The Autumn Throne (8 page)

Alienor sipped her wine while she assimilated the news and composed her expression. ‘And that is worth sending envoys all the way to Rome? I somehow doubt that is your father’s intention.’

‘She is with him all the time,’ John said, with narrow eyes and a fixed look. ‘She is always in his chamber touching him and petting him.’

‘That does not mean he will marry her even if she is with child. You need not worry on that score.’

‘I’m not worried.’ He shrugged but she could see he was unsettled – or perhaps jealous. ‘She’s nothing,’ he said with a curled lip. ‘My father’s stupid whore.’

Isabel made a small sound of protest because it was inappropriate talk at the table, and the way he spoke possessed an undercurrent of violence.

‘Yes she is,’ Alienor replied, ‘and therefore beneath your notice. It only matters if you let it matter because then you make it more than it is.’

John continued to scowl but finished his meal in silence and then went with his cousin William to poke about the palace.

Alienor changed the subject and asked Isabel how the preparations for Sicily were progressing.

‘Well
indeed.’ Isabel was as eager as Alienor to sail the conversation into less fraught waters. ‘Joanna has four new gowns, haven’t you, my love?’

Joanna joined the conversation, her expression alight with pleasure. ‘King William sent merchants with bolts of silk damask cloth,’ she enthused, and went on to tell Alienor of the painted chests that had been constructed to hold her trousseau – sheets and coverlets, bed hangings, candle holders, napery and silver dishes. Her excitement at going as a bride to the King of Sicily far outweighed her fear of her new situation now she had had time to grow accustomed.

Alienor was pleased for her, but sad too because beyond the clothes and jewels, beyond all the appurtenances of royalty, she knew what it meant to be the wife of a king. ‘You must write to me often. I shall help you if I can, and I will always be your mother. I want you to remember that.’ Her heart filled with pain because locked up here what influence did she have and what kind of an example could she set?

She gave Joanna two jewelled combs she had managed to secrete in her baggage from Winchester, carved with acanthus scrolls pin-pointed with tiny sapphires and rubies. ‘Remember me whenever you use these, and pray for me as I shall pray for you,’ she said, and embraced Joanna who reciprocated, but with an air of reserve as if shielding herself from the difficulty of imminent parting.

‘Belle is not coming with us,’ Isabel said with a gesture to her own daughter. ‘As our eldest, she must look after the others and wisdom says we keep her at home.’

Belle said nothing, her eyes downcast.

‘She is disappointed of course,’ Isabel said. ‘She will miss Joanna’s company and friendship, as I know Joanna will miss hers, but it is part of becoming a woman learning responsibility. She shall have an important role at home as chatelaine of the household.’ She sent her daughter a proud look and Belle responded with a modest half smile.

After
the children had retired, Alienor and Isabel talked long into the night over more wine.

‘Did you know about Rosamund?’ Alienor asked.

Isabel turned one of her rings. ‘Yes, but not until recently. I swear to you I did not know at Easter and neither did Hamelin.’

‘Henry did not tell him?’

Isabel rubbed her finger over the gem in the ring. ‘Hamelin keeps out of Henry’s amours. He focuses on his brother, not the girl in the bed behind him.’

Alienor almost laughed for Isabel’s comment conjured up a vivid image of Hamelin attempting to have a conversation with Henry while trying to ignore the mistress in her chemise. ‘Even if Rosamund desperately wants to be queen it will not happen,’ she said with weary contempt. ‘Knowing Henry, even if he does care for her, his eye is already on pastures new and untrodden. He would see marriage to her as just another trap. Ah, enough of this talk. What of other news?’

Isabel began telling her about the castle Hamelin was building on their land at Conisbrough in Yorkshire. ‘It is his retreat from the court and a secure fortress facing north to pass on to Will.’ She cast a glance heavenwards. ‘In truth, he has discovered such a delight in the building that at times I think I might as well have married a mason. You should hear him enthuse over the fireplaces.’

Alienor laughed. ‘I do believe that listening to Hamelin wax lyrical upon stone and mortar is a pleasure I can forgo, even if I do love him dearly for sending me gingerbread.’

In the morning they attended mass in the cathedral, and then with the clouds rolling in over the Downs, the visitors mounted their horses and prepared to return to Winchester.

Alienor kissed Joanna a final time. ‘I am proud of you,’ she said. ‘Be proud of yourself.’

‘Yes, Mama.’ Joanna’s response was dutiful, her gaze already on the path beyond the gate.

Alienor
kissed John too. ‘Be honourable in all that you do, and whatever the circumstances of your match with Hawise of Gloucester, remember kindness.’

‘Yes, Mama.’ John gave her a warm, guileless smile that somehow managed to be as distant in its quality as Joanna’s stare.

When they had gone, Alienor walked around the perimeter of the walls encircling the hill like the bounds of a coronet. Queen of all she surveyed – for what little it was worth.

Henry pressed a kiss on Rosamund’s soft pink lips and held her as close as he could, given that the curve of her belly was as round as a full moon. Rosamund stroked his beard and smiled even though she was unsettled and a little sad. He continued to call her his queen but nothing she said or did would spur him into making it fact. Instead he gave her jewellery or cloth for a new gown and cajoled her with empty words. Her only hope was that he would change when she gave birth to the perfect male child to eclipse his other sons and begin a new dynasty. She often shared that vision with the baby in her womb when it kicked and turned. She never, ever thought the word ‘bastard’ about their child because she wore Henry’s ring and was his wife in all but the vows made before a priest.

‘I will send word to you as soon as the baby is born,’ she said. ‘If you have a moment, think of us.’

‘Indeed I shall do, often, and pray for your safe delivery.’ He placed his palm on her belly in a salute that was also a preliminary to farewell.

Sensing his anxiety to be away, she turned his face to hers, making
him meet her gaze because it was important to have that acknowledgement. ‘You promise?’

He grasped her hand in his. ‘I promise.’ An expression of regret briefly replaced his impatience. ‘If I could stay, I would, but matters of state will not wait.’

And I will
, Rosamund thought.
I will always be waiting.
‘I understand.’ She was glad she had made him look at her and take notice. ‘Go with God.’

‘And may he keep you.’ He drew her hand to his lips, kissed her fingers, and was gone. She stood at the window and watched him ride away. The King of England, her lover, the father of her child and keeper of everything that mattered to her in this life.

An hour later a servant arrived bearing a gift from Henry of a circlet of woven wheat stems, jewelled with the blood-red seeds of the wild dog roses that had bloomed in the hedgerows all summer long. Rosamund placed the crown on her brow, imagining Henry’s hands setting it there in regnal gold, and smiled wistfully.

A few days later at dawn Rosamund’s labour began, but as the contractions intensified, she started to bleed. The midwives attending her exchanged glances as they worked and reassured Rosamund, who could not see the red trickle that emerged on each contraction, that all was well.

‘Soon, my lady, it will be soon,’ Dame Alicia said, her voice comforting and calm. ‘Just you drink this tisane and rest yourself.’ Turning away, she murmured instructions to one of the other ladies in attendance to fetch the priest and have him on hand.

The sun rose to its autumn zenith and began its journey westwards, filtering through the trees. On the bed Rosamund thrashed in agony and screamed for Henry as the blood pooled between her thighs.

The baby was born easily enough – a little boy, but he was pale and lifeless, and a red gush followed him that the midwives
could not staunch even though they massaged Rosamund’s belly in a desperate effort to make her womb clench upon itself.

The priest arrived, his expression taut with distaste at the stench of blood and the sight of the red carnage on the bed, but he made haste to administer the last rites and placed a cross in Rosamund’s hands.

‘God have mercy on your soul, my lady,’ Dame Alicia whispered with compassion, her eyes wet as she knelt at Rosamund’s side, clasping her prayer beads.

Rosamund’s face was grey and her skin clammy as she fought for breath. ‘Tell Henry I am sorry,’ she gasped. ‘Tell him I died thinking of him … tell him I died as a wife doing her duty. I am so sorry I failed him.’

Rosamund was deeply loved by the community at Godstow. Beyond her youth, beauty and sweet nature, she had always remembered the nuns in her prayers and sent them gifts on feast days. She had brought the King’s patronage to the convent and made it a place of wealth and influence amid the local community.

Sorrowfully, the nuns accepted her body and buried her with her stillborn red-haired son wrapped in her arms. After much debate they left her wedding ring on her finger, and interred her in a place of honour before the choir in the fading gold of a late September day.

Belle tilted her nose in the air and tried to ignore the sniggers and low-voiced exchanges coming from her brother and their cousin John. The boys were supposedly playing chess but they kept looking across at her and making remarks, their expressions sharp with mischief bordering on malice.

They had been lounging around the court, getting in everyone’s way and playing pranks all week. John was usually the leader and William followed, although sometimes an idea would spark, such as his notion to ‘accidentally’ leave a gate open so that somehow the pigs got into the vegetable garden
and trampled a recently planted bed of cabbages. Innocence was always sworn and never believed. Only yesterday John had tied together a cat, a dog and a rooster for the fun of watching the ensuing, bloody mayhem. Her uncle Henry seemed to think their japes amusing and dismissed their antics as the common nature of boys; he had better things to do with his time than listen to petty complaints about their behaviour.

Had her papa been here, Belle knew John and Will would never have got away with such mischief, but her parents were not due home from Sicily until Christmas. She sometimes thought she would have liked to accompany them, but then again, she would only have been a handmaid and Joanna would have stolen all the attention. At least when her mother and father returned, Belle would not have to compete with her pretty royal cousin and there would be gifts too – ivory combs, jewels and rich silks – from the famed Sicilian workshops. She was eagerly awaiting those.

John whispered something, and as Will turned to look at her and grin she saw John sneak one of Will’s pieces from the board and secrete it in his palm. Realising she had observed his trickery, John shot her a warning look, which she returned with superior contempt. There had always been friction between her and John. He would pull her hair, spit in her cup, break her possessions, and she would tell tales on him to her father, pinch him, and until recently push him around, although he was growing too strong for that and she was more wary these days, especially while she did not have the cushion of her father’s protection.

His recent betrothal to Hawise of Gloucester and his father’s plans to make him King of Ireland had made John far too full of himself. He had developed a swagger which she hated.

She picked up her sewing basket which contained a tunic band she was embroidering for her father’s return, but on removing the woven lid she recoiled from the vile stench of decay and then shrieked to see a decomposing rat on top of
the fabric, its corpse leaking stains onto her painstaking toil. She hurled the basket across the room and the rat flew out, striking John across the arm and chest, leaving a vile smear on his cloak. He flung himself backwards with a shout, but swiftly recovered, seized the rodent’s scaly tail and slung it back at Belle, while Will doubled over, helpless with laughter.

A stocky young man with wavy auburn hair walked into the midst of the furore. ‘What is this unseemliness?’ he shouted, hands on hips. ‘Are you brawling, peasant brats?’

‘I thought that was your inheritance,’ John drawled insolently. ‘Wasn’t your mother a common whore?’

Belle’s eyes widened in horror at John’s insult, but with an underlying secret glee because of the challenge to authority – it was exciting and something she would never dare. Jeoffrey FitzRoy was the King’s oldest son, but bastard-born. He was the royal chancellor, designate Bishop of Lincoln and John’s half-brother.

Jeoffrey strode over to John, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. ‘I have no time for your foolish insolence,’ he snapped, grey eyes bright with anger. ‘Yes, foolish, not clever, however you may smirk.’