I said: “I married you when you were a mere duke, Duke of Normandy, and hard pressed to keep the title.”

“That is past. Now I am King of England.”

“And I am the Queen and Duchess of Aquitaine.”

“Queen because I made you so, remember?”

“You are insulting me by bringing this child into the nursery.”

“As I see it, I am doing my duty by him.”

“Could you not put him into some nobleman’s household?”

“I want him to be in mine.”

“And you will disrupt your family to do this?”

“I command that he be brought up here and that there shall be no prejudice against him.”

I felt beaten. I knew him well by now. I could imagine those journeys of his, the nights he spent with women ... any woman who happened to be available. Why had I thought it could be otherwise with such a man? He was lusty and licentious; this was the life he had led before his marriage and he saw no reason to discontinue it. This was how it had always been. I had to get used to it.

I turned away from him but he caught my arm and pulled me around to face him.

“Have done with fancy songs from fancy troubadours,” he said. “Face the real world. Men will be men and if the woman they would have is not there they will take another. It is always so with such as I am and always will be. You must needs face the truth.”

“You have been trying to tell me this for a long time. You wanted this boy brought in. You were going to ask me to take him in. You have been steeling yourself to do it. Then you decided on this arrogance ... this insistence.”

“My dear Eleanor, you are too clever by half.”

Then he laughed and held me against him. He was knowledgeable about women—having had so much experience of them, I supposed. He thought that if he made love to me, made me believe that I was still more desirable to him than anyone else, he could bend me to his command. But my feelings had changed toward him. I wrenched myself free and left him.

The boy came. There was no doubt that he was Henry’s—the tawny hair and eyes, the confident manner; he was the lion’s cub. He was a pleasant creature. Young Henry took to him right away. Matilda liked him. He quickly became a favorite in the nursery.

September 8 of that year 1157 was a day I have often thought of as the happiest in my life because on it my son Richard was born. He was beautiful from the moment he appeared. Not for him that period which most little babies go through when they look like old men of ninety. He was fair-haired and blue-eyed with a skin like milk and pale pink roses. I loved him dearly from the moment I saw him, and for the rest of his life he became the most important person in mine.

It may have been not only because of his unusual beauty but because my relationship with Henry had undergone a change. There had been times before he brought young Geoffrey into the nursery when he had irritated me, but he had never failed to charm me. I had seen those violent rages which had appalled me and I had realized that some of them were performed for effect, because he liked people to be in awe of him, simply because he wanted to be able to do with them what he wished. But still he had remained the man I loved. Now I looked at him through clearer eyes. Why should I, a fastidious woman, have become so besotted about a man who did not care for his appearance, dressed in a slovenly manner, ate his food walking about—not caring how it was served, had no great good looks, was bow-legged and weatherbeaten with rough red hands? He had power, yes, great power, but he was devious, crafty and unscrupulous. He had never paid his brother Geoffrey the amount he had contracted to in exchange for Anjou. True, he had read a great deal. He would read while he was in church.

He was a great King; he did know how to rule. But he was greedy. He wanted to take as much land as he could. He chafed that anything should belong to anyone else.

I was growing out of love with Henry, and all my affection had been transferred to my golden-haired child.

Even at an early age Richard responded. His smiles were for me. He was contented only when I was near. There had been a bond between us from the moment he was born. He was a blessing. He soothed those wounded feelings engendered by Henry’s disloyalty. I now faced the truth. He must have bastards all over the country. He would pass through a town taking women as it pleased him and thinking no more of it.

I often wondered about Becket. They were so much together. Was Becket around when Henry was wenching? And if so, did he share in the sport? He seemed to in everything else.

Once I asked Henry this.

“Did you know,” he said, “that Becket has taken a vow of chastity?”

“People do not always keep to their vows,” I pointed out.

“He does. He’s a churchman, remember.”

“A very unusual churchman,” I commented.

I was annoyed that Becket should take up so much of his time and charm him so obviously. Before I had Richard I should have been jealous. Now I could shrug it aside. I said I thought it was rather odd for a chancellor-churchman to be so frequently in the company of a king-rake. That amused Henry.

“I’ll tell Becket that,” he said.

I could imagine how Henry teased Becket, how he would try to lay him open to temptation. Becket, of course, would go his own way. I was sure that one of the holds he had over the King was due to his independent outlook and his indifference as to whether he offended Henry or not.

Accounts of their adventuring were brought to me from time to time. There was one incident which rather amused me and about which there was a good deal of talk.

They made such a contrast when they went riding out together: Henry in his plain Angevin jacket and short cape, his red hands unencumbered by gloves and the Chancellor, elaborately clad in scented linen and a fine embroidered sable-lined cloak.

One day, as King and Chancellor rode together through the streets of London, they came upon an old man shivering in his rags. Henry pointed out the man to Becket and asked if it would not be an act of charity to give him a warm cloak. Becket agreed that it would indeed, at which Henry leaned toward Becket and attempted to take the magnificent fur-lined cloak from his Chancellor’s shoulders. Realizing what was about to happen, Becket tried to save his cloak, and the two of them tugged at it. Their followers thought there had been a disagreement between them and stood back amazed. The King was triumphant. He won the cloak and shouted to the shivering man, who must have looked on with amazement, that the Chancellor wished to make a gift of it to him. Poor old man, I daresay he could not believe his good fortune. But I wondered how Becket felt to lose such a garment, which he must have treasured. I liked to think of Becket cloakless against the cold, joining in the King’s amusement, for I was sure he was too clever to have done anything else.

People talked of the incident and that was how it reached my ears. It really was amazing—the terms those two were on. Henry seemed as though he could not have enough of the man’s company. It was almost like a love affair.

There was a strong vein of humor in Henry’s character. He liked to make a bizarre situation. This was apparent when he came up with an idea for young Henry’s betrothal.

He said to me: “It is time young Henry was betrothed. I have the very bride for him.”

“Who?” I asked.

He looked at me slyly. “Louis has a daughter. It is clear to me that he will never have a son. He couldn’t get one with you, could he? And look you, you manage very well to get them with me. But he does have a girl through this new marriage of his ... Marguerite. I want her for Henry. And then ... as there will not be a male heir, in due course Henry could have the crown of France.”

The audacity of the suggestion so took me aback that I could find no words.

“I think he might be persuaded,” went on Henry.

“His daughter to marry my son!”

“There is no blood tie between them, although you and he were once husband and wife ... apart from that remote one which you used to get free of him. It is a piquant situation.”

“He would never agree.”

“I believe he would. His Marguerite has a chance of being Queen of England, our Henry of being King of France. Why, it is irresistible.”

“It seems vaguely incestuous to me.”

“That is because you have such stern morals in these matters, my love.”

I recognized this as an oblique reference to Raymond of Antioch, but was too astounded to resent. I was trying to contemplate what Louis would feel when confronted with such an outrageous suggestion.

“It is a good idea,” went on Henry enthusiastically. “I can see a union between France and England. Between us, in the family, we already have a large part of France. I see no reason why we should not take over the whole country.”

“Louis would not even see us if we went to France. Think how embarrassing that would be.”

“I have already thought of it and I have made up my mind how I will start this matter. I shall send an ambassador to Louis. I shall choose someone who can present the case in all its reasonableness, who can charm and persuade in the most graceful manner possible.”

“Who could do that?”

“Becket of course.”

“Becket! Would this be the task of a chancellor?”

“It would be if I made it so.”

“And do you think Louis would for a moment entertain such an idea?”

“He will ... the way Becket will present it.”

I could not stop thinking of the audacity of the idea. I wondered what Louis would think of his daughter’s marrying my son. How he had longed for a son. And no sooner had I left him than I produced one. It must have seemed ironic to him, hurtful too. People must say that he was incapable of getting sons. How disappointed he must have been when, after all his efforts in his new marriage, the result was only a girl.