The Autumn Throne (53 page)

‘Have you heard from Joanna?’ Richenza asked.

Alienor shook her head. ‘Not for a while, but I have no doubt I will and then in a screed. When Joanna writes letters, they take half a day for my scribe to read them to me.’

‘How old is her son now?’ Richenza tweaked Thomas’s nose playfully.

‘Two years this summer. He was born nine months after her marriage to Raymond, so she fulfilled her duty to provide an heir straight away. She seems content enough with him from what she writes, although as usual their vassals are creating difficulties and men will be men.’

‘And Berenguela? Do you hear from her?’

Alienor’s lips tightened. ‘Occasionally. She has settled at Le Mans, but there is no sign of her and Richard coming together to make an heir. She does not encourage him, and he seems to have little interest in her.’ She knew of the speculation about Richard. There were rumours of roistering and whores. He had twice confessed to sins of debauchery and had sworn in public to abjure such pastimes. He did not keep mistresses but he had a son – supposedly, although he had never mentioned the child to her and she had not broached the matter, not after what John had told her. If Richard wanted to bring the boy to Fontevraud then that was fair enough. She was praying that after the summer campaigning season Richard would settle down and attend to the business of begetting an heir. But she had thought that last year and the one before that.

The maids started plaiting Richenza’s hair, Thomas helping them, although his attempt made the tress look like frayed rope.

Alienor
fetched her jewel casket. ‘I have a gift for you. I was sorting through these the other day and I found this.’ She gave Richenza a gold band set with blue cabochon sapphires and milky pearls worked into the points of a star. ‘I used to wear it on my little finger sometimes, but it no longer fits. The Empress of Constantinople gave it to me as a gift when I was there with Louis.’

Richenza tried it on and it fitted perfectly. Seeing it on her granddaughter’s smooth, unblemished little finger, Alienor imagined her own hand when it had been like that.

‘Have you seen the latest fashion in headdresses?’ Richenza asked. ‘I think it might suit you, Grandmère.’

Alienor gave a wry laugh. ‘What makes you think I am interested in new fashions, my dear? They are for younger women who still desire to dazzle the world.’

‘You still receive regular visitors and you will go out visiting yourself when the weather is fine,’ Richenza said. ‘And you will always be a queen.’

Alienor gestured, conceding the point with a smile. ‘Very well then, what is this fashion? Show me.’

‘You need a piece of linen like a swaddling band. Thomas, pass me my sewing basket.’ The child obliged while Richenza pushed her dressed plaits over her shoulders out of her way. Opening the basket she found a strip of linen to suit and dextrously created an accessory that went under Alienor’s chin and was pinned on top of her head and then the veil secured over it with more gold pins. ‘There.’ She showed Alienor the effect in a small silver hand mirror.

‘So it binds up a sagging jawline,’ Alienor remarked. ‘Like a corpse.’

‘But it frames the face and it makes you look regal,’ Richenza said with undiminished enthusiasm. ‘Truly, I would wear it.’ She swiftly improvised one for herself, and Alienor had to admit that it did add dignity and gravitas. It also emphasised Richenza’s eyes which were a deep ocean-blue swept by long dark auburn lashes.

‘And
this is what women in the world at large are wearing now?’

‘Not all of them, Grandmère. There are still few enough that you would not be following everyone else.’

‘And at the same time it is suitable for an old lady in a convent,’ Alienor said, but with a teasing twinkle in her eyes. She loved having Richenza here. Her youth and vivacity brought light and laughter to Alienor’s daily life.

Later the women visited the abbey to pray, although not for too long because Alienor knew Richenza was exactly like Henry and unable to stay still above a few moments. Contemplation and tranquil deep thought were not her strengths. She needed practical things to engage her mind.

Alienor showed her some slabs of tuffeau stone standing under cover of a lean-to shed. ‘At last I have ordered the stone for your grandsire’s tomb … and my own.’

A worried expression crossed Richenza’s face. ‘You’re not going to die yet, Grandmère. I won’t let you!’

Alienor chuckled. ‘Bless you child, I hope not, but that is in God’s hands, and He will take us all when He chooses. But I haven’t yet lost the will to live and I hope He will give me time to instruct the masons.’

A look of relief crossed Richenza’s face. ‘What do you want?’ She stroked the slab of Caen limestone and then rubbed the powdery dust between her fingers.

Alienor pursed her lips. ‘It would please me for others to know who I was. Perhaps I shall have the sculptor portray me reading a book, and leave folk in the future to wonder which pious work I am reading aloud while Henry listens – or they may think perhaps I am keeping my knowledge to myself.’ She flashed Richenza a mischievous smile. ‘And a crown to show I was a queen. In truth it is worldly display but then it is for the living, not the dead. Hah, and a chin strap of course.’

Richenza laughed and shook her head. ‘What of my grandfather?’

‘I do not know yet. He was a great king and he shall have
that dignity, for himself and for his dynasty.’ The twinkle left her gaze. ‘It will not be easy to give instructions about your grandsire. Once I would have said it was because my heart was empty, but that is not the truth. I would do it tomorrow if that were the case. I hesitate because my heart is too full.’

In thoughtful mood the women left the chapel and returned to Alienor’s quarters. They were drinking wine and eating some small savoury tarts when a messenger arrived, sweaty and travel-worn. Alienor saw him in the courtyard through the open door and grimaced. ‘I do not want to be bothered now,’ she told Belbel. ‘Whatever it is can wait until after we have eaten.’

Belbel went out to do her bidding and send the messenger to wait but before she could address him, the man pushed past her and prostrated himself at Alienor’s feet.

‘Madam, you must come at once,’ he panted. ‘The King has been sore wounded and he asks that you come to him.’

Alienor’s breath locked in her throat. ‘What has happened? Where is he? Tell me!’

‘Madam he is at Chalus in the Limousin, besieging the castle,’ the man gasped, his chest heaving. ‘He was walking the perimeter checking the placements of the siege engines and was struck in the shoulder by a crossbow bolt from the walls.’ He pressed his hand to his collar bone to show her the area. ‘The head lodged in the bone and the chirurgeon had to dig for it. Now wound fever has set in and the inflammation has spread. The King was in the grip of fever as I left him, but clear enough to ask for you. Madam, I am so sorry to bring you this news.’ His eyes squeezed shut and two tears plopped onto his cheeks.

‘Give him a drink,’ Alienor said peremptorily. This could not be happening, and yet somehow she had been waiting for this moment for a long time. ‘You will lead the way back by the swiftest route,’ she ordered him as he drank from the cup Belbel had handed to him. ‘Go and make ready and have a groom saddle you a fresh horse.’

Tense
but focused, she made ready to leave. If she could get to Richard in time, she could make a difference she was sure. She had been denied that access to Harry and Geoffrey, but it would not be too late this time; she would not allow it, not with Richard. She needed very little, just a cloak and a spare chemise and gown swiftly rolled into a leather sack strapped to her horse. Other things could be brought by slower sumpter beasts and she delegated one of her knights to sort it out. She sent a servant running to find her physician, Magister Andrew.

‘I am coming with you,’ Richenza said, bundling her own requirements into a baggage pannier. ‘Thomas can stay here with his nurse. You need a kinswoman and companion.’

Alienor nodded brusquely. ‘Yes, but make haste. Belbel, you as well. You’re a good rider and practical. No one else. I cannot afford to be slowed down.’

Murmuring an excuse, Richenza hurried to find the messenger who was standing in the yard bolting down bread and meat as fast as he could and swigging from a pitcher of wine. A groom was saddling a bad-tempered bay that kept lashing out with a vicious hind hoof but was full of spirit.

‘How bad is it?’ she asked him. ‘Tell me true for my grandmother’s sake so that I may help her.’

He gave her a look from eyes dark-ringed with exhaustion, and shook his head. ‘My lady, it is a hundred miles to Chalus. We might get there in time.’

His words hit Richenza like a blow, but she absorbed it and kept her composure because she had to have strength for her grandmother.

Alienor mounted her grey mare, gathered the reins and turned onto the road leading to the abbey gatehouse. She wanted to push the horses but had to hold her impatience and settle for a steady trot because they had many miles to cover and their mounts were not in condition these days for long journeys and would go lame. She was not in a strong physical state
herself, but her need to get to Richard overrode all other concerns.

The party from Fontevraud rode until dark and halted when their mounts began to stumble on the path. Under a fine, clear sky her knights made a fire and raised tents. The horses were picketed with nosebags of oats, and hobbled to graze on the sweet April grass.

Alienor could not eat the bread and cheese in her bundle; the mouthful she did take almost choked her and she abandoned the rest. But she did drink wine, into which Magister Andrew mixed herbs and honey to give her strength.

While the others ate, she paced up and down, sending thoughts and prayers to Richard, imagining them as strands of golden healing fire in the night. He would recover. She refused to countenance any other outcome.

She summoned her scribe and dictated letters to her vassals by lantern light, telling her lords to hold firm for Richard and ignore any foolish rumours they might hear about him being injured. He still lived and they must continue in their loyalty. She wrote also to Hubert Walter and William Marshal, informing them what had happened and warning them to be prepared.

Eventually, in the early hours of the morning she lay down, but slumber was as far away as the stars shining palely over the camp.

‘You should try to sleep, Grandmère,’ murmured Richenza, who was sharing her tent.

Alienor shook her head. ‘How can I close my eyes when my son needs me? How can I not be there for him? No, I must keep watch.’

‘Grandmère—’

‘Say nothing more.’ Alienor held up her hand. ‘Let me endure in my own way as best I can and take your own rest.’

‘If you will not sleep, I shall keep vigil with you in prayer,’ Richenza said with quiet determination. Gripping Alienor’s hands in hers, she began a prayer to the Virgin. After a
hesitation Alienor joined her, and their voices rose towards the dimly lit roof of the tent, one old and cracked with age and exhaustion, the other young and light as springtime. Alienor fixed her gaze on a stitched square where a rip had been patched so that it was whole again. Why could a tent be mended and not a man?

Some time later, Richenza fell asleep in mid-prayer. Alienor folded a blanket over her and then continued her vigil silently, mouthing the words, refusing to close her eyes for an instant.

Before dawn she was out and about, chivvying her company to saddle up, to eat and make ready. Messengers set off with the letters she had dictated the night before. Richenza emerged from the tent binding up her hair, her face puffy and eyes dark-circled.

‘You should not have let me sleep, Grandmère! I wanted to keep vigil with you!’

‘Do not take on,’ Alienor said shortly. ‘There are more important things to worry over. Go and finish dressing and see that our tent is struck. That will be the most help now.’

Chagrined, Richenza bit her lip. She curtseyed to Alienor, then threw her arms around her and kissed her before turning to her duties.

As the light brightened in the east and burned a line between night and day Alienor left a handful of men to finish breaking camp and set out again, begging Richard to stay strong, to hold firm – she was coming.

Alienor arrived at Chalus towards noon of the third day and was passed straight through the pickets and guards to the centre of the encampment. Impatiently she waited for one of her knights to help her from her horse because her limbs were set and stiff from the ride, and then, formalities brushed aside, she hurried as best she could towards the large, pale tent with the red and gold triple-lion banner waving from the top. People were blurred shapes, bowing, standing aside to let her pass.

Stepping through the entrance with its folded-back flaps, the
taint of rotten meat struck her, powerful as a city shambles despite the fumigation of incense and herbs. Her throat closed for she knew what it presaged.

Moving further into the tent she saw Richard lying on a bed, covered to the waist by a linen sheet, his pale flesh naked above it. An attendant was bathing his chest with a moist cloth and wiping his arms. Richard’s face was scarlet, and his hair clung to his scalp in matted tendrils, so dark and flattened with sweat that the wonderful auburn lustre resembled a thatch of dirty straw. High on his shoulder was a horrible wound, all suppurated and reeking with bloody pus. The flesh had been cut in the shape of a cross in order to extract the crossbow bolt, and the edges were blackened and disintegrating. A physician was placing maggots into the wound in the hope that the creatures would devour the foul materials leaking from the inflamed and rotting flesh. A long groan escaped Richard’s throat but it was obvious he was almost unconscious. The physician raised one of Richard’s eyelids and the blue iris rolled upwards, opaque and unseeing. ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘sire, your lady mother has come as you asked. See, here she is.’

The man looked at Alienor and his gaze said everything without words. Alienor ignored him, denying that knowledge. It couldn’t happen, she would not allow it. Not to Richard.