FIC: Caged [Eleanor of Aquitaine]
Oct. 12th, 2005 01:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
transemacabreCAGED
Her dreams at night were of sinking a dagger into Henry's chest. She would awake raving, screaming for blood, the taste of revenge on her lips. She was an eagle, a bird of prey, but her wings had been clipped, her castle her cage. Whenever his name was mentioned, she'd clench her fists until her nails bit into her flesh, and her palms ran red.
In time this faded, as all raw emotion does. Sometimes, while sitting at the castle window, watching the grey rain, Eleanor would find it hard to remember faces, places, dates. What did Thomas Becket look like again? He had been dead for four, five, six years. When did she marry Henry? Was it the spring or the autumn? She would shake herself, curse her faulty memory. The fear of forgetting the world was only matched by the fear that the world had forgotten her. Eleanor heard snippets of goings-on from the English and French courts, and sometimes messengers would arrive with news. Grandchildren, a son for Matilda, a daughter for Marie, a shortlived son for Hal. Louis died, and there was a new king in France. A revolt in Gascony, Richard's doing. A wedding for John. Then, at last, one summer day a messenger arrived to announce that Hal was dead. Eleanor had outlived another son.
To pass the time, she would write poetry or plot her escape. The escape plots never came to anything, and the poetry became so self-pitying that Eleanor was ashamed of it, and had it all burnt. One of her maidservants (a spy, as they all were) would read aloud from Arthurian romances. This reminded Eleanor of the old days, the wine-soak days of Aquitaine. Troubadour's songs. Isolde, Igraine, Elaine... all bloodless. What did she have to learn from these porcelain princess? Guinevere never even bore a child. She just sat upon her throne, waiting for a man to make love to her. What did she know of pleasure, of pain, of loss? One day she said, "Silence," and that was that, no more romances. Just the sound of grey rain and the life bleeding from her.
Once or twice Eleanor visited court, so that Henry could lord his power over her. That was bitter, so bitter. At least his tramp Rosamund was dead, Eleanor had laughed till tears filled her eyes when she heard of that. But then Geoffrey died too, and there was no laughter. Another son, dust to dust. And then at last Henry was dead, and there should've been triumph, by all rights there should've been triumph, but there was none. Then Richard came, King Richard now, and there were no more bars on her cage.
She wore red to the funeral.
Her dreams at night were of sinking a dagger into Henry's chest. She would awake raving, screaming for blood, the taste of revenge on her lips. She was an eagle, a bird of prey, but her wings had been clipped, her castle her cage. Whenever his name was mentioned, she'd clench her fists until her nails bit into her flesh, and her palms ran red.
In time this faded, as all raw emotion does. Sometimes, while sitting at the castle window, watching the grey rain, Eleanor would find it hard to remember faces, places, dates. What did Thomas Becket look like again? He had been dead for four, five, six years. When did she marry Henry? Was it the spring or the autumn? She would shake herself, curse her faulty memory. The fear of forgetting the world was only matched by the fear that the world had forgotten her. Eleanor heard snippets of goings-on from the English and French courts, and sometimes messengers would arrive with news. Grandchildren, a son for Matilda, a daughter for Marie, a shortlived son for Hal. Louis died, and there was a new king in France. A revolt in Gascony, Richard's doing. A wedding for John. Then, at last, one summer day a messenger arrived to announce that Hal was dead. Eleanor had outlived another son.
To pass the time, she would write poetry or plot her escape. The escape plots never came to anything, and the poetry became so self-pitying that Eleanor was ashamed of it, and had it all burnt. One of her maidservants (a spy, as they all were) would read aloud from Arthurian romances. This reminded Eleanor of the old days, the wine-soak days of Aquitaine. Troubadour's songs. Isolde, Igraine, Elaine... all bloodless. What did she have to learn from these porcelain princess? Guinevere never even bore a child. She just sat upon her throne, waiting for a man to make love to her. What did she know of pleasure, of pain, of loss? One day she said, "Silence," and that was that, no more romances. Just the sound of grey rain and the life bleeding from her.
Once or twice Eleanor visited court, so that Henry could lord his power over her. That was bitter, so bitter. At least his tramp Rosamund was dead, Eleanor had laughed till tears filled her eyes when she heard of that. But then Geoffrey died too, and there was no laughter. Another son, dust to dust. And then at last Henry was dead, and there should've been triumph, by all rights there should've been triumph, but there was none. Then Richard came, King Richard now, and there were no more bars on her cage.
She wore red to the funeral.
