The Autumn Throne (15 page)

‘You are a clever young woman,’ Alienor said with a hint of challenge. ‘Did it not occur to you to take that seat at his side? To become a mistress?’

Belbel screwed up her face. ‘Yes, madam, but for as long as it takes to drink a cup of wine. I would not have succeeded because I am not what he seeks. I am too old, too knowing, too worldly for his taste. I may be a fine seamstress but that does not mean I would make a good concubine.’

Clever indeed to walk away from what might seem like a great position, but in the end would lead nowhere. It had occurred to Alienor that Henry had sent Belbel to spy on her, but even if that was so, Alienor could cope because it was a usual state of affairs. Belbel had indeed given her food for thought.

As dusk fell, Alienor went to pray in the chapel adjoining the hall but had barely knelt at her devotions when Joscelin, Bishop of Salisbury, arrived to see her. He had grown old in Henry’s service and the years had not been kind. He had to struggle to kneel before the altar, and the hand he raised in genuflection was swollen and twisted out of shape. The amethyst cabochon ring of his office bit into the middle finger of his right hand, where the skin was slick and mottled like an old leaf. He bowed his head in prayer and then waited in silence until she had finished hers. And then he told her that a messenger had brought the news that Louis, King of France, was dead.

‘We are praying for his soul that it may find a place in heaven, but we do not doubt it is so.’

Alienor had been expecting the news for several months, but still it jolted her to hear the words, and to know that her first husband no longer breathed in this world. There was a sinking feeling inside her like water running through dry sand.
‘God rest his soul,’ she said, and her voice wobbled with sudden, unexpected tears.

‘Daughter?’ The Bishop’s rheumy eyes held concern and compassion.

‘I did not think I would still care,’ she said. ‘But a part of my life has gone with him into the grave, the memories we shared.’ She swallowed. ‘They were not all good memories, but they belonged to both of us and now there is only me to keep them.’

‘Daughter, when you reach my age, you understand that well.’ The Bishop covered her hand with his gnarled one. ‘Let us pray for his soul, and for succour in grief.’

Alienor bowed her head, and behind her eyes the memories ran like a stream with her prayers, both the good and the bad. The shining young prince with the sweetest smile. The lover in her bed, damp with the sweat of lust. The father looking at her and their newborn daughter, the disappointment in his eyes verging on disgust. The tonsured penitent returning from burning the people of Vitry inside their own church. The pilgrim – Louis the pious as he had come to be known – prostrating himself at every shrine along the way. The embittered spouse whom she had escaped, only to bind herself to the young Henry FitzEmpress with new and stronger fetters. ‘God save you, Louis,’ she said. ‘And God help me.’

Belle rose from her seat in the window embrasure and watched John and her brother Will ride into the courtyard amid a small group of companions. She was suddenly alive with excitement as what had been another boring day of routine became
rife with possibility. Abandoning her sewing, bidding the women stay where they were, she ran down to greet them, although as soon as she reached the doorway she smoothed her gown, composed herself, and walked out as regally as her aunt Alienor confronting the King.

‘Welcome.’ She gave John a cool, gracious curtsey as befitted the lady of the house to a guest. ‘My father is absent about his business, but he will be happy to see you when he returns. For now, may I offer you hospitality?’

John inclined his head and his lips curled in a mocking smile. ‘Thank you; we would be glad of refreshment – and a bed for the night.’ The words were spoken with the utmost civility into which nothing could be construed, unless one was especially looking for a nuance. ‘We are on our way to meet my father on his return from Normandy.’ He looked round. ‘Your lady mother is not here?’

‘She is at Conisbrough with my sisters.’

Belle’s face was hot under his scrutiny. She turned to Will, who had been speaking to a groom, and embraced him with a sisterly hug, but her awareness was all of John. His very presence made her skin prickle with expectation.

‘I knew you would come,’ she murmured to him as she walked beside him to the keep. He had grown again and a fledgling beard edged his jaw. She had not seen him for several months. He had been busy at his studies with Ranulf de Glanville and she had been occupied in her role of chatelaine here at Lewes while her father was about his business in the locality. She had enjoyed the duty at first, but had soon grown bored. There were times when it was almost like being buried. She understood now how her aunt Alienor must feel.

Last time she and John had met, in the early spring, he had taken her into a dark corner, reminding her of the caves at Nottingham, and pressed himself against her in a way that could not be mistaken. She had evaded him but then proceeded to tease him mercilessly, enjoying her power. However, it was a double-edged sword, and her own feelings of attraction had
become a gnawing hunger. Now he was here, and she was intoxicated by all the dangerous possibilities of the underground game.

She saw to the comfort of all, providing refreshments and water for washing hot hands and faces. Although she had initially led them to the keep, by mutual assent everyone soon repaired to the gardens to take their ease with wine and sweetmeats. Chess boards and dice games came out. Belle played her harp and sang, eventually passing the instrument to a knight who wanted to sing to his own accompaniment. Her brother sat down to dice with a couple of companions, and was soon engrossed in his game.

‘Papa’s chestnut mare had a new foal yesterday,’ Belle murmured to John who was watching the dice play with folded arms but not taking part. ‘Do you want to come and see him? Papa says he will make a fine destrier when he’s grown.’

John’s glance flicked to Will. ‘Of course,’ he said.

Walking side by side, they left the garden and headed towards the stables.

‘So you are chatelaine here on your own?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘on my own.’ Saying the words gave her a frisson of fear and anticipation. ‘But my father will be here soon.’

‘But not yet.’

‘No.’

The mare was in a clean stall piled with straw, and a spindle-legged colt foal tottered at her side. He was black with a round white star between his eyes. His mother swung her body side-on to protect him from John and Belle.

‘Indeed, a fine little beast,’ John said. ‘She must have had a good stallion to service her.’

Belle’s stomach leapt at the innuendo. ‘From the Bigod stables at Framlingham.’

‘But we didn’t really come here to talk about horses, did we?’ He tugged her into the adjoining empty stall.

‘Didn’t we?’

He
put his hands to her waist and drew her against him. ‘Not unless you are going to speak in terms of mounting and riding.’

‘Someone will come, someone will see.’ She pushed at him in half-hearted protest.

‘That was already in your mind before you brought me here.’ He was breathing hard. ‘You enjoy taking risks, otherwise we’d still be with the others. If your father is going to be home soon, we have no time to waste.’

He lowered his mouth to hers and ran his hands down her spine. Belle wrapped her arm around his neck and stroked his hair where it curled at his nape. The daring, the danger, the arousal were heady. When she felt his hand beneath her gown on her naked thigh, she started, but she did not draw away, and when he laid her down in the hay and lifted her skirts, she did nothing to protest until he was on top of her.

‘We shouldn’t …’ She gripped his shoulders to hold him off.

‘Then why did you invite me?’ he said hoarsely. ‘You knew this would happen.’ He kissed her lips and throat and moved his lower body against hers in slow, tantalising circles. ‘It will feel good, I promise.’ He nuzzled and gently butted his hips.

Belle swallowed. She wanted to do it, but it was the biggest dare of her life and making that leap was frightening. Too fast, too far, and yet she had committed herself. ‘I—’

He shut off her words with another kiss and thrust inside her. She clutched his shoulders and stifled a scream by biting into the cloth of his tunic. It hurt, dear God it hurt, but it was good too, and while he arched over her, pushing and pushing, exerting his dominance and his will, she felt powerful because with this act she was binding him to her irrevocably.

Three months later at Conisbrough, Isabel de Warenne straightened up and, rubbing the small of her back, eyed with relief the row of packed baggage chests, assembled ready for attending the winter gathering at Winchester. All was finished, save for small items and last-minute additions.

She turned to ask Belle if she had packed the ivory coffer
for her ribbons and pins, but her eldest daughter was not to be seen.

Belle had returned home, having travelled north with her father and the court during Henry’s progress throughout the late summer, but her presence was proving to be a mixed blessing. Her stint as chatelaine at Lewes did not seem to have settled her down; if anything the opposite, although several weeks of travelling with the court might well be to blame. Her moodiness since she had returned home made Isabel want to tear her hair with exasperation.

‘Where’s Belle?’ she demanded of her younger daughters.

‘She’s sick again,’ said Matilda.

‘What do you mean “again”?’ Isabel frowned. She had not noticed Belle being unwell, but she had been preoccupied with other matters, and Belle had been avoiding her company.

‘Every morning she is vomiting either out of the window or in the garderobe. She said we weren’t to say anything to you and that it was nothing.’ She bit her lip and flicked a glance at Adela. ‘She might be very ill, I had to tell.’

A cold fist squeezing her heart, Isabel went from the chamber to the latrine recess and found Belle hanging over the hole, clutching her stomach and trying to retch silently. Shocked, Isabel put her arm round her daughter’s quivering shoulders. ‘What is this? Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?’

‘It is nothing, Mama.’ Swallowing convulsively, Belle pushed her away and stood up.

Isabel took in her pallid face and dark-circled eyes and then dropped her gaze to her belly. There was little to see, perhaps a slight thickening of the area, but her bosom looked fuller.

‘Dear God,’ Isabel whispered, ‘do not tell me you are with child?’

Belle set her jaw and raised her chin.

Isabel became aware of Adela and Matilda standing behind her, craning their necks, saucer-eyed, and she rounded on them. ‘Go and take the dogs for a walk round the bailey with Sarah. I need to talk with your sister.’

‘Mama,
what’s wrong with Belle, is she—’

‘Go!’ Isabel shouted, waving her hands, and thought she might be sick herself.

As the girls left with anxious glances over their shoulders, Isabel drew Belle back into the chamber and sat her down on her bed. She could not believe it yet the evidence was staring her in the face. Her daughter, her beautiful, perfect daughter, her father’s princess. ‘How did this happen to you?’ she demanded. ‘Who has done this to you? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ It had to have been rape. The poor child, keeping it all to herself. Small wonder her moods had been difficult. Tears scalded Isabel’s eyes and she pulled Belle into her arms. ‘Tell me who did this to you, and he shall be dealt with.’

Belle had not spoken to answer her mother’s first demand, but now she drew away. ‘It was my cousin John,’ she said flatly.

Isabel stared at her in disbelief. ‘How can that be, he is barely more than a boy!’

Belle shook her head. ‘No, Mama, he is most certainly not a boy.’

It was as if a knife had cut a cord and stopped everything. ‘Did he force himself on you?’

Belle did not answer but her look was enough: the defiance and fear, but also the slight curve of her lips holding bitter and destructive triumph.

Isabel’s world came crashing down in pieces. This must have been going on under her nose and she had not seen it, and that meant she was to blame for leaving the door wide open to opportunity. ‘I trusted you, and you deceived me,’ she said in a shaken voice. ‘You bring shame on our house and you have given me this grief to bear. You repay all the love and care you have had by bringing disgrace on us, and on John too, for all I know that he must have led you on in some way. This is a dishonourable act – so dishonourable.’

Still Belle did not answer but there was no remorse in her expression.

‘You
have had every privilege in life and have destroyed it for what? For lust? For some misguided notion of love? Why?’ Isabel’s heart cracked with grief. ‘Had you no thought of what it would do not just to your own reputation but that of your sisters?’

Belle looked down and tightened her lips.

Isabel felt as though her life had been a beautiful reflection in a mirror, and now the glass was crazed and shattered and she was looking instead into a terrible place all fractured and distorted. ‘This cannot be hidden; your father will have to be told and we will all have to face the consequences.’