ALSO BY ALISON WEIR The Lady in the Tower:
The Fall of Anne Boleyn Mistress of the Monarchy:
The Life of Katherine Swynford,
Duchess of Lancaster The Lady Elizabeth:
A Novel Innocent Traitor:
A Novel of Lady Jane Grey Queen Isabella Mary, Queen of Scots, and the
Murder of Lord Darnley Henry VIII:
The King and His Court Eleanor of Aquitaine The Life of Elizabeth I Children of Henry VIII The Wars of the Roses The Princes in the Tower The Six Wives of Henry VIII Britain’s Royal Families:
The Complete Genealogy
For seven special little people born in 2009:
Henry George Marston
Charlie Andrew Preston
Isla May Weir
Maisie Isobel Flora Weir
Lara Eileen Weir
Grace Daly Robinson
and my goddaughter,
Eleanor Jane Borman
This is the worm that dieth not, the memory of things past.—ST. BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX,
De ConsiderationeThe most persistent hate is that which doth degenerate from love.—WALTER MAP,
De Nugis CurialumAh, cruel fate,
How swiftly joy and sorrow alternate!—BAIMBAUT DE VAQUEYRAS
Contents
Other Books by this Author
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Genealogical Table: Eleanor and Her Family Connections
PART ONE A Marriage of Lions 1151–1154
PART TWO This Turbulent Priest 1155–1171
PART THREE The Cubs Shall Awake 1172–1173
PART FOUR Poor Prisoner 1173–1189
PART FIVE The Eagle Rejoices 1189
ENVOI Winchester 1189
EPILOGUE Abbey of Fontevrault March 1204
Author’s Note
About the Author
Copyright
Eleanor and Her Family Connections
Paris, August 1151
Please God, let me not betray myself, Queen Eleanor prayed inwardly as she seated herself gracefully on the carved wooden throne next to her husband, King Louis. The royal court of France had assembled in the gloomy, cavernous hall in the Palace of the Cité, which commanded one half of the Île de la Cité on the River Seine, facing the great cathedral of Notre Dame.
Eleanor had always hated this palace, with its grim, crumbling stone tower and dark, chilly rooms. She had tried to lighten the oppressive hall with expensive tapestries from Bourges, but it still had a stark, somber aspect, for all the summer sunshine piercing the narrow windows. Oh, how she longed for the graceful castles of her native Aquitaine, built of light mellow stone on lushly wooded hilltops! How she longed to be in Aquitaine itself, and that other world in the sun-baked south that she had been obliged to leave behind all those years ago. But she had schooled her thoughts not to stray in that direction. If they did, she feared, she might go mad. Instead, she must fix her attention on the ceremony that was about to begin, and play her queenly role as best she could. She had failed Louis, and France, in so many ways—more than anyone could know—so she could at least contrive to look suitably decorative.
Before the King and Queen were gathered the chief lords and vassals of France, a motley band in their scarlets, russets, and furs, and a bevy of tonsured churchmen, all—save for one—resplendent in voluminous, rustling robes. They were waiting to witness the ending of a war.
Louis looked drawn and tired, his cheeks still flushed with the fever that had laid him low for some weeks now, but at least, thought Eleanor, he had risen from his bed. Of course, Bernard of Clairvaux, that meddlesome abbot standing apart in his unbleached linen tunic, had told him to, and when Bernard spoke, Louis, and nearly everyone else in Christendom, invariably jumped.
She did not love Louis, but she would have done much, especially at this time when he was low in body and spirits, to spare him any hurt—and herself the shame and the fearful consequences of exposure. She had thought herself safe, that her great sin was a secret she would take with her to her grave, but now the one person who might, by a chance look or gesture, betray her and imperil her very existence was about to walk through the great doors at the end of the halclass="underline" Geoffrey, Count of Anjou—whom men called “Plantagenet,” on account of the broom flower he customarily wore in his hat.
Really, though, she thought resentfully, Louis could hardly blame her for what she had done. It was he, or rather the churchmen who dominated his life, who had condemned her to live out her miserable existence as an exile in this forbidding northern kingdom with its gray skies and dour people; and to follow a suffocating, almost monastic régime, cloistered from the world with only her ladies for company. For fourteen long years now, her life had been mostly barren of excitement and pleasure—and it was only in a few stolen moments that she had briefly known another existence. With Marcabru; with Geoffrey; and, later, with Raymond. Sweet sins that must never be disclosed outside the confessional, and certainly not to Louis, her husband. She was his queen and Geoffrey his vassal, and both had betrayed their sacred oaths.