“Well, after more fighting and arguing, Abbot Bernard brought about a peace between Louis and Thibaut, and eventually Petronilla’s marriage to Raoul was confirmed by the Pope. That was a relief! But her happiness lasted no more than ten years. When Louis and I divorced, Raoul decided that he no longer wanted to be married to the sister of the King’s ex-wife; there was no advantage in it for him. More to the point, he had fallen for another woman, much to Petronilla’s grief. Despite her tears and protests, he divorced her, and took custody of their three young children. Losing them has been dreadful for her. Her little boy suffers from a nasty skin disease, poor child, and she worries fearfully about him. Petronilla’s lot has not been a happy one.”
But Petronilla, when she arrived, looking like a paler, plumper replica of her sister, was cheerful at the prospect of being reunited with Eleanor, and excited to be going to England for the coronation. Putting on a brave face to mask the ever-present sorrow she felt at being parted from her children, she made much of young William, who gurgled with delight whenever his aunt approached. Petronilla threw herself with vigor into the preparations for the coming voyage, and she and Eleanor spent many a happy hour reminiscing on their childhood and making plans for the future. Before long, though, it dawned on Eleanor that Petronilla’s cheerfulness was largely the result of her increasing dependence on the fruit of the vine. But her sister had had such a difficult life, with her happiness cruelly snatched from her along with her little ones, that she could not bring herself to remonstrate with her.
In Petronilla’s wake, again at Henry’s behest, had come Eleanor’s two bastard half brothers, William and Joscelin, whom he had appointed to join her household knights. Eleanor thanked Henry appreciatively for his thoughtfulness and warmly embraced the two eager young men who so much resembled her.
At last the great retinues were gathered, and Henry and Eleanor formally bade farewell to the Empress Matilda and set off on the road to Barfleur, where their ships were waiting to transport them to England.
Normandy and England, 1154
“This should make a good impression on my new subjects!” Henry declared, waving an expansive hand at the long procession of magnates and bishops, each with their retinues and baggage carts, that trailed into the distance behind them. Inwardly, Eleanor thought that the English might see the King’s great train as a pack of scavengers come to bleed their country dry, but she was confident that Henry’s reputation was such that his followers would heed the honorable lead he intended to give them, and deal honestly with his new subjects.
She smiled up at him from her litter; she was too far advanced in pregnancy to ride beside him, and not relishing being jolted along the rutted tracks that passed for roads, but was making light of her discomfort and trying to relax on the piled cushions beneath her, pulling her fur-lined cloak closer about her to protect herself from the freezing wind. She would not complain, she had resolved, because she knew Henry wanted to get to England as quickly as possible, and she just wanted the long journey to be over.
It was when they were making an overnight stop in Caen that Henry espied Bernard de Ventadour skulking among the varlets of his household.
“What’s hedoing here?” he muttered to himself, and beckoned the troubadour over. Bernard, who was hoping that his master had not seen him, and was on the point of fleeing, had the grace to look terrified.
“Sire?” he almost squeaked.
“I thought I told you not to leave England without my permission!” Henry said fiercely.
“I—I know, sire, but your whole retinue was returning with you, and your knights needed entertaining …”
“Blast my knights!” Henry roared. “You disobeyed me, you scum.” The troubadour quailed.
“Now hear this,” Henry went on, “and never disobey me again, or you will rue it painfully. You are to leave here now, without delay.”
“But sire, where shall I go?” asked Bernard.
“Anywhere but here!”
“But I cannot go back to Ventadour …”
“No, that you cannot, and my good lady has told me why.” Henry had the satisfaction of seeing the young man wince. “You’ll have to find somewhere else.”
Tears filled Bernard’s eyes. “This is a great grief to me, sire,” he wept. “I know not what to do or where to go.”
“Take my advice and go as far away as possible. You might try your talents with the Count of Toulouse.”
“Sire, may I speak frankly?” Bernard was frantic.
Henry folded his arms and looked at him. “I’m waiting,” he said brusquely.
“There is a lady, sire—”
“By God there is!” Henry erupted.
“Nay, sire, not Madame the Duchess—another lady.” Bernard hung his head.
“Hah!” Henry pointed at him. “Another lady! You don’t waste much time.” And he doubled up with laughter.
“Sire, I love her, and could never leave her …”
Henry stopped laughing.
“Toulouse!” he barked. “Get your gear and go. And let me not see your face again.”
Bernard scuttled away. There was no lady; his heart was broken and he knew himself defeated. That night, lodged at an evil-smelling inn, he hastily composed a poem to Eleanor, in which he mournfully sang her praises for the last time and told her that her lord had forced him to leave her. Then he gave it to his servant, who galloped off in search of the royal cavalcade. Eleanor, reading the grubby parchment two days later, sighed in exasperation, then screwed it up and threw it in the River Vire.
Henry peered over the stone parapet of the tower of St. Nicholas’s Church, the wind and rain lashing his face and soaking his short woolen cloak. Below him, the shallow waters of the port of Barfleur churned and seethed in the storm, and there was not a soul to be seen in the prosperous little village; the inhabitants, grasping lot though they were, had all retreated to their houses in the teeth of the bad weather.
“How much longer are we to be holed up here?” he fumed to the ship’s master.
“I beg ye, be patient, Lord King,” the weather-beaten man shouted against the gale. “Them currents down there can be mighty swift. Ye’ll have heard of the White Ship.”
Henry had heard of it, too many times, from his mother, whose brother had gone down with it on that terrible night thirty-four years before, and he’d heard of it again over the past few days, from the mariners, who always seemed to relish recounting tales of disaster. Of course, if the White Ship hadn’t sunk, drowning the heir to England, he wouldn’t be standing here now, waiting to take possession of that kingdom. And standing here was all he seemed to be doing; he was almost stamping with impatience.
“By the eyes of God, it’s not far to sail!” he argued. “Do you realize, man, that England has been without a king for six weeks? Why, my very throne might be in jeopardy because of this delay.”
“Lord King,” the master said evenly, “it is not me that commands the heavens.”
“No,” Henry muttered, “but when Icommand you to set forth, I expect to be obeyed. That’s five times you have defied me now.”
“And it might be five times I’ve saved your life, Lord King,” the man replied sagely. “Better for England to have a king across the sea than no king at all.”
There was no arguing with that, but Henry was not in the mood to be put off by wise words of caution.
“Thank you for your consideration,” he snapped sarcastically. “God knows, we might be here forever. No, my mind is made up. We sail today.”