“Guess who Owain Gwynedd is locking horns with nowadays? None other than Thomas Becket!”
Henry’s interest was immediate. “How so?”
“Well… the see of Bangor has been vacant for nigh on five years now,” Rainald began, and Henry was hard put to conceal his impatience, knowing his uncle could spin a tale out till the cows came home. “But of course you know that,” Rainald conceded, seeing those grey eyes narrow tellingly. “Owain wanted the position filled and he rashly wrote to Becket at Pontigny, asking if, during Becket’s exile, another prelate might consecrate Bangor’s bishop. Obviously, he did not consult Ranulf beforehand, for he’d have warned Owain that Becket’s vanity would never allow him to delegate even a scrap of authority. Becket sent a curt refusal, ordering that no election be held. But Owain is a man for getting his own way, too, and he arranged for his candidate to be elected and then sent him off to Ireland to be consecrated.”
He’d hoped that Henry might be amused by this flouting of Becket’s will; instead he scowled. “Ere war broke out, Owain approached me about filling the vacancy at Bangor with a man of his choosing, a monk of Bardsey. I refused, for I knew what he was about, trying to subvert English control over the diocese. So he thought to checkmate me with Becket, did he?”
“Well, it did not work,” Rainald reminded him mildly, putting aside the heretical thought that his nephew was no less jealous of his own prerogatives than Becket. “He may have his man at Bangor, but the Church will not recognize him. Moreover, he has made an enemy of Becket, who is suddenly showing great interest in Owain’s marriage to the Lady Cristyn, warning Owain that if the rumors of their kinship be true, she is no lawful wife and must be put aside.”
Henry’s eyes glittered. “I wish Owain better luck than my brother Will had,” he said, and Rainald realized that he had stepped into yet another snare. If truth be told, it was impossible to talk about Thomas Becket without blundering into one quagmire after another.
He began to speak at random about any subject that came to mind-the sudden death of the Earl of Essex last month at Chester, after their rout by the Welsh; Richard de Lucy’s professed intent to take the cross and go on pilgrimage to the Holy Land-knowing that there was a need to exorcise more than one ghost. It had been clumsy of him to make mention of Ranulf, sprinkling salt into an unhealed wound. He knew his nephew wanted to ask if he’d heard from Ranulf. He knew, too, that he would not ask. They were a pair, Harry and Ranulf, stubbornly keeping silent whilst their estrangement festered, each one unwilling to admit his own pain. Upon his return to England, he would write to his niece, he decided. If anyone could make peace between these two balky mules, surely it was Maud.
Richard de Lucy was approaching and Rainald welcomed him heartily; let de Lucy be the one to blunder into pitfalls for a while. Not that he would; de Lucy was the perfect royal servant, with diplomatic skills worthy of a Pope and loyalty that would put a dog to shame. When Henry informed him now that he must postpone his pilgrimage, instead journey to Rome to appeal Becket’s latest excommunications, the justiciar didn’t even blink, agreed so smoothly that Rainald had not a clue as to what he truly thought. Camouflaging another yawn, he watched as a courier was ushered across the hall toward them, and made ready to ask his nephew’s permission to retire for the evening.
But before he could, the messenger thrust a letter from Henry’s mother into his hands. Henry swiftly broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, and held it up toward the wall sconce above his head. Rainald squirmed on the seat, trying to ease his aching back. His eyelids had begun to droop again when his nephew drew a sudden, sibilant breath.
Rainald’s first fear was for Maude. “Is the news bad?”
Henry shook his head. “No… just unexpected. My mother says that Eleanor has left Rouen and rumor has it that she took ship at Barfleur for England.”
Rainald gaped, for that made no sense at all. Why would a woman brave a November Channel crossing whilst great with child? “Why would she do that? Did you not say that you were holding your Christmas court at Poitiers this year, to please her?”
Henry was frowning over the parchment again. Richard de Lucy was his usual inscrutable self, but Rainald was too puzzled for tact. “Surely Maude must be wrong. Why would Eleanor take it into her head of a sudden to go to England, now of all times?”
Henry glanced up sharply, then shrugged. “I have no idea, Uncle,” he said, “none at all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
November 1166
English Channel
Petronilla sat up with a jerk, her heart racing. No night should have been as dark as this, and the cold was so damp and penetrating that it seemed to have seeped into her very bones. She was astonished that she’d fallen asleep, for although she’d been blessed with a strong stomach and rarely suffered from the seasickness that afflicted so many others, she loathed sea travel as much as any mortal could, feared it even more. Each time she set foot on a rolling, wet deck, she remembered the sinking of the White Ship. When it had struck a reef in Barfleur Harbor on a November night much like this one, more than three hundred souls had gone to God or the Devil, many of them highborn.
Their canvas tent was cramped and dank, the women huddled together for warmth. Gradually Petronilla could make out their hunched figures in the shadows. Few were sleeping and, as Petronilla sat up, one of her sister’s ladies moaned and retched weakly into a bucket. A stench filled the air and Petronilla wrinkled her nose; the tent was already befouled with the acrid smell of sweat and fear and vomit, stronger even than the pungent salt-brine tang of the sea.
“Aunt Petra…” A slender form swaddled in blankets stirred at Petronilla’s elbow and she patted the child’s shoulder. “Go back to sleep, Tilda. When you awaken, we’ll be in sight of Southampton.” God Willing. Her niece burrowed deeper into her nest of covers and, with the resilience of the very young, soon slept again. Petronilla did not understand what had possessed her sister to allow the girl to accompany them. Granted, Tilda would be departing in the coming year for her new life in Germany as the bride of Henry the Lion, Duke of Saxony and Bavaria, and she’d pleaded poignantly with Eleanor that they not be apart till then. Petronilla still thought the girl’s presence was a mistake. But her sister had ignored her arguments, and Petronilla knew from past experience that when Eleanor got the bit between her teeth, the only thing to do was to get out of the way.
A martyr on the cross of sisterly rivalry, Petronilla sighed and made herself as comfortable as she could on her pallet. Sleep would not come back, though. She was preternaturally aware of every night noise: the relentless creaking and groaning of the ship as it sank down into a trough, then fought its way to the crest of the next wave, the rhythmic slapping sound of waves against the hull, the flapping of the sail as the wind picked up, Tilda’s soft snoring, an occasional moan from one or another of the seasick women, muffled curses from unseen sailors. When she could endure the tossing and turning no longer, Petronilla slid away from Tilda and rose to her feet.
As she ducked under the tent flap, the ship pitched suddenly and she staggered, would have fallen if not for the boatswain, who steadied her with a helpful hand on her elbow. The smile that accompanied his chivalry was too familiar for Petronilla’s liking. He backed away when she scowled, and as she lurched across the deck, she thought she heard him chuckle. Glaring over her shoulder, she almost stumbled into the tiller, but the helmsman had observed the by-play with the boatswain and he left her to fend for herself. Keeping her balance with difficulty, she caught the gunwale for support, damning all ships and sailors to eternal hellfire.
Filling her lungs with the icy Channel air, Petronilla waited until she’d gotten her equilibrium back and then started cautiously along the deck in search of her sister. She found Eleanor standing alone near the bow. She did not turn her head as Petronilla approached, and they stood in silence for a time while Petronilla tried to think of some way to narrow the distance between them.
; “That bobbing light to starboard… is that our other ship?” No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she winced at the fatuous nature of her query; of course that was their ship! But conversation with Eleanor these days was like venturing into perilous terrain; she seemed to make one misstep after another. “You ought not to tarry out on the deck like this, Eleanor. This cold is not good for either you or the babe.”
The corner of Eleanor’s mouth tightened noticeably, but she made no other response, keeping her eyes upon the surging black barrier of water that stretched toward the horizon. Conceding defeat, Petronilla retreated into a brooding silence. When she’d told Eleanor of the rumors she’d heard-the salacious, gleeful gossip about Henry and Rosamund Clifford-it had never occurred to her that her sister would act so impulsively, so unpredictably, so recklessly. But Eleanor had the right to know that her husband was lusting after Clifford’s daughter. She needed to know that he’d even dared to bring Rosamund to Woodstock’s royal manor. Surely she’d want to know that she was in danger of becoming a laughingstock? Watching as her sister gazed toward the night-cloaked alien shores of England, Petronilla sought to convince herself that it would all work out for the best. She’d begun to shiver, though, and it was not entirely due to the stinging winter wind.
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 he
ad 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?”
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