“My lady, I would advise you to pray for guidance, and to await the Pope’s pronouncement. He will deal with you fairly, you may be sure. He is not the kind of man to be bought by kings.”
——
When Hugh had gone, she did as she’d been bidden, sinking to her knees, praying for herself and Henry, praying for Richard, whose immortal soul was surely in peril, and seeking a way forward in her present dilemma. She had long accepted that her marriage had ended, and could understand the necessity for Henry to remarry, but she was surprised to find herself near to weakening tears at the realization that he wanted to set her aside for this young girl of—what was it?—thirteen! Dear God, she thought, could You not at least have spared me this?
She knew that Henry’s love for her was long dead. He hated her: he had proved it again and again. Why, then, did she sometimes, in the dark wastes of the night find herself still wanting him, still nourishing the smallest of hopes—against all reason, and in spite of all he had done to her—that they might be reconciled in the future? Why?
The answer was not far to seek. Because no man had ever stirred her as Henry had, or inspired such violent emotions in her. No man could touch him. There would always be something between them, some vestige of the great passion they had once shared. And, even in the face of all that had happened, she still wanted him in her bed. That was almost the worst of it; in fact, it had been one of the worst things about her imprisonment, being shut away from the company of men—and of one man in particular. Even now she would find herself aching for his touch, for the feel of him inside her, for the joy he had brought her …
She was growing older: the years were passing relentlessly. Soon, her juices would run thin and she would be an old woman, and her powers of seduction, of pleasuring a man and receiving pleasure herself, would diminish. Isolated here, she was aware that for her time was running out, but there was no means of fulfilling that surging need in her. She had thought that, deprived of any stimulus, it would lessen, and she would learn to focus more on things of the spirit, as she had not done in her reckless youth and turbulent married life; that she would discover the inner peace that enables one to open the mind and heart to the love of God—but she had been wrong, so wrong. It had gotten to the point where she even toyed with the idea of trying to seduce the handsome Ranulf Glanville, who was such a congenial supper companion, and who might not be impervious to the suggestion that he stay a little later … But it was not Glanville she wanted.
It was Henry. But Henry wanted to divorce her. And if he had his way, she would never bed a man again. And now her tears did flow at that dreadful prospect.
Four months she waited for further news. Four long, unending, miserable months, during which she wore herself out speculating what the Pope might say or do. Then, at last, Prior Hugh returned. She forced herself to be calm when she received him, and resolved to deal with whatever news he brought with calm reason and as much wisdom as she could muster.
It was November, and cold; the wind was howling across the plateau that was Sarum, and whistling through the window slit, and it was impossible to keep the brazier alight for long. So Eleanor sat shivering, swathed in her furs, and Prior Hugh gathered his inadequate woolen cloak about his habit as they talked.
“His Holiness sent a legate, the Cardinal of Sant’ Angelo,” he told her. “He came on the pretext of resolving a dispute between the sees of Canterbury and York. He met with the King at Winchester, and your husband raised the matter of the annulment. Regrettably, he also tried to bribe the cardinal with a large sum in silver coin, but the cardinal would not take it. Nor would he even listen to the King’s pleas. He merely warned him that divorcing you would involve great risks, and refused to discuss the subject further. He left for Italy soon afterward.”
Eleanor let out a long sigh of relief, but her gratification in the legate’s rejection of Henry’s plea was tempered by the awareness that even though she remained entrenched as his lawful wife, Henry did not want her, and would almost certainly feel even more resentment toward her now, regardless of the fact that she had not actually opposed him—although that was not to say that she would not have done so had she been pushed to it.
“I am content, of course, but I suppose the King is angry,” she said.
The prior gave her another of his sweet smiles. “Need you ask? He does not like to be thwarted.”
“He will not give up,” she observed lightly. “He will find another way to be rid of me.”
“He may appeal to the Pope, but I fear it will be a waste of time.”
“You do not approve of the Pope’s decision, do you, Father Prior?” she challenged.
“Our Lord speaks through His Holiness. Who am I to question that?”
“It’s not easy for you, is it, acting as mediator between Henry and me?” Eleanor smiled at the prior.
“I do not look for ease in worldly affairs,” he told her. “I hope I have dealt with you fairly and with humanity.”
“I wish the King my lord had been as considerate,” Eleanor told him as he rose to take his leave. “No doubt we shall meet again.”
“I would it could be in happier circumstances,” he told her kindly.
Sarum, 1175–1176
It was a terrible winter. The crops had failed and famine bestrode the land, resulting in a dearth of good food even on Eleanor’s table, for everyone in the castle was on short rations. The cost of a bushel of wheat had gone through the roof, and bread, that staple of the diets of rich and poor, was scarce. The destitute had been reduced to eating roots, nuts, grasses, and even bark stripped from the trees. There was meat, for most farm animals had been slaughtered and their carcasses salted for winter fare, but the hungry folk in humble cottages saw little of that. People were dying of starvation in the streets, or of plague. It was only the onset of bitterly cold weather that lessened the pestilence.
Eleanor sent what food she could spare from her table to succor the needy.
“I am no longer able to dispense charity as a queen should,” she told Ranulf Glanville, “but this little I can do for them.” And went hungry herself. It was freezing in her chamber, and she and Amaria spent their days huddled in furs, their gloved hands icy at the fingertips, their noses pink with cold. Christmas was a dismal affair, with no festive fare or revelry, and Eleanor spent much of it confined to bed with a cold.
She was surprised, therefore, early in the new year, to hear Glanville announce the arrival of Hugh of Avalon. She guessed, with a sinking feeling, that if the prior had braved the snow and ice to see her, he must bring news of some import, and wondered wearily what it might be. Something to do with the divorce, she wagered to herself.
He greeted her with his gentle smile, giving her his blessing as she went on her knees before him, then came straight to the point.
“My lady, the King has sent me to ask if you would consider retiring from the world and taking the veil at Fontevrault, a house for which he knows you have much love.”
Retire from the world? When her heart cried out for freedom and she was bursting with life, body, and soul?
“He has offered to appoint you Abbess of Fontevrault, which, as you are aware, is a most prestigious and respected office.”
“And what does he ask in return?” Eleanor replied, knowing that this was just another clever ploy on Henry’s part to get rid of her—and retain her lands.