AFTER A NIGHT in the castle at Southampton, Eleanor’s party rode north to Winchester, and then on to Newbury. Theirs was a sedate, excruciatingly slow pace that soon depleted Eleanor’s small store of patience, but her midwife, her sister, and even her own common sense all counseled traveling without haste. It was four days, therefore, before they finally reached Oxford.
IT SNOWED during the night, but the next day dawned clear and cold, and by midmorning, Eleanor was on the road again. Five miles lay between Oxford and Woodstock, just five miles, but it turned into one of the longest journeys of Eleanor’s life. The swaying horse litter unsettled her stomach and the glare of sun on snow soon gave her a throbbing headache. Not for the first time in the past fortnight, she wondered if she’d gone stark raving mad. Why had she listened to Petra’s foolish gossip? Of course Harry strayed from time to time; he was no man to live like a monk. He probably did bed Clifford’s daughter, as rumor had it. After all, they’d been apart for months. But he would not flaunt a concubine before the world, and he would never have taken the wench to Woodstock, one of their favorite manors. So what was she doing on this rutted, snow-glazed road in the middle of nowhere? Why had she felt such an overpowering need to see for herself that the gossipmongers lied?
The gates of Woodstock were shut, but after a shouted command from one of Eleanor’s household knights, they were hastily flung open. As the party passed into the bailey, Eleanor caught a glimpse of astonished faces avidly gawking down at her from the manor walls. She sank back against the cushions, not moving until her sister dismounted and leaned anxiously into the litter.
“Eleanor? Are you ailing? All this jolting around has not brought on your birth pangs, has it?”
“No.” Eleanor held out her hand, allowing Petronilla to assist her from the litter. Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she turned then toward the great hall, running the gauntlet of stares and whispers with the aloof inscrutability she’d had a lifetime to perfect. From the corner of her eye, she saw the steward hurrying toward her and she released her sister’s arm, moved to meet him.
She’d been coming to Woodstock for eleven years now, and Master Raymond had always been there to greet her, a tall, lanky, slightly stooped figure who put her in mind of a sober, very dignified crane. For once, his aplomb had deserted him; his face was flushed with uneven color, his mouth slack at the corners, downturned in dismay. “Madame . . . ,” he stammered, dropping to one knee in the snow, “Madame . . . I . . . I . . .”
Eleanor had traveled over a hundred miles in the dead of winter, only to find there was no need to pose a single question; the answer was writ plainly in the horror on the steward’s face. Master Raymond’s consternation was merely confirmation, though, of what she already knew, had perhaps always known, even before she’d seen those smirking and gaping guards.
Eleanor kept her voice low, pitched for the steward’s ears alone. “Where does she sleep, Master Raymond?”
He made no pretense of misunderstanding. “Oh, no, Madame! Not in your chambers, never!” Hoping fervently that she’d heard nothing of the king’s plans to build a manor nearby at Everswell for Rosamund Clifford’s private use, he hastily averted his eyes, lest she read in them the one emotion she’d never forgive—pity.
He wasn’t fast enough, though, and Eleanor drew a breath as sharp as any blade. “Where is she now, Master Raymond?”
“I saw her walking toward the springs nigh on an hour ago. Shall I . . . shall I have her fetched for you, Madame?”
“No,” Eleanor said tersely. “My men need to be fed and our horses cooled down. See to it, Master Raymond.” When the captain of her household knights would have followed, she halted him with an abrupt gesture. She did not object, though, as her sister fell in step beside her, for it would have been foolhardy to trek alone to the springs when she was less than two months from her confinement. As it was, the walk was more taxing than she’d expected. She was soon panting, leaning reluctantly upon Petronilla’s supportive arm, her skirts dragging through the snow as she silently cursed the unwieldy, weak vessel her body had become, little more than a walking womb, heavy with this burdensome pregnancy that had seemed unblest from the very beginning.
Petronilla for once was exercising discretion and they walked without speaking. The snow crunched underfoot and there came clearly to them the cawing of crows perched in trees barren of leaves, the barking of an unseen dog, and then the sound of a woman’s laughter.
Eleanor saw the dog first, a wolflike, sturdy creature with a jaunty, curling tail. An uncommon breed, but one she recognized as a Norwegian dyrehund. A few years ago her husband had imported some from Oslo, nostalgic for the dyrehunds bred by his uncle Ranulf. She stopped abruptly, hearing again Henry’s fond boasting about the wondrous Wolf, his cherished boyhood pet, and there was no surprise whatsoever when a female voice now echoed that very name.
“Wolf!” Still laughing, a young woman came into view. She was well dusted with snow and her veil had slipped, revealing lustrous blond braids. She had high color in her cheeks, skin as perfect as that newfallen snow, and she was young enough to take the sunlight full on, with no need for the kindness of candlelight. At the sight of Eleanor and Petronilla, she stopped in surprise, and then came toward them, smiling as she brushed at her mantle. “Wolf is friendly,” she assured the women, “too much so. He just coaxed me into a romp in the snow and knocked me right off my feet!” Still seeking to tidy herself up, she shook her head ruefully. “I know I’m too old for such antics, but come the first snowfall of the winter, I find myself playing out in it like a little lass.”
“How old are you?” Eleanor hardly recognized her own voice, toneless and detached, utterly without inflection.
Rosamund Clifford seemed startled by the question, but she answered readily enough, saying that she was nineteen. Younger even than Marie, Eleanor’s eldest daughter by the French king.
“My lady?” A second woman was approaching, coming from the direction of the springs. She had a pleasing face, plump and good-humored, flushed now from her exertion and the cold. “Did you find that silly beast? Most likely he took off after a rabbit . . .” Her cheerful monologue trailed off as she realized they were no longer alone in the deer park. Her smile was warily polite, far more guarded than the girl’s, and it was easy enough for Eleanor to guess her role: Rosamund Clifford’s watchdog.
These intruders were very well dressed and Meliora dropped a quick curtsy in deference to their obvious rank. But as she straightened up, she saw Eleanor clearly for the first time. The color drained from her face, leaving her sallow and shaken. She fell to her knees in the snow, saying in a strangled voice, “My lady queen!”
Rosamund’s head swiveled toward Meliora, then back to Eleanor. Hers was an easy face to read; Eleanor saw her puzzlement give way to realization and then, horror. She, too, dropped to her knees, staring up at Eleanor in mute despair, for she knew that there was nothing she could say in her own defense.
Eleanor was aware, then, of an overpowering exhaustion, unlike any fatigue she’d ever experienced. She was suddenly so weary in body and soul that she could almost believe she might sicken and die of it. There was a hollow sensation in her chest and a lump in her throat, a bitter taste in her mouth. Her gaze flickered over the girl kneeling in the snow and she could no longer remember why it had once seemed so important to seek Rosamund Clifford out, to learn the truth.
When she turned and walked away, she took them all off balance. Rosamund and Meliora stared after her in disbelief and Petronilla, no less dumbfounded, scurried to catch up to her sister.
Meliora heaved herself to her feet, but Rosamund stayed on her knees. “God in Heaven . . .” The face she raised to Meliora was streaking with tears. “She is great with child, did you see? I felt so shamed, so foul. . . . But I did not know, Meliora, truly I did not!”
“Know what, lass?”
Rosamund stifled a sob. “I did not know that she loves him. But you saw it
too, did you not? That she does love him?” She gave Meliora a beseeching look, and the older woman understood what she was really asking—for reassurance that Meliora could not offer. Her silence was an answer in itself, and after a few moments, Rosamund rose, began to brush the snow from her skirt. Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, she managed a wan smile. “Do I look presentable enough for an audience with royalty?”
“I hope to God you do not mean what I think you do!”
“What would you have me do, Meliora? I have to face her sooner or later. And if she wants to shame me before every living soul at Woodstock . . .” Rosamund’s voice faltered, and then she said, “Well, she . . . she has that right.”
“Child, she is more than a jealous wife. She is a queen twice over, Duchess of Aquitaine in her own name, and you have given her no reason to feel kindly toward you. Trust me, you do not want to face her while the memory of the king’s betrayal is still so raw. Better that we seek shelter in the nunnery at Godstow and send urgent word to the king—”
“No!” Rosamund shook her head so vehemently that her veil lost the last of its pins and fluttered to the ground at her feet. “I cannot do that, Meliora. I cannot burden the king with this—”
“Mary, Mother of God! You have to tell the king, and not just for your own protection. This woman is not a shunned wife to be put aside at a whim, nor is she one to suffer in silence. You truly think she will not confront the king? Better he be forewarned by you than ambushed by her!”
Rosamund opened her mouth to protest, closed it again as the logic of Meliora’s argument prevailed. “You are right,” she said softly. “He must know. But I will not take refuge with the nuns at Godstow. I owe the queen more than that. I owe Harry more than that.”
Meliora blinked, for that was the first time she’d heard Rosamund call the king by his Christian name. “I do not understand you, child, and for certes, you do not understand Eleanor of Aquitaine!”
“I understand that she is carrying his child, that she has faced the dangers of the birthing chamber again and again to bear sons for him. And she is not young, Meliora, not any more. All my life, I’ve heard about her great beauty, but I saw none of it today. I saw a woman haggard and careworn, a woman grievously hurt by what I’ve done. I cannot change a single yesterday, cannot take back even one of those nights I spent in Harry’s bed. Nor can I make amends by vowing to sin no more. I am not strong enough to turn him away. I love him,” she said simply, as if that was a soul-bearing revelation, and Meliora groaned in frustrated futility, for by now she’d learned that Rosamund’s deceptively docile demeanor hid a stubborn streak wider than the Thames itself.
“God help us both,” she said with a grimace, and then cried out in pretended pain as she faked a stumble. Rosamund would not leave her and by feigning reluctance to put weight upon the injured ankle, she bought them both some time. Not that it would be enough. She feared that a lifetime would not be enough.
When she could delay no longer, she reached for her walking stick and followed Rosamund back along the path toward the manor. A strange silence seemed to have enveloped Woodstock. The bailey was deserted; even the gate was unmanned. Rosamund came to an uncertain halt, her resolve beginning to waver. When Meliora suggested that they go to her chamber and await the queen’s summons, she agreed hastily enough to reveal her fear. But they’d taken only a few steps before they saw Master Raymond striding toward them.
Summoning up the shreds of her courage, Rosamund moved to meet him. “I . . . I await the queen’s pleasure,” she said, as steadily as she could.
He’d always treated her with impeccable courtesy, but she’d sensed that he did not approve of her liaison with the king. A shadow of that unspoken disapproval showed now upon his face, confirming her suspicion that the steward was Queen Eleanor’s man. “The queen,” he said, “is gone.”
They stared at him, so obviously stunned that he felt the need to say again, more emphatically this time, “The queen and her sister and her men . . . they are all gone.”
ELEANOR PAUSED in the great hall to speak to her daughter, and Petronilla seized the opportunity to search for her sister’s midwife. Bertrade was not an easy woman to miss, a statuesque, handsome widow with bold black eyes, the life-loving zest of the Gascons, and little patience with fools; not surprisingly, she and Eleanor had established an immediate rapport and she had assisted in the births of the last two of Eleanor’s children. It did not take long for Petronilla to learn that Bertrade was not in the hall, but when she turned back toward her sister, she discovered that Eleanor had gone, too. With a servant in tow, she hastened across the bailey toward the queen’s chambers. As she expected, she found Eleanor in the bedchamber, slumped down on a coffer as if she had not been able to muster the energy to reach the bed. One glance at her sister’s ashen face and she ordered the servant to find Dame Bertrade and fetch wine and food. Snatching up a laver of washing water, she knelt by Eleanor’s side and began to blot the perspiration from her sister’s brow.
“You look ghastly,” she scolded. “When will you start paying heed to what I say? It was lunacy to return to Oxford, and well you know it, Eleanor. You’ve not eaten a morsel since this morn, and God’s truth, but your complexion is the color of unripe cheese. It is a miracle for certes if you have not brought on early labor.”
To her annoyance, Eleanor did not appear to be listening. But before she could resume her lecture, the door opened with a bang and Dame Bertrade swept in. “Madame, is there any bleeding? Have the pains begun?”
Eleanor shook her head, let Bertrade and Petronilla get her to her feet. Between them, they helped her to the bed, where she lay back onto the pillows, closing her eyes. Petronilla was terrified by her bloodless pallor, the damp, clammy feel of her skin. She knew women in childbirth could suffer both sweating and shivering fits, felt a great fear that Eleanor was wrong and her travail begun. It was much too soon, both for her and the babe. What if she delivered a stillborn child? What if she died? Childbed was all too often a woman’s deathbed, too. Her gaze blurred with sudden tears and she reached out, grasping the hand of this frail stranger in her sister’s bed.
“Eleanor, look what you’ve done to yourself! Why did you not listen to me and remain at Woodstock as I urged?”
Eleanor’s lashes lifted. Her face was bone-white, the pupils of her eyes so dilated that they seemed black. “I would rather,” she spat, “have given birth by the side of the road!”
ELEANOR HAD CHOSEN the royal manor just north of Oxford’s walls over the castle within the city for her lying-in. Her decision had been dictated by convenience; the manor was more comfortable than the admittedly old-fashioned furnishings of the castle. But she was not long in regretting it, for the manor was haunted by the ghosts of happier times. It was here that nine years ago she’d given birth to her son Richard, while her husband kept anxious vigil within the castle.
AS THE COUNTESS of Chester dismounted, Petronilla darted out of the door of the great hall. “My lady countess, your visit pleases us greatly.” The formalities observed, she embraced Maud, brushing her cheek with a perfunctory kiss as she hissed in the other woman’s ear, “You must have come by way of Scotland, judging by how long you took!”
Maud looked at her in astonishment. So swiftly had she responded to the summons that she had celebrated Christmas on the road—no small sacrifice, in her opinion. She did not take Petronilla seriously enough to be genuinely vexed with her, though, and she contented herself with saying mildly, “I would have been here much sooner if only I’d known how to fly.”
Petronilla did not look amused. The truth was that neither woman liked the other one very much, and Maud knew Eleanor’s sister must be despairing indeed to turn to her for help. Sending her ladies and her escort into the hall, she stopped Petronilla when she would have followed. “We’ll have no privacy inside. Tell me now why you are so fearful for the queen.”
“Eleanor is forty-four years of age and this will be
her tenth time in the birthing chamber,” Petronilla said waspishly. “I should think that would be reason enough!”
“Yes, I would agree . . . if not for the fact that Woodstock is but five miles away.”
Petronilla had hoped to ease into the subject. “God Above, is there anyone left in England who does not know about that Clifford slut? How did you hear?”
Maud gave a half-shrug. “There has been talk for some months.”
“If you knew, why did you not tell Eleanor?”
Maud stared at her. “You were the one who told Eleanor? Christ on the Cross, Petra!”
Petronilla blushed. “She had a right to know. People had begun to snicker behind her back, and Eleanor could never abide that.”
“And did it never occur to you that the timing might leave something to be desired?”
Petronilla’s flush deepened. “I find your sarcasm offensive. I did not expect her to go running off to England!”
Maud bit her lip, figuratively and literally. What good did this serve? What was done was done. “Be that as it may, she did. I take it that she went to Woodstock and confronted the girl?”
Petronilla nodded. “Although I am not sure if confrontation is the right term for it. She said not a word to the little bitch, Maud, not a word! And since then, she has refused to talk about it at all.” Her shoulders slumped, the anger draining away. “I have never seen Eleanor like this, never. When she is wroth, the whole world knows it. Mayhap it is because of the babe . . . I only know that I would feel much more at ease if she were screaming and ranting and vowing to geld Harry with a dull spoon. This frozen silence of hers . . . it frightens me.”