Eleanor gazed fondly at Geoffrey as he joined hands with his pouting betrothed. He was a dark, handsome boy, devious by nature, it was true, but clever and charming. He was to be Duke of Brittany when he married, Henry had decreed, but until then his father would hold and rule the duchy for him. It was gratifying to have the boy’s future so happily and advantageously settled, and the problem of Brittany brought to such a satisfactory conclusion.
There was but one jarring note to mar this day of celebration, and that was Eleanor’s nagging awareness that although Young Henry’s and Geoffrey’s futures were mapped out—Henry was to have England, Anjou, and Normandy—and brides had been found for both of them, Henry had as yet made no provision for her adored Richard, his middle son.
She tackled him about this as they presided at the high table over the feast that followed the ceremonies in the cathedral.
“It more than contents me to see two of our boys settled,” she began diplomatically, “but tell me, what plans have you for Richard?” Her eyes rested on the nine-year-old lad with the flame-red curls who sat gorging himself on some delicious Breton oysters and scallops farther down the table. A strong child he was, a vigorous child, who was surely destined to make his mark. What she was really determined upon was to make him heir to all her dominions; and she believed that was what Henry too had in mind for Richard. It would be entirely fitting.
“Not yet,” Henry said, his mouth full of lamb. “But, since you mention it, I have something in mind for Young Henry, and I should like your approval.”
“And what is that?” Eleanor asked.
“I want to make him your heir in Aquitaine.”
“No!” she told him, shocked. “Why Henry? What of Richard? That would leave Richard with nothing!” Her face had flushed pink with fury, and a few of the revelers were looking at her curiously.
“Calm yourself,” Henry muttered. “Do you think I would not see Richard well provided for? Does it not occur to you that it would be better to keep this empire of mine in one piece, under one ruler? There is strength in numbers, Eleanor, and by God I need all the strength I can get to keep your vassals in order. It’s one thing to confront them with the Duke of Aquitaine, quite another when that duke is also to be King of England, Duke of Normandy, Count of Maine, and Count of Anjou. You must see that!”
Eleanor did not. All she was aware of was the need to fight for the rights of her beloved. “Richard is but two years younger than Henry. You know he has the makings of what it takes to rule Aquitaine, he is a true child of the South, and I want him as my heir, and to see him settled as Henry and Geoffrey are settled. It would only be fair.”
Henry turned to her, his face set. “Trust me. I will see Richard settled.”
“With what?” she asked defiantly. “All your domains are spoken for. What if you died after naming Henry my heir? Richard would be left landless!”
By now a lot of the guests were watching them speculatively as they quarreled. Eleanor saw it but did not care. All that mattered was Richard’s future. But Henry, seeing that their discord was observed, resolved to put an end to it.
“It’s no use arguing, Eleanor,” he said. “My mind is made up. I but asked for your approval as a courtesy. You know I do not need it. There is no more to be said, except that after these celebrations are over, I intend to deal once more with your ever-impudent seigneurs, and then go to Poitiers, where I shall hold my Christmas court and present Young Henry to your people as your heir. I should like you to be there too, obviously, to show some solidarity.”
“Never!” she retorted furiously. “I will go to England and stay there until this child is born. I will not be witness to an act that effectively disinherits Richard. Instead, I will help Matilda to prepare for her wedding journey next year.” She had decided all this on impulse, in the heat of the moment, and was wondering, even as she said it, if she would come to regret it, for going to England would mean that she would certainly not see Henry again for months. Was it wise to leave him to his own devices at a time when relations between them were so distant? She knew she might be sentencing herself to a lengthy period of emotional turmoil—but it was too late to retract. The words were now said, and she could not unsay them. Besides, she knew she had right on her side.
Henry was frowning, but he was immovable.
“You may go where you will,” he said. “I will make the arrangements.”
Woodstock and Oxford, 1166
It was cold in the wilds of Oxfordshire, and there was a promise of snow in the leaden air. The sky was lowering, the skeletal trees bending before the icy wind. Eleanor sat huddled in her litter, her swollen body swathed in furs, aware that she should find some place of shelter soon, for it could not be long now before this babe was ready to greet the world.
Poor child, she thought: it had been conceived in sorrow and would be born in bitterness, for Henry had let her go without a protest, and she’d had no word from him since. He was angry at her defiance, of that there could be no doubt, but she still maintained adamantly that she had a just grievance: the thought of Young Henry having Richard’s inheritance was an open wound that would not heal.
She was weary of the ceaseless jostling with Henry for autonomy in her own lands, enraged with him for slighting her adored boy, and tortured by the crumbling of their marriage. It was a relief to be away from him, and yet … and yet, for all that, she missed him, wanted him, needed him … The pain was relentless. She tortured herself with speculation about the possibility that she had been supplanted by another woman. There was no proof, nothing at all, but what else could have caused such a change in his manner toward her? Had he simply ceased to care for her?
She rested her head back on the pillows. It was no good tormenting herself with these disturbing thoughts—it was not beneficial for her, in her condition. She must think of her coming child.
They had been making for Oxford, hoping to get there by dusk, before the snow fell, but their battle with the elements delayed them, and the Queen now had no choice but to order that they divert to Woodstock for the night. The royal hunting lodge was a favorite residence of Eleanor’s; she had a suite of rooms there, and was hoping the steward would have kept them in a habitable condition. She did not think she could face freezing chambers, an unaired bed, or damp sheets; what she needed right now was a roaring fire, warming broth, a feather bed, and the ministrations of her women. She was weary to her bones.
At last the litter was trundled across the drawbridge, the men-at-arms clip-clopping on either side. As the little procession drew to a standstill, Eleanor parted the leather curtains of her litter, allowed her attendants to assist her to her feet—and then gaped in astonishment. For she saw that Woodstock now boasted a new, fair tower of the finest yellow stone. It was perhaps only to be expected, for Henry had been indefatigable in improving or rebuilding the royal residences, and he had spent much time doing so not long ago. What wassurprising was what lay before it, nestling within the curtain walls. It was some kind of enclosed garden—indeed, the most curious of pleasaunces—and it certainly had not been here when she last visited. She walked heavily toward it, almost in a daze. Henry had been here for much of last winter and spring, she remembered. Had he gone to the trouble of ordering it planted for her, for some future visit? And that tower? Was that for her too?