Alison Weir - Captive Queen

“Make ready, my lady,” beamed Glanville, entering Eleanor’s chamber one blazing August morning. “You are summoned to Winchester.” It was clear that he was pleased to have some good tidings to impart at last.

Eleanor looked at him blankly. She could not take this in. Had Henry at last relented and granted her her liberty?

Glanville seemed to have read her thoughts. “The Lord King has betrothed your daughter, the Lady Joanna, to the King of Sicily. She is staying in Winchester, where preparations are being made for her departure from this realm, and the King has given leave for you to visit her there and make your farewells. You will, of course, travel under guard.”

This unexpected kindness on Henry’s part nearly took Eleanor’s breath away. Was he finally thawing toward her? Was this the first step toward a reconciliation? For three years now she had been cruelly cut off from her children, deprived of the pleasure of watching them grow to maturity and playing her proper maternal role in their lives. Heaven only knew what effect this deprivation could have had on the younger ones, those poor, innocent victims; Henry hadn’t thought of that, had he, in his need to exact vengeance on her? Yet in the wake of this one kind gesture from him, she was willing to put all that behind her. In the joyful anticipation of seeing Joanna, she was prepared to meet him more than halfway on anything.

The royal apartments in Winchester Castle were abuzz with activity, with damsels scurrying about with armfuls of rich garments and chests full of jewels, merchants displaying their luxurious fabrics, and seamstresses stitching away furiously at the eleven-year-old bride’s trousseau. In the midst of it all sat Joanna, a slightly less brilliant mirror image of the young Eleanor, her fresh young face rosy with excitement. At the sight of her mother appearing in the doorway, she rose and swept a deep curtsey, her pearl brocade skirts fanning over the floor.

“My dear child!” Eleanor cried, unable to contain her emotion, and suddenly mother and daughter were in each other’s arms, formality and the intervening years forgotten as they embraced each other with tears and laughter.

“So you are going to be married,” Eleanor said when she had managed to compose herself. It did not do for this girl to be burdened with the undamming of the floodgates of her own sorrows.

“I am to take ship for Palermo and marry King William, my lady. My lord my father says he is a great prince, and that Sicily is a fair land.”

Eleanor’s heart almost bled for her daughter’s innocent hopes. She prayed fervently that this marriage would turn out to be far happier than her own had been. Then she noticed Joanna looking at her blue bliaut . It was fine but old; all her gowns were old, for Henry had not thought fit to replace them, and the hem of this one was looking frayed. She could tell what Joanna was thinking, that it was unseemly for a queen to be clothed so meanly. But her daughter was prattling on happily about the wondrous wedding robes that Henry had provided for her, at enormous cost to himself. Clearly it mattered to him that his daughter impressed the world.

“I will ask him if he will purchase some fine robes for you too, my lady,” the girl said touchingly.

“No matter,” Eleanor said. “He has been kind enough in allowing me to visit you here.”

“Oh, but I shall!” cried Joanna, her eyes shining. “And I will make him let you come and visit me in Sicily. Have you ever been there, Mother?”

Eleanor’s heart sank. Had Henry not seen fit to instruct anyone to break it to this poor child that her parting from her parents might be final? Joanna was going a long way off, to a distant kingdom, and there was no guarantee that they might ever meet again. Such was the fate of princesses who were married off to foreign princes. Look at Matilda, in far-off Germany; Eleanor had no idea when, or if, she might see her eldest daughter again; she missed her still, and always would—it was a sadness that would never leave her. It was always easier for the one going away, for they were embarking on their life’s adventure; it was those left behind who felt the loss most keenly.

“I went to Sicily when I was Queen of France,” she said lightly. “It is a beautiful country, with wondrous scenery and many ancient ruins, and Palermo is a fair town. King William is Norman by descent, as you are. But, daughter, do not look to have me visit you there. As you know, your father is displeased with me. It is a miracle that he has let me come here. I should not like you to look for my coming in Palermo and then be disappointed. But we can write to each other,” she added quickly, seeing the sweet face about to crumple. “Now, are you going to show me your wedding gown?”

The days spent with Joanna were precious, golden days that passed all too soon. The imminent parting lent them piquancy and brilliance. It was tragic to be restored to her daughter’s company just when she might be separated from that daughter forever, but Eleanor did her best to keep happy and cheerful. Why waste this gift of time with lamentations? Joanna should take with her a joyful image of her mother, one she could cherish and hold in her heart.

“Will Father send you back to Sarum?” the child asked one day, as they took the air in the castle garden, two guards hovering discreetly in the background, as they always did. Eleanor had long since learned to get used to that, but she sensed that Joanna found it disconcerting.

“Yes, I’m sure he will,” she said lightly.

“Why did he lock you up?” The naive question gave her a jolt.

“We had a difference of opinion as to the amount of power that the King should allow your brothers,” she answered carefully. “Unfortunately, it led to war, and although I never intended that, your father holds me partly to blame.”

“I heard him say he can never love or trust you again,” Joanna said innocently, her little voice mournful.

Eleanor was shocked. No child should ever have to listen to one parent saying such things of the other!

“Were you to blame, Mother?” Joanna’s look was searching.

Eleanor sighed. “I did not think so at the time. I thought I was right. But now I’m no longer sure. I just want the wounds to be healed.”

“I want that too,” the child declared, “but I don’t think my brother the Young King does.”

“Oh?” This was news indeed. She thought Henry and their sons had reconciled, and imagined the boys living in subjection to their father’s heavy hand.

“The King my father kept his Easter court here. My brothers came too, but they were arguing all the time. Young Henry was angry about being kept idle in England, while Richard and Geoffrey were allowed to rule Aquitaine and Brittany. He accused the King of trying to oust him from the succession, but Father wouldn’t listen, so he asked leave to go to Spain, to visit the shrine of St. James at Compostela, although I think he just wanted to go and meet his friends and cause trouble, or so Father said. He wouldn’t let him go. Since then he has let Young Henry go to Aquitaine, but I think he has been stirring up the people there against Richard. Oh, and I heard he was taking part in a lot of tournaments.”

So, Eleanor realized, all was clearly not well between Henry and his heir. If anything, and Joanna had it right, matters were worse now than before the rebellion. Of course, Henry would find it impossible to trust his sons after what had happened.

“What of Richard?” She asked. “Do you know anything of him?”

“No. He went back to Aquitaine. The people there hate him. Geoffrey seems to be all right in Brittany, apart from having to live with Constance!” Mother and daughter exchanged knowing smiles, although Eleanor was disturbed to hear that her subjects hated Richard.