Louis Capet, seventh of that name to rule France, died on September 18 of that year at Barbeau, the Cistercian abbey he’d founded, and Philippe’s reign officially began.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
July 1181
Winchester, England
Eleanor had just finished dictating a letter to a scribe. “Thank you, Edwin,” she said, and as he departed, she exchanged a look of amused understanding with Amaria, both of them sharing the same thought: that her circumstances had definitely taken a turn for the better. She was permitted to write and even to receive letters now, although she was sure that they were read before being dispatched or delivered. Henry had named Ralf de Glanville as his new justiciar, and she was technically in his custody, although Ralph Fitz Stephen continued in his role as her warden. She’d confided in Amaria that she suspected de Glanville was interpreting the rules of confinement as generously as possible, for he’d struck her as a highly capable man with an eye for the main chance, one too shrewd to make an enemy of their future king’s mother.
“I was writing to my daughter in Castile,” she told Amaria. “Not yet twenty and already the mother of two. My grandchildren are certainly getting singular names: Berengaria and Sancho, Richenza, Lothair, and Otto.” She wondered if there’d ever be an Eleanor. Hal would name a daughter after her if Harry was dead, but would he dare do so whilst his father lived? Richard would, and Geoffrey…mayhap; her third son remained the one she found hardest to read.
“We may as well go down to the great hall,” she said, “for the dinner hour is fast approaching.” Amaria was helping her adjust her wimple when they heard footsteps in the stairwell, and a moment later, the Countess of Chester was announced.
Eleanor’s delighted smile faded at the sight of her friend’s face. “Maud? What is wrong?”
Maud’s eyes filled with tears. “My son…Eleanor, my son is dead.”
“ Drink this, dearest,” Eleanor urged. “Amaria fetched it from the buttery just for you.” She’d held the other woman as Maud wept, knowing there were no words to ease so great a grief. When Maud felt like talking, she listened; when she did not, Eleanor kept silent, and gradually the story emerged. Hugh had taken ill soon after Easter and his condition steadily worsened. He died a fortnight ago at his manor in Staffordshire, only in his thirty- fourth year, leaving a young widow, an eleven-year-old son, and four daughters. Death came for them all in God’s Time, but Eleanor thought it was harder to accept when it came in a man’s prime. Parents should not outlive their children.
“I’ve done my share of mourning.” Maud’s sobs had subsided, but tears still streaked her cheeks. “I lost my parents and my husband, though widowhood was a blessing of sorts. Then Roger was taken, as were all of my brothers except Will, the worst of the lot. Until now I thought my greatest heartbreak was my son Richard, that he never lived to manhood. But now Hugh is gone, too, and all I have left is my daughter.”
“Not so. You have Hugh’s children. And Bertrada, for you’ve often said she is more like a daughter than a daughter-in-law. She is going to need you, Maud, with five children to raise on her own.”
“Hugh had a fine crop of bastards, too,” Maud said, smiling sadly, “four that he acknowledged as his. He’d want me to make sure they were taken care of…Ah, Eleanor, how have you done it? How have you survived nigh on eight years of confinement without going mad with grief or rage or sheer boredom? Teach me how, dear friend, teach me to accept God’s Will as you have done.”
“It is an ongoing struggle, Maud. Too often I have days in which my captivity seems to be Harry’s will, not the Almighty’s. But I persevere, for as a wise Welshwoman once pointed out, what other choice have I?”
“What choice do any of us have?” Maud acknowledged, and they talked for a while of her son, finding comfort in memories of happier times. They spoke, too, of Eleanor’s first husband. Eleanor admitted that she prayed for Louis’s soul, which convinced Maud that she had indeed learned to let go of many of her earthly grudges. Eleanor also shared sad news of her own, that her daughter Marie had been widowed that February. The Count of Champagne had been captured in the Holy Land and although the Emperor of Byzantium ransomed him, his health had suffered in captivity and he’d died on his way home to France.
“Enough,” Maud cried at last. “No more talk of death or regrets or unhealed wounds. Tell me something cheerful, something hopeful, even if you have to make it up!”
“As it happens,” Eleanor said, with a sudden smile as luminous as her eyes, “I do have good news-a letter from my daughter Joanna. She is with child.” And Maud discovered that she could take solace from that, from this reassuring proof that the circle of life was eternal and her son Hugh would live on in his children until the day that they’d be reunited at God’s Throne.
As Morgan and his elder brother walked along the quays of the Rouen waterfront, they were attracting glances from passersby, and Bleddyn finally noticed. “These Norman maidens are bold ones,” he joked, “for they are definitely looking you over, lad.”
Morgan grinned. “I’ll not deny that women find me irresistible, but you’re the one drawing all the attention. They are not accustomed to seeing men with mustaches but no beards, are doubtless wondering what odd and alien land you come from.”
“Passing strange that you should say that, Morgan, for I find the sight of your beard to be just as odd. Who knew you were old enough to shave?”
“Clearly your memory is failing in your old age,” Morgan shot back, “if you’ve forgotten that I turned seventeen in February.” As much as he was enjoying this brotherly banter, he was somewhat surprised by it, too. Bleddyn was almost thirteen years his elder and they’d never before bandied jests and gibes as equals, so he was particularly pleased that his brother was no longer treating him like a fledgling newly fallen from the nest.
When Bleddyn had first sought him out at the castle, he’d gone cold with fear, terrified that he was bringing word of a family tragedy. To his vast relief, Bleddyn assured him that their parents were quite well; he was here with the Lady Emma, who had stopped in Rouen on her way to visit her young son at Laval. Morgan had been astonished to learn that Bleddyn was now serving Emma’s husband, given the long-standing hostility between Davydd ab Owain and their father.
Bleddyn had laughed at his surprise, assuring him that Davydd was actively pursuing friendly relations with the English Crown and Ranulf’s status as the king’s favorite uncle mattered more than his past friendship with Davydd’s slain brother Hywel. Nor did he see any difference between his serving the Prince of North Wales and Morgan’s serving the English king’s son, he’d pointed out dryly. And Morgan had conceded defeat, stopped bedeviling Bleddyn about the loathsome Davydd, and took him out to see the city of Rouen.
So far he’d shown Bleddyn the marketplace, the partially completed cathedral, the archbishop’s palace, and the belfry tower from which two alert monks had spotted the French king’s sneak attack and rang the great bell “Rouvel” in time to alert the citizens and stave off attack until Henry could come to their rescue. Bleddyn did not have any particular interest in Norman towns, but he was willing to indulge his young brother and listened patiently as Morgan bragged about the leper hospital Henry had built five years ago and the stone bridge paid for by his mother, the Empress Maude, and the fact that Rouen had once been a Roman outpost known as Rotomagus. But when Morgan suggested that they visit the tomb of William the Bastard in the Abbey of St Ouen, Bleddyn balked, and expressed his desire to find a tavern, the sooner the better.
“Thank God!” Morgan exclaimed. “I could not take you to the most interesting neighborhoods, for I doubt your wife would appreciate that, so I had to make do with the marketplace and the churches.” Coming to a halt, he glanced around, and then took Bleddyn’s arm. “There is an excellent tavern up ahead, but it is too close to the River Renelle and the tanners’ quarter; as good as their wine is, it cannot compete with the stench. I know another place, though, a bit on the shabby side, but it’ll do us well enough.” And he led his brother into a maze of alleys, showing such an intimate knowledge of the less reputable areas of the city that Bleddyn realized his little brother was indeed growing up.
Once they were seated at a corner table with two henaps of red wine, Morgan brought Bleddyn up to date on
