by Mary Lide
The room where I was lodged was not large nor richly furnished, a fact which, if I had had any sense, should have alerted me. It had one advantage; it looked down into a corner of the outer yard where she and her courtiers went to and fro. When she returned from Mass next day, I watched the way she took through a narrow gate into the gardens, which were set into shapes and squares with grassy plots or turf meads in between, such as poets like to praise. Down among them, I was soon lost, wandering along one gravel walk to the next. The morning air was still, hot as an English summer day, the scent of flowers hanging like incense such as I had smelled at Saint Purnace Church, but fresher, unpicked. Despite the lateness of season, there were flowers in bloom, and herbs that I should have loved to study and learn about. Even in my haste, I noted how the flowerbeds were watered by streams that cut their way in channels across the grass. There was no sound, the queen and her court seemed melted away, only the splash of those little streams, the cooing of doves by the courtyard gate. I had despaired of finding her when a child's voice alerted me. It was the fretful cry a tired child makes, and in between the clipped hedges, he presently came stumbling along, not more than two years old, but dressed like a little man, in his lavish clothes, stiff jewel crusted gown, embroidered belt and dagger sheath, a small velvet cap set on his red hair. It tumbled off as he fell down. The gravel paths grazed his knees and he began to howl, the more when I ran to pick him up. I knew him at once, his paternity stamped on him from red hair to clear white skin to temper which made him pout and scream.
God's mercy, Prince, I thought, trying to set him on his feet, although he kicked and fought, such rage will stand you in good stead one day. He plumped down on the ground with a kind of mulish obstinacy which I had seen his father show, pulling at his Moorish boots with that look his father had when he wanted a thing and was not sure how to get it.
Queen Eleanor came after him through the hedge, his nurses scuttling in her wake, afraid to make a move unless she bid them. She was smiling, throwing some quick and clever remark over her shoulder to her companions to make them laugh. But when she turned from them, the smile died, a different expression crossed that fine-shaped face; she came toward the prince with the look of one who will not let anything hinder her and, seeing it, he began to scream louder than before. I had never seen her show interest in her children—a cool and distant mother had she ever been—and might have been amazed that she came to fetch him herself had not it occurred to me she had had him brought there for a purpose of her own, which his fit of childish anger did not suit. As soon was proved. But when she saw me, I forgot such thoughts, and all my hopes died on her look.
'You,' was all she said, but with such contempt to make me cringe. No word of greeting, no surprise, no smile to light up those luminous eyes. She closed her mouth up tight, the arrogant tilt of her head more pronounced than usual. Neither childbearing nor child losing could dim that impetuous mind or still that quicksilver tongue.
I was still crouched over her son. Not knowing I did so, I stretched out my hands, a suppliant. 'Lady Queen,' I almost breathed the word, forgetting how she hated importuners—begging was a sign of weakness, a cry for mercy which might have roused pity in another, but angered her. 'How have I offended you? Send me hence if you will, but do not ignore me, I beg.'
She clapped her hands, sending the women scurrying to pick up the child. 'Bear him off,’ she cried, 'unruly brat. Lord Ademar came to see a prince, not have a baby spit at him.'
To me, she said, 'God's wounds, get up. We stand on no ceremony here, too far from court or courtly ways. I hear your husband. Count Raoul of Sieux, has come to make peace with the king. Are you come to make peace with me? After Boissert Field I doubted if either of you would dare.' I knew better than to stem her anger. 'Aye,' she said, 'I speak of Boissert, where you spoiled my plans, sent those Normans home like whipped curs. Who are you to be so bold? I knew you as a simple girl, I knew your count as a beggar himself.'
I began to say. They were traitors all, but bit off the thought. If traitors then, what was she? It was against her husband they conspired.
'Fool,' she said, angrier still, as if she guessed what I would have said. 'They would never have won, no danger of that. Left to themselves, they would have pricked Henry's pride, no more. Louis would not have let them move against the Vexin, would have taken care of them. Why had you and your Raoul,' she sneered the word, 'to interfere? Should I thank you for it? Should Ralph de Boissert's death go unavenged? Should Isobelle de Boissert be cast aside?' The bitterness in her voice was as sharp as a knife blade. 'I thought, since I had helped him, your lord might rather have helped me. Scorning Isobelle himself, is he so dog-in-manger to resent her betrothal to Geoffrey Plantagenet? It was a wedding I had arranged. Lord Raoul could have shown his thanks for his own marriage by leaving that one alone. Her lands would have contented Geoffrey Plantagenet, and now they are lost. What other lands shall he get in their place? Not mine I trust. I like him well but not enough to give him my lands.'
Too miserable to answer (for what had I known of her plans?), I muttered, 'I came to see you as a friend,' a reply as obviously displeasing, for she stamped her feet, tore at the fringes of her sleeves until the threads broke and a line of pearls went cascading to the ground. Still on my knees, I began to search for them among the gravel stones.
'Let be,' she cried. 'More care for them than all the other treasures I gave you, strewn about for other men to gather up, as if gifts were worthless as straws. I never gave you jewels to rebuild Sieux to my despite. Do not add hypocrisy to ingratitude.'
'No ingrate I,' I said, almost angry in my turn at the thought. 'Who accuses me speaks false. Ever have I counted you my benefactor and my friend.' It was perhaps the repetition of the word 'friend' or my show of anger—she did not like milk-sops—that made her pause, fingering the torn threads of her sleeve.
'Simpleton,' she said. 'You think, perhaps, having beauty still, your smiles will have all men running at your beck and call; you think the world owes you some joy, because you are young. Youth will not last long. Do you think Geoffrey Plantagenet cared for you? Why should you make him change his plans? Men are always greedy, wanting something new. Do not expect such attention to last.'
I had seen her in moods like this, but certainly never directed against myself, and certainly, I think, never so fierce, so uncontrolled, although I sensed in part she spoke to turn the blade against her own breast. And certainly never so openly jealous of anyone. I was abashed. Jealousy I had known, but not like this.
'And do you think to flaunt your beauty here,' she said, 'to gloat on me?' She darted a look in the way she had, glancing out from those large almond-shaped eyes. 'I am not yet powerless—men still serve me—for all that Henry woos them from my side. And as you have had a son, so shall I. Many more,' and her face was twisted now with pain, with fear. 'I am not too old for sons.'
Behind her bitterness was a cry for help. Hearing it, how could I deny her? I got up, took her hand; cold it was, the long thin fingers shaking in my grasp. 'Dear my Queen,' I said, 'there is no one in the world younger than you, no one more apt to win the hearts and devotion of men, no one more the king cherishes.'
She made no reply, gripped my hand tight until the rings she wore bit into my flesh, stared off into the distance with unseeing eyes. And I think now, in my old age, although I would not have thought of it then, there are women, royal or not, who take the decline of beauty, the waning of their charms, harder than others do, the more perhaps the greater their beauty was. And there are those too who take grief, the death of a child, the loss of a husband's love, so hard that it becomes a cancer, hidden from the world, eating into their flesh to make them lash and rage. Yet, looking at her as I did then, no one would deny she was still beautiful; no one could have guessed how many cares, how many sadnesses she had endured.
And I thought. Surely she who has known so much grief will not begrudge me my little part of happiness.
&nbs
p; Presently, she stirred, as if remembering who and where she was, as if she remembered me. 'So, Ann,' she said, 'you have come. Too late. I asked for you once and you refused when I most needed you. So now I presume you think to join my little court. I have done with state affairs; we talk of love. You should know what that means, having a husband so new-wed,' she added waspishly, and before I could guess what she was about, she took me by the hand, half-led, half-dragged me behind the hedge.
A group of her companions were waiting there, most of them men, although I had understood only women were with her. Some were lying on the grass, their heads arranged on a lady's lap, others were leaning against the trees in graceful attitudes, hands on hips, as if posing like statues. I did not know their names then, nor did she present them, but the way they sprawled at ease in the warm October sun and the way their equerries waited for them, holding their horses, richly bridled and saddled for their pleasure, spoke of luxury and power. They were dressed in hunting clothes but for the most part unbuttoned, unbraced, and so languid in their movements, their way of speaking, you wondered if they would ever have the energy to hunt at all. But that was just their manner I think.
One of them, the most important one I presume, rose to his feet as we appeared, led the queen back to where a sort of throne had been made for her upon the turf, built up with furs and cloaks, and when he had seated her there, he took up a floral wreath that lay beside her and pinned it on her hair. I must confess I had never seen her look so fair, as young and gentle as a maid, the Queen of Flowers, such contrast to that angry woman who, I hoped, was left on the other side of the hedge. There is a song sung of her, that all men know I think, and I remember it in part, but even now that I speak of her, it seems to suit her, and conjures her up for me:
Queen thou art and arbiter
Of honor, wit and beauty
Of largess and loyalty,
Lady, thou wert born in fortune's hour. . .
Well, it was long ago and much has been done and said since then, but I still remember the pride, yes, and the love I felt for her, despite the wrong she did to me. The great are ever fickle. Aye, so, but that does not mean we lesser folk can turn aside our affections as easily, do not suffer when we are cast aside.
'We spoke of different sorts of love just now,' she said to her courtiers, 'and I will put a conundrum to you. Suppose now, a lady loves a lord, and wants to be married to him, and he, high above her in rank, would not stoop to wed with her. Is love possible in such a case?'
I knew she spoke of Raoul and me, was vexed that she should discuss our lives and surprised and hurt that she should openly speak of something I felt best hid. The other lords there took her question seriously, began to debate as if in a Council of State, if love made public is love, if love based on shame can be so called, if marriage and love are contradictions in terms . . . Seriously they spoke and she heard them in all seriousness. If this be their courts of love, I thought, poor Walter is well out of them. And I thought too, as they argued on, how much nonsense they spoke. There are many types of loving and love, but I shut my lips tight upon my thoughts. Let them speak; I would be dumb. And this, I think, was wise, and perhaps, in time, she would have let me slip away; but something happened to rekindle her wrath.
One of the younger men, fair-haired and bold, had been watching me. 'This lady is too quiet,' he said. 'As she is young and most beautiful, what says she to our discourse?' I saw the queen frown, but he went on, 'Tell me lady, whose name is unknown to me, do you think men can be faithful to womenkind, or more to the point, they to men?'
There was a burst of applause as if he had said a witty thing, but the queen was not pleased.
'Lord Thouars,' she said, 'as she is young, she has not the experience we other ladies have.'
But he persisted, speaking to me. 'And, lady,' he now said, 'like other maids are your thoughts filled with thoughts of us, how to make us your slaves?' And he smiled and rubbed his hand across his lips.
'As for making men her slaves,' the queen snapped, 'ask her to tell you the truth of Boissert Field. We heard she besotted my brother-in-law, that he preferred her to all women else.'
They all laughed at that, but she had not meant to jest.
'And, Lord Ademar,' she said, turning to the older lord, a tall dark-haired man he was, with hooded eyes and hawk-like nose, who came sauntering to her side as she spoke to him, 'inform, if you please, the Count of Toulouse, that we have found that most rare prize, a virtuous wife.'
A third time they laughed, as if all things were for laughing at, as if they mocked at ones which pain.
He said, and a strange way of speaking he had, new to me, which marked him, if nothing else did, as a man from the Spanish borderlands. 'Then the lady is as virtuous as she seems gentle; her lord must be a lucky man.'
Afterwards, I thought he spoke to be kind, to keep the peace, but again his words did not please the queen.
'Pooh,' she said. 'My grandsire used to say to his friend, the old Count of Toulouse, grandfather to the present count, that no woman's virtue was safe long. He told a story how a vassal boasted to him once of his wife's chastity. Chaste and fair is she, the poor fool bragged. Disguised as a beggar, deaf and dumb, Duke William came to her, found her with her ladies in their bower. They, amazed by his infirmities, let him in, tested him to see if he spoke the truth . . .'
She began to hum beneath her breath:
How much I tupped them you shall hear
A hundred eighty-eight times or near
So that I almost stripped my gear. . .
And they all laughed, including Lord Ademar.
‘The lady is not used to such bawdy songs,' he maintained. 'She blushes for our wantonness,’ and he smiled at me, a handsome amorous man himself.
'Pooh,' said the Queen again, 'I hear my brother-in-law charmed her as well. Is not Lord Geoffrey charming?' she asked, fixing her eyes above my head.
I had known before how clever she could be; she argued with learned men for sport, could quote Latin texts and debate church doctrine with cardinals, as she had done when she found reasons to annul her marriage with Louis of France. She would wind me up in words.
'Did not he tempt you? I heard he took back the ring I gave you once as pledge. He gave it first to me, you know. And how long did his vow to me last? As long as it took me to ride from there to here, so long it took him to find another woman to bed, so long shall his vow last to you. Sweet-tongued is my sweet brother-in-law, but double forked. And my ring,' she said, when the laughter that followed had died down, 'gave you it away as all things else I gave?'
'No,' I said. 'I have it here.' And I pulled at the chain where it hung about my neck.
She looked at it, her expression by turns thoughtful and something else, malicious perhaps. 'And would you swear on Holy Book,' she insisted, 'that you wear it in remembrance of me? Would you swear that loyalty, like love, is meant to last? I sent you it to keep your husband safe at home, not to let him go abroad to hinder me. Would you swear your loyalty to him? I hear he was found another woman and you have quarreled because of it.'
I said, for I had grown mulish myself, determined not to be the butt of their foolish jibes, and disappointed that the meaning of her message that had puzzled me was so simple after all. (I had thought she meant to keep him safe, not to save her; it was his safety I had cared about.) I said the worst sort of thing, 'I keep this ring, and wear it, in memory of past friends in the hope that they should also remember me. My womenfolk who guard my son know it as mine. I use it to send them word, I wear it about my neck, next to my heart, that all men should know whose gift it was. I never thought to see it lost or given away, nor did I look to have its value made a mockery of.' An unwise speech, better to have kept silent, for they were reduced to silence after it, shifting uneasily, not looking at me. No one rebukes a royal queen, and I had spoken too much in my blunt way. Even Lord Ademar looked grave. And too late I saw the trap I made myself, made it for her to use.
/>
'Fool,' Queen Eleanor said for the third time, 'give it here. It was not meant for you. Better to have done with you at Saint Purnace as de Boissert hoped.' A silence followed, again too long. In it were many things I had heard others say, but dared not think myself. Put no trust in royal promises, nor royal courts. Her friends are powerful and she uses them . . . What her part is better you do not know. They hammered at my heart until I beat them down, worse to me than the idea of treason.
She saw the way my thoughts ran and laughed at them, a high laugh without mirth, that mocked at me and mocked herself. You will never be sure, that laugh said, what I knew, or if I had a part in that attack. But I have the power to order men; men follow me, I command them to my will. And I shall always have that power.
'Fool,' she repeated the word, reached out and snatched the chain. It caught about my neck and cut the skin before the links broke. A trickle of blood started out, but she already had the ring in her grasp. 'And would you swear,' she said, 'your women would obey you if you sent them this? Then are they more loyal to you than you were to me. When my daughter was born, did you come? Then is this bauble a symbol greater than all the weight of those promises you once made. And you, Lord Ademar, you are foresworn. You vowed to honor me when I was wed. Now you swear as much to Henry in my place.' She swung the ring to and fro on its broken chain. She said to her lords, who looked at her, consternation in their eyes, 'I shall keep my lands intact for my sons. You are my vassals, whom Henry steals away. You think to make your peace with him at my expense. One day you shall make your peace with our heirs. That prince you saw just now is but the first of many princes of my house. Deal with us as you would be dealt with by him when he is grown.'