The Winter Crown (3 page)

Alienor noted the wistful expression on Isabel de Warenne’s face. She had been wed to King Stephen’s youngest son for six years, but the couple remained barren, which Alienor thought a good thing in political terms. William de Boulogne had abjured his right to the crown, but seeds of rebellion might still be sown in a new generation and Henry was prudently keeping the young man under close watch.

Observing the rapport between her son and Isabel, Alienor decided to take the Countess into her own household and cultivate her friendship. She would have invaluable knowledge about the English barons, particularly those who had supported Stephen. The more she could draw Isabel into her affinity, the better.

‘You have some skill there, my lady,’ Alienor said warmly.

Isabel laughed. ‘It is not so difficult, madam. All children love these games.’ She put her arm round Will and made a rabbit shape out of the kerchief in her hand. ‘And men too,’ she added impishly.

Alienor chuckled, acknowledging the truth of the statement and thought that Isabel de Warenne would do very well indeed.

‘The Queen has asked me to join her household,’ Isabel told her husband that evening as they prepared for bed in their lodging house near the Tower. She had thoroughly enjoyed her day. She had not had the opportunity to socialise at court with women of her own rank for many years but now there was peace it would be different and she had even begun to feel optimistic. Playing with the new Queen’s beautiful little boy and seeing Alienor’s well-advanced pregnancy had given her a moment’s sadness, but she had made the most of the moment and not allowed herself to dwell on her own situation.

Her husband lay on the bed, his back supported by bolsters and pillows while she rubbed his lower right leg with a warming unguent. He had broken his shin the previous year in an ‘accident’ at court about which he refused to talk. The circumstances were murky and Isabel had never unravelled them to her satisfaction. She suspected it had either been a warning to William to step aside from claims to his father’s crown, or else a failed attempt at murder. Having no desire to pursue kingship, William had willingly yielded his entitlement, and the danger seemed to have faded, even though she knew he was still closely watched.

‘I am not surprised,’ he said. ‘The King intends keeping me at court, and it is only logical that you should attend the Queen.’ He looked wry. ‘One side of the coin is favour and friendship, and the other is polite house arrest. Henry does not trust us out of his sight.’

‘But that will ease in time?’ Isabel said with her need to have all right with the world.

‘I hope so.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘I have never known anyone with so much energy. He hunted up hill and down dale today, and if his horse hadn’t flagged he would have carried on until nightfall and damn the rest of us. Only that half-brother of his, Hamelin, and the new Chancellor could keep up and that was by sheer force of will and because they had the best horses. I have no doubt he will be off again tomorrow at the crack of dawn.’ He changed position, grimacing. ‘He plans to go to Oxford next week, and then on to Northampton.’

She gave him a sharp look. ‘Just the King’s entourage or all the court?’

‘Just the King; he did not mention the Queen’s household – be thankful!’

Isabel rubbed and pressed. ‘I shall miss you.’

‘I won’t be gone long, don’t worry.’

She concentrated on her work. The unguent was all rubbed in. Where the break had been there was a thick scar like a knot in a branch.

‘Isabel.’

He spoke her name in that gentle, melancholy way that made her want to weep.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘Unbind your hair for me. It is so beautiful when it’s loose.’

She reached hesitantly to her luxuriant braids. Her fingers, moist with the remnants of unguent, clung to the heavy, elastic strands. She loved him deeply, but in the protective way an older sister might love a little stepbrother, and moments of intimacy were awkward. They had married at the decree of his father the King when she was sixteen and he was just eleven, and their physical relationship, as he came to maturity, had never truly blossomed. They lay together because they had a duty to provide heirs for the lands of Boulogne and Warenne, but thus far she had not conceived. She told herself there was time, and surely it would happen, but as each occasion proved unsuccessful her doubts grew, as did her guilt at failure.

He set his hands in her hair and drew her close, but their embrace came to no more than strokes and gentle kisses, which, instead of intensifying, faded away as he fell asleep. Isabel lay at his side, trapped by his hand in her hair, which he gripped like a child with a comfort cloth. She listened to his slow, steady breathing and her heart ached.

At the end of February a late snow fell, covering the land overnight in a thick white quilt. At Bermondsey the hearth in the birthing chamber was kept well stoked and although Alienor’s lower body was naked during this later stage of labour, the covers around her shoulders were of insulating fur.

‘Think,’ said Emma as she gave Alienor a drink of wine fortified with honey, ‘this child will be born in the ermine in more ways than one!’

Alienor was between contractions and so managed a faint smile. Her eldest son had been born to a duke and duchess whereas this new baby would be the offspring of the King and Queen of England. ‘Indeed, and his father will be here to see him this time.’ Henry had recently returned from his lightning travels round England. The deep snow had prevented him from hunting, so he would be closeted in his chamber with Becket and de Lucy busy with matters of state. She sipped the drink, welcoming the sweetness of the honey. ‘When Will was born, Henry was away on campaign, and by the time he did set eyes on him, he was seven months old!’

The next contraction surged, stronger than the last, and with a gasp of pain Alienor returned the cup to Emma.

The senior midwife performed a swift examination. ‘Very soon now, madam,’ she said with cheerful encouragement.

Alienor’s face contorted. ‘Not soon enough!’ she panted. ‘I tell you, men have the better part of the bargain in every way!’

It was almost noon before a baby’s wail filled the birthing chamber, and Alienor slumped against the bolsters, gasping and exhausted.

‘Madam, you have a fine, lusty boy!’ Beaming, the midwife lifted the child from between Alienor’s bloody thighs and placed him, all damp and squirming, on her belly.

Alienor laughed triumphantly despite her weariness. With two sons vouchsafed to the succession, she had more than accomplished her duty.

The midwife cut the cord and dealt with the afterbirth, tending to Alienor while her assistant bathed the baby in a brass bowl by the fireside. Once dried and wrapped in warm linen and furs, he was returned to his mother. Alienor cradled him in her arms, stroked his birth-crumpled little face and counted and kissed his fingers. A glance towards the pale light shining through the window leads showed her silent feathers of green-tinted snow whispering past the glass, and she knew she would always remember this moment. The stillness after bloody struggle; the warmth of fire and pelts protecting her and her new son from the cold; the sense of hushed, enclosed peace that was almost holy.

Alienor awoke from slumber to the sound of London’s church bells and the closer peal from Saint Saviour’s ringing out the joyous news that a prince was born. The window showed quenched afternoon light fading towards dusk and the snow had ceased. Henry was standing at the bedside looking down into the cradle with a beatific smile on his cold-reddened face.

Alienor pushed herself upright against the pillows, wishing that her women had woken her before his arrival and given her a moment to prepare.

He turned at her movement and she saw the shine of tears in his eyes. ‘He is beautiful,’ he said, and his throat worked.

Alienor seldom saw this vulnerable side of her husband. His expression, the way he spoke, filled her with aching tenderness, as if her maternal instincts were flowing out over him too. He lifted the swaddled baby from his cradle and sat down with him on the side of the bed. ‘You have given me everything,’ he said. ‘You have fulfilled every part of the bargain. I do not give my trust lightly, but I give it to you here. You are my dearest heart.’

There was complete candour in his stare, and Alienor’s own eyes filled because she knew how much courage it took for him to lower the shield and admit so much. Clearly the sight of his newborn son had had a profound effect on him. Yet she was wary, because she knew from hard experience that with Henry something meant sincerely now was open to change at a later moment. She said nothing and looked demure while the bells rang and rang.

Eventually he rose to leave, and with reluctance handed the baby to one of her women. ‘I will arrange for his baptism – Henry as we agreed. The Bishop of London will perform it in the morning. I’ll leave you to your rest. You need to recover and grow strong again ready for the next one.’

He kissed her and departed in his usual flurry. Alienor smiled, but she was exasperated. A moment ago everything had been enough and ‘perfect’ for him, yet already he was anticipating the next one, and it was not what a sore, bruised wife wanted to hear just hours after giving birth. The notion of growing strong in order just to produce another baby for him caused her eyes to narrow. She had warned him at the outset of their marriage that she was more than a brood mare, and she would not be treated as one.

‘The Archbishop is pushing me to organise an expedition to Ireland,’ Henry said, pacing the floor with vigour and irritation. ‘The old fox wants to bring the Irish Church to heel under Canterbury’s influence. He suggests I should make my brother king there, but if he thinks to use me and Geoffrey to work his will, he is mistaken.’

Alienor sat by the window dandling seven-month-old Henry in her lap and watching his older brother gallop his wooden hobby around the trestle, shaking its red leather reins. ‘What does Geoffrey say?’

Henry wrapped his hands around his belt. ‘He likes the idea of a kingdom for himself, but not as distant as Ireland. I certainly do not want him left to his own devices on my seaward flank.’

‘You are right to stand your ground.’ Alienor was unable to warm to either of Henry’s brothers. Geoffrey the second-born was full of petulant bluster and resentful of Henry’s primary position. Alienor did not trust him near her or her sons and avoided him when possible. She felt a similar but less strong antipathy towards Henry’s youngest brother, William. He was less forthright in his sense of prerogative, but sought to intimidate others as a way of bolstering his station. Henry’s only decent brother was Hamelin, who was bastard-born and had to sustain his position at court through loyal service.

‘I refuse to let the Church dictate to me,’ Henry growled. ‘Theobald may invoke Rome all he wants and play on how important he was in the past as a mediator. He can hint at how many favours I owe him, but it makes no difference. I shall deal with Ireland in my own good time, not his.’

‘Have you told him that?’

‘Not as such.’ A sly look crossed his face. ‘I said that since it concerned my brother, it was a family matter, and I must consult our mother. I know for certain she will not agree. Like me she will see it as a waste of time and resources – and dangerous. Theobald will pursue it for a while, but I can outlast him.’

‘Clever,’ Alienor said. Henry’s mother was his deputy in Normandy and ruled her roost from the abbey at Bec. She knew the Archbishop well and would be a sympathetic intermediary, while still ensuring Henry’s will was done.

‘I think so,’ he said with a grin.

‘Look, Papa, my horse can gallop fast!’ chirruped Will, who had just begun to talk in sentences.

Henry’s expression softened. ‘A man always needs a fast horse to be ahead of the game and outride his opponents.’ He caught and embraced his son, and their heads pressed together, Henry’s fox-red mingling with William’s brighter, ruddy gold, but both of the same coin.

‘What does your chancellor say, being as he was once Theobald’s man?’ Alienor asked. ‘Has he sought to persuade you?’

‘Thomas does as I command him.’ Henry flashed her a sharp grey glance. ‘He takes his instructions from me now, and his task is to raise revenues, which he is doing remarkably well. It must be his merchant blood.’ He set his son back down on the floor. ‘My mother will deal with Theobald, and that will keep the pair of them occupied and leave me free to attend to other matters.’

Alienor handed the baby to his nurse. ‘You mean us. The matters are mine as well as yours.’

A wary look entered his eyes. ‘That goes without saying.’

‘And yet I always feel I need to say it.’

Irritation sparked in his eyes. ‘When I cross the sea to deal with matters in Normandy and Anjou, you will be my regent here; you are my proxy as I am yours. Rest assured I will always involve you.’

Alienor had no intention of ‘resting assured’, because she did not believe him. If he involved her, it was for his own ends. ‘But the business of Aquitaine is mine first,’ she said firmly. ‘And it is my choice to involve you, not yours to involve me.’

Henry made an impatient sound. ‘Why are you arguing over words? You need the strength of my sword to keep your barons in check, and it is my sweat and striving that sees to the defence and protection of Aquitaine. Our son will one day inherit your duchy and it behoves us both to do our best for him. I do not know why you fret about this.’

‘Because it matters to me. Do not take me for granted, Henry.’

He made an exasperated sound before pulling her against him and kissing her forcefully. She gripped his arms, their embrace a battlefield, sparking with tension and pent-up sexual energy demanding release. ‘As if I would.’

‘I tell you it is more than your life is worth.’ She spoke close enough for her words to be part of the next breath he drew.

He laughed. ‘And yours, my love. Since it seems we are perfectly matched we should call a truce…’ He kissed her again, and led her to the bed, drawing the curtains around the canopy, shutting out the world. And as they undressed each other, short-breathed with lust, she had the thought that only opponents made truces, not allies.