When Amaria returned with the wine, Eleanor downed it quickly, seeking oblivion, but it had no effect. She tried to sleep, yet sleep eluded her. She was tormented by thoughts of her sons in peril and what the morrow might bring. When Amaria climbed heavily into bed beside her, she shuddered with distaste, moved as far to the edge of the mattress as possible, and lay there weeping silently, her heart burdened with dread and sorrow.

The morning dawned bleakly, on all counts. Eleanor awoke to see a troubled gray sky through the window slit and, with a plummeting feeling in her breast, realized where she was. Beside her, Amaria still slept, her mouth slackly open, her breath fetid. Eleanor slid carefully out of bed and relieved herself as quietly as she could. It was going to be a problem, attending to the calls of nature and keeping her dignity as queen in the face of the serving woman’s unwelcome scrutiny. She could see herself enduring agonies of discomfort as she waited for Amaria to disappear on some necessary errand.

Some water and holland cloths had been left on the table. She washed herself as best she could and donned the black gown and veil. No other clothes had been provided. She must demand some, along with the body linen, as a matter of urgency.

Amaria woke up and rubbed her eyes as a church clock struck seven.

“Good morning,” Eleanor said, trying to be civil. Surely the woman must see that they each had to make an effort to make this bearable.

“Good morning,” Amaria said guardedly, getting up and pulling on her gray gown over her shift, with no thought for washing herself. Peasant! Eleanor thought. She watched the woman clear the table and empty the washing water out of the window into the courtyard below. “Gardez l’eau!”she cried.

“I will fetch something to break our fast,” she said then, and rapped on the door. Once she was gone, Eleanor fell to her knees and tried to pray; she had always heard mass before breakfast, but no provision appeared to have been made for her spiritual needs. That was something else she would have to ask for.

Prayer was difficult. The prospect of her imminent confrontation with Henry kept intruding, as did the memory of him threatening to kill her. When would he come, or summon her? Was he even here in Rouen?

She tried to focus her thoughts on Christ’s sufferings. It had been easy to commune with her Redeemer in the richly furnished royal chapels or in the peace of Fontevrault and other great abbeys; but here, in this cheerless room, in the hour of her greatest need, He seemed to be elusive.

She made herself dwell on the five points of prayer. Give thanks—but for what? The ways of God were indeed inscrutable. What could be His purpose in inflicting this misfortune and suffering on her? To say she was sorry? But to whom? To Henry, the husband whom she was bound to love and owed all wifely duty—who was also the man who had betrayed her again and again, and fatally failed to do the right thing by their sons? No, rather should she say sorry to Young Henry, to Richard, and to Geoffrey for failing them. Pray for others—God knew, when it came to her sons, and her other children, she did nothing but pray for them. And she prayed for her land of Aquitaine and its people, and for all Christ’s poor, and for those who needed succor in this miserable world.

Pray for oneself. Her heart swelled with need. Help me, help me! she could only plead, for she could not focus her thoughts sufficiently to enumerate her troubles. God knew them, though. She trusted that He would be merciful.

Listen to God, to what He is saying. She tried—how she tried!—to still her teeming thoughts in order to clear her mind and let Him in. But she could not do it, and so, if there had been a still, small voice attempting to speak to her, she did not hear it.

What she did hear was Amaria returning with a tray of bread, small cuts of meat, and ale. Eleanor was not hungry but forced herself to eat a little, as Amaria took the stool opposite and began stuffing the food unceremoniously into her mouth. Eleanor recoiled. Had the woman never been taught that mealtimes were not just occasions for satisfying the needs of the body, but for good manners, courtesy, conversation …

She tried. “Do you live near here?” she began.

Amaria stared at her coldly, chomping noisily on her bread.

“No, lady,” she said.

Eleanor tried again. “Do you have family nearby?”

“No.”

“Then where are you from?”

“Norfolk.”

“So what are you doing in Normandy?” Eleanor’s natural inquisitiveness was beginning to assert itself.

“My husband were one of the Lord King’s captains, and went with him everywhere. I missed my man, so I got a post as a laundress in the King’s household, so as I could travel with him.”

“Is he here with you, your husband?”

“He be dead,” came the flat reply.

“I am sorry to hear that,” Eleanor said kindly. “Have you been a widow long?”

“Three months. Anyway, what’s this to you, lady?”

“I just thought that if we are to bear each other company all the time, we might try to get along in a friendly manner, so that it will be more pleasant for us both.”

“For you, you mean.” There was contempt in the rustic voice.

“Of course. But you would benefit too.”

There was a pause as Amaria thought about this. “I’m not supposed to talk much to you, lady,” she said, “just to see to your needs.”

“I will not ask you to talk about why I am here,” Eleanor promised. “Just about yourself and matters of general interest. I am interested to know how you came to be in attendance on me.”

“When the Lady Alice de Porhoët was here as hostage, my husband had charge of her, and I helped look after her. That were some years back, but since then I’ve acted as waiting woman to other visiting ladies, on occasion.”

“Were some of them hostages, like the Lady Alice?”

“I don’t know. All I were told was that I had given satisfaction and that the Lord King were pleased with me. I reckoned that were why I were sent for the other day and told as I was to have charge of you, lady.”

“Did they tell you why I am here?” Eleanor asked.

“No, just that you were the King’s prisoner.”

“But you have heard rumors, yes?”

The surly look was back, the woman’s lips pursed. “I can’t talk about that.”

“Fair enough,” Eleanor said evenly, anxious not to kill off this fragile rapport before it had gone beyond the budding stage. “Tell me, do you have children?”

“I have the one boy, Mark, who’s twelve. He be in the cathedral school at Canterbury. He’s a clever boy. Going into the Church.” Amaria’s eyes suddenly softened with pride and she looked quite different. Eleanor could even see that she might have been pretty once.

“You must be so proud of him,” she said. “I am a mother too, so I understand how you must feel. Our children are the most important thing in the world, aren’t they?” She wondered if Amaria was astute enough to get the message she was trying to put across, if the woman realized that she was trying to tell her that whatever she had done, it had been for her sons.

Amaria was regarding her with a puzzled but concerned frown, but quickly looked away when Eleanor smiled hopefully at her. “I must clear these things,” she said, and began piling up the breakfast clutter.

“I need some necessaries,” Eleanor said.

“In the chest,” Amaria said. Eleanor knelt, lifted the lid, and found a pile of clean clouts for the monthly courses that, in her, had long since ceased, fresh chemises, headrails, and hose, all strewn with fresh herbs, and two gowns, one of Lincoln green, the other of dark blue woolen cloth, both plain and serviceable. Nothing regal or grand here—being stripped of the trappings of her rank was clearly all part of her punishment. She wondered, with sinking fear, which gown she would wear to her execution.