The Young Lion (39 page)

‘A dangerous man. Too dangerous to live. Dead inside and full of hatred.’ He drew his forefinger across his throat. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. He struck himself on the chest with his fist. ‘I personally.’

As soon as word reached Eleanor that Rachel had left Normandy she rode to the castle of Caen in a coach of five horses. She sent a post-rider ahead to Caen to announce to the Dowager that the Duchess and her guests would soon arrive, and would be obliged to find the castle unoccupied. Matilda left in a fury, sending word to Henry, and taking baby Geoffrey, the Emperor’s jewels and Eleanor’s love letters with her. She moved only as far as Barfleur, into the small, luxurious chateau she had acquired when Henry married the Harlot of Aquitaine. She left a spy in Caen, as she had in Rouen, to report on those whom the Duchess received. The name of a Rumlar had become familiar to her, and that of a troubador the vixen favoured. Matilda dismissed the Rumlar. She knew he had been the royal physician when the adultress was Queen. Anyway, he was said by everyone to be the colour of bronze and as hideous as a Turk.

Her daughter-in-law was, Matilda knew, with child. She prayed several times a day to be rid of the demon that whispered to her that Eleanor might die in childbirth. As a widower, Henry could legally keep Aquitaine and Poitou. He would be free to adopt little Geoffrey as his legitimate heir.

In her sweetest moments Matilda imagined that once Henry was King, Rachel would agree to convert and would become Queen of England.

Guillaume’s crossing to Barfleur was swift: he arrived five days after his beloved sister-in-law’s murder.

As soon as Matilda saw his face, she knew the news was bad. ‘Is he dead?’ she whispered, and after Guillaume spoke she ran from the room, crying. ‘Rachel! My Rachel!’ Guillaume heard her howl and felt his own heart crack.

He gave her time to compose herself, then called a servant to summon the Dowager back. He needed to speak further.

It was only months since her husband, his father, had died, but in that time Matilda had aged years. She had thickened around the middle and become somewhat careless about her dress. She no longer wore her hair loose over her once-magnificent shoulders, but twirled it untidily on top of her head with combs of tortoise shell. She had almost abandoned jewellery because she spent so much time dandling her grandson. She had discovered that babies love to pull earrings off ears and strands of pearls and sapphires from necks. How curious, Guillaume reflected, that a mother so cold, so prone to rub grit in Henry’s eyes when he approached her for affection, should become a Madonna to her grandson.

‘Time is short. I must ride to Caen, to inform the Duchess. When I return late tonight I need the child and a nurse to be ready to travel with me to England.’ He was expecting to have to fight Matilda for her grandson. But as he spoke Norman pragmatism re-kindled in her eyes.

‘I’ll arrange three nurses: one for day, one for night and one spare,’ the Dowager said.

‘There’s a high tide at two o’clock tomorrow morning. We’ll catch it.’ He did not wait to eat, but rode straight to Caen, arriving before noon. The day was already so hot he had to stop twice to allow his horse to drink. At the castle he brushed aside the guards and took the stairs to the Duchess’s apartment three at a time. Its door was shut. Orianne, the maid, leaped from a chair where she was sewing.

‘My lady is resting,’ she said. Her skin turned pink to the roots of her butter-coloured hair.

‘I need to speak to her urgently.’

‘Lord Guillaume … I can’t disturb her,’ Orianne said. ‘She’s with child and …’

Guillaume took the girl by her upper arm, not enough to hurt her, but enough to make his point. ‘Orianne, disturb her,’ he said.

The maid knocked timidly on the door. ‘My lady, Lord Guillaume has urgent news for you,’ she called.

Guillaume heard more than one voice inside.

‘Ask him to wait. You may enter, Orianne.’

Guillaume paced the corridor while the maid compressed herself into a lizard to enter the crack she had opened in the doorway. About ten minutes later she reappeared. ‘You may enter now, lord,’ she said. Her voice trembled.

Eleanor was stretched on her bed, fanning herself. Her hair, the colour of a hazelnut, was spread out over her pillow and she wore only a light linen gown, but had dressed so hurriedly she had neglected an undergarment. Through the linen Guillaume could see a dark triangle at the top of her thighs. Seated in the furthest corner of the chamber, one leg crossed over the other, was the physician. He rose as Guillaume entered. Guillaume knew Henry had given Eleanor permission to take lovers, but he had
not anticipated finding her
in flagrante
. He tried to keep his voice neutral. ‘Please leave us,’ he said.

‘Is there something Master Erasmus shouldn’t hear?’ Eleanor asked. Her tone was regal; her glance rested on her lover’s face.

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.