The Winter Crown (47 page)

‘We shall talk in a while when you have calmed down and are able to have a sensible discussion about this,’ Alienor said, and left the room.

Returning an hour later, Alienor found Marguerite in a state of quieter but simmering resentment. The dress had been picked up and draped over a clothing pole, although bits of straw and a snag from the dog’s teeth were evidence of the abuse it had received. Marguerite held the dog in her lap and stroked it repetitively.

Alienor sat beside her on the bench. ‘If you are to be Queen of England you must behave as befits that role,’ she said.

‘Yes, madam,’ Marguerite replied, still stroking her dog. Her voice was dull and flat. Alienor remembered being a similar age and having Louis’s mother, this child’s grandmother, telling her what to do for the good of the country so as not to disrupt matters of policy. How powerless and angry she had felt. And she had been a deal more knowing than Marguerite. She understood what the girl beside her was feeling, but could also now empathise with her former mother-in-law.

‘I still want to write to my father,’ Marguerite said defiantly.

Alienor restrained her irritation. ‘Do as you will, but this is only a delay. You shall be crowned queen, I promise.’

Marguerite cuddled the dog and it licked her face.

‘I could have done nothing to prevent this even had I wanted to. You have a deal to learn about the position and power of a queen – what is possible and what is not. Your loyalty to your husband is commendable and it must see you through now.’

Marguerite’s set expression remained, but she nodded stiffly. ‘Yes, madam.’

‘Good.’ Alienor took the girl’s hand in hers, even though it was not her natural inclination to do so. The flesh was clammy and soft. ‘I know this is hard for you, but you are young; you will have your time.’

A fortnight later, following Harry’s coronation, Henry returned to Normandy, landing at Barfleur and from there heading to Vendôme to speak with Louis, who had already mustered an army and was preparing to invade Henry’s territories over the insult offered to his daughter. He demanded to know why she had not been crowned with Harry and insisted that the situation with Becket be tackled once and for all. Isabel had arrived from England with the royal contingent and she joined Alienor at Fontevraud with John and Joanna before moving on to Poitiers.

Alienor milked Isabel for the details of Harry’s coronation, eager to know everything.

‘Harry was magnificent; you would have been so proud of him,’ Isabel said as she and Alienor sat by the hearth drinking wine. ‘He looked every inch a king, so tall and handsome. He was made to wear a crown. Not only did he know his part, he became it. The crowds adored him; I have never heard such a roar of acclaim before.’

Alienor smiled with pride and a certain satisfied pleasure. That accolade would have pleased Henry and yet lodged like a splinter in his heart, because the tribute was for his son, not him.

Isabel said ruefully, ‘I remember him as a baby in the cradle, so tiny. It was so strange to see him almost a man.’

Alienor swallowed, remembering the grip of his little hand around her smallest finger. ‘Time passes too swiftly,’ she said.

‘I am truly sorry you could not be there to see his anointing, but I know you had other duties.’

Alienor made a face. ‘Indeed, for what use, other than to be Henry’s scapegoat. Did you see Mary de Boulogne?’

‘Yes, she visited me and we prayed together. She was worried that I had been coerced into my own marriage, but I told her I was happy with Hamelin and I hoped she would be able to live in peace now she could return to life in a convent.’ Isabel contemplated her cup. ‘She is very bitter about what happened; she will not forgive, and she will not forget.’

Alienor shrugged. ‘Would you in her position? I know I would not. I wish her peace and I will pray for her.’

Isabel touched the cross around her neck. ‘I do so every time I kneel in church. I so wish that the King and the Archbishop could be reconciled.’

Alienor raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Hell will freeze over first, I tell you that now.’

‘Hamelin says Henry has come to a boulder in the road with no way round. He no longer knows what to do to reach the Archbishop. But they were such allies when he was chancellor.’

‘Well, it’s either blame the man or blame God,’ Alienor said grimly. ‘I agree with Hamelin; I do not know how they will resolve this because neither man will back down. It has gone beyond the peacemakers. It will only end when one of them dies, and that includes the Pope.’

Isabel gasped and looked shocked but Alienor was unrepentant. ‘It is the truth,’ she said. ‘I do not know Thomas well, but I know my husband. At least in Poitiers, I am well out of the argument.’

Alienor returned by gradual stages to Poitou accompanied by Isabel. The women spent a fortnight at the ducal hunting lodge at Talmont and rode out most days with the hawks. Alienor chose a new gyrfalcon from the mews and called her Blaunchet. Watching her climb into the blue and carve the air with her wings, and strike her prey with ruthless accuracy, Alienor’s heart filled with joy and she remembered that she too had been born to soar.

Soon she would go to Poitiers, but now was a time for replenishment in the company of her friend while allowing Richard time off the leash before he settled into the duties of learning to rule a duchy.

Even so, amid the leisure, messengers rode constantly back and forth on the business of government. One morning in early September, Alienor sat in the garden at Talmont enjoying the perfume of the late summer roses, the most recent correspondence in her hand. She turned to Marguerite, who was sitting on a turf seat next to her, and forced a smile. ‘The King has agreed that when Archbishop Becket returns to England, another coronation ceremony will be held at Westminster, and you will be anointed queen.’

Marguerite’s eyes brightened. ‘Does the letter say when that will be?’

‘Before the Christmas feast,’ Alienor replied.

Marguerite’s entire posture became more erect. She lifted her head and looked imperiously around, as if she was already balancing the weight of a crown.

Isabel, who was sitting on Marguerite’s other side, touched the girl’s hand. ‘That is wonderful news. At last we have a concord.’

Alienor looked down at the letter. ‘Henry has also given the Archbishop leave to reprimand those bishops who performed Harry’s coronation.’ That too was a powerful concession from Henry; it also served to shift the blame from his shoulders. Nothing would be his fault.

Isabel’s smile faded and her expression became serious, but not dismayed. ‘At least honour will be satisfied.’

Alienor made a non-committal sound. What Henry had not done was give Becket the kiss of peace, which meant he had not forgiven him and was not prepared to put the past aside. What Henry was saying was that Thomas was free to come to England, but that he would not grant him a safe conduct or guarantee his safety once there. On his own head be it. While she was deliberating what to say, her chamberlain arrived accompanied by a messenger, and their grave faces made her heart leap with anxiety.

‘What is it?’ Her thoughts flew to her children. ‘What has happened?’

The servant knelt and presented her with a packet bearing Hamelin’s seal. ‘Madam, the King has been taken grievously ill at Domfront of a fever and he is in peril of his life.’

Swiftly she broke the seal and read what Hamelin had written. He said she must come as swiftly as she could. Henry had made his will, dividing up his lands between his sons, and if she wanted to see him alive, she had better come now.

‘Dear God,’ Isabel whispered, signing her breast.

‘I must go to him.’ Alienor rose to her feet, her mind already on the journey. ‘Let prayers be said in every church in the land and offerings made that he might recover.’ She often thought she would be better off without Henry, but not yet. Their sons were still very young for rule, and predators would be waiting their moment: hyenas circling a dying lion. Only let the youths come into their full majority, able to lead men, and then God could do what he wished with him.

Alienor rode into Domfront a week after receiving the news and found Henry weak and febrile but recovering, closely watched by his physicians. The wound in his thigh caused several years ago by a horse kick had become infected and brought him down with a debilitating fever before finally erupting and subsiding into a leaking sore that was being dressed daily with herbs and unguents.

Alienor entered his chamber and found him propped up in bed, gaunt and hollow-eyed. Removing her cloak, she sat on a stool at his side. ‘I came as soon as I received the summons,’ she said. ‘I am relieved to find you still alive.’

He gave her a heavy, bloodshot look. Beneath his eyes, the skin was pale indigo with exhaustion. ‘You have always been a good liar,’ he said hoarsely.

‘I am not lying.’ She took the cup of wine a servant presented to her. ‘It would be inconvenient if you were to die now. Our sons are not old enough to take the reins and I do not wish to be put in the same position as your mother and have to fight for every last piece of ground. I prayed for you night and day as we rode.’ She offered him her cup and he took it and drank. It shocked her to see how his wrist shook with the effort, and the emotion that ran through her shocked her too. It was like dropping a precious crystal goblet and then receiving cuts as you picked up the shards. Just when you thought there were no shards left to hurt you, you would discover another needle-thin spike and you would bleed.

‘If you are going to die, at least leave it until Harry has attained his majority,’ she said.

He grunted with sour humour. ‘I am touched that you raced to my bedside in such haste. I will comfort myself with your concern for my wellbeing and not be cynical enough to think you came in order to exert political control in event of my death.’

‘Think what you will, but I am here – as I was the last time you were sick unto death. Back then you thanked me, but I have received enough at your hand not to expect that now. I came because I am worried for you.’

His expression grew peevish. ‘I do not need your pity or concern.’

‘You may not think you need it, Henry, but you do. This is a warning sign…’

Hectic colour flushed his cheeks and his eyes flashed with temper. ‘Not you too – do not you dare! I am sick of churchmen telling me I should make my peace with my perfidious archbishop and whispering that this is my entire fault and I should kiss the treacherous whoreson. Hell will freeze over first, I swear to you!’ He paused to suck breath into his lungs, panting as if he had run uphill in his armour.

Alienor continued as if he had not interrupted her. ‘…a warning sign that you need to ease your burdens. Accept that others are capable of carrying them and let them go. If you do not, they will kill you.’ She took the cup from his trembling fingers. ‘You need peace and you do not have it. Look at where you have been brought. Unless you change, you will die.’

‘Since when have you grown so wise?’

‘I am not wise, merely sad and experienced.’ She rose from the stool. ‘I will leave you to sleep and to think upon what I have said.’

Henry turned his head away. ‘Go back to Poitiers,’ he said. ‘I do not need you here.’

‘You do,’ she said, ‘but you do not know it. You never have.’

She left the room and had to stop outside for a moment, her hand to her mouth. She was shocked at how sick and frail he was. Last time it had happened, he had been a young man, well able to fight it off, but now he was a similar age to his own father when he had died, and she had seen the fear in his eyes. They both knew he was still fighting and that he might not survive.

Hamelin was waiting for her and kissed her cheek. ‘Sister,’ he said. His eyes were bruised hollows revealing his exhaustion and his usually neat appearance was unkempt.

‘I did not expect him to look like that,’ she said. ‘Like a starved child, or an old man.’ She shuddered.

‘We all thought he was going to die,’ Hamelin said sombrely. ‘And the fact that in his lucid moments he was sincere about his will…’ He broke off for a moment and rubbed his palms over his face. ‘He needs time to recuperate,’ he said. ‘We all do.’

‘He will have to delegate,’ Alienor said firmly.

Hamelin massaged his temples. ‘That is going to be difficult.’

‘It has to be done. He is not fit to make decisions as he is.’

‘I do not deny you are right,’ Hamelin said, ‘I just do not know how it will be accomplished. There have already been wild rumours flying around that he has died.’ His eyes filled with pain. ‘He is my brother and I do not want it to become a truth.’

Alienor looked away. She did not know what she wanted any more, but Henry was so sick and vulnerable that, almost against her will, she was forced to feel pity and compassion for him. ‘Such rumours are dangerous; they will lead to unrest,’ she said. ‘We must tell everyone he is alive and recovering. It must be made very clear indeed.’

Hamelin nodded. ‘I agree. I have already sent out messengers with that news, and I have left the sickroom door open when he is awake, so that people can see for themselves, but he will not be capable of taking up his duties for a while yet.’

‘Then for now he has no choice but to delegate.’

For the next few weeks, Alienor tended Henry as he slowly recovered. There were setbacks where his fever rose again or his stamina gave out and he would spend most of the day asleep, but, slowly, he clawed his way back to a semblance of health.

For Alienor it became not so much a period of truce between them while he got better, but a loop of time cut out of their lives, like a meander in a river. For a short while, they could set the past and future aside, and exist in the moment. She sat at his bedside as she had done the last time he had been dangerously ill; she kept him entertained, cared for his welfare and assisted with the dealings of the court. Fortunately there was a lull in matters requiring serious political attention. Henry had patched up a ragged peace with Thomas Becket, who had sent his good wishes and prayers for Henry’s recovery, to which Henry had raised a cynical eyebrow.