The Silken Rose

by Carol McGrath

  She longed to smooth the troubled waters caused by Henry’s over-indulgence towards her attendants and his particular love for her uncle. She wanted her own people close. She wanted positions at court for them, but equally she did not wish to antagonise these difficult, powerful English lords. Henry needed their approval and their wealth because he liked to spend money on the feasts and pageants he held on saints’ holidays.

  Henry had told her what Earl Richard had said before they set out on the progress, “‘You will displease the London guildsmen and merchants, never mind the earls. You are favouring the Provençals. That does not sit well with the Barons’ Council.’”

  ‘And I said,’ Henry retorted peevishly to her, ‘“I shall choose my own companions.” The Barons have tried to bully me ever since I was a youth. They are dullards. They will not get the better of me as they did my father. Richard is the wealthiest man in the kingdom and I shall make sure he spends a deal of his wealth on us this summer.’

  Isabel, who was perhaps unaware of this earlier exchange between her husband and his brother, folded her hands with elegance, long fingers overlapping long fingers, and thanked Ailenor for honouring the castle with her presence.

  Ailenor bowed her head to Isabel and as Isabel was instructing a servitor, turned to Nell, ‘Are you riding with us tomorrow to the hunt, Nell?’

  ‘I have my sparrow hawk, Sky-Lightning, with me.’

  ‘Lady Isabel? Are you coming to ride and hunt?’ Isabel had finished with the servitor. She looked tired, her eyes dull, and Ailenor wondered if she was with child. In Provence she had often seen women so, pale and listless in the early months. Her mother had warned her to be prepared for such feelings herself when her time came.

  ‘No, Ailenor, I must oversee the preparations for tomorrow’s feast.’

  ‘You will be missed from our company, my lady.’ She thought again of Nell and Simon de Montfort and immediately thought up another ploy to encourage romance between them. She looked right into Nell’s eyes with as much innocent guile as she could summon up. ‘I wonder, Nell, if you could be persuaded to play for us tomorrow night? Henry says you know many ballads, songs of the greenwood. I want to know more of this place.’

  Nell shook her head. ‘I cannot.’

  Isabel smiled. ‘What a good suggestion. Nell, you sing like a nightingale. I can provide a harp. I heard you long ago when you were married to William. . .’ She paused. ‘Never since,’ she added.

  ‘But if I have forgotten the words?’

  Ailenor reached over the trestle and took Nell’s hands. ‘I am sure you will sing beautifully. If you forget words, just hum. That’s what I do.’

  She lightly clapped her hands and all the other ladies began to say, ‘Please sing for us, Lady Eleanor. You must. We can practise after supper.’

  ‘Bring me your harp, Isabel.’ At last Nell agreed and smiled. Ailenor felt happy at her success in helping Nell back into the world. She scolded Jacques who had squeezed in beside her, telling him he must behave when Lady Eleanor sang for them all.

  The next day, Ailenor and Nell rode out to the forest hunt side by side. Nell was a patient and calm huntswoman. Ailenor knew she could learn much from her. Whilst hunting, she must curb her own impatience because that way her own little hawk, Arrow, would become a better huntress.

  The squires let loose small birds to tempt the hawks into the sky amongst the trees. Ailenor observed as Nell spoke gently to Sky-Lightning and up the hawk soared, high into the blue, above beeches, ash trees, oaks, and, when it reached a small lake, it captured its prey and descended towards them again in a graceful arc.

  Sir Simon, who had been riding close to them all afternoon, twisted his black stallion around to face their mares. ‘Well sent, my lady. I think you have a brace of thrushes for the kitchen.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Simon. She is a good hawk and shall be rewarded.’

  Their falconer produced a dead mouse from his sack.

  Ailenor said, ‘Next time, my kill.’

  ‘Can such a lovely lady kill?’ Sir Simon asked.

  ‘If I have to, yes.’

  ‘I hope, in that event, I am far away.’

  ‘Huh!’ Ailenor laughed and rode ahead with Henry and Richard, leaving Nell to Simon’s company. She cantered off to send her sparrow-hawk into the skies. This time she was successful. Soon she’d bagged a hermitage of thrushes and two wood pigeons. Her patience had been rewarded. All the way back to the castle, Nell, Henry, and Simon praised her sparrow-hawk. She beamed with pride and satisfaction.

  ‘Henry,’ she said, when she was alone with her husband. ‘I think Nell is happier than I have seen her all spring.’

  Henry poured her a cup of Rhenish wine. ‘My brother serves good wine. We should visit him more often. What was it you just said?’

  ‘Nell’s an excellent huntswoman and she was laughing with Sir Simon, the whole way back to the castle.’

  ‘Oh, was she? Interesting. Richard mentioned how our sister has changed. It’s your influence, Ailenor. A joyful court makes for happy courtiers.’

  ‘My people are content but I am not so sure about your people.’ She saw his frown and moved their conversation back into safer territory. She played with the stem of her glass goblet and said with deliberate nonchalance, ‘Nell has agreed to sing for us tonight.’

  Henry started, nearly spilling his wine. ‘It is a long time since my sister sang for anyone. If only she did not insist on wearing those dowdy colours. If only she had not taken that vow I could have made a splendid marriage for her. Bring coin into my coffers, castles into my sphere of influence, make an alliance. I could have found her a rich Spaniard.’

  ‘A Spaniard would request a large dowry,’ Ailenor said quickly. ‘It was fortunate that I did not have to bring you one.’

  Henry set his goblet on a table. ‘No, it is I who was fortunate to find myself a sweet wife.’ He reached out, removed her veil, and released her hair from its clasp. It tumbled to her waist. He began to draw his fingers slowly through it, a sensation she found soothing.

  She smiled. Now was a good time to make her request.

  ‘I think Nell would like to remain in England and if she could renounce her vow, you should marry her to one of your earls, to one with influence, to keep him loyal to us and through him others.’

  ‘What a diplomat you are, Ailenor. A petit schemer too.’

  ‘No, I speak sense.’ She twisted her head to look up into his eyes.

  He pulled her onto his knee. ‘Richard thinks Nell should have her own castle. I hold lands that belonged to her dowry. The Marshals hold even more.’ He smiled a benevolent smile. She was winning. ‘Nell is my favourite sister,’ he said. ‘I shall grant her a castle, just in case we can dispense with that foolish vow.’

  This was more than Ailenor had hoped. ‘I think she was forced into it by Lady Cecily,’ she said, careful not to mention Archbishop Edmund at all.

  ‘I never liked that dowdy woman. Interfering dried-out stick of a wench.’ Henry stood up and tumbled Ailenor from his knee. She steadied her balance, lifted her head, and kissed him on the mouth.

  ‘Maybe we can do something about the vow.’

  He raised his brow and frowned. Best leave it for now, she thought.

  Gathering her loose hair into her hands she twisted it carefully and stuffed it into her crispinette which she snapped shut at the nape of her neck. She deftly replaced her veil and coronet. With a swirl of crimson silk mantle and green sarsinet they swept from their chambers, down the stairway, and into the Hall for the feast.

  When Nell sat with her harp across her knee, Isabel turned to Ailenor, ‘Belle. She is beautiful. How did you persuade her to wear that silk tunic and a little jewelled dagger on her belt? Bien! Perfect.’

  ‘I made her a gift of it.’

  ‘Look at the admiring glances she is receiving. Tonight, your courtiers are her loyal knights.’

  ‘They are, and she sings like a nightingale.’
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br />   ‘She would never lack suitors if she was free,’ Isabel said. ‘She was forced into that vow by her silly friend Cecily and Archbishop Edmund.’

  ‘I heard.’ Ailenor inclined her head to Isabel, whom she could not yet decide was friend or foe. She glanced along the table at Sir Simon. He was watching Nell with admiration as she sang a ballad in perfect pitch. Ailenor felt a shiver, as if the future was whispering a warning to her. No, no, go away, shades of the night-time, be gone. Simon is a perfect knight, our friend, a loyal knight who would never become an enemy.

  There was a calculating gleam in his dark eyes as he watched Nell. A strange presentiment made Ailenor shudder. Simon’s father had been responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocents, men, women, and children in Carcassonne. Cathars they were called, heretics, but children too; her father had once said innocent children who never deserved such cruelty. She knew, as she watched him watching Nell, that Simon, like his father, could also be a dangerous man. Simon was charming but what if his charm concealed a hardened nature? What if he ever became an enemy? Papa always said, Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Would Simon of Montfort-Amaury ever become an enemy, because if he did, he would be formidable.

  Walking through the cloisters at Glastonbury, Ailenor said to Nell, ‘When we return to London, you are to have your own castle. It is to be Odiham. Is Odiham near London?’ She looked into Nell’s beautiful eyes. ‘Dear Nell, I hope if you live there, you come to visit me often.’ She glanced at her feet. ‘Don’t tell Henry that I have told you.’

  Nell hugged her. ‘Odiham! Mine? Truly? It is all I have wished for. It is almost an equal distance between Winchester and Windsor.’

  The joy in Nell’s eyes gave Ailenor even more pleasure than their visit on the previous day to King Arthur’s grave. At once she decided on a project, another plan. Nell must have fabrics for her castle and new clothes for herself too. She would have colourful belts and golden crispinettes. And perhaps the embroideress, Rosalind, could design a cover for her bed and hangings for her garderobe.

  Nell drew a breath. ‘Ailenor, is this your doing?’

  ‘I believe Richard requested this for you. I only said you would like it. Do you?’

  ‘Very much.’ Nell grasped Ailenor’s hands. ‘You must come for a feast on my saint’s day.’ She spun around. ‘And I shall wear colours every day.’

  ‘When is your saint’s day, Nell?’

  ‘My name day is the twenty-second day of November, the feast of St Cecilia.’

  ‘The saint of music. It’s only right.’ Ailenor clasped her hands in delight at this jewel of information.

  ‘Let’s look at King Arthur’s grave again.’ Nell slipped Ailenor’s arm through her own. Ailenor knew she had given Nell almost the best news she could ever give her.

  In a companionable silence, their ladies trailing behind, they approached the grassy mound where King Arthur lay sleeping with his queen, Guinevere. Ailenor felt sure that now Nell would renounce her vow and marry Sir Simon. He would not be a popular choice with the barons but, even so, she sensed the glossy dark-haired knight’s value to the throne.

  She would nurture Sir Simon. If Ailenor had learned anything from her father, Count Raymond, it was diplomacy and a firm handling of his nobles.

  4

  Rosalind

  London, 1237

  Rosalind’s Papa was betrothed to a wealthy widow. Papa was in love. Not only did Rosalind want Papa to be content but she liked the twenty-eight-year-old widow, Dame Mildred, who was lively, kind, and pleasing company, perfect for Papa, perfect for both of them since Rosalind had a plan of her own for her future.

  A blustery wind rattled the shutters of Rosalind’s attic chamber. Holding her shutters ajar, peering out of her window at a storm that was whipping up leaves and shaking the wooden fence in the yard below, she wondered anxiously if Dame Mildred would cross the City that afternoon in such stormy weather. She slammed her shutters and secured them. Mildred must come. I have to tell them once they set a date for the wedding.

  Cook was preparing a celebration dinner, selecting Papa’s favourite dishes. The scent of ginger for the pork, mint for the lamb, and roasting meats drifted upstairs from the kitchen. She brushed her hair until it shone. Rosalind had turned fifteen and since the Queen regularly called her to court when she was at Westminster or resident in the Tower, Rosalind felt a new independence. She grew confident and wore her prettiest gowns when attending court. Sir Simon de Montfort’s squire, Thomas, was waylaying her by the steps at Westminster Pier to help her from the wherry. They exchanged pleasantries when the handsome golden-headed squire accompanied her to the Queen’s apartments.

  Occasionally Papa reminded her, ‘Adam de Basing will betroth his son to another if we hesitate too long. You cannot delay for ever. Anything could happen and this is such a good match. You will inherit the business once I am gone.’

  She would say, ‘The Queen needs me. I have gowns to embroider and I teach her damsels. I cannot leave her yet, Papa.’

  Now that Papa and Dame Mildred anticipated their wedding day, all talk of Rosalind’s betrothal was forgotten. Papa had met Dame Mildred in the spring of 1237. By autumn he was besotted. Rosalind smiled to remember how this had come about. Queen Ailenor had commissioned her to work on a coverlet for the King’s sister. Princess Eleanor had removed from court to the castle of Odiham in Hampshire and needed new cushions, bed coverings, and hangings. When Rosalind returned to the Tower with the completed bedspread and Alfred with the curtains, they met Dame Mildred, who was trimming one of Queen Ailenor’s gowns with crimson silk. Whilst Rosalind had withdrawn with the Queen to discuss further commissions, Mildred and Alfred fell into their own conversation.

  On their return to Paternoster Lane, Alfred said, ‘I promised Dame Mildred I would go to her Threadneedle Street workshop for trimmings.’ His voice was somewhat coy. ‘And you must purchase threads from Dame Mildred for your commissions.’ Rosalind started at this request but nodded, keen to please Papa, whom she loved with all her heart.

  After a few visits to Threadneedle Street that summer, Rosalind could see the widow, though plain of face and of middling stature for a woman, was of a good humour, sanguine and pleasant company, always fastidious, neat, and bird-like. In fact, when Dame Mildred smiled she was exceedingly attractive. She owned a thriving haberdashery trade. She was the perfect new wife for Papa. By September, Alfred announced he liked the buxom young widow enough to provide Rosalind with a mother. After all, he said in a confidential tone, Mildred had inherited her deceased husband’s excellent business. She had no children of her own. ‘I hope to right this.’

  ‘I hope so too, Papa,’ Rosalind said, and gave her father a pleased smile.

  Despite Rosalind’s worried looks onto the windswept street below, Widow Mildred arrived with her maid in time for dinner.

  ‘What a rushing kind of day,’ she said as she threw off her mantle and took her satchel from her maid, shaking her head and saying, ‘I am afraid we must stay the night, Rosalind. Can your housekeeper make up a spare chamber for us, do you think? Would you mind?’

  ‘Of course not, Dame Mildred. You are most welcome.’ Rosalind turned to see her Papa hurrying towards them from his workshop. ‘Dame Mildred will be stopping tonight, Papa,’ she called to him.

  ‘Good, good. Tell Jane to make up the chamber behind the hall. It’ll be warmer there.’ He opened his arms and hands in an expressive gesture. ‘Mildred, welcome, welcome, my dearest.’ He planted kisses on both her cheeks. ‘Your maid can share with our Jane tonight.’ Releasing her hands, he winked. Blushing with embarrassment for her father, Rosalind clasped Dame Mildred’s cloak to her, turned her back on the pair of turtle doves, hung it on a peg and sent Dame Mildred’s maid scuttling off to instruct Jane, their housekeeper.

  ‘I have something for you all,’ the kindly Dame said as she produced a selection of small gifts, edible sugary fruit comfits, and sticks of barley sugar laid out
in a row on a bed of dried camomile in a cedar box. ‘For you, Alfred. You have such a sweet tooth.’ She handed Rosalind a jar. ‘From my own peach trees. I put them aside myself in August using my great-grandmother’s recipe.’

  ‘We shall enjoy them after dinner today,’ Rosalind said and called for a maid to take them to Cook.

  ‘Do give her this purse.’ Mildred dipped into her cavernous satchel and smiled a broad smile. ‘She is truly an excellent cook, Alfred.’

  Rosalind squealed her delight when Dame Mildred made much of her, hugged her with affection, and presented her with a present of silver scissors and crimson and green ribbons for her hair. Would Thomas notice if she wore the ribbons in her long fair plait so they peeped prettily beneath her cap?

  ‘Bring us mead, Rosalind, my love,’ Papa said, interrupting her thoughts. ‘We are celebrating.’

  Affectionate greetings over and cups of sweet mead shared by the hearth, they sat down to dinner. By the third hour following Nonce, candles were lit, their glow lending softness to the hall’s perpendicular angles, catching at the gold stitching on their wall hangings and causing the threads to shine, smoothing away wrinkles and allowing Albert and Mildred to appear youthful. The fire crackled and despite rain pounding against the closed shutters they were comfortable and dry.

  Dame Mildred laughed in a pleasant manner, played with her spoon, and occasionally lifted dainty morsels of meat to her mouth. As they ate a savoury stew she recounted stories of her trading successes at London’s Michaelmas Fair. Papa listened with total concentration until, too soon, he turned his full attention to his plate.

  It was true, the food Rosalind had planned so carefully was delicious. Onions swam in a honeyed sauce. The mutton was soft. Cook had indeed surpassed herself tonight. The roast pork was served with a crisp golden crackling. Rosalind relaxed, listening with interest to an amusing description of a Frenchman who wanted yellow ribbons for his hat, and who pranced about Dame Mildred’s stall in the Cheape, proud as a gander, but a gander, she said, that kept changing his mind. Rosalind felt herself frowning. Papa had not listened to a word of this story. Worse, his chin glistened with grease. Rosalind felt herself narrow her eyes. What if Dame Mildred thought Papa ill-mannered and course? What if Dame Mildred changed her mind?