The Autumn Throne (10 page)

As grooms and servants took the horses, he started towards the palace, limping heavily on his right leg, but he checked as he saw her. Alienor positioned herself to stand like a host
receiving a guest. Sarum might be Henry’s castle but it was her residence and the only way to deal with this was to be the Queen, not a prisoner. She observed etiquette by curtseying to him, but did not wait for him to bid her to rise. Henry’s expression tightened with annoyance.

‘This is a surprise, sire,’ she said. ‘I bid you welcome.’ Her tone was pleasant, but corrosive with sarcasm. ‘Will you come within and refresh yourself?’

Henry gave her a hard look. ‘Enough of that, madam, I am not here to play games.’

Her lips straightened. ‘Neither am I – and I know very well why I am here.’ She gestured round. ‘All this new building is impressive I admit, but surely you do not fear me so much that you need to build these extra defences?’

They began to walk towards the keep. The glare of the sun on the lime-washed walls dazzled their eyes. The women had vacated the well, dragging the child with them, and all that remained of their presence were damp patches on the housing flags, swiftly drying out.

‘I do not fear you as well you know,’ he retorted, his voice harsh and dusty. ‘It is part of a general refurbishment; the same as at Clarendon so that the place is ready for any purpose.’ He spoke in a preoccupied manner, his mind clearly elsewhere.

They entered the great hall but Henry continued on through to the chamber beyond, bereft of furnishings save for a trestle and a couple of chests. He unfastened his belt and tossed it across one of them, followed by his hat. ‘Ah God, it’s too hot.’ He rubbed his leg and winced. His old injury, she thought, as well as his toenail. His horses often kicked him, but one such blow had caused permanent damage to his thigh and intermittently broke out, causing inflammation and fever.

Servants arrived with watered wine and Alienor sat down at the trestle bench. The floor was dusty and a puddle of wax had congealed near her feet. She still did not know why he was here and a glance at Hamelin left her no wiser for his
expression was like a firmly locked door under tension. The other knights had remained behind in the hall.

‘To what purpose do I owe the honour of this visit?’ she enquired. ‘I cannot think you are here to socialise?’

Henry drained his cup and poured a fresh measure into it. ‘That would be the last thing on my mind. Were it not for an understanding you claim I do not possess and a desire to see how the work is progressing, I would have ridden straight to Clarendon.’

‘Understanding?’ She arched her brows. ‘What “understanding” would that be, sire?’

He swept a callused palm over his face, leaving sweaty streaks. ‘We had news from France the day before we left Woodstock – from Paris.’

‘Marguerite? She has had the baby?’

A look of sour amusement crossed his face. ‘I am surprised you have not already heard. I am sure despite all my measures aimed at allowing you to lead a life of retirement, you have ways of finding things out. Yes, the child is born – on the first day of July. A boy, christened William. Our heir now officially has an heir.’

Alienor would rather not have heard the news from Henry but at least he had not withheld it from her and it came to her fresh. A baby boy, a grandson. She had other grandchildren from her eldest daughter Matilda, but they were not destined for an English crown – unlike this newborn. ‘I am delighted, especially for Harry and Marguerite.’ It was an achievement for her son, something his father could not take from him, something over which Henry had no power. ‘Surely you will give him some of his inheritance now he has an heir to raise?’

Henry sat back on the bench and his expression closed. ‘I will think about it.’

And do nothing.

‘I will write to him.’

‘And I will be glad to send your message by my swiftest courier.’

Having
first vetted the content.

‘That is generous of you,’ she said neutrally.

He continued to rub his chin. ‘Louis presses me to marry Richard to Alais, but I am not inclined to do so.’

Alienor stifled a grimace. She had promised Richard he would never have to marry the girl, but there was little she could do from Sarum. ‘There are rumours you are having an affair with her and that it’s one of the reasons you were seeking an annulment from me – so you could make her your queen.’

‘There are always rumours, some more preposterous than others.’

‘I have even heard it said she is your consolation for Rosamund.’

His sunburn reddened and his grey eyes were very bright. ‘There will never be any consolation for Rosamund.’ The look he gave her was hard, almost hostile, but she saw the grief there too despite his effort to conceal it. ‘Louis’ milksop daughter could not begin to fill her place, but if it allays your concern I will tell you that Rosamund’s second cousin Ida is of great solace to me.’

Alienor eyed him with contempt. She did not know her, but expected she was another vulnerable, impressionable girl over whom he could exert his power and will. They always were.

‘Alais is part of the business of government. I will not be dictated to by Louis, or by my son. I will decide when the wedding takes place, not Louis or the Pope, and not Richard.’

Alienor said nothing, for his attitude accorded with her own desires. However, she did not trust him. He would change his mind on a whim if it suited his purpose.

While servants set up tables to provide a meal for the guests, Henry took the opportunity to go and have his leg tended to by his physician. Alienor surmised that the old injury was troubling him more than he would admit.

‘It will never heal if he does not rest it,’ she said to Hamelin.

The latter handed his empty cup to a servant to refill. His
own face was burned brown by the sun, but being less auburn than Henry, he had not suffered as much. ‘I try to make him sit still, but he will not.’

They looked at each other. Conversation was awkward because of her situation and Hamelin’s fierce loyalty to Henry, yet his wife was Alienor’s sister by marriage and one of her dearest friends.

‘Isabel is well?’

‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘She is at Conisbrough for the moment. There is still much work to do – as here, the masons are busy this summer – but the hall is habitable. She has some silk cloth for you and some gifts from Sicily when next you meet.’ He made a rueful face. ‘Doubtless she will give you all the details about our mission that a man would think of no importance yet by which women set great store.’

Alienor smiled. ‘I am sure despite your shortcomings you are able to tell me if Joanna was well settled.’

Hamelin looked taken aback, but then gave a reluctant smile at her riposte. ‘Joanna took immediately to her new surroundings as if she was born to it. Everyone was welcoming; the King is a fine man and most gracious, and he was kind to her. The palace was a sight to behold – I have never seen such wall paintings and columns, or such magnificent gardens.’

Trying to get Hamelin to describe something beyond the mundane detail had always been like pulling teeth. He was not insensitive, just lacked the poet’s eye and vocabulary. ‘Yes, I saw it all myself long ago in another lifetime. Perhaps in hindsight I should have stayed there. I am glad my daughter received kindness from her husband. I wished it for her.’

‘She will flourish,’ Hamelin replied. ‘She showed sense and fortitude on the journey and she knew her role when we arrived.’ He cleared his throat, slightly embarrassed. ‘She took my hand as we were leaving and asked to be reminded to all in England, especially her lady mother.’

Alienor bit her lip. A lady mother she barely knew given the many times they had been apart.

Henry
returned, limping worse than before after having the wound probed and dressed. Alienor suspected that the scarlet hue of his face she had first put down to sunburn might be caused by fever. Unable to prevent a wince, he sat down and directed a squire to pour him a fresh cup of watered wine. The glare he sent round the room challenged anyone to comment.

A squire approached, leading a messenger, whom Alienor recognised as Wigain, one of Harry’s clerks who often rode as a messenger when personal business was involved. The man’s garments were sweat-soaked and his satchel was powdered with chalky dust kicked up by the speed of his horse.

‘Sire.’ He knelt and, with head bowed, handed Henry a letter.

Henry broke the seal and opened the parchment to read it. The impassive expression on his face did not change, except to set like stone.

‘Sire, I am sorry. I tried to catch the first messenger, but he had too great a start on me.’

‘Get out,’ Henry snapped.

Wigain was swift to obey, like a rabbit down a hole with the hound on its tail.

Henry palmed his hand over his face and then looked at Alienor. ‘The child is dead. Found unbreathing in his cradle.’

She clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘No!’

‘He lived for just three days.’ He swallowed.

‘God rest his poor little soul.’ At least he had drawn breath in the world and thus had been baptised and would go to heaven, but it was little consolation. ‘Harry and Marguerite – dear sweet Jesu, they must be distraught.’

Henry said harshly, ‘You see now why I cannot put any trust in him? You lean on him and despite the promise when it comes to holding fast there is nothing there. First a child and then no child.’

‘You do not mean that.’ She was appalled. ‘It is your grief
and disappointment speaking. Our firstborn only lived for three years. Would you say the same of yourself?’

He clenched his fists. ‘I was not there when he died,’ he said. ‘Do not blame me for your lack.’

Alienor recoiled as if he had hit her, and could not speak, all words stolen by his cruelty.

Henry pushed himself upright and turned to Hamelin. ‘We are not staying. Tell the grooms to saddle the horses; we’ll push on to Winchester.’

‘I am sorry,’ Hamelin said. He looked at Alienor to include her in his words. ‘Such news always tears the heart.’

Henry made an impatient sound. ‘There is nothing to be done. If you fall off a horse, you get straight back in the saddle. The child is born, the child is dead. Grieving will not bring him back. They must try again when Marguerite has been churched.’

Hamelin did not reply but a muscle flickered in his cheek. ‘I will give the order to the grooms,’ he said, and left the room.

‘Have you no compassion?’ Alienor demanded in a broken voice, and then shook her head. ‘No, I am foolish even to ask.’

‘Of course I am sorry the child is dead,’ Henry snapped, a feverish glitter in his eyes. ‘He would have been my grandson and added lustre to my line. But it is pointless to weep over something ended before it is begun. Say your prayers, madam, and have done. They are young; there will be others.’

‘So you say, but you take God for granted at your peril.’

‘God!’ Henry spat the word as if it were a molten ingot and he the accused being made to carry it over the distance of trial by hot iron. Clamping his jaw, he limped from the chamber.

He was running away but Alienor knew it was futile, because what he was running from would always dog his heels, and one day it would catch him.

December
was an iron month; the ground had been hard with frost since the first week and although the shortest day was over, the daylight barely seemed increased and Alienor felt as if she was spending all her time in darkness. She had received few visitors over the past eighteen months and news of the outside world was hard to come by. Sometimes the Bishop of Salisbury brought her crumbs of information, but mostly she was kept in ignorance. She heard in passing that Henry had been threatened with interdict over his refusal to set a marriage day for Richard and Alais, but that, like the marriage, it had not come to pass.

The building work had been completed and now a full wall curtained off the palace making her surroundings more oppressive than ever. Henry had gone to Normandy, returning in late summer and had spent Christmas at Winchester. She had half expected to join him, but no summons had arrived.

On the feast of the Nativity she had attended mass in the cathedral, the interior lit up like the heart of a frozen dark jewel. Her breath had clouded the midnight air and the cold had so utterly enmeshed her that by the end of the ceremony she could barely move and her very sinews seemed to be made of ice.

There had been no company, no merriment, music or feasting. A freezing fog had descended that night and Sarum had become a pale crown of bones caught fast in clinging droplets of cloud. Alienor felt as though she was disappearing, becoming a wraith. This place would vanish with her walled
up inside it and only other damned souls would know she was here. The Christ child was born, but where was the light?

In the gathering dusk of the third day after the Nativity Alienor wrapped herself in her cloak and went for a walk in order to stretch her legs and relieve the monotony by gazing at a different set of walls. The cathedral bell tolled the hour of vespers and the sound hung on the air as she walked past the solitary guard, clapping his mittened hands together in a fruitless effort to keep warm.