The Winter Crown (11 page)

In front of Hamelin, Henry’s big bay destrier swished its black tail against the irritation of numerous blood-sucking flies. Sweat dripped from its hide and frothed along the line of the rein. Henry’s constable, Eustace FitzJohn, rode at Henry’s left-hand side, holding his skittish black stallion on a tight rein. FitzJohn turned frequently in the saddle, his vision hampered because he only had sight in one eye. Ahead and to one side rode Henry of Essex, bearing the royal standard.

Close to Hamelin, William de Boulogne leaned over to rub his bad leg. ‘The Welsh have an affinity for forests,’ he said with a grimace. ‘They are certainly more at home in them than I am.’

‘You have fought them before?’ Hamelin blotted his face on his gambeson cuff.

‘No, but people talk of them around the fire, and the border barons employ Welsh archers and mercenaries in their retinues. They do not have great cities; they live on their herds – on milk and meat. They will not stand and fight because they do not have the weight and power we do. Instead they are wraiths with arrows. They are knives in the dark.’

Hamelin arched his brow at William’s poetic turn of phrase. ‘And we are swords in the sunlight,’ he replied with a fierce smile. ‘We are the weight of powerful warhorses and castles of stone.’

‘Indeed, and I shall be glad when we are within our walls of stone, because this is their domain.’

A sudden crashing sound from the trees ahead had everyone reaching for their weapons, but then Henry burst out laughing and pointed to a pair of mating pigeons thrashing about in the leaves of an ash tree. The men relaxed, puffing out their tension, chuckling and exchanging relieved, sheepish glances. The laughter was still on their faces as with a swift singing of air an arrow punched into the face of Eustace FitzJohn, shattering his cheekbone and spraying blood. The scout who had been leading them screamed and fell, a shaft quivering in his chest. Another dart thudded into a tree, narrowly missing de Boulogne, and causing his stallion to rear and plunge.

Hamelin scrabbled for his shield and brought it on to his left shoulder while drawing his sword, and felt the impact of two shafts thudding into the linen-covered wood. Arrows sang all around like angry hornets, creating destruction and mayhem. Following that onslaught, the Welsh came in swiftly on foot armed with javelins and long stabbing knives, aiming to hamstring the horses and bring the knights down. Warriors leaped out of the trees, howling their battle cries, landing on saddles, swarming like ants.

As Hamelin tried to reach Henry, a Welshman sprang into his path, armed with a round shield and a nailed club. Hamelin pivoted his stallion and struck with his sword. His shield took the blow of the club and his enemy fell away with a howl. That was one disabled, he thought grimly, and spurred forward, chopping down at another bare-legged snarling warrior. Aware of another Welshman attacking from his left, he twisted to strike, but there was no need because William de Boulogne had already felled the man with a well-aimed back-swipe.

Before them they saw Eustace FitzJohn dragged from his horse and speared through the chest and throat by three of the enemy with javelins. There was no sign of the constable and a Welshman had seized the standard and was wafting it with fierce triumph. Henry’s big bay was bleeding profusely and, as Hamelin reached Henry, the horse’s legs buckled. Henry fought free of the saddle and avoided being crushed by a hair’s breadth. His complexion was bone-white save for a blood spatter across one cheek, and his eyes glittered with fear and rage as he hefted his shield and raised his sword. The Welshmen who had slaughtered FitzJohn advanced on him, javelin points thirsty for another kill. Hamelin spurred his stallion into them, striking and trampling. The hot tang of blood and spilled guts permeated the humid air. William de Boulogne dealt with the second warrior, and Henry fought off the third, ramming his sword under the Welshman’s ribs. Hamelin seized the reins of FitzJohn’s big black and handed them to Henry who grabbed them and hauled himself into the saddle. Roger de Clare had retrieved the standard and was bellowing at the knights to hold hard and rally round the King.

For a time the fighting intensified but Henry’s mauled troop, fighting cohesively now, seized the advantage and turned on their attackers, who started to melt away into the forest.

‘Hold!’ Henry roared as some of the knights spurred in pursuit. William de Boulogne grabbed the hunting horn on his saddle and let out three sharp blasts to sound the recall. They could not go on, but had to retreat as swiftly as they could and rejoin the safety of the main army, their plan in tatters.

The dead were hastily thrown across riderless horses and the troop turned back through the forest. Hamelin rode as close to Henry as the trail allowed, protecting him with his shield and his body. The Welsh might still rally and pursue, hoping to pick off a few more as they retreated, and it only took a single arrow to strike home.

Eventually they slowed their pace to conserve the horses. Their scouts had died in the first rush of the attack, but the trail back was marked by broken branches and the imprint of shod hooves in the soft mulch. Another hour of riding brought them into thinner tree cover and the heavy, humid scent of foliage became mingled with the smell of the sea. A sudden movement through the trees ahead sent hands to weapons again, everyone fearing that Owain Gwynedd had in his turn come round and encircled them, but then a hunting horn blew a sequence of recognised blasts and the knights slumped in their saddles with relief. William de Boulogne took his horn and raised it to answer with three powerful notes.

An instant later, soldiers from the rearguard of the army appeared on the path, together with the constable Henry of Essex whose expression was a mingling of horror, shame and relief. ‘Thank Christ, thank Christ you are alive, sire!’ he said hoarsely. ‘I thought you had been killed. I rode to bring help!’

‘Indeed I am alive, but no thanks to those who did not stand,’ Henry replied with icy rage. ‘FitzJohn and de Courci are dead, and many other good men besides.’

‘Traitor!’ spat Roger de Clare. ‘You sought to save your own skin, didn’t you, and let us bear the brunt!’

A red flush burned the constable’s cheekbones. ‘I did not! I rode to raise the alarm. I am no traitor and you shall not call me one.’

‘I will call as I see fit!’ De Clare reached for his sword.

‘Peace!’ Henry bellowed. ‘This is not the place to argue. We are not safe yet nor will be until we join the main troop. Let everything stand in abeyance until then.’

As they left the trees and headed out on to the firm open road, Hamelin breathed out hard, trying to let go of his tension. Beside him William de Boulogne leaned over his saddle and vomited.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking shamefaced as he wiped his mouth. ‘It always takes me like this afterwards.’

Hamelin gave him an assessing look and was aware of others glancing their way. ‘But you did not run; you stayed to fight.’

William took his wine costrel from his saddle to rinse his mouth. ‘I wanted to, believe me I did, but a man who abandons his comrades is no man at all.’

Hamelin gave a brisk nod. ‘Indeed.’ He was never going to be a close friend of King Stephen’s youngest son, but he respected his honesty and his ability to stand firm when called upon, no matter that he puked and shook afterwards like a green squire.

The troop rode swiftly to rejoin the main army, the forest on their left and the sea on their right. The green darkness of the trees cloyed the late-afternoon heat, and Hamelin could still smell the blood of the slain all around him.

Honeyed September light shone through the open shutters on to the bed where Alienor laboured. The thunderous August heat had yielded to crisper, fresher air but it was still pleasantly warm and the sky was as blue as the Virgin’s cloak. Alienor endured the painful hard work of travail with optimism. All was well and she had made herself believe that the difficult times were behind her, and that this child’s birth would herald a new beginning.

The baby’s head crowned between her thighs and after another steady, controlled push emerged from her body, followed smoothly by the rest of him. As the midwife laid him upon her belly, Alienor saw that his hair was a wet red-gold. He cried immediately and his skin flushed with pink colour.

‘A boy,’ the midwife said, ‘a fine, healthy boy.’ She picked him up and wiped him with a towel; then, smiling, she gave him to Alienor. Gazing into his crumpled little face, Alienor felt something that was almost recognition. This newborn baby was God’s sign that He had not forsaken her after all. This was the heir to Aquitaine and now her work could begin.

‘Richard,’ she said softly, feeling enhanced and strengthened. ‘My beautiful Richard.’

The baby gazed at her as if already knowing his name; his tiny fists opening and closing, already grasping handfuls of the world he had so recently entered.

While Richard was bathed in a brass bowl before the fire, the midwives tended to Alienor, and by the time she was clean and comfortable, he was ready for her to take in her arms, wrapped in soft linen swaddling and folded in a blue blanket. Alienor was exhausted, but resisted sleep. She just wanted to hold her newborn son because not only was he a hope for the future, but a blessing to heal the past.

Henry returned from an energetic day’s hunting to the news that while he had been pursuing heron and crane along the bank of the Thames with his white gyrfalcon, Alienor’s labour had begun.

He had returned from Wales just over a week since, the campaign having taken longer and cost more in lives and money than he had ever expected. However, he had learned his lesson from the mauling he had received and had eventually made sufficient inroads on Welsh territory for Owain Gwynedd to come to terms and render him homage. For now there was peace, albeit uneasy.

‘How’s your horse?’ Henry asked Hamelin as his half-brother entered the room plucking burrs out of his tunic.

‘He is all right,’ Hamelin replied. ‘A leg strain but not serious. Any news?’

Henry shook his head. ‘No,’ he said and gave a sour grin. ‘It is the law of the land that men always have to wait upon a woman, didn’t you know that?’

Hamelin poured himself a cup of wine and sat down on a bench, stretching out his legs. ‘I had heard it was courtesy,’ he said, ‘but not law.’

‘Wait until you have a wife, you’ll learn.’ Henry glanced round. ‘Where has Thomas got to?’

‘Still fussing over his hawk,’ Hamelin said. ‘He’s not happy that it flew into a tree and he nearly lost it. Said he’d come in a moment.’

Henry snorted. ‘Told him he should have waited longer in the training but he wouldn’t have it. He had to fly it today.’

The door opened and Emma entered the room, her face bright with excitement and joy. ‘Sire,’ she said, curtseying to Henry, ‘you have another son, lusty and red-haired.’

‘Hah!’ Henry raised his half-sister to her feet and gave her a smacking kiss on the lips. ‘That is great news!’ He felt expansive with pleasure, pride and relief. The birth of another male child meant he could thicken the skin over the scar caused by Will’s death and pretend it had never happened. ‘And the Queen?’ he asked. ‘How does she fare?’

‘The Queen is well,’ Emma replied. ‘She is tired because of the travail, but joyous over the birth of another son and she sends you her greeting.’

Henry turned to the men gathered round the hearth, a wide grin on his face. ‘Prepare a toast for when I return, and we shall celebrate!’ He looked up as his chancellor tardily entered the room. ‘Thomas, I have another son! What do you say to that?’

The creases in Becket’s face deepened as he smiled. ‘Congratulations, sire, that is the best of news. I will present him with a silver christening cup when you bring him to his baptism. How is he to be named?’

‘I will let you know when I return.’ Henry slapped his chancellor’s shoulder. ‘How’s the hawk?’

Becket grimaced. ‘In need of further training, sire.’

‘Hah, I told you not to fly her.’

‘Next time I will take your advice, sire.’

‘A man should always bow to superior knowledge – and his king,’ Henry said with a smug look. ‘You still have a great deal to learn, Thomas.’ He slapped his chancellor again and set out for the confinement chamber.

Alienor was sitting up in bed, her hair a skein of shining gold around her shoulders. She looked tired, as Emma had said, with fine lines around her eyes in the clear September light, but even so she was beautiful. She was gazing down at a swaddled baby wrapped in a soft blue blanket, an expression of such fierce love and tenderness on her face that Henry felt his chest expand with an emotion he was at a loss to identify, except that it made him want to weep. He stooped to kiss her lips and then gave the baby to the midwife to unwind the swaddling bands so he could look at his new son.

The infant’s hair sparkled red-bronze like his own and the brows were fine gold threads. The little fists were furled over like closed buds. He was long-limbed and strong, neither plump nor scrawny.

‘What a fine little man,’ he said, taking him in his arms so that everyone in the chamber would see his pleasure and acknowledgement.

‘I am going to call him Richard,’ Alienor said with the finality of a decision already made.

A frown twitched Henry’s brows at such audacity. ‘For what reason?’

‘Because he is the heir to Aquitaine and mine to name and I choose it for him. He will make it his own and he will stand in his own light.’

Henry took a moment to think whether he would permit such a thing, and decided it was not worth fighting over. ‘Have your will, let it be Richard,’ he said. ‘The next one shall be Geoffrey – for my father.’

‘The next one?’ A spark of indignation kindled in her eyes. ‘Why can’t now be enough?’

Henry laughed softly. ‘But you accomplish the duty so well, my love. Because of me you are not a barren queen, but the matriarch of a dynasty. I promised you that when we wed.’ He gave Richard to the midwife to wrap up again. ‘I’ll return later; for now I have to go and raise a toast.’ He kissed her again and left the room, striding out as if he owned the world, which Alienor supposed that for now he did. She was a little annoyed, but she smiled too. The alchemy of her seed and Henry’s had united to create this wonderful little being, who would one day grow into a fine, strong warrior: a prince of Aquitaine.