Alison Weir - Captive Queen

She could not believe that John, the youngest of her children, was the young man who had now grown as tall as his brothers, who seemed still to treat him as a child to be humored, while Henry behaved toward John with affectionate indulgence. Indeed, the light seemed to shine from his eyes whenever he looked on the youth, an obvious irritation to Richard and Geoffrey. Eleanor could detect a certain jealousy … It was evident that despite their outward bonhomie, these three sons of hers would always be rivals.

John was courteous to her, yet held himself more aloof than the rest. She could not blame him for that. She suspected that he resented her for having effectively abandoned him at Fontevrault in his infancy; she perceived in his conversation—the diffident conversation of a young man who thinks he knows everything—a certain antipathy toward the Church, which she guessed might have had its roots in his early experiences. Yet she knew that she could never explain to John why she had left him in the care of the nuns. Such things were better put firmly behind them all and consigned to the past. If we allow the past to blight our lives, we will never make a success of this reunion, she told herself again. At least she could look on John, with his dark red curls and his strongly built body, which so favored his father’s, with warmth now, and actually care about what happened to him, as became a natural mother. That was a significant blessing.

She rejoiced to see Matilda; it was a special delight to be reunited with this daughter she had thought never to set eyes on again, although nothing—nothing—could equal the joy she felt at seeing Richard after all the hard, cruel years of separation; and her cup was full when Matilda summoned a nurse, who escorted into the room a procession of seven little Saxon children to greet their grandmother—the first of her grandchildren that Eleanor had ever seen. One of the girls, she was touched to hear, had been named in her honor. She bent and hugged the sturdy little boys, Otto and Henry, lifted the baby Lothar into her arms, and made much of the pretty daughters, especially Richenza—who told an amused Eleanor that she would really rather be called Matilda while she was in England—then there was Gertrude, Ingibiorg, and tiny Nell, her namesake.

She looked on Matilda’s brood with pride, while reflecting that it was sad that none of her other children had been similarly fruitful. The Young King’s son had died, as had Joanna’s and Eleanor’s firstborn. So far there was no whisper that Geoffrey’s Constance, who had now joined the gathering and was fawning possessively over her husband, might be enceinte, and Richard and John were as yet unmarried. Both were betrothed, of course, but, John being only sixteen, it was Richard’s situation that perturbed the Queen more than anything. So far she had encountered neither sight nor sound of the Princess Alys. Was it true that Henry had at one time meant to marry her himself? If so, he had abandoned the idea years since, for she had never heard any more of it. When the opportunity arose, she promised herself, she would tactfully raise the matter of Richard’s marriage with Henry. It must take place soon.

But for now that could wait. There were more pleasant matters at hand, and so much news to catch up on. It was enough that, tonight, she was feasting her eyes at long last on her children, with Henry at her side. Lord Jesus, she prayed, let all our strife and troubles be firmly behind us. And with a radiant smile that captured all the love and hope in her heart, she raised her goblet in yet another toast to this wonderful reunion.

Once more Eleanor assumed her rightful place as Queen. When Henry led her out before the court the following evening, and they took their seats at the high table for a celebratory feast, there were cheers and applause as the company rose to its feet. It was all quite overwhelming. She had not imagined that her husband’s courtiers would have thought so kindly of her.

She was pleased to find Hugh of Avalon seated at her right hand. Although she knew he did not approve of her marriage, she liked and respected him as a man of integrity and holiness, and she could sense that he was happy to see her here.

“I am more than glad to see good relations restored between you and the King, my lady,” he told her warmly.

“God has answered my prayers,” she said fervently, and then, with a touch of mischief, added, “I am to be on my best behavior now, if I am not to incur Henry’s hatred once more.”

Hugh gave her a long look. “I think you have both learned wisdom, which means that something good has come out of this whole sorry business. And this reunion does not really surprise me. Those whom the King once loved, he rarely comes to hate. And he needs you, my lady, more than he realizes. God works in ways that are incomprehensible to us, but He has brought you together, and taught you both to forgive. Would that it could have been in happier circumstances. This has been a sad time for you both. I am deeply sorry for your loss.”

Eleanor inclined her head, not wanting to go there. “What I want to achieve is a good working partnership with my lord the King.”

“I believe he desires that too,” the prior told her. “He no longer wishes to give his sons cause to criticize him for treating you harshly.”

“And did they so criticize him?”

“Oh, indeed—constantly!” Hugh smiled. “Your children are very loyal to you. It is a happy day for them, to have their parents reconciled.”

“Indeed it is,” said the Queen, her heart full. But we are not fully reconciled, she thought. She should not have expected it, of course, yet she had wondered, briefly, last night, if Henry, having poured his heart out to her earlier, would come to her bed and cement their reunion with his poor, aging body, in which she suspected the old Adam doubtless still lurked. Despite everything, she would very much have liked him to, for she desperately needed the comfort of that unique close union with another human being—and to prove to herself that she could still experience sexual pleasure, which would have enabled her briefly to distance herself from her grief. But he had not come, and she had lain there—blissfully alone for the first night in years—thinking how foolish she had been even to imagine it.

Overjoyed to be at liberty and free to ride where she would at will, Eleanor set off on her travels to the disputed fiefs. She was received everywhere with honor and acclaim, and found herself slipping back effortlessly into the queenly role that had once been a way of life for her. It was very gratifying, and moving, and she was proud to find that she had not lost her common touch, and that the efforts she was making on Henry’s behalf were going a long way toward restoring her own popularity.

Then came the summons to Angers, preceded by rumors that trouble had broken out yet again between the King and his sons. Immediately she hastened south, determined to do all in her power to put things right; but almost as soon as she had dismounted in the castle bailey, Richard was there at her elbow, his handsome face dark with anger.

“Father is out hunting. I need to speak with you urgently,” he muttered.

“At least let me get my breath back,” she chided, then beckoned him to follow her to her lodgings. As Amaria—an Amaria whose bulky figure was now encased in a stylish green bliaut —bustled about in the inner chamber unpacking her gear, a job she had to do by herself, as Henry had demurred about recalling Eleanor’s other ladies (no doubt they were tainted with suspicion too, and he thought they incited me to rebellion, she told herself), she poured some wine and bade Richard sit down with her in the solar.