The Young Lion (30 page)

‘Do you have a vocation to do so?’

They gazed at each other, smiled a little, then began to laugh. Eleanor laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks. She drank too much, Bernard thought.

‘You’re in great danger, my dear. I think you began to comprehend that yesterday, in the maze. Such is the wickedness of men where rich women are available. You are in danger of being snatched and violated as soon as you are no longer Queen.’

‘How do I escape?’

‘That we must consider. A horse would be good.’

He looked out the window with an expression that suggested his mind was now on something different. Eleanor waited. She knew Father Bernard was famous for speaking in riddles; his silence was a riddle in itself. After what seemed an age he spoke again. ‘Are you familiar with the dream of the embalmer’s daughter?’

She frowned. ‘Something about a tree that grew from Normandy to England?’

‘Everyone believes the dream foretold the most terrible event in English history: the invasion by William the Conqueror, the smashing of England, the dispossession of its inhabitants, then its rise to wealth and glory under a new regime, speaking a new language, French, and the whole country owned by one man: the King. Its meaning is always misinterpreted. The Almighty thinks in a long timescale. Man in a very short one,’ he said, and stood up.

The discussion was over.

Eleanor knew better than to try to cajole him into speaking more openly to her.

‘May I call on you again?’ she asked.

‘Of course. I’ll provide you with certain things you’ll need after you leave Beaugency. You’ll have to collect them before you travel there.’

‘Beaugency?’

He nodded. ‘In that chateau the bishops will determine that you and Louis must divorce. Because your blood is too close.’

At his door a question bit so hard on her she could not hold her tongue. ‘Father, years ago you forbade the marriage of my daughter, Marie, to the son of Geoffrey of Anjou on the grounds that their blood was too close. I’m very grateful that you did, because the son is a terrible man. Does that mean …’

The Abbot’s fine-boned, fine-skinned head rocked to one side. ‘Mean?’

‘That my relationship with Geoffrey was incestuous?’

He chuckled. ‘Men and women! Men and women!’ He paused. ‘It’s odd, but I thought you were about to ask me something else.’

‘I was.’

‘Better you keep it to yourself,’ he replied.

A week after she returned to Paris, puzzled and disappointed in what Father Bernard had told her, a letter came from Baron Richard de Cholet. He wrote that he had heard that she and the King were about to set out for a tour of their southern domains, and that she would have in her retinue the Counts of Chatellerault and Angouleme, the Bishops of Poitiers and Saintes and the Archbishop of Bordeaux, among other of her own lords, relations and prelates. He wondered, he wrote, if she could find time for a game of chess with him? Perhaps in Orléans? In gratitude for her hospitality in Paris he had a fine mare he would like to present to her that answered to the name ‘Selama’. Guillaume had said to Henry, ‘If she’s going to escape from fortune-hunters, she’ll need the fastest horse in Europe. And that’s our Arabian.’

Eleanor replied immediately that she would be delighted to meet him for chess, and suggested a date.

Nobody anywhere was whispering that the King and Queen were planning to divorce. Their progress through the south, well publicised, was taken as a sign of the health of the royal marriage.

‘I’m wondering,’ Henry said, ‘if I should ask Douglas to help us. He can ride with her and protect her. At the least we owe it to Papa to help her reach Poitiers in safety. Neither you nor I can be anywhere near her. We must keep Louis off the scent.’

Henry used the old code to write to King David, asking to borrow Douglas. Before Christmas he had received a reply that Douglas was on his way and would arrive in Normandy some time late in January.

‘If Rachel’s baby is another son, I’d like to call him Douglas,’ Henry said. The baby was due mid-February. He had not given
Rachel the smallest hint of his plan to marry Eleanor. In moments of guilt he comforted himself with the thought he was sparing Rachel’s feelings, because more than likely Eleanor would turn him down. Meanwhile, he secured Anjou and Maine against his younger brother and continued his preparations for the invasion of England. But his knights were disappointed by the delay. Henry chided them, ‘War should be long in preparation in order to conquer more quickly.’ For him, the delay was now a blessing.

It was also a blessing to Stephen and Eustace. The Prince, who only weeks earlier saw doom tower over him, now took time to reflect. He investigated how his father had become King, and saw a model he could use to thwart Henry. There was a saying: ‘In war it’s not permitted to make a mistake twice.’ Eustace turned this over in his mind and discovered in it a trap for Henry. The Empress had made the mistake of fighting an already-crowned King, thus creating the anarchy. But the background to her fight was what interested the Prince. The Lion had been fit and healthy. One day he enjoyed a large meal of lampreys in his palace in Rouen. But like a wild beast tamed, his huge body, a body that for sixty years had been his companion and delight, suddenly reverted to its savage nature and attacked him. ‘I die!’ he roared in anguish. His food was poisoned, whether by accident or design it was impossible to know. But death was certain. When this news had reached his nephew Stephen Blois a few hours later, Stephen sailed from Normandy to England and closeted himself with the Archbishop of Canterbury. There, he had persuaded the head of the Church in England that as king, he, Stephen, would allow both clergy and monks greater liberty than the Lion had – or than his daughter would. The Church would have its own authority
and jurisdiction, separate and independent from the crown. Canterbury was persuaded, and as the people wept, ‘The King is dead! Long live the King!’, Stephen was anointed.

Eustace sought an audience with his father in the palace of Westminster.

‘The French have a custom of anointing and crowning their prince as King while his father still lives. Sire, would this not be to our advantage in resisting the Anjevins?’

‘How?’ Stephen asked.

‘God forbid that you are defeated on the battlefield. But if you were, England would still have an anointed King in me. I would already have oaths of fealty from all our vassals. After so many years of anarchy, the last thing they would tolerate would be a second civil war.’

‘Your reasoning is sound.’

‘Well then, will you consent, sire?’

‘I will consent. The problem will be Canterbury. Theobold is unlike his predecessor. He has been against our house from the beginning of my reign.’

‘Let’s test him.’

The Archbishop accepted the King’s invitation to call on him at Westminster. He came accompanied by his Archdeacon, a tall, elegant young man with a reputation for financial brilliance. He had been a London banker earlier in life.

‘You wait outside,’ Eustace ordered the Archdeacon. He sniffed as he brushed past the man. ‘A rose garden,’ he murmured, but loudly enough for the Archdeacon to hear.

Stephen proposed to Canterbury that, war having been averted for one year, the realm must be made secure for the year ahead. ‘I wish you to anoint the Crown Prince,’ he said.

‘That is a French custom,’ Theobold replied.

‘Nevertheless, it is my will.’

‘Therefore, Your Highness, I’ll consider it.’

Eustace interjected, ‘To celebrate Easter.’

Theobold turned to him with an expression of curiosity. He was now in his seventh decade. He had studied in Rome. He understood the implications of the Gregorian reforms in a way few laymen could yet comprehend, and he loathed Prince Eustace. Those weak in courage are strong in cunning, he mused.

‘I want to be anointed and crowned on Easter Sunday,’ Eustace repeated.

The Archbishop gave a faint smile. ‘You wish to rise with the Saviour?’ he inquired.

Eustace bristled. After icy pleasantries Canterbury and his archdeacon left.

‘He won’t do it.’ The King was so angry he had barely been civil.

Eustace was white-faced with rage. ‘In my experience, sire, irons are more persuasive than words.’

‘You’re not serious!’

‘Why not?’ Eustace replied. ‘In defence of the realm one must, sometimes, overstep normal boundaries.’

The King crossed himself. He could not look his son in the eye; he knew he’d not heard the last of the idea.

Aelbad was as good as his word: he vanished. When the Bishop of Winchester made inquiries through his contacts, he heard no whisper of him. The Bishop was so relieved he decided to confide in his brother his suspicion that Aelbad had murdered numerous clergy and lepers in France, and probably a number of people in England. The King was aghast. ‘My son could not possibly have known this,’ he said.

‘I think,’ Winchester replied, ‘it would be wise if you were to warn him of the evil in that child. He will pay greater attention if it comes from you, brother. He regards me as an old fool.’

If not foolish, Stephen was looking old himself now, and his wife, to whom he was devoted, was ailing. A dropsical heart, some said. Others said it was a cold stomach. Whatever the cause of the Queen’s ill health, it was taking its toll on the King.

‘I’ll warn him,’ Stephen said. His brother knew he would not. Eustace had grown too wilful for his father.

Boys like Aelbad don’t vanish, Winchester said to himself. He must be somewhere. Doing something.

In December, Eleanor and Louis rode into Orléans where the populace received them with joy. Ventadour had written a new song for the royal progress to the south: ‘The mighty ones come to bless us …’, and he led the citizens in singing. After several nights Louis announced he wanted to continue on their journey, but the Queen said there were many more vassals asking for an audience than she had anticipated, so she would like to stay on for several days.

Baron de Cholet arrived the night after the King left. He was leading a mare caparisoned in Geoffrey’s colours: blue with gold leopards. It was cold, and the caparison had ear pieces, so even the smallness of the Arabian’s ears could not easily be discerned. A guard holding a torch lit her way to the stable. As soon as the mare saw her former mistress she whinnied a greeting.

‘It is you!’ Eleanor cried in delight. She stroked and kissed Selama, recalling what Father Bernard had said: ‘A horse would be good.’ To the Baron she announced, ‘Her return is miraculous.’

He looked down modestly. ‘The Duke of Normandy asked me to give her to you.’

‘It’s freezing,’ she said. ‘Let’s go inside. I’ll ride her in daylight.’

‘And maybe we’ll have time for chess?’ he prompted.

‘Most certainly.’ The son sends me my horse wearing Geoffrey’s colours. There’s more to this than a horse and a game of chess, she thought. But to her disappointment Cholet merely chatted. Her chess was rusty and as the end-game approached he was ahead of her. Henry had said, ‘Just give her the tiniest hint that I want to befriend her.’ The Baron picked up a rook. ‘This rook, I think, may …’ With a deft move he took her queen.

Eleanor gasped.

‘I’m so sorry, Your Highness,’ the Baron said. She stared at him as if he had pronounced on her a sentence of death.

Eleanor leaned forward to ask, ‘Why did you bring me the horse?’

Cholet replied, ‘The son of my friend believes you may need a swift steed some time in the future.’

The Queen jumped from her chair and ran from the chamber. ‘Her Highness is feeling unwell,’ the Baron said to the guards who strode towards him. They looked at each other. Everyone knew she and the King had lain together in a meadow recently. Maybe she’s with child, they thought.

She returned after half an hour, composed and carrying a small note. It said:

She summoned Xena’s replacement, not that anyone could replace for Eleanor her lovely Byzantine. The maid, Orianne, was intelligent and wrote well enough in French and Latin. She was as blond as Xena was dark. In summer, freckles bloomed over her cheeks and her eyebrows turned the colour of butter.

Orianne arrived back in time for the Christmas Court in Limoges, carrying two pigeons and a letter from Henry sewn inside her robe. It had taken him hours to compose. ‘Keep it brief,’ Guillaume said. In the end he had written:

Around his initials, HP, he had drawn two amusing pictures, similar to those that ancient Greek and Roman theatres had displayed above their entrances. One was a face in tears; the other a face laughing.

Eleanor could not help smiling at them, but frowned as she stared at his initials. They seemed to be written in blood. She summoned Orianne. ‘Did you see the Duke write this note?’ The girl nodded.

‘He called me in while he was writing it. And …’

‘Is that his blood?’

‘It is. I was frightened. He took a dagger from his belt and cut his finger, then used the blood to write. We had to wait several minutes for it to dry on the parchment.’

The Queen became thoughtful. She decided that well before Easter she would have to return to speak to Father Bernard and collect from him those things he said she would need after her divorce. But the letter gave her an idea: she would ask Normandy to run the errand for her. He was only a day’s ride from Chartres. I’ll see what he’s made of, she thought. Those who purposefully
sought audience with Father Bernard were few, since his messages were both harsh and brain-twisting. She was still in a puzzle over what he had said to her.

She wrote a second time to Henry, asking if he would do her a service, sending the original and a copy with several pigeons. His reply, by post-rider, was prompt: whatever she requested was his command. The face at the bottom of this letter was smiling, but he had signed in blood again.

She wrote back, explaining that Father Bernard had something she needed but she did not want to make the long journey north to collect it. ‘I forbid you to sign your initials in blood,’ she added. His note in reply had no initials, but an ink print of his thumb.

‘He’s amusing,’ Eleanor remarked to Orianne.

‘He makes everyone laugh,’ the maid exclaimed. ‘My lady, you should see him play with his son. He throws him in the air and catches him. He pulls up the baby’s dress and makes a rude noise on his stomach. He pretends to be a dog and walks on all fours while his wife holds the baby steady on his back.’

‘His wife?’

‘Yes. He addresses her as “wife”. She’s very beautiful. She’ll be delivered of another child in February.’

‘Does she live in the ducal palace?’

‘She lives in the house the Old Duke gave his concubine, a dark lady, like the Young Duke’s wife. The concubine grieves for the Old Duke, so the Young Duke’s wife stays there to comfort her, but goes to the palace each day to see her husband. Now she’s so close to giving birth, he rides down to see her. They always dine together.’

Eleanor forced herself to smile.
They always dine together
. What must it be to take such delight in each other that you choose to dine together? Geoffrey and I did. But for how many days? It was fewer than ten.

That night, as Orianne brushed her hair Eleanor examined herself closely in her glass. It was a perfect object, made in Lombardy, mounted in an ivory frame into which were carved birds and flowers. Whenever she travelled Eleanor had it wrapped in ten layers of silk for protection. She was shocked to see a tiny crease at the corner of each eye. They weren’t there a week ago, she thought.

When Orianne left she lay face down on the bed and wept. Because suddenly her beauty was fading. Because Geoffrey was dead and no man would ever love her as he had. Because she had no son. Nor anybody in whom to confide.

Henry was so occupied organising the army for the invasion, due in less than four months, that Guillaume, now officially Commander of Cavalry, offered to ride to Chartres to collect whatever it was from Father Bernard. Henry declined.

‘Now I’m a man I’d like to meet him. I want to ask him what he meant about the Devil.’

His accompanying knights led a pack-horse in case the Abbot had something large to send to the Queen. But when Henry first caught sight of the cathedral, instead of riding up to it, he went directly to the labyrinth. From horseback he studied its layout, riding slowly around its four sides. Ingeniously, it was square on the outside, but circular inside and within the circle a double spiral wound around itself. A number of walls blocked what seemed the logical progress. Only after much frustration, he saw, would someone inside the maze realise it turned inwards until a central point, where it reversed and turned out again. He memorised the shape.

‘Would you like to walk the labyrinth with me?’ Father Bernard asked. ‘I find it stills the heart and the mind.’

Henry bowed. Since paying homage to Louis and legally becoming Duke, he found graciousness came easily to him.

At the entrance he stood back for Father Bernard to precede him. ‘Please enter first,’ the monk said. Henry bowed again, and strolled at a leisurely pace along the straight paths, through the circular ones, and directly to the exit. It took no more than five minutes.

Waiting by the entrance, Bernard gave his skeletal smile. ‘Take a sip of my medicine,’ he said, offering the flask. Henry took a swig. He had drunk so much of Father Bernard’s liquor in Geoffrey’s last days his body could tolerate it now. ‘You’re the first person who’s ever been able to walk from the entrance straight to the exit. How did you do that?’

Henry glanced through narrowed eyes at the thin old man. ‘The Devil told me,’ he whispered. They both laughed.

Bernard took another sip of his drink. ‘I do believe he did,’ he said, and laughed again.

‘Why did you frighten my mother with that malign prophecy about me?’ Henry asked.

‘It wasn’t malign. People hear their own fears and desires.’

They walked slowly, in silence, towards the cathedral until Bernard spoke again. ‘Who was the most ambitious angel in heaven?’ he asked.

‘Lucifer.’

‘Quite so. Therefore, another name for the Devil is ambition. You were born of your family’s ambition. That was my meaning when I said, “He comes from the Devil.”’

‘You also said I would return to the Devil. “Return”, as in “die from”,’ Henry said.

‘Ye-es,’ Father Bernard agreed. ‘Like God, the Devil never rests. So ambition will …’

‘Kill me?’

The monk smiled slightly. ‘The question is: whose ambition?’

‘Well, whose?’ Henry demanded.

Bernard gave his death’s head grin. ‘Whose indeed?’ he replied.

Inside his apartment, seated on the same chair Eleanor had used, Henry folded his hands and waited.

‘May I see your sword?’ Bernard asked.

Instead of drawing his sword, Henry unbuckled his belt and laid the weapon on the monk’s desk. A flicker of youthful delight crossed the holy man’s face as he lifted the scabbard and with some effort withdrew the sword. I wonder, Henry thought, if ever he dreamed of becoming a knight himself? He founded the Order of the Knights Templar. Bernard examined the blade and hilt with bright, boyish eyes, then gingerly slid it back inside its gilded scabbard.

‘I met the Lion,’ he said. ‘I was only a youth, but he was unforgettable.’ He regarded Henry for a full minute. ‘As are you, young man.’

‘Thank you.’

Bernard said, ‘You’ll be remembered. But not in the way you hope, or you deserve. You’ll be remembered as an evil-doer.’

Henry exhaled a long breath. ‘If I don’t deserve it, perhaps that means I’ll not be guilty?’

‘That will depend on how clever you are.’ He took a sip of medicine. As another non sequitur he added, ‘I don’t understand women. They’re God’s labyrinth, created to confound men.’ He cocked his head. ‘Do you agree?’

Henry nodded. He said, ‘I came on one errand, as messenger boy for the Queen. She orders me to ask you for something she needs before Easter. But now …’

‘But now you have another reason to be here. Is that the case?’

Henry nodded. From his time with Douglas he knew it was possible for a man to read the thoughts in another man’s mind
and he suspected Father Bernard had this power. I’ll pretend he’s a horse, Henry thought. He put an image of Rachel in his mind. Instantly, an image of Eleanor appeared in its place.

‘It’s important you concentrate on your errand for the Queen,’ Father Bernard said.

But that’s only half your meaning, Henry thought. The monk yanked on a rope beside his desk. Outside a bell rang; a moment later a novice entered. ‘Fetch me the bundle of things I prepared recently,’ he said. The youth departed.

They remained in silence until he had returned with a large bundle. Bernard waved him off and took another sip of medicine.

‘You consider yourself married in the eyes of God,’ he remarked as if he were noting that the weather was cold. ‘Maybe you are. Maybe you aren’t. I don’t pretend to know the view of heaven on such matters. But it seems to be something that troubles your mind, young man.’

Will I rush in? Henry wondered. He took a deep breath. ‘I’m about to become a father for the second time –’

‘For the fourth,’ Bernard corrected him.

‘Well, yes. If you count the indiscretions of my youth. But the second time with my wife. However, I want to marry Queen Eleanor when Louis divorces her.’

The monk nodded. ‘So what is your question? Can you have two wives, one “in the eyes of God”, the other in the eyes of Mother Church? Of course you can.’ He looked hard at Henry. ‘I think that’s the wrong question.’

‘What’s the correct question?’

‘Don’t ask.’ He smiled. ‘Like another sip?’ He offered his medicine flask, passing it across his desk. As Henry took the flask from a hand so skeletal it seemed made of candlewax, Father Bernard stood. Their interview was over. Don’t ask whom? Henry wondered. Don’t ask what?

‘You’re to deliver these things to the Queen as soon as possible, to give her time to familiarise herself with them. As you’ve understood, she’ll soon be in great danger.’

Henry flashed him an image of the mare, Selama. The monk nodded and raised a questioning eyebrow. Henry tried to send a picture of Douglas, but found he could not.

‘I’m bringing a man from Scotland who’ll protect her, if anyone can,’ he said.

Bernard chuckled. ‘He’ll be a Highlander, will he not?’

Back in Rouen, Henry said to Guillaume, ‘Everything was a riddle. I even wondered if he were drunk.’

‘It’s odd you say that,’ Guillaume replied. ‘Douglas sent word – I decoded it – that he must go to Chartres before he can travel to Beaugency. He’s bringing two barrels of the Water of Life for a holy man in the cathedral. His ship has already sailed.’

Henry frowned. ‘That means …’

‘I know,’ Guillaume said. ‘Douglas left before your letter arrived.’

‘I wish to meet my grandson,’ Matilda told Henry. She now referred to herself as the Dowager Empress.

He, Rachel, the baby and its wetnurse travelled in a small carriage from Isabella’s house up to the palace. Henry was so nervous he had a fit of hiccoughs. ‘I will hold Geoffrey,’ Rachel announced when they arrived.

Matilda swept into the chamber, unsmiling. Her gown of dark grey was formal, impressive and elegant. Henry prayed silently to himself: Rachel, just stand your ground with her. He need not have bothered. Rachel, already heavy with their next child, had the gracious serenity of a goddess and it was Matilda who, he
realised, was awed by the younger woman. Her eyes fastened on her grandson. ‘May I?’ she asked. Henry wanted to applaud as his wife, calm and majestic, handed the baby to his grandmother. The little boy smiled at Matilda, kicked his legs with excitement and snatched at her veil. His every action lit the Dowager’s face with delight. He chewed her finger. She pealed with laughter. Who is this woman, Henry thought. She never treated us like that.

They sat down to breakfast and Matilda spoke in Latin to Henry, ‘You have a fine heir. If it comes to the worst, and you don’t get a legitimate one, you can adopt him.’

Henry said, ‘Mother, Rachel understood every word you just said. Her Latin is excellent.’

Matilda flushed slightly. ‘I beg your pardon, my dear,’ she said.

Rachel made a small gesture to show she took no offence. ‘I also read and write Greek and Hebrew,’ she said casually. ‘I’ll teach them to him, in case he wishes to enter the Church. It’ll be greatly to his advantage to be able to read Holy Scripture in all three languages from a young age.’

Matilda nodded slowly. Henry could see that his mother was reformulating the image she had made of Rachel. ‘You are wise beyond your years, dear girl,’ she said. ‘My Henry is very lucky to have you.’

Later, as they rattled downhill in the carriage, Henry said, ‘You fascinated her!’