suffered from blisters and saddle sores and cramped muscles, all of which she endured in stubborn silence. By now she thought she knew where they were heading: either to Falaise or to the port of Barfleur. The latter destination would mean that she was being taken to England, and if that were so, she could only cry aloud with Job, “Where is now my hope?” Falaise was preferable to England, but not by much. Chinon had been the repository of good memories, happier times, and it was less than forty miles from Poitiers. Falaise was deep in the heart of Normandy, a royal castle but also a royal prison, a fortress of war in a windswept, inhospitable land where she’d find few friends. Falaise, too, was not a place where hope could flourish.
From Domfront they headed northeast, and by dusk, they were within sight of the towering twin keeps of the ancient stronghold of Falaise, looking as if it had been carved from the steep cliffs that overshadowed the marshes and ravines of the River Ante. As thankful as she was to have reached the end of her journey, Eleanor could not suppress a shiver as she gazed up at those grim, foreboding walls.
At Falaise, she was once more treated with courtesy, not deference. She was being held in a small chamber in the keep, lit only by a single shuttered window, heated by a charcoal brazier. It was not suitable accommodations for the Queen of England, but she suspected it was preferable to the lodgings of the other royal prisoner, the hapless Earl of Chester. She was neither hungry nor cold. She was isolated, though, cut off from the normal rhythms and routines of castle life, her only contacts with the servants who brought her meals and tidied up her room. Never before had she been deprived of women attendants to assist her in dressing and to keep her company. She missed her dogs, missed her books, missed the music that had echoed throughout the halls of her Poitiers palace. She was left alone with her own thoughts, and they were not pleasant ones.
At Loches and Chinon, she had retreated behind her court mask, showing her gaolers the queen, never the woman. Aloof and remote, she’d dared them to breach the invisible wall she’d erected around herself, clothed in pride as men rode off to war in chain mail. But at Falaise, she changed her tactics, for now that the shock of her seizure was wearing off, she realized that her self-imposed solitude was not serving her interests.
In her youth, she’d been an accomplished flirt. Her mirror had not yet become her enemy, but she was no longer young. After studying her guards with care, she finally selected a lanky, gangling boy not much older than her sons. It had taken little effort to gain Perrin’s good will, required no more than a few smiles and the light, teasing tone that she used with Richard.
Perrin was soon her unwitting accomplice and her conduit, sharing with her his news, gossip, and rumors. From Perrin, she learned that on the day of her capture, her husband had entered the city of Vendome in triumph, having restored the count to power and vanquished his rebellious son. She learned that the Earl of Leicester and his rebel countess had been sent from England and were now sharing her confinement at Falaise. But Perrin could tell her nothing of what was happening in her own domains. What had that whoreson Porteclie told them? Did her Poitevins know that she had been seized by Harry’s men? Did they think she was dead? Or had she just vanished, her disappearance cloaked in mystery, her fate unknown?
Five days after her arrival at Falaise, Eleanor awoke to find winter had laid claim to Normandy during the night. Opening the shutters, she stood at the window, gazing down upon the snow-coated roofs and steep, icy streets of the village. The air was cold, colder than in Poitiers, and the wind carried the damp chill of the sea, for they were less than thirty miles from the coast.
She was still at the window when a deferential knock sounded and Perrin entered with a tray-bread, cheese, and wine to break her fast. She closed the shutters, smiling to see a small branch of holly beside her wine cup. The day before, the boy had brought a fragrant sprig of winter marjoram, doubtless stolen from the castle herb gardens. The holly was a dark shade of emerald, festooned with bright red berries, a vivid flash of color midst the drabness of her confinement. But her smile faded as she glanced over at Perrin, for he was visibly perturbed.
“My lady…” He hesitated and then blurted out, “One of the sergeants told me that the king will be holding his Christmas Court at Caen.”
“I see…” As their eyes met, they shared the same understanding. Caen was twenty miles north of Falaise. Her day of reckoning was coming sooner than she expected.
After Perrin had departed, Eleanor went back to bed. Propping a pillow behind her, she shut her eyes and tried to think calmly, objectively. She truly did not know what to expect. Her husband had been remarkably lenient with rebels in the past, for he never seemed to take it personally. Because he saw their rebellions in political terms, his detachment allowed him to forgive his adversaries in the interest of the greater good, a stable, peaceful kingdom. The clemency he’d accorded the Breton lords was not unusual for him; unlike most men, he could be dispassionate about treachery. The only time he’d shown himself to be vengeful or vindictive was the one time that he’d seen the betrayal as personal-with Thomas Becket. Eleanor had rarely been so cold; she could feel goose bumps rising on her skin, even after she’d burrowed under the blankets. Few betrayals could be more personal than that of a wife and a queen.
She did not think her life was in danger. It was true that one of Henry’s more notorious ancestors, the brutal Fulk Nerra, had burned his wife at the stake for the crime of adultery. That had occurred almost two hundred years ago, though, and the unfortunate woman had not been a ruler in her own right. As Henry’s wife, she was at his mercy. Errant or unwanted wives could be banished to nunneries, shut up in remote castles, meet untimely, convenient deaths, and few would protest. But the Duchess of Aquitaine could not just disappear. Her vassals, her lords and barons would demand answers. So would her sons.
Logic told her that the worst she had to fear was imprisonment, and judging by the conditions at Falaise, it would not be a harsh confinement. When Maurice de Craon had returned to Chinon and escorted her to Falaise, he was obviously acting under Henry’s orders. If he’d wanted her cast into a dungeon, it would have been done already.
Logic also told her that she need not fear the violence that so many women must suffer in silence. Theirs was a world in which both Church and society sanctioned a husband’s right to discipline his wayward wife. A woman who is not under the headship of the husband violates the condition of nature, the mandate of the Apostle, and the law of Scripture. The Archbishop of Rouen’s bitter rebuke had been a blunt summary of a woman’s subordinate role in the eyes of the Almighty. And she was wed to a king, a man known for his fiery temper. But in more than twenty years of marriage, he had never raised his hand to her.
She’d long ago concluded that she owed Henry’s forbearance to his family history. His parents’ marriage had been as turbulent as it was wretched. It had been doomed from the first, for Maude was twenty-five, the beautiful and imperious widow of the Holy Roman Emperor, and Geoffrey was fifteen, a spirited, spoiled youth used to getting his own way. She had not wanted the marriage, but her father had given her no choice. After being an empress, Maude felt it was demeaning to be a mere countess, and she was outraged to find herself yoked to a headstrong boy. Geoffrey was accustomed to females who were compliant and adoring, for he was wealthy, highborn, and so handsome that he was called Geoffrey le Bel. He was not prepared for a wife who was worldly, alluring, and disdainful, and he’d soon begun lashing out with his fists. When he decided that he’d had enough and sent her home to her father, she’d found no sympathy at the English court. The old English king cared nothing for her bruises and humiliation, blamed her for her marital woes, and persuaded Geoffrey to take her back. They’d eventually reached a tenuous truce, but Henry’s earliest memories were of turmoil and discord, and those memories had left their mark.
So she should feel confident about facing him. Why, then, did she feel such unease? Because this was uncharted territory. When had a king ever been defied by his own queen? Who could predict what he would do? It was possible he did not even know that himself. Eleanor nestled deeper in the bed, vowing to stop torturing herself with conjecture and supposition that served for naught. She’d know soon enough. Despite her determination, though, she could not sleep.
Two days later, Perrin alerted her that a rider had been sent ahead to prepare for the king’s arrival. The next day, though, he was absent from his duties. Another man brought her meals, and served her with a swagger, a jarring familiarity she’d not encountered before. After years of dealing with prideful Poitevin barons, she had no difficulty in putting him in his place, and he gave her no further cause for complaint. But when he delivered her dinner that afternoon, he watched her from the corner of his eye with a smug smile, and she knew then that her husband was expected at any time.
