Eleanor the Queen by Norah Lofts

Author:Norah Lofts
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 1955-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

SIX

YOU KILLED HER,” HENRY SAID. “I shall never forgive you. Never, as long as I live.”

They were his first words when, a month later, he came bursting into the room where she sat, the sweat and dust of his journey still upon him. Then before she could speak, while she stared at him in amazement, half fearing that he had gone mad, he flung himself onto the settle, put his head in his hands, and sobbed the terrible, difficult sobs of a strong man.

“She never hurt you. That was always her thought. That none should know lest you be hurt. And in return for that—you murdered her!”

Eleanor went and put one hand on his heaving shoulder, saying gently,

“You have come from Woodstock? She is dead? I feared it. Death was in her look a month ago.”

He shrugged away from her hand and jumped up; tears hung on his bristly lashes, but fury had dried his eyes suddenly.

“Don’t touch me!” he said. “Murderess!”

“You think I railed at her, upset her, made her more sick? You are wrong, Henry, so wrong. Strange as it may sound to you, no angry word passed between us. I could see that she was ill . . . I spoke kindly . . . gave her wine . . . ”

“I know all about the wine,” Henry said in a different, cold, heavily accusing voice. “She went that same day to the nuns at Godstow; she told them she had made her peace with you, that you had spoken kindly and given her wine. What was in it? What was in it? What poison did you use so deadly that she died next day?”

“Henry, what are you saying? What has been said to you? Do you realize the vileness of that accusation?”

“I know what I’m saying; and let me tell you this. If I had evidence enough to put before a jury, I’d make that accusation in open court.”

“You must be mad,” she said, backing away from him. Beneath her surprise and bewilderment, anger began to stir. “Do that,” she said. “Accuse me in open court, and give me a chance to defend myself. The wine I poured for her was in the room when I arrived. Am I suspected of carrying poison with me wherever I go? When I went to Woodstock I did not know of the girl’s existence. Besides, the nuns at Godstow could tell death from lung rot, and death from poison, as any jury would know. Take me to court, Henry.”

“To what end? You have your defense ready. You could outwit Judas Iscariot, if needs be. I know you, your nimble mind, your slippery tongue. The court would acquit you . . . but I never shall, and I shall never forgive you.”

“You believe in your heart that I poisoned that girl—because I was jealous?”

“I know you did,” Henry said simply. “And she so harmless. My humble, unself-seeking friend, the only friend I had since I raised Tom Becket to be my enemy.

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