The Winter Crown (24 page)

Alienor liked Ridel even less than Becket. An obsequious slug of a man with a sly gaze and dirty fingernails. Competent, but hardly an asset.

The children came hurtling inside from their outdoor play, several boisterous dogs leaping around them, with Hamelin following in their wake, tugging down his tunic, which had been stuffed in his belt. Richard was still at such a pitch of excitement that he chased Geoffrey around their father, yelling, and accidentally whacked Henry on his shin where a horse had recently kicked him. Henry roared with pain and rage and struck Richard across the face with the back of his hand, so hard that he felled him. Immediate silence fell, everyone trapped in the reverberation of the slap. Geoffrey was the first to move, running to hide his face against his nurse’s skirts. Richard rose from the floor, a livid red mark striping his cheek. His lower lip quivered and then tightened. He shot his father a fierce blue look filled with hatred. Henry snatched the toy sword from him and snapped it across his thigh.

‘Teach him some manners, madam,’ he snarled to Alienor, ‘or I will thrash them into him myself.’ He rounded on Hamelin. ‘And you, you fool, should know better than to feed such folly. You are worse than they are.’ He tossed the broken sword on the floor and stormed from the room.

Richard stared after him, trembling like a hound, but not with fear. Alienor wanted to take him in her arms, but held back. From a very young age Richard had eschewed tears, and on the rare occasions he did cry, it was always hidden away, or on Hodierna’s soft breast. With Alienor he was always manly and proud. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘Your father is angry about something else and you rushed in at the wrong time without thought or manners. You must learn to control yourself if you are going to be a great ruler and commander of other men.’

Richard thrust out his lower lip. ‘Papa doesn’t.’

‘That is not true. You should not have barged into my chamber like a wild animal.’

‘He broke my sword.’

‘Because you challenged him.’ Alienor did reach out now and lightly caress his hair. ‘I shall have one of the squires make you another one. Go now with Hodierna and she will put some salve on your face. We shall talk later about the responsibilities of princes.’

When Richard and Geoffrey had been taken away by their nurses, Hamelin, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, asked: ‘Why is Henry in such a temper?’

Alienor told him about Becket’s resignation. ‘What do you make of it?’

Hamelin grimaced. ‘A man cannot look in two directions at once, nor serve two masters with opposing needs. I fear we may be at the top of a slippery slope, but I pray not.’

‘Indeed, there is always prayer,’ Alienor replied cynically.

Hamelin rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I had better find Henry and see what’s to be done in the interim.’

When he had gone, Alienor sat down in the embrasure, her expression thoughtful and troubled.

In the stable yard, William FitzEmpress stood beside Isabel, close enough to touch cloaks. ‘I have been looking forward to riding out with you,’ he said.

Isabel looked down, feigning modesty. She did not reciprocate his sentiment, but he appeared not to notice, being more concerned with the sound of his own voice. ‘When I am your husband, we shall go hunting and hawking often.’

She murmured a platitude.

His gaze became predatory. ‘I will show you a world your first husband never did. I will show you the difference between a boy and a man.’

Isabel’s expression set like stone. A true man did not need to boast at the expense of others. He had already been looking over the charters and terms by which she held her lands, had been cultivating her knights and retainers, speaking to them as if she was no more than his appendage, buying them with big talk and bribes. She had heard him issuing promises of grants and largesse to his own retainers too. Each time she imagined being wed to him, sharing the same bed, sitting with him in church and at the dining trestle, she felt sick.

William signalled and the grooms led out the horses, saddled and ready – a dainty black gelding for Isabel, followed by her deceased husband’s favourite golden dun, Carbonel. She was horrified to see the palfrey because it was sacrilege that William FitzEmpress should ride him. The fact that he had given the order to have him harnessed when he was not entitled infuriated her.

‘Sire,’ she said, ‘the horse belonged to my first husband. I would rather you chose a different mount.’

He gave an arrogant shrug. ‘I know full well this was your lord’s palfrey; I would think you glad for me to ride the beast, for certainly it is no mount for a woman.’

Isabel hated conflict, but could stand her ground if she must. ‘We are not yet married, sire. I would have you wait until you have the right. And I have no difficulty handling him.’

William’s lip curled. ‘We would have been wed years ago but for you prevaricating, my lady. Since we are soon to be joined, I see no reason to wait longer for what is mine.’ He boosted her on to the black, and placed her foot in the stirrup, his hand lingering on her ankle in a gesture that signalled possession. Isabel moved her foot. He gave her a narrow smile and turned away to mount the dun, deliberately wrenching the horse’s head round with a vicious pull on the bit.

Isabel swallowed. She did not want to ride with him but to refuse would be giving up too easily. Perhaps when he had finished showing off he would settle down. She made an effort to push herself through the moment, but could not prevent a murmur of dismay as she saw the blood on Carbonel’s bit, and the way the palfrey was rolling his eyes.

‘You have to show a horse who is master,’ he said.

‘My husband never had any difficulty with Carbonel’s obedience,’ she replied. ‘He did not need to use spur and whip.’

William arched his brows. ‘Then likely he was fortunate, my lady,’ he said. ‘And he is no longer your husband; you are his widow.’

The barb cut Isabel to the quick and robbed her of words. He seemed to think he had put her in her place and, as they rode along, he talked expansively of the plans he had for the earldom. As Isabel listened, she became increasingly dismayed, not because the plans were outrageous or foolish, but because he was already taking it for granted that her property was his to do with as he chose.

They were taking a track through a hay meadow, blowing with daisies, dandelion and speedwell, when a young hare flashed away from beneath Carbonel’s hooves. The dun, already sweating and distressed, reared, plunged sideways, and gave several twisting bucks, the last one flinging William from the saddle, and then bolted. William landed hard, the air slamming from his lungs, leaving him struggling like a landed trout. Still fastened to his wrist, his hawk flapped and bated. Isabel clapped her hand to her mouth and stared at him in horror, although she had a desperate urge to laugh.

William’s squire spurred after Carbonel’s dust cloud.

‘He never did that to my first husband,’ she said. ‘Are you hurt?’

Aided by another squire, William struggled to his feet. He handed his frantic hawk to the youth and then beat at his mud-smirched garments. ‘No, by the grace of God,’ he snarled. He took his squire’s horse for himself, but had to be boosted into the saddle because he was still out of breath.

The hunt aborted, they returned to Chinon, William in a thunderous mood and speaking barely a word to Isabel. She did not attempt to cozen him out of his rage, but rode in silence. Her satisfaction at seeing him take a fall, the momentary urge to laugh, had gone. If he was like this now, how was he going to behave when they were married?

They were dismounting in the yard when the first squire caught up with them at a rapid trot, Carbonel on a leading rein. Sweat dripped from the trembling dun’s coat and he was lame on his offside hind leg. Isabel was appalled.

William dismounted gingerly, and clutching his ribs, eyed the distressed horse. ‘That nag is fit only for dog meat,’ he spat and turned to a stony-faced groom. ‘Have it slaughtered and fed to hounds.’

‘No!’ Isabel was no longer able to hold her peace. ‘The horse is mine and I say what is to be done with him.’ She turned to the groom. ‘Unsaddle him and see to his injuries. Do it now, I say.’

The groom hesitated, caught like a grain between two millstones.

William glared at her. ‘He is not a fit mount to ride; he’s worthless.’

‘Then no one shall ride him. I gave you no permission to do so, and even if he is worthless to you, he has value beyond gold to me.’ Again she gestured to the groom, and this time he obeyed her with downcast eyes.

William bared his teeth. ‘By God, when we are married, it will be different. You need someone to handle you and teach you to be a biddable wife. You have been too long in my sister’s company!’ His hand pressed to his side, he lurched from the yard.

Isabel drew a deep breath and strove to hold herself together. She followed the groom into the stables. The palfrey was dancing on his hooves and swinging his rump in a distressed manner. The groom spoke softly, seeking to calm him down. ‘Will he be all right?’ she asked.

The man screwed up his broad, freckled face. ‘As far as I can tell, madam. He has a sore mouth and a strained leg, and he’s been stirred up by a hard rider, but I reckon with a few days’ rest and care he’ll recover.’

‘A hard rider’ was a tactful way of saying that the palfrey had been abused by a fool. ‘I have a mind to send him back to Norfolk,’ she said, ‘but until I can make arrangements, I do not want him ridden again without my permission, is that understood?’

‘Yes, madam.’

Isabel gave a firm nod, but inside she was shivery and upset. Returning to the keep, she went directly to the castle chapel and knelt before the altar to pray for strength. It was difficult to form the words and concentrate, because her mind kept flitting over what had happened. Whatever was decreed by the King, she could not wed this man. His treatment of Carbonel had marked the final turning point. But how she was going to extricate herself, she did not know.

Alienor looked across to Isabel who was sitting in her usual seat in the embrasure, sewing as if her life depended on it. She had been very subdued since returning from her ride with Henry’s brother and had kept her own company, speaking in monosyllables when addressed.

Bidding her other women continue with their duties, Alienor joined her. ‘Now then,’ she said, ‘tell me, what is wrong? You cannot keep it all to yourself.’

Isabel pressed her lips together but her chin was wobbling and she suddenly burst into tears and grabbing a scrap of linen pressed it against her face. ‘I am sorry,’ she sobbed, ‘I am so sorry.’

‘For what?’ Alienor demanded with bewildered exasperation. ‘What have you to be sorry about?’

Isabel swallowed and wiped her eyes. ‘I cannot make it right that I should marry William FitzEmpress,’ she sniffed. ‘And yet it is my duty to do as the King bids. I have tried and tried but I cannot bear to be in his presence and company for the rest of my days.’

‘Why, what has he done?’ Alienor looked sharply at Isabel. ‘Did something happen on your ride?’

Isabel told her, pausing now and then to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. ‘I would stand in his path with a sword in my own hand before I would let him near Carbonel again.’ She was vehement through her distress. ‘I do not wish to let you down, because I know it is for the King’s political purpose, but I cannot do this.’ She squeezed the damp scrap of linen in her hand.

Alienor was desperately concerned about Isabel, but also dismayed, knowing how Henry would respond. She knew what it was like to have the wrong husband and Isabel, although outwardly gentle and soft, had a core of steel and she had to take what she said seriously; this was no whim.

‘Do not worry,’ she said, ‘I am certain something will happen to remedy the situation. I will see what I can do.’

Isabel shook her head. ‘But that will make it difficult for you, and what can you do anyway? I cannot put this burden on to your shoulders.’

‘Come, come, let us have none of that talk. I would not be a friend if I did not try to help.’ She patted Isabel’s hand. ‘I am glad you have told me.’

‘But in truth, madam, I do not see how you can help.’

Alienor kissed her. ‘You do not need to know the details, only that I will do what I can. A queen has certain ways and means open to her that may yield results.’ Calling for her scribe she left the embrasure. She thought of Henry striking Richard across the face a few hours ago; she thought of the conversations she and Henry had had on the matter of Isabel’s marriage, and then she thought of William’s mistreatment of Carbonel and his threat to have him slaughtered. There was one avenue that might be of benefit and she was sufficiently nettled to take it.

The scribe arrived, sheaves of parchment tucked under his arm, several quill pens behind his ear and an ink horn hanging from his belt. ‘Madam?’

‘I want you to write a letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury,’ she said.

The storm had finally abated, but the wind remained brisk; it was going to be a wild horse of a crossing to England. Alienor did not enjoy heavy seas, but neither was she a victim of
mal de mer
. Bernard her chamberlain always spent the journey with his head in a bucket.

She and Henry had expected to spend Christmas in England, but the bad weather had prevented their voyage. Henry had been impossible to live with during the lack of communication with his kingdom. It was several years since his last visit to England and he needed to attend to business there.

He was currently pacing the dockside like a leashed lion. Had he possessed a tail, he would have been lashing it from side to side. At almost thirty, the lithe contours of youth had set into a more solid masculinity and the first fine lines etched the skin around his eyes. He was no longer the lithe young king, untried and fresh, but a man of power with a tread made heavier by a weight of suspicion and the burden of ruling a vast empire stretching from the Scottish borders all the way to the folds of the Pyrenees.

Alienor winced as she heard Alie wailing in her nurse’s arms. The child was at the fractious toddler stage, too small to listen to reason and brimful of furious emotion. She was ready for a sleep too, but that would not happen until they boarded ship.