The Winter Crown (8 page)

‘Brother.’ She managed to be civil. ‘I thank you for yielding the road.’

‘What else am I to do but honour the privilege owed to my brother’s wife?’ His voice was edged with disdain.

Alienor raised one eyebrow. ‘I take it you and my husband have mended your differences?’

Geoffrey brushed at a speck on his cloak. ‘Rather say that for now we have interests in common. The people of Nantes have asked me to be their count. I am to rule Brittany with Henry’s blessing – and that is something I never thought to have.’ His tone intimated cynicism rather than gratitude.

‘That is excellent news,’ Alienor said and meant it. She even smiled. Such an undertaking would keep Geoffrey occupied, prevent him from making trouble in Anjou, and meant that she would not have to be in proximity to him except on rare occasions.

‘It remains to be seen, but for now I agree.’ He gathered the reins as his restive palfrey sidled. ‘I was sorry to learn of my nephew’s death.’ The remark was perfunctory and insincere.

‘I am sure you were,’ Alienor replied stonily. ‘I wish you a safe journey, my lord.’
And never to see you again.

‘And I wish you the best of fortune with my brother.’ He gave her a sour smile. ‘You could have been wed to me if you had taken a different road.’

‘Indeed,’ she said smoothly. ‘I thank God for guiding my path that day.’

Geoffrey gave her an ironic salute. ‘Are you sure it was God? It is claimed that line of Anjou is descended from the Devil.’ He reined over to join his men at the side of the road and let her ride on to Saumur.

Despite the heat of the day warming the castle walls, Alienor felt shivery – as if she had a fever. She walked back and forth across the chamber to which Henry’s steward had shown her. Henry himself was absent, hunting, even though he knew she was expected. She felt too sick with apprehension to be angry; indeed, she almost welcomed the delay.

She had changed her dusty travelling gown for a court robe of gold silk embellished with pearls, the lacing pulled tight to emphasise that once more she had a waistline between the curves of breast and hip. Her women had dabbed her wrists and throat with precious scented oil and dressed her hair with a jewelled net, but not all the gems and perfume in the world could make this moment any better or easier.

Isabel, who was attending her, turned from the window where she had been watching the courtyard. ‘Madam, the King is here.’ She too was strung with tension because her own husband was among the entourage.

Alienor joined her in the embrasure and looked out on a courtyard filling up with hard-ridden horses, panting dogs and ebullient men, all jostling and milling. Thomas Becket and Henry were laughing together, arms clasped across their horses in camaraderie. Henry was sweating almost as much as his horse.

Isabel made a soft sound of concern as she located her husband amid the throng. ‘He looks thinner,’ she said, ‘and he’s limping.’

‘I shall not need you when I speak to the King.’ Alienor touched her arm. ‘Go down to him, you have my leave.’

Cheeks flushed, Isabel curtseyed, rose and hurried out on light, swift feet. Alienor turned to her other women. ‘Find things to do elsewhere,’ she commanded. ‘I will summon you if needed.’

The women left and Alienor returned to the window. Henry had gone. The hound-keepers were rounding up the last of the dogs and returning them to the kennels. She wondered if she should go and find Henry, but he would still be surrounded by the boisterous mêlée of the hunting party and she would be exposing her vulnerability to the world.

The sun shadow had changed angle on the castle walls, blocking one side in gold, shading the other in ash-grey, when Henry finally arrived, entering the chamber in his usual brisk fashion. He had recently washed for his hair was dark auburn and sleeked back, and he wore a clean tunic imbued with the scents of rosemary and spikenard.

For the time between one step and another he hesitated, and then came on, arms wide. She started to curtsey, but he seized her by the waist and pulled her into a hard embrace. ‘I have missed you,’ he said, and gave her a hard kiss. ‘You look good enough to eat!’

Alienor gasped at the vigour of his greeting. His tone was open and jocular, as if he were still talking to his hunting cronies – as if nothing had happened and nothing was wrong. His smile was open and broad. Whatever she had been expecting, it was not this and she was dumbfounded.

‘Henry…’

‘Where is my daughter?’ He overrode her before she could speak, a sharp grey glitter in his eyes and his jaw taut. ‘Let me see her – and my son.’

Filled with unease, Alienor went to the door and summoned the nurses to bring the children for his inspection.

Henry’s keen scrutiny fixed on the baby girl in her nurse’s arms, a round little face and the rest bound in swaddling bands. ‘We shall make a fine marriage alliance for you,’ he said, chucking her chin. ‘The King of England’s firstborn daughter, eh?’ He gave Alienor a stiff smile. ‘I have no doubt she will grow into a beauty.’ He crouched to be at eye-level with his namesake, now sixteen months old and clad in a long linen smock. Little Henry’s hair was dark-blond rather than red-gold, and his eyes a mingling of blue and grey.

‘Walking now,’ Henry said with a grin. ‘Aren’t you a fine little man?’ He picked him up and tossed him in his arms until he squealed. Having handed him back to the nurse, he focused on the third child who stood on the threshold, half in the sun-ray slanting through the window, his coppery hair glittering. For an instant a look of surprise widened Henry’s gaze.

‘I have kept my word to you,’ Alienor said. ‘And I have brought him with me. Your mother has expressed an interest in fostering him.’

‘Yes, she said so in her letter.’

So Matilda had written to him. Alienor wondered what else she had said.

Henry beckoned the nurse and child forward. ‘I think it a good idea, but not quite yet.’ He rumpled Jeoffrey’s curls. ‘You have grown tall since last I saw you – almost a man!’

Jeoffrey puffed out his chest, making Henry chuckle. ‘While you are here, we can spend some time together. Perhaps some riding lessons, hmmm? Do you have a pony of your own?’

‘No … sire.’

‘Would you like one?’

Alienor’s throat tightened. This interaction should be Will’s, not this little cuckoo’s.

Jeoffrey’s eyes shone. ‘Yes, sire.’

‘Good. Then we’ll find you one and I will teach you, and when you are older you can come hunting with me, eh?’

‘Yes, sire,’ Jeoffrey said, his expression wonderstruck.

Henry smiled, and dismissed the nurses and their charges. His gaze lingered on Jeoffrey, before he turned round to Alienor, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. ‘We shall have a feast to welcome your arrival, and tomorrow we can go hawking along the river. We have a fine troupe of players from Quercy you will enjoy, and Thomas has some bolts of cloth for your inspection.’

Alienor listened to him in stunned silence. He was filling his mind with loud and superficial things so that there was no opportunity for the deeper issues to leap upon him and take him where he did not wish to go.

Before she could speak, he was at the door, shouting for Becket, calling for musicians and courtiers. ‘Come,’ he said over his shoulder, looking at her but through her. ‘We must celebrate your arrival and I am not the only one you must greet!’

The hours until retiring were an endurance test for Alienor. She spoke and smiled; she mingled with the court. She received polite condolences, murmured outside of Henry’s hearing, and she saw the sidelong glances people cast in his direction. Thomas Becket was sincere and solicitous but also eager to show off the yards of glorious silk damask he had bought at a bargain price from a Venetian merchant. While she was politely examining the cloth, he was at pains to inform her that the idea to make Henry’s brother Count of Nantes had been his.

‘It is well thought of,’ Alienor replied, giving praise where it was due.

‘Better than Ireland,’ he agreed. ‘Now we must find a similar position for my lord’s youngest brother.’

Alienor raised her brows and wondered how much responsibility Henry had delegated to Becket. One did not have a dog and bark oneself, but at the same time the animal could not be allowed to dominate the owner.

Alienor looked at the young man Becket had mentioned. William FitzEmpress stood among a group of young knights, ostensibly listening to their conversation, but taking his time to gaze round the chamber, measuring and assessing, never still. Alienor did not particularly like Henry’s sandy-haired youngest brother, but he was less of a threat than Geoffrey, and at only twenty years old, there was time to decide his future. He caught her watching him and lifted his cup in acknowledgement. She returned the courtesy and he looked away.

Hamelin arrived to speak with her, kissing her on both cheeks, holding her hands, and facing her without evasion. ‘My condolences on Will’s loss,’ he said. ‘I cannot imagine what it is like to lose a child, especially one as precious to you both as he was.’

Alienor swallowed, suddenly tearful that Henry’s half-brother could mention Will while Henry could not. ‘No, you cannot imagine, but thank you,’ she said. Drawing a deep breath she steadied herself. ‘How has Henry seemed to you? He will not even speak Will’s name.’

Hamelin glanced across the room to where Henry was talking with Alienor’s chamberlain Warin FitzGerold. ‘He does not speak of him among us,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘We have learned to avoid the subject because he either deflects it in rage or, as you see now, he diverts himself with other matters. He will not think about it because if he did, the grief would unman him.’

‘And he blames me, I know he does.’

Hamelin looked uncomfortable. ‘No one knows what my brother thinks and feels; even those of us who are close to him cannot fathom his mind.’ He touched her arm. ‘I do know he is pleased to see you and the other children and I believe it will make all the difference to him.’

‘You are kind,’ she said with a wan smile.

‘No, I am truthful. He has missed you; your presence will help him deal with the wounds he licks in private.’

She wondered if it would. After a hesitation she said, ‘I have brought him the son born of his concubine. Do you have any insights for me, Hamelin?’

His expression grew wary. ‘I was raised under my father’s roof, and Emma was sent to Fontevraud. The Empress was indifferent to me and Emma, but she was always fair and I respected her for that and still do.’

‘And how did you feel?’

He shrugged. ‘I resented Henry because I was the firstborn but he had all the privileges, and that only worsened when his other brothers arrived. I was always at the bottom of the pile because I was the Count’s bastard. I would lie in bed wishing things had been different, but as I became a man that changed. I learned to accept I would never be a king or a count. Indeed, would I want it? With the position I hold now, I can work for the good of the family and be rewarded for it. I am an important part of Henry’s web, but I do not have to spin the thread of policy and worry about catching flies.’

Alienor smiled at the comparison and kissed his cheek. ‘You have given me things to think about,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ But she still intended Jeoffrey for the Church.

Alienor watched Henry raise his foot on to the bed and unwind his leg binding. They were alone – finally. She had feared he might find somewhere else to sleep in order to avoid her, but he had come willingly enough to her chamber.

Removing her rings and dropping them into her enamelled jewel casket she said: ‘You have so many plans and you are not still for a moment, but you have not told me how you are faring yourself.’

He kept his focus on his task. ‘I do not know what you mean. I am well; you can see I am. You do not need to ask.’

‘Henry, I do. You refuse to speak of Will, as if he never existed, and the more you do not speak of him, the deeper the wound cuts. It will never heal, no matter how many bandages you wrap over it.’ She came and stood in front of him, forcing him to look up.

He put the leg binding down with a sigh. ‘Speaking of it is pointless; it will not bring him back,’ he said in a rough voice and pulled her into his arms. ‘Rather look to the future, and the new lives we shall create.’

‘Henry…’

‘No more.’ He set his forefinger against her lips. ‘It is over now, I have told you.’ He kissed her, silencing her with his mouth over hers and the probe of his tongue.

He took her to bed and made love to her with long slow thoroughness. Alienor gasped and sobbed beneath him as the languorous sensations grew into exquisite torture. She dug her nails into his upper arms and opened herself to him. He pinned her down as he thrust into her for the final moments of giving her his seed and she welcomed his forcefulness and the tight throb within her body because she wanted to conceive another son, and for that to happen, the man’s seed had to dominate the woman’s.

Henry took her twice more that night and then, drained, slept curled into her, his arm across her body, the last thing he murmured as he fell asleep, ‘I meant it. It is done. We shall not talk about it – ever.’

She curled on her side, feeling wretched. Henry might think he was smoothing the path between them by refusing to discuss the death of their son, but he was just burying stones under the surface. If he would not allow her to speak of it to him, then how was she to shed the burden of her grief and remorse and how was he to bear his? They would just stumble along that stony path bent under the weight of their baggage, until eventually it brought them down.

It had snowed earlier in the day, a scant dusting that lay like crushed sugar over rooftops and turrets. Dark footprints patterned the courtyard of the Ombrière Palace and left an ephemeral record of activity across the open ground to and from the buildings.

‘This was always my summer home when I was a child,’ Alienor told Isabel as they walked side by side in the gathering dusk, bundled in thick, fur-lined cloaks. ‘We spent our time in the gardens and sometimes we had our lessons there in the shade of the trees.’