William conceded the point with a brief nod. “Perhaps not, but for the moment Richard is his brother’s heir and the Queen has had the major hand in raising him. Richard is the child of her soul in the same way that John is King Henry’s.”
His brother looked alarmed and William’s lips twitched. Men professed to love Eleanor, but it was an adoration tinged with fear and more than a hint of “God forbid.” Perhaps they were right to be fearful, but William had long gone beyond that.
“Then I wish the Young King the wherewithal to grow up and mature,” John said. “What of his wife? Does she show any signs of breeding?”
“You would have to ask her women about that,” William said neutrally. He could have told his brother that the marriage between Henry and Marguerite had only lately been consummated and that the couple were dutiful rather than passionate when it came to sharing a bed. However, William considered the matter personal and, being protective of Marguerite and his lord, said nothing.
John took the hint, although he made a jest of wondering whether the Young King would have his own heir crowned in his lifetime.
“I doubt it,” William said with a humourless smile. “Would you?”
John looked over his shoulder towards the castle doorway and Alais who was dandling the baby in her arms. “Probably not,” he said.
The following day William took his leave of John, and although their parting was cordial enough, the brothers were relieved to say farewell. John, no matter how he tried to hide it, was jealous of William’s meteoric rise at court. To have a younger brother in the daily company of kings and queens, magnates and archbishops chafed his own sense of self-worth. Nor did he approve of William’s extravagant lifestyle, although part of that disapproval was because he desired such for himself but would not admit it.
For his part, William was fond of John but found him staid and insular—although those traits would probably have been worse had he not had Alais and their infant son to lift him out of his rut. In spite of the stigma of having borne John a child out of wedlock and being his mistress, Alais seemed soft and content. It was that very contentment, the sight of her cuddling her son on her knee in a shaft of evening sunlight and smiling back at John that had given William his own moment of envy. He wasn’t ready to settle down—might never be, and it might never happen—but seeing that moment of quiet pleasure was like standing in the winter snow and looking through a window at a torchlit golden feast to which he was a witness, but not a guest.
As he put distance between himself and Hamstead, William’s envy evaporated and he brightened, glad to be on the road again, a knight errant with a glittering future before him. He paused at Wexcombe to visit his mother and Ancel, promising the latter that as soon as there was a place for him, he would take him on, rode on to Bradenstoke to pay his respects at his father’s tomb, and then turned away from filial and domestic duty towards his other life. Loyalty, gratitude, and a deep affection brought him first to Salisbury and Eleanor.
***
The Queen’s chamber was more suited to that of a nun than a queen and her position as her husband’s prisoner was unequivocal. The walls were devoid of hangings and her opulent bed coverings had been replaced by plain blankets. Instead of her beautiful flagons and goblets, there were heavy jugs and cups fashioned of crude local pottery. The painted coffers were gone and the usual pile of books was missing, although her chessboard stood rather forlornly on a plain wooden chest in the embrasure.
Eleanor herself sat near the open shutters, some sewing in her lap. When William was ushered into the room, she rose to her feet, her face brightening with pleasure. “William!” She came towards him, her hand outstretched and slightly trembling. He knelt and kissed her fingers, which were still adorned with a wealth of gold rings. Henry hadn’t taken those from her at least.
“Oh, it is so good to see you; you cannot know!” She raised him to his feet and when their eyes met, William saw the new lines of suffering and experience dredging her face. The fine bone structure would always guarantee her beauty, and her eyes were still the same slanting bright gold, but the years did not sit as lightly as before.
“Madam, you look well,” he said. It was the truth. Despite her tribulation, there remained a glamour about her, like the gilding on the wing of a dark butterfly.
“Do I?” She gave a sceptical laugh. “Well, I don’t feel it. Jesu, even nuns have more freedom than I do. My gaolers think it a great concession to allow me to dine in the great hall or receive a visitor every once in a while.” She glanced towards the castellan who had followed William into the room. He was looking uncomfortably at the ceiling, but still standing close enough to hear every word.
“I am deeply sorry, madam.”
“Hah, so am I…to be caged at least. For the rest, not even the pincers of hell will wring a confession of remorse from my lips.” She clapped her hand at a maid and gestured her to pour wine. “From Poitou,” she said. “Henry may have given me cracked old cups to drink from, but at least I’m granted the boon of wine from my own province.” Her eyes narrowed. “I would not drink his even if I were dying of thirst.”
Knowing the King’s wine, William didn’t blame her. He took the cup from the maid and saluted Eleanor. The castellan too was grudgingly furnished with wine, but not invited to join the conversation.
“So,” she said brightly, “tell me of the world outside.”
William saw through the smile in her voice to the desolation beneath. To be shut away here on a frugal income, her visitors closely vetted and not encouraged, must be soul-destroying to the vivacious and intellectually hungry Eleanor. She loved to shine in company and to feed upon the dazzle she created. Indeed, she craved company for its own sake. He set out to entertain her with tales of the latest doings at court; the scandals; the political manoeuvring. He made her laugh and for a while forget her circumstances, and he gave her news of her sons. Here too he kept his tone light. Aware of the constable’s stretched ears, he said nothing that could be passed back to the King and used to his or Eleanor’s detriment. She was circumspect too but bade him greet her sons and tell them that they were held in her heart and her prayers.
“As you are held in mine, madam.” He kissed her hand again. When he looked beyond her fingers, still fine, still manicured, but scattered with the brown mottles of age, and into her eyes, he saw that they were shimmering with tears.
William took his leave with a troubled and heavy spirit. He wished he could ransom Eleanor the way that she had once ransomed him. All he could do was watch out for her eldest son, who was in his charge, and do his best to honour that position of trust.
At Hamstead, John had said with a curl of his lip that Eleanor’s plight was of her own making, but William had answered that rebellion was surely never in her mind when she had married Henry of Anjou and that her husband was as much to blame. It was the march of years and the slow, dark spiral into disillusion that had brought her to an edge and then tumbled her over it. How did one guard against that, he wondered? How did one hold on to one’s loyalty when love was dead and fidelity betrayed? Perhaps one did so because it was the only light in the void and to let go was to fall for eternity. He shivered at his thoughts and clapping his heels to his palfrey’s flanks picked up the pace.
Eleven
Anet, Normandy, Spring 1177
The tourney at Anet on the Norman border had attracted competitors from far and wide: France and Flanders, Brie, Champagne, Lombardy, Brittany, Anjou, Poitou, Normandy, and England. There were great lords and their retinues, lesser barons with their squires and grooms, landless knights hoping to be noticed and employed by a patron. Supplying their needs were numerous traders and craftsmen, for without the armourers, smiths, farriers, horse-traders, saddlers, cookstall owners, and a host of others, the event could not have taken place. Clinging like carbuncles and galls upon this great tree of activity, the outcasts performed their parasitic role—the beggars, the thieves and cutpurses, whores and pimps, the men with loaded dice, the women who lured clients into dark alleys where accomplices robbed the victims of their silver.
Tourneys had their own particular scent that nothing else could replicate. William inhaled the mingled aromas with pleasure and anticipation as he walked among the tents and booths with the Young King, greeting old comrades and inspecting the goods. The scent of green turf, dust, and hot horses; the sour smell of anxious sweat that would later be intensified by the effort of battle; the waft of gruel and frying bacon from cooking pots and griddles.
“We’re going to take a fortune in ransoms today,” the Young King said, rubbing his hands. “I can feel it in my bones.” He was posing in an embroidered silk tunic heavily encrusted with small gemstones and his cloak was collared with ermine tails. His retinue moved in front and behind, clearing a path, giving him a space in which to walk and be admired.
William grinned. “You probably will feel it in your bones by the day’s end, my lord.”
