She soon saw that the pleasaunce was in fact a labyrinth, laid out in a circular design with young yews and briars; a paved path disappearing into its depths could be glimpsed at the entrance. The maze was not large, but it looked enticing, even magical—and not a little sinister—in the light of the torches carried by her people against the deepening dusk. Had Henry gone to the trouble of having this intricate thing laid out just for her? How strange! He had had no idea that she would come here in the foreseeable future.
There was a grassy path skirting the labyrinth; one branch of it led to the tower, the other to the older hall with the King’s and Queen’s solars above, but Eleanor walked past that one. She had noticed a light in the tower, at one of the upper windows; it was flickering behind grisaille glass, such as that usually found only in great churches. Could some personage of importance be lodging here? Or, more likely, was some servant about his or her duties? That would account for the light.
Suddenly, a door opened and the steward materialized breathlessly out of the gathering darkness. His face was red, his manner flustered.
“My lady, welcome, welcome!” he cried, bowing hastily. “We had no idea you were coming. I will make all ready. I pray you, come in and get warm.” He indicated that Eleanor should go before him into the large room at the base of the solar block, but she swept on.
“In a moment, I thank you. But first, I have a mind to see that impressive new tower,” she told him.
His face blanched. “Madame, I should not advise it. It is, er, unfinished, and may not be safe.”
“Someone is up there!” Eleanor pointed, and strode in ungainly fashion toward the studded wooden door at the base of the tower.
“My lady!” the steward protested, but she ignored him.
“Open the door!” she commanded. Unhappily, he did as he was bidden, and the Queen brushed past him and began climbing the spiral stairs. She was out of breath by the time she reached the first-floor chamber and had to stop for a few moments, her hand resting on her swollen belly. Clearly, there was no one on this story, and the steward had spoken the truth: the tower was as yet unfinished. Half-completed murals adorned the lime-washed walls; the wooden floor was stacked with ladders, crocks of paint, brushes, and stained rags.
When she had rested a bit, she took the stairs to the next level, a vaulted storeroom containing several iron-bound chests, some stools, and very little else. No one here either. Determined to satisfy her curiosity, she dragged herself up to the topmost story, panting determinedly, and found herself outside a narrow wooden door. Light streamed from beneath it.
Eleanor took a deep breath and depressed the latch. The door swung open to reveal a pretty domestic scene. The room was warm, heated by the coals in a glowing brazier. An exquisitely beautiful young girl was sitting before a basin of chased silver, humming as she washed herself with a fine holland cloth by the dancing light of many wax candles. She wore only a white chemise, draped around her waist, exposing her upper body. In the instant before the startled nymph gasped and covered herself, Eleanor’s shrewd eyes took in the small, pink-tipped breasts, the long, straw-colored tresses, the firm, slender arms, and the damp, rose-petal skin.
“Who are you?” she asked, aghast, already dreading the answer.
“I am Rosamund de Clifford, madame,” the girl said, her expression guarded. She had no idea who this intruder was; the woman was bundled up in a thick cloak, and the white wimple beneath it, although fine, was of a type worn by many middle-and upper-class matrons.
“And what is your business here?” Eleanor could not help her hectoring tone. She had to know who—and what—this young female was.
“I live here by order of my Lord the King,” Rosamund answered, a touch defensively. “May I ask who it is who wishes to know?”
Eleanor could not speak. Her heart was racing in horror. Was this child—for she could be no more than that—the reason for Henry’s strange, distant behavior? Had he installed her here as his mistress? Or—her mind raced on—was this Rosamund some bastard child of his?
“I am Queen Eleanor,” she said, her voice sounding far more confident than she felt, and was gratified to see the girl gather her shift about her and drop hurriedly into an obeisance.
“My lady, forgive me,” she bleated.
Keeping her on her knees, Eleanor placed one finger under Rosaimund’s chin and tilted it upward, daring her to meet her eye, but the young chit would not look directly at her.
“I will not beat about the bush,” the Queen said. “Tell me the truth. Are you his mistress?”
Rosamund began trembling like a frightened animal.
“Are you?” Eleanor repeated sharply.
“My lady, forgive me!” burst out the girl, beginning to cry. Eleanor withdrew her hand as if it were scalded. She thought she would die, right then and there, she felt so sick to her stomach. He had betrayed her with this little whore. This beautiful little whore. Her hand flew protectively to the infant under her thudding heart.
“Do you realize that this is his child?” she cried accusingly.
Rosamund did not answer; she was sobbing helplessly now.
“Tears will avail you nothing,” Eleanor said coldly, wishing she too could indulge in the luxury of weeping, and marveling that her emotions had not betrayed her further. But it was anger that was keeping her from collapsing in grief.
“Do you know what I could do to you?” Her eyes narrowed as she moved—menacingly, she hoped—closer toward the sniveling creature kneeling before her. She was filled with hatred. She wanted this girl to suffer, as she herself was suffering. “I could have you whipped! If I had a mind to, I could call for a dagger and stab you, or have your food poisoned. Yes, Rosamund de Clifford, it would give me great pleasure to think of you, every time they bring you those choice dainties that my husband has no doubt ordered for you, wondering if your next mouthful might be your last!”
“My lady, please, spare me!” the girl cried out. “I did not ask for this.” But Eleanor was beside herself with rage.
“I suppose you are going to tell me that you went to him unwillingly, that he raped you,” she spat.
“No, no, it was not like that!”
“Then what wasit like?” She did not want to—could not bear to—hear the details, but she had to know.
“My lady will know that one does not refuse the King,” Rosamund said in a low, shaking voice. “But”—and now Eleanor could detect a faint note of defiance—“I did love him, and what I gave I gave willingly.”
Her words were like knives twisting in the older woman’s heart.
“You loved him? How touching!”
“I did—I still do. And he loves me. He told me.”
“You are a fool!” Eleanor’s voice cracked as she spat out the words. “And you won’t be the first trollop to be seduced by a man’s fair speech.”
Rosamund raised wet eyes to her, eyes that now held a challenge. “But, madame,” she said quietly, “he does love me. He stayed here with me all last autumn, winter, and spring. He built me this tower, and a labyrinth for my pleasure. And he has commanded me to stay here and await his return.”
Eleanor was speechless. Her wrath had suddenly evaporated, swept away by shock and grief, and she knew she was about to break down. She must not do so in front of this insolent girl, must not let her see how deeply those cruel barbs had wounded her, far more than her empty threats could have frightened her adversary. Like an animal with a mortal hurt, she wanted to retreat to a dark place and die.
There were voices drifting up from the stairwell; her attendants would be wondering what was going on, were no doubt coming to find her. She must not let them see her here, a betrayed wife with her younger rival.