To their chagrin the hoofbeats followed them. They quickened their pace, but the terrain was stony and Eleanor’s horse stumbled. Looking around in dismay, she could now see the approaching party of riders, and knew without a doubt that it was Henry’s men come for her.
“Escape! Scatter!” she cried to her escort. “It is me they want. Go now, if you value your lives.” The soldiers hesitated, saluted her briefly, impressed by her courage, then cantered away. Alone, she turned to face her pursuers.
——
They had not recognized her at first. Of course, they were looking for a queen. Instead, they had been confronted by a strange knight on a white horse, holding up his hands in surrender. It had momentarily thrown them.
“Messire, we seek Queen Eleanor,” the sergeant called as they drew near. “If you help us find her, we will not harm you.”
“I
The sergeant recovered his equilibrium and swallowed. “Lady, I am directed to apprehend you in the King’s name for plotting treason against him,” he said gruffly. “We have orders to take you to him in Rouen.”
They were not unkind to her. They did not insist on manacling or chaining her, but rode closely on either side of her through the long ride north, one always holding her bridle, so that she had no chance of fleeing from them. At Chatellerault, they stopped briefly to buy her a plain black gown and decent headrail, then stood guard over the back room they had commandeered at an inn, so she could change into these more seemly clothes. There was no mirror, of course, and she supposed she looked a fright, but at least they let her bring some of the contents of her saddlebag, which mercifully included a comb and the pot of salve. Women’s things, harmless.
When she emerged, the men looked at her furtively, and she even detected a touch of admiration in their faces. She could not have known—or cared—that she looked quite beautiful in the simple gown and veil, with her long hair in two braids, her features drawn from anxiety but still arresting. Nor did she realize that whatever she had done to injure the King, her daring flight held in it something of the legends and stirring tales on which these soldiers had been bred. Already, her own legend was in the making.
No, she did not care what became of her, she told herself, as they brought her some passable duck roasted in its own fat, and a flagon of ale, and locked her in the back room to eat it all by herself. What she did care about was what might be happening to her sons. She was in an agony to know that, and terrified lest any evil had befallen them. Were they even now shut up in a prison in Rouen?
When the sergeant came himself to take away her barely touched trencher, she tried to pump him for information.
“Please, messire, do you have any news of my sons?” she asked. The tears in her eyes were genuine.
The sergeant was a personable, heavily muscled married man in his thirties, and stolidly committed to completing the duty assigned him, getting paid, then going home to his wife and stolid daughters in Angers. He was a reliable, moral man without much imagination, and unlikely to succumb to the wiles of a clever woman, and Henry had chosen him for this task for that quality alone. But when he looked at his queen, helpless and in distress, his upright heart softened and he was briefly tempted to bend the rules a little. But then he thought of the hoped-for promotion to captain that might be his by way of reward for this service to his king; it had been hinted at, and even if it never materialized, there was still a bonus in gold coins to be collected. So he pulled himself up, and said abruptly, “My orders, lady, are simply to convey you to the King in Rouen. I am forbidden to speak of anything but domestic matters.”
“Then I will be domestic,” Eleanor said, and in that moment the sergeant realized that given the chance, she might run rings around him. She stood up, wringing her hands, her expression pleading. “At least tell me that my sons are in health. Please!”
The man hesitated. He remembered how his wife had been distraught when their five-year-old had gone missing for just a few minutes in the marketplace; how she had agonized that time the baby was ill of a fever. He swallowed. It could do no harm … and it was, as the Queen said, domestic.
“I have not heard anything to the contrary,” he said, and left the room, impervious to Eleanor calling down blessings on him for his kindness.
Tours. Le Mans. Alencon. The trek north seemed endless, although they kept up a good pace. Eleanor got nothing more out of the sergeant, and she had dismissed the men-at-arms as being dull oafs, unable even to communicate coherently. She sensed that they were in awe of her and became tongue-tied in her presence, and took perverse glee in trying to get them to engage in conversation, and in making the occasional mild jest. Then, having provoked little response, she grew weary and gave up. Her heart was too heavy to brook any diversion for long. Soon, she was aware, she would be brought face-to-face with Henry. The prospect filled her with dread. What would he do? Would he carry out his threat to kill her if she betrayed him? If so, she was a dead woman—and then what would become of her sons? Her blood turned to ice in her veins as she confronted the very real possibility of Henry’s vengeance having fatal consequences for herself.
PART FOUR
Poor Prisoner
1173–1189
47
Rouen, 1173
It was growing dark as they approached the late Empress’s palace outside the walls of Rouen. Eleanor had spent much of the journey imagining how Henry would receive her. Would it be in private, to spare her humiliation —and his? Or would he go so far as to parade her, his captive, before the whole court? She would not put it past him. Then again, Henry might not receive her at all. He might have her shut up in a dungeon, and not again see the light of day until she was brought to her judgment.
Her heart was racing as they approached the palace and the drawbridge was lowered. She was aware that she must look a sorry sight, travel-stained and no doubt haggard with apprehension, and that her gown stank with the sweat engendered by fear. Dear God, she prayed, give me the courage to face with dignity what may lie ahead!
Word of their coming had preceded them, and in the courtyard, one of the King’s captains, with four men- at-arms at his heels, came forward to relieve the sergeant and his men of their illustrious charge. When Eleanor dismounted, the captain bowed stiffly.
“My lady, you must come with me,” he said, and led her, his men following close behind, to the door to one of the towers in which guests were usually accommodated. Momentarily, she was thrown by this, but after they climbed the narrow spiral staircase to the topmost floor, she could see that the door to the single chamber had been fitted with a new lock. This, then, was to be her prison.
The captain opened the door and indicated that she should enter. She went warily, half expecting that Henry would be waiting inside for her. But there was only a woman standing there in the candlelight, a stocky, hatchet- faced body of indeterminate age, wearing a gray wool gown, a snowy wimple, and a hostile expression. Was this to be her gaoler? Her heart sank. Almost, she would have preferred to see Henry in a rage.
“Amaria is to be your personal servant, my lady,” the captain told her, his face impassive, his eyes fixed at a point beyond her shoulder.
“My guardian, you mean!” Eleanor retorted, finding her voice. She sensed the woman bristling.
“No,” he told her. “The King has appointed this woman to see to your needs. For your security, guards will immediately be posted outside this door, and at the outer door below. Amaria may come and go as she needs, to fetch necessaries, but I would advise you, my lady, not to be so foolish as to attempt to escape. It will go harder for
