The Winter Crown (15 page)

The messengers also brought news that Henry had settled the situation in Brittany. Duke Conan had claimed Nantes on Geoffrey’s death, but had yielded when faced by Henry’s army, sanctioned with French approval. An agreement had been reached whereby Conan swore fealty to Henry and for the moment kept his gains.

Judging from the letters Alienor received, Henry and Louis had become warmly cordial during the negotiations, even to the point of visiting the abbey of Mont Saint-Michel and spending the night in prayer together. Diplomatic relations were well and good, and peace between England and France was essential for longer-term policies, but Alienor was deeply suspicious of this accord between Henry and her former husband. It might all be a ruse on Henry’s part, but she could not help feeling that she was being excluded and that it was a deliberate ploy by both men.

The white walls and towers of Salisbury drew closer through the murk, and the smell of smoke from domestic fires drifted towards the royal party. Alienor thanked God that they would soon be warm and dry. The scenery for miles had been dank grass, sheep and rain, and she had begun to feel that she was coming to somewhere at the ends of the earth.

The wind blew at a fierce slant as they took the slope to the fortified palace. On the higher ground, the rain was flecked with snow. The baby, who had been as good as gold until now, began to grizzle in his pannier and she could hear Richard whining too and Hodierna trying to soothe him. She shivered. From somewhere she thought she heard the words
This is a Godforsaken place.
But how could that be, when it was white and shining in the November murk, and she could hear the bells from the cathedral ringing the hour of nones?

They clattered through the gateway and into the courtyard where attendants waited to take her horse and escort her to the royal apartments. A glowing fire cheered the hearth and cast warmth into the room. On a table covered with clean white napery, jugs of hot, spiced wine and bowls of steaming meat broth with bread sops stood ready to nourish the travellers. Geoffrey’s wet nurse, Edith, settled herself on a bench to suckle him and Hodierna did the same with Richard, who barely needed the sustenance now, but still took comfort.

Wrapped in furs, drinking a cup of the spiced wine, Alienor held her hands out to the fire and soaked its warmth into her being. Various documents awaited her attention on a side trestle, but she would look at them later when she had recuperated. The bolts of cloth she had sent for from Winchester had arrived, ready to be made into winter gowns for the Christmas court at Cherbourg. There was red wool, thick and heavy; woven damask from Italy and white linen of Cambrai for chemises. Alienor ran her fingers over the fabrics, taking pleasure in their rich colour and textures. If nothing else, these things she could have for the click of her fingers and a few words. She had wealth; she had people to do her bidding and see to her every comfort.

A command brought her musicians into the chamber to play and sing for her pleasure. The smell of incense rose from small braziers on wafts of silver smoke and the heat from the fire made her fingers tingle. Her life was like this fortress on top of its isolated, windy hill. One reality inside and another without. The wind howling against the shutters was a desolate sound, and she was out on the margins, far, far from Aquitaine.

At another fire, in Rouen, Henry stretched out his legs towards the embers and eyed the King of France. Louis intrigued him. On the surface he seemed mild-mannered and easily dominated; however, there was another side to him that Henry couldn’t quite grasp: a thin, razor-sharp sliver of steel hidden at his core. They had been sharing a flagon and company over a chess set and each had won a game. A third one had not been played by mutual and diplomatic consent. They had been discussing women, and the subject had finally and convolutedly come around to Alienor, who had been wed to Louis for fifteen years until their marriage had been annulled. In all that time she had only borne Louis two daughters, whereas in six years, she had already given Henry four boys and a girl. It was a subject neither man mentioned but the awareness charged the atmosphere between them.

‘Alienor always had areas that she liked to keep to herself.’ Louis steepled his long, pale hands beneath his chin. ‘She had little liaisons and enclaves with others at court, and there were often small things she should have told me, but which – in the way women do, whispering to each other in corners – she kept to herself. Things she did not share with me when she should have done.’ Louis tapped the side of his goblet. ‘It is in her nature to be wayward, and because of that, I could never trust her.’

Henry said nothing. He had noticed the things that Louis mentioned, but he was not going to open himself up and agree: that would be giving knowledge and power to a man who, for all their camaraderie, was his rival. Besides, Louis was probably exaggerating in the interests of sowing discord. Henry would do the same if the situation had been reversed. He knew how to handle Alienor; he was not a fool in that department like Louis. ‘I think we understand each other,’ he said.

Louis nodded. ‘Then let it rest,’ he said with a satisfied glint in his eyes. ‘I have given you a word to the wise.’

In late December, the Angevin court gathered for the Christmas feast at Cherbourg. It had snowed on the eve of the solstice and the land wore colours of ermine and silver. The sky had cleared to a pure, winter blue, but it was bitterly cold and everything had a sharp, crystalline glitter. The water had frozen in the butts; icicle daggers hung from eaves and gutters, and straw and ashes had been thrown down to grit pathways and thoroughfares. Red-cheeked children made slides and held snowball fights, and the older ones strapped the shin bones of oxen to their feet and skated on the frozen fish pond. The elderly felt their way gingerly, walking sticks in either hand and prayed for a thaw.

Henry was delighted when Alienor arrived from England two days before the Christmas feast, and was mightily pleased with his new son. ‘What a fine little man.’ Henry tickled him under the chin and smiled at Alienor. ‘You have done well, madam. Another boy for our dynasty.’

She inclined her head, accepting the compliment graciously in public. Frozen from the long journey, all she wanted was a warm room and sustenance. But the courtesies and rituals had to be observed.

Henry turned next to Harry, who was also swathed in furs and red-lipped with the cold. ‘And here’s our young bridegroom!’ He patted Harry’s head. ‘Let’s see how much you’ve grown. Hah! As tall as my thigh now!’

Harry puffed out his chest. Alienor set her lips at the mention of the marriage between Harry and Louis’s daughter.

Henry picked up Matilda and kissed her, and did the same to Richard who was wriggling in Hodierna’s arms. Then he turned again to Alienor. ‘I know you must be cold and tired,’ he said. ‘I am not ignorant of your needs, even though you think I am. I have had food brought to your chamber and the room prepared.’

Alienor eyed him with surprise and almost asked what he wanted, but then gave him the benefit of the doubt. She had not seen him for almost a year, and if he was prepared to make an effort, then so should she. ‘Thank you.’ She gave him a genuine smile, which he reciprocated.

The chamber was indeed welcoming. The shutters were closed with a thick curtain drawn across them and the room flickered with warm golden light from fire and candle. The sensual perfume of the lamp oil she loved filled the atmosphere. She noticed two new books on top of a chest and glanced at Henry before going to study them. One had a cover bound with ivory panels set with small gemstones.

‘I thought you might want something to read,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed the Geoffrey of Monmouth, and the other is a book of devotional songs in the
lenga romana
. You will have to let me know what you think.’

She was torn between suspicion and delight. Perhaps this was his way of getting around her after all her protests over this marriage alliance with France. If so, it wouldn’t work, but at least she could take pleasure in the fruits of his efforts. Knowing Henry, he probably had some scheme afoot.

Food and drink had been set out before the fire. There was bread, a variety of cheeses, small date and nut pastries dusted with sugar, curd tarts, and broth with bread for the children.

Henry sat down to dine with her and while to Alienor it was a golden moment of domestic harmony snatched from the troublesome concerns of ruling an empire, it was unsettling too, because it was so different from Henry’s usual way. Getting him to sit down was normally a mammoth task in itself.

Eventually, replete and warm, she dozed before the hearth, and sipped sweetened, spiced wine while Henry told the children a story about a king called Wenceslas, and about the power and piety of ancient kings. Matilda climbed into his lap and curled up like a small dog, her fists furled beneath her chin. Smiling, Henry stroked the curve of her spine and looked at Alienor across the firelight.

Eventually the nurses took the children away to bed, leaving their parents alone. Alienor was tired from the journey, but sleepily receptive when Henry joined her on the bench and folded her in his arms. ‘Am I forgiven?’ He nuzzled her throat.

She turned to him and felt his solidity and strength. ‘Why should I ever forgive you for going behind my back and betrothing my son to my former husband’s daughter?’ she demanded.

Henry nipped her earlobe and cupped a hand over her hipbone. ‘What if I were to say that by next Christmastide I would give you Toulouse? Would you forgive me then?’

The word ‘Toulouse’ was like being burned by a stray spark and she straightened in his arms, suddenly alert.

‘Yes,’ he said with a broad grin. ‘Since I have a peace accord with Louis, I can turn to the matter of regaining Toulouse and setting it as a jewel in our regalia. I’m summoning a muster on midsummer’s day. Thomas has the details in hand. It will be the greatest army gathered since the one Louis took to Antioch when I was still a youth.’

Alienor shivered at his words. She had been a part of that muster with all its fierceness, all its vainglory, and eventual bitter defeat. She had learned to hate her first husband on that journey. ‘Let us hope you have better success than he did.’

‘Ah, do not spoil it,’ Henry protested. ‘You are looking my gift horse in the mouth. And you have still not answered my question.’

Alienor curled her arms around his neck and parted her lips close to his. ‘I would forgive you almost anything if you won Toulouse,’ she said into his breath.

‘“Almost”?’ He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed.

‘I told you,’ she said. ‘Never take me for granted, Henry, and do not promise me Toulouse if you are not going to make good on that promise.’

‘Trust me,’ he replied, pulling off his tunic and shirt, revealing a muscular torso, marked with a pectoral cross of auburn hair descending to a thick bush at his groin. ‘I shall not let you down.’

Alienor was eager to lie with him and enjoy the fierce strength of his lovemaking; it had been such a long time, and her own appetite was strong, but even as she responded to him with the eagerness of lust, she did not trust him an inch.

Early-morning light streamed through the open shutters and reached the foot of the bed, brightening a section of the embroidered linen coverlet to dazzling white. Turning over, Henry kissed Alienor’s throat and ran his hand over her bare hip and flank. Sleepily awake, she looked at him. His freckled pale skin had darkened to gold on face and hands where it had been exposed to the sun, a testament to the amount of time spent in the saddle, but the rest of him was the colour of new milk. Her hair cascaded over his arm in a tawny shimmer. Of late she had discovered the occasional wiry strand of silver among the gold and was ruthless in plucking them out, preserving the perfection of sheeted gold.

Henry cupped her breast and kissed her mouth, running his tongue around her lips, but rather than foreplay, it was a taste before withdrawing, and he sat up with a sigh. ‘As much as I want to linger here with you, I have a city to claim in your name, and an army awaiting my command. I have no doubt my chancellor will be pacing the floor fit to wear out his shoe leather by now.’ He gave a grunt of amusement. ‘The notion of being a soldier seems to have captured Thomas’s imagination.’

Alienor yawned and stretched. ‘He is like you – in some ways.’

‘Hah! What makes you say that?’

‘He enjoys power; he likes to be in control and have authority over others.’

‘He has no authority over me.’ Henry said sharply. ‘He is my chancellor and he does as he is bidden. I delegate to him, but I am the king, and the word is mine.’

She realised that she had touched a sore edge. ‘Thomas thinks of himself as a king by proxy,’ she replied. ‘He bolsters his importance through extravagant spending and demonstrations of magnificence. He throws lavish feasts; even his ordinary tunics are trimmed with silk. All the things he feels you should do as king. He wants to make a gilded cover to throw over his humble beginnings so that people will not see them. But of course they do, because he draws attention to them.’

‘But that is not like me,’ Henry argued. Leaving the bed, he donned his braies and fastened the belt. ‘I care nothing for embellishment. I left my crown on the altar at Worcester Cathedral because I was sick of having to bear the weight of the thing four times a year. By all means let Thomas have his silk and wear it in my name, because it means I do not have to bother. If it bolsters his sense of importance, what does it matter?’ He put his hands to his hips. ‘I am still the king whether I stand here in my braies, or in robes of ermine and silk. And he is still my servant.’

Alienor gathered her hair in her hands and swept it over her shoulder. ‘Yes, but often Becket’s ideas are the coin on which you strike your hammer.’

‘But I choose whether to strike or not.’ Henry kissed her again before leaving the room, but his gaze was thoughtful.

The army assembling to advance on Toulouse was almost the size of a crusading force. Thomas Becket had seven hundred knights under his command and had cast off his cleric’s robes in favour of a mail shirt, an ornate scabbard slung at his left hip from which the red leather grip of a fine sword stood proud. Fired with the same vigour he had brought to organising the betrothal parade in Paris last year, he had levied taxes on England and Normandy to pay for the war to the tune of nine thousand pounds.