Rosalind shook her head. ‘No, that is intact. It is only the Nativity embroidery and our threads and needles.’
‘It seems the hanging was the purpose for the attack. Was anything stolen?’
Rosalind shook her head.
Lady Mary bustled back with a pitcher, two cups, and a plate of honey cakes. Ailenor considered as she poured the wine. ‘You have had a shock, Rosalind. Drink first and after you are warm, you’ll take me to see the damage.’
Rosalind lifted her cup, new tears filling her eyes, and drank as bidden.
‘Fetch me a mantle,’ Ailenor said to Lady Mary. ‘I shall see this for myself.’
The Queen, a group of her ladies, and Rosalind followed a wide candlelit passage that led to Westminster’s hammer-beamed hall. Guards stood to attention as they passed into the courtyard. A wintery chill sliced through Ailenor despite her warm mantle. Followed by Rosalind and Mary, she hurried through the groups of knights practising their sword-fighting. A band of Benedictines crossing over the outer courtyard towards the Abbey Church bowed low as she passed. Angry thoughts filled her head. Had someone dared to destroy the embroidery because they saw it contained the midwives? If so, what narrow-minded people would attempt such a crime in the Queen’s workshop? When she discovered the culprits, she would have them boiled to death in a vat of embroidery dye.
The workshop door lay open. Ailenor inspected the broken padlock. Inside, the frightened group of embroiderers were endeavouring to salvage fragments of fabric. The new embroidery was in ruins, chopped into pieces and polluted beyond repair by red dye the shade of blood which had been tossed over it. Ailenor drew a deep breath and turned to Willelma.
‘Fetch my Master of the Wardrobe. Tell him to bring me the Palace Sergeant. Go. Find out which guards were on duty here last night.’ She turned to Rosalind. ‘Save what you can, Rosalind. It is heart-breaking but you can start again. This time you must move the work to Windsor. Assess the damage and make out a new order for fabrics and silks. Your family supplies us with gold and silver silks but who supplied the fabric?’ She drew breath. ‘Is it Master de Basing?’
‘Yes, Your Grace, the King’s Grocer, Master de Basing purchased the backing cloth, silk and linen both.’
‘Well then, Rosalind, he’ll source new fabrics and when you have them you will start afresh. Master de Basing will gain profit out of this night’s destruction, assuming he is quick to purchase all you need.’ Hearing footsteps approaching, she looked out of the doorway. ‘Ah, here is Master Gatesden.’
The Wardrobe Keeper expressed horror at the damage. He spoke in a gentle tone to the embroiderers, reassuring them that none of this was their fault. ‘Look,’ he said stroking his thick black beard. ‘All is not lost.’ He pointed to the Queen’s new gown of russet brocade decorated with borders of flowers and tendrils in silver and gold thread. ‘The devils have not even stolen those pearl buttons. It seems they were intent on destruction, not theft.’ He pointed to a clothing pole with a cape trimmed in fur and a basket of silk kerchiefs. ‘And those too,’ he added. ‘They are all unspoiled.’
When the sergeant arrived, Ailenor chose this moment to take her leave. Master Gatesden would treat with him. ‘Rosalind,’ she said gathering her cloak up. ‘Come to me on Monday, and we shall discuss the future.’ She smiled a thin smile. ‘I wonder if someone disliked Christ’s midwives.’ She glanced around the workshop. She addressed the sergeant-at-arms. ‘Until we move to Windsor, there must be a guard on the workshop, day and night. Do you understand, Sergeant? Find out who was on duty last evening.’
Ailenor examined some markings she’d noticed on the cutting bench. They were not the usual marks associated with the cutting of fabric. She had seen the like carved into church door frames in Provençal villages. Surely the embroiderers had not made these? These were carved in wood as protection from witchcraft. She addressed the embroiderers, ‘Scrape that table down ready for your move to Windsor. Stain it with walnut dye.’ She decided not to remark on what she’d noticed.
To Ailenor’s relief, after his initial fury when he discovered Simon had fled to France, Henry grew distracted by petty household economies, his new designs for Westminster Abbey, and the building works still in progress at Windsor. He began to speak in a more kindly manner about Earl Simon. It was as if he had never threatened to put the Earl on trial. Ailenor shook her head and smiled to herself.
A few days after she discovered the crime in her workshop, Ailenor decided she must tell Henry about the destruction of her new hanging, but Henry was busy looking at a letter. It could wait until he had finished. Henry tossed the letter he was reading at her and burst out, ‘The scoundrel has written at last. He promises to pay the debt.’ Henry’s laugh was cynical. ‘I have set aside his lands in lieu of what I paid Thomas of Flanders. . . for now, until the debt is paid in full. Montfort also has sheep on his lands. He told me so himself. It’s a lucrative occupation these days. English wool sells well abroad.’
‘Simon won’t like it,’ Ailenor said, a little abstracted as she read Simon’s curt letter. He was not begging to return but, rather, had offered the produce from his lands in England towards payment of his debt. ‘He sounds penitent,’ she said in an abstracted manner, still thinking about what to do about the workshop. There had been no arrests yet and she wondered if she should move the embroiderers to a safer place. Windsor perhaps. ‘Simon doesn’t ask to return to England,’ she said.
‘He’s in Paris. I doubt Louis will dream of lending him money. It will be a while before Simon pays up in full. The bailiffs up in Kenilworth will be busy for some time.’ He gave a satisfied grin.
She handed Henry back the letter. ‘I think you should pardon Earl Simon; bring him home.’
He wrinkled his brow and frowned at her. ‘You may be right. I’ll see.’
‘If you don’t, Louis of France might call on his services. Simon is your best knight.’
‘Good luck to him with the French.’ Henry looked petulant as he took back the letter. Moodily he tossed it on the fire, where the sealing wax dripped red and smelled pungent.
This letter was proof Simon was intent on paying the debt and Henry had destroyed it. She shook her head. ‘I hope Nell meets my sister in Paris and tells her all about Edward.’ She looked fondly down at Edward who slept peacefully in his cradle. A bevy of rockers and maidservants sat on benches far away by the door, out of hearing range. Standing, Ailenor called one over.
‘The King and I shall walk in the garden. Rock Prince Edward’s cradle.’
The girl made a curtsey and took her place by the cradle. A moment later she was swaying it gently back and forwards with her foot. Henry at once appeared calmer as if he, too, was being gently rocked. Ailenor peered down at her sleeping son and felt drowned with love for him.
‘I shall send for Earl Simon and I shall forgive him,’ Henry announced, his mood of a sudden jovial.
‘So you should. Earl Simon is better as an ally than enemy,’ she said, turning around. Deciding to leave it at that, since the girl rocking Edward’s cradle was no doubt all ears, she said, ‘Come, Henry, the wind is down and I want to show you the last roses. Let me tell you what happened. There was a terrible incident in my embroidery workshop two days ago.’
‘Oh, really?’ he said.
‘Yes and I think the workshop should move to Windsor with us.’ She took his arm and they climbed down the private stairway that led to the gardens.
Although they searched far and wide, the guards responsible for the workshop’s security that night had vanished. Troops crossed the City, searching every inn and church where they might seek sanctuary, but their families had not seen them for weeks. Spies were posted at the end of the lanes where they lived. They saw nothing.
Rumours claimed the guards were seen paddling across the night sky in a basket, on their way to Jerusalem to atone for their negligence. Others said they were seen galloping on dragons out of the City gates, heading for Wales where they
would join one of the warring Welsh princes. Of course, Ailenor speculated, they have been paid by an enemy and promised a safe escape route out of the City. Without suspects, motivation for the destruction remained undiscovered.
On Monday, Ailenor welcomed Rosalind into her chamber. She sat on a cushioned chair at an oaken desk that slightly sloped, and indicated a stool opposite for Rosalind. Winter peered out from his wall above the fire place where logs blazed. Ailenor folded her hands and studied the embroideress.
‘You must be ready to move to Windsor in the New Year,’ Ailenor said, opening the conversation gently. She raised an eyebrow. ‘You will have a temporary workshop there. I shall pay your stepmother generously for her golden and silver threads. I have ordered pearls for embellishment on the new tapestry.’
The girl seemed relieved. She clasped her hands in her lap and her eyes were bright and enthusiastic again. She leaned forward. ‘Your Grace, do you really mean it? We are to remove all to the castle at Windsor?’
‘Yes, for now. I think it safer and the apartments there have been redecorated. It’s well away from evil odours.’ She did not add ‘evil doers’ but she thought it. ‘We consider the castle a healthier home for Edward.’
Rosalind’s head was nodding like a puppet on a miniature stage. ‘So be it. My stepmother will be pleased to provide thread again.’
‘Windsor is a distance from the City. Everyone can go home for the major feast days and the Easter period, or stay, as they wish.’
‘My embroiderers will have a comfortable dormitory and I my own chamber?’ Rosalind tentatively asked.
‘You shall all be comfortable. The embroiderers will be paid extra because of the inconvenience.’
‘They will be relieved by your generosity, Your Grace,’ Rosalind said.
Ailenor tapped a finger on her desk. ‘I have another suggestion I want you to consider. After the new embroidery is completed, would you consider becoming my personal embroideress, remaining with me wherever I travel?’
‘But I am already that, Your Grace.’
‘I think you misunderstand. I want you to be part of my personal retinue. We shall make you welcome. You’ll travel when I travel. You’ll see places you will never see if you remain at Windsor.’ She smiled. ‘I would not prevent you from marrying if you wished. After all, as one of my court, you may meet a courtier and have the opportunity to marry well.’
‘May I think about this,’ Rosalind said, smiling back. ‘May I remain with my embroiderers until the new embroidery is underway? I need to see it started again.’
‘I have been thinking about that too. Why don’t we make the embroidery one depicting the Virgin’s Birth, rather than the Nativity. The midwives won’t be so controversial if present at the Virgin’s birth. Perhaps that was why someone destroyed it.’
‘If your monk can draw it again for us, my artist will transfer the drawing onto a new background. Shall we have a moon and stars again and this time spring flowers such as celandines and pansies and primroses?’
‘And white roses.’ Ailenor loved roses. She must have a few roses in the borders of the new embroidery.
‘May I order the linen and silk through my father’s workshop this time? He will give us a good price.’
‘Of course, Rosalind. The King has been speaking of economies. Talk to Master Gatesden.’ Ailenor thought for a moment. ‘Purchase what you need.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace.’
After Rosalind had departed, Ailenor thought about the proposal to bypass the King’s grocer. She disliked Adam de Basing, whom she was sure cheated Henry. There was no reason why a queen should not buy fabric from her own tailors, cloth merchants or grocers. Rosalind wanted her father to provide the fabrics, but why? Master Alfred had more business than he could manage. He worked for Earl Richard and of late for many of her own Savoyard retainers. Could Rosalind be suspicious of the King’s grocer? Even so, as days passed and the Christmas season passed and with plans to remove to Windsor after the festival, Ailenor forgot about Adam de Basing. She had one child in the cradle. Her courses had returned with regularity. It was time to make a second child for the royal nursery.
15
Spring 1240
Ailenor conceived again by Christmas and in February the royal family moved to Windsor. Henry said she could choose who was to hold all the important offices. Windsor was to be her own personal kingdom and she revelled in this. Her first thought was to keep Master Gatesden as Wardrobe Master overseeing all areas of her domestic life. But there was a new man called John Mansel who interested her. She knew him to be astute and loyal. A position as an administrator managing her accounts would suit him.
By the time she moved, her chamber at Windsor was freshly painted and the walls newly panelled.
‘Look at this,’ Henry said, pointing to the largest window as they walked through her apartments. ‘The Tree of Jesse is painted in the glass, and the windows open and shut too.’
She opened and shut them using a catch to push them out one by one. Well-stocked gardens lay below. It was a perfect bower. ‘How clever.’ She turned to Henry. ‘I shall have my lying-in here in my new bedchamber.’ From the garden, the scent of spring herbs, rosemary and thyme, floated up on a spring breeze. She breathed in the scent and sighed with pleasure. ‘Thank you, Henry.’
Henry still delighted in pleasing her. Nothing must upset their harmonious life. She was fortunate in her husband. Instinctively she touched the brocade covering her growing belly. ‘I am so happy, Henry. It is all perfection.’
He said, with a huge smile widening his face, ‘I am too, my love. Westminster will have a new abbey to house Edward Confessor’s shrine. Your new chapel will be dedicated to Saint Edward, and when we are in residence we shall make sure that one hundred and fifty poor are fed from our kitchen daily.’
Ailenor pressed his hands into her own. ‘God has blessed us and in turn, we must bless the poor of Windsor. You remind me to be humble and grateful for all that is given us.’
He kissed her on the mouth. ‘And you inspire me, my beautiful Queen. You are as pure and as devout as the Virgin herself.’
She held his pale eyes with her own dark eyes. ‘Henry, I am God’s earthly queen. I care for his people of England as do you, and I take that responsibility most seriously.’
‘Of course, my love.’ She saw how his countenance doted on her.
Sad news arrived from Viterbo in Italy. It concerned Bishop William, who had returned to the Italian state to guard his lands.
And now her beloved uncle would never return. He had been poisoned by enemies.
Henry, who had comforted her for days after this terrible news, returned to the City. He reluctantly took leave of her, promising to organise mourning in William’s honour.
‘Come,’ she said sadly to Willelma and Mary, after Henry rode off with a large number of knights. ‘I cannot stay inside. The walls of my chambers seep sorrow for my uncle. Fetch a basket and we shall collect herbs.’
This loss felt as if it had shattered her heart into a thousand pieces. Yet, it would not do for a queen to show weakness. She reined in her emotions. Despite all of Uncle William’s faults, including his objection to Nell’s hasty wedding, she loved him dearly. She walked calmly down the outside staircase and hurried through a low door into her herb garden. When she was a child and Uncle William had visited her family from Savoy they always sent him home with a satchel full of lavender and thyme. She bit back tears at the memory. He liked the scent of herbs. Often as they walked amongst herbal beds, he would pinch lavender between finger and thumb and raise it to his nostrils. Amongst flowers and herbs, she could grieve in solitude and peace.
As she gathered rosemary, so reminiscent of sorrow, to place about her bed-chamber, she wondered what poison had caused her uncle’s death. Who had concocted the poison, and would he or she be found out? Gently touching the herb’s sharp needles with a finger, she lifted it to her nose, inhaled its sharp scent, and shuddered.
She must take extra care to select people with care for her new household, especially the servants employed in their kitchens. Tears filled her eyes. Uncle William had accompanied her all the way from Provence during the wettest winter she remembered. He had been her faithful advisor during the first years of her marriage; not only her chief counsellor, but Henry’s. Uncle William had been a father to them both.
She paused by a hazel tree where a clump of forget-me-nots grew. Gathering a posy of these fragile flowers, she determined to keep the flowers in his memory. They would dry between two sheets of parchment. She would never forget Uncle William, never as long as she drew breath. Who would be Bishop of Winchester now her favourite uncle was gone? Uncle Peter might come to England, or Uncle Boniface. Winchester might suit Boniface who was already a bishop without a see. Her tears flowed and dropped into her posy. Uncle William would not return to England – ever.
She felt Willelma at her elbow. ‘Let me take those flowers, Ailenor. I shall place them in a silver chalice for your chapel - to comfort your prayer.’ Willelma curtsied and, posy in her hand, fled the garden. Carrying her basket filled with rosemary, Ailenor returned through the low door and mounted the staircase to her chambers. She would never forget her beloved uncle as long as she drew breath.
16
Rosalind
Easter 1240
Rosalind returned to her father’s workshop for Holy Week. She slowly recovered from the loss of the embroidery by keeping busy on its replacement as well as the move to Windsor Castle. She was puzzled by the witch marks carved into their cutting table, looking like ancient runes. Rosalind wondered if the de Basings were behind the destruction in her workshop. After all, Jonathan de Basing had called her a witch on the night of the guild feast. Were witch marks cut into her work bench to suggest she was a witch?
On Palm Sunday her eye followed guildsmen wandering about the crowd outside St Paul’s dressed up as the Old Testament prophets Elijah, Moses, and Joshua, and the Easter procession of merchants, craftsmen, and clergy that followed the prophets. The de Basings walked behind a bishop. She looked away and back. Papa and his journeyman stepped behind them. After the guild feast, when she told Papa about Jonathan’s attack, he said furiously that Jonathan de Basing would never darken his door.
The Silken Rose Page 15
