“Can you not break the betrothal?”
“And lose the county of Berry, Alys’s dowry?”
Eleanor remembered Henry’s glee at having secured that rich prize, all those years ago. But what of Alys herself? she wondered. Is it because he still lusts after marrying her himself and cannot bear to send her back to Paris?
“No,” Henry was saying, “I have enough to deal with just now with Richard and John quarreling, and I don’t want Philip exploiting it.”
This was news to their mother. “Richard and
“Yes,” Henry sighed. “Richard is now my heir.” They were both silent for a moment, remembering why. “And yet,” he continued, with an effort, “it seems unfair that he should get England, Normandy, Anjou, and Aquitaine, while John has only a few scattered estates and Ireland. The Irish don’t like the idea, but it might be helpful to have a royal presence in Dublin and the Pale surrounding it to keep their native kings in order. What I was saying was that John will inherit very little, and I want to redress that, if people are not to call him ‘John Lackland’.” He laughed grimly at his own joke, then got up and began pacing restlessly around the room. Eleanor could sense his discomfort, and that what he was about to say might not be what she would want to hear.
Henry turned to face her. “I have called both Richard and John to make peace between them, and a settlement that is fairer to John—and I’ve brought you in because I want your approval.” It concerns Aquitaine, she thought, in alarm.
“I want Richard to cede Aquitaine to John, and have John swear fealty to him as his overlord,” Henry said.
“No!” Eleanor said unhesitatingly.
“Be reasonable,” Henry wheedled. “What does it matter if Richard or John has Aquitaine?”
“It matters to me!” she retorted, rising to face him. “I nurtured Richard as my heir. The South is in his blood. John neither knows nor cares about Aquitaine.”
“He would quickly learn to, if he were its duke. Eleanor, you’re not very good at concealing the fact that Richard is your favorite and that you have very little love for John. That blinds you to all other considerations.” Henry’s gaze was challenging.
“Ask Richard what he thinks of this plan, then!” she flared. “You know you will dispose of Aquitaine regardless of what I think—but he is the one most nearly concerned. And, I warn you, Henry: alienate him over this—and you will drive him into the arms of Philip!”
“Very well, we will have him here!” Henry said, and shouted down the stairwell for someone to go and fetch the Duke of Aquitaine.
Richard could not speak, he was so enraged. A look of thunder clouded his chiseled features.
“Well?” Henry prompted.
“Are you going to ride roughshod over us both?” Eleanor asked him.
“Richard?” his father barked. “My son, you must see that this is an altogether fairer disposition of my domains.”
Richard thrust his furious face into the King’s. “I am a southerner. My Lady Mother raised me from my infancy to be her heir. I love that land of Aquitaine. I have spent years fighting to hold and keep it, and you ask me to relinquish it to John? To that light-minded, lazy, greedy wastrel who has barely set foot in Aquitaine, let alone learned how to govern it? Pshaw! The place will be a bloodbath within a week without a firm hand in control of it!”
“I will give you Alys—now,” Henry said, as if he were dangling a carrot before a donkey. Richard threw him a strange look that Eleanor could not quite interpret.
“Leave her out of it for now!” he snapped. “Tell me, Father—do you mean to make John your heir? Will it be Aquitaine now, and Normandy next, and then Anjou, Maine, and England—the whole bloody empire for the son you love best?” Eleanor caught her breath—that had not occurred to her.
Henry’s face darkened. “No,” he spat. “How could you think that? Has Philip been whispering treason in your ear?”
“He has good cause, with my marriage being continually postponed!” Richard was beside himself with rage. “He thinks you delay the wedding because you mean to marry Alys yourself, so that she can bear you sons and dispossess us.”
Eleanor’s hand flew to her mouth. “Is this true, Henry?” she cried, appalled at the terrible prospect opened up by her son’s harsh words.
“Of course not,” Henry answered, a shade too quickly. “It’s some nonsense that Philip has fed him. Besides, have I not just said he can marry Alys now?”
“He has said that several times and retracted it,” Richard said, his tone bitter. “I wish I could believe him this time.”
“You can have Alys if you surrender Aquitaine to John,” Henry offered brightly.
“No!” said Eleanor.
“I should have her anyway!” Richard roared. “We’ve been betrothed since we were children.”
“Go away and think it over,” Henry told him.
“I’ll go to Hell first!” his son riposted. “And I’ll appeal to the Church to support me, see if I don’t!”
“If you won’t marry her, I’ll give Alys to John,” Henry threatened.
“You
Eleanor looked coldly upon Henry. “And you think
“Peace, woman,” Henry growled. “Had you supported me, this would not have happened.”
“Oh, I think Richard spoke for himself—he does not need his mother’s approval!” she retorted.
59
Berkhamstead, Woodstock, and Winchester, 1184
Henry sent her back to England in the custody of Ralph FitzStephen. She knew he feared she might stir up more trouble in Richard’s defense, and smarted with the unfairness of it all. Although she had been promised her freedom, she was effectively a prisoner once more, presumed guilty until time should prove her innocent. The cage would be gilded, but it was a cage no less.
She was forced to brave the turbulent January seas, then a hard ride to Berkhamstead Castle, Becket’s former luxurious residence, which was looking a little worn and frayed after years of neglect. Here, in company with the ghosts and remembrances of the past, she kept Easter with her daughter Matilda, who was pregnant yet again. Afterward, Matilda returned to the lodgings that had been assigned her in Winchester Castle, and Eleanor was removed to Woodstock.
She did not want to go there, to that place with its painful, unhallowed memories, but had little choice in the matter. The King had sent orders, and that was that. She wondered if he had done it to spite her. At least she was not required to sleep in Rosamund’s tower—that was now locked up and deserted—but in the Queen’s chambers in the hunting lodge itself. Her high window looked out upon the labyrinth—now an overgrown wilderness abandoned to Dame Nature.
She would have liked to ignore it, but it drew her, remorselessly, almost supernaturally, and one early June evening, bored by the tedium of her dreary leisure hours, she felt an urgent need to take the air, and found her steps tracing the bracken-strewn paving stones that led to the entrance of the maze. She had to untangle some branches to get in, and tore her veil on a briar, but soon she was through, and able to make her way along the weed-infested paths. Fortunately, whoever designed the labyrinth had laid them out broadly, so the encroaching foliage did not impede her progress too much. Soon, by keeping her wits about her, she found the wide arbor at the
