The Silken Rose

by Carol McGrath

  Ailenor read Nell’s words to Henry. She hesitated as she read, My mother is unhappy. Queen Blanche hates her.

  Henry looked thunderous. ‘One day I shall reclaim the lands my father lost to France, all of Normandy and Poitou. My mother will never have to bend her knee to that dowager. Never, do you hear, Ailenor. I care not if your sister is Queen of France. Those lands are our children’s inheritance.’

  Ailenor shuddered. She loved her sister. What if Henry, despite a peace brokered by his advisors, was now threatening war with France? All their best knights were crusading.

  She lifted up Nell’s letter and looking at it remarked, ‘Nell is accompanying Simon to Southern Italy.’ Dropping the letter onto her lap, she gasped, ‘She will be there already. Simon will have reached the Holy Land by now.’

  ‘And Richard, who rarely writes home.’ Henry pouted, narrowed his eyes, one settling into a squint, and he looked petulant. ‘How I wish I was leading an army too.’

  ‘No, you do not, Henry. You have a kingdom to rule, the Confessor’s tomb and a new abbey to finish building. God will be pleased with his new church. It is enough and it is costly.’

  ‘We’ll see, Ailenor. One day I may wish to see Jerusalem. I may not be satisfied with knights’ tales and looking at a map all my life.’

  She gave him a serene smile that hid her concern. Henry was not made for crusading. She prayed a silent prayer to Saint Bridget: ‘Please protect him. Turn him from this foolish notion.’

  ‘What is that you are saying, Ailenor?’ Henry asked. ‘Your lips are moving.’

  ‘I hope that Simon and Richard return safely, a small prayer on their behalf,’ she said, reddening as she spoke the half-truth. She found being secretive difficult but sometimes it was for the best. On such occasions, Ailenor kept her true feelings hidden deeply within her breast.

  18

  1240 – 1241

  By the calends of November 1240, Ailenor had fully recovered from the birth of Baby Margaret. Edward would stumble around her solar where he played with little wooden knights in an alcove he had made his own retreat. Baby Margaret slept in her cradle close to her mother’s chair. She was a peaceful child who had smiled already. Margaret promised great beauty. Ailenor and Henry were besotted. Her heart sang when she looked down on the baby and even more so when Henry visited them at Windsor. On those occasions they were an intimate family just like her own family had been when she was growing up.

  She sat by a blazing fire, a cup of hippocras by her elbow, reading more letters Henry had brought her from Westminster. On this occasion one was from Earl Richard. She set Richard’s aside. The second was more mysterious. She studied it closely before reading, her eyes scanning the neat precise script. ‘Mon Dieu, it’s from Uncle Peter,’ she exclaimed to the room, empty of sound excepting the fire’s hiss. She read her uncle’s words aloud to herself. ‘He promises to be in England by Christmas – a month off – and intends bringing a wife, small daughter, and their own attendants.’ Had Henry invited him? She looked around the chamber. Where was Henry? They were to enjoy a private supper. His bath was taking a very long time.

  Henry arrived comfortably clad in a loose robe. He dropped a kiss on her head and took the chair opposite hers. She thrust Uncle Peter’s letter at him.

  ‘Read it,’ she said. ‘Uncle Peter. He’s on his way to us with a retinue in tow. Did you invite him, Henry?’

  ‘Yes, I have invited him. He was not asked to bring his retinue with him. My economies. . .’

  ‘Too late for that. He’ll be here in time for Christmas.’

  ‘Best time of year.’ Henry’s frown turned to a grin as he handed her Uncle Peter’s letter. ‘We must make this a special Christmas. Westminster or Winchester this year?’

  ‘Westminster, but the New Year at Windsor.’ She stopped as she opened Richard’s letter from Sicily. Henry opened a volume of poetry and muttered as he read them to himself.

  After a while, she glanced up. ‘This one you’ll have read but listen to what Richard says of Marguerite and Sancha. “Your elder sister is in good health. I was entertained with great pomp in Paris. The whole court rode out to meet me. Sadly the Count of Toulouse is making many troubles for the Queen’s father. Raymond of Toulouse seeks Marseilles and Provence and he seeks a bride. He has been offered the Queen’s sister to end the tension between Toulouse and Provence. Sancha is very beautiful. She is young, sweet, and timid and I fear she will be horrified at this destiny. . .”’ Ailenor read on in silence. A moment later, she glanced up again. ‘What! Non! Non! Non! Toulouse! Henry, this marriage must not happen.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘She must marry your brother. Make it happen. It’ll ensure Richard’s loyalty to us.’ She studied the letter and looked up, smiling this time. ‘He’s utterly besotted with my sister.’

  ‘It may be too late. Anyway, Richard grieves for Isabel.’ His smile was sarcastic. ‘Without doubt, he is busy whoring too. I hear that Eastern women are very beautiful.’

  Ailenor laid the letters aside. ‘As well you were not on the Crusade.’ Her tone was cool.

  ‘You, my Ailenor, are the only beauty I love or need.’

  ‘May it ever be so,’ Ailenor said firmly. ‘Write to Richard. Suggest he attends my family in Provence again. Suggest he woo Sancha.’ She put a finger on Uncle Peter’s letter again. ‘If I recollect correctly, Uncle Peter is an excellent negotiator. If there is a betrothal already with the Count of Toulouse’ – she shuddered as she thought of how aged and toad-like Raymond of Toulouse was reputed to be – ‘it can be broken if words are placed in the right ears.’

  Henry shook his head but by his pleased smile she knew he would pursue this. After all, he had himself broken off a betrothal to the hideous Joan of Flanders in order to marry her, his beloved wife.

  It had been years since Ailenor had seen Uncle Peter, who had long lived in Savoy, Italy, and in Switzerland. He had visited her father’s castle at Les Baux and brought them all gifts - Italian glass goblets, a carpet from Spain, and silver bracelets set with amethysts for her and Marguerite. She remembered him tall, dark, and elegant with smiling brown eyes.

  He arrived with his wife, Agnes of Faucigny, and their baby daughter, another Beatrice, in time for the Christmas festivities. Henry liked him just as he had liked Uncle William. Uncle Peter was a good listener and considered his words carefully before he spoke. He was judicious. He made himself amenable to Henry’s barons and earls and Ailenor was pleased when Henry granted him the Honour of Richmond and the manor of Boston as an inducement to remain in England as the King’s advisor. He knighted the charming Peter on New Year’s Day.

  Uncle Peter was such good company that Ailenor enjoyed her best Christmas since she first came to England. Agnes was thoughtful and she, too, considered her words carefully before she joined any conversation. When Ailenor confided that she had learned to speak English, though not well, Agnes smiled through her green eyes and said that she must learn English too. She clearly wanted to please. Ailenor liked her and always invited little Beatrice to share their company, which pleased this newly discovered aunt.

  ‘My Uncle Peter is much pleasanter than my Uncle Thomas. I hope they never visit us again, ever,’ she confided to Agnes, not caring if Joan of Flanders ever heard those words repeated.

  ‘Oh,’ Agnes said and lifted a belt, a gift Ailenor had given her before her attack on her Uncle Thomas of Flanders. She peered at the golden flowers embroidered on it. ‘The embroidery is beautiful, the seed pearls exquisite. It is such a valuable present, Ailenor.’

  ‘Embroidered by my own hand.’ Ailenor clapped her hands. ‘You absolutely must meet my embroideress, Rosalind. She has taught us the precious gold and silver embroidery you see on our gowns and in our chapels. After Christmas, before you ride north to see Castle Richmond, we are to spend a week at Windsor. The embroideress is with her family this Christmas but she’ll return to court by New Year’s Day. I’ll ask her to teach you som
e of her stitches.’ Joan of Flanders and her husband were forgotten.

  ‘I would like that very much.’ Agnes glanced over at Ailenor’s sparrow-hawk sitting on his perch by the window. ‘Do you hunt, Ailenor?’

  ‘Not since Margaret was born. I used to ride out with Ness on my wrist.’ Ailenor stroked the hawk. ‘She may look calm enough now. Send her into the air and she is vicious with her prey as the lion prowling his cage in Henry’s zoo.’

  ‘I have much to look forward to. . . though perhaps not the lion. Ailenor, I’ll miss you when we leave for Richmond.’

  ‘I hope you are not hidden away for long in the north. I’d like to see you at court. As our children grow older, Beatrice will be happy in the nursery with Edward and Margaret. I intend to have my daughter educated and Beatrice is so happy here.’

  Agnes folded her hands in her lap. ‘Thank you.’

  Ailenor reached out, unfolded Agnes’s pleated hands, and held them. Little Beatrice, playing with a kitten by the hearth, glanced over at them then resumed her game.

  ‘You and Peter must be with us often. Henry needs trustworthy advisors.’ She lowered her voice. ‘His barons can be difficult and penny-pinching.’

  As the year turned, the royal household moved to Windsor. Ailenor took great pride in showing Agnes the embroidery workshop. During January, Agnes mastered the basic couch stitches needed to produce fine work in gold and silver. Ailenor consulted with Rosalind. She ordered valuable gold and silver thread and velvet cloth for Agnes to take north.

  ‘We have an embroideress whom we can spare, Countess Agnes, if you would like her company.’ Rosalind looked with uncertainty at Ailenor for permission. ‘Is it possible, Your Grace?’

  ‘Of course,’ Ailenor found herself agreeing. ‘Can she speak French?’

  ‘I was thinking of Jennet. Her father would be honoured for his daughter to be employed as a personal embroideress to Lady Agnes. He has so many daughters and sons, it would be a relief if Jennet were settled. We have enough embroiderers here. She has just completed her apprenticeship. Jennet is young and good-natured. She is lively and speaks French and English both. I think she will agree.’

  ‘In that case, I shall treat Jennet as if she were one of my own demoiselles. She shall be paid well.’

  Rosalind turned to Ailenor. ‘Your Grace, we have almost completed the embroidery.’

  Ailenor said, excitement creeping into her voice, ‘When will it be ready?’

  ‘By Eastertide.’

  After Rosalind returned to the workshop, Agnes remarked, ‘Rosalind is lovely, sweet and clever and very pretty. I wonder how long it will be before a knight claims her.’

  ‘There is one such, I fear, a young squire. He is in the Holy Land. Let us hope, however, she remains with me for some time yet. I value her company as well as her talent.’

  On a windy March day Countess Agnes, Uncle Peter, and their daughter, accompanied by Jennet and the large retinue that had accompanied them to England, set out on the long journey north to Richmond, brightly coloured pennants gusting as they went before them. Ailenor shed a few emotional tears, for she enjoyed Agnes’s company. Now Agnes had left her, as had Nell.

  She was not sorrowful for long. Soon another uncle visited England. Unlike Uncle Peter, Ailenor’s Uncle Boniface was trained for the Church though he had not yet been granted a bishopric. Within weeks of Boniface’s arrival Henry had offered the Savoyard Winchester. Although it was Henry’s right to appoint bishops with the Pope’s approval, the Winchester clergy objected. Henry insisted. However, Uncle Boniface diplomatically departed and did not return to England that year. Ailenor had her doubts about his qualities. Handsome Boniface was too worldly for a bishop, or how she felt a bishop ought to behave, but Henry was taken with Boniface’s charm. He would not hear a bad word against him.

  ‘We’ll get him back,’ he said. ‘He will be my bishop.’

  Ailenor kept her silence on the matter.

  Apple and pear trees sprouted buds and in the garden below Ailenor’s chamber there was new growth amongst the herbal beds. Henry bustled into her ante-chamber just as Ailenor was about to suggest they all walk amongst the trees. He told her to take off her cloak and chased away her ladies. Once the chamber was theirs alone and they sat by the fire sharing ginger cakes and wine, Henry proceeded to tell her his news. He had appointed Uncle Boniface as the new Archbishop of Canterbury. The archbishopric had been vacant since Archbishop Edmund’s death the previous year.

  ‘That will tempt him back to England. Winchester has not, clearly.’

  She almost choked on her wine. If Uncle Boniface was an unsuitable choice for Winchester, Canterbury was madness. ‘I don’t think. . .’

  ‘Edmund Rich is dead a year. I need someone I can trust. Edmund was a saint. He was my friend,’ Henry interrupted. ‘I need friends in high positions in the Church.’

  She had never liked Archbishop Edmund but Henry considered it his royal right to choose the new archbishop and he would do so.

  Henry continued his argument. ‘It will take care of the Winchester problem. Negotiations have travelled between Rome, Westminster, and Canterbury. The Pope agrees.’

  Ailenor considered this. She put her embroidery aside and closed her eyes as she thought. Her own uncle as an archbishop, the most senior position a churchman could achieve in England. Perhaps the rumours about Boniface’s excesses were untrue. It would be best to agree and she might benefit after all, though she was unsure about this. Uncle Boniface was never going to be a popular choice as archbishop, never with Henry’s earls and barons and never with the clergy. Yet there was no point in arguing this. Henry was not going to listen.

  After a short silence she said, ‘If the Pope agrees, Uncle Boniface must accept such a prestigious position. For Canterbury, he will return. At least, my uncle will change the Church in England. He is. . . well, he is reforming, I have heard say.’

  ‘If you say so, my dear.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Boniface is still in Rome. There will be resistance in Canterbury, of course.’ Henry said. ‘I intend to make the monks there see sense and I have a hunch that they will yield without a whimper. It leaves Winchester open, of course, but since I take its revenue, Winchester can be left as it is, without a bishop, for a while.’

  She drummed her fingers gently on the arm of her chair. ‘And our throne will be guarded by Uncle Peter and Uncle Boniface. Safe for Edward.’ She leaned towards Henry and lowered her voice in case the wall panelling possessed ears, ‘My uncles will keep the barons and clergy in check. They will make sure there’s tax for the Crown, not to line the barons’ pockets.’ Ailenor had convinced herself but in her heart she still knew Uncle Boniface could bring them trouble.

  Henry’s brow furrowed into creases. ‘We owe Rome taxes. It’s a wretched thing. Ever since my father’s day.’ For a moment Henry looked fearful. She reached out to him and patted his arm. He shook his head. ‘If we don’t pay the taxes we owe Rome there will be an Interdict again. Churches will close. There will be no burials or christenings, no marriages either. The people will rebel. We need a strong clergy and uncomplaining barons. That tax must be paid.’ His face reddened with fury as he added, ‘Simon was another complainer. He has more debts than ever now he is on crusade.’

  ‘Henry, you are wrong about Simon. He is loyal, even now. I miss Nell. I hear Emperor Frederick has granted her a palace by the sea in Italy. It is a sadness to me that you quarrelled with Simon. We need Earl Simon as much as we need our uncles. He is family too, after all.’

  ‘He seduced my sister and I allowed him back.’ Henry furrowed his brow again. How like a child Henry could be, yet she knew she could reason with him.

  She tried again. ‘But not into your heart. You have never been close again. You know that Simon can keep the barons in check.’

  Henry crossed his legs. He lifted a poker and prodded at a log sending sparks up into the vast chimney. ‘Many dislike him. Ah well, Richard will
return soon. The pair of them have freed the French prisoners. Your Earl is putting order into Jerusalem, I hear.’

  ‘Simon is not my Earl. He is yours.’

  ‘We shall see about that when the Crusaders return.’

  She poured them both wine and lifting her cup said, ‘Richard and Sancha. We must make sure of it. A betrothal. You must write to Father.’

  ‘I have done so, but no reply as yet. I shall offer to pay her dowry to my brother and suggest Countess Beatrice must accompany Sancha to England.’

  ‘What if Richard is not interested?’

  ‘I shall make it worth his while. He won’t decline.’ Henry laid down his cup. His mood brightened, his voice turning from serious to gay. ‘Ailenor, by the way, have you decided which ladies will accompany us to Shrewsbury and Chester?’

  ‘Only my favourites.’ She was thinking about bringing three with her on their summer progress that year. She touched the golden flowers on her robe. They would sit in summer gardens, embroider, and enjoy verse, and Rosalind must be one of those who accompanied her.

  They had welcomed Rosalind into their company. Willelma and Mary taught her the art of being a courtier, how she must walk and sit, eat and speak. They ensured her daily lessons were light-hearted and funny. Rosalind learned how to raise her head high and look down her nose if displeased. She learned how to politely give orders to servants. Soon she was dabbing her mouth daintily with her napkin and holding her eating knife with style and knew to only eat little morsels at a time. Ailenor smiled to see how her new lady had progressed within a very short time.

  The new embroidery was ready at last. There was only the matter of hanging it in her bedchamber. Ailenor inspected the embroidery, fingering the couched threads, studying the nun midwives, smiling down on the face that belonged to St Anne.

  ‘St Anne has a beautiful face; serene,’ she remarked as she trailed her fingers over the embroidery. ‘And the midwives. . .’ Ailenor stood back for a moment before considering them. ‘One resembles Margaret Biset and the other Sybil Gifford. They will be delighted.’ Ailenor traced the gleaming gold embroidery that decorated the hems of the midwives’ gowns. She peered closely at St Anne’s face. Anne’s eyes were dark like her own and her hair, whilst tucked under a fragile silken veil, appeared shadowy. Minute pearls edged Saint Anne’s oval face.