The Winter Crown (10 page)

‘I think I shall name the child Richard if it is a boy, which I know it will be,’ she told Isabel as her ladies made her ready to perform the duties of gracious hostess.

Isabel gave her an enquiring look. ‘Why Richard?’

Her women slipped a gown of patterned red and gold damask over her head. ‘It means “Hard Ruler”,’ she said, ‘and when he is a grown man, he will need to be to control my barons.’ She stroked her womb. ‘It is not a name from either side of the family except in the distant past. This one shall stand in his own light.’

‘Will the King not wish to call him for his own father or perhaps his grandsire Fulke, King of Jerusalem?’

‘It is not Henry’s choice,’ Alienor said curtly. ‘It is for me to do the naming, because this child is my heir.’

‘And if it is a girl?’ Isabel asked with a half-smile.

‘Then she will be Alienor, and she will still be mine.’ Alienor raised her chin and a fierce look entered her eyes. ‘But I know it will be a boy.’

Henry arrived in London a week later, having ridden hard from his landing at Southampton. ‘You look well,’ he said, greeting Alienor in the public chamber at Westminster. He kissed her on either cheek, and then on the lips. His manner was more relaxed than it had been in Normandy, and his smile was sunny and generous. ‘And blossoming.’

Alienor returned his smile, taking pleasure in his admiration. ‘I am, sire, very well indeed.’ While she was cautious, she too was less tense. The two months of absence had smoothed the rough edges caused by the friction between their personalities, and the sick exhaustion of early pregnancy had diminished. She was less irritable and having received advance word of his arrival had had time to make herself ready.

The children were presented for him to inspect. Little Henry was bright-eyed and full of wriggling energy. Matilda was more solemn as she considered her father from the safety of her nurse’s arms, but she was rosy and chubby with health. Henry kissed them both and nodded brusquely to Alienor, indicating that he was satisfied she had kept them whole and safe. She did not know whether to feel relieved or resentful, and drew back behind a façade of regal dignity.

‘You have done well,’ Henry said to her later in her chamber when the formal rituals were over and they were alone, their attendants dismissed. He poured them each a cup of spiced wine from the flagon on the coffer.

‘I am perfectly capable of overseeing the government of England while you are gone, even when I am with child,’ she said with asperity.

‘I do not deny that, my love, but you must be careful of your health. You do not want your womb to go wandering round your body. That is what happens to women who overtax themselves – often with fatal consequences; I have heard you are susceptible.’

‘You leave your mother to rule Normandy – why should it be any different for me?’

‘My mother’s childbearing days are over. Why are you being so sharp with me when you have been acting regent here for the past six weeks?’

‘But always under careful scrutiny from your administrators.’

‘Every ruler has advisers. Use them to good purpose and be grateful for their assistance.’

Alienor controlled herself, aware that she was playing into his hands. ‘Sometimes “assistance” feels very much like “interference”,’ she said.

‘It is not intended to be.’

‘Is it not?’ Alienor raised her brows.

‘English laws need taking under advice and it is only common sense that you have support.’ He made an exasperated sound. ‘You are making mountains where none exist.’

He was blocking her with that look in his eyes that intimated he was being reasonable and she was not.

‘So,’ she said, changing the subject, ‘did your discussions with Louis fare well?’

He shrugged. ‘They were as expected. He has acknowledged my rights as Count of Anjou in the abbey of Saint Julian, and is content to accept my brother as Count of Nantes. For the moment we have a cordial truce, which leaves me free to deal with English matters.’ He contemplated his cup. ‘Indeed, he was in an unusually fine mood because his wife is finally with child – due in the late autumn, I gather. But his queen is delicate and narrow through the hips I hear, so she may not fare well at the birth.’

Alienor’s gaze sharpened. ‘But if she survives and bears a son, matters will change overnight.’

‘Indeed, but we can do nothing about it.’ He gestured to the curve of Alienor’s belly. ‘Let us hope that Louis’s queen births a girl and that ours is another son.’

A soft knock came at the door. Henry went and opened it upon one of the duty squires and, standing behind him, Alienor’s chaplain, Father Pierre, his mouth set in a serious line. ‘Sire,’ he said with a deep bow, ‘Madam, I am sorry to disturb you after you have retired, but there is news from Aquitaine.’

Henry beckoned the priest into the room, and he entered, tall and sombre, the cross around his neck glinting in the light. Alienor shivered. It couldn’t be about rebellion or war, because that would not be the task of her chaplain to announce. Priests, on the other hand, were always the harbingers of family death.

‘Madam.’ He presented her with a letter bearing the seal of the abbey of Saintes. ‘The messenger is in the hall, but I will have him summoned if you wish.’

Alienor broke the seal tag and opened the letter. The parchment was shadowed with faint ripples where the animal’s ribs had once pressed against its skin, and was overlaid with elegant script in dark brown ink. ‘It’s Petra,’ she said, putting her hand to her mouth ‘My poor sister, my poor, sweet, sister.’ She stared at the writing, assailed by a feeling of hollow shock. ‘I knew she was sick, I knew I would probably never see her again, but even so…’

‘Madam, I am deeply sorry, I grieve with you,’ said Father Pierre. ‘She was such a … fragile lady.’

Henry took her in his arms and she gripped his sleeves, hard, almost angrily. Her eyes were dry and burning.

‘She was,’ Alienor whispered. The hollow feeling at her core spread outwards, engulfing her. Petronella: in childhood their lives had been closely intertwined. They had slept in the same bed, played the same games, got into the same scrapes – had done everything together. When their mother died she had become the protective big sister and surrogate mother to Petronella, and then watched her wreck her life on the treacherous rocks and undercurrents created by men. Now there was no one else in the world to carry those memories; she was their sole keeper.

‘Your sister had been unwell for a long time,’ Father Pierre said. ‘Now her suffering is over and she is with God.’

Alienor bit her lip. ‘I lost her years ago, but it was a comfort to know she was still in the world.’ She drew away from Henry and folded her hands under her heart. ‘I shall always think of her as a little girl. In fairness she never grew up, and when adult things were asked of her she did not have the ability to do them.’ She gestured to the chaplain. ‘Please make arrangements for masses to be said for her soul and a vigil. I will talk with you later.’

‘I shall do so immediately, madam.’ He departed, his head bowed.

Her throat was tight and aching. ‘I should write to my aunt.’

‘You can do that tomorrow,’ Henry said. ‘You must consider the child and rest.’

She shook her head. ‘I shall not sleep.’

‘No matter.’ He made her lie on the bed and plumped the pillows and bolsters. ‘Shall I send for your women?’

She knew his solicitous behaviour was in the interests of protecting their unborn child, and he had no part in this grief – it was hers to bear – but still she reached out to him. ‘Henry, stay with me … please.’

He had been about to withdraw, but he hesitated, and then, with a sigh, climbed on to the bed and lay down at her back, wrapping her in his arms and resting his chin on her shoulder. She felt the prickle of his beard against her neck, and the warmth of his breath and it was at least some small comfort.

Enfolded in his embrace, she remembered when she and Petronella had cuddled together in their childhood bed. The scent of laundered linen and chemises, warm skin, tangled hair. Giggling under bedclothes festooned with breadcrumbs and sticky smears of honey sneaked from the high table, and once a jug of wine. Whispered secrets, hopes and dreams. Long ago and far away on the other side of innocence. Pressed against Henry’s hard, masculine body, she daren’t cry because she knew she would never stop.

‘Madam, I have found you a wet nurse.’ Isabel beckoned to the heavily pregnant young woman who waited on the threshold of Alienor’s chamber, her gaze modestly lowered and her hands clasped in front of her swollen belly. ‘This is Mistress Hodierna of St Albans. She is of impeccable reputation and can be vouched for with references other than mine.’ She indicated the midwife accompanying them.

With an effort the young woman dropped in a deep curtsey. Her hair was respectably covered by a wimple of bleached linen. She had fine, clear skin and white hands with short, clean fingernails. A plain gold wedding ring gleamed on her heart finger, but she wore no other jewellery.

‘You come highly recommended,’ Alienor said with a smiling glance to Isabel who, together with Dame Alice, had made it her task to find a suitable wet nurse from among the numerous candidates for the position. Thus far few had measured up to the exacting standards. ‘Your husband?’

‘I am a widow, madam,’ Hodierna replied with quiet dignity. ‘My husband was a serjeant employed by the Bishop of St Albans, but he died of the stiffening sickness before I even knew I was with child. For now I am living with my mother.’

That was good; no man making claims on his wife’s time and loyalty. ‘Let me see your body.’

With quiet dignity Hodierna unpinned her dress and shrugged down her gown and chemise to expose her breasts, which were large and white with prominent blue veins, pale brown nipples and large areolas. Her figure was well nourished but not obese, and her belly was a distended curve.

‘Cover yourself,’ Alienor said with a gesture. ‘I can see no flaw in you and will be glad to take you into my household as a wet nurse when the time comes. My chancellor will see you paid.’

Once Hodierna had dressed, she curtseyed again, and was ushered from the room by the midwife. Alienor turned to Isabel. ‘You did well to find her,’ she said.

‘I am glad you approve.’ Isabel screwed up her face. ‘We lost count of the number who came seeking the position. I have never seen so many women with child and none of them suitable. Hodierna was the gem amongst the dross.’

Alienor’s expression was wry. ‘There are many babies born as autumn arrives. The Christmas feast and the dark days of winter always result in a crop at harvest time.’

Isabel said nothing. For other women that might be the case, but not for her.

She and Alienor took their sewing into the garden where they had the benefit of the full summer light. ‘Do you think the King will be home for the birth?’ Isabel asked as they sat down.

Alienor took a hank of silk thread from her sewing box. ‘He said so, but I have learned that with Henry, saying is one thing, and doing quite another.’

Having received the submission of King David of Scotland, Henry was occupied with a campaign to bring Owain Gwynedd, Prince of North Wales, to heel, and had taken an army to Rhuddlan to deal with the matter. Thus far there had been little news of his progress, but Alienor assumed all was well. They had parted amicably enough after going on progress together and attending mass at the great Augustinian abbey at Saint Edmund’s with its altar front of beaten silver studded with gems. Following their progress, Henry had turned his attention to Wales, and Alienor had come to Oxford to await the birth of their fourth child. She had not missed the thread of anxiety in Isabel’s question and was a trifle exasperated. ‘You fret too much over that husband of yours,’ she said. ‘Let him take responsibility for himself; you are not his mother.’

Isabel gave her a startled look and then dropped her gaze to her embroidery. ‘For a while I was,’ she said.

Alienor raised her brows, but remained silent, knowing that letting a moment extend was often more profitable than filling the gap with chatter.

Isabel sighed and spread out the altar cloth on which she was working. ‘My father rode away to war and never returned. I do not want to grieve for my husband in the same way.’

‘He is doing what men do; it is a risk they take and we must accept that,’ Alienor said shortly.

‘I know, and I tell myself that, but I still worry. He was just a boy when he stood at the altar with me. I was very young, but I was a woman in ways that he was not a man. I have seen him shed the tears of a child even when I have been his wife, and it is hard not to be overprotective.’

Alienor was torn between compassion for her friend, and the desire to tell her to let her husband be a man. In the end she settled for lightness and touched Isabel’s sleeve. ‘I cannot tell you when he will return because that will depend on the King, but he will live to bring you his sack full of dirty baggage, steal the bedclothes in the middle of the night and make you wonder why you ever worried!’

Isabel put on a brave smile. ‘I will hold that thought in mind whenever I turn foolish and begin to brood, especially the dirty baggage,’ she said, but her eyes remained haunted.

Hamelin’s shoulders prickled as if his mail shirt was lined with tiny thorns facing inwards and stabbing through his gambeson. The stifling August heat was cooking him inside his armour, but his discomfort was also caused by an acute sense of unease. Henry had taken a mounted contingent on a shortcut through the forest of Cennadlog, leaving the main army and baggage train to follow the coast road. His intention was to come up behind Owain Gwynedd’s Welsh forces at Basingwerk, encircle them, and force a swift surrender.

Their Welsh guides, enemies of Owain, were leading them along little used forest trails, narrow and winding. Oppressive August heat bore down on them like an extra weight. The deep green light was suffused with sudden slashes of gold where fallen trees opened up a shaft to the sky and fresher air. It was almost otherworldly, and although Hamelin was accustomed to hunting through dense forests, this felt different, and dangerous.