“Nectar!” he pronounced. “My, that’s potent!”
“Henry, we need to talk,” Eleanor began, bracing herself.
“Indeed, we do,” he said quickly. “The Archbishop of Rouen has just had a word. He is fretting about Young Henry’s education.”
“Is he? Why?”
“He is concerned that the heir to England is still living with his mother and has not even begun his lessons.”
“I have taught him much!” Eleanor exclaimed indignantly, immediately on the defensive, and fearful of what Henry was about to propose.
“Yes, Iknow that, but it wouldn’t count with our friend the Archbishop. He was going on at some length about how I was different from other kings, who are all rude and uncultivated, in his opinion at any rate. He was waffling on about how my wisdom and prudence—as he put it, God bless him—had been informed by the literature I read in my youth, and he told me that my bishops unanimously agree that my heir should apply himself to letters, so that he can be my true successor.”
“And so?” Eleanor asked warily.
“Well, I take his point. Young Henry is now six, and it’s time he was sent away to be educated.”
It was indeed the custom for princes and sons of the nobility to be placed in great aristocratic households to be nurtured and schooled away from their parents, mothers and fathers considered too loving and indulgent to do the job properly. Eleanor knew this, and accepted it. It was just that, the time now having come, she was devastated at the thought of being parted from any of her children. She had kept Young Henry close to her all his life; given what had befallen two of his brothers, she could hardly bear him out of her sight. Parting from him would be like losing a limb. How would he fare without her? Who would tend to his hurts, or calm his fears, or kiss him good-night? She could not bear the thought of him crying into his pillow, alone and homesick.
Henry said gently, “I know it will be hard for you, but you must realize that a boy cannot grow to manhood tied to his mother’s apron strings. He has to learn to be independent, to fight his own battles and to grow brave and strong as befits a warrior. But you willsee him from time to time, more than most mothers see their sons. I have hit upon the ideal arrangement.”
“You have?” Eleanor asked, unable to hide the eagerness in her voice.
“Yes.” Henry smiled at her. “He is to be placed with my Lord Chancellor, my devoted Thomas.”
“Becket?” Eleanor echoed sharply.
“Yes, Becket. Why not? He has a great household, into which he has already accepted several noble boys. They will be companions for Young Henry. He will be well looked after.”
Eleanor was about to protest, but she could see the wisdom in the plan. Becket was often in attendance upon the King, and she and Henry were frequent guests at his table. Her lord was right: there would indeed be plenty of opportunities for her to see her child.
“When will he go?” she inquired.
“After Christmas,” Henry informed her.
She had three weeks, she reckoned quickly, before they took Henry from her. She vowed to herself that she would spend every possible moment with him. This was going to be far worse than parting from Marie and Alix had been. She’d had so little to do with them, those sweet girls, had been kept at a distance and never got to know them well. But Young Henry had been with her from birth, and she loved him fiercely; not quite as much as she adored Richard—her lion cub, as she thought of him—but deeply and protectively. Yet it would not be good-bye, she told herself resolutely. She must not think of the parting as final; she would see her son again, soon enough. And she would still have Richard, and Geoffrey, of course: if she could help it, she would never let her darling Richard be taken from her. He was to be her heir, so surely she would have some say in his upbringing. They would have to snatch Richard over her dead body.
“It is a wise decision,” she said evenly, conceding defeat. “But there was something else I wished to discuss with you, and that is what you have done in Aquitaine.”
“Aquitaine is quiet now,” Henry said, his tone final, indicating that was the end to the matter.
“Quiet, but seething under the surface, so I hear,” Eleanor persisted.
“From your uncle Raoul? I didn’t notice himkeeping your unruly vassals in check!” Henry smirked unpleasantly.
“No one has ever succeeded in doing that, not even my father or my grandfather,” Eleanor snapped. “The geography of my lands does not lend itself to unity; can’t you see that?”
Henry rose and began pacing up and down the room.
“Well, I’m not content with my authority extending only to the regions around Poitiers and Bordeaux,” he told her. “With my officials in place, answering directly to me, I intend to bring some order to your domains.”
“You are alienating mysubjects by doing that!” Eleanor flared. “They resent having strangers lording it over them. Things were bad enough before, when Louis sent in his Frenchmen to rule in his name; when I went home and they were sent away, the people rejoiced. It was very moving to see that. It meant everything to them to be governed by their own. Henry, I want my subjects to love you, but if you persist in this folly, they will only hate you.”
Henry had been listening with an irritated expression. He stopped his pacing by the door and turned to face her.
“I’m not doing it to win popularity,” he declared. “I mean to have your vassals bend to my will, like it or not. Theymust recognize my authority, and youmust support me in enforcing it.”
“Then you must go about it a different way!” Eleanor flung at him.
“No one says ‘must’ to me,” he snarled. “I don’t take orders from you, or anyone. You are in no position to dictate to me, Eleanor. Might I remind you that a wife’s duty is to obey her husband, to rear his children, and to warm his bed when he so desires. And there it ends.”
“If you think I’m in any mood to warm your bed after you’ve insulted my intelligence, then let me put you straight now!” Eleanor riposted, her face flushed with anger.
“Please yourself!” Henry said testily, and went out of the room, leaving Eleanor wanting to scream with frustration. She could never win with him. He was utterly incapable of seeing her point of view, and once his mind was made up, there was no moving him.
The King stormed down the spiral stairs and into the great hall of the castle, nearly colliding with two of the Queen’s ladies, who were making their way up to her chamber with their arms full of freshly laundered veils and chemises, smelling of sweet herbs. One of the ladies looked him boldly in the eye. She had a heart-shaped face set off to perfection by the widow’s wimple that framed her chin and her rosy cheeks. He knew who she was—what man didn’t? Rohese de Clare, Countess of Lincoln, had the reputation of being the most beautiful woman in England. It was well known that during the five years since her husband’s death, she had resisted all offers of remarriage, and it was also bruited about that it was because she enjoyed taking her pleasure where she listed, although Henry was of the opinion that people wouldsay such things about such a lovely widow.
Now he was not so sure. His eyes locked for a moment with the countess’s, then the moment passed and she and her companion dipped into quick curtsies and hurried on. But his blood was up. He was furious with Eleanor for questioning his rights in Aquitaine— again—and powerfully intrigued by the enigmatic Rohese. He’d long admired her from afar but had never quite seen in those slanting green eyes and pouting lips what other men had. There was something almost childlike about the woman, although the look she had just given him was anything but childlike. Now he could see what had made her so admired—and the promise in that brief moment of eye contact had fired his imagination.