The Winter Crown (9 page)

‘My lessons were held at our castle at Acre in Norfolk,’ Isabel reciprocated. ‘I never imagined then what fate had in store for me.’

‘Nor me,’ Alienor said ruefully. ‘I would have told my younger self to run for her life had I known. Perhaps that is why God keeps us in ignorance.’ She glanced fondly at Isabel. Had her husband been more robust and chosen to dispute the throne, they would have been rivals for a crown. Instead they were companions, cut from different cloth but still with a pattern in common. ‘You must have heard tales of Aquitaine though.’

Isabel smiled. ‘Oh yes, we often heard stories and songs about troubadours and handsome knights who sought to seduce women away from their husbands – and told them to each other too. Our nurse would warn us to be on our guard against the blandishments of young men, while we secretly prayed to be objects of their affection. How innocent we were.’

‘I was never innocent,’ Alienor said with a grimace, ‘except in believing that I might have what I wanted, and that belief withered on the day I was told I must wed Louis of France. I was thirteen years old and my father had recently died, leaving the instruction in his will without telling me.’

‘I was sixteen when my father died,’ Isabel said. ‘I was his only child and King Stephen arranged a marriage with his son. William was eleven on our wedding day.’ She gazed into the distance. ‘While I was marrying him, my mother was taking Patrick of Salisbury for her second husband, so we found ourselves wedded into opposing factions and no say in the matter.’

‘That must have been difficult.’

‘It was, but we found a way, as women must always do.’ Small white flakes started to drift down out of the dusky blue. Isabel looked at her. ‘You and the King seem content in each other’s company of late; I am glad for that.’

‘For the moment, yes, although who knows how long it will last,’ Alienor said with a brittle smile and did not elaborate. She and Isabel had come to know each other well, but she did not want to speak of her troubled relationship with Henry. Matters had indeed improved between them as they spent the summer and autumn together, progressing through their lands. The awkwardness of that first night at Saumur had healed over, like a deep wound that had closed but left a thick scar. The flesh was whole, but not smooth, and would never be the same. She and Henry had gone forth from that moment as if the past was a blank and Will had never been born.

Their daughter Matilda was almost seven months old. Two weeks ago Alienor had bled yet again, a sign that the seed in her womb had not taken root and she was anxious lest God had indeed turned against them.

The snow began to fall more swiftly and the women abandoned their walk and returned indoors. Folk gathered around the hearth to roast chestnuts and eat small, tasty morsels that had been cooked earlier before the kitchens lost the daylight: spicy pastries, fruits and marchpane subtleties. A troop of musicians performed songs in the
lenga romana
of the Bordeaux region, and people played games, danced and took time to laugh and socialise, forgetting serious matters for a while.

Accomplished in her role as queen and duchess, Alienor set out to beguile, to weave her spell. She felt Henry’s brooding gaze upon her as she talked, laughed and flirted with her courtiers. When she glanced his way, she detected both wariness and desire in his expression – like a lion observing dangerous prey.

They danced together, Duke and Duchess, and when they touched, the erotic charge between them reminded Alienor of their wedding night. The pupils of Henry’s eyes were wide and dark, drinking in the light as they joined hands and circled. The dance was progressive and they were separated for several verses, but when they came together it was like fire. Alienor’s breath shortened. His hand cupped the curve of her hip and his fingers angled inwards. She gave him a languorous look and moistened her lips. At least here, if nowhere else, they were very compatible.

The January weather was bright but bitterly cold on the morning that Alienor arrived at the convent of Notre-Dame de Saintes to pay her respects to her aunt Agnes who was the Abbess, and to visit Petronella, her sister, who was in delicate physical and mental health and had been in the care of the nuns for more than five years.

The chestnut trees wore a lacy foliage of hoar frost and the convent sparkled in the hard winter sunlight as if dusted with powdered rock crystal. Alienor dismounted at the gatehouse, her breath puffing in white clouds and her hands numb from holding the reins despite the insulation of fur-lined mittens. A groom took the horses, and a nun led Alienor to the Abbess’s chamber while her attendants waited in the guesthouse.

Her aunt left the lectern at which she had been reading and hastened to embrace Alienor with tender affection. ‘It is so good to see you, Niece!’ Her wrinkles deepened as she smiled. ‘It has been a long time.’

‘Four years,’ Alienor replied with a tremulous smile of her own. ‘So much has happened, and so much has changed.’

‘Indeed.’ Compassion filled her aunt’s shrewd dark eyes. ‘Come, sit by the fire, warm yourself and tell me all.’ She gestured to a cushioned bench by the hearth. Grooming its fur in front of the fire was a handsome ginger tomcat that put Alienor in mind of Henry. She raised her brows at her aunt, who made an embarrassed gesture. ‘Tib earns his place by catching mice. It may be a worldly sin to indulge myself with a cat, but he is God’s creature, and it gladdens me to see him content.’

‘And why should God not take pleasure at your kindness?’ Alienor said. She joined the cat before the fire, as grateful as he was for the glowing heat on this raw day. A young novice brought her hot wine laced with ginger and cloves. Her aunt declined the wine and took a cup of water for herself while Alienor caught up with the years since last the women had seen each other, stitching all the stray threads into the tapestry of news until it was complete. Alienor did not feel any lighter for doing so, but having run the events through her mind in sequence, she had new perspectives to consider.

Her aunt gave her a thoughtful look. ‘And after your visit here, what then? Do you remain in Poitou?’

Alienor shook her head. ‘We have business in Normandy, and then I am to return to England to govern as Henry’s regent.’

‘It is a pity you cannot stay longer.’

‘I have thought that myself,’ Alienor said ruefully.

The cat gave a long, sinuous stretch and yawned, exposing a jagged landscape of white teeth, before strolling to the door and uttering an imperious miaow. Her aunt rose to open the door and a cold draught swept around the room as he stalked out, ginger tail waving like a furry banner. Alienor rose too, shivering. ‘I should see my sister.’

‘I would have brought her to you here,’ Agnes said, ‘but she has not been well and we are keeping her in the infirmary where it is warm and she can be properly nursed. Come, I will take you.’

The convent’s infirmary was a well-appointed room holding a dozen beds, four of which were occupied by elderly nuns, being ministered to by the infirmaress and her assistant. The fire was bright and clean-burning with plenty of room at the hearth to cook nourishing meals. A cauldron simmered over the logs, the steam laden with an appetising aroma of meat broth.

Huddling by the fire was a frail old lady. Gaunt-cheeked and hollow-eyed, she plucked at the squirrel pelts edging her cloak. Alienor stared in silent shock as the woman gave a deep, wet cough. The hand she raised to cover her mouth was skeletal.

‘Petra, dear God!’ Alienor hastened to her side and looked on, helpless to act, while the spasms tore through her sister. Eventually Petronella spat bloody mucus into a cloth and sucked in a harsh breath. Alienor cupped the thin shoulders and kissed her forehead. ‘I grieve to find you in this state.’

‘Alienor,’ Petronella croaked. ‘I wondered if you would come. I’ve been thinking of you often of late.’ She coughed again but not as harshly and reached a shaking hand to the cup at the side of the bench. ‘Horehound,’ she said and took a swallow. ‘They say it will do me good, but I know better. They think I know nothing, but I am merely mad, not foolish.’

Alienor looked at her aunt. ‘How long has she been sick like this?’

Agnes shook her head. ‘The cough began over a month ago and will not shift whatever we do. We are keeping her warm and tended. She has spiritual comfort and all of our prayers. Perhaps when the spring comes she will improve.’

It was a platitude. Alienor could see how sick her sister was and knew it would take a miracle to pull her through to the warmth of a new season. She was thirty-one years old, but looked like a crone. In her mind’s eye Alienor glimpsed beyond her desperate condition to see Petronella the child, Petronella the dancing young woman with lustrous brown hair and sparkling eyes. Her grip on reality had always been fragile, but to see her end her days like this was heart-rending. So much promise never realised, like a rose that had begun to open and then withered on the stem.

Petronella tilted her head as if listening. ‘Is Papa home from Compostela?’ she asked. ‘He has been gone a long time.’

Alienor looked at Agnes. ‘No, my love,’ she said. ‘He is not back yet.’ And never would be because he had died there twenty years ago and was entombed at the feet of Saint James.

‘She spends much time in the past,’ her aunt said. ‘What is before her eyes is not what lies before ours. She never speaks of her marriage or her children.’

‘That is probably for the best,’ Alienor replied bleakly. Petronella’s marriage had been a volatile, passionate disaster that had caused more trouble than it was ever worth and had ended in ruin for all concerned. Now her husband was dead and her children in French wardship. If she had blotted it from her damaged mind, so much the better.

‘Papa is coming for me,’ Petronella said. ‘I will see him soon.’ She gripped Alienor’s hand. ‘We should go up to the battlements and watch for him.’

‘No, stay here by the fire,’ Alienor said, her throat tight with tears. ‘He would not want us to get cold. There will be time later. Here, drink your tisane.’ She sat down beside Petronella and wrapped her cloak around both of them, drawing her in close.

The fire caught on a knot of wood and sent up a shower of swift red sparks. ‘Do you remember watching fireflies in the garden at Poitiers?’ Petronella whispered. ‘And making wishes each time we saw a new one glow?’

‘Of course I do. It was our favourite thing.’ All the possibilities, all the hopes and dreams. Alienor’s eyes filled and the firelight became a single golden blur.

‘They are gone now,’ Petronella said sadly. ‘Every last one.’

Alienor returned to her chamber from the latrine where she had been sick for the third time that morning. Her stomach rolled as if she was already at sea rather than waiting out the rough weather before embarking for England.

Henry eyed her with predatory speculation. ‘Are you unwell, or is there another reason?’

She rinsed her mouth with the ginger tisane Marchisa had prepared to combat the nausea. ‘I believe I may be with child again.’ Speaking the words made her feel queasy with hope and fear. She dared not smile for this was a serious undertaking and she would not have God think she was being frivolous.

‘That is good news indeed!’ Henry drew her into his arms. ‘You must rest and look after yourself.’ His tone was solicitous as he stroked her brow with his fingertip. ‘Let others do the work.’ He glanced at her ladies who were packing the travelling chests ready for the return to England.

‘Do not worry on that score.’ Alienor swallowed her irritation. If Henry had his way, he would confine her to her chamber, her sole occupations those of embroidery, keeping the nursery and writing occasional innocuous letters to men of the Church to further diplomatic relations.

Little Henry toddled over to his father and threw his arms around his legs. Henry picked him up, turning him in a somersault on the way, eliciting squeals of delight. ‘What a fine, brave little knight you are,’ he said. ‘Be a good boy for your mama while I am busy in Normandy with the King of France, hmm?’ The look he sent Alienor filled her with guilt and unease for it warned her that he had not forgiven her over the matter of Will’s death. They would never speak of it, Henry had made that clear, but what need for words when looks said everything?

‘Papa!’ Jeoffrey his bastard son dashed into the room holding his toy sword in one hand and a miniature shield in the other painted with two gold lions on a red background.

Alienor strove to maintain a neutral expression as Henry laughed and tousled the child’s hair. Each time she saw him, she saw Will, and she knew Henry saw it too. And while to her it was as gall, to Henry that resemblance was a joy and comfort – as if this little boy was Will made whole again. Perhaps too his affection was for the sake of the mother, but Alienor did not want to dwell on that either.

‘Here is another fine little knight come to defend the household with his mighty sword!’ Henry declared. ‘Well met, Sir Jeoffrey FitzRoy, slayer of dragons!’

Alienor compressed her lips. If she had her way, the boy would not have a secular career as a knight and baron because such a path led to virility and power, and who knew how far he might try to take his ambition. He was remaining in Normandy with the Empress, but that meant for the moment he would still have access to his father. It was only for a few weeks, she told herself, and could not be helped, but even so, she struggled with her misgivings.

Alienor put her hand on her womb as she felt a series of flurries and kicks. She had thought her other offspring busy little souls, but this one outdid them all. He – as she had determinedly decided his sex – was never still and he had quickened early. She felt pleasure at this show of vigour and did not bid him be silent. She needed a strong child to rule Aquitaine and she prayed regularly to Saint Radegonde and Saint Martial that this was the one.

Despite her pregnancy and Henry’s warnings she had been busy about her duties all that late April morning. She had issued authorisations of safe conducts and permissions to leave the country under her seal to several merchants and two deacons on Church business; she had notified a sheriff to desist cutting down trees in woodland belonging to Reading Abbey, and had instructed her chamberlain to order more oil for the lamps in her chamber. The tasks were routine, but she was looking forward to talking with two envoys from Navarre over dinner.