The Winter Crown (25 page)

Well on her way to being seven years old, her older daughter was solemn and composed. Just now she was shaking her head at Geoffrey and Richard who were dashing about the dockside creating mayhem.

‘Let them run off their wildness,’ Alienor said to her. ‘We’ll be cooped up on board ship for several hours.’

Matilda gave a superior little sniff. ‘Boys are not as sensible as girls.’

‘Indeed that is true.’ Alienor gave her a woman-to-woman smile and a hug.

It began to snow, small, fine flakes little larger than scurf in a beggar’s hair. Alienor looked over at Isabel de Warenne, who stood shivering among her other ladies. Her grey cloak with its sable collar exaggerated the pallor of her face and the dark circles under her eyes. Alienor had not received a reply from the new Archbishop to her letter about Isabel’s marriage because of the wild weather, but she would find out soon enough.

Eventually the tide was right and everyone boarded for the voyage. With the disaster of the
White Ship
in mind, where the vessel had sunk with the heir to the throne on board, the royal children were divided. Richard, Matilda and the baby sailed with Alienor, and Geoffrey accompanied his father on the sleek magnificent king’s vessel with its double lion banner, which pleased him mightily and caused Richard to sulk.

The fleet sailed out of the harbour’s calm water and struck the hard salt spray of the open sea. Alienor gazed out over the swell of marbled green water. It seemed a lifetime since she had first voyaged to England with all her hopes fresh and new, and a crown to be claimed. So much hope and anticipation. Today her feelings were gritty and edged with endurance. The nights were opening out and spring was on the horizon, but that sense of anticipation had trickled away like water through her hands.

A welcoming party waited to greet the royal fleet in Southampton. Drawn up in serried ranks the Archbishop of Canterbury’s knights and men-at-arms were polished and equipped to the last detail. Becket shone in his robes like a winter morning of frost and gold. He held a crozier of silver gilt and rock crystal in his right hand, and his left rested benignly on Harry’s shoulder. The lad was dressed in a dark red tunic and fur-lined cloak, a golden circlet gleaming on his brow.

At a gesture from the Archbishop, his entourage knelt as one, the sound resembling the muted flapping of a ship’s great sail. ‘Sire,’ he said, and he too knelt, drawing Harry down beside him.

Henry studied the display with hard eyes and Alienor felt a deep sense of unease; Becket’s attitude was that of a ruler greeting guests at his door, rather than a royal servant acknowledging the arrival of the country’s sovereign and his consort. However, she hid her concern beneath a regal exterior and murmured platitudes. For now she needed Becket’s support. Their eyes met for a moment in acknowledgement of their business, and then he looked away, and she turned to Harry, greeting him with kisses on his wind-chilled cheeks and exclaiming at how tall he had grown. ‘You are almost bigger than me!’

He gave her his beautiful sunray smile. ‘And my father too.’

Henry had overheard and gave an indulgent chuckle. ‘Just as long as you do not grow too big for your boots,’ he said, and then shot his archbishop a piercing look that sat completely at odds with the smile on his face.

Later that day, Henry and Becket sat over a cup of wine as they had so often done in the past, but everything had changed. Where there had been trust and cordiality, now distance and wariness held sway. ‘I refuse to accept your resignation,’ Henry said coldly. ‘That was not my intent when I made you Archbishop of Canterbury.’

Thomas looked regretful but resolute. ‘My bishops accuse me of paying too much attention to secular matters. There is a constant clash of interests and never enough time to sort out the needs of the Chancellery and the archbishopric. I cannot do both tasks well.’

‘That is a paltry excuse and you know it. You could delegate more tasks and just keep an eye on matters. I do, so why can’t you?’

‘God does not deserve divided attention, sire.’

‘That did not concern you when you accepted the post. I appointed you, and it is for me to remove the chancellorship should I see fit, not for you to resign.’ That was what stuck in Henry’s craw. That Becket should do something like this of his own accord.

‘Sire, I confess that I believed in my pride that I could do my duty to both offices, but it is too much for one man to hold, even with delegation. I did not do this thing lightly; I gave it much thought, but in the end I concluded that service to God is the most important service of all – for any man.’

Henry’s chest expanded with anger. ‘It was not God who raised you from the dust, but me. Do not think to aggrandise yourself at my expense because if you do, I will cut off your arms.’ He made a gesture of angry dismissal. ‘Do then as your conscience dictates, but be it on your own head. I shall appoint Geoffrey Ridel chancellor in your stead because he is accomplished at fiscal work and will perform his office with more faith than you have.’

‘Sire, I am sure he will serve you well,’ Becket said calmly, although a muscle flickered beneath one eye.

‘Better than some.’

A heavy silence ensued as the men drank their wine. Henry banged his cup down. ‘Since you desire to abandon your duties as chancellor and devote yourself to ecclesiastical matters, there is the business of the dispensation my brother needs to wed the Countess de Warenne. The woman is being difficult and insisting upon it. I want you to draw up the document so that we can hold the wedding before Lent.’

Becket fiddled with the edge of one voluminous sleeve. ‘Unfortunately I cannot do that, sire.’

‘What do you mean, you cannot do it? Don’t be preposterous!’

‘Sire, I did mention it to you once before. There is a matter of consanguinity. The couple are related in the third degree. There are too many close family ties to make their union viable.’

‘Well, of course there are family ties!’ Henry spluttered. ‘That’s why they need a dispensation, but they are hardly brother and sister, are they?’

Becket remained implacable. ‘Unfortunately, sire, the fact remains that the Countess de Warenne and your brother are too closely related. I cannot give a dispensation when it is against the law of God.’

Henry leaped to his feet and stood over Becket. ‘By Christ, why do you baulk me on this? You shall give me that dispensation. This marriage has been planned for years, as well you know! You are doing this to flaunt your own power. Do not think I cannot see through you.’

Becket too stood up, tall and grey as a granite rock compared to Henry’s volcano. ‘Sire, I do not do this to inconvenience or spite you, but b-because it is not lawful. After what was done to the Countess de Warenne’s sister-in-law, I would have expected you to treat this lady gently. Mary de Boulogne has been petitioning me for an annulment on the grounds that she was a nun illegally dragged from her convent ever since you arranged that particular union. Surely it is better to show tact and yield to the laws of consanguinity. I am given to understand that the Countess de Warenne does not look favourably on the suit for those very reasons – there are concerns at court.’

Henry’s complexion, already bright, grew incandescent with fury. ‘You are “given to understand”, Thomas? Who gave you to understand? Has the Countess de Warenne asked you to deny the dispensation?’

Becket shook his head. ‘No, sire, she has not.’

‘So someone else has done so, which suggests that I have spies and meddlers in my household.’ A nauseating sense of betrayal ripped through him. Treachery and disloyalty were what he feared the most, especially under his nose, and he could guess the source.

‘The salient point remains: the match is consanguineous and I cannot condone it,’ Becket said, making a shield of righteous dignity.

‘Be careful, Thomas.’ Henry’s voice was thick with rage. ‘Be very careful. You have damaged the bond between us. Push the boundaries one step further and you will harm it beyond repair. Do not fight me, because I will not let you win.’

Marchisa ran the comb through Alienor’s hair and followed downwards with her palm, smoothing gently. Finding a grey strand amid the burnished gold, she carefully plucked it out.

‘Another one?’ Alienor was rueful. ‘They are gathering apace these days. They say wisdom and experience are compensations for the ageing of the body, but I am not convinced of that. It would seem to me more practical to have all those attributes at the same time.’ She was rubbing rose-water unguent into her hands. They at least were still smooth and without blemish, but nevertheless belonged to a woman of nine and thirty, not a girl. Hands that had held an orb and sceptre, that had touched Christ’s crown of thorns in Constantinople and impressed seals upon letters of destiny. Hands that had gripped Henry’s flanks in pleasure as they conceived a child, and then held that child as he died burning with fever.

Marchisa had just finished her task when Henry slammed into the chamber unannounced, his expression thunderous. Alienor dismissed her women with a swift word and rose from her chair, pulling a loose silk robe over her chemise.

‘Have you anything to do with this, madam? I know it’s you!’ He threw the piece of parchment he had been clutching so that it landed at her feet in a crumpled ball.

‘To do with what?’ She feigned indifference, although her heart had begun to pound.

‘You know very well! Thomas Becket has refused a dispensation for the marriage of Isabel de Warenne to my brother, on grounds of consanguinity. He could grant a dispensation with a flick of his wrist and yet he has chosen not to. Why should he do that unless someone has whispered in his ear?’

Alienor made no attempt to pick up the parchment. ‘Perhaps he followed his conscience,’ she said, her voice calm but forceful. ‘Sometimes I think you have lost yours.’

‘Christ on the cross, madam, I will not have you interfering in matters of state. This was a sound match and you have destroyed it with your foolish meddling!’

‘As was the match with Mary de Boulogne?’ She faced him with her chin up.

‘Yes it was! I will not have you pushing me on that. You have never liked my brother. Every time I mention advancing him you either look the other way or make a disapproving face. Do you think I have not noticed you hiding Isabel de Warenne in the bower and protecting her under your wing?’

Alienor stood tall and met his blazing stare with composure even though she was very afraid. She did not regret what she had done and she was not going to back down or apologise.

His expression contorted. ‘You are the woman I take into my bedchamber, the mother of my heirs. You are supposed to support me in what I do and be a haven of grace and trust. And yet you agitate against me and thwart me at every turn, and then wonder why I am angry.’

‘And you never listen to what I have to say,’ she retorted, her chest tight with anger and grief. ‘You ride roughshod over all needs but your own, and then wonder why everything falls apart around you. I have done nothing of which I am ashamed. You put Thomas Becket in the position of Archbishop of Canterbury, and the final decision on the matter of a dispensation was his. Had he chosen to sanction the marriage, there is nothing I could have done to prevent it. It is my duty as queen to intercede when requested, just as much as it is yours to govern.’

Henry clenched his fists. ‘Do not use your specious arguments on me. I will not have you interfering and going behind my back, do you hear me?’

‘I hear you,’ she said, and it was a statement of fact that acknowledged without giving ground. He could bluster all he wanted; it did not alter the fact that Becket had refused the dispensation – and she had won.

‘You will obey me…’

She bowed her head and said nothing. Looking contrite was not the same as being contrite.

Henry pulled her against him, cupping the back of her head in his hands. ‘…or I will break you,’ he added, his breath mingling with hers.

Not if I break you first, she thought, but let her body flow against his like water. ‘As you say, sire.’ She reached her hand down between them to stroke him, and found him as hard as an iron rod. Henry made a sound in his throat, took her arm and pushed her roughly on to the bed. She welcomed him and goaded him, urging him on, scratching him with her nails when he bit her shoulder, and wrapping her legs around him as he thrust inside her. No matter how many mistresses he took, only she was the vessel by which his heirs were begotten, and no matter how strong he was when he entered her, she would take that strength and leave him soft and drained. That he might plant a child in her body was both a challenge and a danger, and in this moment she was ready to accept both, even if the light of day might bring regret.

When they had finished, Henry rolled over and pillowed his head on his bent arms. Coppery tufts of hair gleamed in his armpits and fuzzed a dark red stripe down to his groin. ‘This annulment,’ he said breathlessly, ‘I am not done. The Countess de Warenne will marry whom I say. If you were thinking to match her with one of your Poitevans, you may scrap your scheming now, because it will not happen.’

‘As you please, sire,’ she said with a twist of contempt.

‘No, I don’t please,’ he snarled, ‘but I will make the best of it.’ He left the bed and donned his clothes. She looked at the scratches on his shoulders before he covered them with his shirt, and wished she had gouged them deeper.

In the morning after mass, Alienor bade Isabel attend her, and waved her other ladies out of earshot. Isabel was pale and sombre, her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes downcast.

‘You must know why I want to talk to you,’ Alienor said quietly.

‘Yes, madam.’ Isabel bit her lip. ‘I am prepared for whatever you have to tell me.’

‘I am not sure you are.’

Isabel gave her a wide stare, brown eyes full of dread, and Alienor shook her head. ‘You have the manner of someone waiting to hear terrible news, but in truth you should have a smile on your lips and be wearing that red dress that suits you so well.’

Isabel looked bewildered. ‘Madam?’