and smiled. “You’ve always had an ear for choice gossip, and I hope you’ve a scandal or two to share.”
“A few. But you must be hungry for word of your children. Shall I begin with them?”
“Actually, Harry has been good this past year about keeping me informed of family matters. He notified me when Joanna came ashore at Naples, and when she reached Palermo at Candlemas, he sent me an account of her spectacular entry into the city. It was night and there were so many torches flaring that the city seemed on fire. Joanna was mounted on a white palfrey, clad in her best robes, with her hair loose about her shoulders, a magnet for every eye. She and William were wed less than a fortnight after her arrival, and that same day she was crowned by the Archbishop of Palermo.”
Maud knew her own daughter would have been overwhelmed by such splendor and ceremony, but Joanna was made of stronger stuff and she suspected that Eleanor’s daughter would have enjoyed being the center of attention, the brightest star in the firmament. She hoped that the fates would be kind to Joanna, that she would find contentment in her new life and her new island home.
“Harry has also informed me whenever Richard or Geoffrey have won a victory over Poitevin or Breton rebels,” Eleanor continued, “and he even kept me apprised of John’s prospects, telling me that he plans to make John Lord of Ireland, and letting me know last summer when he plight-trothed John to your brother William’s daughter Avisa.”
“So you know of that, too? Harry is certainly determined to make sure that none ever call John ‘Lackland’ again.” The proposed marriage could make John Earl of Gloucester one day since William did not have any male heirs. But the earl did have two other daughters, and Maud knew their husbands were very disgruntled by the marriage settlement, for under normal circumstances, the earldom would have been divided between all three daughters. The Viscount of Limoges had been so outraged when Henry refused to allow Rainald’s earldom of Cornwall to pass to his wife and her sisters that he’d been in rebellion ever since. Maud hoped that the earldom of Gloucester would not prove to be as disruptive. She hoped, too, that John appreciated how lucky he was; few youngest sons were so lavishly provided for.
“Well,” she said lightly, “I did promise you some good gossip. I’m sure you’ve heard that Hugh Bigod died on pilgrimage-proof that the Almighty has a sense of humor-and his son Roger is feuding fiercely with his stepmother, Hugh’s widow. There are rumors that Louis is considering wedding his youngest daughter, Agnes, to the Emperor of Byzantium’s son. The Earl of Essex is in the Holy Land with the Count of Flanders, and Harry’s sister Emma is in Wales with child.”
Eleanor wondered if Emma had welcomed the news of her pregnancy. The pressure to produce a male heir could be intense, as she well remembered from her years with Louis. But a child also sealed her fate; a barren wife could hope for the dissolution of her marriage. “All that is interesting, Maud, but hardly scandalous or shocking.”
“This next story is both. One of your vassals, the Count of La Marche, suspected his wife of infidelity. He repudiated her and had her supposed lover put to death, on Easter, of all holy days. But his only son died suddenly soon thereafter, and he is said to be in despair, stricken as much by guilt as by grief. It seems his ‘proof’ of adultery was not as conclusive as he first thought, and now he fears that God took his son as punishment for executing an innocent man.” She paused then, almost imperceptibly. “And Rosamund Clifford died last December at Godstow nunnery.”
“Ah,” Eleanor said, “I see.” That explained the mystery, then, why she’d withdrawn from the court. “Harry has not been very lucky of late, has he?”
“I’d say not,” Maud agreed. Noting Eleanor’s apparent indifference to Rosamund, she wondered if she should make any mention of Harry’s latest leman, and decided to be circumspect for once.
Eleanor seemed to have read her mind, though. “So tell me, Maud…who is Harry swiving these days? Somehow I doubt that he’s been living like a monk just because Rosamund wanted to live her last days as a nun.”
Maud grinned. “No, not Harry. He’s had bedmates, of course, this past year. And I’ve heard talk that he’s taken up with the daughter of the Lord of Conches, but her name escapes me at the moment.”
“Most likely it escapes Harry, too,” Eleanor said, but she sounded cynically amused, not bitter.
Maud studied the other woman thoughtfully. “I must say that you seem to be faring much better than I’d have expected.”
“Better than I’d have expected, too,” Eleanor admitted. “The first two years were the hardest, and not just because I was so cut off from the rest of the world. I still had hope, then, you see, and hope can be both a blessing and a curse. But it has been much easier for me at Winchester. It helped greatly to be able to spend so much time with Joanna last summer, and to see my sons again, of course. And, as you can tell, Harry is a more gentle gaoler these days. We had one dreadful storm at Falaise and several lesser tempests after that, but lately the weather has been almost peaceful…almost.”
“Yes, I can see that Harry’s wounds are not quite as raw. But neither are yours, and that surprises me. You are still his prisoner, after all.”
“Good of you to point that out,” Eleanor said dryly. “Trust me, I am not likely to forget.” Rising, she said, “Come, walk with me.” They moved from the sun into the shade, halting under the spreading branches of a medlar tree. “When Emma came to visit me,” Eleanor said after a silence, “she expressed surprise that I seemed to have been examining my conscience, and I told her that it helped to pass the time. Time is a prisoner’s worst enemy, Maud. Suddenly there are so many empty hours to fill, endless days to get through. So, yes, I have been thinking a great deal about my past and my future. I even came to understand why Harry and I misunderstood each other so fatally.”
“And what did you decide?”
“Harry has always seen me, first and foremost, as his wife. But I have always seen myself, first and foremost, as the Duchess of Aquitaine.”
Maud had reached that same conclusion, but she hadn’t expected Eleanor to see it, too. “So if you had it to do over again…?”
“I would have paid more heed to your sound advice,” Eleanor said with a slight smile. “And I would have listened more to the mother, less to the duchess. I did not realize how grievously Joanna would be hurt, and I should have. Nor is Joanna the only one to suffer for our family mistakes and misjudgments. I am sure my older daughters have been sorely troubled, too.”
“And John,” Maud said, thinking of the wary little boy she’d seen at the Nottingham Christmas Court.
“Yes, and John,” Eleanor agreed. “Say what you will of us, Maud, Harry and I do nothing by halves. I still think that I was in the right and he was in the wrong. You cannot treat a mettlesome destrier the way you would a plodding sumpter horse, not without goading it to defiance or utterly breaking its spirit, and I fear that the mistakes he has made and continues to make with our sons will haunt him till the end of his days. But when I look back upon the scorched, barren battlefield that our marriage has become, I can take no pride in being right.”
Maud had cocked her head, regarding Eleanor with something almost like awe. “By God,” she said, “you truly have changed!”
“No…not yet,” Eleanor said, with another ghostly smile. “But I am trying.”
Eleanor was surprised when Henry did not appear for dinner in the great hall, for it was filled with highborn guests, including three bishops. Taking his steward aside after the meal, she got from him a reluctant admission that the king’s leg was worse. As she and Amaria made their way back to her chamber, she came to a sudden halt, sent Amaria on ahead, and impulsively headed for Henry’s bedchamber.
The antechamber was crowded, as always, but Henry’s brother Hamelin was guarding access to the inner sanctum, and he reacted to Eleanor’s entrance with outrage, barring the door with his own body.
“Oh, for the love of God, Hamelin,” Eleanor snapped, “stop acting like a damned fool and let me by.”
“Indeed, I will not. The king is ailing, and he does not need to be vexed by unwelcome visitors, especially those who might prove injurious to his health!”
“I do not have time for this nonsense!” Over Hamelin’s shoulder, she could catch a glimpse of her husband, and called out, “Harry, will you tell this dolt to admit me?”
To her annoyance, he took his time in thinking it over. “Let her pass, Hamelin,” he said at last. “I promise to be on my guard.”
When Hamelin grudgingly gave way, she swept by him disdainfully, then slammed the door in his face. “Thank
