VI

VI

July 7, 1189

The Palace at Winchester, England

Freedom . . .

For a moment Eleanor of Aquitaine closed her eyes and savored the sound of the words within her mind.

She was free. Henry was dead, and she was free. After sixteen years of imprisonment, she was free.

"Your Majesty, are you—"

Eleanor opened her eyes and smiled softly upon her jailer. He was a squat fellow of thirty or so who looked much older, heavy-jowled, florid, and half bald. But he was a decent man. His heart and conscience were good. He had been given no direct orders to open her door, but he was doing so, and perhaps taking a risk upon his own head. In all the manors and castles where she had been kept over the past decade and a half, he had been the kindest keeper.

And he had just hurried in to tell her that news had reached him that King Henry II of England was dead.

"I am fine, milord."

"If you care to leave—to hurry to London, for surely it is there that Richard will go—I will make arrangements."

"Nay, nay, good sir. I shall wait here—for, surely, Richard will send someone for me. I thank you for your concern, and for the kindness you have shown me. Now, if I might impose upon your hospitality a bit longer—"

"Of course, Your Majesty! But of course!"

"And milord," Eleanor added, a smile again curving her lips, "if you wouldn't mind . . . well, I would that you would close that door for me again, for right now I would prefer to be alone."

"Oh, yes, yes, Your Majesty. Of course . . ."

The door closed quietly. Eleanor closed her eyes once more, then turned and walked to the rear of the chamber. Upon the wall was a tarnished silver mirror, beautifully wrought. Will Marshal had brought it to her.... What was it now? Two years ago? Three? Time was lost so easily.

Time. Sixteen years she had been a prisoner! It was so easy to lose track of a year or two.

She opened her eyes wide and smiled at the old woman who returned her stare.

"You are free," she told her reflection. "Free—and nigh upon seventy years old. Your youth is gone; Henry is dead, and, admit it, Eleanor, Henry was your youth . . ."

Her eyes suddenly looked sad and weary. The eyes of an old woman. Because Henry was dead. She could still remember the day when he had ridden to claim her. She had been a decade older than he, and quite in control of her own future at the time, but he had come to claim her nevertheless. His speeches had not been of love, but of dynasties, and yet she had known how badly he had wanted her. As a woman. When she had still been married to Louis of France, Henry's eyes had followed her, coveted her . . .

He had been her knight gallant. Handsome, beautifully strong, fierce, and proud. His gold and copper hair a flame of glory in the breeze. How she had loved him. How she had longed for him. His ambition had been great, his vitality enormous. Between them, their empire could stretch from Scotland to Toulouse. The Angevin empire. They were ambitious; they were strong; she was in love and there was a lifetime to be shared in burning triumph . . .

"Ah, Eleanor!" she told the old woman who faced her. "You love him just a little bit still. He could be cold and brutal, selfish and cunning, but seldom has there been such a king as Henry! He lived upon his horse and by his sword, and never could I bemoan his lack of courage!"

And now, Henry was dead. She was free.

What would an old woman do with such freedom? The lines about her eyes were as numerous as the roads to a market; her once luxuriant hair was almost entirely gray. But . . .

A spark returned to her eyes and a smile came to her lips as she straightened her shoulders and spine. She was really quite remarkable for a woman her age.

Certainly, Eleanor, it is remarkable that you are alive at all.

Her smile went deeper and she patted at the coif of her hair. An old woman, yes, that you might be. But the most remarkable woman of your day. The richest heiress in Christendom, wife of two kings. She had known envy and scandal, passion and love, bitterness and pain. But she had lived. Ah, yes, she had lived. She and Henry had brought London alive; she had brought poetry and grace to England, just as Henry had brought law and justice . . .

And the world was once again waiting for her . . .

Richard was going to need her. The English people had always loved her. They would rally to her now. She would pave the way for Richard's coronation.

Then there would be John to look after. Eleanor sighed as she thought of her youngest son. She had often wondered if she was an unnatural mother, because she knew his faults so clearly. He was sneaky, conniving, and self-serving. He would surely be a thorn in his brother's side.

But perhaps it was hard to live in the shadow of such a brother. Despite the fact that Richard had his own dark secrets to endure, he was the picture of a king. No one could doubt him in combat and courage, while John . . .

John. What could be said? John would be the first to run from danger. The first to cower. The first to claim victory and prowess by the blood of others.

Henry, how did we whelp such a pup? Eleanor wondered.

He was her son, and, yes, she was not enough the unnatural mother not to care for him. She would have her hands full. Richard on the one, John on the other.

And Geoffrey . . . Henry's bastard. She could never forget Geoffrey Fitzroy. She didn't want to forget Geoffrey. She had lost two of her own sons. William, and then Henry . . .

Geoffrey Fitzroy. She thanked God that he accepted his bastardy! He was bright and powerful and cunning—more cool of head than Richard, not untrustworthy like John. Pity he hadn't been born to her . . .

But they would get on fine. Geoffrey—she would see to it—would climb his ladder of ambition with the Church. She would help him all that she could. They understood each other.

Ah, life! So much to do. And then there was the girl.

Eleanor smiled. She loved her daughters so dearly. It was easy to extend that love to the precocious little creature who had so enchanted her! Elise was no longer a child, but surely she had grown to be a lovely woman.

She, too, would fall beneath Eleanor's powerful wing. There would be court again, poetry again, music again! Politics spoken of politely and wittily; monks and clerics would be welcome, the greatest theologians of the day. Literature could flourish . . .

Freedom . . .

Such a beautiful word.

Eleanor suddenly spun from the mirror and whirled about on her toes, clapping her hands together. A bone made a slight creak, but it only caused her to smile.

She paused before the mirror once again, laughing at herself. The lines seemed to fade a bit, with her eyes sparkling so. Her features were pleasant; she had dignity, and grace. Beauty might fade, but the vestiges could remain within the heart. She could walk proudly on Richard's arm. She didn't need to be afraid to meet the people. "Yes, Eleanor, you are old. But freedom is precious at any age. It is an elixir of youth . . .

"And though you are old, you are still Eleanor of Aquitaine. Queen of England. Still proud, still straight. Still vital!

"Still alive!"

You know the world. Marriages, alliances, warfare, and law—they are all your training, your life.

And they are yours once more.

Oh, Henry, it hurts. No matter how bitter the past, a part of me lies with you now. You were my knight gallant, once, and still are in dreams. Yet you and I fought; I paid my dues with these past sixteen years; you pay yours now with your death.

And I am alive and free . . .

Once, she had been stunning. She was, at the very least, still regal. Wise—she had already lived more than a lifetime. And they needed her. They needed her.

She would be there for them all.

Eleanor walked more sedately and sat down upon her narrow bunk. She began to stretch and flex her fingers, as if she already tested her power.

Soon . . .

Soon, now, they would come for her. Who would Richard send? Perhaps William Marshal. Perhaps de Roche . . .

Perhaps young Bryan Stede. Henry's men—but loyal men. And her men, too. Just as they had loved their sovereign, they had loved their queen—and never denied their love.

Yes, it was likely that they would all make their peace with Richard. And it was likely he would send one of them to her.

She would be waiting.

And she would be ready.

She was, after all, a very young seventy. And she had so much more to give.