’s mother had never spoken to her like this before.

“Louis never even let you do the work, remember. At least give Henry credit for that. What you accomplish must be its own reward.”

Eleanor tried to feel gratitude for being Henry’s dogsbody—without success.

“Don’t expect acknowledgment as well. Bear in mind that you are married to a great king, and sacrifices must be made.”

“I do bear that in mind, Madam. All the time.” If she ever forgot, someone—usually Henry or his mother or one of his privileged staff—were sure to remind her.

“Now, having said that,” the empress continued, “let me also say that my son possesses blind spots of which he is totally unaware.” Her hands fell idle in her lap and she stared, unseeing, into the distance. “There are times when he fails to act in his own best interests. This business with Becket may be one of them.” She sighed. “You must be aware of his frailties, these lapses in judgment, Eleanor, and do all you can to help him.”

“You ask
me
to mount guard against such faults in Henry’s nature—”

“When he asserts his will and is oblivious to consequences, yes.”

“If only I could.” Eleanor stared down at her mother-in-law in disbelief. “But in this matter with Becket—it may well be the wisest decision he has ever made. I pray that is how matters fall out.” Eleanor walked back to her chair and sat down. “In any case, Madam, you have far more influence on him.”

The empress rose to her feet. Straight as a spear she stalked over to Eleanor.

“Not any longer. My day has come and gone.” She looked down at Eleanor with unfathomable gray eyes. “You are mistress of his heart, regardless of what he says or does to the contrary. Oh yes, I know all about the little Southwark doxy and her son—the son that Henry has asked you to raise. It takes a woman of generous spirit to do what you have agreed to do. But these little lapses of the flesh mean nothing. Nothing! Don’t spoil your life together by continuing to punish him.”

“Would you have done it, Madam?” Eleanor asked boldly, stung by the reproof, even as she wondered if the empress had ears and eyes planted everywhere in the realm. “Would you have done this for Geoffrey of Anjou?”

The empress smiled coldly. “Never. But that was a different circumstance, as I’m sure you know. In any case, what is the use of growing old except to help others avoid your mistakes?”

Eleanor felt her face flush. How much did the empress know about her flirtation with Geoffrey of Anjou? Not that she had done anything she regretted. Still … this was the only time in almost ten years that she had ever had an intimate conversation with her formidable mother-in-law. She doubted there would be another. There were so many questions she wanted to ask her—Eleanor remembered her uncle Ralph’s insinuations about the rumors concerning the empress’s amorous leanings toward her cousin, Stephen of Blois; the speculation about Henry’s paternity …

But what difference did all that make now? Had she herself not fallen victim to enough vicious gossip and intrigue to last a lifetime? Let the past stay dead and buried, where it belonged.

“I—I saw Henry’s little mistress. He refused to allow her to see her son. I arranged for her to do so.”

“Of course you did. Quite right too. My son can be so thoughtless.”

To her amazement, the undemonstrative empress suddenly picked up Eleanor’s hand and held it between clenched fingers.

“Listen to me, Eleanor. I have few years left. Soon I go to my account. No, no,” she said, as Eleanor started to protest. “I have lived a full, long life. Most of that life has been spent in serving Henry’s cause—and mine too, of course.”

Abruptly, she dropped Eleanor’s hand and began to pace the chamber, reminding her so strongly of Henry it was uncanny. “For years, you know, I felt crucified on duty, a slave to responsibility—as I’m sure you do. But you have the love I lacked.”

She walked back over to Eleanor. “However imperfect, you do have such a love. When I am gone there will be no one else Henry can absolutely trust to watch over his interests, except you. Be clever enough not to let him know that is what you are doing.” She paused, swallowed, and took a deep breath. “I did not want him to marry you, you know.”

“I know.” Their eyes met and locked.

“I was wrong.
That
was the wisest decision he ever made in his life. Let us pray that his decision to make Becket archbishop of Canterbury is another.” A wry smile rippled across her stern features. “You and I are much alike in some respects. Unique women, who will always survive. When all is said and done we have our inner resources to fall back on. Whether triumph or tragedy—we owe our life to no man’s goodwill.”

“Yes—it is so easy to forget that,” Eleanor whispered.

“One must guard against ambitious natures, however.”

“Guard against them, Madam?”

“Have you not noticed that those gifted—or cursed—with ambition too often possess the seeds of their own destruction in equal measure to their desire to create and manipulate events?”

Was the empress referring to Henry? To Becket?

“What men do you refer to?”

“What makes you think I was referring only to men?”

The arrow hit the mark. Much shaken, Eleanor watched the empress turn, march back to the circle of sewing women, and resume her seat.

Henry’s mother had given her much to think about.

She had spoken of ambition, of power, of loyalty, and of love. Not to mention burdening Eleanor with yet more responsibility—and resentment. Was she to spend the rest of her days dancing attendance upon a faithless husband who would not share credit or truly delegate power? She was sick and tired of basking in Henry’s power, shining in the light from his reflected glory.

Feeling as if she might jump out of her skin, Eleanor bolted from her chair and prowled about the solar. She was thirty-nine now, and somewhere during the years of her marriage to Henry, she had lost her own life.

This
was the source of her resentment, the true cause of her bitterness. Henry was merely its object.

We owe our life to no man’s goodwill, the empress had said. Holy Mary! How could the queen of England forget what Eleanor of Aquitaine had always known?

“A
NY DOUBTS SINCE WE
last talked at Westminster?” Henry glanced at Thomas from the corner of his eye.

They had just left the St. Prix Chapel at Falaise Castle after evensong, and this was the first opportunity Henry had had to talk to his chancellor since his arrival from England this afternoon. Henry himself had only arrived two days earlier.