she would remind them that she had found prison to be a terrible thing, and that those who were released from it experienced such a delightful refreshment of the spirits that they would make sure never to risk such punishment again. She would make herself exceedingly respected and beloved, to her son’s benefit and that of the whole kingdom.
With God’s help, she would do all this and more, with wisdom and compassion, and in her own name: Eleanor, by the grace of God, Queen of England.
ENVOI
Winchester, 1189
Eleanor thought her heart would burst with joy when she beheld Richard, in all the golden beauty of his manhood, striding toward her across the vast length of the great hall in Winchester Castle. As she stepped forward from the dais, and he caught her in his strong arms and embraced her, the whole court burst into cheers and applause. Then, in all humility, the King knelt for his mother’s blessing, which she gave with gladness.
With due state and ceremony, Richard ascended to his throne; there were in fact two thrones, side by side, with nothing to distinguish one from the other in precedence or importance. Eleanor saw by this that her son was resolved to treat her as an equal.
But he had not yet sat down in his high place; he remained standing before her, facing the assembled throng. “My lords and ladies!” he cried in ringing tones. “I wish to express now, before you all, my deepest gratitude to my Lady Mother the Queen for so ably securing this kingdom for me. I cannot sufficiently do her honor, but I would ask you now always to remember how especially dear she is to me, and treat her accordingly.”
Eleanor’s eyes brimmed as she rose and curtsied before the acclaim of the people. It was awhile before she could see clearly to watch the great ceremonies that were being enacted to welcome the King to his realm.
“And now, my lady,” Richard said much later, in a lower voice, “let us be private, for I would unburden myself to you.”
As soon as they were alone in his great chamber, which she’d had done up so gorgeously against his coming, he turned and grasped both her hands, gazing down on her with a troubled countenance.
“My lady, I am aware that, through rebelling against my father, I have earned the disapproval of good and wise men,” he confessed, his strong, handsome face flushing a little. “Do you too censure me for it?”
He looked for a moment like a little boy again, seeking his mother’s forgiveness for some silly prank. But this was no childish silliness; he had cruelly made war on his father, against all the laws of God and Nature, and Eleanor had found that difficult to reconcile with her cherished notions of her son, however just his cause had been. She had reminded herself, often, that had not Richard rebelled, John would have stayed faithful, and Henry would have been spared that last, bitter betrayal. But, of course, Henry had been wrong in the first place …
“I make no judgment until I have heard what you have to say,” she said carefully.
“Then know this, Mother. I crucify myself every day for what I did to my father—and yet, I know that if I had it all to do again, I would do the same. I had the right of it, you see. But he is gone now, and I cannot mend things between us. Instead, to make up for my past wrongs, I will do all I can to show honor to you as my mother. He would have wanted that. And I hope that my obedience to you will atone for my offense against my father. Will that suffice? Can you forgive me?”
Eleanor gazed lovingly into his eyes. “Yes, Richard, of course. Our Lord teaches us that to err is human, to forgive divine. Before he left me for the last time, your father and I pledged our forgiveness to each other. I can do no less for you, his son and mine. Yes, I forgive you, with all my heart. And I am sure that if Henry has attained Heaven and is looking down on us, he would forgive you too.”
She sank into a chair, overcome by the emotion of the moment. “This reminds me of a prophecy of Merlin that I never thought to see fulfilled,” she said. “He foretold that the ‘Eagle of the Broken Covenant’ should rejoice in her third nesting. I puzzled over that for years. But now I know for certain that I am indeed that eagle, and that the broken covenant was indeed my marriage to your father—I suspected that much long ago, but I knew that the latter part of the prophecy had yet to be fulfilled. And now it has. It is you, Richard, my third son, who is my third nesting. It is in you that my heart rejoices. You are the one who will raise my name to great glory, as the seer foretold.”
The King turned to look at her with those arresting, ice-blue eyes.
“No, my lady,” he said. “If anyone has raised your name to glory, it is yourself.”
EPILOGUE
Abbey of Fontevrault, March 1204
The old lady stirred restlessly in her sleep, and the young nun seated beside the bed looked up anxiously from her book of hours. It was hard to believe that this frail, papery-skinned, aged woman was the fabled Queen Eleanor, wife to two kings and mother to two more: great Eleanor, whose fame—or notoriety, depending on what you believed about her—spanned Christendom and beyond. Great Eleanor, who was now a humble bride of Christ.
Sister Amice rose, straightened the fine wool coverlets and bleached cotton sheets, rearranged the old lady’s veil on her pillow, and murmured a prayer for her. Eleanor was very old, all of eighty-two, a great age for anyone, and her superb health and vigor had finally yielded to time. She existed as one dead to the world, tended by her sisters in religion in her beloved abbey of Fontevrault, that blessed retreat nestling in its luscious wooded valley in the heartlands of the River Loire.
Mother Abbess Mathilde de Boheme peered around the door.
“How is our sister?” she inquired. The young nun fell to her knees.
“Sleeping, Mother, thanks be to God.”
“She will not wake again,” Mathilde predicted. “It is a mercy. She will never know that her son, that iniquitous King John, has lost Normandy to the French. We must thank God for this kindness.” Raising her hand in blessing, the abbess glided away to her other manifold duties.
They think I cannot hear them, Eleanor thought, that I lie here senseless, waiting for eternity. The truth is, I am too weary for human company. I have made my peace with my Maker and am ready to be called to His judgment seat. I am confessed and shriven, ready for my journey. It will not be long now. All that are left to me are my memories. So much to think back on, over the course of a long life fully lived, and not always wisely. It took a long and bitter imprisonment and the advancing years to teach me true wisdom. I learned it the hard way. Oh, but it was sweet to be young and foolish, to love and be loved, to lust …
She stirred again, her old body, even now, remembering.
There is much to regret too, she reflected, thinking of the consequences of her follies. I could wish a lot of my deeds undone. I was impetuous, governed by my desires, unheeding of the needs of others. Poor Louis … I led him a merry dance, timid, monkish prince that he was. And Henry … what did we do to each other? How could it have ended the way it did? Then Richard, my golden, lionhearted son, favorite of my brood and love of my life—but dead too soon, cruelly sundered from me by an assassin’s arrow. We will be reunited very shortly, my beloved prince …
What sounded like a sob came from the figure on the narrow bed, and the young nun looked up. But Eleanor seemed to be lying there peacefully.
Richard was in God’s hands, as she herself would be soon. It was the memory of Henry that held her. There had been so much bitterness that it was easy to forget how it once was between them, before faithlessness, bloody murder, and rebellion had riven them apart. Yet now, at the last, she wished to remember, to savor, how glorious it had been in the beginning, how it all started; and, for the thousandth time, to make herself understand what had gone wrong. Yet she doubted she ever would.
Who would have thought, she mused, as a faint smile played upon her sunken lips, that we would have fallen for each other as headily as we did, and in so doing, shocked the world? Even now it was hard to believe. No poet
