terms with the troubadour culture in which she was steeped.
The lead singer was a beautiful young man with long red hair, full lips, and sad eyes. He fixed them boldly on Eleanor as he rose from an elaborate bow.
“This for you,
There was a stunned pause as the singer fell silent. Drunk as they were, Henry’s courtiers had seen their master’s face darken, and were refraining from applauding in case of provoking his notorious temper. Eleanor sat tense in her chair, relishing the tribute paid to her in the song, and smiling fixedly, yet graciously, at the young singer, as courtesy—and the best traditions of the South—demanded. She did not dare look at her husband.
“You are bold, minstrel,” Henry said at last. “Overbold, methinks.”
“Lord King, I mean no offense,” the young man protested, clearly surprised that anyone should take his song amiss. “The beauty of the Queen is sung of even in my land. Her fame is great. Our young men sigh for a glimpse of her.”
“Yes, yes, so it appears,” said Henry testily. “Well, you can stop sighing and play us something more appropriate. And remember, minstrel”—he leaned forward menacingly—“the only arms in which this beautiful queen will ever lie are mine!”
There was general mirth as the discomfited youth bowed and hastily launched into a well-known song about the heroic Chevalier Roland, which was much more to the martial taste of the barons and knights present, who clapped and roared their approval. Eleanor now ventured to look Henry’s way and, to her astonishment, found him smiling at her.
“Yon bold fellow has some nerve, but he has put me in mind of how fortunate I am!” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “Will you lie close in my arms tonight, my lady?”
It was at that moment that Eleanor caught sight of Becket’s face over Henry’s shoulder, and saw the fleeting, anguished look of naked longing and pain that was quickly replaced by the chancellor’s usual suave, aloof expression. Becket had been looking at Henry; he could not but have seen the courtly gesture and heard what the King had said.
So that’s how things are, Eleanor thought. He suffers an unrequited love, a love to which he dare not ever own up, for he knows it is forbidden and that it will never be returned, and he is sworn to chastity. But he is jealous. He knows that this is one part of Henry’s life over which he cannot hold sway; that in the final reckoning, I will always be the victor. Yet strangely, she felt no sense of triumph—only sadness for the sterility and emptiness of her rival’s existence.
Henry was leaning over and nuzzling her neck. She watched Becket murmur his excuses, bow, and leave the hall, his young attendants scrambling to follow him.
15
Wallingford, 1156
Eleanor sometimes wondered what she was doing, riding around England seven months into her latest pregnancy, issuing writs and charters, and ensuring that the kingdom was efficiently governed during Henry’s latest absence. He was in Normandy, paying homage to Louis for Aquitaine at last, and curbing the ambitions of little brother Geoffrey, which even the formidable Empress had failed to hold in check.
Eleanor had with her a sizable retinue, which included her sons, her sister Petronilla, and her half brothers, William and Joscelin. They were now lodged at Wallingford, in the impregnable castle that had been of such strategic importance during Stephen’s wars, but were given to the Queen as part of her dower.
Already Eleanor’s brothers were becoming restive. They had made no secret of the fact that they disliked England. It was too cold, and the food was ghastly. Soon, they warned her, by her leave, they would return to the sunnier climes of Aquitaine. That gave her a pang. She always tried her best not to think of her own land, knowing that it might be many moons, and probably years, before she saw it again. Understanding their homesickness, she had told William and Joscelin that they might depart whenever they wished, with her blessing; she would not keep them here against her will. She knew they would go soon. They were not creatures of the court, but men of property who had fiefdoms to look after. She would be sorry to see them go, but glad for them, all the same.
Eleanor was resting in her bower with her feet up, reading letters, when Petronilla, a little blurred at the edges with wine, as she so often was these days, knocked and entered.
“Eleanor, I think you should come and see young William. He has developed a fever in this last hour, and the nurse is a little concerned.”
Weary and ungainly as she was, Eleanor got clumsily but hastily to her feet, her heart full of fear. Children died young—it was a common occurrence—and she had only yesterday given thanks to God for being blessed with such healthy boys. Had she been too complacent? Had there been some symptom she had missed? She had last seen William after dinner; he seemed well enough then, had eaten up every morsel, so she had been told. Maybe she was overreacting—but she did not think so. She had appointed the best nurse to be had, and if
As swiftly as she could she ascended the turret stairs to the princes’ apartments on the topmost floor of the keep, a weepy Petronilla lurching in her wake. Bursting into the boys’ bedchamber, she found William lying hot and sweating beneath the rich covers, surrounded by his own nurse and Young Henry’s, the rockers who tended Henry’s cradle, and the nursery servants. As they all stood aside to allow the Queen to approach the bed, she could see from their expressions that her alarm was justified. In the far corner the bastard Geoffrey stood taking it all in, his little face taut with fright. There was much love between him and his half brothers.
“William, sweeting,” Eleanor said, sinking to her knees and clasping her son’s limp hand. He did not respond. The fever was at its height, and he was barely conscious, moaning fitfully in his stupor, his black curls on the pillow wet with perspiration. This could not be happening! He had been well and thriving only hours before!
Eleanor felt her son’s brow. It was burning.
“When did this come on?” she asked, her voice abrupt with terror.
“An hour ago, lady,” Alice, William’s nurse, replied. There were tears of distress—and fear—in her eyes. “Young ones of that age—he’s not yet three—take ill quickly; they’re up and down like windmills.”
“He’s so hot!” Eleanor cried, running her hands over his small body, frantic to do something to alleviate her child’s plight. “We must uncover him.”
“That be dangerous.” Alice frowned, aghast. “He’d catch cold and it could kill him.”
“Then what are we to do?” the Queen almost sobbed, gathering her child to her breast and rocking him in her arms. “Oh, my boy, my little boy! Get better for Mother, please!” She turned desperately to the attendants.
