Captive Queen

They were very subdued today, her daughters. It had been decided, by Henry, with her reluctant approval, that they should be brought up by the good nuns of Fontevrault until such time as they were married. Eleanor knew there could be no better education for girls of high birth. Her family—and Henry’s—had a long tradition of sending daughters to Fontevrault. But the decision saddened her. She would miss Eleanor and Joa

She smiled encouragingly at her little girls as a pang gripped her heart. It was for the best that they be entrusted to the good sisters of Fontevrault, she told herself. Henry had warned her that she would have enough on her hands trying to control her rebellious vassals, and that most girls of high birth were reared by nuns. Yet she had prided herself that, contrary to the common custom of royalty, she had until recently kept all her children with her. She wondered if this consignment of Eleanor and Joa

That left young John, little more than a year old. Try as she might, Eleanor still could not bring herself to love him, this child conceived in sorrow and born in betrayal. His existence conjured up too many memories of that terrible Christmastide when she had gone to Woodstock and come face-to-face with catastrophe and ruin, and then endured that bloody, agonizing travail at Oxford. No, John was the fruit of a marriage in its death throes, and sometimes she could not bear to look upon him. His nurses had the care of him.

John was going to Fontevrault too. Young though he was, Eleanor urged Henry to consider him for a career in the Church, and Henry had agreed. As the youngest of four sons, it did not seem likely that there would be much of a landed inheritance for him, so the Church seemed an obvious choice. John would be brought up as an oblate, in preparation for his ordination to the priesthood. The gift of a son to God would undoubtedly be one of the best ways of storing up treasure in Heaven, for both parents. And God knows, we need it, Eleanor thought bitterly. She would not miss her last-born; indeed, she was thankful that others would have the rearing of him. Her guilt was overwhelming.

But there was one other whom she would miss, whose smile would never again gladden her day. Poor Petronilla had died three months before, the victim of her own helpless predilection for the fruit of the grape. At the end she had been comatose, her skin yellowed, her belly horribly distended. Eleanor had wept pitifully for her sister, but could not deny that death had come as a merciful release. But there was now an empty space in her life, which Petronilla had once filled; there were too many empty spaces, she reflected mournfully. Sadness seemed to be her lot these days.

Amiable Abbess Isabella had gone to her well-earned rest many years before, and it was her successor, Abbess Audeburge, who was waiting to receive them; her monks, nuns, and lady boarders drawn up in a respectful semicircle behind her. As the royal cavalcade drew to a halt, the entire convent fell to its knees and the abbess stepped forward. Audeburge was a capable, dynamic woman whom Eleanor had long liked and admired. She knew she could not have entrusted her children to a better guardian. And her confidence seemed to be justified, for when Eleanor and Joa

They could not tarry. After mass in the soaring white abbey church, Henry paid his respects to the abbess and prepared to depart. He had pla

“You ca

“They will resent it,” she had warned, in clipped tones.

“Are yougoing to face them in battle?” Henry retorted. “Besides, in defying me, they defy you. I want to see Aquitaine settled before I leave you in charge.”

Eleanor had not answered, but rode on, tight-lipped.

37

Lusignan and Poitiers, 1168

They rode south, toward Lusignan. As they approached, they could see its castle, nestling on a hill above the Vo

Poitiers, Eleanor’s destination, lay not far to the east. As speed was essential to frustrating the rebels’ plans, Henry, hell-bent on marching on Lusignan, was unable to escort her to her city. Instead, he had summoned Earl Patrick of Salisbury, his military governor and deputy in Aquitaine, to ensure that the duchess reached Poitiers in safety. And here was Earl Patrick now, riding along the dusty road, a small force of men-at-arms at his heels.

Eleanor knew and liked Patrick. He had given long years of loyal service to the Empress Matilda and to King Henry, and during the year he had been in Aquitaine, proved himself an able, sensible ruler, forging a tactful and politic friendship with her seneschal, Raoul de Faye, and treating her vassals in a conciliatory fashion. She hoped he would stay on, after the handover of power had taken place; she would value his company and his sound advice.

But first there was Henry. The moment of farewell had come. It would not be a final farewell, of course, but there was little likelihood of them meeting in the near future. It seemed strange, that such a great passion should meet its sorry end on a remote country roadside, with no formalities and no one else even being aware of the cataclysmic event that was taking place.

Henry was impatient to be gone, to fight his battle and to have the awkward moment over and done with. He reined in his restive mount, leaned across his saddle, gave Eleanor the briefest of kisses, and gruffly wished her Godspeed. She remained seated erect on her palfrey, regarding him with sad eyes, which he would not meet.