The Winter Crown (4 page)

Alienor stood beside Henry in the great hall of Westminster Palace and studied the transformation with pleasure. The smell of fresh plaster and timber had replaced that of cold, damp stone and neglect. Craftsmen were still busy about their tasks, but they were cosmetic now rather than of structure. The final smoothing, the last touches of paint and varnish were falling into place. The hangings commissioned from Canterbury had recently arrived and were being suspended from poles beneath friezes of red and green acanthus scrolls that added detail and colour. English embroidery was the best in Christendom.

‘All will be ready for the council in three days’ time, sire,’ said Thomas Becket with a sweep of his fur-lined sleeve. ‘The furniture will be here before dusk and the napery is arriving tomorrow.’ One of his briefs had been to see to the refurbishing of the palace of Westminster ready for the great council and court gathering at Christmas before Henry’s departure to Normandy.

Henry nodded his approval. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘A year ago this was an uninhabitable shell with water running down the walls and half the lead stolen from the roof. Now it is fit for the purpose intended.’

Becket dipped his head and sent a glance of acknowledgement to Alienor. ‘With the Queen’s advice, I have done my best, sire.’

‘I am pleased to see my chancellor and my wife working together in harmony,’ Henry said with satisfaction. ‘I could not ask for a better result.’

Becket bowed again, and Alienor reciprocated. She was still uncertain of Becket and found him an enigma. He was unfailingly polite to her, never familiar. They could talk easily on many subjects and understand each other – he was cultured, observant and sharp-witted – but there was no great warmth in their communication; she could never tell for certain what he was thinking, and that unsettled her. His goal seemed to be to provide whatever she and Henry desired of him, especially when it came to raising revenue, and that in its turn added to his lustre.

Alienor had enjoyed working with Becket at Westminster, advising, designing and selecting, but while her involvement was one of routine pleasure, he had been like a starving man let loose at a banquet; there had been moments when she had had to curtail his rampant enthusiasm. The subtle, textured hangings from the workshops at Canterbury were of her choosing, but the pink marble high table with its arched columns was Becket’s contribution, as were the matching benches and the ornate fountain. She had not visited the Chancellor’s home yet, but had heard it was sumptuous enough for the Greek Emperor. It was ironic that Henry could as happily sleep on a straw pallet as a feather bed, whereas his chancellor had the tastes and inclinations of a potentate – or of a man striving to forget his common origins in a display of overblown grandeur.

From the great hall, Becket led them along a covered pathway. A bitter wind swept off the river, which was tipped with whitecaps as the incoming tide battled up the estuary. Alienor wrapped her cloak firmly around her body, sheltering her womb, where the child conceived in September was starting to thicken her figure. They came to a smaller hall that had been derelict the previous year, and now stood proud in a coat of fresh limewash, roofed in oak shingles gleaming like dull silk.

The warmth inside the smaller dwelling was like an embrace and Alienor went to enjoy the heat glowing from the fire in the central hearth. Here too the walls had received new plaster and limewash. An insulating layer of fragrant straw covered the floor topped by reed matting. Ceramic lamps hung from the ceiling on brass chains and the exotic perfume of scented oil filled the chamber. On a sturdy chest under the window stood an exquisite little ivory box with ornate hinges. Henry pounced on it. ‘I remember this!’ he cried. ‘My mother brought it with her when she came to fight for her crown. I haven’t seen it since I was a child. She used to keep her rings in it.’ His face was animated as he raised the lid to reveal many small irregular lumps of opaque grey and gold resin resembling beach shingle.

‘Frankincense!’ Alienor looked over his shoulder and smiled.

‘The Bishop of Winchester left it behind when he fled,’ Becket said. ‘I am sorry there were no jewels inside, but the frankincense is worth its weight in gold.’

‘I am surprised it does not hold thirty pieces of silver,’ Henry muttered. He placed three lumps on a small skillet at the side of the hearth and held it over the fire until pale, fragrant smoke started to twist from the resin.

Henry, Bishop of Winchester, was King Stephen’s brother. Unwilling to raze the castles he had built during the Anarchy, he had offered bribes and wriggled all ways to try and unhook himself, and when he saw that he was going to be brought down whatever he did, he had quickly and quietly arranged to send his purloined, amassed treasure to France, to the abbey at Cluny. He had followed, slipping out of the country on the ebb tide of a dark November night.

Henry wafted his hand through the smoke. Closing her eyes, Alienor inhaled the scent of royal power, and of God. Memories coiled around her, many of them powerful and glorious even if not altogether happy.

When she opened her eyes again, Henry’s half-brother Hamelin had joined them. His grim expression and wooden posture were an immediate warning.

‘It’s Aelburgh,’ he said to Henry. ‘There has been an accident.’

Henry rose from the hearth and swiftly drew Hamelin to one side. Alienor watched the latter stoop to murmur in Henry’s ear and saw Henry stiffen. The English name meant nothing to her, she did not even know if it was male or female, but it clearly meant a great deal to Henry. Without a word to her or Becket he strode from the room, dragging Hamelin with him.

Alienor stared after them in astonishment and disquiet. She was accustomed to Henry’s volatile flurries of energy, but not like this. ‘Who is Aelburgh?’ She looked round at her ladies, who shook their heads. She turned to Becket, who was picking up the box of frankincense from the side of the hearth. ‘My lord chancellor?’

He cleared his throat. ‘I have no personal acquaintance, madam.’

‘But you do know who it is?’

‘I think it best for the King to tell you when he returns, madam.’

Anger flashed. She felt at a disadvantage – undermined. ‘You may “think” what you like, my lord chancellor, but you will tell me if you know.’

He looked down at the little box and secured the lid. ‘I believe the King has known the lady for many years,’ he said. ‘More than that I cannot say.’

So it was a woman and of long acquaintance. Henry’s sexual appetite was as intense as the rest of him, and Alienor accepted that he made arrangements to slake his lust when she was heavy with child or not by his side. There were nights when he did not come to her chamber. Much of that time he was working on matters of government, but she was not naive. Any court whore would leap at the chance to oblige him, and his position of power meant he would never be refused. But a woman he had known for many years was more than a passing fancy, and his behaviour just now spoke of deep concern.

Everyone was avoiding her gaze. Standing tall, she gathered her dignity. ‘Thank you, my lord chancellor,’ she said with regal command. ‘The King has business to attend to, but you may show me what else has been accomplished here.’

Becket bowed and took his response from hers. ‘Madam, I think you will like what has been done with the smaller hall.’ He gestured with an open hand.

Alienor followed him, and as he showed her the renovations with comments and flourishes, she replied as if she was interested, but when the tour was finished, she recalled not a word of what he had said.

Henry gazed at the body of his mistress. With the sheet drawn up to her chin and her eyes closed, she might have been deeply asleep were it not for the waxen appearance of her skin, which lacked any warmth of colour. Her beautiful hair still rippled with all the vibrant life that had left its owner.

‘A cart in the street laden with barrels overturned and crushed her,’ Hamelin said. ‘By the time they pulled her out, she was dead. I am sorry.’ Words were inadequate; he almost felt foolish for saying them, but there had to be something to fill the void.

Henry grasped a hank of Aelburgh’s hair and rubbed its softness between his finger and thumb, then leaned over and kissed her icy brow. ‘I was a youth of fourteen when we met.’ His voice caught in his throat, and he had to clear it with a cough. ‘She was a girl fresh from the country and sweeter than apple blossom. There will never be another one like her for me.’

‘I am sorry,’ Hamelin muttered again. ‘I knew what she was to you.’ He squeezed Henry’s shoulder in sympathy and stood for a moment in silence. Then he said: ‘What about the child?’

Henry drew a shuddering breath. ‘I will bring him to Westminster to join the nursery. It was my intention to do so anyway at some point.’ He turned away from Aelburgh’s broken body, leaving it to be made ready for church.

In the room below, his small son, Jeoffrey, sat on his nurse’s lap fingering a scrap of blanket, his blue eyes big with wonder and anxiety. ‘Is Mama still asleep?’ he asked.

Henry plucked him out of the woman’s arms. ‘Your mama is sending you to live with me, because she cannot care for you any more,’ he said. ‘You will have brothers to play with and people to look after you. Here, would you like to ride on my big horse?’

The child sucked his bottom lip, but nodded gamely. Henry threw a look over his shoulder at Hamelin filled with a raw mingling of grief and anger.

Hamelin recognised dangerous ground. Henry never coped well when matters took away his control and made of him a straw in the flood. And he hated exposing his vulnerability to others. ‘I never knew my mother’, he said. ‘She died at my birth – but I do remember our father’s care and how he made me his son even though I had no rights of inheritance. I loved him for that, and honoured him all of his days, as you know.’

Henry swallowed. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said, and then looked at the little boy in his arms. ‘He is all I have of his mother.’ Abruptly he pushed his way outside. It had started to snow and he protected his son within the thick fur folds of his cloak. Hamelin followed him out, closed the door and directed their attendant guard to disperse the curious crowd that had gathered.

As dusk advanced, Alienor set down her sewing to rest her eyes. The winter light was not conducive to fine work, but the repetitive act of pushing the needle in and out of the fabric, creating the design, always helped her to think.

‘Madam, is there anything I may do for you?’ asked Isabel de Warenne, who had been keeping her company throughout the afternoon. Heavy-eyed, little Will snuggled against Isabel’s side, tucked in a fold of her cloak. He had been running round the room with his toy weapons earlier, but had paused for respite and the comfort of a cuddle. His baby brother slept in his cradle, watched over by his nurse.

‘No,’ Alienor said. ‘Other than bid the steward put bread and cheese under a cloth for when the King returns. He will be hungry. And summon Madoc. If I cannot sew, I will listen to music.’

‘Madam.’ Isabel tidied her sewing away with graceful, unhurried movements that soothed Alienor to watch and filled her with a glow of gratitude.

‘Thank you,’ she said, lightly touching Isabel’s sleeve.

‘For what, madam?’

‘For companionship without words.’

Isabel’s face turned pink. ‘I could see you were troubled, but wished to keep your own thoughts. There is nothing I could say that would have been wisdom.’

‘And that is what makes you wise. If you had chattered, I would have sent you away.’

‘I learned discretion when I was at court before,’ Isabel replied with a small grimace. ‘Sometimes the silences have more substance than words.’ She started to rise, gently disturbing the little boy. ‘Come, my prince,’ she said. ‘Shall we find you some bread and honey?’

Will rubbed his eyes and grizzled, but Isabel cajoled him until he brightened and put his hand in hers, the other clutching his toy sword.

A sudden flurry at the hall doors and a blast of icy air heralded Henry’s return. With mingled relief and exasperation, Alienor glimpsed his ruddy hair and the swirl of his short green cloak.

‘Papa!’ yelled Will and dashed from Isabel’s side towards his father, brandishing his sword. He skidded to a halt in front of him, a look of surprise and consternation on his face at the sight of the other little boy standing at Henry’s side. He was older than Will and taller, but the resemblance between the children was clear for all to see.

‘This is Jeoffrey,’ Henry announced to Will, and crouched with his arm around the newcomer. ‘He has come to live with us and to be your companion and playmate.’

There was a sick taste at the back of Alienor’s throat as she saw this cuckoo child standing in the curve of Henry’s arm, while her own son stood outside of it.

The children eyed each other warily, and Isabel stepped into the gap. ‘Sire, I was just going to give my lord William some bread and honey; perhaps Jeoffrey would like some too.’ She smiled and held out her hand, her movement flowing and natural.

Henry sent her a look filled with relief and gratitude. ‘That is kind of you, madam, thank you.’

Isabel curtseyed and led the children off, one either side.

Henry stood up and his gaze followed Isabel and the boys for a moment before he advanced to warm himself at the fire.

Alienor felt raw, her pain exacerbated because she was containing words and emotions that could not be expressed before all these people who had seen him enter with the boy.

Henry’s mouth was a set, thin line. He rubbed his hands together, and although his knuckles were red with cold, the action was tense rather than an attempt to warm his hands.

A servant set down a glazed jug on a table near the hearth, and platters of bread and cheese. Henry waved the man away and dismissed everyone from earshot, before gesturing Alienor to sit down with him.

Alienor took the cup of wine he poured for her, sipped, and almost retched because the drink was sour and her stomach queasy. ‘Why did you not tell me you had a son?’

Henry shrugged. ‘It was none of your concern until today, but now I must make provision for him in the household.’ He swilled his mouth with wine and swallowed.