Alison Weir - Captive Queen

Eleanor too could not mask her fury. How dare Henry slight her, the sovereign Duchess of Aquitaine! But look at him! He was standing there beaming, happy to ride roughshod over everyone’s sensibilities—as usual! In her fury, her resolve hardened. It was not the Young King’s fault that he had been dragged into this; God knew, he had supportable grievances enough of his own. But that Richard, her Richard, had been obliged ignobly to compromise his lordship—that she could not forgive. Henry must be stopped. If she had to commit treason to do it, then so be it—she would do it.

She guessed that when the feasting came to an end and the guests had withdrawn, there would be a family bloodbath, and she was right. Before she and Henry could retire to their separate chambers—never again, she had vowed, would they share a bed—Richard had collared them in the stairwell and complained bitterly of the slight he had received.

“Your brother is my heir. Let that be an end to it,” Henry said dismissively.

“Yes, but not the heir to Aquitaine!” Richard stormed. “He has no jurisdiction in this territory, nor ever will.”

“Henry, you were unjust,” Eleanor added coldly.

“Cease your complaints!” Henry growled. “I’m going to bed.”

“Not so fast, Father!” It was the Young King, come up behind them. “I have something to say to you. Do you want me to say it here, or shall we do it in private?”

Henry turned on the stair and scowled down at him. “You had all better come to my solar, and we can get things straight, once and for all,” he said.

“Yes, we will,” his son promised, his eyes blazing with purpose.

Eleanor took her place in the carved chair by the brazier. Her two sons placed themselves firmly on either side of her, making it quite plain that they were all three allies. Henry stood facing them, feet planted firmly apart, arms folded across his chest, jutting his bull-like chin out defiantly.

“Well? Out with it!”

The Young King bristled. “Why do you refuse to delegate any power to me and my brothers?”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Because you are not yet ready for it, as your hot-headed behavior proves.”

“So John, at six, is ready to administer the castles you have given to him—castles that belong, by rights, to me! I had no wish to give them to him, and you had no right to dispose of them!”

“I have every right,” said Henry, abandoning his inquisitorial pose to pour himself some wine. “I am the King. Everything is mine to dispose of. And I’m not dead yet.”

“You may not dispose of your lands here without the consent of your overlord, the King of France,” the Young King said, smirking nastily, “and I must tell you that it is King Louis’s wish—and that of the barons of England and Normandy—that you at least share your power with me, and assign me an income sufficient to maintain my estate.”

Henry stared at his son. “You have been busy,” he snorted. “Tell me, does it behoove my son and heir to go behind my back, cozen my barons, and consort with my ancient enemy?”

“That which you reap, you must sow, Henry,” Eleanor told him. “There was no other way for him to receive justice, you must see that.”

“I’d give it another name, madame.” The King regarded her with contempt. “I’d call it treason.”

Her face must have betrayed her. Her sons looked alarmed as Henry bore down on her. “What do you know of this, Eleanor? Have you been stirring up trouble too?”

“I but support my own blood,” she answered evasively.

Henry thrust his head forward until they were face-to-face, noses almost touching. “But you would not go so far as to appeal to Louis for support, I hope!”

“I have no need to. It seems our Henry can take care of himself.”

Henry stood up, dissatisfied, yet not wanting to pursue the matter further for the moment. Surely she would not have gone so far!

“Out!” he commanded his sons. “And don’t come bothering me with your endless complaints and demands again. Go on, out! I wish to speak privately with your mother.”

Reluctantly, like naughty children, Young Henry and Richard left the room, their eyes smoldering, hatred burning in their breasts. Eleanor watched them go and grieved for them, but her attention was immediately demanded by Henry.

“If I find you have betrayed me,” he warned her, his voice deadly serious, “I will kill you.”

“That would not surprise me, after the violence you have shown me,” she retorted, keeping her nerve. “Henry, why have you come to hate me so? Is it because you can’t bear it when I’m right?”

“It’s because you have set yourself in opposition to me, when you should be supporting me,” he replied. “You never show me the proper meekness of a true wife.”

“I never did!” She laughed mirthlessly. “It didn’t bother you in the old days. You liked my spirit—you often told me so. But I now speak a truth you do not want to hear.”

“Just stop interfering. You’re a woman, and these are affairs for men.”

“Then why did you send me here to rule Aquitaine? Did you think me incapable of sound judgment back then? God’s teeth, Henry, I could run circles around you!”

“You think you have some fatal power over me, don’t you?” Her husband sneered, his features contorted in what looked like loathing. “Well, you don’t. You are an irritation, that’s all.”

“I am your wife and your queen!” Eleanor cried, incensed. “You were lucky to marry me, for I could have had my pick of the princes of Europe. But I have always done my duty by you. I have been a true wife these many years, and a helpmeet when you needed it. I have borne you sons—”

“Yes, God help me!” Henry flung back. “I wish I could get more and disown these ungrateful Devil’s spawn …”

“Then perhaps you should marry one of your whores, and do just that! Mayhap Rosamund de Clifford would oblige, or did you abandon her long ago, as you abandon most of the women you’ve fucked?”

It was the first time in six years that the name Rosamund had been uttered between them. For Eleanor, it had been a long shot, for she had heard nothing more of the girl since that terrible night when Henry admitted his love for her—and had, indeed, not wanted to hear of her. He had rarely been in England since then, so she supposed the affair died a natural death. But now she could see by his expression that she had been horribly wrong.

“I have never abandoned Rosamund,” he said, deliberately aiming to hurt her. “She is here, in Limoges. She traveled incognito, with a separate escort, and I have slept with her every night since I arrived. There—does that satisfy your curiosity? I told you, Eleanor: I love her. Nothing has changed. I do not love you. I prefer to hate you.”

“It’s the other side of the same coin,” she riposted, wondering why tears were threatening to spill down her face. “Tell me, Henry, do you hit her as you hit me? Does she please you in bed as much as I did?”

He looked at her darkly. “Rosamund would never give me cause to strike her. She is a gentle soul. And yes, she brings me much joy—more than you ever did! Look at yourself in the mirror, Eleanor, and ask yourself why I no longer lust after you. Look at the harridan you have become!”

He is doing this to bait me, she told herself. It is his way of being revenged for what he sees as a betrayal. I must not take it to heart—and anyway, what need have I to? I no longer love him, so why should I care? But she was honest enough to realize, to her dismay, that she did care—that she wanted to rake her nails down Rosamund’s alabaster cheeks and ruin her beauty, that she wanted to fling herself at Henry and beat the breath out of his chest for being so cruel—and so stupid! Instead, she rose to her feet with immense dignity, picked up a candle, and made to leave. But Henry stopped her, reaching out and taking hold—none too gently—of her arm.