Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
PART I - To Be Duchess
Chapter 1 - Hunting Lodge at Talmont
Chapter 2 - Hunting Lodge at Talmont
Chapter 3 - Palace of Poitiers
Chapter 4 - Palace of Poitiers
Chapter 5 - Palace of Ombrière
Chapter 6 - Palace of Ombrière
Chapter 7 - Palace of Ombrière
PART II - To Be Queen
Chapter 8 - Castle of Taillebourg
Chapter 9 - Palace of the City
Chapter 10 - Cathedral of Saint-Étienne
Chapter 11 - Poitiers
Chapter 12 - Poitiers
Chapter 13 - Palace of the City
Chapter 14 - Palace of the City
Chapter 15 - Abbey of St.-Denis
Chapter 16 - Palace of the City
PART III - To Be Free
Chapter 17 - City of Metz
Chapter 18 - City of Constantinople
Chapter 19 - The Road to Antioch
Chapter 20 - City of Antioch
Chapter 21 - City of Antioch
Chapter 22 - City of Acre
PART IV - To Be Known
Chapter 23 - City of Palermo
Chapter 24 - Papal Villa
Chapter 25 - Cathedral Cloister of St.-Denis
Chapter 26 - Palace of the City
Chapter 27 - Palace of the City
Chapter 28 - Palace of the City
Chapter 29 - Palace of Beaugency
Afterword
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
Praise for The Queen’s Pawn
“The Queen’s Pawn is a powerful portrait of two dynamic royal women and the men who controlled their lives—or is it the other way around? Treachery, betrayal, lust—and an unusual and compelling love story, beautifully told.”
—Karen Harper, author of The Queen’s Governess
“The Queen’s Pawn by Christy English resurrects from misty legend Eleanor of Aquitaine, Henry II, Princess Alais, and Richard the Lionhearted. I knew the outlines of their stories, but now I have come to know them as fully, emotionally human, both flawed and magnificent. The French princess Alais comes as a child to England to be raised by Eleanor for marriage to Richard, the queen’s favorite son. But the child becomes a beautiful woman and catches Henry’s eye, starting an ever-escalating palace war of intrigue, betrayal, and passion. Almost 850 years have passed, but English brings the complex time of unrest and deceit to full, lyrical life for us. A captivating love story of Richard and Alais beyond the story I thought I knew of a young woman trapped between Eleanor and Henry in their lifelong struggle for mastery over the English Crown and each other. A jewel of a novel.”
—Jeane Westin, author of His Last Letter
“What a promising debut! With deft strokes, Christy English transforms Alais from the innocent child her father sends to England into the cunning woman her surrogate mother, Eleanor, teaches her to be—while the crafty and sophisticated Eleanor is ensnared and nearly brought down by helpless love for her adopted daughter. The complex love-hate quadrangle between Eleanor, her husband, Henry, her son Richard, and the ever more wily Alais is a fascinating and original take on this juicy historical footnote.”
—Ellyn Bache, award-winning novelist of
Safe Passage and Daughters of the Sea
“Told with simple grace and from the heart, The Queen’s Pawn is a moving evocation of two women, deep friends but destined to a tragic rivalry for royal power and two men’s love.”
—Margaret Frazer, author of A Play of Piety
“An astonishing debut! Christy English spins an unforgettable tale of dangerous splendor, evoking the stone and tapestry of the Plantagenet era, and the fierce rivalry of two equally fascinating and determined women, whose ambitions threaten to overturn their world.”
—C. W. Gortner, author of
The Confessions of Catherine de Medici
“Fast-paced; subgenre fans will enjoy this deep saga as two women vie for control of the English stage.”
—The Merry Genre Go Round Reviews
“Balanced historically and very readable. . . . I was very satisfied with the ending; though a bit sad, it ties up loose ends and gives a feeling of forgiveness and redemption, as well as a promise to a future for the characters.”
—Historical-Fiction.com
“As torrid as any end-of-the-week episode of All My Children, and a lot more highbrow. . . . [English] keeps dramatic tension taut.”
—StarNews Online
“Intriguing . . . I highly recommend this book. English deftly brings to life one of the most intriguing women in history.”
—Scandalous Women
ALSO BY CHRISTY ENGLISH
The Queen’s Pawn
NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, April 2011
Copyright © Christy English, 2011
Readers Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA), Inc., 2011
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
English, Christy. To be queen: a novel of the early life of Eleanor of Aquitaine/Christy English.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-47912-4
1. Eleanor, of Aquitaine, Queen, consort of Henry II, King of England,
1122?–1204—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3605.N49T6 2011
813’.6—dc22 2010052167
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
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&nbs
p; For William X, Duke of Aquitaine
Count of Poitou
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always when writing a novel, there are many people to thank. I must begin by thanking my parents, Karen and Carl English, for their unswerving support throughout my life. They gave me the gift of exploring my own mind as a child, and I reap the benefits of their generosity to this day.
I thank my brother, Barry English, for always making me laugh and for not letting me take myself too seriously. I thank Marianne Nubel for always believing in me, and for seeing the success of my novels alive in her own mind, before that success was ever an accomplished fact. Thanks to LaDonna Lindgren and Laura Creasy, both for their unwavering support and for reading this novel in early drafts. I offer thanks to Amy Pierce, Audrey Forrester, and Hope Johnston, who have always stood behind my work, urging me on, even in the darkest days, when it seemed my writing would never see the light of publication. And I must thank my godmother, Vena Miller, and my dear friend Susan Randall for their unflagging support.
Once again, I must thank the brilliant team at New American Library for their work: Michelle Alpern for her eagle eye in copyediting, Kaitlyn Kennedy for getting the word out about Eleanor, and Maureen O’Boyle, who designed the beautiful cover. As always, I thank Margaret O’Connor Chumley, Jhanteigh Kupihea, and Claire Zion. Without their continued devotion to Eleanor, rivaled only by my own, this book would never have been possible.
Prologue
Abbey of Fontevrault
County of Poitou
April 1204
I WAS MY FATHER’S FAVORITE. I KNEW THIS FROM THE DAY I was born. I seemed to take this knowledge in with my mother’s milk.
Men came to my father’s court in the early days, patted my head, and fed me sweets. They took in the stone walls and tapestries of my father’s palace as if they might see beyond them to my father’s lands, stretching from the border of Burgundy to the sea. Those men leaned close to Papa and said, “One day there will be a son to rule all this.” But my brother died, along with my mother, and there was never another heir. I was left, the only child with the strength to follow my father.
I find the thought of my own death a comfort now that I am so old that my skin is pale and translucent. Now that the loves of my long life, the father who shaped me, the husband who fought me, the son who was loyal to me alone, have all gone down into the dust. My father died far from Aquitaine, but Henry and Richard both lie buried in this abbey. Soon I will lie between them, my body separating them for the last time.
I raise my arm and think to see the sunlight shining through the skin of my palm, so thin have I become. And my back pains me now, as it never did when I was young and rode a horse for days on end, seeking something always, a place I never reached, not with all my lovers, not even with Henry.
Death, my last lover, holds me closer than any man ever has. If the Church is right, I will soon burn for all eternity in a fiery pit, where demons cast coals on the flames and all who see me will mock me and laugh.
I have always loathed being laughed at.
I have little faith in the teachings of the Church. The priests and their followers seem to me a simple people, telling tales by the fireside to keep away the dark. I have never been afraid of the dark. My father taught me to look into it without blinking, so that I would be ready for whatever comes out of it.
If, as the Church says, I am to suffer the fires of hell, so be it. To avoid such a fate, I would have to repent of my life. That I will never do.
My priest never gives me penance, for he knows that to do so would be wasted breath. So after I have told him the tales of my life, we sit together in silence and listen to the wind as it moves through the fig trees above our heads.
The priest is the only man allowed here in the women’s cloister at Fontevrault. I spent my life in the world of men, and loved it, with all its pain. But I have made this place where women can be free of men. All men but God. Even I cannot stand between these women and Him. In that last battle, they must fend for themselves.
As my life begins to fade from me as a dream fades at morning, I find that I have no regrets. My priest listens to me speak in lieu of penance or prayer, for my life is a story worth telling.
In honor of my father, in honor of all the love he gave me, all the statecraft he taught me, as well as the strength, I dedicate this tale to him. For without him, and his unswerving regard for me, the story of my life as you read it here would never have been possible.
PART I
To Be Duchess
Chapter 1
Hunting Lodge at Talmont
County of Poitou
July 1132
THE GRASS WAS HIGH AND GREEN, STILL SOFT TO THE TOUCH, for the barley would not be harvested for months to come. I would dance at the harvest festival, and give out prizes to the peasants. Papa would hand them to me.
At ten years old, I was the lady in my mother’s place; she and my brother had been dead two years already. Papa’s brother, Raymond, lived far away in the Holy Land. He was king in Antioch and would never return to the Aquitaine. I was my father’s heir.
I slipped away from my nurse, Alix, and my other women, though Papa had forbidden it. The beauty of the day called to me; the sun and the wind beckoned me from the keep. I could not stand to stay indoors.
It was dangerous for me to roam without a guard, without a woman to call for help if I was to need it. Though the duchy of Aquitaine and the county of Poitou stretched from Burgundy to the ocean, though my father’s power was great, even he could not protect me when I went out alone. No woman or child was safe even on my father’s lands, and as his heir, I was in more danger than most. A man might take me for ransom and hold my father by the throat; Papa would have paid any price to get me back.
But in spite of the danger, I was never one for obedience. Papa knew that, too.
That summer, the court of Aquitaine was at my father’s hunting lodge of Talmont, near the coast, where my mother and brother had died. Every year we came back, always at the same time. Papa had no masses sung for their souls, for he did not believe in the afterlife the Church promised. He had caught the Church in too many lies to believe in their claims of eternal life, and he had taught me to see through their lies as well. But he mourned my mother and brother in his own silent way, and I mourned with him.
On the day they died, Papa had said to me, “I have no son.”
“You do not need a son,” I told him. “You have me.”
The day I ran out alone, I was restless from being too long indoors. Though my father had promised to let me ride my own horse on our next hunt, I was too small to have a falcon of my own. But there was no hunt that day, so I ran outside by myself, slipping away from Alix and my ladies like a thief.
I moved into the barley fields, triumphant in my escape, heading pell-mell for the sea. But I was not the only one beckoned by the green fields and the sky. As I ran, I saw my father’s favorite lady, Madeline, standing in the barley with Theobold, one of our troubadours. He was a tall man with wide shoulders, as if he spent his time at war and not in song. His dark eyes beckoned to my father’s mistress, and as he took her tiny hand in his, I saw her breath catch.
Madeline was a beautiful woman, the younger daughter of one of my father’s knights. Instead of remarrying upon her husband’s death, at twenty-five Madeline had come to the court of Aquitaine, where she caught my father’s eye. Papa had not offered her marriage, but he had offered her honor, as well as a place beside him on the dais in the great hall, and a place in his bed. She had even been kind to us, making my sister a doll with yarn for hair, dressed in the same silk that had been used to make her own gown. Petra loved that doll. She slept with it still.
So I thought at first that my eyes were dazzled by the morning light. Surely it was another woman who took Theobold’s hand, and lay down with him among the barley grasses, laughing.
I crept closer, the sound of the wind covering my approach. I lay l
ess than ten feet from them, and as I listened, I heard Madeline’s high, sweet laughter, and her voice, speaking low, her words lost to the wind. I crawled on my knees and hands, heedless of my good green gown.
I crouched, so close that I might have cast a stone at them. But the high barley grass, which came almost to my shoulders when I stood, hid me well. They did not see me. I froze where I was, my father’s strictures coming back to me. He reminded me that to sit in the seat of power is to be constantly betrayed, but I had never known such a thing for myself. That day, for the first time, I saw what betrayal was. I felt it in the pain above my heart.
Even then, I hoped that they had simply fallen. But when I came close enough to peer at them through the waving grasses, I saw that there was no sprained ankle, no twisted knee, nor scraped shin between them. They kissed, as I had seen Madeline kiss my father.
Madeline’s long blond hair slipped from her braids, falling about her shoulders in a golden mass that lay against the green of the barley like sunlight. She took her lover into her arms with no thought for my father, or for any of us.
When my mother died, I learned that pain was not something I could run from, something that I might defeat by hiding. Now, as I watched the woman I loved betray my father, my sister, and myself, pain came, and I breathed it in like a fire that burned my lungs.
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