The Queen's Pawn (30 page)

It was the loss of Alais that burned like acid on my skin, but I did not accept that loss. She was mine, and forever. An affair with my husband would not change that. I wondered how long it would be until she knew it.

Richard came to me from the tiltyard, his face newly washed, his red gold hair a mane around his shoulders. My women preened for him; Angeline even fawned, dropping into a low curtsy, hoping that she might be called on to succor him in his time of distress. Margaret paled at the sight of him. As I watched, I saw no spark between them. Perhaps, in his grief, he had turned her away.

“Richard,” I said. “How fare you?”

“The same, Mother. I imagine I will be the same for a long time to come.”

I raised one hand, and my women left us without a word. Richard saw Marie Helene among them, and stared. She averted her eyes, afraid to look at him. He watched Marie Helene until she left the room. Only then did he turn once more to me.

“Do you want her?” I asked. “I could have her in your bed by sundown.”

He stared at me, almost as if my words came to his ears in a language he did not know. Then the light of understanding came back into his eyes, and I wished my words back. His pain was not dimmed by my offer but sharpened.

“No, Mother. Do not trouble yourself on my account.”

I came to his side and pressed the softness of my palm against his cheek. “Richard, there is news.”

“From Aquitaine?”

“No. From Deptford.”

He flinched at the word, and stiffened under my hand, controlling himself with difficulty. He did not step away from me.

I moved across the room to allow him to gather his thoughts. On my table a letter lay, its seal broken.

“My spies have brought a letter that was meant for His Holiness the pope.”

“Who wrote it?” he asked.

“Your father. The king.”

I watched my son for some sign of spleen, for some sign that his wits were not about him, that his fury would overwhelm his common sense. After the first moment, when his fist clenched almost against his will, I did not see it.

Richard met my eyes, ready to hear the rest, his legendary temper dormant beneath the cool blue of his eyes. He had heard me name his father without cursing. Now I could tell him the rest.

“Henry has written to the pope to ask for his support in casting me aside. The king would like me to retire to the nunnery at Fontevrault. As the abbess, of course.”

My smile was bitter, in spite of my attempts at self-control. This blow did not come from Henry, for he would never have thought of divorcing me on his own. This came from Alais, a barb that struck home. I had yet to draw it out.

“Kind of him, to make that small allowance, is it not?” I asked my son.

Richard turned pale, but still, he did not speak. At first I thought him considering the merits of his father’s letter, as if Alais, a girl fresh from the convent and as young and green as spring grass, might actually be a viable alternative as queen. I saw, though, that Richard was merely stunned. He could not conceive of this level of betrayal in the woman he loved, the woman he loved almost as much as he loved me. He saw my strength in her. I had known that from the first. In Alais, Richard saw a woman of strength and fire, but strength tempered with compassion. Or so he had thought, before she spurned him.

I began pacing, the letter to the pope in my hand. I could not contain my rage. It began to spill out in my voice, though I fought for control. “Would you like to know who Henry wishes to set in my place? Who he would crown as queen, as well as concubine?”

He knew already, but stood still, his back straight, as I told him.

“The Princess Alais.”

I thought he would spit then, but he stood in my solar, not on a battlefield or a tiltyard, so he held himself in check. As I watched, his Plantagenet rage rose to consume all rational thought. I thought that he would not be able to hear me if I continued, but as I watched, he gained control of himself once more.

If only he had shown this restraint before with Henry, if only he had been more discreet with his lovers, perhaps we might have avoided this. Perhaps we might have married him to Alais before she knew of his infidelity, and she would have been neutralized.

But no one, not even I, had known what lurked beneath the surface of her convent leanings. Even I had not seen the depth of treachery Alais was capable of. Had she turned on anyone else but myself and my son, I would have been proud of her.

Richard swallowed his spleen. I saw his reason win the battle for supremacy against his fury. He stood under the onslaught, and faced me.

“My God, Mother. I never would have thought them capable of it.”

My own bitterness rose, and I swallowed it, just as Richard had swallowed his anger. It was not a time for emotion. That time would come later, in the dark reaches of the night, when I was alone. I kept my voice even, my tone light, when I answered him.

“Anyone is capable of anything, Richard, given time and opportunity.”

He took this in, his blue eyes steady on mine. I saw that he did not believe me, but his mind had moved on already, looking for a way out of the mess his father had created out of lust and blind folly “We must write to Henry my brother at once,” Richard said.

I smiled that his mind moved to the correct answer so quickly, and with no prompting from me. Though there was no rancor between Richard and my eldest son, there was no love between them, either.

“I already have,” I said.

He stared at me. “How long have you kept this news from me? How long have you known what the king planned to do?”

“Since three days after they left for Deptford.”

I had been silent for weeks, and I saw that Richard felt my silence as another betrayal. He turned from me to stare out the window. The glass afforded light but no air. A breeze came through the arrow-slit window close by, a narrow casement built for war, as Richard was.

“Why did you wait to tell me?” Richard asked.

“I did not know what your brother would say. You are burdened enough.”

“If we are allies, Mother, you must keep nothing from me. My private griefs are my own affair. This is a matter of state. I will not be coddled, not even by you.”

“Richard, I am sorry.”

I went to him, and laid my hand on his arm. I reveled in the knowledge that he was a well-honed weapon that I might wield against any enemy. For any enemy of mine was Richard’s enemy, too. He loved me and me alone, now that Alais had betrayed us both.

I set my tone to soothe him, letting the warmth of my voice cocoon him, as I had done when he was very small. He relaxed beside me, even before I spoke. The tension went out of his body as soon as I laid my hand on his sword arm.

“I heard from your brother only today I sent for you as soon as I had his letter in hand.”

“What did he say?”

I smiled, and for the first time that day, bitterness did not color my expression. “Shall I read it to you?”

I held the letter up, another scroll of vellum from my tabletop. Richard grunted in assent, and I almost laughed out loud, so much did he remind me of my husband in that moment. Richard wanted his brother’s help, but was loath to admit it. It would do him good to learn to act with his brothers, at least when I called on him to do so.

I unrolled the scroll and held it aloft, for Richard’s sake. I did not need the letter, and used it only as a prop. I had read it over so often, and with such pleasure, that I had memorized it already.

“‘God’s grace to you, Mother, and my greetings. I must remind you that never, at any time in your life, have you needed anyone’s help, least of all mine.”’

Richard took this in, even as I savored the words from my eldest son. Young Henry and I had never been close, but rarely, now and again, he gave me compliments, as all men inevitably did. I read on.

“‘The old man has found a paramour? May she bring him joy. He wants to set his trollop on the throne? Once he is dead, let her try to keep it.”’

I savored those last words on my tongue as if they were fine wine and squab. Young Henry’s letter brought me out of the sink of self-pity I had descended into. He reminded me of the reality of the situation, how all of Europe, even the pope himself, would see it.

Alais was a princess with a small dowry, a dowry that my husband already possessed. She would not marry the king, then or ever, for she brought nothing to the bargain. I brought the Aquitaine, as all the world knew. Even though my son was duke, that land and its people were still loyal first and foremost to me.

Richard, of course, missed the salient point of this missive: even Henry’s favored son looked on this proposed union with disdain. Surely the rest of Europe, who had no interest in avoiding Henry’s wrath, who stood to gain nothing from Henry’s hand, would also see the proposed alliance for what it was: a dalliance that would run its course, and fade, as all things must.

“So he will do nothing to back us?” Richard asked.

His anger had mounted him again, the temper he could never shake off, except on the battlefield. Only when at war did Richard see clearly, and far. It was lucky for him that he had me to rule his politics.

“Not at this point,” I said.

I did not speak of how deep my work with young Henry went. I did not mention to Richard the letters that passed across the Channel between his brothers and myself. I still was not certain that I would encourage them as far as they wanted to go in their hatred of their father. I bided my time, and waited to see if Henry might first come to terms with me. His antics with Alais indicated that he most likely would not. But before I turned my sons against him completely, I would be sure.

I tried to draw Richard’s mind away from young Henry’s letter itself, to its relevant point. “Your brother speaks the truth. Henry is a fool if he thinks he can win.”

Richard did not speak, but stared at me. We both knew that Henry was many things, but a fool was not one of them.

“On what grounds would Father set you aside? The same ones you used to set aside Louis?”

I almost laughed, so ridiculous was Henry’s reasoning. “Yes,” I said. “Your father claims that our marriage is incestuous.”

Richard snorted, and the sound of his derision was like a tonic to me. I felt more strength flowing into me. I knew he would leave his pain behind, and unite with me. He would leave off licking his wounds and stand against his father with me.

I went on to describe the letter my spies had intercepted, the letter Henry meant to send to the Holy See.

“Henry writes the pope that our marriage must be annulled, because I once slept with his father, while I was still Queen of France.”

Richard laughed outright at that. “My God, Mother. He should try something someone might believe.”

“Well,” I said, thinking of my annulled marriage to Louis of France, “the Holy See will not be moved to such folly twice. Which is to my advantage.”

“Our advantage,” Richard reminded me.

“Yes.”

I moved back to my table where Henry’s letter lay. I had delayed as long as I might in sending the letter on to the pope. Henry had no idea how far my spy network went, nor how deep into his own household. If I hoped to keep the reach of my spy network intact, I would have to be careful to keep its true depths a secret.

If I held the letter any longer, or threw it into the fire, Henry would only send another. I met Richard’s eyes as I lifted a bar of sealing wax. “I will send this letter on to His Holiness, while we make our own plans here. Trust me, Richard. We will win.”

I folded Henry’s letter carefully, then melted wax onto the place where the old seal had been. I reached into my gown, and drew out a seal of my own.

Richard stepped forward, and took the letter from my hand, so that he might see the impression in the wax. I had closed Henry’s letter with the royal seal of England, which no one but the king was supposed to possess, on pain of death.

I started laughing. I owned a copy of the royal seal, unknown to anyone but me and the man who had made it, a man who was many years dead. I was in danger now that Richard knew my secret, but I did not care. The danger was worth it, to show Richard the risks I took for him, and how much power I truly held. No one else knew. Not Alais. Not even the king.

 

 

When Henry and I returned to Windsor at the beginning of September, the entire castle turned out to greet us. We had stayed away too long, happy together as Henry had rarely been, even with Rosamund. What that woman thought of our liaison, I had not heard. Henry never spoke of her, and I knew better than to ask. But as happy as we had been together, we knew that we could not stay from court forever. Eleanor waited for us, just as we waited for word from the pope.

As we reached the castle gates, Henry told me that Eleanor still resided at Windsor. I had no time to ask him why she had not gone on to the Abbey of Fontevrault, for the court had seen us then, and raised their cries of welcome. And still, I wondered why he had not done as he said he would.

Men-at-arms stood at attention, their pikes raised in salute to the king. Ladies of the court stood in the mud of the bailey in jewel-colored dresses, their wimples snow-white against the castle’s gray stone.

All the women held flowers. When I was taken down off my horse, one of them stepped forward, and laid a bunch of roses in my arms. The last of the summer roses, roses that bore no thorns.

Those flowers made me think of Richard, and I had to breathe once, deeply, before I could put the thought of him away. And I saw the message for what it meant. I was a rose that now had been plucked, and some woman thought to mock me with it. It was a piece of cruelty worthy of Eleanor.