‘They’ve all sunk on their hinges,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring some wedges, to keep them open.’
Eleanor nodded, as though Blet had never been in doubt. She spent the next few days writing letters and re-discovering the palace grounds. She spared hardly a thought for her dead husband, though Richard and John were ever in her mind. And the scheming Philip of France, the real architect of Henry’s downfall. And Henry’s bastard, Geoffrey FitzRoy, a shadowy figure for whom a place must be found in the new regime. Three brothers and the young French king, and each with a young man’s appetite. It would take some pretty cooking to satisfy them.
She was in her rooms, with the doors wedged open, when Blet hurried to tell her that a certain Sir William Marshal and Roger Malchat, King Henry’s steward, were waiting in the antechamber. Marshal’s name brought a hum of joy to her lips. ‘Bring them in, bring them— No, wait. They must have travelled from Anjou or Normandy. The least I can do is shorten their journey by a few paces. Have you offered them wine?’
‘I have, my lady, and hard-boiled eggs and some white bread I had put by for your meal, but I’ll send for some more, I know where I can get it fresh.’
‘You’re as excited as I am, Master Blet. Why’s that?’
‘I know that Sir William Marshal holds you special, my lady.’ Worried that he should be in possession of such knowledge, he added, ‘The world knows he worships you.’
‘Does he, indeed? Well, go and attend him then. We must hold on to such a public friend.’ She waved him off, shook the folds of her gown and turned slowly before an oblong, hammered-metal mirror. Exchanging a wry expression with her image, she thought, sixty-seven and grey in the hair, but not yet entirely destroyed. Your eyes are still clear, and you’ve kept your spine straight. You seem free of sores and blemishes, and best of all your mind is not addled. William Marshal, eh… Come to see his benefactress…
With a final, self-mocking glance at her reflection, she made her way through the palace and into the sunlit antechamber.
* * *
He was shocked by her appearance. During her sixteen years’ imprisonment he had met with her twice – on those rare occasions when King Henry or his council had required her presence – but he had not seen her for more than five years. The shock was of his own making, he realized that later, for he could not repaint the picture he carried in his mind. It remained untouched by time, the vivid portrait of a tall, slender woman, whose expression changed at the flicker of an eyelid from amused detachment to narrowing condemnation. Surrounded by men who boomed their laughter, shuddered when they wept and turned purple and swollen in anger, Eleanor conveyed her feelings with the needle scratch of a frown, or the featherweight curve of her mouth. Unless she chose to disguise her feelings, one would know by looking. But afterward, it was impossible to say just how she had shown her displeasure, or registered her delight. The dish of the world would have to splinter, to make Queen Eleanor chew her lip.
And so with her voice. She could not have screamed since the midwives punched her, nor giggled uncontrollably beyond the simple jokes of childhood. Yet there was a greater reward in her quiet laughter than in the spluttering and shoulder-pounding of a hysterical court.
Neither old age nor imprisonment had robbed her of her magnetism, but she no longer matched the portrait in Marshal’s mind. Where he wished her to be slender, she was thin, her long jaw-bone prominent, her nose as pinched as his, her eyes made large by the tightness of her skin. And her hair was grey, when he wanted it to be black.
The truth was, she had been old five years ago, but he had gone away entranced, and made her young again. Each time he saw her he was shocked, but even as he turned away in farewell, she was rejuvenated in his mind. It was the supreme accolade, and it was why mention of his name made her hum.
They were both on their knees, Marshal and Malchat, for they had heard her approach. She stepped on to the blue and grey tiles of the antechamber, looked from one to the other, then gauged the number of steps it would take to reach them. Marshal would not be pleased to see her stumble, her sight blurred by tears. And who was it, Malchat, Roger Malchat? Well, he’d expect something more regal from his master’s widow.
She went forward and said, ‘That’s a hard floor, William Marshal, and you were never good at staying still. Get up and embrace me. I’ve been let out, did Master Blet tell you? He took it upon himself, so I want him protected. My husband introduced me to every important prison in the land, but it was not until this one that— Oh, God, Marshal, I am pleased to see you… I pray this is the end of it…’
Her voice and carriage had already lessened the shock. The perfect portrait was put by for later, and his carefully rehearsed speeches went for nothing. Coming to his feet, he said, ‘You won’t be imprisoned again, I promise you. Not while I live.’
Malchat pushed himself upright and studied the arrangement of the room. He affected not to see their gentle embrace, or hear their murmured reunion. He carried no portrait of Eleanor, though he had always regarded Henry’s treatment of her as harsh and unworthy. True, she had rebelled against him; hardly the act of a wife and queen. But his scandalous flaunting of his mistress, Rosamund Clifford, and his obsessive desire to thwart Richard and advance John Lackland had already turned half the country against him. On the other hand, Malchat wondered, what would Eleanor have done if her rebellion had succeeded? Certainly no less than Henry had done to her.
He felt Marshal grip his arm, and acknowledged Eleanor’s welcome. ‘Even in prison,’ she said, ‘I hear the news. You are reputed to have been the king’s most trusted adviser. It puts you across the fence from me, Roger Malchat, but it makes you one of the few who stayed loyal to either side.’
‘I am not your enemy,’ Malchat replied, ‘no more than is Marshal. But Henry was the king, and had to be supported against his enemies in France – and in his family. You have been badly treated, as I see it, but you have not been hounded to death by your sons. King Henry was, and still nothing is resolved.’
‘He was a tyrant-turned-monster,’ Eleanor levelled. ‘He despoiled King Philip’s sister, and turned France against him. He imprisoned me on a charge of treason, then celebrated in Mistress Clifford’s bed. He refused to recognize Richard as his heir, or to surrender the wretched Alais of France, or even to release John from a diet of promises. Don’t make a martyr of him, Roger Malchat. A satyr, yes, and a vindictive old man, if you like. But all our troubles trace back to him, as they would to a man who lit a fire in a hayrick.’ She paused, then allowed him a faint, disarming smile. ‘I cannot argue with you dry. Give me a glass of wine. Blet has been a kind gaoler, but none too free with his drink. Ideal for men, he says, but destructive for women. I don’t know which he feared more, my death from wine, or the loss of his most important prisoner. If Henry had had the sense, he’d have allowed me a barrel a day. They’d have found me drowned in bed, and no one to blame.’
There was no coyness as Marshal held the glass and Malchat filled it, for they were already under her spell. No wonder she had been married to two kings and survived them, then emerged from her long imprisonment as though from a wasting, but none too serious illness. Marshal offered her the glass, and she raised it in salute. ‘God will that England is served by an honourable king, and that the king is served by honourable men. Men like you, Marshal, and you, Malchat.’ She drank half the wine and nodded. ‘Blet must approve of you; he’s found a good flask.’
Three weeks ago they had been fighting for the man who had imprisoned her. Now they joined her in the salute.
* * *
In any country there are men who would make a better king than the king, and women more aptly fitted to be queen than the queen. But rarely is the best person offered the crown, and there are few who would dare accept it in such old age. But Eleanor of Aquitaine had twice been queen, and even now, at sixty-seven, she had lost none of her skills. This time she would not be married to the monarch – who, God willing, would be Richard
Coeur-de-Lion – but she would mother him and guide him, and pass on her extensive knowledge of government. With Eleanor at his shoulder, Richard should not fail. And, when he was busy, she would find time to make John more charming, and Geoffrey less so.
She accepted Henry’s bastard for what he was, an intelligent interloper and, although Richard was her favourite, and would remain so – she would see Geoffrey well-established in the regime.
If she had to make an assessment, it was this; Richard’s present must be bestowed upon him in a crowd, so that he could bellow his speech and bathe in the applause. John’s must be delivered in the evening, carried by a beautiful woman from whom all morality had been drained; then he would enjoy both the donation and the donor in darkness and seclusion. And for Geoffrey FitzRoy, some simple gift, beyond criticism. A bishopric would be perfect, combining the sacred and the secular. He would have a palace and property, a court-cum-congregation. If he wished to preach, he could do so, but he could also conserve his income and put the fear of God into the neighbouring barons. Yes, for Geoffrey, a bishopric.
And in detail, what for Lackland, the cynical, back-biting, youngest son? Something from Richard; the innocent income of a few counties, and a handful of manors. And sycophants who laughed at his jokes. And women who sprawled on his bed. John was no problem, so long as he was kept amused; so long as he had one hand on a woman’s thigh and beads of wine on his lips.
And for Richard Lionheart, Coeur-de-Lion, Duke of Aquitaine and by now Duke of Normandy, what for him? The crown, of course, and as Eleanor’s favourite, her constant attention. Richard would scorn a bishopric, and he would not be at all amused by John’s bare-legged orgies.
But which of them should be offered the greatest protection, the Lionheart, or Lackland, or the Bastard? It was a difficult choice to make, for she had long ago decided that the most deserving would gain William Marshal as his guardian. If, as Blet had assured her, Marshal held her special, he would extend his protection to her chosen son.
The obvious choice was Richard, for he would soon be king. But what if he was killed on some pointless expedition, or in one of the noisy jousts of which he was so fond? Would Marshal be prepared to change again, from Henry, to Richard, to—?
To John, as the logical successor. But who, with a balanced mind, could see that feather-and-leathered creature sauntering down from his crowded bedchamber to command the court? King John? No, it did not sit well on the tongue.
The last of them, Geoffrey, had no chance of becoming king. He was the most intelligent of the trio, but he was Henry’s bastard, the son of a practised whore, and England would never accept him.
So, clearly, it was to be Richard who would feel the guiding pressure of Marshal’s hand. If his grip was strong enough.
* * *
They stayed with her for three days. Marshal delivered a sheaf of letters Richard had entrusted to him, and Eleanor learned that she had been given complete authority in England during her son’s absence. ‘Show yourself to the people,’ he suggested. ‘No matter what it costs, outfit your household and travel the country in state. Let them see that their queen is returned to them. They need comfort, my lady, and you are as much England’s mother as you are mine. Buy whatever takes your fancy; indulge in every comfort. Put on a show for them, and they will be reassured.’
Eleanor showed the letter to Marshal. ‘He cares for me,’ she remarked wryly, ‘though, as usual, his brimming heart makes him forgetful. Unless your saddle-bags are stuffed with gold?’ Marshal shook his head, and she mirrored the movement. ‘No, I did not think they would be.’
Nevertheless, as supreme authority, the queen was able to call upon the resources of the treasury, and Richard’s letter served as a key to the coffers.
On a lighter note, Marshal told her about Isabel de Clare, and asked if she had ever set eyes on the young heiress.
‘No, though I have heard about her, and if I were you I’d waste no time in securing the claim. As a woman, I should dislike everything I’ve heard.’
‘Why? Is she so unwholesome?’
‘I could love her for that,’ Eleanor said. ‘It would still my envy.’
‘Then she is—’
‘Beautiful, so they say. Courteous, that’s another term used. Nineteen, according to the calendar. Sweet heaven, Marshal, go and find out for yourself. I’m not a paid jongleur, employed to sing her praises!’ Her smile belied her impatience, and she added, ‘Bring the lady to visit me when you can; I am starved of gossip.’
‘I’d never deny you your pleasures,’ Marshal said, ‘though I hope she can control her tongue.’
‘As Pembroke’s daughter, I’m sure she can. Not that it will save her. Even stones surrender their secrets when I’m about.’ It was offered as banter, but Marshal’s smile was slow in coming, for her boast was too close to the truth. One would have to be a blind, deaf mute to withhold a secret from Queen Eleanor.
Yet she had, once, failed to predetermine events – her own arrest – and had spent sixteen years repenting her ignorance. But it was over now, and she would not let it happen again. Nor, from what he had promised, would William Marshal.
* * *
The storm had come up the Thames and was now sweeping westward, towards London. The summer sky wore a tattered cloak, the billowing garment pierced by shafts of lightning. The white-hot lances split trees and riverside dwellings, and struck two fishermen who had been out on the marshes, netting eels. Their scorched bodies smoked and steamed in the rain.
The storm dragged its cloak across the eastern boundaries of the city, and lightning flew at the massive, ninety-foot high fortress known as the White Tower. This was London’s fortress, built by William the Conqueror. It was said that whoever commanded the Tower controlled the capital, and the claim was supported by walls fifteen feet thick, and a moat that was, in places, more than a hundred feet wide. Subsequent monarchs had added encircling walls, strengthened the gate towers, erected a palace in the courtyard. But few improvements had been made to the keep itself. Whitewashed from bastions to battlements, it remained an outstanding example of military architecture, and a damp and impregnable refuge. The lightning crackled against the ragstone walls, then moved on to shatter roofs in the city.
Standing dangerously near one of the upper windows, Isabel de Clare watched the storm darken London. She was unnerved by thunder and lightning, and had spent most of the past hour with her hands pressed to her ears, or with an arm raised to shield her eyes. However, now that the worst was over, she felt pleased with herself, and retreated to the warmth of the fire.
‘There,’ she said. ‘I told you I would do it. Did you ever see me flinch?’
Her maidservant shook her head. She could truthfully say no, for she had been crouched well back in the top floor chamber, her eyes squeezed shut. Now she ventured, ‘You braved it well, my lady. He will be impressed.’
‘I hope so,’ Isabel remarked, ‘for I am. Just think, if the lightning had found the window niche—’ She shuddered, and told the girl to lay more wood on the fire. ‘This place could as well be beneath the river, as beside it. Mid-summer, and the walls run with water.’ She walked over to the time-candle, its thick, tallow shaft ringed to mark the hours. If his estimate was reliable, and the storm did not wash out the road from Winchester, he would reach the Tower before the next ring melted.
Her husband-to-be, an unseen knight about whom she had stored a mass of information, hearsay and rumour. Every mention of him was grist for the mill, no matter how biased.
He was forty-three years old, that much was established. In appearance he was tall, and with a knife for a nose. He had curiously dark skin, and could be mistaken for an Arab. He did not care to set his buttocks on a seat, but preferred to prowl the room. Before he had become King Henry’s champion, he had earned his living in tournaments and, in one ten- month period, he had unhorsed seventy-two knights. Thus vanquished, they had been honour-bound to surrender their armour and equipment and
pay whatever ransom was fixed for the day. Yet he was reported to be penniless and landless. He was fond of Bordeaux wine and venison, and had no palate for fish.
He was attractive to women – among them the European paragon, Countess Marie of Champagne, with whom he was supposed to have enjoyed a torrid affair – yet he had never married. He was patronized by none other than Queen Eleanor – another affair? – yet had supported the man who imprisoned her.
He would see no man hanged, nor allow his women to wear tasselled girdles.
He had once been so severely jousted in a tournament that it had taken a blacksmith’s hammer to beat his helmet from his head. On that occasion he had been declared champion of the day, and the Duke of Burgundy had awarded him a solid silver lance. He had sold it a week later.
More recently she had heard that he’d unhorsed Richard Plantagenet at some bridge near Le Mans, then told Richard he was lucky to be alive. Richard Plantagenet! Well, it was more wheat for the mill.
The firelight flickered on the laced bodice and pendulous sleeves of her gown. An engraved silver bracelet enclosed one wrist, the flower pattern repeated on the flattened links of a long necklace. The chain was double looped, so that it both encircled her throat and framed the neck of her gown. The firelight caught the metal and made gold of the silver.
Gradually, the heat permeated the woollen bliaut and drove the dampness from her hair. She settled herself in a panel-backed chair and watched the flames lick the applewood.
Forty-three? God, he was old. And passing for an Arab, those devils with whom the West had been so long at war. A professional soldier, disciplined and—
She looked across at the candle, then around the room. Yes, that was another thing she’d heard; he did not like slovens.
The Devil is Loose Page 7