I rapped sharply on it. I heard a shutter being drawn and I was looking into a pair of intensely blue eyes.

Rosamund Clifford! I thought.

“I wish to come in,” I said.

“But who ...” she began.

“I am the Queen.”

A bolt was drawn. She stood back. Oh yes, she was indeed beautiful. Her rippling fair hair, falling about her shoulders, was in some disorder; her lashes were dark, as were her well-formed brows; they accentuated the blueness of her eyes and the cornlike color of her hair; her cheeks had flushed to a rosy shade at the sight of me. She looked very frightened.

I stepped inside.

The hall was beautifully furnished. He would have given her all this. I could see at once the sort of woman she was. Meek, docile, ready to await his pleasure; with all that beauty no wonder he came back and back again to her.

“You are Rosamund Clifford,” I said. She bowed her head. “I would speak with you.”

She curtsied uneasily and led the way. We were in a richly furnished chamber, and the first things I noticed were two little boys. They were playing some game and stopped short as I entered to stare at me.

“Your sons?” I asked.

“Yes, my lady.” She went on: “William ... Geoffrey ...”

They ran to her. I could see him in them ... the tawny curls, the leonine head ... the Plantagenet arrogance, and I felt a surge of rage, not against this woman but against him.

She took the boys by the hand and led them to the door. The elder one ... William, I think ... could not resist looking over his shoulder at me. A woman had appeared; she took the boys, and Rosamund Clifford came back into the room.

She stood before me, her eyes downcast.

“How long have you been the King’s mistress?” I asked. She was trembling and it seemed she could not find her voice. I went on: “I know it is for several years. Those boys, are they his?” She nodded. “And he has been coming often to Woodstock to see you, and you are always here in this place when he is not here, and if I am absent you take my place in the palace, do you not?”

“It was ... his will.”

“And what of my will?”

“I ... I told the King that it should not be.”

Suddenly I was sorry for her. I could see how it had been. She was no wanton. Perhaps she would not have attracted him so intensely if she had been.

“When did you meet him?” I asked.

“It was in Wales ... where the King was. My father served him.”

“Your father is Sir Walter de Clifford, is that so? And you have brothers and sisters.”

“Yes, my lady. I have two brothers and two sisters.”

“You see, I know something of you, Rosamund Clifford. Do not think that your conduct with the King is a surprise to me. Anyone, whether noblemen’s daughters or serving girls ... they are all one to him. So it does not surprise me. But you are much talked of. And all because you flaunted yourself and your sinful behavior at the palace ... my palace ... for I am the Queen and, as you know, the King’s lawful wife. So the King first saw you in Wales.”

“I was at my father’s castle of Llannymddyvri. The King was campaigning ...”

“I know. And your father was pleased that you should behave thus with the King?”

“He is the King, my lady.”

“Yes,” I said slowly, “he is the King.”

I knew I should not blame her. I could see it all so clearly. The campaign in Wales, all the women there would have been ... and this one. She was different; her father was an honorable knight, and his daughter could not be treated like a serving-girl. I could imagine her attraction. She was outstandingly beautiful; her type would appeal to him; she was completely feminine. An English beauty and mild with it. A pure virgin when he first saw her. He would soon change that. She would be a little reluctant, yet overawed. That would add to his passion. He would soothe her. “Have no fear. I am your King. I swear no harm shall come to you.” And so she succumbed and she was in love with him. Women fall in love with power, and kingship is supreme power ... or almost. Master of us all ... the lover. I could see it all so clearly.

But it had lasted. That was what rankled. He would not be faithful to her any more than he had been to me. Fidelity did not exist for Henry. But he did come back to her. She had his sons. How many women in England had Henry’s sons? Too many to be remembered. There must be little Plantagenets in every village in the country.

I said: “It must end.”

“The King ...” she began.

“I say it must end. How dare you come to my palace! How dare you take my place!”

“It was the King’s orders ... I ...”

I should not be hard on her, poor silly simpering little thing. She was like an insect, causing a moment’s irritation. She had no power to resist him. I was terrifying her. Well, let her be terrified. Let her fear what I would do to her.

I would have looked formidable. I was clearly pregnant with her lover’s child. What a situation!

I felt my face contort with hatred. She thought it was for her but it was for him.

“You are a harlot,” I said. “Are you not afraid?” She nodded. “Not of me, you little fool,” I said. “Of God.”

I had struck the right note. This was one who would suffer a great deal from her conscience. She had obviously been brought up as a virtuous girl. And she had lost that virtue. But as it was to the King I daresay her family would find that acceptable. It was not her fault. But I was not going to let her escape lightly. I was angry and bitter, and my marriage was completely ruined, for it could not be revived after this, and she had done it with her simpering manners, her pink and white beauty and her virtue which could be assailed by the King.

“You are a whore,” I told her. She blushed painfully, and I went on: “If you had not been, you could have married some good and worthy man. Then you would have been able to hold up your head and not bow it with shame as you must now. It were better that you had never been born. You should break this liaison with an adulterer.”

She was trying to speak but the words would not come.

“Yes,” I went on. “Better if you had not been born. Are you not afraid to face me, the King’s lawful wife and your Queen, to whom you as a subject owe allegiance? I could bring you a dagger and say, ‘Plunge that into your heart, or do you prefer a poison cup?’ I could take your life. After all, did you not take my husband?”

“If you were to harm me,” she said with a shade of defiance, “the King ...”

“The King would say, ‘Poor Rosamund, I knew her well. She was a very willing partner in my bed. But there are plenty of others ready to take her place. England abounds in whores. Why should I fret for one?’”

“It was not so ...”

“Oh no, with you and him it was romance, was it not? The adulterer and the wanton. There is one thing for you to do, Rosamund Clifford ... if you truly repent your sins, and that is go into a nunnery. I recommend Godstow, which is not far from here. There perhaps, by the time your span runs out, you will have earned remission of your sins.”

I saw the sudden hope in her eyes. I laughed inwardly. I had sown a seed.

What would Henry say if he returned to Woodstock and found his mistress installed in a convent! That would be rather amusing.

“Think about it,” I said; and I left her.

I made my way back to the palace. I had given Rosamund Clifford something to think about. I wished Henry were here. I should have loved to tell him I had discovered his love-nest.

I was soon to have his child. That made the situation more ironic. I hated him. I began to dislike the child I carried because it was his.

Every vestige of gentle feeling for Henry had gone. Rosamund Clifford had killed it. This really was the end. I would never have another child by him, should never again share a bed with him. Our relationship was over.

I thought about divorce. He would lose Aquitaine, and for that I rejoiced.

I thanked God that I was still the Duchess. If I returned to Aquitaine, I was sure the unrest would end. I would rule as my grandfather and father had. I belonged there. Henry could go and gnash his teeth in rage—not because he had lost me but because he had lost Aquitaine. And France would be lost to him because of the birth of Philip Augustus. He would feel his possessions slipping away from him.

I would not live with him again. He would have to learn that I was no Rosamund Clifford to accept his lecherous ways and be calmly waiting for him whenever he deigned to visit me.

This was a turning-point in my life. I was now making a great decision. I would leave this land of cool days and cloudy skies. I would return to my native country, where I was the ruler. And perhaps I would take my children with me. I was the one whom they loved, the one to whom they gave their allegiance ... and not only Richard: the others too.

Henry would learn that, although he might have his will with Rosamund Clifford, it would not be so with Eleanor of Aquitaine.

My time was near. Another Christmas was approaching. I decided to spend it at the Beaumont Palace in Oxford, and there my child should be born.

Henry did not come to us for Christmas. It was a disappointment because I wanted to tell him what I had discovered and that I loathed him and had made up my mind to leave him.

It was frustrating that he absented himself.

My son was born on Christmas Eve.

He was unlike the other children. He lacked their golden looks and was smaller than they, a dark-haired creature. I could feel little love for him. It was a pity. The boy could not be blamed for his father’s sins. It was just that he gave me no joy. In the past, though I had deplored my pregnancies while they were in progress, I was always thrilled when the child arrived. But this was not the case with John. I handed him over to his nursemaids.