The Autumn Throne (38 page)

Berenguela said thoughtfully, ‘It would be his decision of course. I would find things to occupy my time. There are always opportunities to do good works in the world and prayer is a great solace to me. I would hope to bear my husband children and they too would occupy my time.’

‘Indeed,’ Alienor said. ‘I am looking forward to that day, if God wills it.’ It was the reason for this haste, so that Richard could marry and set about procreating an heir. He was a big, strong man, powerful as the lion of his nickname, but Geoffrey and Harry had been strong young men too and both lay in their graves. She was pinning her hopes on this pious but determined young woman.

‘I hope I will please him.’ Berenguela gnawed her lower lip. ‘I will do my best, but I know so little about him. Madam, would you tell me what I should know that might be helpful?’

‘I am his mother, I do not know what will be helpful to a wife,’ Alienor said with a rueful smile. ‘But since you ask, he is a great soldier, as is your brother. You must embrace the warrior in him and allow that part its free rein. I have not known you for long, but I can see already that you will not cling and be helpless, which is all to the good – Richard has no time for such people, be they male or female. I advise you to be practical in your dealings with him but beyond that I cannot advise you more save to say that your own nature will dictate his response. He is not unaccustomed to women, even if he lives a military life – he grew up with three sisters.’

Berenguela absorbed this like a conscientious diner absorbing nutrition. Alienor saw her glance covertly at her own brother, Sancho, who was escorting them part of the way, and suspected the young woman was taking him as her example of a man of military standing. Richard and Sancho of Navarre were friends with mutual politics and goals, but that did not make them alike as men.

‘I am
looking forward to meeting one of those sisters soon,’ Berenguela said with a smile.

‘So am I.’ Alienor was pensive. ‘Joanna’s husband died a few months ago, and I need to know how she is faring – there has been so little detail.’

‘I am sorry. Yes, we heard the news in Pamplona and were shocked. God rest his soul.’

‘He was still a young man.’ Alienor shook her head. ‘And he and Joanna had no heir – their son died soon after he was born. I am concerned for my daughter, although I suppose there will be news once we cross into Italy. At least Richard will be able to take command of matters as her brother and head of the household while he is in Messina, but it means making new plans. Richard was counting on William and Joanna for aid, but now he will have to negotiate with William’s successor – whoever that might turn out to be. Still, that is a bridge we cross when we come to it, and there are many of those to negotiate before we arrive. You and Joanna will be good company for each other.’ She clicked her tongue and urged her palfrey to a swifter trot, her thoughts agitating her to increase the pace.

The women journeyed on towards Montpellier, skirting Toulouse which was hostile territory, but their well-guarded entourage, led by the ever-watchful mercenary captain Mercadier, was not approached and they passed through the landscape like a cavalcade of illuminated ghosts.

A fortnight into their journey they paused at midday by a glittering stream to let the horses drink, to fill their own water bottles, and eat. The sun still held warmth and the day had been mild. Clouds of midges danced above the grass at the water’s edge, rising and falling like the notes of a song, and a few late bees blundered among the last of the alpine blossoms.

Alienor listened to the water rushing over the stones and watched the translucent patterns twist and change like silver ribbons rushing downstream. The sun warmed her spine and she drew a deep breath of life.

Belbel unfolded
leather-seated stools from one of the baggage carts for Alienor and Berenguela to sit on while they ate and the rest of the entourage dismounted to stretch their legs and ease travel-tired limbs. On a sudden impulse Alienor removed her red silk hose and her shoes. She draped her cloak over the stool, hitched her gown through her belt peasant-fashion and, walking precariously on the stones and shingle, went to paddle in the water. The first contact was an icy shock, and took her breath, but filled her with exhilaration.

Berenguela stared at her open-mouthed, the piece of bread in her hand forgotten.

‘Come,’ Alienor beckoned. ‘Refresh yourself.’

Berenguela hesitated and Alienor beckoned again, more peremptorily. ‘Come, come. This is not an opportunity you will have every day. You too, Belbel.’ She waded further into the stream, up to her ankles. The edge of her skirt began to wick up water, but she did not care because it would soon dry while the weather was warm and she loved the feel of the grit and pebbles between her toes.

Belbel needed no urging and, slipping off her shoes and stockings, splashed into the stream beside her mistress.

Berenguela hesitated, looking round. Sancho grinned and waved her on to the deed, while showing no inclination to do so himself, and Mercadier raised his brows, grunted, and champed his way through his bread and cheese, his expression stoical.

Somewhat reluctantly, Berenguela joined Alienor, raising her skirts in an effort not to wet the hem too much, while exposing as little of her legs as possible.

Alienor watched her face contort at the coldness of the water. ‘When I was a young girl at court in Paris I was rebuked for dancing barefoot in the dew of the gardens by no less than the sainted Bernard of Clairvaux and then by my mother-in-law. It was behaviour inappropriate to a queen, they thought.’

Berenguela swished her foot and looked uncomfortable. Alienor suspected she would be on the side of obeying propriety.

‘I was
held prisoner for fifteen years by my husband,’ Alienor continued. ‘Even when I was not shut away and permitted to attend court gatherings I was unable to do anything save by his will. Now I am in a valley not far from Roncesvalles where Roland defended the pass against the Saracens, and I am refreshing my feet in a stream where perhaps he too stopped for a moment, and I am breathing the unsullied air of freedom. I may do as I choose. This stream has always run here – it ran when Roland was alive; it ran when I was a prisoner; and today I will bathe my feet in it and give praise to God.’

Berenguela looked chagrined. ‘You must have had great strength and fortitude, madam,’ she said. ‘I think I understand.’

‘I hope you do. I survived, but it comes at a price.’

Leaving the stream, Alienor sat down to eat while her feet dried and was not surprised when Berenguela immediately followed her. Belbel walked a little way upstream, stooping to collect coloured stones.

Alienor enjoyed the pungent goats’ cheese, dried sausage and bread, strong and salty on her palate. ‘The journey is going to grow more difficult,’ she warned Berenguela. ‘We should enjoy the moment. Perhaps the most important lesson I have learned is to embrace the small pleasures and turn them into lasting memories.’

Alienor and Berenguela pushed on with their journey, stopping at nightfall to claim hospitality at monasteries, castles and towns that were friendly. Between such accommodation, they camped under the sky in canvas tents. At Montpellier Berenguela’s brother Sancho took a tender farewell of his
sister and returned to Navarre, leaving the bridal party to continue on its way towards the Alps and Italy.

The season was advancing and the benign day in late October when they had bathed their feet in a stream and eaten bread and cheese with the sun warm on their backs faded into memory. After several days of cold, heavy rain, the gentle streams became rushing torrents of white water, intimidating to cross. Thick fog, as dense as a wet woollen blanket, followed the rain. Barely able to see ten yards in any direction, their progress slowed to a crawl for the best part of a week.

Alienor had still not gained a full impression of Berenguela. She was self-contained, pious and not given to any kind of frivolity, that much was obvious, but she was steadfast and no complainer. Richard would approve of those traits at least. The best to hope for was that she would be a sound, trustworthy wife who would fulfil her role of queen, bear children and provide a firm footing that would allow Richard to devote the time he needed to his affairs.

As they approached the Montegenevre Pass, the weather grew progressively colder. There rain turned to flurries of sleet and snow, and in between there were hard frosts and clear blue skies contrasting with the white dazzle of the mountain peaks, grey rocks thrusting through the white crumpled white coverings like the bones of giants. Everyone donned fur-lined gowns and cloaks, and stuffed their waxed riding boots with fleece, although the hard physical toil of the route often made them sweat inside their garments.

Alienor pushed on, fighting the weather, using every hour of daylight they had, and often the half twilight of the snowscape, determined to make as much distance as she could before the weather closed in. Despite all her efforts, the number of miles covered in a day continued to tumble with the temperature and the women slept together at night, bundled in their furs for warmth.

‘It does not seem possible that there can be such extremes,’ Alienor remarked to Berenguela, her breath frosting the air
above the bedclothes. ‘In Outremer, in Jordan and Jerusalem in the high summer, men long for this kind of cold.’

‘At least there are no flies to ward off, and no weevils in the bread,’ Berenguela said pragmatically. ‘And no wasps and scorpions either.’

Alienor gave a rueful smile. ‘That is true. We should indeed count our blessings.’

One morning in mid-December, Alienor was awake before the last stars had set and she immediately set about chivvying the servants and soldiers to build up the fire, heat water and food, and see to the horses. Fresh snowfall dusted the ground like sifted flour even if for now the sky was clear. Mercadier was awake too, bundled in his cloak, drinking steaming broth from a cup held in his mittened hands. She wondered if he ever slept. He had been talking to one of the guides they had picked up at Montpellier, and now he turned to Alienor.

‘Madam, Jacques says there is more snow coming. Do not ask me how he knows these things, but I believe him.’

‘How long?’

‘This evening, he says.’

‘Then we should make haste while it is clear. Tell the men to hurry.’

Mercadier gave her one of his looks, not insolent, but assessing and sharp. He put down his cup and served her with a cup of hot broth from the cauldron that had been standing in the night ashes of the fire. Taking it with a nod of thanks, Alienor returned to the tent.

Berenguela was awake and having her wiry black hair bound into plaits by her maid Zylda. Stamping snow from her shoes, Alienor gave Berenguela the news and that they must make haste. ‘We must not be caught out on these mountains in a blizzard.’

Zylda pinned up Berenguela’s braids and covered them with a linen cap and veil. Berenguela, already dressed in her fur-lined gown, pulled on her boots. ‘What can I do to help?’

Together the women and their maids packed up the contents
of the tent and then took down the tent itself. Berenguela worked nimbly and willingly and Alienor noted her practicality with approval and thought that Richard would approve too.

By the time a red dawn rose out of the east, they were on their way. Last night’s snow crunched under the horses’ hooves and the frozen air was painful to breathe. The sun stained the peaks the pink of washed blood that gradually bleached out to become a dazzling white that burned the eyes. Alienor marvelled at the majesty of it all even while acknowledging how deadly it was. They were minute, insignificant creatures toiling through God’s creation, their survival only made possible by His grace. She sent up prayers to St Bernard of Menthon and the Holy Virgin Mary to intercede with the Almighty and keep them safe, and heard Berenguela entreating God too, one hand on the reins, the other running her prayer beads through her fingers.

The path continued upwards in a series of sharp twists and snaking curves. On occasional straight patches they made better progress but even that was a careful plod with eyes peeled for landslides and tumbling snow or boulders. At midday they heard a crack, followed by a sound like thunder, and watched an avalanche of snow rumble down the steep slope of a peak to their left, tearing down trees and obliterating all in its path. Berenguela crossed herself. Their guide shook his head and kissed the crucifix around his neck. Alienor tried not to look at the snow-clad slopes lowering over their own path lest thinking about them precipitated a similar tumble. If that happened, their party would be covered and not found again until spring.

By noon the sun had grown hazy and snow clouds gathered, dense and tinged with yellow. Their guide hastened them on, whacking the horses on the rump with his staff, anxiously watching the thickening sky and muttering imprecations.

As the first flakes started from sky to ground, they came to a low stone shelter built for pilgrims and herders with stabling at one end of the low-roofed dwelling. Part of the end wall
had fallen in and it was cramped and musty, but it was still sanctuary from the storm and they had wood and charcoal on two of the pack horses to build a small fire. Even before that was done, the snow had intensified to a curtain that obliterated anything else and the rising wind had developed a petulant whine. The travellers gathered around the gusting, smoky fire, ate their rations of hard bread and dried sausage, and said nothing, but all silently acknowledged that without the shelter of the hut, meagre though it was, many of them would have faced death this night.