Captive Queen

Dared she let her heart sing at the prospect of freedom? She kept looking at the slit of blue sky, thinking that she would soon be out in the world again and able to enjoy the rest of the summer. But what did Henry really intend? After all that had passed between them, he surely could not want her to live with him again as his wife. If he meant to continue as before, with her ruling Aquitaine and him the rest of his empire, then he would not be summoning her to Barfleur. Barfleur was one of the ports from which they had often taken ship for England. It was years since Eleanor had seen England. For her, England was now and forever associated with that terrible visit to Woodstock and the miserable birth of John that followed it.

But if Henry wanted a reconciliation of sorts, and for her to accompany him to England as his queen, then so be it. She would go, and meekly do as she was bid—and make the best of it, avoiding all occasion for conflict. Anything would be preferable to this. Her heart leaped at the possibility that she might see her sons again soon.

Watching the Queen standing at the window, deep in thought, Amaria reflected sadly that these months of confinement had aged her. Eleanor was fifty-two, and looked it. The red in her graying hair had faded to the color of straw and gone thin on the skull; her eyes and the corners of her mouth were circled by fine lines; her skin had paled through lack of exposure to sunlight. Yet she retained—and always would—that exquisite bone structure that lent her her peculiar beauty. The King would find his wife changed, but still, despite everything, attractive.

Eleanor’s spirits sank rapidly when she saw that she was to be accompanied by a heavily armed escort. There could be no doubt that Henry meant for her to travel as a prisoner, under guard. Unless he was bent on making some dramatic gesture such as liberating her before the eyes of their sons, she had to face the fact that her future still looked bleak. She toyed feverishly with the idea of making a dramatic personal appeal to Henry, of debasing herself before him and promising anything —anything—to regain her freedom.

It felt strange to be on horseback again; she was stiff and out of condition, she realized. But expert rider that she had been all her life, she soon became acclimatized to being back in the saddle. Yet her pleasure in once more feeling the heat of the sun and the soft breath of the July breeze was subsumed by her i

As they rode into Barfleur, Eleanor could see a great fleet of at least forty ships waiting in the harbor. So they were bound for England, as she had anticipated. But why so many ships? Then she saw a great company of soldiers waiting to board some of the vessels anchored at the farther end of the quay. So Henry was taking an army with him. Surely he could not stillbe at war? She began to feel distinctly uneasy.

Her escort led her past the squat fortified church tower where she had once waited with Henry for a tempest to cease, so that he could cross to England and claim his kingdom. That had been all of twenty years ago. Where had the time gone? And look where it had brought them! But there was no leisure to reflect, as the captain was leading them toward the quayside, where she could see a large gathering of people, many of them well-dressed women, waiting while their baggage was stowed on board the flagship. As she drew nearer, she recognized many familiar faces.

There was Henry, his face weather-beaten and ta

There was Queen Marguerite, sixteen now, and the living image of Louis; Alys, her younger sister, Richard’s betrothed, a willowy brunette who must now be about fourteen, and surely ripe for marriage. The insufferable Constance was staring at her with undisguised contempt; already, even at twelve years old, she was posing provocatively, her clinging white bliautaccentuating every detail of her wide, curvaceous hips and small breasts; unlike most girls, she kept her hair cropped short, which gave her an elfin appearance, but did not, in Eleanor’s opinion, look attractive or suit her. But Constance always was one to be different and draw attention to herself. Gentle Alice of Maurie

As the Queen’s escort dismounted, the captain held Eleanor’s bridle as she climbed off her horse. The King broke away from his party and walked slowly toward them, his face impassive. Eleanor curtsied formally, then rose in trepidation to face him. He looked at her blankly, with no trace of emotion.

“I will not say you are welcome, Eleanor,” he began, his voice husky. “You’d know I didn’t mean it. But I trust you had a good journey.”

“Why have you summoned me, my lord?” she asked. There was no point in continuing with the pleasantries, even though everyone was watching them with avid interest.

“I am taking you—and these young ladies—to England. Thanks to your efforts, we are still at war.” He glared at her. “Even the Scots are joining the fray now, as if Louis and our beloved sons are not making enough mischief. They are all threatening England with invasion, and my justiciar there is bombarding me with appeals for help. No doubt it pleases you to hear that, madame.”

Eleanor could not ignore the barb. “I am very sorry for your trouble,” she said, “but you only brought it upon yourself.”

“So you had nothing to do with it?” he sneered, his ma

“I never incited anyone to invade England. And I don’t see how my presence there will help your cause.”

Henry gri

It was as if a dead weight were pressing on her chest. She feared she might faint again, as she had when he last told her what her fate was to be. To have her hopes of freedom suddenly raised and then as speedily dashed was devastating. But she managed to maintain her composure.

“Where are you sending me?”

“I am thinking about it. Where would you least like to go?”

She almost said Woodstock, and stopped herself in time. Any prison, however grim and gloomy, would be preferable.

“While my sons are in peril, I care not where I go,” she answered. “But what of these young girls, their wives?”