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“She should imitate the King. He very quickly achieved his reward. A flogging and Heaven makes the King of Scotland his captive.”

I believe Amaria thought that somewhat irreverent.

Soon after that I heard that Rosamund had died at Godstow and that she had so despaired of her sin in becoming the King’s mistress that she had declared on her deathbed that only when a certain tree in the gardens turned to stone would they know that her soul had been received into Heaven.

Poor Rosamund! I had railed against her, but now I could feel sorry for her. It had not been her fault. The King had desired her and he expected his subjects to obey him. Rosamund had obeyed. I expected she had been fond of him. There was something lovable about him . . . though his children failed to see it. I had found it once, and if I were truthful I would admit that, hating him as I did, he still had some fascination for me.

However, he had lost Rosamund and she had been my greatest rival.

And still I remained his prisoner.

I often wondered how I was able to endure the restriction in which I was placed. Perhaps it was because I was getting old. I was at an age when most women would have considered their lives over; I was not like that. I was too vitally interested in what was going on. My hatred for my husband was a spur to my vitality. I wanted to live long enough to see what would happen in this battle between him and his family.

I had grown mellow with age—philosophical. That was why I was able to endure my prison and look on life with analytical cynicism. After all, I lived comfortably. I was not treated like a prisoner. Everyone about me remembered that I was Queen. Life was unpredictable. Those who were down one day could be up the next. I never let them forget for a moment who I was; nor did they.

I listened; I absorbed the news, fitting it together as I heard it, like pieces in a puzzle. I had time to consider it and perhaps because of that I was able to make a clearer picture than those who were in the thick of it.

There was always going to be trouble between Henry and his sons. They all had their grievances—young Henry chief among them because he felt the golden crown on his head and could not bear to see his father in possession of it. He did little in Aquitaine except find those who had rebelled against his father. Never far from his mind was the plan to oust his father and rule himself, alone. It was an ambitious plan, the elder Henry being the man he was; but if his son could get the strong battalions on his side, who knew?

I was very shocked to hear how he had treated Adam Churchdown. The man was only doing his duty. Young Henry spent most of his time organizing tournaments—mock battles where his safety was assured and in which he was always the victor because those about him knew that was how he wanted it to be. This would not have been dangerous if the foolish young man had not gone about speaking against his father, plotting with his cronies as to how they could get an army together and take the crown from the old man and put it on the young head where it belonged.

Adam had, in duty bound, found it necessary to report to the King what was happening. Alas for Adam, his letters were intercepted and instead of going to the old King were taken to the young one.

My son should have had more respect for an honorable man. He knew that Adam was his father’s servant. What he did was cruel and foolish. He wanted Adam to be humiliated and ordered that he be stripped naked, paraded through the streets—they were in Poitiers at the time—and whipped as he went.

I was horrified. Henry must have been too. He would never have done such a thing in his wildest rages. He must have despaired and realized that he could never make the king he wanted of his son. He might have been proud of Richard, but Richard had shown little affection for him. All his three elder sons were ready to turn against him.

There was only one, as yet untried because he was so young: