The Winter Crown (32 page)

The Empress gazed at the ruby cross. ‘The years have flown; there are few left to me now. Many things in my life I would have done differently and I regret, but they gave me my son and my grandchildren. Had I stayed in Germany after Heinrich died, I would never have borne Henry and seen him become a great king.’

‘Indeed not, madam,’ Alienor said and lowered her gaze when the Empress gave her a sharp look.

‘I hope my son can count on your loyalty and support.’

‘Always, madam,’ Alienor replied. ‘Just as much as I can count on his.’

‘I admit he is difficult. Even though I bore him, I know his faults, but you must both rise above the troubles between you for the greater good.’

Alienor was spared from answering as one of the Empress’s chamberlains arrived with a message from a contact at the French court. The Empress opened the letter and squinted at the lines. ‘My eyes,’ she said impatiently. ‘Time was when I could see a fly on the wall hangings even from the other side of the room; now I can barely make one out if it lands on my skirt.’ She gave the letter to Alienor. ‘Read it to me.’

Alienor’s own eyes were not as sharp as they had been and she had to hold the letter a little away to focus. ‘The Queen of France is with child,’ she said. ‘Due in the late summer.’ She read out the rest of what was written and returned the letter to the Empress.

‘They kept it quiet for a long enough time.’ The Empress made a sound of contempt and struck the letter with her hand. ‘And Becket is being cited as a miracle worker because it was after his arrival at Pontigny that she became pregnant – how foolish!’

‘I expect he got Becket to bless the marriage bed,’ Alienor said flatly.

The Empress looked at her askance.

Alienor made a face. ‘When I was married to Louis, he had trouble when it came to the procreation of heirs.’

Matilda raised her brows.

‘Not at first when we were very young, he was eager then, but after I miscarried of a son, he struggled to play the man’s part. It came to the point where he could only become aroused when the Church was involved. Marie was conceived after the dedication of Saint-Denis when Abbot Suger and Bernard of Clairvaux interceded on our behalf. Alix was begotten in a bed blessed by the Pope at Tusculum. In between were long gaps of time when he either did not visit my chamber, or was incapable when he did.’ Alienor leaned forward to emphasise her point. ‘Louis can only perform the act with his wife when the Church gives him sanction. It would not surprise me if Becket’s arrival in France gave him that impetus.’

The Empress looked stern for a moment, as if the subject was too unsavoury to discuss, but then a glint of wintry humour entered her gaze. ‘Well, if this debacle is to blame for an heir to France, it is an unfortunate result of my son’s dispute with his archbishop, but there is nothing to be done about it.’

The women looked up as Henry arrived, returning from a day’s hunting with his vassals and retainers. Close by his side was his bastard son Jeoffrey, his boots and tunic mud-spattered like Henry’s. He was just starting his journey from boyhood into adolescence and had begun to grow like wheat in May. His face glowed with the pleasure of masculine camaraderie and a swipe of bright blood painted his right cheek to show that he had been in at the kill for the first time. Henry tousled his curls and, bidding him stay back near the door, crossed the room to join the women. The smell of the hunt was a pungent miasma around him, a combination of hard-ridden horse, sweaty man and a faint tang of the butcher’s stall. Dark blood rimmed the fingernails of his right hand. She did not have to guess who had smeared the boy’s face.

‘Good hunting?’ asked the Empress.

‘Why yes, Mother, indeed it was,’ Henry replied, eyes gleaming. ‘We cornered a great boar in his full prime. There is some excellent feasting in prospect. I hope the cooks have a big enough apple for his mouth.’

The Empress clucked her tongue. ‘Should you have taken the boy on a boar hunt? Is he ready?’

Henry looked affronted. ‘He is my son. I was barely older than he was when I crossed the Narrow Sea with an army to challenge the King of England.’

‘Yes, I remember,’ she said, looking up to heaven. ‘And it wasn’t an army; it was a band of adventurers whom you couldn’t afford to pay.’

‘But it made everyone take notice, did it not? And it put fresh heart into our supporters. I am not going to coddle the boy, Mother. He played his part in the hunt the same as the rest of the squires, and he is a natural on the back of a horse. He holds a spear well too,’ he added with a teasing grin.

Alienor said, ‘Is it wise to encourage him in such pursuits, sire, when he is intended for the Church?’

Henry sent her a taut look. ‘There is time enough to train him for whatever vocation he comes to, and even priests hunt. For now there is no harm in him accompanying me. Our own sons are either still too young or else not here. I will take them hunting when they are of age.’ He turned to leave, saying he had to wash away the grime and gore.

‘Before you go, you should know that news has come from France,’ Alienor said. ‘Louis’s queen is with child.’

‘Is she, by God?’ Henry grimaced, and then gave a hefty shrug. ‘Well, the last four have been daughters; God willing both our luck and his will hold and she’ll birth another girl. If not, our sons have the advantage over his because they’re already half-fledged.’ He continued on his way, his arm across young Jeoffrey’s shoulders in a man-to-man fashion.

‘You will have to accept the boy,’ the Empress said quietly. ‘I have done my best to prepare him for a life in the Church, but in the end it is Henry’s choice what happens to him. He loves him and will do his duty by him, but it does not mean he loves his heirs any less or lacks care for them.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Alienor replied, ‘but I know he sees in him our firstborn son who died and the mistress he had who also died, and that makes the boy precious to him. When he takes him hunting before he has taken his legitimate sons, then it hits me here, and here.’ She pressed her hand first to her heart and then to her abdomen.

‘Then you take the blows,’ the Empress said curtly. ‘That child has the potential to be a firm ally to your sons, not an enemy. Without the aid of my own brothers, born of my father’s mistresses, Henry would not now be King of England and Duke of Normandy. I counsel you to use your head, not your heart in this.’

‘And I shall do so, Mother,’ Alienor said, ‘but it still does not prevent my heart from being wounded. I have shields for many things, but not this. You must have those places yourself, no matter how you hide them from the world.’

The Empress said nothing, and instead held her gnarled, age-spotted hands to the fire.

That evening, Alienor dismissed her women and sat to comb her eldest daughter’s hair herself. It was beautiful, the glossy golden-brown tresses so long that Matilda could sit on them. ‘I have some news for you, my love,’ Alienor said after a while. ‘I know how grown up you are and I want you to listen carefully.’ She felt the cool silkiness of the hair under her palm. How difficult it was going to be to send this nestling out into the world, to know that there would never be moments like this again.

Matilda looked round, her clear grey eyes wide with question.

Alienor took a deep breath. ‘We have had a marriage offer for you, from a very important family in Germany. A cousin of the Emperor Frederick no less. Henry, Duke of Saxony, very much desires to marry you.’

Matilda’s eyes remained wide, but they were assessing rather than afraid. ‘Is that why that bishop was in England before, Mama?’

‘Yes, my love, it is. The envoys from Germany came to discuss with me whether a match might be made. Your father thinks it a very suitable liaison.’

Matilda chewed her lip. ‘I know I have to make a good marriage, Mama,’ she said steadily. ‘I know I must help my family and that you will choose well for me.’

The words were adult but they emerged in a little girl’s voice, and Alienor’s heart caught with pain. ‘Your future husband is a great knight,’ she said. ‘A man of whom you can be justly proud and who is strong enough to take care of you. You will have your own household and you will go with everything you need, including people you know.’

Matilda folded her arms protectively around her body. ‘When do I have to go? Will I have time to say goodbye? Will I be able to see the new baby?’

‘Of course you will!’ Alienor put down the comb and hugged Matilda to her breast, unable to bear any more. Dear God, dear God. ‘For now it is but an agreement for the future. You will not be leaving for a while yet – perhaps two years. We have to set up your household and arrange your trousseau. You will have lessons in German and learn the customs of their court to prepare you. By the time you do go, you will be bigger and stronger and ready for your duties.’

Matilda relaxed when she realised she was not about to be packed off at dawn, but a frown lingered on her brow. ‘After I go, will I ever see you again, Mama? It’s not forever, is it?’

‘Of course you will see me!’ The words were bitter in Alienor’s mouth because the truth was that she probably never would. Her heart bled. She opened her jewel coffer and poked among the pieces until she found a small gold ring with a dove incised on the flat top. ‘I want you to have this,’ she said. ‘You are old enough now to look after it. It was mine when I was your age and my father gave it to me and told me it had belonged to his mother when she was a girl.’ She slipped it on to Matilda’s middle finger and it was a perfect fit. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Now we shall always be close.’

‘Thank you, Mama.’ Matilda rubbed the surface of the ring and blinked hard.

‘Come,’ Alienor said briskly and kissed her cheek. ‘No more now. It is past time you were asleep.’ She took Matilda to her small box bed and, when she had said her prayers, tucked her in.

‘May I wear the ring tonight?’ Matilda asked.

‘Of course, but you must put it away safely first thing in the morning.’ Alienor kissed Matilda again and watched her snuggle under the covers so that only the top of her head was showing, and then she tiptoed away from the bed. Her throat ached with grief. It didn’t seem a moment since she had held her daughter in her arms, a snuffling newborn baby, and now her marriage was being arranged and she had to prepare to bid her the long farewell. Little Alie was not yet four, still a baby, but in another four years was she to lose her too to some distant land?

And this new child growing in her womb. Son or daughter, flesh of her flesh, barely quickened and already with a future carved in the shape of a broken heart.

Hamelin checked the baggage chest waiting to be taken from his chamber to the cart in the bailey, and made sure he had packed his favourite hunting dagger. He knew very well that it was in there, but being certain helped to take the edge off his tension.

Outside it was the high morning of a perfect summer’s day and he should have been riding to join his brother on campaign. War had broken out along the Welsh borders and Henry had planned a summer campaign intended to bring the troublesome Prince of Gwynedd to heel once and for all.

Hamelin had intended to leave at dawn, but Isabel had begun her labour in the small hours, and since it did not matter to a day when he joined Henry, he had chosen to wait. Now time was passing like the slow drip from a leaky spigot. The birthing chamber was barred to him and although Isabel’s women constantly brought him news and told him everything was progressing well, he remained agitated. His own mother had died bearing him; he dared not think about losing Isabel like that. She had become as dear to him as his own life.

Puffing out his cheeks, he took himself to the stables. Carbonel turned his head and nickered. Hamelin stroked the palfrey’s soft taupe muzzle. ‘Well, my beauty,’ he said, ‘surely it cannot be much longer.’

Carbonel butted him and lipped his hand. As a child, jealous of Henry, hurting, Hamelin had once lamed a horse that had been passed down to him after Henry had finished with it. He hadn’t wanted yet another of his golden brother’s cast-offs. Their father had never realised what Hamelin had done and had given him a replacement – a well-upholstered plush white creature suitable for a staid matron and worse than the first horse because Hamelin had become a laughing stock. At the time he had raged at the unfairness of it all, but as he matured, he had come to be deeply ashamed of the deed committed by a foolish, resentful boy. The guilt still burdened him although he had confessed the sin long ago and been absolved. He would never tell anyone beyond the priest, especially not Isabel, who trusted him. One of the reasons he had no bastards was because of his childhood, even if he was the brother of a king. His new family was his sustenance, and he would work himself to the bone to see it become illustrious, without taint or tarnish.

‘Sire.’ Thomas, one of the lads who worked in the hall, hastened up to him and bent the knee. ‘Sire, you are sought by the midwife.’

Hamelin’s stomach wallowed. He started to ask a question and then shook his head. ‘Never mind, boy, tell her I am coming.’ He gave the horse a last pat on the neck and returned to the hall, trying not to run. Conscious of his dignity he took measured steps and walked as if he was unconcerned.

The midwife was waiting for him, a squeaking, snuffling bundle cradled in her arms. Her expression was anxious and Hamelin was immediately on edge. Something must be wrong with the child, or with Isabel. He gave the woman a hard look, anger masking fear, and she recoiled briefly before gathering her courage. ‘Sire, the child is born but it is a girl.’

Hamelin experienced an instant of weak, almost debilitating relief. A son was the goal that all men strove for, but he didn’t care just now. ‘That is of no consequence,’ he said. ‘Is she healthy?’

‘Indeed, sire,’ the midwife swiftly reassured him. ‘She has all her fingers and toes and cried the moment she entered the world.’ Her expression still tense with worry, she placed the baby in his arms.

The child had been loosely wrapped so that he could check for himself that she was healthy in all her limbs. Her hair was dark and damp, either from her birth or a recent bath. Feeling the little head in the crook of his elbow, Hamelin felt such a flood of joy and gratitude that tears stung his eyes. ‘I acknowledge her of my house,’ he said. ‘She shall be called Isabel for her mother.’ He looked at the midwife who was now smiling tentatively. ‘How fares the Countess?’