Read Online Devil's Brood by Sharon Kay Penman - Free Book Online
Authors: Sharon Kay Penman
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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had not given him an ultimatum, had not demanded that he banish Rosamund from his bed and life. Not understanding that she was unwilling to risk the humiliation of a refusal, he’d assumed that his worldly, pragmatic wife did not see his infidelity as so great a sin. Grateful that she’d chosen to deal with the problem of Rosamund Clifford by not even acknowledging there was a problem, he’d eagerly entered into their conspiracy of silence, never once detecting the scent of burning bridges in the air.
If her cousin Henry had allotted Rosamund Clifford too little significance, Maud’s other male kin had given her too much. Her uncles Rainald and Ranulf and her brother Roger were well aware that Henry’s relationship with his queen had taken a turn for the worse, but they blamed Rosamund for every fissure, every crack in the foundation of the royal marriage. Maud knew better, for she understood that it was far more complicated than a king’s careless adultery. Eleanor’s greatest grievance was not a simpering lass with flaxen hair and smooth skin. It was Aquitaine, always Aquitaine.
It puzzled Maud that her male relatives could not see this. Was it that men could not believe a woman might share their ambitions, their need for power? Eleanor saw herself as more than Henry’s queen, mother of his children. First and foremost, she was Duchess of Aquitaine, never doubting that she could have ruled as well as any man and better than most. She knew the importance of the dowry she’d brought to each of her marriages. But the expectations she’d brought to those marriages were very different. She’d been given no say in her marriage to Louis, but in daring to wed Henry, she’d taken her destiny into her own hands. She had no intention to be subservient to her new husband. What she’d had in mind was a partnership.
It had not come to pass, of course. She’d underestimated Henry’s strong will and overestimated the influence she could wield over him. It was not that he believed, as most men did, that women were, by their very natures, incapable of exercising power or acting without male guidance. No son of the Empress Maude could ever look upon women as mere broodmares, and Eleanor had counted upon that. She had not realized, though, that Henry was, by his very nature, unable to share power. He had occasionally allowed her to act as regent in his absence, but he always kept a firm hand on the reins. Nor did he accord her opinions the respect she felt they deserved, utterly ignoring her warnings against elevating Thomas Becket to the archbishopric of Canterbury. Too often, she’d found herself relegated to the sidelines or the birthing chamber, more and more aware of the ultimate irony—that the husband she’d discarded had paid her more heed than the one she’d chosen for herself.
But Henry had done more than circumscribe Eleanor’s role as his queen. He’d usurped her role as ruler of Aquitaine. Within two years of his coronation as England’s king, he’d demanded that her barons do homage to him, homage previously reserved for her alone. The riches of Aquitaine had gone into his coffers. The coins issued in her domains bore his name, not hers. When their daughter had wed the King of Castile two years ago, he had given the province of Gascony as her marriage portion, not consulting Eleanor as he disposed of lands she’d expected to go to her heir, to Richard. Even after he’d permitted her to return to Poitiers, he continued to control her financial and military resources, keeping the real power in his own hands.
No, Rosamund Clifford was only one of Eleanor’s grudges. The girl may have ignited the fire, but the fuel was already stacked up, awaiting such a spark. The saddest aspect of it all to Maud was that she was sure her cousin was utterly unaware of the depths of his wife’s resentment. She thought that he was undoubtedly the most brilliant man she’d ever known, with one great failing. He seemed
If her cousin Henry had allotted Rosamund Clifford too little significance, Maud’s other male kin had given her too much. Her uncles Rainald and Ranulf and her brother Roger were well aware that Henry’s relationship with his queen had taken a turn for the worse, but they blamed Rosamund for every fissure, every crack in the foundation of the royal marriage. Maud knew better, for she understood that it was far more complicated than a king’s careless adultery. Eleanor’s greatest grievance was not a simpering lass with flaxen hair and smooth skin. It was Aquitaine, always Aquitaine.
It puzzled Maud that her male relatives could not see this. Was it that men could not believe a woman might share their ambitions, their need for power? Eleanor saw herself as more than Henry’s queen, mother of his children. First and foremost, she was Duchess of Aquitaine, never doubting that she could have ruled as well as any man and better than most. She knew the importance of the dowry she’d brought to each of her marriages. But the expectations she’d brought to those marriages were very different. She’d been given no say in her marriage to Louis, but in daring to wed Henry, she’d taken her destiny into her own hands. She had no intention to be subservient to her new husband. What she’d had in mind was a partnership.
It had not come to pass, of course. She’d underestimated Henry’s strong will and overestimated the influence she could wield over him. It was not that he believed, as most men did, that women were, by their very natures, incapable of exercising power or acting without male guidance. No son of the Empress Maude could ever look upon women as mere broodmares, and Eleanor had counted upon that. She had not realized, though, that Henry was, by his very nature, unable to share power. He had occasionally allowed her to act as regent in his absence, but he always kept a firm hand on the reins. Nor did he accord her opinions the respect she felt they deserved, utterly ignoring her warnings against elevating Thomas Becket to the archbishopric of Canterbury. Too often, she’d found herself relegated to the sidelines or the birthing chamber, more and more aware of the ultimate irony—that the husband she’d discarded had paid her more heed than the one she’d chosen for herself.
But Henry had done more than circumscribe Eleanor’s role as his queen. He’d usurped her role as ruler of Aquitaine. Within two years of his coronation as England’s king, he’d demanded that her barons do homage to him, homage previously reserved for her alone. The riches of Aquitaine had gone into his coffers. The coins issued in her domains bore his name, not hers. When their daughter had wed the King of Castile two years ago, he had given the province of Gascony as her marriage portion, not consulting Eleanor as he disposed of lands she’d expected to go to her heir, to Richard. Even after he’d permitted her to return to Poitiers, he continued to control her financial and military resources, keeping the real power in his own hands.
No, Rosamund Clifford was only one of Eleanor’s grudges. The girl may have ignited the fire, but the fuel was already stacked up, awaiting such a spark. The saddest aspect of it all to Maud was that she was sure her cousin was utterly unaware of the depths of his wife’s resentment. She thought that he was undoubtedly the most brilliant man she’d ever known, with one great failing. He seemed
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