The Autumn Throne (66 page)

William Marshal stood in the choir of the great abbey, his breath misting in the chill December air. The clear pale light from the windows enhanced the rust-red hue of his cloak and the contrasting blue and cream of the squirrel fur lining. His gloves and soft hat were folded over his belt. He had been gazing for some time upon the completed effigies of King Henry, Richard and the kneeling Joanna, praying at her father’s feet.

‘They are magnificent likenesses, madam,’ he said to Alienor. ‘They do indeed look as though they are at rest but only sleeping for a single night, not eternally.’

Alienor nodded. ‘That was my intention. They may be dead, but I have their replicas in stone, and people shall look upon them and marvel as they pay their respects.’

He had arrived to visit while she was here in the church, sitting by the tombs in the chair that was always left for her there and where she spent an increasing amount of her time.

She had given up receiving news of the outside world a short while after Brother de Valerant had come from John. The last she had heard before shutting herself off was that John’s affairs were going from bad to worse as town after town fell to the French. Such information made her even more determined to remove herself from the world and all the pointless striving that came to naught. She had also heard around the time of her decision that Isabel de Warenne had died and been buried beside Hamelin at Lewes Priory. That had hit her hard because Isabel had been her sister in many ways even if they had grown apart in later years. She had brought out the shawl her friend had once given her, finely
woven from the wool on her estates, and she had wrapped it around herself, seeking comfort in its plaid folds, but finding it hard to come by – threadbare. That was when she had finally withdrawn. Enough. She was wearing that shawl now, fastened with a silver brooch that had also been Isabel’s gift.

‘King Henry does not have a beard.’ William gave her a questioning glance.

Alienor smiled a little. ‘When I first knew him he often did not have one, and I want him to be remembered in his youth and strength.’ Unspoken between them lay the awareness that Richard was bearded and thus to an onlooker might have the greater gravitas of the two men. ‘The robes are the ones he wore at his coronation when we had all our future before us and everything was possible.’ She set her hands to the chair arms. ‘Help me to my feet.’

He was immediately attentive but treated her as he always had, with deference to her rank and not her age.

‘It is so good to see you again, William, although in truth my inner vision is better than my outer one these days – and I would rather live that inner life.’

‘It is good to see you too, madam. You are always beautiful and gracious,’ he said.

She gave a small snort of amusement. ‘Not always, but I welcome your courtesy. Come, I wish to show you another effigy.’

She led him slowly from the church and brought him to the shed where the masons had been working in the summer months. ‘Master D’Ortiz died of the lung sickness before he could finish this one, and perhaps it is fitting that it has not yet been completed. The masons will return in the spring and someone else will complete the work. Lift the canvas … I am all right.’ She placed both hands on her walking stick.

He left her side and crouched to pull away the sheeting that covered the unfinished effigy of a woman reading a book. The block was roughed out, but there was still much work to be done.

‘The
others of his household have the plans,’ she said. ‘They have the colours and the gown I desire to wear. It’s the one I had in Poitiers that summer I took you into service.’

‘The pale silk with the red jewels and green embroidery.’

‘You have a good memory.’

‘That day will be with me always. How could I not remember?’

She saw him swallow. ‘Do not dare go maudlin on me, William,’ she warned. ‘I did not choose that gown for tears and mourning.’

He made an effort, and when he faced her his eyes were dry. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It will celebrate your beauty and power, and yet be entirely fitting to the surroundings. It will be perfect. If I am sad it is because of what I have to tell you.’

She gripped the rock crystal knob on top of the walking stick. ‘Be careful what you say to me, William. I meant what I said, that I would rather live the inner life. If your news is bitter then I do not wish to hear it.’ Her look sharpened. ‘I mean it.’

‘Perhaps we should go within, madam, it is very cold.’

She eyed him suspiciously but then capitulated for he was right. She had not realised how chilled she had become sitting beside the tombs. She was like a stone herself.

‘So what is this news of yours, or have you decided to keep it to yourself now?’ she demanded as they entered her chamber. The servants had built up her fire and spiced wine was warming on the hearth. For a moment the contrast with outdoors knocked her back. William helped her to her seat by the fire, fetched a stool for her feet, and poured her a goblet of the spiced wine. The scent of cinnamon and honey rose on the steam and she took an appreciative sip.

He sat down opposite her. ‘I came to see how you were faring because the Christmas season is close. You must know there are difficulties in Normandy and that the King of France continues to make inroads on our territories.’

She nodded stiffly. ‘I hear things even when I do not wish
to, but if you are going to tell me of some calamity, my ears are closed. The ocean is rough beyond my walls these days and I have lost my taste for sailing. I strove for many years to keep Philippe of France out of our territories. I fought for Richard – I would have died for him. I even fought for John until that spark went out of me. When I do think of such matters now – which I would rather not – I wonder if all the time I have been riding the wrong horse.’

‘Madam?’

‘If Philippe of France does prevail, then his son will succeed him, and his son’s wife is mine – child of my child, and chosen by me to fulfil her role. Blanca will be Queen of France as I once was long ago.’ She looked at William. ‘Sometimes a river runs on the surface and sometimes it runs underground, but always it is present. Even if you do not see it, you can feel it.’

‘That is true,’ he said gravely.

‘What were you going to tell me? My mind wanders along its own pathways these days. You had not finished.’

‘Only that the King is returning to England to spend Christmas and while there will make preparations to ship more resources to Normandy. I am returning with him and bringing Isabelle and the children. I had not visited you in a while.’

She gave him a tired smile. ‘And you wanted to say farewell while I still lived? Ah William, you may give whatever courtier’s answer you wish, but we both know the truth – and it no longer matters, although once it would have done.’

He gave her the look of a supplicant. ‘I confess I am not ready to let you go. You mustn’t depart yet. I would see you laugh again.’

Alienor gave a weak imitation of the sound. ‘I no longer have it in me,’ she said, but because she wanted to comfort him, and give him a parting gift to remember, added, ‘You are dearer to me, William, than you will ever know. You have never failed me – ever. You are my man; you have always been my man, from the day you fought off my attackers in Poitiers and sacrificed yourself to let me go free. I want you
to carry that with you. You are more to me than a queen’s equerry.’

‘Madam, you are my liege lady, and I will serve you in whatever way you ask.’ He rose to his feet, but only to kneel at hers and bow his head.

‘Then pray for me, William, and keep me gently in your thoughts.’

‘Until we meet again.’ His words had the sense of either this world or the beyond.

Despite her desperate need for rest, Alienor insisted on seeing him on his way. As he mounted his bay stallion, her blurred vision was suddenly crystal clear and she saw a young knight, in all the beauty of early manhood, riding the horse she had given to him when he first entered her service, and she thought that when they met again perhaps he would indeed look like that, and she would be a young woman, unburdened and joyous.

Alienor felt a soft breeze on her face from her open chamber window, scented with blossom and new grass. There was distant birdsong, and the nearer throb of a dove, which she knew must be perched on the thick stone windowsill.

She found the light too bright for her eyes these days and so she kept her lids closed and dwelt in the peace of darkness, turning ever inwards. Earlier she had confessed to her chaplain and received unction. It had become a daily routine recently, although she was bedridden and the only opportunity she had to commit sins was in her thoughts, and they were slow and turbid. She had been ready for a while now, but
each morning the dawn came and she was still in this chamber, fettered inside her body. She was fully attended, all her needs seen to as she waited for each breath to come and go, each muddy heartbeat to thump and stir her sluggish blood.

‘Grandmère?’

She turned her head slightly at the sound of Richenza’s voice, soft but with notes of mingled fear and concern. An arm slipped behind her shoulders and she caught the scent of musk and spices. Raising her lids, she made out a hazy outline.

‘Can you take a sip of water?’

Alienor tried for her granddaughter, but it was difficult to swallow and most of the liquid dribbled down her chin. Richenza gently wiped her lips and then sat down at the bedside and took her hand. Alienor felt the smooth young skin against her own, the strong fingers, and for a moment it was as if they became her own.

‘You must eat and drink,’ Richenza said tearfully.

Alienor forced her eyes to stay open, even though the light upon them seemed as sharp as vinegar. ‘I am beyond that,’ she whispered in a dry voice. ‘But sing for me if you will. I would like that.’

‘What would you have me sing, Grandmère?’

‘Something joyous. Something from Aquitaine, of April and love – and I do not want you to cry when you are doing it. There is no reason to cry.’ The effort of speaking made her so exhausted that her eyelids seemed like lead weights and she had to close them again.

‘It is spring now,’ Richenza said. ‘You should stay to see it for yourself, Grandmère. I swear the grass has grown half a foot in three days.’

‘Better to leave the world in a time of beauty and renewal,’ Alienor said weakly. ‘When … when I am gone, I want you to look after Snowit for me.’

Richenza squeezed her hand. ‘Of course I will,’ she said in a strangled voice.

‘And
go to Blanca in Paris – Blanche as she is now – and give her my crown, the one with the sapphires and pearls. John’s wife will have crowns and coronets enough in her time, but Blanca should have this one for herself. Promise me.’

‘Yes, I promise – I know the one.’

They were interrupted by the sound of dashing young feet and shouts of play as Richenza’s young son Thomas charged into the room with a small friend and played chase around the furniture, ducking and dodging. ‘Can’t catch me!’

Richenza rounded on them angrily. ‘What have I told you both?’ she snapped. ‘Thomas, your great grandmother needs peace and quiet. Go elsewhere and make your noise!’

‘Let them be,’ Alienor whispered. ‘It pleases me to hear them while I still can. They are the future, and when else in their lives will they be able to do this?’

‘Well then I am glad you are not disturbed, Grandmère, but they should know better.’ Turning to the boys, she gave them a stern look. ‘Grandmère does not mind you playing, but go outside.’

The sound of their boisterous play faded but did not vanish entirely as they resumed their game under the window. Disturbed, the dove on the sill took to her wings with a sound of clapped air. Alienor began to drift away on a sea of slumber, scented with green spring air, to the joyful shouts of children at play.

Richenza stroked Alienor’s hand. ‘I need you here,’ she whispered. ‘What will I do without you? I need your guidance. Please don’t leave me.’

Alienor gave a dry swallow. ‘You have to let me go, my dear. You will find your own way. It is what we all must do. Just sit with me awhile … and sing. That is all I ask.’

Richenza hesitated, a hitch in her breathing as she controlled herself, but after a while she cuffed her wet eyes and raised her voice, clear and steady, with a wistful tone like gentle rain.