“I am aware of that,” Eleanor retorted. “What angers me is that Henry has once more alienated my subjects—and gone against my wishes.”
“Strong measures are never popular,” Matilda observed, “but sometimes they are necessary. Your Aquitainian lords are a menace, you must admit.”
“I will write to Henry,” Eleanor fumed. “I will protest at his interference in my domains. How dare he!”
“Because he has every right,” Matilda pointed out. “He is your lord, and he is their duke.”
“He should have consulted me!” Eleanor raged.
“He does not need to,” Matilda told her. Eleanor sensed she was enjoying seeing her daughter-in-law discountenanced. She snatched back her letter, swept out of the room, and dashed off a response to Henry, castigating him for his folly and for arousing the ire of her subjects.
His reply made her want to howl with rage. He had ignored all her complaints! There was not a word in justification or apology. He wrote only that the legates, who were falling over themselves to humor him, told him that the Pope had agreed to canonize King Edward the Confessor. He himself, he continued, was still in Poitiers, where he had inspected the building work at the cathedral and found it satisfactory; she might like to know that he had ordered the building of a new church, new city walls, new bridges, a marketplace, and shops, and that he was having the great hall of her palace refurbished with bigger windows.
Her heart lay cold, like a stone in her breast. All this he had put in hand without consulting her—and he’d ducked out of discussing the larger issues. Was it for this that she had wed him? What had become of their shared vision for the future, their marriage of lions? Henry’s behavior was a betrayal of their marriage and all it stood for. It was not to be borne! So here she was, lying in with her new daughter, her heart torn between love for this exquisite child and a burning resentment against her father.
Bayeux, 1161
Henry had sent to say he would rejoin her in Bayeux, and there she resentfully repaired with her children and their nurses, thankfully leaving the unsympathetic Empress in Rouen. During the days before Henry’s arrival, to distract herself from the coming confrontation that she must have with him, she took Young Henry and Richard to see the glories of the cathedral of Notre Dame, where they were shown a wonderful old strip of embroidery depicting the whole story of King William’s invasion of England in 1066. It was hanging in the apse of the church, and the little boys stood there marveling at the colorful, lifelike figures of the soldiers and horses, staring open-mouthed at the battle scenes, and listening entranced as Eleanor recounted to them the stirring story of the Conquest.
“There is King Harold, with an arrow piercing his eye,” she said, pointing. “And there he is, being felled to the ground with an axe.”
“I’m going to be a soldier when I grow up, and I’m going to kill people with axes!” Henry boasted.
“No, Iam!” cried Richard fiercely, not to be outdone. Eleanor rejoiced that these boys of hers had such spirit.
“You both will be soldiers,” she said firmly. “Very brave soldiers, like your father.”
Mollified, the two lads contented themselves with buffeting each other surreptitiously.
“Come now,” said their mother, aware of the watching clergy exchanging disapproving glances. “We must offer prayers for your father’s safe return.” Firmly, she guided them into a side chapel and pushed them down to their knees, constraining them to quietness.
Husband and wife faced each other across the castle courtyard, as Henry clattered in at the head of his retinue and leaped off his horse at the dismounting block, where Eleanor was waiting for him, her children standing behind with her ladies and the knights of her household.
“Welcome back, my lord,” she said, her face expressionless as she offered the customary stirrup cup and waited for Henry to greet her. He brushed her lips briefly, then stood back, looking at her quizzically, his face weather-beaten and tanned, his unruly hair more close-cropped than usual.
“My lady,” he said formally, raising her hand for a second kiss. “I am well pleased to see you, and looking forward to meeting my new daughter!”
Eleanor beckoned, and the nurse stepped forward with the infant, who regarded the big strange man solemnly for a moment, then broke into a gummy smile.
“You’re a little beauty, aren’t you?” Henry murmured, taking her into his arms and touching her downy head gently with his lips. He looked up at his wife. “You have done well,” he said in a softer voice. “Princes will be clamoring for her hand, if she fulfills this early promise. She is just like you.”
Eleanor accepted his compliments with the barest hint of a smile.
“Won’t you come within, my lord, and take some refreshment after your journey?” she asked formally, taking the baby and handing her back to her nurse. The other children now ran forward, clamoring to greet their father, and after boisterous greetings, they entered the castle together.
Later, when dinner was over and their offspring were in bed, Henry came alone to Eleanor’s solar, where she served him strong cider distilled from the apples that grew plentifully in this part of Normandy.
“Nectar!” he pronounced. “My, that’s potent!”
“Henry, we need to talk,” Eleanor began, bracing herself.
“Indeed, we do,” he said quickly. “The Archbishop of Rouen has just had a word. He is fretting about Young Henry’s education.”
“Is he? Why?”
“He is concerned that the heir to England is still living with his mother and has not even begun his lessons.”
“I have taught him much!” Eleanor exclaimed indignantly, immediately on the defensive, and fearful of what Henry was about to propose.
“Yes, Iknow that, but it wouldn’t count with our friend the Archbishop. He was going on at some length about how I was different from other kings, who are all rude and uncultivated, in his opinion at any rate. He was waffling on about how my wisdom and prudence—as he put it, God bless him—had been informed by the literature I read in my youth, and he told me that my bishops unanimously agree that my heir should apply himself to letters, so that he can be my true successor.”
“And so?” Eleanor asked warily.
“Well, I take his point. Young Henry is now six, and it’s time he was sent away to be educated.”
It was indeed the custom for princes and sons of the nobility to be placed in great aristocratic households to be nurtured and schooled away from their parents, mothers and fathers considered too loving and indulgent to do the job properly. Eleanor knew this, and accepted it. It was just that, the time now having come, she was devastated at the thought of being parted from any of her children. She had kept Young Henry close to her all his life; given what had befallen two of his brothers, she could hardly bear him out of her sight. Parting from him would be like losing a limb. How would he fare without her? Who would tend to his hurts, or calm his fears, or kiss him good-night? She could not bear the thought of him crying into his pillow, alone and homesick.
Henry said gently, “I know it will be hard for you, but you must realize that a boy cannot grow to manhood tied to his mother’s apron strings. He has to learn to be independent, to fight his own battles and to grow brave and strong as befits a warrior. But you willsee him from time to time, more than most mothers see their sons. I have hit upon the ideal arrangement.”