The Autumn Throne (37 page)

He turned to her now with a look in his eyes that told her his mind was already on the road. ‘It is time, Mama,’ he said. ‘We shall meet again in Messina before Lent and celebrate a wedding, God willing.’

‘God willing,’ Alienor repeated, ‘and flesh holding up.’ It was a compliment that he took for granted that she was fully capable of journeying to Pamplona to fetch Berenguela, and
then crossing the Alps to join him at his planned winter camp in Sicily.

‘You are indomitable, Mama, I know you will succeed.’

‘Rather I refuse to be daunted and I do what I must, but yes, until Messina.’

He dropped to one knee and bowed his head and she put her hands to his shining red-gold hair and for a moment gripped it between her fingers. ‘God keep you safe,’ she said, ‘and go with my blessing. You are the light of my life, you know that.’ She stooped and kissed him on the lips and then let him go and stepped back. It was the hardest thing she had ever had to do, giving away to others the thing she held most precious in the world.

He rose lithely to his feet, smiled at her, and went to the door.

Descending the stairs from her chamber, her jaw was tight with determination, but when she emerged into the hot sunlight and a great cheer surged towards her like a wave she raised her head and walked into it, with a smile fixed on her lips.

In the late afternoon the sunlight was golden, slanting through the high windows in the abbey church at Fontevraud and shimmering on the embroidered purple silk cloth covering the plinth of Henry’s tomb. Alienor rested her hands on the cool fabric. It was difficult to believe that Henry’s rotting corpse lay beneath this slab. All that vigour and energy dissipated into oblivion.

It was almost a year since his death and still she struggled to come to terms with it. She still expected him to burst into the room, cloak flying, eyes glowing with purpose, covered in scratches from his latest escapade in the hunting field. Waiting for that door to open kept her on edge because she feared that if he did come to her, it would be as a young man vibrant with laughter and all his unsquandered future before him, and that indeed would be too much grief to bear.

‘Ah Henry,’
she said softly, ‘what might have been. Even in your tomb, you haunt me.’ She stroked the silk and watched the sheen follow the motion of her fingers. ‘I thought you would send me to my grave, but you are a prisoner of death and I am still of this world with so much to do after all the time you wasted.’

She eased to her feet, wincing as her knees and hips twinged, informing her that she was indeed still of this world.

‘I shall visit you again,’ she said. ‘Now I am the one who comes and goes as I please.’

She departed the church with an almost defiant flourish and did not look round, but there was pressure at the back of her eyes, and when she drew a breath it caught on her larynx in a single involuntary sob.

Sancho, King of Navarre, regarded Alienor from heavy-lidded dark eyes. He was a handsome man, pleasant of manner, with a deliberate way of speaking that gave a first impression of a slow wit, but soon became apparent was the result of deep and measured intelligence. His eldest son and namesake, standing at the side of his chair, was quicker and lighter, but cut from the same cloth as his sire. He was also very tall, and Alienor wondered if she would have to crane her neck when it came to meeting Richard’s proposed bride.

Alienor had arrived in Pamplona that morning and been shown to a richly furnished set of chambers in the magnificent Olite Palace where she had been able to rest and refresh herself and change out of travelling garments into a stylish silk gown and light cloak. Now she was meeting Sancho in
his chamber prior to attending a banquet that had been prepared in her honour.

‘It is a long journey you plan to bring my daughter to King Richard’s winter camp in Messina,’ Sancho said. Rather than Navarrese, he spoke the Lenga Romana of Alienor’s most southerly dominions. Hearing its cadences, even with the Spanish inflection, took her back to her childhood when the troubadours and men of Bordeaux at her father’s court had spoken and sung in that tongue.

‘I would ask nothing of your daughter that I would not ask of myself. I am sure she has inherited the qualities of resilience and fortitude from her illustrious ancestors.’

‘Indeed she has, and many others besides. Berenguela is a jewel amongst women, and I do not give her away lightly.’

‘Your prudence is commendable,’ Alienor murmured. The prospective bride was twenty-five years old, which was late for a woman of her standing to be unwed, but Sancho was clearly a fond and shrewd father, prepared to wait for the most advantageous match. ‘Nor does my son choose his bride without deep consideration.’

Sancho directed a servant to refill Alienor’s cup with watered wine. ‘Your son is a great and famous king. Not for nothing is he honoured as the Lion-Hearted. He is Christendom’s hope to take back Jerusalem from the infidel. Any father would be proud to see his daughter joined to such a one.’

Despite his words praising Richard, Alienor heard the reserve in his tone and knew that negotiations were far from over. Sitting up straight, she prepared to play. It was like a challenging game of chess – one she intended to win.

‘One matter that does concern me,’ Sancho said, ‘is that your son still appears to be betrothed to the sister of the King of France. He has assured my envoys that this is not the case, but am I to take this purely on trust? As you have said, I am a prudent father, and I have the best interests of my daughter at heart.’

‘Your concern and caution commend you,’ Alienor replied
sincerely. ‘If Richard has not yet informed the King of France about his change of mind in respect of his sister it is because the situation is delicate – as doubtless you know from your own envoys. I am willing to swear on holy relics that my son has no intention of marrying Princess Alais.’

‘No, no.’ Sancho made a small tutting sound and looked shocked. ‘Madam, I would ask no such undertaking of the Queen of England. Your word and the very fact of your presence are proof of your sincerity, but a father’s caution makes me anxious for my daughter.’

‘Rest assured that should we reach mutual agreement, I will personally escort Berenguela to Richard and see the marriage solemnised,’ she said. ‘It is no light undertaking for me to cross the Alps in the middle of winter, and I hope my determination to do this thing will set your mind at rest. Berenguela and Richard will be married as soon as we arrive in Messina.’

‘And if you arrive in Lent when no marriages may take place?’

‘Then your daughter shall be well chaperoned by me and the Dowager Queen of Sicily and married when Lent is over. The sooner we can conclude negotiations and set out, the better.’

Sancho stroked his beard. ‘Indeed, and I am eager for that to be the case.’

They settled down to haggle specific points and clauses of the marriage details, especially involving Berenguela’s dowry. It was all very subtle, gracious and diplomatic, but still boiled down to a cross between playing chess for stakes and bargaining in the market place.

Eventually, the terms concluded to mutual satisfaction, Alienor leaned back in her chair and took a sip of the dark Navarrese wine. ‘Perhaps I might be permitted to meet my son’s prospective bride.’ She put a light emphasis on the word ‘prospective’. The final decision would depend upon the impression Berenguela made on her.

‘Of course,
madam, and I believe, even though I am a fond father, that you will look favourably on my daughter when you see her.’ Sancho sent an attendant to fetch Berenguela.

Alienor inclined her head. It was a long way to come if expectations were not met, and she was filled with both curiosity and apprehension.

The young woman who entered the room, accompanied by a flock of attendants, was indeed tall like her father and brother, and well-developed. Her gown of dark blue wool revealed the generous curves of her figure but was modestly cut. She wore a plain white veil and a gold circlet over plaited ropes of wiry raven-black hair.

She sank in a graceful curtsey to her father, and then to Alienor, her head bowed, but her spine straight and firm. She remained in that position until Sancho raised her to her feet, kissed her cheek with affection, and presented her to Alienor.

Berenguela raised her lids and returned Alienor’s gaze with measured steadiness. Her eyes were dark brown with thick black eyelashes and slight but not unattractive warm shadows on and beneath the lid. She had sharp cheekbones, a long, thin nose and a cleft chin. The entire effect was striking and handsome rather than being softly feminine.

‘I am pleased to serve you, madam.’ Berenguela’s voice was quiet but assured.

‘As I am to meet you,’ Alienor replied. The young woman had an air of tranquillity about her – or perhaps calm reserve. She must be apprehensive about this meeting, yet her actions were measured – almost nun-like. ‘I hope we shall come to know each other well.’

Berenguela dipped her head in acknowledgement and folded her hands modestly in front of her waist.

Alienor presented her with a small ivory casket that held a gold ring set with a large deep blue sapphire. ‘The King of England gives you this as a mark of his esteem and prays you wear it in token of your future union.’

A flush mantled Berenguela’s cheeks as she took the casket
with grave courtesy. ‘I esteem him for this gift. Be assured I shall wear it with honour and to honour him – and hope that we shall meet very soon.’

What would Richard think of her? Alienor did not know her son when it came to women. She had never asked him, and he had never volunteered information. The only knowledge she did have had come from John with his tale of the whore-sharing with Philippe of France, and she had pushed it to one side because it was more difficult to contemplate than the notion of a single mistress or even rampant lechery. Yet this young woman would be the vessel on which Richard begot his heirs and they would have to come to agreement in the bedchamber.

‘I hope so too, and to that end your father has agreed that we shall leave Pamplona in three days’ time and begin the journey to Sicily.’

Berenguela’s flush deepened and she curtseyed again to Alienor before departing with her gift and her ladies, her movements serene and graceful.

‘You will find that my daughter has a well of deep and quiet strength,’ Sancho said. ‘She is a godly young woman who will do her duty, but there is more to her than that as those who know and love her come to find out. She will make a courageous and fitting queen for your son.’

‘Yes,’ Alienor said, ‘I am certain she will.’ But she was not certain at all, and could only trust in God that Berenguela would suit.

‘You ride well,’ Alienor said to Berenguela with approval.

Berenguela patted her palfrey’s neck and smiled. ‘My father insisted it was a necessary skill to learn. Often a wife has to travel between her husband’s territories, and when a household is always on the move, it is easier if one has that ability.’

‘Your father is wise. Mine was of the same opinion and I was taught to ride from the moment I could hold the reins. I have blessed him many a time for that forethought.’

They had
set out that morning from Pamplona in a colourful array, silk banners snapping in the warm breeze and sunbursts flashing on helms and harness – a parade for the citizens and an ostentatious display of status and wealth. People had worn their finest silks and musicians had accompanied them along the route, playing and singing, beating the time on taut skin drums. The crowd had cheered, thrown flowers, and in their turn received showers of silver coins from the departing bridal party.

Berenguela had begun the journey perched sideways in a padded chair seat, her feet resting on a platform while a richly caparisoned attendant led the horse, small silver bells jingling on bridle and breastband. Two miles beyond Pamplona’s gates, with the crowds gone, Berenguela had exchanged the chair saddle for a travel one in order to sit astride. Now it was mid-afternoon and they had at least another three hours of riding in front of them before they stopped for the night. Alienor was hoping they would reach Espinal, but if not they would pitch tents. The first leg of their journey was three hundred and fifty miles to Montpellier and the easier stretch. From there they faced an arduous journey over the Alps which would coincide with the harshest winter months.

‘When my father told me I was to wed King Richard of England, I was pleased and honoured,’ Berenguela said. ‘Navarre is a small country, but important as a guardian of the pilgrim roads, and our alliance will be like a mail shirt, helping to protect Aquitaine’s southern flank.’

Alienor eyed her with interest. ‘Your father talks politics to you?’

‘And my brother Sancho too,’ Berenguela said, pink colour rising in her sallow cheeks. ‘It is essential I understand these things so I can be useful to Navarre and to my family. Also to my husband – should he wish it of course.’

‘And if he did not wish it? Would you keep to your sewing?’ Alienor thought of Henry and her mistaken belief when she
married him that he would value her opinion and make her half of the whole.