The Winter Crown (48 page)

She sat with Henry in the window embrasure where they had earlier played a desultory game of chess. Although dressed, he was wrapped in his cloak and was occasionally sipping from a cup of hot sugared wine.

‘Becket says he will join me in Rouen in November for the crossing to England.’ Henry glanced at the letter he had just been reading. ‘Then we can arrange to have Harry and Marguerite crowned together.’

‘Will you give him the kiss of peace?’ Alienor enquired, toying with one of the chess pieces.

‘Not unless I must.’

‘And if it comes to that?’

He shrugged. ‘We shall see.’ An obdurate look entered his eyes and Alienor did not press the issue.

They moved on to discuss the matter of their second daughter’s marriage. Before Henry’s illness a union had been mooted between Alie and the fifteen-year-old Alfonso of Castile. ‘It is a good match,’ Henry said. ‘It will give us security on that border and Alie will be a queen.’

Alienor inclined her head. She was amenable to the match because the bridegroom was a similar age to Alie, not thirty years older as in the case of Matilda’s husband. They would have time to grow up together, and at a southern court. It still brought its own set of difficulties and there was the heartache of parting from another daughter to distant lands. What price an empire spread far and wide?

‘The betrothal should take place before winter,’ Henry said. ‘Let them come to Poitiers or Bordeaux.’

For a short while there was silence between them, but not noticeable because court musicians were playing softly in the background. Several times Henry inhaled as if about to start a conversation, and then changed his mind. Alienor was content to wait and to think upon practical matters pertaining to the betrothal. When it should be; how much work there was to do in preparation.

Eventually Henry set down his cup. ‘My father was my age when he died. I know I could now be lying in my tomb. Who knows when God will take us?’

‘Indeed.’ She eyed him with interest, wondering what this was about.

He chewed his lip and then said abruptly, ‘I have been thinking about going on pilgrimage for the good of my soul before I return to my duties.’

Alienor blinked in surprise. Henry was only devout when he had to be and in pragmatic ways. ‘I suppose it might aid your recuperation,’ she said.

‘It will also show how devout I am – that even while I argue with my archbishop, I have a suitable respect for God. Louis takes all the acclaim for piety; it seems to me I should have something with which to reciprocate.’

She ought to have known. Here was the practicality in his religion. Killing two birds with a single stone. ‘Have you somewhere in mind?’ she asked.

Henry folded his arms. ‘I thought perhaps Compostela.’

‘No, not there!’ Alienor shook her head. ‘My father took that road and did not return, and Louis has already been there anyway.’ She took a sip from his cup and felt the hot sweetness warm her throat.

‘Then where do you suggest?’

Alienor pursed her lips and considered. ‘Perhaps the shrine of Our Lady at Rocamadour in the Limousin? It is holy to Saint Martial, who has the power to cure fistulas – so it is said.’

For a time Henry said nothing. He continued to drink his wine, and absently rubbed his thigh. She could see he was tiring again and needed to sleep. ‘Your courtiers can bring you messages and it is not that far from Poitiers or Bordeaux,’ she said, softly persuasive. She gestured gracefully with her wrist, allowing her silk sleeve to whisper, and send out an earthy, musky perfume from her wrist. ‘You could meet informally with friends and vassals on the road if you wished.’

Henry narrowed his eyes, but not in rejection. ‘I will think on it,’ he said.

Alienor dipped her head and did not press the issue. He would have to believe it was his own idea. But she resolved to begin preparations.

Henry, Alienor and their entourage set out for the shrine of Our Lady at Rocamadour, journeying by slow stages. They spent the heat of the day resting in castles or monasteries in the shade and rode in the cool early mornings and during the hour before sunset and on through soft blue twilight. Nothing arduous, everything measured.

Henry travelled in simple garments. A fresh linen shirt each day, loose upon his body, a plain tunic, and a pilgrim’s straw hat. The fact that he was riding a fine dappled palfrey and accompanied by a large entourage marked him as a person of importance, but he eschewed the trappings of kingship. ‘Harry has borrowed all my gold and jewels anyway for that progress of his,’ he told Alienor when the subject cropped up as they rode. ‘He wanted to make a full impression on the English as a shining king.’

Alienor laughed. She had mellowed towards Henry over the last few days; for the moment they were still lost in the meander of the river. ‘And you think he will give them back?’ Following his coronation, their eldest son had gone on a progress around England, a sort of pilgrimage of his own, intended to acquaint him with his future subjects.

Henry chuckled, but then grimaced. ‘The boy does have a taste for fine things, I admit, and money trickles through his fingers faster than spring meltwater.’

‘Ah, but you indulge him in that vice.’

‘He is the son of the wealthiest king in Christendom,’ Henry replied, ‘and a future king himself. He has much to learn about government and kingship. He does the fêting part very well indeed, even if he does need to curb his tongue on occasion. I have let him start with parades and furbelows because that is a simple task and he is suited to it, but I shall ease him into the rest and give him responsibility when he is ready.’

Alienor made a wry face, knowing that the ‘ready’ would be later rather than sooner because Henry would not want to let go. He might say he was willing, but his hands would have to be prised off the reins. ‘Did you not lead an army to England when you were his age?’

‘Hah, I was younger than him!’

‘Of course you were,’ Alienor said sweetly.

Henry shot her an irritated look. ‘I had to battle every step of the way for my kingdom. My parents fought for that right and I knew from an early age it was my duty to continue where they left off. Every fibre of my being was focused on achieving my goal.’ He gazed into the distance. ‘I was fourteen when I crossed the Narrow Sea to bolster my mother’s failing cause. She thought me a hindrance, but that wasn’t true. I rallied the barons to my support. They saw me and they saw hope.’ He struck his chest. ‘Without my intervention then, I would not be king now.’

‘She told me the story,’ Alienor said. ‘How you had no money to pay your ragged band of mercenaries and when she refused to help you in order to teach you a lesson, you went to Stephen and asked him to pay you to leave the country.’

Henry grinned. ‘Yes, and Stephen did. It was typically generous of him, the fool, even if he wanted me out of the way. But by then I had infiltrated his barons and shown them what a good prospect I was for the future.’ His smile faded. ‘I do not want the same for my sons. I want them to inherit what is theirs in right and dignity without wasting all that time. When I was Harry’s age, I was constantly beset, sometimes not knowing where I was going to find the next meal or afford nails to shoe my horse, let alone pay my men. I lived hand to mouth and on the run. I don’t want that for my sons. I want them to rule in splendour when their time comes.’

‘Assuredly they will.’

He gave Alienor an opaque look. ‘I suppose you heard that at Harry’s coronation, I undertook to serve him at table because it was his coronation day and I was proud of him. I said it was not often that a king served another king, and Harry replied against all grace that it was not uncommon for the son of a count to serve that of a king.’

‘Yes, I heard, Isabel told me,’ Alienor replied. ‘That was a little too clever, I thought.’

‘Yes, indeed, and I was angry,’ Henry said, ‘but do you know what? Part of me was satisfied and even pleased to have bred this creature of privilege – a privilege that was never mine because I was too busy carving out my inheritance in bloody handholds on naked rock. He shines, Alienor, and everyone sees that he shines.’

Her heart swelled with pride in which there was a piercing shard of affection for the man at her side. Another piece of the broken crystal.

‘Of course he will have to be ruled and shown the right way, but let him have his moment in the sun that I never had at his age. He has the time that I did not.’

‘Indeed,’ Alienor said, ‘but you must let him become a man, which means giving him responsibility and allowing him to make his own decisions – and mistakes.’

‘I know that,’ he said testily. ‘I am not a fool. I plan very carefully for the future of my heirs.’

Which meant involving them as little as possible, she thought. A child should never dictate to its parent, but sometimes Henry’s rule was too rigid.

The road turned and a distant gorge came into view, and, clinging to the rugged cliffside of creamy-grey rock, the shrine of Our Lady of Rocamadour.

A different kind of silence fell like a gauze veil over the heat haze. Henry exhaled softly through parted lips and murmured an involuntary word of astonishment. Alienor gazed at the buildings, amazed and awed at the way they seemed to hang suspended between heaven and earth, like an eagle’s eyrie but for humankind.

According to legend Saint Amadour had been tutor to the Christ child before coming to Gaul; his mummified body had been discovered here eight years ago. A Madonna statue, carved from ebony wood, had been found beside the corpse and was said to perform healing miracles, especially for those afflicted with fistulas and old wounds that would not heal. Here, too, thrust into a crevice in the rock and held there by a loop of iron chain, was the sword Durendal, which had belonged to the great and tragic hero Roland, defender of the pass at Roncesvalles against the Saracen horde.

‘The hair has risen on the nape of my neck,’ Henry said and he shivered. As if compelled, he dismounted and knelt in the dust of the road to pray, and everyone scrambled to follow suit. The stones were rough under Alienor’s knees as she clasped her hands. Henry appeared to be genuinely moved by the sight of the shrine, and she looked at him with speculation for a moment before she bowed her head. She dared not hope a change was in the air, but she could pray.

The pilgrim party continued on its way as the sun dwindled westward and the dying light splashed the rock with tints of ruby and fire. By the time they arrived at the pilgrim hostel at the foot of the rock, it was late dusk and the stones were almost purple.

Visiting the shrine involved climbing more than two hundred stairs – on the knees with prayers on each step. Henry and Alienor began the ordeal early next morning after confession and mass, and continued until noon, without food or drink, by which time they were sore and exhausted, Henry especially. His lips were compressed to a thin line and Alienor could see the strain of effort in his jaw. However, the deed was a powerful symbol of humility and his will carried him through. Hamelin followed immediately behind Henry, ready to catch him if he swayed or fainted, but there was no need. Alienor heard Isabel muttering prayers as they climbed each step, entreating forgiveness for her sins, although Alienor could not imagine Isabel having any to confess.

Henry prostrated himself before the shrine of the Black Madonna. Alienor suspected it might be by way of taking a respite, but it looked like piety to the priests, and she joined him, kissing the cold, stone flags under her lips. The scent of incense pervaded the space, and made her light-headed. The relief at having climbed so far and achieved her goal became a sense of achievement and, as she looked at the wise, all-knowing half-smile on the ebony visage of the Madonna of Rocamadour, she was infused with a deep feeling of spiritual tranquillity and oneness.

Later, she stood beside Henry and gazed out over the valley misted with cloud below, and it was indeed like hanging between heaven and earth. In the blue above, an eagle soared and Alienor watched its outspread wings, a deep feeling of exultation coursing through her, straight as a lance, and with her spiritual eyes open, she knew it was a portent. Henry watched the eagle too; then, after a moment, he turned and left, tugging Hamelin away with him to go and study the sword in the rock, withdrawing into practical things.

Isabel joined Alienor and the women stood side by side, gazing across the vastness of the clouded gorge.

‘Henry seems ready to rejoin the world,’ Isabel said. A tress of hair had escaped her wimple and the cloud had frosted it hoar-grey.

‘Indeed. He will not want to linger here now. It will all be back to the business of ruling and controlling.’ The eagle had vanished and the mist unfurled grey tendrils across the sky. ‘I thought we might have more time.’

‘More time for what?’

Alienor gave a poignant sigh. ‘My first husband could not tear himself away from pilgrimages. We spent a full year in Jerusalem after everyone else had returned to France while he traipsed around shrines, and Abbé Suger’s pleas that he come home grew ever more desperate. But Henry has never been one for such seeking. Things are only of value if they are practical. He would rather study a sword than open himself to God’s vastness. For a while, I thought that the severity of his illness had given him a different perspective – perhaps it did for a while – but now he is better, and he sees this visit as a matter accomplished, his dues rendered. He will return to the world – and to his old ways, I have no doubt.’

Alienor cupped her hands around a goblet of spiced wine and shivered. Rain spattered against the shutters and the wind that whistled through the gaps was icy, but not quite cold enough to turn the rain to snow. The roof of the log shelter was leaky and had soaked the wood. Fires belched acrid smoke and gave out meagre heat. Everyone wore their heaviest winter garments and stood around in shivering huddles, muttering about the weather.

Harry and his entourage might have alleviated the gloom, but they were keeping court at Westminster. John and Joanna had arrived from Fontevraud to spend the Christmas season with their parents, and that at least brought some cheer to the occasion, although there was a gap at Alienor’s side where Alie would usually have kept her company. This year, Alie would be celebrating the Christmas feast with the Castilian court in Burgos and the mountain passes would all be closed with snow.