The Winter Crown (19 page)

‘I can unpick these later if necessary,’ Alienor said to her mother-in-law who had been watching the scene without comment, ‘but they are neat for a child of her age and I shall keep them if I can.’

‘She is very able,’ the Empress said.

‘Indeed, madam, she is.’ Alienor let out a pensive sigh. ‘I pray God that men do not take too much advantage of her, for that is the way of the world. I know I must prepare her for hardship too. Good needlework is but an embellishment of daily life.’

‘Have you and Henry considered her marriage yet?’ the Empress asked her, eyes shrewd.

‘In passing; I have a few years with her yet.’ Alienor’s voice developed a bitter note. ‘Unless Henry suddenly decides otherwise, of course.’

The Empress shifted in her chair to ease her joints. ‘I know it is difficult for you to come to terms with this match between your son and your former husband’s daughter, but you must see what a strategic move it is for our dominions.’

‘I do see, madam,’ Alienor replied. ‘My mind accepts it; my heart does not and never will. It disturbs me that Henry has no such qualms.’ In fact no conscience at all, she sometimes thought, after what he had done to poor Mary de Boulogne.

‘He cannot afford to,’ the Empress replied. ‘He is the King, and he must often make unpalatable decisions for the good of all. I agree it is difficult when your head and your heart are not in harmony, but as my son’s queen you cannot let yourself be ruled by tenderness in matters of state.’

‘I know that, madam.’ Alienor began threading her needle in order to avoid the Empress’s perceptive stare, and while she mastered her irritation.

The Empress folded her hands in her lap. ‘Has Henry spoken to you concerning the marriage of the Countess de Warenne?’

Cold shock ran down Alienor’s spine. Dear God, what had Henry been doing behind her back now? And after he said he would leave Isabel in peace to mourn. She would kill him with her own hands! ‘No, he has not,’ she said. ‘Forgive me, madam, but why would he speak to you on the matter and not me since the Countess de Warenne is my companion and a dear friend?’

The Empress patted Alienor’s knee. ‘It is unfortunate that he has not done so, I agree, but calm yourself. My youngest son has expressed an interest in the Countess, and that is why Henry broached it with me.’

Alienor gazed at her mother-by-marriage in horror. ‘Has he indeed?’ She had no love for William FitzEmpress. Like Henry, he had a tendency to ride roughshod over others in order to get his own way.

‘Naturally the Countess is in mourning and must be given the opportunity to complete that with all dignity,’ the Empress said with regal hauteur.

‘As Mary de Boulogne was allowed to grieve for her brother at Romsey Abbey?’

The Empress firmed her lips. ‘Indeed, I agree with you, that decision was not well made, but I have spoken to Henry about that.’

‘And you probably received the same reply that I did – that it was necessary and that I was being squeamish and unrealistic because I am a woman.’

The Empress sighed. ‘There was a time when I thought I could change everything. I have learned the hard way that we only have so much strength: better to use it for fights where we stand a chance of winning.’

‘And if you had thought that way when Stephen took your crown?’

The Empress gave her a hard look. ‘But I did win that one for my dynasty. I warn you to be very careful in choosing your battles with my son.’ She rubbed her thumb over a gold ring on her index finger. ‘Henry told me he would give the Countess de Warenne time to mourn, but it might be useful for you to prepare the ground.’

Alienor set her teeth. She had no intention whatsoever of promoting William’s cause. Henry had already given his youngest brother valuable English estates and monetary wealth, but Isabel’s lands would make him a powerful magnate. While she would welcome Isabel as her sister-by-marriage, the thought of having Henry’s youngest brother frequently in her chamber was unbearable. Besides, she was toying with the idea of wedding Isabel to one of her Poitevan barons, thus increasing her own influence at court.

The Empress narrowed her eyes. ‘You say nothing, Daughter?’

Alienor gathered herself. ‘It has come as a surprise, that is all.’

‘Well, when you have recovered, think on it well. A judicious word from you could make all the difference in this matter.’

‘Indeed, Mother.’ Alienor decided she would do nothing for the moment. Henry had not broached the subject to her, so she had the excuse of ignorance. If he was hoping that the matter would be successfully carried forward by ‘women’s talk’ in the bower, he was very wrong.

The women worked at their sewing in ruminative and slightly strained silence until a clerk arrived from the Empress’s writing office bearing a message from Henry. The Empress set aside her needlework, took it from him and read the contents, holding the letter away in order to focus.

‘There is news from France,’ she said. ‘Louis’s queen has died bearing a daughter.’ She passed the letter to Alienor.

Reading the message, Alienor was sad for the loss of Louis’s young wife in the common lot of childbirth. Every time a woman opened her legs to a man, she risked her life. Politically she was relieved that the infant was a girl because it meant she and Henry continued to have the upper hand. Raising her eyes to the Empress, she saw her own thoughts mirrored in the older woman’s face.

‘God rest her poor soul,’ said Matilda. ‘I know too well the perils a woman faces in childbed. I almost died bearing my Geoffrey.’

Alienor set her hand to her own womb. She had not conceived at Christmas, so had a momentary respite, but knew she must face that arena again and again until her muscles grew slack, her breasts drooped, and her body ran out of seed. It was the foremost duty of a queen to bear children, preferably enough sons to secure the succession, and then a plethora of daughters to create affinities. ‘Yes indeed,’ she said. ‘God rest her soul.’
And God help all women.

A fresh autumn breeze bustled Alienor’s cloak and tugged at her wimple. The court had ridden out for a day’s hunting, men and ladies together, and thus the pace was brisk but merry, rather than hard with competitive purpose.

The sky was an intense deep blue, populated by a few wind-chased clouds. Twirls of ruddy leaves from ash and beech showered upon the riders as they trotted through light woodland and hunted over soft tawny fields, fallow after the harvest.

Alienor was enjoying the fresh air, her white gyrfalcon on her wrist, and her spirited chestnut palfrey dancing beneath her. Isabel rode beside her on the dun palfrey that had been her husband’s favourite mount. She was still in mourning, although Alienor suspected that her grief had become a mantle, protecting her from suggestions of a new marriage. William FitzEmpress kept trying to strike up conversations with her and sidling his horse close, but Isabel responded with indifferent courtesy. Alienor endeavoured to keep Isabel as near to her as she could and squeeze William out. Henry had said nothing as yet about betrothal plans. Alienor had been waiting for him to broach the subject and had no doubt he was waiting for his moment.

The hunting party stopped to picnic on the edge of the trees where a natural hollow created a windbreak and shelter. Servants had ridden ahead to prepare food, cooking it over the hot coals in shallow-dug firepits. There was griddled fish with piquant sauce, coneys cooked in wine and honey until the flesh was tender with a sticky, sweet-sour coating, and skewers of pork, interspersed with chunks of roasted apple. The bread was white, soft and plentiful, and the wine for once was as smooth and rich as a silk curtain.

Chancellor Becket dismounted from his white Spanish stallion and gave the reins to his groom. The horse was trapped out like a beast from a song of the troubadours, gold thread twinkling on the saddle cloth, which was dyed with Tyrian purple. Becket’s robes were in forest colours, but of expensive hues, rich and deep, and his belt was punctuated with silver studs in the shape of crosses. In contrast, Henry wore serviceable hunting gear of plain madder-dyed wool, and his mount was a broad-rumped bay with unembellished harness. Becket might easily have been the king, and Henry his servant, both in terms of appearance and behaviour, the one high-handed and finicky, the other sitting on a tree stump, sucking sauce off his fingers.

Sitting with Isabel, Alienor bit into a chunk of the skewered pork and apple. Becket chose the fish and, as usual, cut his wine liberally with spring water because of his delicate stomach. Alienor had heard a rumour to the effect that Becket had himself scourged before he went to confession and she was trying to decide whether to believe it or not. He seemed at ease among the gathering, and he hadn’t ridden like a man suffering from the effects of a whipping.

Henry’s younger brother William joined her and Isabel. He was eating a piece of the sticky rabbit and a red smudge of sauce bedaubed his upper lip. The napkin in which he held the meat was smeared and blotched too.

‘Have you tried the coney?’ he asked Isabel. ‘It’s excellent. Would you like some?’ He indicated a spare portion in the cloth.

Isabel gave him a swift glance and shook her head. ‘It is kind of you but I have enough.’

He bit into his own piece, chewed with vigour and swallowed. ‘That dun of yours,’ he said, ‘he is too big and strong for a woman. You should change him for a daintier mount. I will find you one.’

‘I am content with him, sire,’ she said, her expression setting like stone. ‘He belonged to my late husband and he is dear to me.’

‘But still I think you should…’ He broke off as a messenger galloped up to the line of tethered horses, dismounted at speed and went to Henry, who was sharing his rabbit with his favourite gazehound.

Henry wiped his hands, took the letter presented to him, broke the seal and read what was written. ‘Hah!’ he cried. ‘The conniving weasel!’ He jumped to his feet and thrust the parchment at Becket. ‘Louis,’ he said. ‘He’s arranged a new marriage for himself already, the skinny old goat.’

Becket studied the document with narrowed eyes.

‘To whom?’ Alienor asked, annoyed that Henry had shown his chancellor the document before her.

‘To Adela of Blois–Champagne, madam,’ Becket said. ‘There is no doubt whose influence rules at the French court now.’

Alienor recoiled. The brothers of Blois–Champagne, Theobald and Henri, were betrothed to Marie and Alix, her daughters by Louis, and that was influence enough, but for Louis to marry their sister Adela meant that they had truly nailed the royal banner of France to their mast. It was like a gleeful smack in the face to Henry’s policies. Furthermore, the Blois bloodline was that of England’s former King Stephen and that made Louis’s choice of wife even more undesirable and dangerous.

‘He intends to do it immediately,’ Henry said. ‘He’s not even allowing time for the earth to settle on his wife’s cold corpse before he is climbing into another consanguineous marriage bed. Hah, so much for his vaunted piety and Godliness!’

Alienor gave an involuntary shudder. Louis projected himself as a golden king and the champion of Christendom, but she had been married to him: she knew what he was like. God help his new wife – whatever her affinities.

Henry paced the chamber like a caged lion, back and forth, back and forth. The tread of his boots raised the scent of crushed herbs strewn over the floor rushes, and the candles flared with each pass he made. It was very late, but he was still awake and restless, worrying at the problem of the new French Queen and what it would mean to him and his heirs to have a Blois wife as Louis’s consort.

The Empress had retired to bed long since; Alienor’s eyes were tired and sore, but Henry showed no signs of slowing down. Becket’s expression was controlled and stoical.

‘Pope Alexander needs support while there are disputes over the papacy,’ Alienor said. ‘In return for your goodwill he might be prevailed upon to ban the match on grounds of consanguinity. At the least he could force him to wait awhile and undertake a proper time of mourning.’

‘You think I had not considered that?’ Henry growled. ‘It is like striking an enemy with a cushion; it won’t have any impact because the Pope will be seeking support from France too and playing us against each other. It will be as easy to issue a dispensation as a ban.’

‘But better than nothing. I know Louis; his life as a man is perilously tangled with his relationship to the Church. Papal condemnation will unbalance him.’

Henry gave her a speculative stare tinged with suspicion. ‘Such a detail can hardly be taken for granted.’

Becket said: ‘Sire, what if the betrothal between your son and the Princess Marguerite was advanced into marriage immediately instead of waiting ten years? You would gain the castles promised by the treaty and the lands in the Vexin.’

Henry stopped pacing and turned.

‘No!’ Alienor was appalled. She looked between Henry and Becket and saw the collusion. The twitch of a smile on Henry’s lips; the gleam in the Chancellor’s eyes. ‘You should leave this to the allotted time, no good will come of it!’

Henry shot her a swift glance. ‘Why court the wind when you can have the leaves that fall now?’

‘Wedding a five-year-old boy to an infant barely out of the cradle is neither reputable nor honourable. People will vilify you for this.’

She saw Henry exchange a glance with Becket, as if to say: ‘See, this is what I have to deal with in my chamber,’ and she clenched her fists.

‘Some may do so, I agree,’ Henry said, ‘but others will say I am merely being astute. The Pope will have to give a dispensation because of their youth, but since he needs my support and Rome is always eager to listen to entreaties from Saint Gold and Saint Silver, I am sure it can be arranged without difficulty. Louis can hardly cavil when his own intended marriage is not following a pious route. He will need a dispensation too, so cannot turn on the Pope no matter how displeased he is.’

‘The Templars are holding the dower castles in trust,’ Becket said. ‘Are they likely to yield?’

‘The agreement has nothing to do with them beyond the fact that they are custodians of those keeps. When the marriage is accomplished, their part is over.’ Henry clapped his hands and rubbed them together. ‘We can set matters in motion first thing in the morning.’