The Autumn Throne (61 page)

Jean D’Ortiz the sculptor was in his late forties, a slim man, sun-browned and wiry yet muscular from wielding mallet and chisel. A slight wheeziness in his breathing attested to the nature of his occupation. With him was Matthew his son-in-law, blond and broad-shouldered with piercing light blue eyes, creases fanning from the corners.

D’Ortiz removed the sacking covers and crouched to study the blocks of tuffeau limestone. He ran his hands over them, assessing grain and quality, like a horse coper examining the legs of a horse for soundness. His sensitive fingers were tactile
and swift as he read the stone by touch. He had brought Alienor some samples of his painted carving including a decoration for a corbel of a small, delicate face with realistic flesh colours and golden hair peeping out from dense green foliage, and also a queen with an enigmatic smile tipping her mouth corners.

‘How soon before you can begin work?’ Alienor asked.

The mason rose to his feet and dusted his palms, but more as if feeling the grain than brushing it off. He was a little awkward for usually he would have talked to her intermediary rather than Alienor herself, but she had wanted to speak to him personally regarding her commissions. He was the best and she would have nothing but the best, although his skill meant he was in demand and already had plentiful work.

‘I can come in the winter months, madam,’ he said, ‘but in the meantime I shall make preliminary sketches and submit them to you. I shall need to know the colours you desire and how the people should look. It will take more than one season.’

‘It will take as long as it takes, messire, although I would hope not for ever. I would like to see them complete while I am still in the world.’

The mason cleared his throat with a wheezy cough and struck his chest. ‘Indeed, madam.’ He flicked a swift glance at his son-in-law.

‘They must look at rest but alive. They must laud and exalt the dynasty. I need to know that you and your household are capable of rendering what I want, and that you have a passion to do so. I wish those who look upon your work to see kings at rest, not gone from the world. Can you do that?’

He took his time to reply, and she respected him for it. It would have been easy for him to rush in and agree. Rubbing the back of his neck, he nodded slowly. ‘Yes, madam. Indeed, it shall be my honour.’

Having asked for details of what she required, Master D’Ortiz made sketches on parchment, took measurements, and departed. As he was riding away with his son-in-law, two messengers arrived to inform Alienor that her son the King
would be here by evening, bringing his new bride with him – Isabel, daughter of Aymer, lord of Angoulême.

Alienor was dumbfounded by the news. As far as she knew John’s most recent marriage plan had involved a Portuguese bride and envoys had been sent there to discuss the possibility. Aymer of Angoulême was one of her more troublesome vassals, and John must have a reason for the marriage, but she was utterly taken aback. Drawing herself together, she issued brisk orders for food and lodging to be prepared, although with so little warning they would have to make do with what there was or else provide their own, and pitch tents outside the abbey walls. She was even a trifle irritated because although she desired to see John and his new bride, she had reached a stage where surprises like this were an intrusion rather than a diversion.

‘Madam.’ Isabel of Angoulême made a demure curtsey to Alienor who found herself facing a fair-haired, blue-eyed slip of a girl with dainty features and clear, glowing skin. A gown of blue silk in the latest fashion for tight-fitting sleeves revealed that her figure had begun to develop, but that she had much growing to do before she could be called mature, and certainly there was no question of child bearing.

‘I am pleased to meet you, child.’ Alienor raised her to her feet and kissed Isabel’s cool petal cheek. She noted the wedding ring on her finger and the jewels twinkling like small stars in the net of meshed gold covering her braids. Alienor was not sure that she was pleased to meet her but the courtesies had to be observed. This girl would not be ready to fulfil the role of Queen for a long time to come. What did John think he was doing? ‘All this must be new and strange for you.’

‘Yes, madam, but I am learning every day.’ Isabel cast a tense glance at John who was standing beside her, an enigmatic smile on his face.

The girl’s words, although spoken by rote, were nevertheless a valiant effort.
Are you a pawn or a player?
Alienor wondered. And who would train her? She would have received some
instruction at the hands of her mother’s household, but not the kind to prepare her for being a queen consort.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘Help me to sit down. I am not as limber as I was.’

Isabel took her arm and walked with her to a window seat that looked out on a lawn of turf and daisies.

Alienor discovered over the course of the next half hour on the sun dial that Isabel of Angoulême was modest and reticent, but as hard as she worked she could not strike a spark of personality from the girl. She was either guarding herself well or she was truly a blank page. Eventually Alienor sent her off with Richenza to speak to some of the other ladies from the abbey and summoned John to her side.

‘Now,’ she said to him, ‘why this one?’

John folded his arms and gazed out of the window. ‘You know full well I was never going to remain with Hawise of Gloucester.’

‘Indeed not, but you told everyone you were looking to Portugal.’

‘That was the story I put about, yes. Isabel was betrothed to Hugh de Lusignan but if Lusignan and Angoulême unite who before have been enemies they will have a block of territory that will create a far greater threat to me, and make them more likely to turn against my rule.’ He gave her a keen look. ‘This marriage keeps them divided and fighting each other. I gain the girl’s dowry and a strong ally in an area where I need it.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Some people accuse me of besotted indulgence, but I have sound reasons I promise you. When we reach England, she shall be crowned Queen before all.’

Alienor pursed her lips.
All hail the Queen of England
, she thought cynically.
One a crone at the end of her years and the other still a little girl
.

‘What of Philippe of France? What trouble can he make from this?’

‘I do not care,’ John said tautly. ‘It is not his business. I shall deal with him as I must.’

He
left her and went to circulate among his courtiers, and William Marshal took his place.

‘You are looking well, madam.’

‘For my years?’ she said with a grim smile. ‘For a crotchety old woman?’

‘For both of those.’ His own smile was full of humour. ‘I would not lie to you, for you are my liege lady.’ He took her hand and kissed the back of it. ‘It is good to see you.’

‘Yes,’ she said, and sadness welled within her. ‘I always wonder if it is for the last time, but on each occasion I find there is always the grace of one more.’

‘And many such to come I hope.’

‘We shall see,’ she temporised. ‘What do you think of this sudden marriage?’ She narrowed her eyes and added sharply, ‘Did you counsel him to marry her?’

William shook his head. ‘No, madam, he had already made up his mind to the matter when he told us. It suits my lord’s political needs and that is all we need to know.’

‘Political needs.’ She exhaled forcefully. ‘Abetted by a sprinkling of lust and the pleasure of putting down an opponent. I am not sure about this at all. My son has gambled and the dice have yet to land. Ah God, who would think I would still be alive after almost four score years and all but one of my sons would be dead. I am tired, William, and the world has lost its savour. I am too rusty to dance.’

‘I do not believe that, madam, not for a moment.’

‘It is the truth, but delude yourself if you will.’ She studied him. He was in his late prime now with grey in his hair and beard, and lines on his face, but the fire still burned within him, steady and bright. ‘How are Isabelle and the children?’

‘Very well, madam. We have another daughter, born in February and named for her mother.’

‘Your nursery is a busy place.’ Her smile glinted with sorrowful nostalgia as she remembered her own nursery, how full it had been and how it had become an empty nest far too soon.

He told her that John had given him permission to visit
Ireland. ‘I have been promising Isabelle for so long that I don’t think she believes me,’ he said wryly.

‘It is never wise to make promises to a woman and then delay them beyond her expectations,’ Alienor scolded him gently. ‘Your wife is forbearing and fair. Do not take her for granted or you will lose her trust.’

‘I do not, madam. If not for love of my wife, I swear to you I would not be contemplating crossing the Irish Sea in late autumn.’

Alienor laughed, even while her sadness at the passing of things increased. ‘Have a care, William. I have been far in my life, even to Jerusalem, as have you, but I have never been to Ireland nor shall I. Count it as a blessing and an opportunity to explore pastures new.’

‘In your honour, madam,’ he said with a bow.

‘In my memory,’ she replied, and they looked at each other in perfect understanding. ‘Look after John for me. We both know his ways – his strengths and his weaknesses. It is no easy or light thing I ask of you, but there are so few people I trust enough to lean upon. Give to him the service you have given to me. That is all I ask.’

William inclined his head. ‘It shall be done, madam. My service is yours.’

His words comforted her. His assurance was another loose end woven into the tapestry of her life and secured for the time when she was no longer in the world.

Alienor sat in the shade of a canvas awning and watched Jean D’Ortiz working with delicate precision on the sword lying
beside Richard’s effigy on the bier of draped stone. Now and again D’Ortiz would pause and look to the actual item for reference. It was one of Richard’s favourite blades with an unusual octagonal pommel and had been at his bedside at Chalus when he was dying and then borne beside his body on the bier. The red leather scabbard and the belt gleamed with a polish of pride and care, but no one had drawn the sword since Richard’s death, and Master D’Ortiz had had the reverence to keep it that way.

Mostly Alienor watched the sculptor work and did not interrupt him, but occasionally she would make a point of note, or he would ask her a question. Her presence and the working silences had become comfortable for both of them. The younger man, the son-in-law, was a little less at ease, but accepting, and their apprentice lad was cheeky and cheerful but good at heart, even if he had to be thrashed every now and again to keep him in order.

They had arrived late to their commission because Master D’Ortiz had been unwell with a chest ailment. They were still promised to the cathedral at Chartres and were dividing their time between the two projects, although recently Master D’Ortiz had been spending more time at Fontevraud, where the air was better for his lungs. Even so, every breath he took was accompanied by a dusty whine.

Alienor too had been unwell with a fever and cough in the spring and had taken to her bed for several weeks – something unknown to her apart from times of recovery from hard childbirth. She had wondered if this was to be her end; however, as the spring progressed she had rallied, even though she felt as fragile and insubstantial as thistledown.

Henry’s effigy was complete except for the painting which Master D’Ortiz intended working on once all the carvings were finished. He had chiselled Henry’s features to Alienor’s exacting description, and the clothes were Henry’s coronation robes rendered in drapes of stone. His had been the first effigy to be carved because he was the head of the dynasty and his
position gave all the others of his line their status. Whatever Henry had done to her, he had still been a great king. She had narrowed her focus to that. The prestige and the dignity were all. She would create a proper family in stone to supersede the flawed one of the flesh.

Alienor glanced up from watching Master D’Ortiz work on the sword hilt as Richenza, who was visiting her, arrived leading a young man by the hand. He was tall and handsome with warm brown hair and blue eyes like her own. His beard, decently grown for his years, glinted with copper lights in the summer sun. He was wearing a sword belt minus the weapon which, as with all visitors, had been surrendered at the gatehouse.

‘Grandmère,’ said Richenza, smiling, ‘see who is here to visit.’

Alienor frowned and narrowed her eyes the better to focus, but still it was a long moment before realisation dawned. John and Belle’s bastard boy, almost fully grown. ‘Richard?’ The word was strange and bittersweet on her tongue. Any excuse to say it.

‘Madam my grandmother.’ Smiling, he knelt to her.

‘Dear God, when did you become a man?’ she asked in amazement and even a little dismay at such rapid passing of time. She kissed him on both cheeks and bade him stand up. ‘You are so tall!’ Taller indeed than his father and grandfather. His hair grew the same way as Hamelin’s and he had a similar jut to his jaw. ‘How old are you now?’