The Winter Crown (50 page)

Isabel cried out as the words brought the image to life, and she doubled over, retching.

Alienor’s jaw was so tight with tension that it ached. Dear God, how were they going to deal with this? Where was the way out? ‘Care for the Countess,’ she commanded her women and, dismissing the messenger with a sharp flick of her hand, went to find Henry.

There was no sign of him in the hall where knots of courtiers stood around discussing what had happened, their shock and agitation palpable. She made her way to his chamber at a rapid walk and found the door barred and a guard set outside. ‘I will see the King,’ she said and stared the man down. ‘Do not tell me he refuses to admit anyone. I am the Queen and this is a matter of the utmost importance.’

The guard hesitated, and then cleared his throat and opened the door for her.

Henry stood by the hearth shivering and clutching a letter, which obviously contained the news of Becket’s murder.

He spun round as Alienor entered and closed the door firmly behind her. ‘I suppose you have come to gloat and tell me it would always come to this,’ he said harshly.

‘What would be the point in that?’ she replied. ‘Done is done and now we must face the consequences.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I saw those men at Bures, the night they were setting out to do this deed. Tell me one thing: did you send them, Henry?’

His eyes glittered. ‘Would you believe me if I said I hadn’t?’

‘Did you?’ She increased the pressure but not the volume of her voice. ‘Tell me the truth and I will believe you.’

‘No, I did not.’ He clutched his hair. ‘Yes, I was sending men to arrest Becket, but not those four, and not with that intent. They took it upon themselves to do what they did. I…’ His face twitched. Swiftly taking his arm, she made him sit down on the hearth bench.

‘When I heard the news, my first thought was: Good, he is dead. Now I can hear my own thoughts without him trampling on them; now I can have peace. I’m still glad that the thing he became as archbishop is no more, even if I feel regret for the man who was my chancellor.’ A shudder ran through him.

He would find it difficult to mourn. She had never seen him grieve properly over anything. It was as though all such feeling was disposed of in a deep, internal well, and the more emotion that poured in, the deeper down he dug, and one day the top would cave in on him and he would drown alone in darkness. He has used the word ‘regret’ but it came from the surface; she knew that underneath lay all the things with which he could not cope. ‘There will be repercussions,’ she said.

Henry pulled his cloak around his body. ‘The deed is done; I cannot bring him back from the dead. The Pope may do as he wishes. Without his vacillating and indecision, none of this would have happened. He should have taken Thomas’s resignation when he tendered it.’

‘But he didn’t and the blame for this will land at your door. Men will say your words were the catalyst. They will accuse you of ordering those knights to go and murder the Archbishop. Those who intend rebellion will have a cause on which to hang their swords.’

Henry bared his teeth. ‘Then they will be dealt with. I refuse to take the blame for this.’ He jerked to his feet and took several agitated steps across the room.

‘Whether you do or not, you will be charged with complicity in the act. The murderers will be excommunicated and you will face the same.’

‘The Pope would not dare.’ Henry turned and flashed her a look bright with rage and underlying fear.

‘Who knows what the Pope will do. I advise you to conciliate. To murder an archbishop, no matter how contentious, on his own cathedral steps is a heinous act and one you must condemn if you are to survive.’

‘I have already drafted a letter to the Pope.’

‘What did you say?’

‘That Thomas brought it upon himself by preaching sedition and that he was cut down by men of whom he had made enemies. That I did not incite anyone to murder.’ He gave her a bleak and bitter look. ‘He is going to haunt me more now he is dead than he ever did alive, isn’t he?’

‘Yes he is,’ Alienor said, ‘because now he has become a martyr.’ Henry should have walked away from making Becket archbishop but that was only to go round in circles of hindsight. What was done could not be undone, only dealt with.

‘It will take at least six weeks for my messengers to reach the Pope, so that gives us time to prepare.’ He returned to the bench, put his head in his hands and groaned.

Alienor set her hand lightly on his shoulder. ‘He insulted your kingship and our family dynasty. Even if his death is a shocking thing, it is an outrage that he treated you as he did.’

He said nothing.

‘Is there anything you want me to do?’

He raised his head. ‘Yes, leave me alone. Go back to Poitiers; it is better if you are not here. And send everyone away. I don’t want to talk to anyone.’

She went to the door, thinking that she would be glad to return to Aquitaine and immerse herself in its affairs. Let Henry deal as he would and continue to dig his well.

Hamelin was waiting outside, shifting from foot to foot. ‘He will not see you,’ she said, ‘not for the moment at least. Let him be.’

Hamelin looked dazed. ‘I cannot believe this terrible evil has been committed,’ he said. ‘I disagreed with Becket many a time; I called him a traitor once and I would again to his face, but to murder an anointed archbishop in the house of God and mutilate the body is a mortal sin. If a leader of the Church is murdered, then how much closer do people come to murdering a king?’ He swallowed hard. ‘I can understand it happening in the hot blood of the moment, but not setting out and with time to think.’ He looked sombre. ‘The fear of God is upon us all. Even without excommunication, there will be terrible repercussions. What if Henry is excommunicated?’

‘That will not happen. The Pope is contrary, but he is not a fool.’ Or at least she hoped he wasn’t.

Hamelin looked sick. ‘This will turn him into a martyr.’

‘And that makes him more dangerous dead than he ever was alive. Henry will never be free of him. I am returning to Poitiers. You should look to Isabel; the news made her unwell.’

‘I shall send her to the Touraine until this is over,’ he said. ‘England is not safe.’

‘She can travel with me as far as she needs to go.’

‘Thank you.’ Hamelin palmed his face. ‘I have to stay with Henry. He is still my brother and my first loyalty.’

‘Then God send you His grace, for you will need it.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed Hamelin’s cheek and thought it ironic that she could kiss her brother-in-law with affection but not her husband.

Alienor gazed round her new great hall. It was still open to the sky, but the walls were almost complete – and it was going to be magnificent. A fine haze of stone dust filled the air and the clink of the mason’s chisels was a pleasant sound in the crisp morning.

Richard stood at her side, flushed from training with his tutors. His practice sword was still in his hand and battle light gleamed in his eyes. Since last Christmas he had grown faster than spring wheat and towered over her. He reminded her of her uncle Raymond, Prince of Antioch, who had been killed in battle in the Holy Land. He had that same leonine grace and watchful gaze that absorbed and assessed everything within his vision; that same astute political judgement. Occasionally too he resembled Henry’s father, Geoffrey le Bel, from whom he had inherited his burnished hair. He was beautiful, the best of her sons and the one in whom she had invested the most because she knew he could do anything. Next midsummer he would receive the regalia of the Counts of Poitiers, and take another step on his road to power.

Richard spun the sword end-over-end and then tossed it high in the air and caught it neatly by the hilt before grinning at the way she tensed.

‘A letter came from your father while you were at your training,’ Alienor said, and refrained from commenting on his tricks, knowing it would only make him dare more. Besides, she had never told Richard to be careful. She had always encouraged him to venture, to climb, because only by so doing could he develop absolute confidence in himself. However, he had to learn the art of politics and diplomacy too. ‘He has arrived safely in Ireland and the sea crossing was brisk but not too rough.’

‘It is a long way to go for somewhere to hide.’ Richard flipped the sword in the air and caught it again.

‘Your father would not call it hiding. He would call it expanding his influence and preventing others from forming kingdoms on his flank. It is better to take the homage of Richard de Clare and prepare the ground for your brother than have Ireland fall into anarchy. It can be his for the sake of a show of force, and then he can let others hold it until John comes of age.’ De Clare had gone to Ireland at the request of the High King of Leinster, who had hired his sword and offered him land in exchange for defeating his enemies.

‘Little John Sans Terre.’ Richard’s tone was one of patronising amusement. ‘Why doesn’t Papa let him enter the priesthood? It would be useful to have a bishop in the family.’

‘That path is already marked out for your half-brother.’

Richard snorted. ‘Does Jeoffrey know that?’ He looked sidelong at his mother. ‘I suppose John is the spare child,’ he said. ‘Should one of us not flourish, he still has one not in holy orders to take our place, but it is going to be difficult wooing the fathers of heiresses when it comes to making John a tempting prospect. Ireland is the back of beyond and filled with bog-dwelling savages and of no relevance to France or Germany or Spain. It’s hardly the first choice for a man to place his daughter.’

‘There is time for change,’ Alienor said. ‘John is still very young.’

Richard examined the hilt and gave it a polish on his sleeve. ‘While Papa is in Ireland, he can avoid the difficulties caused by Becket’s death too.’

‘That had not escaped my attention.’ Alienor firmed her lips. There had been much toing and froing between England and the papal court. Henry had engaged the best lawyers to help him talk his way out of the situation. Canterbury Cathedral had reopened its doors but no services had been held there as yet, and the tomb area had been sealed off, but was due to reopen – fortuitously enough – on the anniversary of Becket’s death. Alienor had heard rumours of the growing popularity of ‘Thomas the Martyr’ and knew Henry would not be able to silence the voices. In dying, the Archbishop had produced a many-headed monster. Henry had not helped himself by refusing to punish the knights involved, saying they must make their own penance with God.

‘Thomas will be waiting for him when he returns,’ she said grimly, ‘and larger than the life he no longer has.’

On a hot June morning eight months later, in the abbey church of Saint-Hilaire, Richard became Duke of Aquitaine. Although the sun beat down outside, the interior of the church was still relatively cool and spiked with the scent of frankincense that rose from the grey-gold lumps in braziers and censers.

Richard was not fifteen until early September, but already knew full well how to project magnificence and authority. Alienor was almost bursting with pride. This more than recompensed for missing her eldest son’s coronation, and Geoffrey’s investiture as Duke of Brittany. Richard would be the greatest of the Dukes of Aquitaine, the pinnacle of his ancestor. Now Richard was entitled to rule, Henry would rapidly become redundant and she would govern at her son’s side and advise him as matriarch of the dynasty.

Seated upon the bishop’s throne on a raised dais Richard was invested with his right and title by the Archbishop of Bordeaux, assisted by the Bishop of Poitiers. The coronet of the Dukes of Aquitaine, bejewelled with pearls and sapphires, adorned his brow and the lance and the banner of his ancestral line were placed in his firm young grip. The light in the window arch sparkled on sharp steel and rippling silk as the hymn ‘O princeps egregie’ was chanted by the ecclesiastical choir.

After the consecration, Richard and Alienor processed from the cathedral into the hot summer light to be fêted by the crowd. All of Poitiers had turned out to see the newly invested young Duke emerge from the basilica. They were cheered amid a shower of blooms and petals and, in return, sent silver coins spinning amid the crowds, and small loaves of bread, marked with the sign of the cross.

Alienor, resplendent in cloth of gold, gestured to one of her knights, and he led forward a striking palfrey for Richard to ride. The stallion’s coat was a gleaming cream-gold, its mane and tail fire-chestnut. A tasselled red saddle cloth hung almost to the ground and the breast-band was adorned with a double row of gold bells. Richard’s eyes widened with tears of pride and wonder. Taking the stallion’s bridle, he patted its satin neck, ran his hands over the shoulders, withers and rump to feel the trembling strength, and then set his foot in the engraved stirrup and swung into the decorated saddle.

The sight of him, the sheer, imperious joy and splendour, took Alienor’s breath. Richard’s smile was as wide as the sun as he turned his new horse on a tight rein and raised his right hand, clutching the banner of the Dukes of Aquitaine. As the silk rippled and flowed around him, the roar from the crowd and the tossed flowers caused the horse to prink and sidle, but Richard mastered him with confident ease, and Alienor allowed the tears to spill freely down her cheeks as she watched her son grasp his destiny.

Six months later, on a bitter winter day with snow blowing in the wind and the heat of June a distant memory, Alienor and Richard arrived at Chinon. Richard, secure in his title, wore a cloak of rippled blue and cream squirrel fur, the ring of Saint Valerie gleaming on the middle finger of his right hand. He rode his cream-chestnut palfrey, Jalnice, and the golden bells jingled on the red leather breast-band with each movement of the stallion’s muscular shoulders.

Alienor shivered as the towering fortress walls of Chinon mantled them in its shadow. She had wanted to spend Christmas in Poitiers, but it was a political necessity to come here. This would be the first time she had seen Henry in two years and she was not looking forward to the encounter.