Lady of the English (22 page)

“I hope you can,” Adeliza said in a heartfelt voice. “I wish you good hunting, and good resolutions.” She curtseyed to him.

“If there is not good hunting at Lyons, then I will replace my gamekeepers,” he growled. “And as to the resolutions…

one way or another, I will determine the matter.” He kissed her and patted her cheek. “Put on your ermine and come and speed us on our way.”

As he strode from the room shouting to his attendants, Adeliza bade her women fetch her cloak. She was in a pensive mood. The continuing rebellion in south Normandy was a serious thorn in Henry’s plans and his temper was vile. Matilda and Geoffrey showed no sign of backing down, nor did Adeliza believe they would. Those four castles had become a solid barrier across the road to progress.

Wrapped in sleek, soft ermine, she left the warmth of her hearth for the bleak chill of the November morning. This was always a difficult time for Henry, marking as it did the 168

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anniversary when his legitimate son and heir and many of his other offspring by various mistresses had died on the crossing from Normandy to England. Henry had said little in public, but she knew how long he had spent on his knees in prayer and how much he was fretting about not being at Reading for the anniversary mass. His chaplain had told her that the king had been suffering from bad dreams too, in which he was murdered by a conspiracy of knights, bishops, and ordinary servants.

The yard teemed with men, horses, and dogs. Slender gazehounds with broad leather collars, snappy terriers stiff-bodied and belligerent, loose-jowelled slot hounds with floppy ears, eager bratchets straining at their leashes, and all the dogs making a terrible din. Henry reached for his bridle, set his foot in the stirrup, and gained the saddle with ease. Seeing him laughing and joking with his courtiers, still hard, still tough, it was difficult to believe he was almost seventy years old.

Walking around the periphery of the throng to avoid muddying her shoes, she noticed a group of men talking together as they waited for their grooms. Something about the way they were hunched towards each other set her on edge, but she did not know why. There was Hugh Bigod, lord of Framlingham: a short man as snappy and belligerent as the terrier dogs causing fights in the yard. She did not trust him and she knew Henry kept a close watch on his doings. With him were William Martel, one of Henry’s stewards, and also Waleran de Meulan. The latter was cocking his head to listen to what they had to say, which was unusual, because although he was of their affinity, his tastes were generally more refined and intellectual. She caught Martel’s eye. He bowed to her and as she inclined her head in return, the others turned, made their obeisance, and dispersed across the yard. Her feeling of unease increased, although it was nothing she could name.

ttt

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Adeliza spent the next few days packing her baggage for a sea crossing to England and hoped it would come about this time.

She had suggested to Henry before he set out for his week’s hunting that perhaps he should hand over just one of the disputed dower castles as a token, and he had grumbled that he required no advice from her about how to rule his dominions.

However, later, she had heard him voicing the same thing to his eldest son, Robert, and of course, by then, it was Henry’s idea. Naturally he expected concessions in return and peace from Geoffrey, but at least it was a step forward. Now, if only Matilda and Geoffrey would accept the olive branch and cease pressing Henry so hard, perhaps they might have peace to celebrate Christ’s mass, in England.

She sat down in the window embrasure to compose a letter to Matilda, counselling her to be tactful and conciliatory with her father. She enquired after little Henry and Geoffrey too.

She had embroidered smocks for both infants, picking away at the tiny stitches when the light was good enough at midday.

But sewing gowns for another woman’s children was a labour of love that left her hollow with yearning.

She was dipping her quill in the ink when she happened to glance up and, through the open window, saw a horseman galloping through the gateway and dismounting almost before his horse had stopped. She recognised his broad figure as he strode towards the manor and wondered what brought William D’Albini to her in such haste. Her heart began to thump and, calling to Juliana, she abandoned her letters and hurried to the hall.

He stood by the fire, clutching his hat in his hands and rotating it by its brim as he might count prayer beads in church.

His tangled dark curls had obviously not seen a comb in a while and his garments were heavily mud-spattered. The expression in his large hazel eyes filled her with alarm.

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“Madam,” he said as he saw her, and fell to his knees.

She gestured him to rise and bade a servant bring him wine.

“Your news can wait until you have wet your throat,” she said, and was proud of her control. Whatever it was, she knew her life was about to change.

She watched him take the proffered cup in his large right hand, raise it to his lips, and drink thirstily.

“Thank you, madam.” He returned the cup to the servant and hesitated, glancing around. “Perhaps this is for your ears alone for the moment.”

She waved the man out of earshot; Juliana too. “What is it?”

“Madam, you should prepare yourself for grave news. The king was stricken with sickness and fever five nights since. We thought it was but the result of dining too heavily, but he worsened, and this morning he joined his Holy Father in heaven. I offered to bear the tidings here, although I regret with all my heart that I should cause you grief.”

Adeliza stared at him, disbelieving. His words seemed to have stopped her own breath. She opened her mouth to question and deny, but no sound emerged. The edges of her vision darkened and she swayed.

“Madam!” She heard his exclamation and felt the strength of his arms as he caught her. He shouted for help and supported her to the bench by the fire while Juliana hastened to attend her. Adeliza knew she was breathing again, for the vile taint of burning feathers assaulted her nose. She tried to sip from a cup of hot, honey-sweetened wine that someone placed in her hands, but her jaw was chattering too much. This would not do, she told herself. This just would not do.

“I have sent for your chaplain, madam,” Will said.

She nodded, feeling nauseated. “Tell me again. I cannot believe it is true. He was taken sick, you say.”

“Yes, madam. Late at night after a day’s hunting. He had 171

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dined well…we all had, especially my lord. It was lampreys, his favourite dish. He must have eaten a bad one, because he sickened in the night with purging and a fever. His physician said that lampreys had never agreed with him…”

“They used to make him belch,” Adeliza said in a distant voice. “But he was never ill beyond indigestion.”

“His condition worsened and it became clear that his life was in the hands of God, who chose to take him to His bosom.

There was nothing anyone could do.”

Adeliza’s gorge rose. Clapping her hand to her mouth, she excused herself and was violently sick down the waste shaft of the latrine chute built into the thickness of the wall.

“Madam, are you all right?” She felt Juliana’s arm slip around her waist.

Adeliza nodded. “No more feathers,” she said, swallowing hard. Henry was dead and it was as if something had been ripped out of her. “I wasn’t there to comfort him. He died and I wasn’t there.”

“Madam…”

She shook her head at Juliana and, having smoothed her dress and rinsed her mouth with wine, returned to the hall.

William D’Albini was sitting on the hearth bench with his back to her and she saw him rake one of his hands distractedly through his tousled curls. There was more she needed to know, but not here. “Bring him to my chamber,” she said to Juliana.

“I will speak with him privately.”

ttt

Adeliza sat down in the window embrasure where the daylight was still bleak and clear, and folded her hands in her lap beneath the thick fur covering of the ermine cloak. Will D’Albini was ushered into the room and hesitated near the door. Then he cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and came to kneel to her, his manner one of dogged resolution.

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She bade him rise and take the seat on the other side of the embrasure.

“I am sorry for your distress, madam.”

“I should have been there,” she said.

“There is nothing you could have done, and he had the best of care. He expressed his wish to be buried at Reading, and the earls present swore to escort his body there and remain together until they had discharged their duty to him. They are bringing him to Rouen first.”

“Has a messenger been sent to the Countess of Anjou?”

“As far as I know, madam.” He looked towards the window, his shoulders tense, then turned back to her. “Madam…the king did not name his daughter the Countess of Anjou as his successor.”

Adeliza stared at him in astonished dismay. “Then whom did he name?”

“I do not know, madam. All Hugh Bigod said was that he heard the king absolve his lords of the oaths they had taken to uphold the countess and her son.”

“Hugh Bigod?” Adeliza quivered. “Why would the king say such a thing to him? He is just a courtier, not a close confidant.

If my husband was going to make such a change, even in extremity, he would do it through a priest and with witnesses such as the Earl of Gloucester to hear him.”

Will’s colour heightened. “Different people took it in turns to keep watch over the king. He said openly in council that the Count and Countess of Anjou had vexed him greatly and he was rethinking his plans for the future.”

“But he did not say what these plans were?”

Will shook his head. “Many desired assurances that the Count of Anjou would have no part in ruling Normandy and England, and I believe he was trying to placate them. I do not know what his will was in this.”

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Adeliza gnawed her lower lip. She was not sure that anyone had known Henry’s mind except Henry himself. She felt as if she were falling down a deep, black hole. “So what is to happen now? Who is to take the reins?”

“I do not know, madam. When I rode out, a council was gathering to discuss what to do and how much store to set by the word of Hugh Bigod.”

Adeliza swallowed. Hugh Bigod would sell his own mother; everyone knew that. The decision for men would be whether to go with his word and be absolved of the oaths sworn to Matilda and little Henry, or stay true to what they had vowed.

But if her husband had not named a successor on his deathbed, then the aftermath would be like a host of kites circling and descending to feed on a kill. “You heard and saw nothing?”

He looked uneasy, but held her gaze. “Madam, I did not…

but as I was leaving, I saw William Martel preparing to ride, and I do not think he was going to Anjou. More than that, I cannot tell you.”

In her mind’s eye, Adeliza could see William Martel on a galloping horse. He would go to Boulogne, she thought. To his great friend and lord, Stephen of Blois, Count of Mortain.

Where else would he ride in such haste? She must write to Matilda and warn her. But what if Henry truly had cut his daughter out of his plans and Hugh Bigod was telling the truth?

Dear God, already they were a rudderless ship.

Her stomach was churning. She would never hold Henry’s child in her lap. She would never sit in state beside him again.

She was a widow, a queen without a king, bereft of her throne.

In one fell swoop that part of her life was over. She wanted to hide in a dark corner and nurse her grief, and knew she could not. There were things that needed to be done for Henry. A fitting funeral. Prayers for his soul. And surely her role of peace-weaver was more necessary than ever, even if other functions 174

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had abruptly ceased. She must take this one step at a time. “I thank you for bringing this news to me so swiftly,” she said.

“Please, take your ease and ask my stewards for anything you need, but you will excuse me. I have matters to attend to and letters to write, and my mourning to consider.”

“Of course.” He rose and bowed. “If I can help, you have only to say…”

“Thank you,” she said, knowing that there was nothing anyone could do.

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Twenty-one

Le Mans, December 1135

M atilda closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation of warm, scented water lapping around her feet and ankles as she took a footbath. She was briefly relaxing in her chamber after a long day working on various religious grants and charters but there was more still to do. Geoffrey wanted to talk to her about Normandy, where he continued to support the rebellion against her father, although of late he had distanced himself.

They had heard a rumour last week that her father might hand over one of the dower castles, but Matilda would only believe it when the keys of the keep were actually in her hand.

Emma combed Matilda’s long, dark hair, intermittently dipping the tines in a solution of nutmeg and rose water, filling the air with a marvellous perfume. In the background, Henry was chattering to his nurse. His vocabulary was prodigious for his years and already he had a fierce intelligence and a temper to match. The screaming tantrums when he was not allowed his own way were devastating. There was no placating him; he just had to be allowed to thrash them out, and then he would sleep, exhausted. The physicians opined that it might be caused by his beacon-red hair, which was a sign of an imbalance of his humours, but there was nothing to be done about that. He was what he was. In between tantrums, he had a vast, sunny nature LadyofEnglish.indd 176