floor. She had a fireplace here, and access to a privy chamber, and she was even able to attend Mass through a private entrance in St Nicholas’s Chapel. Best of all, she was permitted to walk in the inner courtyard, to pick flowers in the garden if she chose. She thought she understood why she was no longer being guarded so zealously. The castle at Sarum was escape-proof, so secure that she could be given a few more liberties.
She learned that she was in the custody of a man she knew, Ralph Fitz Stephen, one of the king’s chamberlains and sheriff of Gloucestershire. She’d had only one awkwardly polite encounter with him since her arrival, for he was rarely at Sarum. It was the constable of the castle, Robert de Lucy, who was responsible for her daily care, and he’d treated her with distant but impeccable courtesy. She knew her neighbor, too, Jocelin de Bohun, the Bishop of Salisbury, who dwelled on the western side of the outer bailey, but he’d so far paid her no visits. This was not a surprise, for he was not the most resolute of men, and wary of incurring the king’s disfavor. He’d sided with Henry over Becket, most likely because he feared the king even more than the archbishop. His loyalty had come at a great cost, for he’d been excommunicated twice by the irate archbishop, and he was destined to be remembered mainly as the man who’d offended a saint. So Eleanor had no expectations of aid from that quarter.
Although she’d found no cause for complaint in her treatment by the constable, the chaplain, servants, or guards, she’d so far had no luck in cultivating another Perrin, and until an unexpected event in mid-August, she’d known nothing of what was occurring in the world beyond the walls of Sarum. This changed, however, when she was granted the privilege of having a visitor.
The man ushered into her chamber was also familiar to her, Reginald Fitz Jocelin, the Bishop-elect of Bath, a cleric who’d been unwillingly caught up in the Becket conflict through no fault of his own. Reginald had a dubious background, for he was the son of Bishop Jocelin. His father had doted upon him, naming him as his archdeacon and thus setting him upon the path toward a church career. He’d been for a time in Becket’s household, but that had ended badly when he’d been lured away by the chance to serve the king. Becket had never forgiven him, bitterly assailing him as “that bastard son of a priest, born of a harlot,” and some felt that the archbishop’s increasing animosity toward Jocelin was actually rooted in his anger with the son.
Eleanor never knew what prompted the visit by Bishop Reginald; he’d offered no explanations. She could only surmise that he was, in his way, striking a blow at Becket, for he’d said enough to indicate that his rancorous memories of the man did not lend themselves to an easy acceptance of the archbishop’s sainthood. But she cared little for his motives. What mattered was that, under the guise of offering spiritual solace, he’d opened a window briefly to the world. From him, she learned the astonishing news of Henry’s penance at Canterbury, and the equally astonishing results. He’d not stayed long, but when he left, she knew that the rebellion in England was dead and her only hopes rested with her sons and the French king, then besieging Rouen. As disheartening as it was to learn of her husband’s triumphs, she still preferred knowing bad news to not knowing any news at all.
Eleanor was not having a good day. The weather could not be faulted; it was a sun-splashed, mild October morning. But she’d begun keeping track of her time at Sarum by marking the wall with charcoal, and she’d suddenly realized that this was Joanna’s ninth birthday. She was sure that Marguerite would make much of her, sure that she’d not lack for either affection or attention. It was hard, though, missing yet another milestone in one of her children’s lives, even harder not to know how many more would be denied her.
She was sitting in the window-seat, watching a small bird flit from bush to bush in the courtyard below, morosely trying to make sense of Bishop Reginald’s story of her husband’s dramatic mea culpa at Becket’s tomb. That sounded so unlike Harry that it baffled her. Whatever had possessed him to humble himself like that? Her first impulse had been to assume it was a cynical, political ploy, a way to gain the Church’s good will and keep the rebels from appropriating Becket for their own ends. But he already had the support of the Pope and the English bishops. And he could easily have performed a public penance that did not involve baring his back to the lash. Could he truly have been that desperate? If so, mayhap Ranulf was right; mayhap she did not know him as well as she’d thought she had.
Her musings were interrupted by the arrival in her lap of a small whirlwind. As she started, the kitten leaped down and scampered away, but soon returned and began to stalk the hem of her gown. Eleanor could not help smiling at its antics. She’d not really expected to take the cat with her into English exile. But Joanna was very single-minded; she’d carried the kitten onboard ship with her, and presented it to her mother in a travel basket as Eleanor made ready to depart for Salisbury. Eleanor was still dubious, assuming it would run away or her new gaoler would confiscate it once she reached Sarum. The constable had not even lifted an eyebrow, though, at the sight of the cat, and had ordered a servant to provide the queen with a box of dirt as if that was an everyday occurrence. Nor had the kitten absconded. To the contrary, it seemed quite content to share Eleanor’s confinement, and within a fortnight, Eleanor was startled to realize how much this little ball of fur had begun to matter to her.
She was luring the kitten closer with the fringed end of her belt when a knock sounded and Sir Ralph Fitz Stephen entered. He greeted her courteously, explaining that he’d returned to Sarum the preceding night, too late to pay his respects. “I wanted to ask if there is anything you need, Madame?”
Eleanor did her best to conceal her surprise, for in nigh on a year, no one had asked that before. With nothing to lose, she said nonchalantly, “As a matter of fact, there is, Sir Ralph. Bishop Jocelin is known to have an excellent library. Time hangs heavy on my hands these days. Would it be possible for me to borrow some of his books?”
To her astonishment, he agreed at once. “I am sure he will be pleased to be of service. I will send a man to the bishop’s palace this very afternoon.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, not wanting him to see how much that meant to her. Books! They would be such a blessing, a way to maintain her sanity. Rolling the dice again, she wondered aloud if the bishop would mind if she made some specific requests, and once again, she won.
“I cannot imagine why he would object, Madame.”
“You are very kind, Sir Ralph.” Very kind, indeed. Why? As best she could see it, he had nothing to gain and quite a bit to lose by coddling his royal prisoner. Why would he risk angering Harry?
“I have received a message from the lord king,” he said, almost as if he’d read her mind. “He has instructed me to provide you with a handmaiden, Madame. If it meets with your approval, I thought I would see if I could find someone suitable in the village.”
“God in Heaven,” she whispered. “He has won. That is it. He has won and so he can afford to spare me a few crumbs from his table.” When he did not answer, she said, with sudden vehemence, “Tell me the truth! I am entitled to that much, surely.”
“Yes, my lady, you are right. The king has prevailed over his enemies, won a great victory. After he routed the French from Rouen, they sought a truce. Both sides met near Tours and signed a peace treaty at Michaelmas. The king was very magnanimous to the rebels, Madame, forbore to punish them as severely as he could have done. He provided most generously for the lord princes, your sons, and they have fully reconciled. The young king is to get a stipend of fifteen thousand Angevin pounds a year. Lord Richard is to be given half the revenues of Poitou, and Lord Geoffrey may draw upon the resources of Brittany. The king also issued a general pardon for all the rebels, save only the Scots king, the Earls of Chester and Leicester, and a Breton lord, Raoul de Fougeres.”
Eleanor’s mouth had gone dry. “And what of me?”
She had her answer in the look he gave her now, one of unmistakable pity. “I am sorry, Madame,” he said, “but there was no mention made of you in the treaty.”
“I see…” Her voice sounded strange even to her own ears, flat and toneless. He must have said something before he withdrew, but she did not hear it. Once she was alone, she moved like one sleepwalking to the bed, sank down upon it. I’ll never forgive you, never. Look upon the sun. You’ll not be seeing it again. The king provided generously for your sons and they have fully reconciled. I’ll never forgive you. Never.
CHAPTER TWENTY
February 1175
Le Mans, Anjou
On the day after Candlemas, Richard and Geoffrey once again did homage to their father; Hal was still
