The Stolen Queen (24 page)

‘Do you wish for the apothecary, Majesty? Or something to help you sleep?'

‘No, I am merely tired. You may leave me.'

I sat hunched up before the fire, wanting Agnes, that she might brush out my hair with a comb dipped in scented oil, to soothe me. My mother. Always my mother. My mother had sent Aliene to me, knowing that I would take to a girl who reminded me so pleasantly of my home in Angouleme, that I would let her near my children, that she would cuckoo her way into my household and my trust – but why? I did not doubt that John had become Aliene's lover, or thought that he had, and for that I cared not a farthing. Kings had mistresses, and better even a servant than the wife of one of his barons. It was no loss to me to be spared his grunting and probing. And I could not blame the girl, might even have been sorry for her, for what young woman could refuse her king, even if she wished to? But I had seen the garter, and knew her for what she was.

Might Pierre help me? Between us there was understanding, but no affection. I was not such a fool as to think that my brother cared for my interests, except where they suited his. But then I
groaned aloud. Pierre was of the old faith, just like my mother. He had known all along, had deceived me yet again.

I must send the girl away, I thought. Declare myself dissatisfied with her and simply send her away. I rested my head in my hands, massaging my temples to ease away the ache, but then I started and called out, frightening myself with the high, thin panic of my own voice. ‘Who's there?'

A shadow, a shifting log. Nothing, I told myself, nothing. There was no horned man lurking in my bed hangings. But the shadows were circling me once more, plucking at me with their goblin talons seeking to drive me mad.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

U
NUSUALLY, THE KING REMAINED AT WESTMINSTER AS
winter froze and dripped towards spring. He received visits from his bishops, and from the Pope's legate at Rome, some business to do with an ecclesiastical appointment, and from his seneschals, bringing in the New Year's taxes from across the country. And when he was not hearing charters or quarrelling with the churchmen, he spent his time in his chamber, with Aliene. I had not succeeded in having the girl removed. When I sent to John to inform him that I wished to appoint a new mistress of the nursery, he returned that he wished the children to remain for the present at court, with their maids around them. When I sought him out to complain of it, he gave me a bored look, as though I was a tiresome petitioner, and said that I had heard his wish. I tried again, going to him after Mass, most civilly, requesting that I should order my children's household to my liking.

‘I have told you, my lady, what I intend.' He was stalking along the inner court of the palace, muffled as always against the
cold, which he seemed to feel so much more than other men. I had to trot to keep up with him, which made me feel small and angered me, but I attempted to keep my words sweet.

‘I wish the Angouleme girl to leave. The children need an English maid, now. And soon Henry will require a tutor, and a squire of his own.'

‘Indeed. Perhaps the children should keep their own house, at Eltham perhaps, or Berkhamsted. Do you wish that?'

‘You would send them away?'

‘It is not healthy for them, here at court. I was brought up far from London.'

I knew that. John had not seen his own mother, Queen Eleanor, for years at a stretch. I had often wondered if that was what had made him so angry, so vicious. I could not have my boy sent away.

‘I wish the Angouleme girl gone.'

‘And I do not. Would you defy me?'

‘Of course not, my lord. It shall be as you wish.'

The halls of Westminster were full of the delicious news that the king had taken a mistress. I saw my maids pitying me, a gloating pity that triumphed in the loss of my power over the king. Aliene was not stupid enough to flaunt her success, but I could hardly avoid the sight of her in the fine clothes which John permitted her to order, or the jewels which she now wore each day at supper, a string of grey pearls, an opal ring, which I and every woman at court knew to be gifts from the king. I wondered what other women might do in my place. It was not such a strange position, after all. Many wives tolerated their husbands'
whores as part of their households. I could find ways to make Aliene's life unpleasant, I thought. I was still queen. I could taunt her, humiliate her, but I was too proud for that. Besides, I wished to remain with my children, and she knew it. I wondered what poison she dripped into his ear, night after night as she lay in his arms. I wondered what tricks she contrived to make him feel like a man. She was the nightbird now, the cosseted darling. I had served my purpose, bred his heir and now I should be left to grow old and ugly and bitter like so many a royal wife before me, while she grew sleek on the king's pleasure. At least I did not have to endure any sardonic expressions of sympathy from Pierre; the Lord de Joigny was gone to the west country to see after the wardens of the ports.

John had not loved me since Arthur's death at Rouen, but with Henry's birth he had softened once more, still treating me, as best he could, as a wife. Now, each day, I watched him grow colder towards me, as though he had to force himself to speak even the few words that courtesy demanded from us. The palace was so vast, and the king's business so pressing, that I might have gone for weeks without ever seeing him at all, except for his formal message each morning, to ask how the queen did, yet I sought him out. Sought, as I thought many wives had been obliged to do, to win him round with gentleness and patience. I arranged a supper party in my room, with musicians newly arrived from Germany, but he sat there glowering, picking at his food, and remained no more than an hour before bidding me a brusque goodnight and going to Aliene's bed. I ordered a bear baiting and a wolf hunt along the banks of the
livid winter river, the beasts brought in cages from the wild northlands of the country, to be released, starved and slavering, for the huntsman's sport. But John did not attend. I heard that he had ordered white bearskins for Aliene's bed, and merchants arrived each day from the city with bales of velvet and furs for her to pick over like a housewife cheapening goods in the market. I had a consignment of strong red Spanish wine served at supper, thinking to tempt him that way, but he swilled at it from the alabaster cups I had thought might please him as though it were coarse common ale and dragged himself bleared and belching from the table, so that I was ashamed of myself for stooping to allure him.

And then the comet came. It was February, the feast of St Bridget, and though the day marked the change of the season, the world remained grey and sodden with melting ice, the dung heaps in the yards frozen and reeking, the stabled horses fat and restless. That night the sky was clear, pierced with stars above the smoke of the humming city, the hall at Westminster was thick with wood smoke and the scent of roast meat. A monk had come from the abbey at Wendover some days earlier, with a set of curious metal instruments and a heavy manuscript of charts, which showed the movements of the moon across the heavens. God was sending a sign, he said, in the sky, and the king would do well to mind it. It seemed like sport as we trooped dutifully out onto the palace walls, huddled in our furs, peering eagerly at the dark heavens. I could not see Aliene among the crowd, and for a few blessed moments I forgot her, and looked eagerly for the comet.

I had seen it like a huge shooting star, a red blaze across the heavens but it was not like that at all. The little monk in his dingy habit was hopping with excitement, his sandals slipping on the frozen stones, gesturing at the moon, which hung low and heavy in the sky. Slowly, the surface of the moon dimmed, from silver to pearl and then to the colour of blood. There was silence on the walls as we watched. God was not making fireworks for our pleasure. This was something else. The bloodied moon gleamed malevolently through its shroud, then dimmed to a greasy grey. For a few seconds, the whole of London was still. The cries from the alehouses, the watermen's calls, the creaking of carts, the bustle from the kitchens, all ceased. We were entranced, watching the sky that seemed as though a huge vial of ink had been upset across it. Some of the maids made the sign of the cross, the little monk was praying into his cowl. Then the murmurings began. It was a sign, people whispered, a sign of God's wrath. And then the eyes of the crowd slid towards their king. John was standing apart, his eyes fixed upon the skies, one hand resting tautly on the hilt of his sword. I made my way towards him, my women trailing carefully behind, holding up their gowns away from the treacherous stone. From the city beneath us now came the sounds of prayer, and the church bells began to ring. I came up beside John and removed my glove, trying to work my fingers between his own. ‘What does it mean, my lord?'

He started as though roused from sleep, and stared wildly at me for a moment. ‘Nothing. It means nothing.' At the motion of his hand the heralds sounded and the servants began to light torches and braziers, burning the night back into its familiar
state. The king would return to the hall, he began to make his way along the walls. Then there was a sharp whistling sound, and a whip crack of impact, and the page that walked before my husband fell to his knees. There was a shout from the street beneath us, ‘There he is! Henry's bastard!' Then a wave of thin, humming noise that I recognized from Mirebeau. Arrows. There were arrows being fired on the palace. John's face was barely visible in the torchlight under the dimmed moon; for a breath his eyes gleamed black as the sky, still transfixed by what they had seen, then he shook himself to life as the barons rushed up around him and the screams from the street told us that the guards had found whoever was firing. The little monk, Roger, his name was, was flapping and babbling frantically about God's anger. John pushed him aside so violently that he almost toppled from the wall, and he strode towards the court, calling over his shoulder that the queen and her ladies should be escorted to their chambers. As I was hustled along amidst my maids, I saw the orange glow of fire begin to crack and shimmer across the rooftops, and where a few moments before the town had been so still, now a great yell of sound bellied up towards us, like the explosion of a fool's bladder. The curtain of blood across the moon had been drawn back, exposing the roiling anger of a people whose discontents I had simply not known. Why were they so furious? What did they mean to do?

‘What's happening?' I called, stumbling on the hem of my cloak.

‘A riot in the city, my lady. Nothing to fear. His Majesty's guards will quell it in no time,' a soldier responded.

The walls were writhing in a confusion of bodies, John and his men trying to descend, the guards roaring as they barred the palace gates, the servants in the kitchens below running about like startled fowl. The children. Were the children safe?

‘Take me to the nursery,' I hissed at the soldier who had answered me. The good man squared his shoulders against the shoving cluster of courtiers and pulled me in front of him.

‘Make way! Make way for the queen!' he bellowed, and then we were moving, his arms keeping off the crowd, down through the wall gate and along the passage, until we came to the great staircase, where I stooped and threw my slippers aside, feeling the hard stone beneath the wool of my stockings, and then I ran, leaving him behind me, passing a kitchen hand with his arms full of plates, who screamed in terror and dropped it with a great clatter – was he stealing in the commotion? I ran across the hall and up to the gallery, turning left, shocked with the cold again as I came out on the open balcony, then plunging back into the palace, my mind ablaze like the burning town with what I might find. There was no guard at my children's door. I pushed it ajar quietly and walked softly into the room. The nursery was a large square chamber, where the children ate and played, with four rooms off it on either side. On the right, the river side, the casements were fastened tight, but the nightlight was burning in its dish of oil and I glimpsed Joan, sleeping soundly, her brother Richard likewise, both children sprawled half-out of their bedclothes, their faces flushed with dreams. I released the huge breath gathered in my lungs. They were safe. But where was Henry?

I passed out of the sleeping chamber and crossed the main room to the left side. The first alcove was empty except for the small altar where a candle burned. My son's room lay beyond.

‘Henry?' I called softly, so as not to frighten him.

Aliene was stooped over my child's bed, the low hanging cloth of estate touching her hair. Henry lay before her, sleeping soundly on his front. But his nightshirt was off, the pale glow of his skin illuminated in the candle the girl had set in its bracket by the bed. She was muttering something, a high drone in a tongue I might have recognized if I had listened, but I did not listen, for in her right hand she held an awl, bright as an icicle, and she was reaching her left hand to my boy's mouth, to stay the scream that would come when she marked him. I had not felt such rage since I had fought with Hal, so long ago in the garden at Lusignan. No. I had never felt such rage. I sprang at her, knocking her off the bed, grabbing for a handful of her hair to twist her face towards me. She stabbed at me with the awl, though I did not feel it pierce through my heavy winter cloak, and tried to scrabble to her feet, even as I battered at her with my fists, the pair of us fighting in silence while Henry, improbably, slept on between us. I managed to force her down on the carpet and straddled her body, pulling her throat back and banging my knee against her heart. Her eyes were wild, unseeing, I think that she did not know me, so entranced had she been with her task. I pulled up her gown, feeling for the red thread I knew would be bound about her leg. I grasped it and pulled against her flesh, snapping it in one movement. Perhaps I thought to strangle her with the evil thing, but just then I felt
myself pulled off her, kicking out at her prone form as I did so, and I turned, limp but unsurprised, to face Pierre.