The Winter Crown (20 page)

‘I shall prepare letters, sire.’ Becket bowed and left the room.

Henry turned to Alienor. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Put your anger aside. This is a fine plan and it gives us a way out of the dilemma.’

‘You and Thomas Becket are too clever for your own good,’ Alienor retorted. ‘I still stand by what I said; you should not do this.’

‘And I have heard you, but Thomas is right. A betrothal can be broken, but it is far less simple to unforge a marriage. The Vexin will be ours.’ He pulled her against him. ‘Come,’ he cajoled, kissing her temple and then her lips. ‘Leave it for now and come to bed. There is no point talking about it any more tonight.’

There was no point any other time either, Alienor thought, because he would not listen; he never did; she might as well be part of the wall.

On a freezing, rainy day in early November, Alienor looked down at the infant girl who had been brought to the women’s quarters to be shown to her. Marguerite, Princess of France, was three years old with a chubby face and shiny brown eyes. Her cheeks were rosy with cold and her nose was streaming. A stolid, plump child, she bore no resemblance to the dainty, blonde-haired, blue-eyed daughters Alienor had borne to Louis and it was impossible to think that this was the future Queen of England and mother of Harry’s heirs.

‘What a sweet child,’ Isabel said, wiping the infant’s streaming nose with a square of soft linen cloth.

Alienor shook her head. Isabel thought all children were sweet. ‘She must resemble her mother. I can see nothing of Louis in her; let us hope she does not have any of his traits.’

Harry’s nurse brought him to be introduced to his future wife. He had had the details explained to him at a superficial level, and did his part by bowing to Marguerite and reciting a little speech of welcome, to which his bride responded by turning around in a circle and falling over. Harry regarded her the way he might regard a puppy that had just pissed on the bed, and, the instant his duty was done, made his escape to run off and play vigorously with his toy sword, cutting and swooshing with it in a frenzy. His sister Matilda, her sense of duty already honed at the age of four, showed Marguerite the bed of straw she had made for her cloth doll and gave Marguerite another doll she didn’t like quite so much to play with.

‘All will work out well,’ Isabel said to reassure Alienor.

‘I hope so,’ Alienor replied dubiously. ‘But I feel as if I have travelled a long way and gone nowhere.’

Harry and Marguerite’s marriage was celebrated next day in Rouen Cathedral. The rain had stopped but the day was still overcast and bitterly cold, and everyone sported thick, fur-lined cloaks over their finery. Alienor wore a close-fitting gown dyed a dark blood-red with subtle gold embroidery swirling at the hem and banded at the cuffs. The colour and the effect made her look long-limbed and elegant, if a trifle austere.

Watching Harry do as the Archbishop told him, and speak his part without a stumble, made Alienor proud, even through her disapproval. She loved Harry with all her being for behaving so well while he was the centre of attention. He looked every inch the prince in his tunic of red silk edged with purple. His golden-brown hair curled around a jewelled coronet that glinted in the light from the cathedral windows.

She had explained to him all about the marriage and the land, and that he must be a big boy and do his duty for his family. Living with Marguerite would come later; it was just a formal ceremony to settle everything. There would be a feast afterwards with special food and entertainment, and if he was a good boy, he could sit at the high table under a silk canopy. He need not bother with his bride beyond being formally polite in public because she was smaller and younger than him and would not understand what was happening. He was to be a little man and protect her. All this she had told him, feeling utterly heartsick, knowing she could do nothing about it. Perhaps as a political matter Henry was right and it was for the best, but it would never be something she would have chosen of her own accord. How much Harry understood she did not know. How could he? He was only five years old.

Once the marriage had been solemnised, Marguerite was returned to the nursery, being too young for the wedding feast. Her part was over. Harry, however, occupied the place of honour at the high table, where a special wooden block had been made for his chair to boost him to table height. By now a hectic flush of exhaustion flared on his cheeks and his eyes were glassy. Henry gave him a sip of sugared wine to revive him, and Harry sat manfully through the speeches and the first course of the feast, designed to whet the appetite for more to come. Alienor kept a close eye on him, and as he began to droop once more, she beckoned his nurse. Henry forestalled the woman and lifted Harry in his arms. ‘I will take him,’ he said. ‘He has done well and it is only fitting I should do him this honour, as he has honoured me.’

Alienor signalled the feast to continue and within a short while Henry returned, a satisfied smile on his lips. ‘Asleep before his head touched the pillow,’ he said and taking Alienor’s hand, kissed her knuckles. ‘You will come to see that this was the best course.’

‘Do not seek to cozen me,’ Alienor replied frostily. ‘You have your marriage. Let that be enough.’

‘As you wish, madam.’ Henry’s tone was equable. He leaned back in his chair, full of indulgent bonhomie because now he legally had the Vexin and its most powerful castles under his belt and there was nothing Louis could do about it because it was all legal.

When they retired, Henry came to Alienor’s chamber and made love to her with ardent force. She had been determined to lie passive beneath him and not give him the satisfaction of a response, but instead, in the moment, she found herself responding with fierce vigour of her own, because whatever he gave, she could take and return double measure, and even win, because when a man was finished, he was finished, but a woman had no such limitations on her flesh.

Hamelin made his way down the nave of the cathedral of Saint-Julien, his path to the north ambulatory illuminated by swords of bleak winter light. Walking at his side, eyes wide and alert, was his bastard nephew Jeoffrey, a sturdy red-haired boy, freckles standing out against his pale complexion. The soft sound of their footfalls mingled on the flagstones.

Whenever Hamelin was in the vicinity of Le Mans, he made a point of visiting the cathedral to pray, give alms, and pay his respects to his father, Geoffrey le Bel, Count of Anjou. Today he had taken it upon himself to show Jeoffrey the tomb of his paternal grandsire.

It was so cold that Hamelin’s breath clouded the air, and his knuckle joints were stiff. A brass lamp above the tomb glinted soft light on the representational enamel plaque illuminating his father’s likeness. At Hamelin’s side, the boy shivered. Using his cloak to cushion his knees from the icy stone flags, Hamelin knelt at the side of the tomb, and unfastened his prayer beads from his belt. Jeoffrey copied him, clasping his hands and closing his eyes.

The sounds of the church echoed around them. The soft footfalls of the attendant clergy, the murmur of other worshippers, the rattle of a censer on its chain. Jeoffrey’s lips moved, reciting in flawless Latin: ‘
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. Requiescant in pace.
’

When they had completed their prayers, Jeoffrey tentatively touched the small enamelled effigy plaque, admiring the detailed workmanship and vibrant colours. The hair was the same copper-gold as his own and his father’s and the eyes were a piercing aquamarine blue.

‘He was my father and I loved him,’ Hamelin said with reverence. ‘He did not forget me when he begot me. He took me into his household; he fed and clothed me and raised me to manhood under his protection.’

The boy’s attention sharpened with interest. He eyed Hamelin’s rich apparel, the gilded belt and the rings on his fingers; the cloak of smoke and silver vair. ‘Can I be a knight in your household?’ he asked.

‘That depends on what your father intends for you,’ Hamelin said. ‘I know it will be a role that gives you honour and prestige. Being the bastard of a highborn man is a privilege, not a shame.’ Gazing at his father’s effigy, he clenched his fists. He had not always felt privileged when his sire was alive. There were times when he had wanted to murder Henry for being the legitimate heir when he was the firstborn son. And there were times when he had felt the least, and little more than a whipped dog. Even now whenever he and his brothers were together, there was always that divide. And this child must learn to live with that kind of division. There was shame too, whatever he said to the boy. A bastard child was born not from the sober needs of duty and dynasty, but from the sin of lechery and lust, even if some called it love.

‘Do you have any bastards?’

Hamelin’s mouth twisted and he shook his head. ‘No, lad, I do not.’ There had been women in his life, he had taken no vow of chastity, but he was always careful and thus far that care had paid off. ‘But if I did, I would acknowledge him or her as my child and make him my responsibility as my father did to me.’

Hearing a sudden movement behind him Hamelin turned to see the Countess de Warenne accompanied by her maid. She had clearly been at prayer elsewhere in the church, but had paused to acknowledge him. Her face was pale and sapped of colour against the dark wool of her cloak and white wimple; indeed, she looked almost like a nun. ‘Madam.’ Hamelin bowed.

Her smile of greeting was reserved but genuine. ‘My lord vicomte,’ she said, and turned to Jeoffrey. ‘And Messire FitzRoy. It seems we are on similar errands – praying for the souls of dear ones departed.’

‘That is so, madam,’ Hamelin replied courteously. ‘May we escort you back to the keep?’

She inclined her head. ‘Your company would be welcome.’

Dusk was falling as they set out in the sharp, frosty cold from the cathedral to the donjon. ‘I heard what you said to your nephew,’ she said. ‘That was kind of you, and wise.’

Hamelin shrugged. ‘I know his position, because I have been in it too. The life of a royal bastard is both privileged and cruel. Jeoffrey will have a difficult time of it, but he’s a spirited lad. If I can help him from my own experience, I will.’

They walked in silence for a while and then Hamelin asked with careful tact how she was faring.

‘I am well, sire,’ she said with quiet dignity. ‘It is the season of Our Lord’s birth and I am ready to rejoice in it.’

Hamelin gave her a swift smile. ‘My father often told the story of how he went to mass in the cathedral here one Christmas Day. He saw a clerk outside the door and called out to him, asking if he had any news. The clerk answered, “Sire, there is great news indeed!” My father was excited and said, “Quick, tell me!” So the clerk replied, “Jesus Christ the Saviour is born today!”’ Hamelin chuckled. ‘My father was rightly humbled by those words and rewarded the man for his timely reminder by taking him into his household as one of his chaplains.’

‘It is a fine story,’ Isabel agreed. ‘Indeed, it reminds us of the true meaning of the Nativity.’

On arriving at the castle she left him with a graceful curtsey and her thanks for his escort. Watching her walk away, Hamelin noticed a small sprig of red-berried holly tucked in the band of her wimple and it made him smile. She was a lovely, gracious woman, quiet, but by no means a mouse. The notion of her being married to his brother gave him a feeling of distaste, like seeing a fine sword being used to scrape mud from shoes, but since it was the way of the world and Henry’s will, he knew he had to be pragmatic and detached.

Three months later on a brisk March morning, Henry greeted Alienor with a hearty kiss on the lips. She had returned to le Mans, having visited England in January to deal with matters of state on Henry’s behalf. Their time apart had served to ease the abrasiveness between them while not being long enough to create the diffidence of strangers. Henry flicked a glance at her waistline. ‘Either you dined very well while in England,’ he said, ‘or you have some good news for me, my love.’

‘You left me with another gift at Christmas,’ she answered wryly. ‘And I will deliver it back to you in the autumn.’

Henry drew himself up with masculine pride and looked smug. ‘Hah, there is no sign of Louis’s new queen being similarly blessed. It takes a man after all.’ He kissed Alienor’s cheek. ‘I have to go, but I will come and eat with you later.’ He breezed off in his usual manner and Alienor shook her head with exasperation, but smiled despite herself.

Several hours later, she and Henry sat at a long trestle in her chamber. Beeswax candles gave off a warm golden light, and a cosy fire glowed in the hearth. Alienor wore a dress of silk damask, the colours flowing into each other, red and gold like the fire. In the privacy of her own chamber, she had dressed her hair in a simple loose braid twined with gold ribbons. She knew that in the muted light she looked alluring, and with the new life growing inside her, she felt powerful.

Henry considered the slight curve of her belly. ‘Dare I hope God will grant us another daughter?’ he said.

‘Men usually wish for sons,’ she replied with a smile.

He looked amused. ‘Only those that cannot beget them. Louis would have an apoplexy if he could hear me wish for a girl. A seasoning of daughters is not to be sneered at. A father can make some very useful marriage alliances.’ He smiled and leaned back. ‘I think if this one is a girl, we should name her Alienor for her incomparable mother.’

‘Yes, we should,’ she said, her light tone matching his. They were like partners in a dance – or opponents stepping purposefully in a sword fight.

Henry suddenly raised the tablecloth, and peered down. ‘Child, what are you doing under there?’ he demanded of little Matilda, who was busily working away at his feet.

Matilda peeped up at her father. ‘I’m a shoemaker, Papa,’ she said seriously. ‘Would you like a new pair?’

Diverted, Henry chuckled. ‘My chancellor is the one who sets store by such things, but yes, why not?’