love. Philip caught Isabelle with one of his knights in compromising circumstances. She swore that they were not lovers, as did the man, but Philip was not convinced. He ordered the knight to be beaten nigh onto death with a mace, then hung by his heels over a cesspit until he suffocated.”
“Jesu,” Eleanor breathed. “What did he do to Isabelle?”
“Well, he would not end the marriage, for then he’d lose her inheritance, Vermandois. So he somehow ‘persuaded’ her to assign her rights to him.” Emma dropped all pretense of insouciance and said, with a hard edge now to her voice, “Better we not know how he managed that.”
“Indeed,” Eleanor said, just as grimly. “God help the girl. It does not matter if she was guilty of adultery or not, does it? The mere appearance of impropriety was enough to damn her.”
Emma nodded, and they both fell silent for a time, contemplating the bleak future of Isabelle of Vermandois and the sad fate of her alleged lover. “I never thought I’d say this,” Eleanor said finally, “but I am glad that my sister is dead. She’d be half mad with fear for her daughter, whilst knowing there was little she could do.”
Emma decided to overlook the unsatisfactory quality of the wine and drained her cup. “There is something else you need to know, Eleanor. Last month, Harry met with Cardinal Ugo Pierleoni, a papal legate he’d invited to England.”
“Harry sought the cardinal out?” Eleanor was astonished, for no papal legate had set foot on English soil during the twenty-one years of her husband’s reign. It did not take her long to guess why Henry wanted to consult a papal legate, and she said, with a thin smile, “So he wants to see if the Pope would be agreeable to the dissolution of his marriage.”
“Well, ostensibly the cardinal’s mission was to settle the interminable feuding between the Sees of York and Canterbury, but I think you can safely assume that the question of your marriage came up in conversation.”
“He’d have no trouble finding grounds for annulment,” Eleanor conceded. “Louis and I made use of that reliable pretext, consanguinity, and Harry could invoke it, too, for we are actually more closely related by blood than Louis and I were. Or if he wanted to break new ground, I suppose he could raise the specter of treason. But then he’d find himself in the very same predicament that faced Louis. Once our marriage was ended, he’d lose any claim to Aquitaine. Somehow I cannot envision Harry being quite as trusting as Louis, bidding me farewell to return to my own duchy, knowing how happy the French king would be to come to my defense, how eager to fulfill his obligations as my liege lord.”
“I agree,” Emma said. “However much Harry might want to rid himself of you, he’d not be willing to yield up Aquitaine, either to you or Richard. It is a tangled coil for certes, a Gordian knot. But this I know. If there is a man capable of escaping that maze, it is my brother.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said reluctantly, “you may well be right. At least I will not be taken by surprise now. Thank you, Emma, for the warning.”
“You are welcome.” Emma rose without haste, smoothing her skirt and adjusting her wimple. “There is one more matter,” she said, “one more good deed I can do for you. Rhiannon told me about the milkmaid.” Her gaze flicked toward the oblivious Edith, an expression of disdain turning down that lovely mouth. “I think I can do us both a good turn, for one of my ladies-in-waiting has been pining away in Wales. I’d send her back to Normandy, but she has no family there. She’s thrice a widow, but barren, and she is too proud to impose upon cousins. Why not speak with her? If she suits you, I’ll be spared her sulks and complaints, and at the least, you’ll have an attendant who speaks French.”
“Would she be willing? It could be argued that serving me is a form of captivity in and of itself. Since she’s not taken vows, I assume the quiet of the cloister holds no appeal for her.”
Emma’s smile was dismissive. “Trust me, she’ll thank God fasting for the chance to escape from Wales.”
Eleanor let her reach the door before she spoke again. “Emma…I have to ask, if only out of curiosity. Why did you come to see me? Why did you warn me that Harry is pondering an annulment?”
Emma paused, silent for so long that Eleanor decided she was not going to answer. “Let’s just say,” she said, “that it was a gesture of good will, one unhappy wife to another.”
Amaria de Torigny was a still-handsome woman in her forties, with wide-set dark eyes, strong but comely features, and more curves than were fashionable. She bore Eleanor’s scrutiny with equanimity, and answered readily enough when she was asked of her history. Yes, she was indeed kin to the abbot of Mont St Michel, a second cousin, she believed. And yes, she had been wed three times and thrice widowed, first as a lass to a neighbor old enough to be her grandfather, then to a Norman knight, and lastly to the steward of the Breton lord, Andre de Vitre, adding that she’d entered the service of the Lady Emma after her last husband’s death.
“And you have no wish to try matrimony a fourth time?” Eleanor queried, both curious and wanting to be sure Amaria could be content in the seclusion of Sarum.
“It would take a brave man to take me to wife, given my sad marital history. To be widowed twice is not so out of the ordinary, but when you lose a third husband, people start to take notice,” Amaria said, so matter-of-factly that Eleanor almost missed it, the faintest gleam of very dry humor.
“And you have no close kin?”
“Yes…I do, Madame,” Amaria corrected, sounding surprised. “I have several brothers and a sister who is a nun at Fontevrault Abbey, and of course, my Laval cousins.”
“I must have misheard the Lady Emma,” Eleanor said, “for I thought she said that you had no children or family back in Normandy.”
“The Lady Emma misspoke. I bore my second husband two babes, one who died when we overlay her in our bed and one who was stillborn. And the Laval cousins I mentioned are kin to Lady Emma’s late husband.”
Eleanor was quiet for a moment, assessing what she’d so far learned. This was a strong woman, strong enough to have buried two children and three husbands and survived. Yet there was something that did not ring true about the entire matter. Emma was not particularly interested in the personal lives of others, and may well have forgotten that Amaria had lost two babies in infancy, assuming that she’d even known. But how could she have forgotten that Amaria was kin to her husband?
“You are wondering what pieces are missing from this puzzle,” Amaria said unexpectedly. “May I speak candidly, Madame?”
“I wish you would.”
“The truth is that the Lady Emma had her own reasons for her offer to you. I have been with her for a year and a half now, and I think I have worn out my welcome. But I am her late husband’s cousin, and so she would not want to dismiss me out of hand. If I entered your service, my lady, my family back in Laval would feel that she’d done right by me. It is true you are in disgrace, but you are still the Queen of England, and that would not fail to impress my brothers.”
“What have you done to displease Emma?” Eleanor asked, although she thought she already knew the answer to that.
“I have my share of failings, Madame, as do we all. But the one that seems to vex the Lady Emma the most is my unfortunate habit of speaking my mind too forthrightly. I’ve never learned the art of dissembling, and it seems that is highly valued in a lady’s maid. Apparently too much candor can become tedious, or so Lady Emma tells me.”
“I suspected as much,” Eleanor said, suppressing a smile. Any woman who’d tell a queen to her face that she was “in disgrace” would not flourish in the artificial, mannered society of the highborn. The “art of dissembling” was more than a virtue in the corridors of power; it was a survival skill.
Amaria was watching her intently. “I suppose I’ve ruined my chances,” she said, sounding resigned but not apologetic. “I did not think it was likely you’d take me on, in truth. Thank you, my lady.”
As she started to rise, Eleanor waved her back. “You are too hasty, Lady Amaria. As it happens, I think you’ll do very well.”
“Truly?” Amaria hid neither her surprise nor her pleasure. “I’d never have wagered on that outcome, my lady!” she said and grinned. “If my outspokenness did not put you off, I feared you might be suspicious, wondering if this was not a plot concocted by Lady Emma and the king to place a spy in your household.”
Eleanor laughed outright. “The thought did cross my mind. But I could see no profit in it. You see, Amaria, the victor rarely bothers to spy upon the vanquished.” She rose then, indicating the interview was over. “You may tell the Lady Emma that I will be pleased to have you join my household, such as it is.”
