Amaria had gotten to her feet as soon as Eleanor rose. “You will not be sorry, my lady. Well, at least I hope not,” she amended and curtsied before moving toward the door. There she paused. “Madame…I would not pretend to know the king’s mind, have only seen him briefly. But at Windsor he seemed surprisingly tense and troubled for a man you call the ‘victor.’” And then, fearing she’d overstepped her bounds before she’d even entered Eleanor’s service, she curtsied again and backed out the door.
Eleanor sat down again on the settle. There was some satisfaction in the image conjured up by Amaria’s words. As wretched as she was, she wanted Harry to be miserable, too. And yet, she was aware of an underlying sense of sadness. Theirs may have been the first war in which there were no winners, only losers.
C HAPTER T WENTY-TWO
February 1176
Woodstock, England
Meliora watched from a distance as the king emerged into the manor bailey. He did not look happy, and her spirits sank; it must not have gone well with Rosamund. She waited until he’d entered the great hall before making her way to the royal bedchamber. There she found Rosamund huddled on the bed, weeping as if she’d never stop.
“Ah, lamb…” Scrambling up onto the bed, she gathered the younger woman into her arms. “The king would not agree, then?”
“No…” Rosamund looked up, blue eyes swollen to slits, her face streaked with tears. “I tried so hard to make him understand, Meliora. I told him how much I wanted to retire to the nunnery at Godstow, that I could no longer live in a state of sin. But he became very distraught. He asked if I still loved him, and of course, I had to say that I did and I do. He insisted that was what mattered, and we could find a way to ease my mind. He said he could not bear to lose me-”
She sobbed again, seemed to have so much trouble catching her breath that an alarmed Meliora slid off the bed and brought her a cup of wine, urging her to drink. Rosamund obediently took a swallow, and then wiped her face with her sleeve. “Tell me what to do, Meliora. I cannot bear to cause him such pain, but this is the kindest way…I know that. If I cannot convince him of this, though…”
Meliora found herself blinking back tears of her own. “You may have to tell him the truth, lamb,” she said softly. But as she expected, Rosamund shook her head vehemently.
“No! I will not do that to him. I will not make him watch me die!”
Meliora did not know what to say, and rocked Rosamund in her arms until her sobs subsided and eventually she fell into an exhausted sleep. Only then did she get her mantle and leave the chamber.
Outside, she halted in confusion, unsure what to do next. She considered the idea of going to the king herself, but not for long. She could not betray Rosamund’s confidence. Nor had she the courage to confront the king, to argue without the one weapon that might sway him. Who in Christendom did?
An icy rain had fallen earlier in the day. It was dry now, but the bailey was still muddy and windswept as she started toward the chapel, intending to beseech the Almighty to aid His daughter Rosamund in her time of travail. She’d only gone a few steps, though, before she came to an abrupt halt, staring at the man who’d just exited the great hall. The Lord God had answered her prayers, for there was one at Woodstock with the courage to tell the king what he did not want to hear, and the moral authority to prevail without revealing Rosamund’s illness.
“My lord bishop!” As Roger turned, she hastened toward him, would have sunk to her knees in the mud before him had he not stopped her. “I am Dame Meliora, Your Grace, handmaiden to the Lady Rosamund. Can you spare a few moments for me? It is a matter of the greatest urgency-the state of my lady’s immortal soul.”
“ Why did you insist upon dragging me out to the springs, Roger?” Henry cast a pessimistic glance at the overcast sky. “We’re likely to have to swim back to the manor.”
Roger decided they’d come far enough and slowed his steps. “I wanted to speak with you in privacy,” he said, “with no fear of prying eyes or pricked ears.”
“About what?”
“Sin.”
Henry’s brows shot upward. “You do remember, Cousin, that you are not my confessor?”
“I am not jesting, Harry. This is too grave a matter for that. I need to speak with you about the Lady Rosamund Clifford.”
“Indeed?” Henry’s voice had hardened; Roger could see the tightening of the muscles along his jaw. “Rosamund is none of your concern, my lord bishop.”
“Harry…you must let her go.”
“She spoke to you about this…about Godstow?” Henry sounded incredulous and then, defiant. “As I said, this is none of your concern. Let it be, Roger.”
“I cannot do that, my lord king, for the stakes are too high. If you love her-and I think you do-that is why you must let her withdraw to the nunnery at Godstow priory.”
“I do love her,” Henry said, “and that is why I will not let her go. This is but a whim of hers, a fancy that will pass. I know her, Roger. You do not.”
Roger was silent, marshaling his arguments, regretting his promise to Meliora that he’d say nothing of Rosamund’s suspicions, the recurring pain in her breast. Henry was scowling, but Roger took heart from the fact that he’d not stalked away in a royal rage. He hoped that meant his cousin was not as free of misgivings as he claimed. “I am willing to risk your anger,” he said quietly, “for royal favor means little when balanced against eternal damnation. It is my concern for her immortal soul that bids me be so bold with you. She gave up much for your sake, Cousin…her maidenhead, her honor, marriage, and motherhood. Would you have her give up her chances of salvation, too?”
“Damn you,” Henry said, low voiced. He’d backed against a nearby oak, a massive tree barren of leaves, gnarled and ancient. “Damn you,” he said again, even as his shoulders slumped and the color drained from his face.
The Benedictine nunnery of St Mary and St John the Baptist had been founded in the year of Henry’s birth. Situated on an island between two streams of the River Thames just north of Oxford, it had always been a haven for Rosamund; she’d been educated there and still had a deep and abiding love for the convent and the nuns who’d schooled her in her youth. Standing in the familiar priory precincts to bid farewell to the king, Rosamund experienced a sense of utter unreality. Was this a dream or had her long love affair with Harry been one?
They had exchanged their private farewell the night before at Woodstock, and so they were formal now in the presence of Prioress Edith and the other nuns. Henry kissed her hand and she made a respectful curtsy, even though she knew that the nuns were well aware of their scandalous liaison.
“I have to attend a great council with the papal legate next month in London,” Henry murmured, too softly for any ears but Rosamund’s, “and then I’ll be holding my Easter Court at Winchester. I will stop to see you on the way.”
“Go with God, my lord,” she whispered, seeing him through a blur of tears.
“ Come,” Prioress Edith said briskly as soon as Henry and his men had departed. “We have prepared a guest house for you.”
Rosamund was honored that the prioress herself had chosen to escort them. She’d known they would make her welcome; the king’s favor would be a great blessing for the priory. But she was touched to find so many of the nuns waiting for her at her new lodgings. As her anxiety about her reception had increased, the pragmatic Meliora had pointed out that she’d been very generous with the convent since becoming the king’s mistress. To Rosamund, that counted for little against the shame of adultery. So far, though, she’d encountered no hostility or disdain, neither overt nor implied. Nuns who had taught her in her youth greeted her warmly as a former pupil, not as a wanton seeking redemption.
Seeing the exhaustion etched into Rosamund’s face and posture, the prioress sent the other nuns off to their
