Beloved Enemy (33 page)

“Geoffrey is dead. Isn’t that enough for both of you? I was raised to believe it is uncharitable to speak ill of the dead. Now, please, leave me alone. I would mourn the death of my good friend in private.”

“Eleanor—” Louis began in a distraught voice. “Could we not—” His voice trailed off.

She knew the sight of those houndlike eyes, that long disconsolate face should move her to pity, but everything he did, every word he uttered, set her teeth on edge. She forced herself to respond with courtesy.

“What do you wish to say to me, Louis?”

With a despairing gesture, he left the solar.

In the ducal palace at Rouen, Henry wept. The unexpected death of his father was devastating. Again and again, he went over their last days together, unable to dislodge from his mind that they had not parted as friends, but as rivals for the same woman—and Geoffrey had lost. Was he somehow responsible for his father’s death? Henry could not confide his sense of guilt to his mother, who was going through her own Gethsemene regarding the loss of her husband. He had the uncomfortable feeling that guilt played a part in his mother’s pain as well. He did not want to know why.

All the way to Le Mans to attend the funeral and hear the will read, Henry tried to persuade himself that his father’s demise had nothing to do with his actions in Paris. To imagine that it did was pure folly. Why then did he feel so ashamed?

In early September Eleanor received an angry letter from Henry, in Le Mans for his father’s burial. It confirmed that he was now count of Anjou and Maine, but also mentioned a surprising clause in the count’s will that left Anjou to his second son, Geoffrey, should Henry gain the crown of England. Henry was obviously outraged at this unexpected twist in what should have been a routine matter. Eleanor did not blame him for being angry, nor could she understand why Geoffrey had added the clause. In Anjou, as well as in other parts of the Continent, the eldest son always inherited the fief, county, or duchy as a matter of course. It was extraordinary that the count should have broken with precedent. The action hinted at some dark secret.

She replied immediately with an outpouring of sympathy and condolences. He did not respond but later Eleanor heard that after burying his father he had gone back to Normandy to prepare for the invasion of England. At Christmas there was another brief message from Henry, sent in secret, informing her he was having trouble getting together enough men and ships to cross the Channel. He also wanted to know, almost as an afterthought, when the annulment proceedings would occur. Then, four months passed during which Eleanor heard no word at all. Greatly disappointed, alternating between resentment and anxiety, she sometimes wondered whether the entire encounter between them had been a figment of her imagination.

The arrangements for the annulment, which had been proceeding at a snail’s pace in Eleanor’s view, almost came to a complete halt over the matter of her daughters.

“Of course I intend to keep Alix and Marie with me,” she told Bernard of Clairvaux, Louis, and Louis’s advisors, who were paying a visit to her solar. “I’m their mother and I will raise them in Aquitaine.”

“As you well know, King Louis wishes to keep them, Madam,” said Bernard. “They are royal children.”

“Royal French children,” added Louis.

“They will come with me.”

Bernard raised his brows. “What has prompted this sudden burgeoning of maternal feeling? You have shown little interest in your children up to now.”

“Little interest. Exactly,” said Louis with a vigorous nod.

“I’ve shown as much interest as you,” said Eleanor to Louis. “You’ve never forgiven them for not being boys.”

She refused to meet Bernard’s eyes. His accusation was only too true. She had had little maternal feeling for Marie and Alix, but she felt responsible for their welfare and had no intention of being parted from them.

There was a tense silence while Bernard fixed her with a stern look. “You may not know this, Madam, but had I had my way, the grounds for annulment of this marriage would not be consanguinity but adultery—or worse.”

She composed her face into an expressionless mask. “That is a ridiculous charge. You have no reason to accuse me.”

“If one were to dig deeply into your own life, Madam, I daresay much might be found that you would prefer to keep secret. Shall we put it to the test?” He paused. “You know what happens to adulterous wives? Loss of freedom—in a nunnery or remote castle—sometimes loss of life, not to mention total disgrace. I doubt convent discipline would suit you. Certainly that precious heretical duchy that means so much to you would be lost to you forever and become part of France.”

Impaled on those burning eyes, Eleanor could not speak. Did he know about Raymond? What had Louis—or others—told him?

“I see that you are aware of the possible consequences. If you are wise, do not push this matter of your children. Be grateful to God that your husband is so charitable, and take a lesson from his goodness of heart. You have been allowed to retain Aquitaine. This must satisfy you. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

Legally, of course, she was within her rights. Annulment meant the marriage had never existed, therefore the children of a nonexistent marriage might be said not to exist either. But Eleanor did not attempt to argue. In any encounter with Bernard, invariably she was the loser.

The council for the annulment proceedings was held in April of the new year 1152 at the royal castle of Beaugency on the Loire. After a host of witnesses swore that Louis was related to the duchess of Aquitaine in the forbidden degree, the archbishop of Sens rose to his feet and in a solemn voice pronounced the marriage null and void; the daughters, Marie and Alix, were to be awarded to their father. Suddenly limp, unable to move from her chair, Eleanor thought she would faint with relief. At long last, could it really be over? She stole a glance at Louis and was surprised to see his cheeks damp with tears. For an instant their gaze met. Eleanor was the first to look away, unable to bear the naked longing reflected in his eyes. That he still loved her was painfully evident.

Spurred by the knowledge that once news of the annulment was spread abroad her person and lands would be fair game, Eleanor planned to leave immediately for Poitou. She had accepted that the price of her freedom would be the loss of Marie and Alix, and, with a leaden heart, had already said her good-byes. Filled with guilt, she had convinced herself that they would be better off with Louis and his next wife—whoever that might be. Perhaps one day when they were grown she could speak to them as equals and make them understand why she had been forced to abandon them—or chosen this course as the only way out of her dungeon, would be more accurate.

Eleanor donned an ermine-lined black cloak and Cordovan boots of wine-colored leather, then hung an embossed leather sheath from her girdle. Into this she slipped a narrow silver dagger with rubies embedded in its hilt that she had bought in the bazaars of Jerusalem. It wasn’t that she anticipated trouble, but it was just as well to be prepared.

Outside in the courtyard her entourage was waiting, mules and sumpter horses already loaded with her belongings. By nightfall she hoped to reach the safety of Blois, far from Louis’s domains, where the royal arm could not reach her.

The Vespers bell had just sounded when Eleanor, hungry and half-asleep, approached the castle of young Count Thibaud of Blois, seeking shelter for the night. The count, a nephew of King Stephen of England, welcomed her, then, once she was safely inside his keep, announced in the most charming manner that he would not allow Eleanor to leave unless she agreed to become his countess.

She was speechless, far too tired to argue. Fortunately he took her silence for consent, and when she pleaded exhaustion allowed her to retire to her quarters immediately after supper. She had geared herself for just this possibility and then walked right into the trap like an unsuspecting rabbit. To be caught nodding like a convent maid was galling to her pride. In truth, she was not afraid of Count Thibaud, who was very young and untried, more bluster than anything else, she suspected. He should be very easy to outwit, and her seeming lack of resistance would put him off the scent.

And so matters turned out. Assuming she would not attempt to escape, the foolish count left the drawbridge lowered. In the dead of night, dagger in hand, Eleanor slipped unnoticed from her chamber into the outer bailey and out through an unguarded postern gate where her own men and horses were quartered. By dawn they were out of Blois and into Touraine. She was elated and could not wait to tell Henry how she had outwitted Count Thibaud—although this could not be considered a great feat. It was well known that the counts of Blois, though charming and comely, were not blessed with a great quantity of wits.

Despite the fact that Touraine was under Henry’s control, Eleanor, wary now, sent out an advance guard to look over the region. They reported back with a rumor that Henry’s younger brother, Geoffrey, planned to ambush her, take her captive, and force her into marrying him. She avoided this possible snare by taking a detour off the main road, her party then crossed the river Creuse in boats in order to put young Geoffrey off the scent.

Astride her white palfrey, Eleanor approached the borders of Poitou. The countryside, decked out in the yellow-green livery of spring, had never looked more beautiful. Above her the sky curved in a dizzying arc of palest blue. In the distance, she could see dappled slopes, black olive groves, valleys dotted with golden buttercups, and daisies turning white and yellow faces toward the afternoon sun.

Closer to view, hydrangea and magnolia trees were just beginning to put forth young green shoots. The scent of honeysuckle blew on the breeze; the sound of thrush and lark pierced the air with a throbbing sweetness. The renewal of life blossoming all around her filled Eleanor with a growing sense of promise, an awareness that after a long dry winter the sap was rising in her as well.

Despite all the obstacles Louis and his advisors had tried to put in her path, she had flung open the doors of her prison, and successfully fought for and retained control of Aquitaine, as well as the right to remarry with her overlord’s consent. Thank the Holy Mother she had had the foresight to become aware of her rights, acquainting herself with the legal and ecclesiastical restrictions governing annulments. It was an almost impossible achievement, and Eleanor felt absurdly pleased with herself. Still, her recent contretemps with the count of Blois and her escape from Henry’s younger brother, made it chillingly clear that to protect her duchy she would need a duke-consort. She thought wistfully of Henry and wondered where he was.

Just ahead the path led through a wooded copse. The horses picked their way through cool green glades where sunlight did not penetrate and skirted clearings filled with thistle, ragwort, wild foxglove, and bramble.

“Look, Lady,” said one of the knights, as they trotted out of the copse. “Poitou.”

Free! Free! Free! Her heart sang, keeping pace with the rhythm of her palfrey’s hooves against the moist earth. Shackles unfettered, she was flown with the knowledge of her release, intoxicated by her hard-won independence.

They crossed the border, then followed the Vienne River as it flowed south toward Chinon, Châttellerault, and Poitiers.

A day later Eleanor rounded the curve of a sharply rising hill and drew rein. Her heart leapt. Below lay the familiar walls of Poitiers. She was home. That night she spent alone with her women in her old chamber at the Maubergeonne Tower. When she woke the next morning, bursting with energy, she felt like the Eleanor of old for the first time in fourteen years.

There was an enormous amount to do in order to prepare for her wedding, which must be held as soon as possible before Louis got wind of their plans. But first she must write to Henry telling him of her safe arrival. She sought out her grandmother’s old chaplain, one of her own early teachers, Master André, who could write faster than she, asking him to attend her in the small chamber at the top of the tower.

She had not visited the chamber since she was a child but nothing had changed. Surely this was the same high-backed wooden chair, worn footstool, and scarred reading desk she had known of yore? She ran her hands over them with loving familiarity, half-expecting to hear the gentle rustle of her mother’s skirts as she climbed the stairs, her soft voice calling her for the evening meal. She blinked back an absurd desire to cry. What a long way she had come since those carefree golden days.

Armed with pens, inkhorn, lead, a ruler, and leaves of parchment, the now elderly chaplain clattered stiffly into the chamber and seated himself in the armchair. While he prepared himself for his task, Eleanor sank down onto the wooden bench she had sat in so often as a child. Her mother’s angelic presence gave way to an image of Henry’s freckled face split by an engaging grin. She remembered how his piercing gray eyes could suddenly turn warm and inviting, how intense the force of his superabundant vitality, how intoxicating the spell cast by his rough-hewn charm. Her heart leapt. She could hardly wait to feel all that restless energy …

“To whom is this letter to be written, Lady?”

She turned to the white-tonsured chaplain, a Poitevin born and bred, with whom she had argued all through her childhood until she went away to school at the Abbey of Fontevrault. He had taught her to read and write Provençal, knew her as well as anyone in Poitiers, and was one of the very few clerics she could not only tolerate but enjoy.

“To my next husband, Father André. What do you think of that?”

The chaplain raised unruly brows. “What I think will depend on the name of this most fortunate individual.”

“Henry Plantagenet, duke of Normandy, most recently count of Anjou, and king of England in the not too distant future.”

“
Benedicite!
How time passes! He must be all of eighteen years now. It seems like only yesterday that he was a naughty child creating a disturbance at your betrothal feast. And from all I hear he is creating disturbances still. But duke, count, and possibly king? Most impressive. You have outdone yourself, my child.”