The Winter Crown (7 page)

Henry’s eyes gleamed. ‘An interesting notion. On the margins, but not Ireland.’

Becket made an elegant gesture of agreement that emphasised the garnets and pearls jewelling the cuff on his sleeve.

‘It needs some thought, but I can see the possibilities.’ Henry clapped his shoulder. ‘You are to be commended, Thomas.’

‘I do my best to fulfil my duty, sire.’

‘Ah no, it is more than just duty, you enjoy this,’ Henry said with a knowing smile. He glanced towards the door where a messenger had just been admitted. With Chinon newly taken the bustle of envoys in and out of the keep was at full tide, but he recognised the man as one of Alienor’s. His immediate thought was that the child had been born and he beckoned the man to come forward. As he approached, however, following the usher, Henry realised something was wrong. There was no smile on the messenger’s face, no anticipation of a reward for joyful news.

‘Sire.’ The man knelt and from his satchel produced a single thin package to which was attached Alienor’s seal. And then he bowed his head and looked at the ground. Henry took the letter and broke the seal, not wanting to open the thing, but knowing he must, and immediately, lest he needed to act.

The words were Alienor’s, but written in the formal tone she used as queen, and what she wrote was so immense and devastating that he could not take it in. It was like being presented with a rock to swallow. Everything seemed to stop inside him. He lifted his gaze and stared around the room. At the stones in the wall, the hangings, at the texture of his chancellor’s jewelled cuff, the glitter of light on the chips of rock crystal. They were all real because he could see them and reach out and touch them; but this letter spoke of something he had not seen, something so terrible that it couldn’t be true; yet the fact that it might be took him to silence.

Becket was eyeing him in consternation. ‘Sire?’

Henry handed him the letter; he would not read it again because the words were indelibly branded on his brain. He left the hall and almost ran to his chamber, where he ordered everyone to leave before slamming and barring the door. Turning, he leaned against it with his eyes closed, shutting everything out, so it would not be real. Other men’s children died, not his: his were strong and blessed. This one would follow him to the English throne. He could see him dashing about, full of vigour, waving his small sword and shouting, could remember the wet baby kiss on his cheek, and the trusting soft hand gripped in his as they crossed the icy yard at Westminster, with all the candles shining for the Christ child’s birth.

Henry put his face in his spread right hand, and rare tears welled. Many times he had been ill himself as an infant, sometimes seriously, but he had survived. Why hadn’t William lived? Why hadn’t he possessed the constitution to win through? Wiping his face on his cuff he cursed, and wept some more, while anger burned in his belly.

Surely something could have been done to save him if his protectors had been more vigilant? Why had Alienor allowed it to happen? She should have kept him in a place where the air was cleaner. Now there was no air in his son’s lungs, only dust. The thought of Will, a fresh little child, surrounded by corpses and decay made him sick. He had left Alienor to guard and care for their son and she had failed in her duty. Probably too busy meddling in politics and matters best left to men, as was her wont. When he thought that he had not been there to rescue his son, the dark feelings became unbearable, and he locked them away because he knew, if he gave them the opportunity to grow, they would break him. He knuckled his eyes and swallowed his tears because all the grief in the world would not restore his son to life. Will was gone. He should go and pray that his soul had found its way swiftly to heaven, but he was not sure he could enter a church just now.

A hand rapped on the door. ‘Henry, let me in.’

He palmed away his tears and went to draw the bar. Hamelin stood on the threshold, his brow wrinkled with sorrowful concern. He cleared his throat. ‘I grieve to hear the tragic news from England – Becket told me. I came to see if there was anything I could do, if there was anything you needed.’

‘No one can give me what I want or need,’ Henry said hoarsely, but stood aside to let Hamelin enter the room. ‘Nothing will bring him back.’ He closed the door and leaned against it again. His chest heaved convulsively.

‘Do you want me to say anything to the court?’

‘No. I am my own spokesman.’ Henry swallowed. ‘I will not have the business of the court interrupted for this. Let masses be said for my son, and let us all pray for his soul, and then let us move on with business that applies to the living. I refuse to make a meal of my grief, and I will not let others make a meal of it for me, do you understand?’

Hamelin frowned. ‘I am not sure I do, but if that is your wish, then let it be so. I am truly sorry; he was a fine little man.’

‘Yes,’ Henry said grimly, ‘and now he is no more, so I must needs beget more sons to ensure the succession.’ That was the way to deal with the matter. To be hard and pragmatic until the shell toughened and nothing could ever pierce it.

‘Will you write to Alienor? She must be distraught.’

Henry’s mouth thinned. ‘We shall speak soon enough. For now I have nothing to say to her that I want to commit to a scribe or bleed on to parchment.’

Henry’s mother, Empress Matilda, held her swaddled namesake in the crook of her arm. A half-smile deepened the lines surrounding her mouth. She had already greeted her grandson of sixteen months before hastily handing him over to his nurse to have his wet clouts changed. ‘I never bore daughters,’ she said to Alienor. ‘Perhaps it was no bad thing, for, strive as we may, it is men who rule the world, and they do not have to face the trials we do.’

‘No,’ Alienor agreed, ‘they do not.’ She had been churched two days ago, almost seven weeks since Will had died. The pain remained raw and desperate, but she dealt with it moment by moment, hour by hour, and day by day. Each mark of time took her further away from his death, but also distanced her from the time when he was alive, and she clung to his memory and painted it in her mind anew each day, knowing it would fade in slow increments until his bright presence dwindled to a shadow on her soul.

The Empress had greeted her with a tender embrace and tears in her eyes – and this from a woman who never wept. Alienor had feared that Henry’s mother would blame her for Will’s death, but Matilda had been compassionate and concerned for her welfare.

‘You look tired,’ she said. ‘You should not be about so soon after childbirth, and your terrible loss.’

Alienor shook her head. ‘Had I stayed in England, I would only have spent my days mourning things I cannot change.’ She bit her lip. ‘I have to talk to Henry and he has his daughter to greet.’ She was dreading that moment. Not only was there the death of their son to be navigated, but she feared his response to the new baby because it was a daughter, and not a boy to stand in the place of the one they had lost. She reasoned if she went to him now that she was churched, she might conceive again swiftly, and perhaps if she did bear another son, Henry would forgive her, although she was not sure if she could forgive herself.

‘But you will stay here for the rest of the week at least.’ The Empress patted Alienor’s knee with her free hand.

‘Yes, madam, of course.’

‘Good.’ She jogged the baby for a moment. ‘It is fitting that you chose Reading Abbey for the burial, and at my father’s feet. He was a great king; my grandson would have been one too had he lived.’

‘I did everything I could.’ Tears scalded Alienor’s eyes. ‘But it was not enough.’

The Empress gave her a sharp but not unkind look. ‘I said that to myself on the day I sailed away from England. I spent nine years striving to win the throne that was rightfully mine. There were times I thought I would die in the attempt or be broken forever. Whatever your grief you must absorb the blow and continue because it is your duty.’

‘Yes, Mother, I know.’ Alienor tried not to feel resentful. Matilda meant well and offered sound advice, but she did not fully understand. She was the patronising matriarch showing a younger subordinate how much she still had to learn despite the fact that the younger one had been ground through just as many mills.

‘I shall write to Henry and tell him to be gentle with you.’

‘Thank you, Mother, but I do not need your intervention.’ Alienor had been going to say ‘interference’ but changed the word in time. ‘I can speak for myself.’

The Empress’s lips pursed as if she was going to take issue, but then she too hesitated and modified her words. ‘I know you can, Daughter,’ she said. ‘But you should consider carefully what you say. My son is like my father and expects the world to do his bidding without question. But he has much of my husband in him too, and that means he will not always deal directly when faced with the needs of others. You must not let him push you too hard, especially when you are not yet in full health.’

Alienor inclined her head. ‘Thank you for your concern, Mother.’ She knew Matilda would probably still write to Henry. ‘I do want to ask your advice on another matter.’

Her mother-in-law immediately sat up a little straighter. ‘Indeed?’ Her eyes brightened.

‘It is about Henry’s bastard-born son.’ Alienor indicated the small boy sitting with his nurse at the side of the room. She had to steel herself to look at him because he so resembled Will, and was a constant living reminder of what she had lost.

The Empress nodded. ‘I had heard rumours that my son had a child born of a common whore. I thought the tale unreliable – who knows the father in those circumstances? But I can see with my own eyes that whatever her occupation, the boy is of my son’s siring.’

Alienor grimaced. ‘I know little of the mother, nor do I wish to, but I have been told she was with him before he wed me, and that she was English.’

‘A boyhood paramour then.’ The Empress gave a dismissive wave. ‘What do you want to ask me?’

Alienor played with a beautiful pearl ring the Empress had given her, turning it right and left on her finger. ‘Henry has taken responsibility for the child. I will do nothing to harm him, nor will I be hostile towards an innocent whatever the circumstances of his birth, but I will not permit him to undermine my own children in any way.’

The Empress handed the baby to the wet nurse. ‘Henry’s father sired Emma and Hamelin on his mistress. She died in childbirth and Geoffrey had them raised in his household. They were of no concern to me; I was fighting for a crown, and had little time to worry about such things. Besides, my own bastard-born half-brothers were the absolute backbone of my cause. Without them, Henry would not have his throne. I expected from the outset that Hamelin would grow up to support Henry, and indeed he is more help to him than Geoffrey or William will ever be. Hamelin depends on Henry for his position. You need not fear that this child will usurp your sons. Raise him to his duty and he will be an asset.’

‘It is the way Henry looks at him,’ Alienor said and could not prevent her lip from curling. ‘And now Will is dead and our little Henry still an infant…’ She closed her hands into fists. ‘I desire to have my own children recognised and ranked as first in their father’s heart.’ She felt miserable as she spoke, for she could not make such a thing happen for the willing of it.

‘Then what do you want from me?’

Alienor leaned forward. ‘I ask you to take him into your household to raise and educate. I know it would be for Henry to decide, but the boy is your grandson.’ It meant he would not have to be under her roof, a constant reminder of the son she had lost, but still suitably placed within the family. ‘Would you consider doing so?’

The Empress looked thoughtful, and then slowly nodded. ‘Yes, I would be willing to think about it.’

More than willing, Alienor thought, seeing the gleam that lit in the older woman’s eyes.

The Empress turned in her seat and beckoned the nurse to bring little Jeoffrey over to them.

The boy knelt respectfully when prompted by his nurse, and then rose and faced Alienor and his grandmother with his legs set apart in a pose exactly like Henry’s. There was no fear in his blue gaze, but he was wary.

‘Can you say the Lord’s Prayer, child?’ the Empress asked.

Jeoffrey nodded and did so, with barely a stumble, his Latin fluent.

‘Good,’ she said and dismissed him, having first made him kneel again, while she patted his hair in blessing and gave him a small honey cake from the tray at her side.

‘He has the aptitude,’ she said to Alienor once he had gone. ‘If his father agrees I will take him.’

‘Thank you, madam.’ Alienor was unable to conceal her relief.

The Empress gave her a wintry smile. ‘If I can ease your burden I will. You have a heavy load to bear and it will grow no lighter with time. I do not say this to discourage you, but it is always best to confront the truth.’

Alienor forced a smile. At least her mother-by-marriage was honest. There was never any dissembling with the Empress. Having resolved what she was going to do with young Jeoffrey FitzRoy she could now focus on dealing with Henry.

Alienor was two miles from Saumur when she met an entourage travelling in the opposite direction. The sun blazed in a sky of naked blue as the first strong heat of summer struck the Angevin heartlands like the beat of a hammer on a new anvil. Drawing rein, Alienor waited for the approaching troop to pull aside and give her right of way in respect of her rank. The other party halted in the road too, refusing to give ground, pale dust sifting around the hooves of their horses and sumpters.

A young nobleman on a muscular grey palfrey rode to the front and glared at Alienor’s troop. His gaze then lit on her and, with an irritated shrug of his body, he commanded his men to draw aside. ‘Madam my sister,’ he acknowledged curtly.

Alienor eyed her brother-in-law with distaste. Geoffrey was the main reason Henry was still here in Anjou when he could have been back in England long since; indeed could have been with her when their son took ill. If Geoffrey was free and on his way though, it meant that he and Henry had come to terms.