“I will give you Alys—now,” Henry said, as if he were dangling a carrot before a donkey. Richard threw him a strange look that Eleanor could not quite interpret.
“Leave her out of it for now!” he snapped. “Tell me, Father—do you mean to make John your heir? Will it be Aquitaine now, and Normandy next, and then Anjou, Maine, and England—the whole bloody empire for the son you love best?” Eleanor caught her breath—that had not occurred to her.
Henry’s face darkened. “No,” he spat. “How could you think that? Has Philip been whispering treason in your ear?”
“He has good cause, with my marriage being continually postponed!” Richard was beside himself with rage. “He thinks you delay the wedding because you mean to marry Alys yourself, so that she can bear you sons and dispossess us.”
Eleanor’s hand flew to her mouth. “Is this true, Henry?” she cried, appalled at the terrible prospect opened up by her son’s harsh words.
“Of course not,” Henry answered, a shade too quickly. “It’s some nonsense that Philip has fed him. Besides, have I not just said he can marry Alys now?”
“He has said that several times and retracted it,” Richard said, his tone bitter. “I wish I could believe him this time.”
“You can have Alys if you surrender Aquitaine to John,” Henry offered brightly.
“No!” said Eleanor.
“I should have her anyway!” Richard roared. “We’ve been betrothed since we were children.”
“Go away and think it over,” Henry told him.
“I’ll go to Hell first!” his son riposted. “And I’ll appeal to the Church to support me, see if I don’t!”
“If you won’t marry her, I’ll give Alys to John,” Henry threatened.
“You areplotting my ruin!” Richard yelled, and stormed to the door. “I knew it. Well, you won’t have to endure the sight of me any longer. I am off for Poitiers. Don’t think to see me back!”
Eleanor looked coldly upon Henry. “And you think Icaused the divisions in this family?” she asked scathingly. “You say you want peace between your sons, but it’s always only on your own terms. Do you want them to resent you? Do you want the years of your age to be overshadowed by endless discord and strife, so that you can find no abiding happiness or enjoy any peace and security?”
“Peace, woman,” Henry growled. “Had you supported me, this would not have happened.”
“Oh, I think Richard spoke for himself—he does not need his mother’s approval!” she retorted.
Berkhamstead, Woodstock, and Winchester, 1184
Henry sent her back to England in the custody of Ralph FitzStephen. She knew he feared she might stir up more trouble in Richard’s defense, and smarted with the unfairness of it all. Although she had been promised her freedom, she was effectively a prisoner once more, presumed guilty until time should prove her innocent. The cage would be gilded, but it was a cage no less.
She was forced to brave the turbulent January seas, then a hard ride to Berkhamstead Castle, Becket’s former luxurious residence, which was looking a little worn and frayed after years of neglect. Here, in company with the ghosts and remembrances of the past, she kept Easter with her daughter Matilda, who was pregnant yet again. Afterward, Matilda returned to the lodgings that had been assigned her in Winchester Castle, and Eleanor was removed to Woodstock.
She did not want to go there, to that place with its painful, unhallowed memories, but had little choice in the matter. The King had sent orders, and that was that. She wondered if he had done it to spite her. At least she was not required to sleep in Rosamund’s tower—that was now locked up and deserted—but in the Queen’s chambers in the hunting lodge itself. Her high window looked out upon the labyrinth—now an overgrown wilderness abandoned to Dame Nature.
She would have liked to ignore it, but it drew her, remorselessly, almost supernaturally, and one early June evening, bored by the tedium of her dreary leisure hours, she felt an urgent need to take the air, and found her steps tracing the bracken-strewn paving stones that led to the entrance of the maze. She had to untangle some branches to get in, and tore her veil on a briar, but soon she was through, and able to make her way along the weed-infested paths. Fortunately, whoever designed the labyrinth had laid them out broadly, so the encroaching foliage did not impede her progress too much. Soon, by keeping her wits about her, she found the wide arbor at the core—which was actually, although she did not realize it, to one side—and sank down thankfully on a lichen-covered stone bench.
So this was where the gossip had her hunting out her rival, following the thread of silk to the forbidden door. The things people were prepared to believe! If only they knew … Yes, she had been deeply hurt to hear Henry say he loved Rosamund; yes, she had rejoiced, God forgive her, to learn of the young woman’s early death. But that she would have stooped to violence to rid herself of her—Heaven forbid! Rosamund had been beneath her notice: a queen had her dignity to preserve, and she’d fought many battles with herself to do just that.
She wondered if Rosamund, that pretty, arrogant little whore, had taken much pleasure in her labyrinth; if she walked here often. It had been the most touching gift from a besotted king, so surely she cherished it?
The sun was setting in a golden glow behind the black silhouette of the castle walls, leaving the skies a brilliant clear pink-tinged azure in the dying rays of the light. The shadows were lengthening. As the glow dimmed, the labyrinth began to seem a different, darker place. Eleanor shivered, aware of old, primeval forces at work. Here, Dame Nature was alive and hard at work, having reclaimed her kingdom; the soft rustlings and crackles from the stirring bracken made it easy to believe in all those ancient tales of the Green Man, which the English loved to tell. He was one of the “old ones” they spoke of, and he went by many names—Robin Goodfellow and Jack i’ the Wood were two that she had heard from Amaria. He was a fertility god or a monster, whichever story one believed, and his power had never been bridled by Church or state. In the twilight, it was easy to imagine his cunning face peering out eerily from the foliage.
As the Queen sat there, feeling increasingly uncomfortable in the gathering gloom, and bracing herself to retrace her steps—she thoughtshe knew which way to go—she heard what sounded like a soft footfall. Crunch. There it went again, to her left; someone stepping on bracken! It might be a squirrel or a fox, she told herself sternly, but nevertheless, she stood up and hastened along the path back to civilization, negotiating her way between the high hedges.
Crunch. It was behind her now. Crunch. Again! Someone was in the labyrinth, someone who was approaching by stealth and had not thought fit to announce their presence by calling out to her. She was almost running now, scared to look behind her, her spine tingling with fear, expecting at any moment to feel a hand clamp itself on her shoulder or—horror of horrors—a stab of pain as a dagger pierced her back. If Henry really did mean to marry Alys, her removal would be all too convenient. Yet she could not, even in extremis, imagine Henry being the kind of man who would send an assassin to kill her. Yet Henry, she knew, was prone to saying violent things in his ungovernable rages, things he did not mean—look what happened with Becket! Supposing he had said something similar of her: “Who will rid me of this turbulent queen?”