The Winter Crown (34 page)

Henry snatched it from him, read what was written, and then crumpled the parchment and tossed it in the brazier where it caught light and burned up in a cloud of pungent blue smoke. ‘I don’t care a fig,’ he growled. ‘Let Louis beget a dozen sons; none of them will ever be a match for mine! Get out, all of you!’

‘Henry…’ Hamelin began.

‘And you too, you sanctimonious prig!’

Hamelin stepped back as if Henry had punched him in the face. Any other man he would have grabbed by the throat, but this was the King upon whose favour he was dependent for his every privilege; he had no choice but to swallow the insults. Turning on his heel, he swept out.

He could hear Henry crashing around the tent like an angry bull. Rosamund arrived and Hamelin caught her back. ‘You should not go in there.’

‘He did not order me to leave, sire,’ Rosamund said. ‘I am not afraid of him.’ She shook free of his grasp, entered the tent and tied the flap behind her. Hamelin waited for a furious bellow, but there was nothing beyond a single, cut-off expletive. And in that moment, he truly realised the power that this little girl had over Henry, and that was frightening indeed.

Alienor paused on her way to the bath tub to gaze at the baby gurgling in her cradle. The infant gazed back from sea-blue eyes and smiled. Everyone said little Joanna was going to be a beauty and Alienor was so proud of her new daughter. The birth, two months ago, had been exhausting but Alienor had weathered it and her vitality was finally returning.

The Christmas feast was being celebrated in Angers this year, and Alienor was waiting for Henry to arrive. He had sent a brief letter in answer to the news of Joanna’s birth, courteous and political in tone and accompanied by the gift of an amethyst intaglio ring. Alienor had been concerned but had blamed his response on his failure in Wales and the continued quarrel with his archbishop. He would delight in Joanna when he saw her at Christmas, she was certain.

Marchisa had prepared a saffron dye to brighten Alienor’s hair and restore its golden sheen, and various pots and unguents were arrayed on a coffer for rubbing into the face, the feet and hands.

Alienor removed her chemise and stepped into the tub. No longer proud and firm, her breasts carried the weight of years in their softness. Her belly had sagged from decades of childbirth and was mapped with numerous silvery striations where her flesh had stretched to accommodate growing babies. Her hand mirror showed her lines of age where once was firm, clear youth. She was forty-two years old and Henry would be thirty-three in the spring. At times in their lives nine years had seemed no gap at all, but now she sensed the chasm. He was the king. He could have as many nubile young women in his bed as he desired. The only things she could give him that they could not were heirs, and Aquitaine. Legitimate heirs to wed into other families and cement alliances. Girls to live the kind of life she lived herself. If she thought about it, she might cry.

Once she had bathed and her maids had anointed her with lotions and perfumes, once her nails were buffed to a soft shine and her hair tinted a warm and glossy gold, all strands of grey concealed, Marchisa helped her dress in a gown of golden damask with lacing at the sides that held in her waist and supported her breasts. Alienor decked herself with gold and jewels until she glittered like a treasure chest, but then her mind filled with the image of the Empress, overblown with embellishment, and with a grimace she took everything off again. No amount of adornment would compensate for youth and beauty; rather she would resemble a gaudy matriarch. Impatient, she discarded the dress for one of plain dark red with gold embroidery banding the upper sleeves and donned a ring of blood-red ruby on the middle finger of her left hand. Finished by a wimple of soft cream silk with fringed edges, one end trailing over her shoulder, it felt more truthful.

Richard arrived with his lute, its neck festooned with a bunch of scarlet ribbons. He had started lessons the previous year and was already proficient. He had a tuneful singing voice, clear and pure, a passion for fine music and a talent for composing it. He tilted his head to one side. ‘Mama, you are beautiful,’ he said with a smile and a courtly flourish.

Alienor laughed. ‘You will go far, young man! That is what a woman always wants to hear.’

‘I have composed a song for you; do you want to hear it?’

‘Of course I do!’ Alienor gestured her women to gather and listen. Richard sat on a chair before them and checked that the lute was in tune. He handled the instrument with confidence and his hair was a gleaming tumble of copper on gold as he leaned over the strings and sought the tune. The song, in praise of the Virgin Mary, was a simple one in a minor key but its pared-down clarity was an exquisite performance for a child just eight years old. Alienor’s eyes welled with tears of love and pride. ‘That was very well done, my heart,’ she said. ‘You are a true heir of Aquitaine.’ She gave him a ring from her little finger as she would any troubadour and Richard flushed with pleasure. ‘You must play for your father at the Christmas feast.’

Richard’s smiled dimmed. ‘When is he coming, Mama?’

‘He won’t be long,’ she said. ‘A few more days.’

Richard ran off to play a fighting game, needing to exert himself after the discipline of concentrating on the music. Alienor turned her own attention to preparing for winter banquets and sent instructions to the huntsmen to mark some good game for the men to pursue during the festivities.

Joanna started to wail in her cradle and her wet nurse lifted her out and put her to her breast. Richard returned in search of his practice sword, which was made of whalebone and his pride and joy. Following on his heels was a messenger from England with a letter bearing Henry’s seal.

The note was short and to the point. Henry hoped she and the children were in good health. He bade her remain in Angers to keep the Christmas feast and entertain his vassals. He regretted he was unable to come because the difficult Welsh campaign had caused too much upheaval and he was still dealing with unfinished business. He had to settle the matter of knightly service owing to the Crown, and would be spending Christmas at Oxford. He would join her at Easter bringing Harry with him, but for now he bade her farewell.

Alienor gazed at the words with contempt, scorn and feelings more ambivalent. She was angry and concerned that he was not coming, that she and their new baby daughter did not matter enough for him to make the effort. However, it would be more peaceful without him and she would not have to live in an atmosphere of tension bordering on hostility. ‘Your father will not be here for the Christmas feast,’ she said to Richard. ‘He has too much business in England.’

Richard had found his sword underneath a tunic on the coffer, and now he swished it about as if cutting at an enemy. ‘He has business here too, Mama.’

‘Indeed, but not as much as in England. Do not concern yourself. We shall celebrate the feast well enough without him, and Easter is not so far away.’

Richard’s look was as bright as a knife. ‘But it dishonours you, Mama.’

His observation was as sharp as a cut. ‘The business of state comes first – and he will be here at Easter, I promise you.’

‘What if something else stops him?’ He swiped repeatedly at the air, making a low thrumming sound.

She realised that for all Richard’s loyalty to her, he had a jealous and covetous eye to his father. It would not have escaped her golden son’s perception that Harry was spending Christmas with their father, basking in his attention and playing the prince to the hilt.

‘It won’t,’ she said firmly. ‘And Easter is far better for making journeys. It is not long away. I know you are disappointed, but it cannot be helped.’

‘I am not disappointed.’ Richard’s face was a mask, the flesh taut on his bones and his cheeks starred with red. ‘I hate him; I hate the way he treats us. I don’t care if he comes at Easter or not. Why should I want to see him when he doesn’t want to see me!’

‘Curb your tongue,’ Alienor snapped. ‘When you come to rule Aquitaine, you will understand that some things take priority. Your father would come if he were able.’

‘Would he?’

Alienor met his hard blue stare. ‘You have my leave to go.’

He whirled and ran from the room. She bit her lip, knowing he would vent his anger in aggressive military play. He was big and strong for his age and his playmates would suffer as a result.

Going to the hearth she held out her hands to the fire. The ruby ring winked on her finger like a wound. Henry could have come if he had really wanted. Matters might be urgent in England, but they were also excuses. And where Henry was, the court was too; thus she was pushed to the margins. By the time she saw him again, they would have been apart for a year, and he would not have seen their children either, except for Harry.

Alienor lifted her head and compressed her lips with determination. It did not matter that Henry was not joining her to hold the Christmas feast. She would hold a great celebration of her own, here in his heartlands, and she would make sure that while people might notice Henry’s absence, they would not miss him.

‘I had not expected you home from court so soon,’ Isabel said to Hamelin. He had sent word ahead and she had hastily prepared for his arrival with the hour’s warning his outriders had given.

Hamelin went to look at his baby daughter, who was asleep in her crib, all rosy pink and contented. The sight made him smile and softened the tension in his shoulders. ‘Henry gave me leave for a fortnight,’ he said, ‘although I shall have to return before long.’

She marked the tone of his voice and prudently said nothing more until he had washed and changed and they were sitting together by the fire over a meal of bread, cheese and a flagon of good red wine. ‘What is wrong?’

He took her hand and squeezed it. ‘Ah, nothing,’ he said. ‘Henry is making a fool of himself.’

‘Why?’ She looked at him in concern. ‘What has he done now? Is it to do with the Archbishop?’

‘No, it’s not that kind of matter.’ Hamelin grimaced. ‘He became involved with a new mistress when we went to Wales in the summer – Walter de Clifford’s daughter Rosamund.’

‘He always had women when I was at court; he only kept a faithful bed when he was busy getting the Queen with child.’

‘You do not understand, this is not one of his casual amours,’ Hamelin said with distaste. ‘He has bought her a little dog and gowns and jewels – and a ring, if you please, that she wears on her wedding finger. He has her sit beside him at table and feeds her from his own dish.’ His face flushed as he warmed to his theme. ‘He even seeks her advice above that of his courtiers, and spends hours in his chamber with her. Even when the chamber is open to others, she will be there, sitting in his bed, wrapped in one of his cloaks. He is besotted to the point of folly.’

Isabel gazed at him in shock and her thoughts flew to Alienor. ‘Oh, that is not right; indeed, it is disrespectful.’

‘The girl herself … I do not know what to think.’ Hamelin tossed his crust to a hound dozing by the fire. ‘She is convent raised and gentle – but knows her worth. She was a virgin when he took her and no brazen harlot, and that makes a difference too.’

Isabel was appalled. ‘How old is she?’

‘Grown but not yet a full woman. Fifteen, at most. He has always liked girls of that age. I am gladder than you know to be away from the court just now.’

‘Does Alienor know?’

Hamelin shrugged. ‘I do not know, but she will find out; that kind of news always travels. Henry was supposed to be spending Christmas at Angers but he has chosen to stay in Oxford to deal with English business and Harry is with him.’

‘What must he think, seeing his father sporting with this young woman? It is no example to set.’

Hamelin’s mouth was down-turned. ‘My brother is as he is and nothing will change him. Standing in his path is like being an ant in a thunderstorm.’

Isabel poured him more wine. ‘I suppose this passion will burn itself out. He was always keener on the chase than the capture from what I saw at court.’

‘It may, but for the moment he is smitten. She does not fear him; she is gentle and sweet but she has a core of steel – and she is lovely to look upon.’

‘I could almost think you are smitten yourself,’ Isabel said, not entirely in jest.

Hamelin gripped her hand more tightly. ‘There is only one woman for me, and I am married to her,’ he said. ‘And for all that it was a match for political gain and we were directed to wed, I thank God every day for His great blessing.’ He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. ‘I want to forget court. Tonight there is just you, me, our daughter and the children within us still to be born. Let that be all that matters.’

The April sun shone from a sky of rain-rinsed blue and warmed the castle battlements with primrose-pale light. Wearing the red dress and an ermine cloak, Alienor stood on the battlements with the children and watched Henry’s entourage approach the gates. Once her heart would have swelled with anticipation and grown so light that she could have flown it from the battlements on a silken ribbon, but now it stayed in her chest, beating in solid, turgid strokes, and she was full of dull tension because she knew how their reunion would go.

Among the banners and the glittering array of knights and serjeants, she fixed her gaze on her eldest son. Even from a distance she could see how tall and straight he sat on his horse. He had turned eleven during Lent; she could not believe he was standing on the last stepping stone of his childhood, and that added a tender pain to her heart, blended with an uplifting of pride.

Henry held his chubby baby daughter in his arms and tickled her under her chin. ‘A fine little girl,’ he said, smiling.

‘She entered the world with a cry fit to raise the rafters,’ Alienor replied. ‘It was not an easy birth. Perhaps we both realised our lot in the world.’

‘I am sorry I could not be here any earlier.’ He busied himself handing the baby back to her nurse rather than meeting Alienor’s gaze.