type worn by many middle-and upper-class matrons.
“And what is your business here?” Eleanor could not help her hectoring tone. She had to know who—and what—this young female was.
“I live here by order of my Lord the King,” Rosamund answered, a touch defensively. “May I ask who it is who wishes to know?”
Eleanor could not speak. Her heart was racing in horror. Was this child—for she could be no more than that—the reason for Henry’s strange, distant behavior? Had he installed her here as his mistress? Or—her mind raced on—was this Rosamund some bastard child of his?
“I am Queen Eleanor,” she said, her voice sounding far more confident than she felt, and was gratified to see the girl gather her shift about her and drop hurriedly into an obeisance.
“My lady, forgive me,” she bleated.
Keeping her on her knees, Eleanor placed one finger under Rosaimund’s chin and tilted it upward, daring her to meet her eye, but the young chit would not look directly at her.
“I will not beat about the bush,” the Queen said. “Tell me the truth. Are you his mistress?”
Rosamund began trembling like a frightened animal.
“Are you?” Eleanor repeated sharply.
“My lady, forgive me!” burst out the girl, beginning to cry. Eleanor withdrew her hand as if it were scalded. She thought she would die, right then and there, she felt so sick to her stomach. He had betrayed her with this little whore. This beautiful little whore. Her hand flew protectively to the infant under her thudding heart.
“Do you realize that this is his child?” she cried accusingly.
Rosamund did not answer; she was sobbing helplessly now.
“Tears will avail you nothing,” Eleanor said coldly, wishing she too could indulge in the luxury of weeping, and marveling that her emotions had not betrayed her further. But it was anger that was keeping her from collapsing in grief.
“Do you know what I could do to you?” Her eyes narrowed as she moved—menacingly, she hoped—closer toward the sniveling creature kneeling before her. She was filled with hatred. She wanted this girl to suffer, as she herself was suffering. “I could have you whipped! If I had a mind to, I could call for a dagger and stab you, or have your food poisoned. Yes, Rosamund de Clifford, it would give me great pleasure to think of you, every time they bring you those choice dainties that my husband has no doubt ordered for you, wondering if your next mouthful might be your last!”
“My lady, please, spare me!” the girl cried out. “I did not ask for this.” But Eleanor was beside herself with rage.
“I suppose you are going to tell me that you went to him unwillingly, that he raped you,” she spat.
“No, no, it was not like that!”
“Then what
“My lady will know that one does not refuse the King,” Rosamund said in a low, shaking voice. “But”—and now Eleanor could detect a faint note of defiance—“I did love him, and what I gave I gave willingly.”
Her words were like knives twisting in the older woman’s heart.
“You loved him? How touching!”
“I did—I still do. And he loves me. He told me.”
“You are a fool!” Eleanor’s voice cracked as she spat out the words. “And you won’t be the first trollop to be seduced by a man’s fair speech.”
Rosamund raised wet eyes to her, eyes that now held a challenge. “But, madame,” she said quietly, “he does love me. He stayed here with me all last autumn, winter, and spring. He built me this tower, and a labyrinth for my pleasure. And he has commanded me to stay here and await his return.”
Eleanor was speechless. Her wrath had suddenly evaporated, swept away by shock and grief, and she knew she was about to break down. She must not do so in front of this insolent girl, must not let her see how deeply those cruel barbs had wounded her, far more than her empty threats could have frightened her adversary. Like an animal with a mortal hurt, she wanted to retreat to a dark place and die.
There were voices drifting up from the stairwell; her attendants would be wondering what was going on, were no doubt coming to find her. She must not let them see her here, a betrayed wife with her younger rival.
“Never let me set eyes on you again!” she hissed at Rosamund, then turned her back on the girl, glided from the room with as much dignity as she could muster, closing the door firmly behind her, and descended the stairs.
“The sewing women are up there,” she announced to the ladies who were climbing the stairs in search of her. “I was admiring their skill.” She was surprised at her own composure. “It seems that the steward was right, that many works are being carried out here. This place is wholly unfit for habitation. Like it or not, we must make for Oxford.” She knew she had to get away from Woodstock as quickly as possible. She could not endure to share a roof with Rosamund de Clifford, or even breathe the same air. She must go somewhere she could lick her wounds in peace.
“Now?” echoed her women. “Madame, you should rest before we attempt to move on.”
“There will be an inn on the road,” Eleanor said firmly.
The King’s House at Oxford was a vast complex of buildings surrounded by a strong stone wall; it looked like a fortress, but was in fact a splendid residence adorned with wall paintings in bright hues and richly appointed suites for the King and Queen. Here, in happier days long past, Eleanor’s beloved Richard had been born, slipping eagerly into the world with the minimum of fuss. But this latest babe, unlike its older siblings, did not seem to want to be born, and small wonder it was, Eleanor thought, when the world was such a cruel place.
She had no heart for this labor. She pushed and she strained, but to little effect. It had been hours now, and the midwife was shaking her head in concern. It had been a great honor, being summoned at short notice to order the Queen’s confinement, but the good woman was fearful for her future—and her high reputation in the town—for if mother or child were lost, almost certainly the King would point the finger of blame at her.
Petronilla, tipsy as usual, for she had resorted to the wine flagon to banish her demons, was seated by the bed, holding Eleanor’s hand and looking tragic, as the other ladies bustled around with ewers of hot water and clean, bleached towels. Petronilla knew she would be devastated if her sister died in childbed; she adored Eleanor, relied on her for so many things, and knew her life would be bleak without her. No one else understood why Petronilla had to drink herself into oblivion. Other people looked askance and were censorious, but not Eleanor. Eleanor had also known the pain of losing her children. She too had suffered that cruel sundering, had learned to live with empty arms and an aching heart. Petronilla knew, as few did, how Eleanor had kept on writing to those French daughters of hers, hoping to reseal a bond that had long ago been severed. She knew too that there had been no reply, apart from on one occasion, when hope had sprung briefly in her sister’s breast; but evidently, the young Countess Marie had not thought it worth establishing a correspondence—and Petronilla supposed that one could hardly blame her.
Yes, Eleanor too had her crosses to bear—and probably more than she would admit to. Something odd had happened at Woodstock, Petronilla was sure of it. Before that, Eleanor seemed strong and resolute, a fighter ready to take on all challengers. Now she appeared to have lost the will to live. It was incomprehensible, the change in her—and terrifying. Gulping back another sob, Petronilla reached again for her goblet.
Eleanor lay in a twilight world, enduring the ever more frequent onslaughts of pain as her contractions grew stronger, then retreating to a place where no one could reach her. She almost welcomed the agony of childbirth: it was far preferable to the agony that Henry and his whore had inflicted on her. He had inflicted this ordeal on her too, yet she would have welcomed it a thousand times had it been the result of an unsullied love between them. But that was all finished. He had betrayed her, and she was done with him. This would indeed be her last child. She knew it.
The ordeal went on for hours. They brought her holy relics to kiss, slid knives under the bed to cut the pain. None of it did any good, and, had Death come for her, she would have welcomed him. It was not until the dawn, on Christmas Eve, that the infant who was the cause—and the fruit—of her agony finally came sniveling into the world, a tragic bundle of bloodied limbs and dark red hair.
“A boy, my lady!” the midwife announced jubilantly, breathless with relief.
Eleanor turned her face away.
