“Have the physicians been sent for?”
“They are here,” said Petronilla, her face white, her voice shaking. “And the chaplain.”
At mention of the chaplain, Eleanor began to tremble, and tightened her arms around William’s fevered body. His head was against her shoulder, damp and tousled; his eyes were closed. How could her sweet, innocent child be struck down so rapidly? It was like a nightmare from which she would surely soon wake.
The physicians gathered by the bed. They pulled back the covers and took turns examining the patient, their faces grave.
“It is an imbalance of the humors, my lady,” one pronounced. “We could try bleeding him, although it might be best to let him sweat it out.”
“I will make up a remedy of caraway, cucumber, and licorice,” said a second. “They are all trusted cures for fever.”
William was tossing fitfully. Eleanor felt his brow again. It was hot. Her hands roved searchingly over his restless little body and touched dry heat; he was burning up, and no longer seemed to be aware of her. She was praying inwardly, desperately bargaining with God, willing Him to restore her son to health.
I will promise anything, Lord, she vowed, anything at all, in return for his life.
Just then William’s body stiffened and his limbs went rigid. His head jerked back and his arms and legs began to convulse. His skin seemed to drain of blood and took on a blue tinge.
“Dear God,
“It is the fever, my lady,” they told her helplessly, with tears in their eyes. “It has reached its crisis. We can but wait for it to pass. The Lord William is in God’s hands now.”
The terrifying jerking ceased almost as suddenly as it had begun. William’s body went limp and mercifully he lay at peace, his breathing shallow.
“Thank God!” Eleanor sobbed, collapsing to her knees by the little bed and clasping the child tightly, rocking him gently in her arms for what seemed like an eternity, not daring to let him go. Behind her the physicians were shaking their heads. They had seen the tiny hand fall lifeless onto the coverlet. It was only when Eleanor had finally laid her son gently back on the pillow that she realized he had gone from her forever.
16
Rouen, 1160–Four Years Later
Eleanor smiled despite herself as the fair-haired little girl, unsteady on her feet, was escorted by her guardian, the Chief Justiciar of Normandy, up to the altar rails of the cathedral of Notre Dame. There, awaiting her, stood her bridegroom, the Lord Henry, heir to England, Normandy, and Anjou, fidgeting in his best tunic and cloak, his red curls crowned with a small gold circlet. His father, King Henry, was smiling too, well satisfied with this new marriage alliance, and, standing beside him, the Empress was nodding her approval. This was a fitting match for her grandson.
The bride, not quite three years old, performed a wobbly curtsey to the King and Queen and, at the bidding of the justiciar, placed her hand in that of the Lord Henry. Then the papal legate stepped forward and began intoning the marriage service.
Eleanor watched, her younger children at her side. Matilda, who had been born during that terrible time of mourning for poor William, was the physical image of her grandmother, for whom she had been named, yet a much gentler soul. Her pleasant, placid round face was framed by the red-gold locks of her race. She was a good, dutiful girl, and one day would make some lucky prince a fine wife.
Geoffrey, two years old, black-haired, handsome, and willful, clung to Eleanor’s hand. As the King and Queen’s third living son, he was already aware of the need to assert himself against his older brothers, and knew that he came lowest in their pecking order. But he had the tenacity to hold his own and to make his mark, Eleanor thought. No one will make a fool of my Geoffrey.
Behind her, firmly constrained by his nurse, the plump and motherly Hodierna, fidgeted Henry and Eleanor’s middle son, three-year-old Richard, a handsome, robust, and vigorous little boy with angelic features and the Plantagenet red hair and temper. If any of the Queen’s children could be said to have replaced her precious William, it was Richard. When they had laid him in her arms, bloody and bawling after he came bursting from her womb, ready to take on the world, she had looked upon him and instantly fallen in love. It was wrong, she knew, but he was by far her favorite of all her brood. She could not help it. She loved him so fiercely that it almost hurt, and lived in dread that anything evil would befall him. It was inexplicable, but her fears for him were far greater than her fears for her other children. She had not realized it was possible for a mother to feel such love.
There was an old, cryptic prophecy of Merlin’s, so legend had it, that predicted the “Eagle of the Broken Covenant” would rejoice in her third nesting. Since Richard’s birth, Eleanor had often wondered if she was the eagle the magician had foretold; an eagle whose wings had stretched out over two kingdoms. And could her divorce from Louis be the broken covenant? Richard was her third son; she rejoiced in him already, but the prophecy indicated that she would have even more cause to do so in the fullness of time. One day, Henry had agreed, Richard would succeed her in Aquitaine. She could not have imagined anything more fitting, or a better cause for rejoicing.
She would not allow herself, on this happy day, to think of the two sons who were missing from her brood. Little William was a constant ache of longing in her heart; the memory of him always brought tears to her eyes. She would repeatedly relive the shock of his death as if it had happened yesterday; the pain of her loss never got any better. And little Philip, dead before his navel healed. He was a poignant ghost, a fleeting joy in her life, who had also been cruelly snatched away.
Resolutely, she put away her painful memories and looked on smiling as her eldest son made his wedding vows. Young Henry was a true knight in the making, but headstrong and unruly, needing a firm hand. She could tell he was impatient to be back in the palace courtyard, playing with the royal wards who were his companions, skirmishing with wooden swords and shields, or competing noisily with miniature bows and arrows. This marriage would make little difference to his life, for the Princess Marguerite would be brought up away from the court— although that was a sore point with Eleanor—and taught those things that were deemed fitting for girls, as well as the duties of a future queen.
Eleanor was struck by how much like Louis the little girl was. The same fair hair, the fine features, the gentle charm. Pray God she shows more spirit, she thought. Marguerite was Louis’s daughter by his second wife, Constance, and ever since her birth, Henry had schemed to marry her to his heir. If Louis died without a son to succeed him, Marguerite would be his coheiress with her half sisters, Eleanor’s daughters, Marie and Alix. There could be rich pickings for the husbands of those princesses, and even a kingdom to be won, if might could triumph over right. That was Henry’s long-term ambition and hope …
It was Becket who had gone to Paris and negotiated the new alliance—Becket, with his magnificent escort and lavish gifts to impress and sweeten the French. He was received like a visiting prince. The immediate benefit of the marriage alliance had been a new peace between Henry and Louis, who were now the very best of friends, all past wrongs and differences forgotten. Henry had paid a state visit to the French king in Paris, and they even went on a pilgrimage through Normandy to Mont Saint-Michel. The baby Marguerite had by then been handed over by her mother to Henry, and Louis had visited her in the castle at Neubourg, where he pronounced himself more than satisfied with the arrangements made for her care.
These arrangements were the one jarring note in the negotiations. Eleanor could not forget it. Henry might have been forgiven for the past, but
Eleanor was furious.
“Does he think me morally unfit, or a bad mother?” she stormed at Henry in the privacy of their chamber. “That I will corrupt his daughter, or not look after her properly?”
“Let it be, Eleanor,” Henry said wearily. “What is important is this alliance. Neither Thomas nor I wanted to jeopardize it by arguing the matter. Marguerite is Louis’s daughter, and he must do as he thinks best regarding her care.”
“He has insulted me,” Eleanor raged, “and you and your beloved Thomas are letting him get away with
