Eleanor passed through narrow, cobbled streets lined with the timbered houses of prosperous merchants and fine churches. Presently, she saw before her the impressive Romanesque cathedral of Notre Dame, with its high, tiered tower dedicated to St. Romain. Inside, she was told, were the tombs of Henry’s ancestors, the early Dukes of Normandy, right back to the Viking Rollo, who had seized the duchy in the tenth century. Impatient though she was to see her lord and to have her meeting with his mother over and done with, she graciously acceded to the citizens’ pleas that she enter the cathedral and marvel at its glories.
When she emerged, her eyes dazzled by sunlight after the gloom of the dimly lit interior, she became aware of the crowds parting for a small party of horsemen who were riding toward her across the market square, their hooves clattering on the cobbles. She squinted at them as they pulled up a few feet away, then as their leader dismounted, recognized the wonderfully familiar hunting attire and realized, her heart leaping with joy, that it was Henry, come to welcome her. Shaking with excitement, she sank to her knees as he approached.
“Eleanor, you should not kneel to me!” he exclaimed, grasping her delicate hands in his strong ones and raising her to her feet. She looked at him and marveled. A youth had gone away sixteen months before, and come back a man. A new maturity cloaked him with ease and invested him with greater authority and assurance. At twenty-one, Henry was battle-hardened, taut of muscle, ferocious with energy. His cropped red head jutted forward from his bull neck as he bent and kissed her full on the lips.
“You are most welcome, my lady,” he beamed, his voice cracked and husky as he spoke the formal words of greeting suitable for such a public occasion.
It was wonderful to hear that voice again, to see his face, and to have him near her. Battling surges of lust and the need to cry joyous tears, Eleanor gladly placed her hand on his as he led her to her mount. It was obvious from his expression that he was as delighted to see her as she was to see him; he was grinning broadly, and there was a highly suggestive glint in his eyes that promised glorious bed sports later. But for now they were duke and duchess, reunited, and must show themselves to their cheering people.
Eleanor’s smile had become fixed as, her hand still on his, Henry walked with her into the hall of the magnificent royal palace that lay in the shadow of the church of Notre Dame des Prés, just outside the walls of Rouen. This palace was the chief residence of the Empress Matilda, and had been built by her father, King Henry I of England; it was as grandly appointed as Eleanor would have expected the palace of so great a lady to be, with its imposing arcaded hall and rounded archways richly ornamented with chevrons, its silken hangings and costly tapestries, and all the luxurious accoutrements of a royal and imperial household.
Matilda herself was very grand too. There were two thrones on the dais, and she stood erect and proud before one of them, a tall, regal woman in her early fifties, wearing a purple robe girdled with gold and a snowy white wimple held in place by a circlet studded with amethysts. Her face was still handsome, despite its hawklike nose and the faint lines that bore witness to the many disappointments she had suffered in her life. As Eleanor drew near, she saw there could be no doubting that she was Henry’s mother—or that she was regarding her approaching daughter-in-law with undisguised disapproval.
Eleanor sank into a deep obeisance.
“Welcome to Rouen, madame,” the Empress said in a cool voice. “Please rise.” She turned to Henry. “My son!” she said, with more warmth, and raised her face for the expected dutiful kiss.
“Mother, where is Eleanor to sit?” Henry muttered, ignoring her and jerking his head at the two thrones.
“I will have a chair brought,” the Empress said. She signaled to her steward.
She means to slight me, Eleanor thought. She wishes to show me who is mistress here. She knew I was coming, yet conveniently forgot to have a third throne set ready.
Aloud, she said, smiling, “My Lady Empress, I am most happy to meet you, especially on this joyous occasion. You must be overjoyed that Henry’s invasion of England has led to such a successful conclusion.”
The Empress bristled faintly. Was Eleanor implying that Henry had succeeded where she, for all her efforts, had failed? “He has indeed done well in championing and vindicating my cause, for England was always rightfully mine,” she declared frostily. “But I happily cede my claim to him, for I will never return to that godforsaken island …”
Henry cut her off in mid-flow. Clearly he had heard this before, and had no mind to listen to another tirade against King Stephen, his adoptive father, whom he had found himself quite liking, after having been brought up to regard him as the archenemy, and little worse than the Devil himself on the general scale of wickedness.
“You are of much greater use to me here, ruling Normandy in my absence, Mother,” he said. “And when I have England under my hand, as well as Aquitaine and my other domains, I will need your help and support more than ever.”
Matilda looked somewhat mollified. Just then the third chair was brought and placed next to Henry’s. It was lower-backed than his, but Eleanor swallowed the insult and sat down on it, not waiting for the Empress, as the highest in rank, to be seated first. Henry covered her hand with his and squeezed it, which made her feel a little better, but she knew already that the battle lines had been drawn.
“I have a surprise for you both,” she told her husband and his mother, then nodded at Torqueri de Bouillon, who briefly disappeared, came back with little William wriggling in her arms, and handed him to Eleanor.
“My lord, let me introduce your heir, the Count of Poitiers!” Eleanor announced triumphantly.
Henry’s face was ecstatic as he took the child, marveling at the infant’s chubby limbs and the red curls that were so like his own.
“What a grip!” he grinned, as William grabbed his finger in his tiny fist. “That’s a sword grip, my son! That augurs well for the future. This boy will hold onto his own.” Even the Empress’s steely gaze softened. Then Henry rose to his feet and held William high above his head, much to the child’s delight.
“Madame my mother, my lady, my lords and barons all. Behold my son, William, who will one day rule this duchy—and England and Aquitaine too, God willing. When he is older, I will bring him to you so that you may swear fealty to him, but in the meantime I thank God for the gift of such a fine boy, and entrust him to the excellent care of his mother.” As the company cheered lustily, he passed William back to Eleanor.
“He looks like your father,” the Empress said to Henry.
“And his beautiful mother!” Henry replied. “Eleanor has done well, has she not, in bearing me such a strong son?”
Matilda smiled faintly. “You are both to be congratulated,” she said stiffly. “Now, send the child back to his nurse, as our lords and bishops are waiting to be presented to the duchess.”
They dined in private that evening, just the three of them, in the Empress’s solar. After spreading the cloth, the servitors brought napkins, wine cups, and dishes, all offered on bended knee. Then round cakes of wheaten bread marked with crosses were served, followed by the best that Normandy could offer: gigots of lamb and succulent duckling, sole in a cream sauce, spiced apples with jugs of thick cream, and a platter of the Pont l’Évêque and Livarot cheeses that tasted like ambrosia to Eleanor. When the servitors had withdrawn, the talk was mostly of England and Normandy, and by the time the fruit and spiced wine appeared, she was growing tired of being ignored.