The Winter Crown (45 page)

Alienor nodded, although she was ambivalent. She had been thinking of making him tutor in arms to Richard. However, she knew William was ambitious, and since he had saved her life, she owed him the opportunity to better his lot. ‘He is worth bearing in mind,’ she agreed.

‘Good.’ Henry gave a firm nod, turning a suggestion into a reality there and then.

Alienor looked around the chamber vacated by Henry when he sailed to England. Harry was taking it for his and his servants were transferring his accoutrements. The room had just been swept and there was a smell of settling dust and a slight aroma of smoke and incense from braziers. Harry’s bed and mattresses of stuffed down and straw had been moved in together with sheets and blankets, coffers and a hawk perch.

The fleet had sailed for England in blustery but decent weather with good visibility, but during the night a storm had brewed up and battered the harbour with howling winds and lashing rain. This morning the sea was frisky and the wind had returned to its usual bustle, but everyone in Caen was on tenterhooks awaiting news of the King’s safe arrival in England. Alienor had given thanks to God at morning mass that Harry had not sailed with his father.

Still, the storm clouds had a silver lining. She had received news that Becket, on his way to Caen to talk to Henry and serve the coronation ban on his bishops, had learned of the sailing and turned back because of the atrocious weather. Not that it would stop him making another attempt. She would have to remain vigilant.

An item on the window seat caught her eye: a bone needle case, exquisitely carved out of walrus ivory. What it was doing in Henry’s chamber was a mystery. He sometimes mended bits of harness himself, but this was a delicate woman’s item. Alienor removed the small stopper, attached by a plait of silk, and tipped several silver needles into her hand. Their eyes and thickness were of varying sizes for working on different fabrics. A length of narrow red ribbon was tucked down the side of the case and, when drawn out, proved to be embroidered with tiny golden lions. It was skilled and beautiful work. One needle was threaded with gold wire mingled with strands of fine honey-brown hair. There was no need to ask whose possession this was or who had been here. Alienor’s throat constricted. Once she might have sewn something like this for Henry herself … Not any more. Taking the ribbon to the brazier as if holding a dead snake, she cast it into the coals and watched it shrivel and burn. And then she threw the needle case after it.

As the silk twist crumbled into ash, her chamberlain arrived to tell her that Henry had landed safely at Southampton.

Alienor said nothing, because at the moment she was wishing him and his paramour at the bottom of the sea.

‘The fleet was scattered by the storm though and one ship lost with the King’s physician on board and Gilbert de Suleny.’

‘That is indeed sad news.’ She rallied herself. Even if Henry had been on the ship that sank, there would have been others drowned too whom she cared about, or who had no part in her anger towards him. ‘I will have prayers of thanks said, and alms given for the souls of the dead.’

Harry arrived, red-cheeked from a vigorous ride out on his horse, his energy very similar to his sire’s as he prowled into the room.

‘Your father has arrived safely but had a rough voyage,’ she said neutrally. ‘One ship was lost though, with Ralph de Bellamont aboard and Gilbert de Suleny.’

Harry manufactured a look of concern. ‘I am sorry for that, and I am glad I wasn’t with them,’ he replied. ‘Papa always seems to attract storms.’

‘Yes, he does,’ she agreed, ‘usually of his own making, although Becket would see it as being brought upon him by God’s wrath.’

‘Becket would see anything not to his liking as being brought about by God’s wrath,’ Harry said with a grimace. ‘I am pleased I did not have to stay in his household.’

‘It was valuable time you spent there,’ she said, ‘not just with the Archbishop, but all the learned men around him.’

Henry gave an indifferent murmur. Alienor considered this bright son of hers, handsome, intelligent, and so easily bored. He found it difficult to learn by sitting still, unlike Geoffrey who excelled, or Richard, who could focus like a spear point when his interest was caught. Harry had Henry’s restlessness, but not his depth. He was like a butterfly, and that concerned Alienor. He needed to acquire knowledge and wisdom in order to rule, but sitting with a tutor was plainly not the best way.

‘I have been thinking about your household when you are anointed,’ she said. ‘Your father suggested Richard Barre for your chancellor.’

Harry scowled at that. ‘He’s my father’s man and an old fusspot.’

‘He’s also widely experienced,’ Alienor reproved. ‘You need that as part of your administrative backbone. Besides, he is in Rome at the moment, so he won’t be immediately joining you. Walter can stay as your chaplain and I thought to promote that young clerk Wigan to your chancery. Also, what about William Marshal as your marshal and tutor in arms?’

Harry’s brow cleared as he decided not to sulk. ‘I would have chosen them myself,’ he said. He sat down on a cushioned bench before the brazier, spread his arms and crossed his legs. ‘I want Adam Yqueboeuf, Philippe de Colombiers and Baldwin de Béthune too.’

‘As you wish.’ Not all were to Alienor’s taste, especially the sycophantic Yqueboeuf, but a young man had to have his friends as well as the checks and balances set there by his parents.

Harry’s gaze fell upon the burning needle case and his nose wrinkled at the smell of burning bone.

‘I found it on the embrasure sill,’ Alienor said, ‘with a red ribbon inside embroidered with lions. I will not have evidence of your father’s concubine tainting the places where I have to walk.’

Harry avoided her gaze. ‘I do not blame you, Mama.’

‘You have been in her company? You know her?’ She was repelled to think that Rosamund de Clifford was acquainted with her sons.

He shrugged assent. ‘She does not argue with him,’ he said. ‘She is not interested in political doings, and he can talk to her of ordinary things.’

Alienor curled her lip. ‘He can talk to me of ordinary things if he so chooses.’

‘But you are fierce like an eagle, Mama; you might fly away with his goods in your talons or dig out his eyes. Rosamund is like a kitten. If she scratched him it would be an accident, and he could destroy her with one squeeze of his fist – but he doesn’t want to do that. He wants to play with her and put a belled collar round her neck.’

Alienor wanted to retch. ‘I see.’

Harry stirred his toe on the rush matting of the chamber floor. ‘He needs both of you, Mama.’

She made an aggravated sound. It was all about the desires of men, even with her sons. ‘I am not so sure that I need him,’ she said. ‘And what he fears of me, I know well of him.’

A fortnight later Harry’s bride Marguerite arrived in Caen together with her younger sister, Alais. Alienor had not set eyes on Marguerite since her farce of a wedding to Harry ten years ago. The dumpy toddler had become a robust child, heavy-set and solid, quite unlike her slim silver-haired father. She lacked his height, and her features were doughy and landscaped with adolescent blemishes. However, her brunette hair was wavy and lustrous, and her eyes soft brown and rather beautiful. Her sister Alais was fair like their father, a small, grey-eyed mouse. Alienor had been prepared to dislike these girls, yet something turned within her. For better or worse Marguerite was her daughter-in-law and even if she was not about to be crowned, it would still happen at some point. Soon too she would be old enough to bear children. Whatever her antipathy, Alienor had to bring her into her circle of influence.

Harry was not impressed by the French princesses. Although polite to them, he showed little interest. He viewed being wed to Marguerite as a necessary duty. She did not care to beautify herself, regarding it as frippery, and her opinions were set and stolid. To Harry’s bright, quick nature, she was as stimulating as a bowl of cold pottage.

Alienor set about the task of preparing Marguerite for her new life. She had arrived with a baggage of sober gowns and none of the trappings of high royalty. Alienor employed a seamstress to fashion new robes for her. Marguerite’s warm colouring suited reds, golds and greens, but when clad in her new finery, she resembled a plough horse in the harness of a high-stepping palfrey.

Nevertheless, Marguerite had her attributes. She was dogged and steady. While not a good rider when it came to anything faster than a trot, she could hack for miles without complaint. She had stamina and endurance, and a way of seeing things through to their conclusion. Such qualities would be of great use to Harry, who needed that kind of grounding – although first, of course, he had to notice his wife.

Alienor sent them out together with the hawks, and that proved successful because Marguerite relished the pursuit and Harry was able to show off his white gyrfalcon and his considerable skill in handling the bird. Marguerite admired his prowess and the day’s sport was passed in mutual enjoyment. At the table later, Marguerite was more animated than usual, and her sparkle made Harry pay her more attention than was his wont.

Alienor watched them with a judicious and political eye. She had never wanted their marriage, but since it was a fact, it would be for the best if the couple could find fulfilment in their roles and their formal partnership. At some point she had to tell Marguerite she was not crossing the sea with Harry to be made queen at his side … but not quite yet.

Alienor was in her chamber reading correspondence from Poitou when William Marshal requested an audience and she bade her chamberlain admit him.

William entered the room and came to kneel at her feet. He had arrived straight from patrol and was still wearing his mail and swordbelt, although he had left his weapon at the door. ‘Madam,’ he said without preamble, ‘we were watching the roads as you instructed, and intercepted the Bishop of Worcester and his servants. You said you desired to speak with any English clergy we might meet, so I courteously invited him to accompany us.’

Alienor smiled with satisfaction. ‘You have done well, William. Bring him to me, but treat him as a valued guest, and have us provided with refreshment. I want you to stay and keep your ears open – but remove your mail first. I do not want to intimidate the good Bishop.’

‘Madam,’ William replied with a gleam of understanding. He returned shortly, wearing his court tunic and escorting with deference Roger, Bishop of Worcester. The latter was Henry’s cousin, older by fifteen years, a handsome, well-spoken man with dark hair greying at the temples and a closely cropped beard of badger-striped white. He had long been a friend of Thomas Becket, who had raised him to his bishopric seven years ago. Since Henry was his kin and well known to him, he had a foot in both camps.

Alienor liked Roger of Worcester, even if he was bearing letters of excommunication from Becket that would destroy Harry’s coronation should they reach England. He was devout but not inflexible. Whereas some bishops she knew, Gilbert Foliot the foremost, would have entered the room in a roaring temper at being detained, Roger knew how to play the game and came forward as if he was indeed an honoured guest.

Alienor greeted him by kissing his ring and he acknowledged her with a bow and a smile.

‘It is a pleasure to see you again,’ she said. ‘It has been too long.’

‘And I have missed your company too, madam, and that of the King,’ he answered graciously.

Servants arrived with a rock-crystal flagon of the best Gascon wine and dishes of fried pastries, small cheese tarts, roasted chicken and fresh salmon cooked with ginger and currants. They arranged the repast on a trestle table covered with a white linen cloth, and set it with platters of fine silver gilt and expensive glass cups. ‘Come,’ Alienor said, ‘will you dine? I have need of your advice and I am sure you are keen to refresh yourself.’

He studied the dishes being laid out, and the delicate curls of steam rising from the crisp chicken skin. ‘You are kind, madam. Travelling always does sharpen the appetite and it is a while since I and my companions ate.’

‘Their needs will be seen to also, and we shall provide you with sleeping accommodation.’

‘Madam, there is no need to go to such trouble on our account.’ He was in a bind but plainly that did not prevent him from fighting with diplomacy.

‘Oh, it is no trouble at all, my lord. Indeed, I must impose on you to stay a little while because we have much to talk about.’

She watched him look round the room. Her musicians had arranged themselves in the window splay and were tuning their instruments. Her chamberlain was lighting more candles. William stayed in the background, his presence a subtle statement: a reminder to the Bishop that he was a guest, but not free to leave.

‘I am at your disposal, madam,’ he said graciously, and seated himself at the cushioned bench between wall and table.

Once they had washed their hands and Roger had blessed the food, Alienor said, ‘You are travelling to England, I assume?’

The musicians started to play a soft, harmonious duet on harp and citole. She accepted the thick slice of chicken breast he expertly carved and laid upon her platter.

‘Madam, you are right,’ he said. ‘I was on my way to England, on a matter of urgent business concerning the King.’

‘I am sorry to say the seas have been very rough for the time of year, and crossings have been difficult.’ She reached to her cup and took a dainty sip of wine.

‘Indeed, I heard that the King’s fleet suffered a bad storm on their recent crossing, but the weather is fairer now.’

‘Perhaps, but still too variable to take chances.’

‘If you will permit me to leave, I will be very glad to be on my way.’

Alienor smiled. ‘Of course, my lord bishop; but I am afraid it will still not be possible until the tide turns – whenever that may be. You will be housed with every comfort and sent on your way as soon as possible.’

He grimaced with wry acknowledgement of his situation.

‘Should you have letters for the King, I shall be glad to see that he receives them by a swift messenger. If you gave them to me, you could be on your way by tomorrow morning.’