Виктория Холт - The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine

I understood their reasons. Their loyalty to me was forgotten in the contemplation of the reward they would surely receive from Henry for my capture.

Their numbers were greater than ours and they were armed. And so I was led away into captivity.

Once more I came face to face with Henry. I was his prisoner now but if he expected me to humble myself before him he was mistaken.

He regarded me sardonically.

“So,” he said, “your attempt to escape has failed.”

“Because of traitors,” I said.

“Traitors to you, friends to me. I shall reward them well for their services, particularly as they are those whom you regard as your subjects.”

“Well,” I said, “what do you propose?”

“To finish with the trouble you have been causing me ever since I set eyes on you.”

“What is it to be then?”

“You will see. I give the orders, you know.”

“When did you not? Though they have not always been obeyed.”

“Do not bandy words with me.”

“I do not give a thought to you.”

His eyes narrowed. “You she-devil,” he said. “You witch.”

“I thought you were the one who was descended from witches.”

“You would be wise not to provoke me.”

“I care not what you do to me.”

“You are a traitor. Do you know what happens to traitors?”

“You were false to me ... always, even in the early days of our marriage. Are you still as lecherous as ever? Don’t answer. I am not in the least interested.”

“You turned our sons against me.”

“I believe I have told you before that you turned them against yourself.”

“You incited them to take up arms against me.”

“They did not need to be incited. They hate you, Henry. Why do you think they do?”

“Because their mother turned them against me.”

“You insist on that old theme. What are you going to do with me? Kill me? Would you marry Rosamund? It would be scarcely fitting.”

“Be silent,” he said. “Remember you are my prisoner.”

“I ask you, what are you going to do with me?”

“You will discover in time.”

“And now?”

I could see that he was working himself up into one of his rages. I wanted to goad him, to see him roll on the floor, biting the rushes. It would give me some comfort.

He might have sensed this, for there was no rage. He looked at me, his eyes narrowed, his lips curled: “I am going to have you taken away.”

“Where?”

“I shall decide. It will be somewhere strong. You will be well guarded.”

“So you fear me?”

“It is you who should fear me.”

His voice was cold with hatred. I remembered how he had hated Becket, and yet there had been love in that hate. Were his feelings for me like that? I wondered if he ever thought of the passion there had once been between us.

He turned abruptly away and left me.

Later that day I was taken away. They did not tell me where I was going. I did not recognize the fortress when I reached it, and nobody would answer my questions.

And there I was incarcerated—the King’s prisoner.

IT IS HARD TO think now of that dreary time. I lived through it only because of Hope. I told myself it could not last. He could not keep me thus forever. At first I thought he planned to kill me, but later I guessed he did not want my death on his conscience as Becket’s was. I was not ill treated, and after the first weeks I ceased to think of assassins who would come in the night and put an end to my life; I no longer wondered if every sip of liquid, every mouthful of food, would poison me.

He did not intend me to die. I had to live, deprived of everything I enjoyed. I have no doubt that he derived some joy from that.

Winter was with us. It was cold in my fortress but I had fur rugs to keep me warm. I was given food. But everything else I was deprived of. He just wanted to keep me alive, so that I suffered in my misery.

There was no news. My guards were silent. They had been ordered to tell me nothing, and they obeyed their orders.

How long? I used to ask myself. How long shall I be incarcerated here? It could be for years. What was he doing now? He had subdued his enemies, I was sure. What of my children? Where were they? I hoped they had not been misguided enough to take up arms against him afresh. They would never defeat him. He was undefeatable.

Winter passed—the longest and most dreary winter of my life. He could not have thought of anything that would have been more unacceptable for me.

Christmas came. How different from other Christmases! Where was Richard? What was he thinking now? And Henry and Geoffrey and the girls? They would surely think of their mother at Christmastime. And he ... my enemy ... he would gloat the more. He would be saying: “Now she will see what happens to those who defy me.”

I hated him. I was sorry that he had not been utterly defeated and yet I was admiring him in a way because he would always win.

Spring had come. Each day was like another. I hoped for something to happen ... anything rather than this dreary monotony. The days seemed long, and yet when I looked back I could hardly believe I had been here all that time.

Long summer days. I looked out at the green fields and felt more of a prisoner than I had during the dark days of winter. Could I have been here a year?

How long could I endure it? I should have to do something ... find a way of escape.

It was a morning in July when I awoke to change. They were lowering the drawbridge, and there was activity everywhere. My door was opened. My sullen guards stood there. I was to prepare for a journey, they indicated.

My heart leaped with excitement. It was over then ... this wearisome imprisonment. At last I was going to move. Where were we going? I wanted to know. They could not tell me. I should find out soon enough.

We were traveling north. Was he sending me to England? Perhaps, because he knew how much I loved my own country and he would want to take me away from it. Perhaps I should hear news of what was happening to my children. The hardest part of all was to be in ignorance of what was happening to them. I, who had been so much at the center of events, to be shut away like this, a prisoner of a vindictive husband!

How I hated him! I would kill him if I had a chance. I hoped my sons would go on fighting him, let him know what an inhuman monster he was to me.

We were traveling north. We were almost certainly going to England. Barfleur. Right on he coast. This could mean only one thing.

Forty vessels lay in the Channel. I remembered the first time I had been here ... an eager bride with a husband who, I had thought, loved me as I loved him. But even at that time he had been unfaithful.

How rough the sea was! The wind was lashing the waves fully. No one could put to sea in such weather ... except Henry. He did not care for the weather. He could not bear inactivity.

I heard a little now of what was going on. There was more freedom. A woman called Amaria was given to me to look after my needs and act as maid. I liked her immediately, and she was to prove a great comfort to me. She was alert-minded, a gossipy woman with a talent for remembering and recording details. She was vitally interested in everything that was going on around her, and she had a capacity for disarming those with whom she came in contact so that she was able to extract confidences. She quickly grew fond of me and, understanding my craving for news, determined to supply all she could.

We traveled down to Salisbury, one of the most strongly fortified castles in the country. Henry was taking no chances on my escaping.

I settled into my new prison. It was an improvement on the old, particularly so because I had Amaria as my maid-companion and informant.

It was from her that I learned of Henry’s penance. The whole country was talking of it, said Amaria. The King, dressed as a humble pilgrim, had walked barefoot over the cobbles, making his way to the cathedral.

“They say his feet were bleeding, my lady, and he did not complain. It was what he wanted ... to suffer to make up for what had happened to the Archbishop. The Bishop of London was there to receive him.”

The Bishop of London! That would be Gilbert Foliot. That was interesting for Foliot had been no friend to Becket. He had always been jealous of him. I supposed he was penitent now.

“The King asked to be taken to the very place where the Archbishop had been struck down,” went on Amaria, “and when they took him there, he lay on the stones and wept bitterly ... so that his tears could fall where Thomas Becket’s blood had fallen. Then the Bishop went into the pulpit and told everyone why the King had come. He said that King Henry was praying for the salvation of his soul. He wanted it known that he did not order the death of the martyr but feared the murderers had misunderstood some words he had imprudently uttered and for that reason he sought chastisement and would bare his back to receive the discipline of the rod. That the King should act so! Nobody could believe their eyes, but it is true, my lady.”

“I understand him well. He knew this was the only way for him to escape from the burden which the death of this man had attached to him. He was guilt-ridden ... and impatient of it. So he took this step ... drastic as it is and unprecedented. What king has ever humbled himself so before? But it does not surprise me. He feels that the stigma of Becket’s death is impeding his progress. Therefore he will take any step, however demeaning, to get this obstacle out of his way. And what was the King’s reply to the Bishop?”