Sharon Penman: Devil's brood

The windows of her chamber were unshuttered, open to the humid Sarum air. Eleanor was playing chess with Amaria when Sir Ralph Fitz Stephen and the justiciar, Ralf de Glanville, sought admittance. Rising, Eleanor stood watching as they came toward her, their faces grave, their eyes apprehensive.

“The king is dead,” she said before either man could speak.

Their mouths dropped open, and they regarded her for a moment with awe and unease before the justiciar rallied. “Yes, Madame, that is so. The lord king died at Chinon on the sixth of July, not long after being compelled to make peace with the Duke of Aquitaine and the French king. I regret we can tell you no more than that, for we’ve had word only of his mortal illness and his funeral at Fontevrault Abbey.”

“Fontevrault,” Eleanor said softly. The abbey where he’d meant to exile her, now his burial site. “I would have a Requiem Mass said on the morrow for the repose of his soul.”

“Of course, Madame.”

“Afterward, I shall return to Winchester, for Sarum has never been to my liking.” Eleanor looked at them challengingly, but they raised no objections whatsoever, to the contrary, seemed eager to oblige her.

“It shall be as the queen commands.”

Once they’d gone, Eleanor moved to the window, stood gazing out at the starless summer night. Amaria was watching her uncertainly, not sure what-if any-comfort to offer. “My lady, it must be a great relief to recover your liberty and my heart rejoices for you. And of course you are gladdened that Lord Richard will now be king, as am I. But…do you not…not…”

“Mourn?” Eleanor did not turn around. “I’ve been mourning for months, Amaria, ever since I learned about Bonsmoulins. After that, I knew it could only end like this.”

Will Marshal waited as the queen read her son’s letter. She’d moved to the open window for better light, and Will marveled that a woman of her age could take the harsh glare of the sun and still look so handsome. He found it hard to believe she was just five years away from her biblical three score and ten. But then he found it hard to remember that he was past forty. He’d loved Hal, had developed a great respect for Henry, and was very grateful to Richard for bearing no grudges. But he’d always had a special bond with the queen, who’d ransomed a young knight of no consequence, not only saving his life but putting him on the path that now led to Isabella de Clare and possibly even an earldom. He deeply regretted the king’s unhappy death. He was glad, though, that Eleanor would flourish now that her son ruled, very glad, indeed.

“It seems congratulations are in order, Will.” Eleanor glanced up from Richard’s letter, a smile playing about her mouth. “So you are to be married?”

“Indeed, my lady. From here I go to seek out the damsel in London.” His smile was joyful, but wry, too. “She is very young, seventeen or so. I hope she’ll not be disappointed to find herself wed to a man so much older than she.”

Eleanor was touched, surprised that a boy’s shyness could still survive under the polished, worldly mien of this accomplished courtier and knight. “Dearest Will,” she said, “you think your renown has not reached English shores? Isabella will be so bedazzled to wed the famed Will Marshal that she’ll never notice a grey hair or two at your temples.” She grinned then, and he had to grin back. “I am loath to cut short your time with your bride, but do not tarry with her too long, Will. There is much to be done, and I shall have need of your services.”

“Of course, Madame. I assume you will be making the arrangements for the duke’s coronation?”

She inclined her head. “But that is only one of the tasks I must undertake. My son is not that well known in England, for he has passed little time here. I want to do what I can to make sure his welcome will be a warm one.”

Will did not doubt she would succeed; he’d known few men with the shrewdness and political acumen of the queen. He’d begun to hope that he might actually evade the question he’d been dreading, but it was then that Eleanor said, “You were with my husband until the end. Tell me about those last days.”

Will was quiet for a moment. “How much do you want to know, Madame?”

Her eyes narrowed. “As bad as that?”

“Yes, my lady, as bad as that.”

Eleanor found herself hesitating, uncharacteristically irresolute. She did not truly want to know how Henry had suffered; she already had enough bad memories to last a lifetime. Yet she felt oddly obligated to hear it all. One final act of atonement? Irony was not likely to be an effective shield, though. “Tell me,” she repeated, and Will did. He’d have spared her if he could, but he respected her too much to lie to her after she’d asked for the truth.

She listened in silence, but when he told her of John’s betrayal, her eyes burned with tears. “I’d been told that John and Richard had made their peace, but I assumed it had happened after Harry died…”

Will shook his head grimly. “I would to God it had been like that, Madame, for this was the true mortal blow. I know the king made mistakes, many of them, but he did not deserve a death like this.”

“No,” she said, very low, “he did not.”

Neither spoke for a time, and then Will roused himself to tell her the rest, the most shameful part of this sad story. “By ill chance, neither Geoff nor I were with him when he died, and whilst we were being summoned, some of his servants and men stole what they could. They’d dared to search his body, and when we entered the chapel, we found him lying there on the bed without even a blanket to cover him. One of his knights at once removed his own mantle and wrapped the king in that. We did the best we could, found a fine robe to bury him in, and a scepter, and lacking a crown, we made do with gold embroidery. We were distraught that we had no ring for his finger, but fortunately he’d given one to his squire for safekeeping, and Hugh produced a jeweled ring of great beauty. We had no money for alms, though, and several thousand of Christ’s poor had gathered as word spread. Stephen de Marcay, the king’s seneschal, insisted that there was no money left in Chinon’s treasury, and I reminded him how much he’d benefited from the king’s favor, saying that he may have none of the king’s money but he had plenty of his own which he’d amassed in the royal service. But the ungrateful wretch claimed he could do nothing, and so we had to turn the people away, which would have grieved King Henry greatly…”

He waited, and when she said nothing, he crossed to her side, kissed her hand, and bade her farewell. She did not speak until he reached the door. “Will…tell the Lady Amaria that I would be alone.”

“I will, my lady,” he said and closed the door quietly behind him.

Eleanor moved to the table and poured wine with an unsteady hand. But she did not drink, for her chest felt congested, her throat too tight to swallow. Her hand tightened around the cup and then she dashed it to the floor, sent the flagon flying with another sweep of her arm.

“Damn you, Harry, I am not going to let you do this! After all the grief you gave me over the years, I am not going to let you torment me from the grave, too!”

Sitting down upon the edge of her bed, she closed her eyes and counted her scars as if they were pater noster beads. The expression on his face during their dreadful confrontation at Falaise. Look upon the sun, you’ll not be seeing it again. I will never forgive you, never. I offered to make you the abbess of Fontevrault, but it can just as easily be an impoverished Irish convent, so remote and secluded that not even God could find you.

No, she did not lack for reasons to curse his memory. She had sixteen of them. She need only think of all those lonely Christmases, all those wasted years. She need only remember how he’d used her to compel Richard to surrender Aquitaine, careless of the damage he might be doing between mother and son, or the awful sound of the key turning in the lock on her first night of captivity at Loches Castle.