The Autumn Throne (18 page)

He
invited her to play chess as they had done in the days before he had shut her away to rot at Sarum. Watching him set up the board reminded Alienor to ask after his bastard son Jeoffrey with whom she had often played, and who owned a precious set of pieces given to him by his grandmother the Empress.

‘He has renounced the bishopric of Lincoln,’ Henry said. ‘He may yet take holy orders, but for now I have employed him as my chancellor and he performs the task very well.’

Alienor narrowed her gaze. She had an uneasy truce with Jeoffrey. He was Henry’s firstborn son begotten on a favourite mistress now deceased. She suspected him of ambitions above his station and those fears were resurrected now, especially as he had forsaken holy orders. ‘Indeed? Then I hope to see him over the coming season.’

Henry allowed her to make the first move. ‘Do not worry. I love him, but we both know his place.’

The statement was ambiguous, deliberately so she could tell.

As the game progressed, she took pleasure in pitting her wits against his. Their verbal sparring was satisfying, the rough edges smoothed out by the boundaries of their truce. Henry seemed to be enjoying it too, and she realised that despite being surrounded by courtiers and men with whom he had long-standing social relationships, he was still alone. The King on his pedestal. He had removed his consort, his queen, from hers and there was no one to hold that place in her stead. Substitutes such as Harry’s wife Marguerite did not fulfil that role with the same gravitas. Perhaps he was trying to set her back in her place, only he dared not let her stand in too much light. She must be under control and subordinate.

She played her game with skill and determination and eventually they arrived at a stalemate. Henry gave her a sardonic smile as he pushed to his feet. ‘Enough for tonight,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow I will win.’

Alienor arched her brows. ‘Are you so certain of that?’

He
gave a soft laugh. ‘Oh yes, I only deal in certainties.’

When he had gone, Alienor sat before the dying fire, wrapped in her fur-lined cloak, and finished her cup of wine. She had learned long ago that nothing was certain.

Alienor approached the cradle and looked at her baby grandson gurgling on the soft lambskins. He had recently been fed by his wet nurse and was content with the world. Fine golden-brown hair glinted on his skull and feathered his brows. His eyes were the mutable blue of all small infants, and his face soft-featured without definition. He was long-limbed and sturdy though, and the sight of him made her smile.

She had several grandchildren born to her daughters but only knew of them through letters and messengers, although that state of affairs might soon change. Her daughter Matilda, Duchess of Saxony, had been sent into exile with her husband and three of their children over a dispute with their overlord, Emperor Heinrich. They had sought refuge at Henry’s court in Normandy. Henry had welcomed them and was trying to negotiate a reconciliation that would allow them to return home, but it might take a long time even with intensive diplomacy.

It was a sweet pain to Alienor knowing they were so close to her, yet inaccessible. The truce between herself and Henry did not extend as far as permitting her to cross the Narrow Sea to see them.

‘He is beautiful,’ she said to Isabel as the baby gave her a gummy smile. She could not resist picking him up and holding his delicious weight in her arms. It was a long time since she
had cuddled an infant and he was a bundle of innocence, even if he had been born of circumstances that no one discussed.

‘I have never known one with so sweet a nature.’ Isabel was smiling too, but her expression was careworn and apprehensive. ‘I do not understand why John insisted he be called Richard though, and Henry has endorsed it.’

Alienor carried the baby to the window. ‘Who knows why John does anything? Were I to hazard a guess I would say it is because Richard is a proven commander performing a man’s work as Count of Poitou, and if he grows up to be like his uncle Richard then he will be exalted.’ She stroked the infant’s cheek and thought too that here was something Richard did not have, and she would not put it past John to give his son the name in order to goad his older brother. ‘How is his mother?’

Isabel bit her lip. ‘It was difficult for her. It was not an easy birth – he was a big, strong baby. He went straight to the wet nurse and she has had little to do with him – better that way. Hamelin has had a good offer of marriage for her from Robert de Lacy. He is an older man, steady and decent.’

‘And Belle?’ She stroked her grandson’s cheek. Rewarded with another beaming smile, she experienced a small flood of painful joy.

‘She shall do what is expected of her,’ Isabel said flatly. ‘She knows her choices are limited and that if she is ever to win herself back into Hamelin’s good graces she must behave in an exemplary manner. It is not enough to be good; she has to be better than good, for her own sake and that of her sisters. For now she bides her time at Shaftesbury with her aunt.’

Alienor’s stomach tightened. She knew what it was to be a prisoner; yet the girl had made her own fetters by choosing to do as she had done. She felt guilty that John had been involved and had made his own dishonourable choices, but there was nothing she could do.

‘I am glad you brought him for me to see. Has it been decided what will become of him?’

‘He
is to be raised at Woodstock with Ida de Tosney’s child,’ Isabel said. ‘I am taking him there myself.’

‘You are not keeping him?’

Isabel shook her head. ‘It would be unwise, and anyway, Hamelin would not allow it. He …’ Tears sparkled in her eyes. ‘Ah, let it be. Time will heal the wounds; that is the only remedy.’

But it would leave scars, not least on her friendship with Isabel for all that their blood was mingled in the veins of this child.

The next morning Isabel set out for Woodstock with the wet nurse and the baby. Alienor waved them farewell with a forced smile and a heavy heart. Worse things happened as she had cause to know, but it would take a long time for the ripples from this to smooth out and settle.

Returning to her chamber she began composing a letter to the Bishop of Worcester but was interrupted when a messenger arrived from her daughter Matilda. When the man was admitted to her presence she was surprised to see Robert of London, one of William Marshal’s tourney companions. He was a young hearth knight of proven ability on the battlefield and she would not have expected him to be bearing messages, unless there was a problem.

His complexion was flushed and his eyes glittered with fever. Kneeling to her, he almost toppled over. Alienor was immediately concerned, thinking that something dreadful had happened to Harry or Matilda, but the letters he presented from her daughter were routine matters. He could have been coming to England anyway and been chosen as an opportune messenger, but he appeared to have travelled in urgency, and he was clearly suffering.

‘Messire, you are not well.’

‘It is nothing, madam, a chill picked up along my journey.’ His voice was rusty with congestion. ‘I should have stayed in the deck shelter when I was on board ship.’

She noted the covert sign he made with a forefinger to tell
her there was more to his message than met the eye. Her curiosity intensified, as did her concern.

‘Madam, I—’ He started to speak but hunched over, coughing so hard that he could barely breathe.

‘See that this man is found a wholesome chamber and fetch a physician,’ Alienor commanded the servants who came at her signal to half carry him away. Gazing after him, she wondered what was afoot.

Later she visited him on the pretext of concern for his well-being and found him lying on a rope-framed bed in a well-lit chamber often used by the scribes. A physician had bled him to relieve his raging fever and he had been wrapped in a scarlet blanket to further assist recovery.

‘How are you feeling, messire?’ She gestured him to stay where he was when he struggled to rise.

He screwed up his face. ‘As though a thousand demons are playing drums in my head, madam,’ he said hoarsely, ‘but I hope to recover soon thanks to God’s mercy and the care I am receiving.’

‘You should drink your tisane.’ She took the cup standing at the bedside and helped him sip from it.

He drank a small amount to soothe his throat and then said, ‘Madam, I have to tell you’ – his gaze went beyond her to the servants going about their business but easily within earshot – ‘that I am very grateful for your care.’

Alienor picked up the bowl and cloth standing on a stool at the bedside and sent the nearest attendant to refresh it and instructed another to bring some nourishing broth. ‘Now,’ she said, the moment they were alone. ‘What do you have to tell me that is so important and secret I have to dismiss my servants?’

He swallowed painfully. ‘William the Marshal has sent me to tell you that he has been accused by men of his lord’s household of engaging in a secret affair with the Young Queen. They say that the Marshal is a usurper in my lord’s bedchamber as well as on the tourney field.’

Alienor
was horrified. ‘Oh, that is preposterous!’

The knight coughed. ‘I assure you on my life, madam, that it is not true. The Marshal is an honourable man who would rather die than do such a thing; he is very wronged and has asked me to make it apparent to you so that no distrust may come between you and no dishonour touch you as it has touched his reputation.’ Febrile tears glittered in his eyes. ‘I would not have borne you this message save that it was necessary for you to know, and that the Young King is being badly advised.’

‘I do not believe a word of it,’ Alienor repeated. ‘William would never do this.’

‘He is under threat of banishment at court. My young lord no longer invites him to share his trencher or dine with him at table. He has forbidden men to speak with him and his position has become untenable.’

Alienor knew well how dangerous the court could be, with factions vying for influence and seeking to destroy their rivals by whatever means they could. William, with his prowess, his charm, his closeness to her son, had long been a target for jealous men. He had a great deal of influence with Harry, and if he was ousted from that position, others would rush to fill the gap – others, who unlike William, had no allegiance to her.

‘I fear the Young King is being fed bad advice from all quarters,’ Robert said throatily. ‘William says he will appeal to the King for justice in this matter when the court comes to Caen at Christmas, but if it goes ill for him, what is to be done?’

Alienor clucked her tongue in annoyance. Appealing to Henry would do no good because he was ambivalent towards William and as likely to make him a scapegoat as exonerate him, depending on his political requirements. To deprive Harry of his very competent marshal might just be something Henry wanted to do.

‘When you are well,’ she said, ‘return to William and reassure him that I know better than to give credence to gossip from such sources. He has my goodwill always, and I will do what I can for him.’

A
look of deep relief crossed the knight’s flushed features. ‘Thank you, madam, thank you.’

‘I will write to the King and to my son.’ For what good it would do, but her role as Queen allowed her to intercede. William had saved her life once, and she would do her best for him. ‘How is my son?’ When Harry took to listening to flatterers and deceivers, it always meant he was unsettled and seeking comfort in their assurances. Men who would furnish him with a tapestry of lies instead of the truth so that all he could see was the tale they wove and not the truth behind it. He needed William Marshal to hold him to reality.

Robert of London dropped his gaze. ‘He is well, madam, but a trifle restless, as to be expected.’

The servants returned from their errands and Alienor and the knight ceased their conversation. She had much to think about. There was danger here. Her life had fallen back into a daily routine that was comfortable enough to breed a kind of stultifying complacency. She had her ladies, she had jewels and clothes. She was permitted to go riding, to write letters and receive them, although she knew they were opened and vetted. It was like wading in a sea that looked calm and smooth but in fact was seething with undercurrents so dangerous that a single shove would be enough to push her under and drown her. Harry was bound to be unsettled when he saw his younger brothers governing their own territories and being given responsibilities that never came his way. She felt for him and feared for him too. He needed William at his side to protect him from himself and everyone else.

While Robert of London recovered from his malady, Alienor wrote to Harry, entreating him to be careful and think well on the political ramifications of what he was doing. She wrote to Henry too, in an understated way that he would not take as a challenge, saying she had heard disturbing rumours, and that he should not trust those who spread them. She did not write to William. Robert of London could convey verbally
what she had to say when he was well enough to leave, and she would send William a gold ring in token of her support. He would know what it meant.