manner, so that it will be more pleasant for us both.”
“For you, you mean.” There was contempt in the rustic voice.
“Of course. But you would benefit too.”
There was a pause as Amaria thought about this. “I’m not supposed to talk much to you, lady,” she said, “just to see to your needs.”
“I will not ask you to talk about why I am here,” Eleanor promised. “Just about yourself and matters of general interest. I am interested to know how you came to be in attendance on me.”
“When the Lady Alice de Porhoet was here as hostage, my husband had charge of her, and I helped look after her. That were some years back, but since then I’ve acted as waiting woman to other visiting ladies, on occasion.”
“Were some of them hostages, like the Lady Alice?”
“I don’t know. All I were told was that I had given satisfaction and that the Lord King were pleased with me. I reckoned that were why I were sent for the other day and told as I was to have charge of you, lady.”
“Did they tell you why I am here?” Eleanor asked.
“No, just that you were the King’s prisoner.”
“But you have heard rumors, yes?”
The surly look was back, the woman’s lips pursed. “I can’t talk about that.”
“Fair enough,” Eleanor said evenly, anxious not to kill off this fragile rapport before it had gone beyond the budding stage. “Tell me, do you have children?”
“I have the one boy, Mark, who’s twelve. He be in the cathedral school at Canterbury. He’s a clever boy. Going into the Church.” Amaria’s eyes suddenly softened with pride and she looked quite different. Eleanor could even see that she might have been pretty once.
“You must be so proud of him,” she said. “I am a mother too, so I understand how you must feel. Our children are the most important thing in the world, aren’t they?” She wondered if Amaria was astute enough to get the message she was trying to put across, if the woman realized that she was trying to tell her that whatever she had done, it had been for her sons.
Amaria was regarding her with a puzzled but concerned frown, but quickly looked away when Eleanor smiled hopefully at her. “I must clear these things,” she said, and began piling up the breakfast clutter.
“I need some necessaries,” Eleanor said.
“In the chest,” Amaria said. Eleanor knelt, lifted the lid, and found a pile of clean clouts for the monthly courses that, in her, had long since ceased, fresh chemises, headrails, and hose, all strewn with fresh herbs, and two gowns, one of Lincoln green, the other of dark blue woolen cloth, both plain and serviceable. Nothing regal or grand here—being stripped of the trappings of her rank was clearly all part of her punishment. She wondered, with sinking fear, which gown she would wear to her execution.
“I can see that you had a hand in preparing these,” she said appreciatively to Amaria. “Thank you.” The woman looked nonplussed; plainly, she did not know what to make of her queen. Maybe she had been expecting a monster, Eleanor thought, and has been surprised to find that I am a creature of flesh and blood much as she is— and that I love my sons as much as she clearly loves hers. That, at least, was something upon which she could build.
“There is one other thing,” she said, getting to her feet. “I should be grateful to have the consolation of faith in this my ordeal. Might it be possible for a priest to be sent to me?”
“I will ask, lady,” Amaria said, and rapped again on the door.
She was back within a quarter of an hour. “Father Hugh will come tomorrow morning to hear your confession and say mass,” she told Eleanor. Already her manner was warmer.
As Amaria busied herself with making the bed, Eleanor sat down in the single chair and wondered what on earth she was going to do during the long hours that stretched ahead. She desperately needed something to occupy her, to keep her mind from wandering down fearful paths. But there were none of the things with which she was used to passing the time: no books, no musical instruments, no embroidery, no ladies to challenge with games of chess or riddles—and, of course, no possibility of riding out for the hunt, or even walking in the gardens. Her imprisonment, although it was not as bad as she had anticipated, felt suffocating; she could not bear it a moment longer.
But she must. She must do
“Tell me, Amaria, how do you like to pass the time?”
“I sew,” the woman said. “And I used to like tending my little garden, but the cottage is gone now. No need for me to keep it on.”
“Do you think I could help with some sewing?” Eleanor asked. “I have nothing to do.”
“There’s a pile of sheets need turning,” Amaria said.
“Then let’s set to,” Eleanor said gratefully.
“I’ll fetch them.” The woman’s face creased into what could have passed for a smile. “Strikes me I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be sitting mending sheets with the Queen of England!”
It was the afternoon of the second day, and the pile of sheets seemed only a fraction lower than on the previous morning. Eleanor was sitting there wishing that she had something more mentally stimulating to take her mind off her predicament, but was thankful that at least Amaria had grown, if not exactly friendly, then more amiable. They had managed to keep a steady conversation going, touching on food, childbirth, travel, and a host of other mundane things. Eleanor was desperate to confide in the woman, but dared not risk compromising the delicate accord between them. But she needed to unburden her fears to someone. The priest had been no good; he was an old man, doddery and deaf, and heard her whispered confession with sage weariness, then mumbled some undemanding penance. She had performed it immediately, reciting her Hail Marys as she bent to her needle. It was a tough challenge, she realized, sitting here sewing with nothing else to distract her fevered mind, and thinking she might go mad.
Yet she was not to fret in idleness for long. Suddenly, the door opened and the captain of the guard entered.
“Make ready, lady, the King comes this way,” he announced, then backed out of the door. “You, woman, follow me,” he said to Amaria, and then Eleanor found herself alone, facing her destiny. Dread filled her soul as she heard Henry’s spurs clinking at a brisk rate up the stairs, then the spears parted once more and he burst into the room, a portly figure in his customary plain hunting gear, his bull head thrust forward, his red curls and beard threaded with iron gray, his eyes icy with fury and hatred. Eleanor took one look at him and knew this was not going to be easy. Had she ever hoped it would be?
She curtsied and bent her head, observing the proper courtesies. Of course, it might have been more politic to kneel, or prostrate herself, as a supplicant, but she was not the one at fault here, she reminded herself. Not that maintaining that position would help her, she knew, but she could not accept that she was in the wrong.
“There are no words to describe what I think of you,” Henry growled without preamble. She looked up, but he would not meet her steady, hostile gaze. “This is the bitterest betrayal of my whole life,” he declared, his face puce with anger and distress.
“There was no reasoning with you,” Eleanor said evenly. “You could have seen it coming. God knows, I tried to warn you what might happen if you persisted in your unjust treatment of our sons. Did you really expect me, as their mother, to stand by and let you do it?”
“Do you know what you have done?” Henry snarled. “Half of Europe is up in arms against me, and that includes your whoreson vassals of Aquitaine! They make this quarrel their excuse to rise in protest at what they like to call my oppressive rule.”
“Look to yourself, Henry!” Eleanor flung back. “Look who is really to blame.”
“Don’t try to excuse your conduct,” he spat. “You have offended grievously, and you are trying to shift the blame on others. Thanks to you and your sons, my kingdom is under threat; why, I could even lose my crown! Is that the act of a dutiful and loyal wife? It is outrageous, beyond belief! I tell you, Eleanor, you could look at all the old chronicles and find numerous examples of sons rising up against their father, but none of a queen rebelling against her husband. You will make me the pity and laughingstock of Christendom. They are even saying that this is God’s punishment on me for entering into an incestuous marriage. Incestuous? Diabolic, more like!”
He was beside himself; there could be no reasoning with him, so it was not even worth trying.
“What are you going to do?” she challenged, trying to keep her voice steady. “Are you going to put me on
