The Courts of Love - Jean Plaidy [162]
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