“You have been busy making plans. Is that what you were doing at Woodstock?”

“That and other matters,” he said.

He was showing his age. In fact, in spite of those eleven years between us, he looked older than I. I understood what a terrible blow the birth of Louis’s son must have been to him. I still had a twinge of affection for him and found him physically attractive—in a minor way, it was true, but it did surprise me that it still existed.

I comforted him in the usual way.

He did not stay long with us. He was deeply disturbed by the rumblings of rebellion in all the provinces, and to my intense dismay, soon after he had left, I was once more pregnant.

I could not believe it. It was too much to be borne. I did not want another child. I had just emerged from the tiresome pregnancy with Joanna—and now it was going to start all over again.

I returned to England in the autumn.

Henry had said that he wanted young Henry to accompany him on a trip through the Angevin provinces as they must become accustomed to their future ruler. I felt that if there was going to be trouble, particularly in Aquitaine, it was better for me to accompany them. The people would be more likely to think kindly of me. But he was anxious for Henry to go, and now that I was going to have another child I did not want to do a lot of traveling.

It was October when I came back to England. I was at this time seven months pregnant, and although it seemed to be more or less a habitual state with me I felt tired and realized I was right to stay where I was and await the birth of my child in comparative peace.

Young Henry had changed. Perhaps this was since he had had his own apartments and was aware that he was soon to be crowned King. He was already giving himself the airs of a king, and Marguerite behaved as though she were Queen. I did not think this a very satisfactory state of affairs, and I was amazed that the elder Henry could not have seen how unwise it was to endow the boy with such ideas of his own importance. He was too young; moreover, he was surrounded by people ready to do him great honor at every turn, thinking no doubt of the power which would one day be his.

I was sure the King did not intend this. He was the King and would remain so until the day he died. He merely wanted to safeguard the throne for his son so that when he himself died there would be a king waiting to mount the throne. The memory of Stephen and Matilda lingered on.

Young Henry did not see it in this way. He was already the little King.

When I told him that his father wished him to go to France, he was dismayed.

“But I do not want to go,” he said.

Certainly he did not and I could understand why. Here he was, the idol ... almost a king ... deferred to in every way. Why should he want to go and endure discomforts, riding out to possible war with his father whom he would have to obey?

“Why should I go?” he demanded.

“Because it is your father’s wish,” I told him.

“I do not want to go. I like it here.”

“Of course you do. Here you are treated like a king; there is entertainment in your apartments; you ride out with your subjects around you; everyone defers to you. Kingship is not like that all the time, my son. There are provinces to be kept in order. You have to learn that side of kingship as well as the pleasant side.”

“Why should I have to go now?”

“I tell you, because your father commands it.”

“But I ...”

“You are his subject, Henry.”

“But I am going to be King.”

“Not yet. And when you are, it will be in name only. There is only one king of this realm, and that is your father. You must remember that.”

“I do not want to be with him.” He came to me and put his arms around me. “I want to stay with you.”

I confess to a thrill of pleasure which I could not help feeling when my children showed their preference for me—which they did fairly frequently. I stroked his beautiful fair hair.

“We cannot always have what we want.”

“He does.”

“He is dedicated to his country. He suffers discomfort for what he feels must be done.”

“He is dedicated to his own pleasure! All last winter he was here with that woman. He stayed at Woodstock and Oxford ... and there she was ... like the Queen. He does what he wants. Why shouldn’t I?”

“What woman was this?” He was silent for a while. “Tell me,” I said sternly.

He replied: “It was Rosamund ... Rosamund Clifford.”

“And he was here ... with her ... through the winter?” He was silent again.

“Listen to me, Henry,” I said. “I want to know.”

“Everyone in the Court knows. She was here ... just as though she were the Queen ... in your place ... Why should he do what he wants when I ...”

I was staring over his head. So this was the reason for that period of inactivity. He was here with Rosamund Clifford. Anger swelled up within me. I had known of his infidelities. I had grown used to them, telling myself that they were of no account ... passing fancies which never lasted more than a day or so. Women ... just women ... And he, the restless one, with Becket making trouble for him on the Continent, with his provinces ready to revolt, with justice to maintain in England ... had dallied at Woodstock and Oxford to be with Rosamund Clifford! Not for just a night ... but all those months.

This was different from anything that had ever happened before.

I was certain of one thing. I was going to discover the exact relationship between the King and Rosamund Clifford.

Nobody wanted to talk at first. But they all knew. It was a feature in cases like this that everyone knows the intimate details while the one chiefly concerned remains in ignorance.

Gradually I learned the story. The alarming part was that the liaison was a lasting one. It had been going on for quite a few years.

She was the daughter of Walter de Clifford, I discovered, and Henry must have met her during one of his campaigns in Wales. She was certainly not like the prostitutes and serving-girls with whom he usually contented himself. Rosamund was a lady, and of outstanding beauty, by no means the sort of woman who would indulge in a fleeting affair with anyone—not even the King.

He was actually in love with her. That was what was so galling to me. He cared about her. She was not just a woman of the moment. He had brought her to the palace of Woodstock, and while I was in France taking care of the dominions there, Rosamund was living in my apartments as Queen!

This was too much to be borne.

At this time every vestige of affection I had had for him departed. I could think only of revenge. He had insulted me. He had married me for my possessions. Apart from those I was no more to him than any woman for whom he briefly lusted. I hated him.

And when I thought that it was this woman who had kept him in Woodstock all that time when he should have been on the Continent dealing with the troubles there, I was incensed. I had never known anyone able to charm him sufficiently to take him away from his commitments before.

I had to see this woman for myself. All those about me were too terrified to tell me anything. They feared what I would do—and what the King would do when he learned that they had told.

I said to myself: I will not harm this woman, but I will see for myself what she is like.

I had always thought Woodstock one of our most charming palaces. “Woodstock” had originally been “Vudestoc” which meant “a woody place,” and the woods were indeed beautiful. Henry’s grandfather, the first Henry, had built an enclosure for wild beasts in which the lion, leopard and lynx had roamed. The first porcupine ever seen in this country had been brought there. Stephen had used the place as a garrison for his troops during his skirmishes with Matilda. Henry had always been fond of it, and so had I ... until now.

So Rosamund had been installed here. But where was she now? She must be at Woodstock. He would keep her here so that he could summon her at any time. The only reason she was not in the palace now was because I was there. When I was absent on the Continent, he kept her there as his Queen.

I must see her. I must discover what sort of woman could keep Henry interested to the extent that he went to the great trouble of keeping her with him, and who had evidently been his mistress for several years.

I knew that I would get no information as to her whereabouts from those around me, for there was no one who would be bold enough to tell me where she was.

There was a maze built close to the palace. It consisted of a number of vaults, underground passages and arches walled in brick and stone. It was supposed to provide a diversion ... a game for the courtiers to find their way out. Few people went there. I referred to it quite casually once, and there was a constrained silence which aroused my suspicions.

I determined to explore the maze. I did so, making sure that I should be able to retrace my steps. I made one or two fruitless excursions, and then one day I found a piece of silk thread in one of the passages. It was a fine silk as used in embroidery and looked as though someone had caught it up in a boot or shoe. I stooped and picked it up. It was a long, unbroken thread. I started to roll it into a ball, and I saw that it went on through the passage. I was surprised, for it led me into a part of the maze which I had never seen before. Then suddenly I saw a shaft of sunlight and came out into the open.

My eyes were dazzled after the dimness of the maze. Before me was a miniature palace. It looked mysterious in the November mist, and instinctively I knew I had found what I had sought. I approached cautiously, crossing the lawn to the iron-studded door.