The Autumn Throne (13 page)

Alienor knelt at prayer in the private royal chapel dedicated to St Nicholas. Outside a chill rain-laden wind was blowing across the Downs, buffeting the palace walls, and the lowering clouds sent little daylight through the window above the altar. However, the candles provided illumination within and the chapel was painted with scenes from the life of St Nicholas in vibrant colours that brightened her surroundings.

The prospect of winter daunted Alienor, with the dark days contracting her world and the news from outside so meagre. Gazing at the depiction of the saint pushing a bag of gold coins through the window of a house that belonged to a poor man with three daughters who had no money for their dowries and faced prostitution, she wished that someone would push hope through hers.

The
stormy weather eventually blew out to sea, leaving a stripe of golden sunset edged with charcoal cloud. Alienor returned to her chamber and played a desultory game of merels with Amiria, her emotion one of grey boredom – until Robert Maudit came to tell her that the Countess de Warenne had arrived.

‘Bring her to me!’ Alienor seized on the moment like a drowning swimmer to a rope. ‘And see that suitable accommodation is prepared. This is my bag of gold through the window!’ She laughed as Amiria and Maudit gave her baffled looks, clearly thinking she was losing her mind, and she sent a prayer of gratitude to St Nicholas.

Isabel was on her way to her Norfolk estate at Acre to join Hamelin before travelling on to Nottingham for the Christmas court, but had detoured with her daughters to visit Alienor. Her son William was keeping John company as they studied in the household of royal justiciar Ranulf de Glanville.

‘It is so good to see you again!’ Alienor cried as they embraced. ‘And my nieces, all so grown up!’ Belle at fifteen was a beauty. Her silky brown hair was plaited round her head and revealed the delicate sweep of her neck. The style emphasised the blue-green sea colours of her eyes and her skin was clear and luminous. Adela and Matilda at eleven and nine were pretty and vivacious but still children, lacking their big sister’s allure.

Isabel returned the smile, but with a slight strain at the edges. ‘Yes, indeed,’ she murmured.

‘Hamelin is well?’

‘Yes, and sends you his good wishes – and more gingerbread.’

‘He let Belle paint his beard blue,’ Adela announced with a giggle. ‘And then Mama was cross with him because he was going to meet the King of France.’

Alienor looked between mother and daughters and for the first time in an age was moved to genuine laughter. ‘Truly? A blue beard?’

‘It was folly,’ Isabel said primly. ‘He should have known better and so should Belle. What must people have thought?’

‘It
was nothing,’ Belle retorted. ‘You are always so serious, Mama!’ She turned to Alienor. ‘We were watching some cloth being dyed and Papa was telling me he had read that the people of long ago used to dye their skin with woad. So I said his beard was going grey, and he let me paint the end of it, that is all.’ She shot her mother a defiant look.

‘It was irresponsible,’ Isabel said. ‘Everyone was laughing. And your father had to go clean-shaven to court. You should have taken more thought for the consequences.’

Belle compressed her soft pink lips and looked down in apparent submission, but Alienor could see the rebellion in her and even understand it a little. ‘Henry would do things like that,’ she told her niece. ‘I remember once he rode into Thomas Becket’s hall all spattered from the hunt and slung a fresh dead hare across the dinner table – and that was in the days when they were friends.’

Isabel shook her head and tutted; Belle gave a half-hidden smile and darted Alienor an almost conspiratorial glance.

‘I am sure no one paid much notice to Hamelin’s shaven chin,’ Alienor soothed, and changed the subject. ‘Were you at Canterbury? Did you see Louis?’

Isabel nodded. ‘I have never met him before, so I cannot judge him on past appearance, but I must say he seemed rather frail.’

Alienor frowned. ‘In what way?’

‘He was tall, but stooped over, and thin I thought, perhaps from fasting. He was unsteady on his feet and his attendants had to stand close all the time ready to catch him if he stumbled. He was an old man, Alienor.’

Alienor had often hated Louis with all the venom in her heart for what he had done to her, and for the failure in him that had ended what might once have been a workable marriage. Yet there were moments of softer emotion when she remembered the early years – a boy and a girl thrown together by the machinations of others, bewildered, but taking shelter and comfort in each other. ‘I am sorry to hear that.’

‘He
was deeply moved by the tomb of the Archbishop,’ Isabel continued. ‘He openly wept. I think Henry was taken aback.’

‘Louis was always one to weep and prostrate himself at the tombs of martyrs,’ Alienor replied. ‘I expect he felt duty bound to do so at Becket’s even if his tears were genuine. Did he meet his daughter?’

‘Yes. He praised her manners and demeanour – it was all of duty and piety – but he has not seen her since she was a babe in arms.’

‘And she is female which he has always found a difficult proposition,’ Alienor said with asperity. ‘Did he speak of marriage between Alais and Richard?’

‘Hamelin said he did in counsel with Henry. Apparently Louis told him the matter had dragged on for too long and that the marriage should be solemnised.’

‘And what did Henry say?’

‘He agreed with him.’

Alienor sat up straight. ‘He promised he would not! He told me he had no intention of doing so!’

‘No, no.’ Isabel waved a denial. ‘He agreed in order to put him off. He said that indeed it was past time but Richard had been busy in Poitou. He agreed that Louis was bound to have concerns as a father, and he promised he would look to finalise a date for the wedding. Louis was either too tired or too much the diplomat to push matters through there and then. They agreed on some time next year, but Henry told Hamelin later that it would be as he chose and no one would dictate to him.’

Alienor knew that she and Richard were part of the ‘no one’ in that remark, but at least for now the danger had passed.

Isabel hesitated. ‘You should also know that Ida de Tosney has retired to Woodstock. She is to bear Henry’s child some time between Christmas and Candlemas.’

The news was little more than a muted blow on old scars and Alienor’s only emotion was dull sadness. Indeed, she was sorry for the girl – yet another of Henry’s victims. ‘I do not
suppose Henry will keep her in attendance once she has been churched. He changes his women almost as often as the laundress changes his sheets. He will find a marriage for her among the men at court and in the meantime, someone else will catch his eye.’ She turned to address her nieces, who were agog. ‘You may think it exciting to be the mistress of a great man,’ she cautioned, ‘to be the centre of attention and have silks and jewels and the best morsels set before you at table, but it is a dangerous thing, because you are dependent on his whim and he can discard you with a snap of his fingers.’

‘Is that not like being a queen too?’ Belle asked.

Alienor looked sharply at her niece. The sea-coloured gaze was perceptive – almost knowing. She had used the word ‘dangerous’ and it came to her that this girl with her nurtured, cosseted life and protective parents was in search of excitement to whet her existence, even if it meant breaking something. ‘You might see it like that, but my husband took those things from me. He did not give them because they were mine in the first place. It is the way of the world, so be on your guard.’

Belle’s cheeks turned pink. ‘My uncle has made an endowment to Godstow nunnery in memory of Rosamund de Clifford. She has a magnificent tomb and he has turned it into a shrine.’

‘Belle, enough!’ Isabel hissed.

Alienor waved away Isabel’s chagrin. ‘No, it is better to speak of these things than to hide them in dark corners.’ She faced Belle. ‘Rosamund was your uncle’s mistress for many years. He was never going to marry her, but he has honoured her in death more than he has ever honoured me in life. Yet what good does it benefit her to have the tomb of a queen? She is still a rotting corpse under the slab.’ She exhaled scornfully. ‘The King is good at shrines for the dead. One for Thomas, one for his mistress – and one for me, a living one here at Sarum … But not all of us are prepared to lie as quiet as the grave.’

*  *  *

When
the girls had gone to bed, Isabel and Alienor sat before the dying embers in the brazier, drinking wine and playing merels as they had often done in the old days at court.

‘I hope Belle did not upset you,’ Isabel apologised. ‘She is at an age when she is no longer a girl, but not yet a woman. One moment she plays like a child and the next she demands all the privileges of an adult. It is not easy.’

Alienor shook her head. ‘I have gone beyond those sort of hurts, and I can remember what it was to be that age and constrained by the company of older women – although by that time I was already wed to Louis.’

‘We have started to look for a husband for her,’ Isabel said, ‘but it is a slow process and we want her to be well settled.’

‘If I was free, she could serve as one of my ladies and have opportunities, but as it is she would be unlikely to meet any personable young men at Sarum, and would probably wither away from the boredom.’ Alienor leaned forward to make her point. ‘But you must give her things to do beyond sewing and looking after her sisters. Let her be the chatelaine – give her one of your households to manage so that she will be occupied and well prepared.’

Isabel pursed her lips. ‘Perhaps you are right; I shall think on it.’

The women resumed their game but were interrupted when Robert Maudit arrived, his expression sombre and his manner subdued. ‘Madam, there are grave tidings from France. I am sorry to tell you we have received news that King Louis has suffered a debilitating seizure.’

Alienor stared at him and Isabel uttered a soft gasp.

‘It is uncertain whether he will live,’ Maudit continued. ‘He has recovered consciousness and is being tended by his physicians, but he cannot speak – that is all we know for now.’

Alienor heard his words but found them difficult to absorb. An image came to her of Louis at seventeen, tall, narrow-hipped and graceful, silver-blond hair waving to his shoulders and a coronet of sapphires on his brow that matched the deep
blue of his eyes. He had been a beautiful youth and she had loved him in that long, hot summer, whatever had changed in the years since.

‘God have mercy on his soul,’ she said. ‘And thank you for telling me.’ She spoke the words by rote. ‘I will pray for his recovery.’

Maudit hesitated, bowed and left the room.

‘Oh my dear, is there anything I can do?’ Isabel extended a compassionate hand.

‘I am sad, not distraught,’ Alienor said. ‘Tomorrow I will pray for him and have masses said for his soul.’ Rising to her feet, she held out her hands to the last warmth from the brazier. She felt cold, as if the news of Louis’ illness had sucked some of the life from her, but it was a temporary thing and her political brain was stirring and asserting itself. ‘Louis’ heir is only fifteen years old and malleable. Who knows what will happen now? Those in power surrounding him will now have opportunity to make their play.’

‘Harry and Marguerite will be at his court,’ Isabel said, ‘and he has known them for several years.’

‘Indeed, and Harry can charm the birds out of the trees if he sets his mind to it, but he will have to contend with others too.’ She frowned thoughtfully. ‘Henry may find Philippe a difficult proposition because he is closer in age to our sons. He will not be able to control him as he does them and there are no ties of old acquaintance. Louis was thirteen years older than Henry, and now Philippe is more than thirty years younger than Henry. The balance of time is no longer in his favour and this alters the landscape entirely.’

‘Are you worried?’

‘There is nothing I can do, so there is no point.’ She looked across the brazier at Isabel. ‘But Henry should be.’

Belle shivered with delicious fear as she followed John into the dark passageway, heavy with the scent of moist stone. They had left the royal chamber where the adults were
socialising and gone for a walk around Nottingham Castle’s grounds in the overcast December afternoon. It had begun raining and John had dared her to come with him and investigate one of the many caves tunnelled into the soft sandstone rock on which the castle was built. Nottingham itself was honeycombed with underground dwellings and cellars of which the castle had its share. The lantern in his hand cast sufficient light to illuminate the way but heightened the blackness behind and beyond.

‘Careful,’ John whispered. ‘You might tread on a rat.’

Belle shuddered, imagining a yielding furry body under the thin sole of her shoe. He had said it to scare her and she was determined not to let him know he had succeeded. ‘So might you,’ she retorted with bravado. She touched the wall and felt the gritty stone under her fingers, scored by the chisel marks of the men who had cut these caves in the soft stone.

‘There are worse things than rats,’ he whispered. ‘They used to chain prisoners down here on the night before they were executed.’

‘I don’t believe you. It’s just a place for storage.’ Belle looked surreptitiously over her shoulder.

‘Yes, storage of bodies. You can hear the fetter chains of the condemned rattling sometimes if you listen.’ He had just turned thirteen and his voice had developed the grate of young manhood.

‘You don’t scare me,’ she said scornfully, but strained her ears nevertheless. All she could hear was their breathing, the scrape of their soft soles on the tunnel floor and a distant plink-plink of dripping water.

He turned a corner, ducking under a thick archway, and then another, bringing them into a chamber hollowed out of the rock. ‘In the town people make their homes underground,’ he said. ‘There are cockfighting pits and ale houses.’

The smell of stone was powerful and musty. Belle was intensely aware of his presence and the lantern light making a disturbing mask of his features, half golden, half dark.