The Silken Rose

by Carol McGrath

  ‘I believe you, Rosalind,’ she said aloud. ‘However, there’s cruel talk. Unfortunately, talk can become fact whether true or not. I cannot risk gossip at court claiming I have an enchantress in my service.’ She leaned forward. Her tone earnest, she added, ‘And I want you to be safe from Friar Alphonse. You know whom I mean?’

  Rosalind’s blue eyes flashed anger for a heartbeat. ‘The Black Friar who seeks out heretics. I have seen him staring at me at every service I attend. I know he wants to interrogate me but I have nothing to say. I’m truly a good Christian. . . what is to be my fate, Your Grace?’ she asked quietly. ‘I would like to return to my father.’

  ‘No, not yet. You should stay away from your father’s workshop too. People are easily suspicious. They look for witchcraft in the innocent. They accuse with injustice, and they attack the Jews, too, on the slightest suspicion. Stories easily become exaggerated. They claim the Jews eat Christian babies.’ Ailenor glanced at Willelma who nodded. She said in as gentle a tone as she could manage, ‘Rosalind, you must be sent away. In time this talk will die away, Lady Willelma thinks. . .’ Ailenor drew breath. ‘If you willingly enter a convent. If you stay away from prying eyes. . .’

  ‘But my family. . . Your Grace?’

  ‘I believe you are no enchantress, but many won’t. So. . .’ Ailenor paused and lifted the Prioress’s letter from the table.

  ‘How will Papa know what has happened?’

  ‘A moment, please. . . let me explain.’ Ailenor drew breath. ‘I have received an invitation from a small convent, one you shouldn’t refuse.’

  ‘You wish me to become a novice?’

  ‘The Convent of St Helena will take you as an embroideress. They have an important commission from the Bishop of London. They need your help.’ Ailenor leaned closer and took Rosalind’s hands. They were icy cold. The girl was so frightened. ‘For your safety, Rosalind. In time you’ll return to us. I’ll send Lady Mary to speak with your family and explain.’

  Rosalind looked crestfallen. ‘My workshop?’

  ‘It will continue. Shall we say that you are working on Church embroidery? I ask this because I value your work and because the nuns are kindly and will care for you and because I am their patron and yours.’

  Lady Willelma added, ‘We would say you have chosen to spend time in the convent. It would proclaim your innocence. You are joining the sisters who are embroidering a new cope for the Bishop of London. We shall say you may be considering vows. . . if we are questioned further.’

  Lady Mary looked at Rosalind with sad grey eyes. ‘I shall pray for you, my dear,’ she said. ‘Every day.’

  Rosalind nodded. She recognised the seriousness of her position. ‘I have no choice.’

  Ailenor inclined her head. ‘It is for the best.’

  Rosalind finally said sadly, ‘I shall accept your offer. Clearly I must.’

  Ailenor noted what an effort it had taken for her to agree and it saddened her. Before Rosalind changed her mind, she patted the girl’s arm and said, ‘You’ll depart in the morning. I hope that when all is settled again you will return.’ She added, ‘Please, Rosalind, rise above these accusations. Try to accept this decision is made to keep you safe.’

  On the long journey to London, Rosalind sat miserably inside the canvas covered wagon stamped with gold and red royal lions. Her journey would end at St Helena’s Convent by Bishopsgate, Lady Margaret’s at the Queen’s apartments in White Tower. Branches were blowing about, tossed by a summer’s gale, when after two days of travel, they reached London. The wagon rattled into the city gates and over cobbles, splashing through puddles accompanied by the clanking of wooden pails, squawking hens scurrying for shelter, and pigs snorting through sodden discarded bits of food. Lepers desperately rang clappers, monks in gowns and hawkers hurried about their daily business in the rain. London was the same. Nothing felt different except her new situation, one which she must for now accept.

  Rosalind’s mood matched the stormy weather raging beyond the convent walls. She felt damp, bedraggled, and dispirited. Once inside the Hall where a fire burned, she could hear the storm seeking entry at every shutter, blowing its damp breath on the hearth.

  Words repeatedly echoed through Rosalind’s head, beating like a mummer’s drum, ‘For your own safety.’ She had done nothing wrong. How would Thomas ever find her in this chill place inhabited by eight nuns? Rosalind stared at the tall prioress who greeted her with her mouth turned up into a smile. She might be kindly. A few words were exchanged. Lady Mary apparently knew Prioress Elizabeth well.

  She took Rosalind’s hands in her own and kissed her on her cheeks. ‘All will be well and if I may, I shall visit you here.’

  A lump in Rosalind’s throat prevented speech. The Prioress bade Lady Mary goodbye, lifted Rosalind’s baggage, and guided her from the Hall along a passageway to a small chamber hardly larger than a cupboard. On the cot lay two simple novice habits and two wimples, a leather belt, and a long woollen cloth with a head opening that was called a scapula. It was poor exchange for the elegant gowns she must set aside.

  ‘You shall wear these garments here and we shall look after your gowns for now.’ She paused. ‘Rosalind, I am afraid we must cut your hair. It is our rule to keep all earthly temptations out of our house.’

  Rosalind glanced over her shoulder for Lady Mary’s calm reassurance but she had slipped away. A nun appeared at her shoulder with cutting shears. Rosalind drew back and looked for a door through which to escape, but where could she go? Her father’s business would suffer if she ever returned to the house by St Paul’s and she would be tainted with the suspicion of witchcraft - if Jonathan de Basing had any influence.

  ‘My dear,’ the Abbess spoke in a voice so musical her tone was like that of the nightingale’s song. ‘We are fortunate to have you with us. Whilst you remain here, will you join us embroidering a cope for the Bishop of the City? We need your opinion.’

  ‘Is my opinion worth anything?’ Rosalind was so sad her heart was breaking.

  ‘Without doubt. You are one of the best embroiderers in England, I hear.’

  ‘I am not so experienced with Church embroidery.’

  ‘We are privileged to have you.’

  At last Rosalind weakly smiled. ‘Then I am happy to help. I have known the skills of embroidery since I could hold a needle.’

  The nun with the scissors spread a linen cloth by Rosalind’s feet. Another sister brought a stool for Rosalind to sit upon. ‘I promise you, Sister Blanche will not cut your hair above your shoulders. When you leave us it will grow again. Will you allow her to cut it?’

  Rosalind felt she had no alternative. ‘Yes, but it saddens me so much.’ Tears spilled from her eyes as her silvery hair dropped to the floor. A trap felt tightly shut on her life from the moment she had walked through the Convent door.

  20

  1241

  Autumn tumbled in with wind rattling at doors and tree branches scratching at windows like cursed souls demanding entry to the palace. Candles were lit early. Light glowed from cressets placed in wall niches. Corridors grew shadowy early in the evening. Ailenor took an hour’s leisure with Henry in her bedchamber whilst their children slept through the storm in their nursery above. She lifted a tiny shirt she was sewing for Edward and unpicked a rogue stitch.

  Ailenor slowly drew her thread through the fabric. She was grateful to Rosalind for teaching her such fine work and she missed her. It had been a dreadful and frightening incident. When she had summoned Rosalind’s father to the Tower to explain his marriage to Rosalind’s mother, she had felt uncomfortable when his misery at the accusations against her caused him to appear outraged. His first wife, he’d explained, hailed from a Cathar family. On her marriage to him, she denied heretical beliefs and renounced her family. She had made a difficult choice but she had chosen him. He wiped a tear from his eye.

  Ailenor, moved by his story, leaned forward and assured him that she would protect Rosalind, safe in
St Helena’s Convent, where she working on a cope for the Bishop of London. Rosalind was doing God’s work. He should be proud of her.

  ‘May I visit her, Your Grace?’

  ‘The nuns are strict and you would only be permitted to speak with her through a grille.’

  ‘I understand. How long -’

  ‘Friar Alphonse, her accuser, will be returning to Spain very soon. The squire who threatened Rosalind is far off in the Borderlands. Rosalind can return to court in time.’

  ‘Your Grace, I would rather have Rosalind at home. My wife would too.’

  ‘We should let Rosalind decide. The nuns, I have heard, are delighted to have her instruction. They like her quiet presence. She is one of the best embroiderers in the land, you know,’ Ailenor said. Lady Mary nodded. ‘The accusations were nonsense, but people talk. I have heard that the grocer’s son Jonathan wished her ill. Is this true do you think? It is better that she is safe.’

  Alfred said thoughtfully, ‘The De Basing lad has married. He should be content. I should never have wished him on my daughter.’

  Ailenor frowned. ‘But the grocer’s son wanted to marry Rosalind, did he not?’

  Alfred nodded again. ‘She refused him.’

  ‘That explains his spite. She prefers another?’

  ‘She likes a squire who is on Crusade with Earl Simon. His name is Thomas.’

  ‘Earl Simon will return any day soon. And then we shall see. Thomas could be a good match. He will inherit his father’s lands. She would join the knightly class.’

  The tailor shook his head. ‘I would be honoured if she did but I fear she is overly hopeful. Still, I pray daily for my daughter’s happiness.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened, Master Alfred. It is not unknown for a young man of noble heritage to be betrothed to a master craftsman’s daughter, particularly when that family is wealthy.’

  Once the embroideress had gone to dwell in St Helena’s, Henry never spoke of her again. For her part, Ailenor considered she had managed the situation well. It was a small price to pay for the crystal reliquary containing a piece of the true cross she had donated to St Helena’s in return for Rosalind’s keeping, her clothing and food. She wondered if one day she could help Rosalind and Thomas - it would be a fine match for the embroideress; that is, if the young squire returned safely from Jerusalem.

  Henry stretched his stockinged feet towards the fire, unfolded a creased letter from Isabella, his mother, and read it again. Ailenor swallowed a sigh. Since they had returned to Windsor from Marlborough, Henry had been obsessed by thoughts of war with France. He glanced over at her. ‘I’ll regain the territories my father lost,’ he declared, scanning the letter.

  If only he would return to his building designs.

  ‘What if I could win back all my French possessions? France is already greedy for Poitou. Gascony will be next. Toulouse, too, could be captured. The French always wanted Toulouse.’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of war with Louis.’ Without looking up, she made another stitch. ‘My sister. . .’

  ‘I can’t ignore my mother’s pleas for help. She was a Queen of England. She is insulted by Spanish Blanche . . . you know she is. . . she writes for men and arms and I must grant them to her.’ He slapped his free hand on the parchment, scattering fragments of red wax from the broken seal over his blue damask gown. ‘Louis has appointed Alphonse, his brother, as Governor of Poitou. That is Lusignan territory. Besides, Richard is Governor of Poitou, or he should be.’

  ‘My sister is Queen of France. Besides it’s unwise and costly.’ She lifted her eyes to his but did not reach out to sweep the wax slivers from his gown. ‘The new shrine to St Edward. Pure gold is expensive. You are building all the time. The shrine, the Abbey Church, Windsor, Marlborough. It’s all costly. We cannot go to war just because Louis has appointed his brother as governor of Poitou.’

  Henry thrust Isabella’s letter at her. ‘When did you care about expense?’ He jabbed a jewelled finger at her rich brocade gown. ‘Read it. They went to Poitiers to offer fealty to Alphonse last Christmastide. Blanche ignored her. She kept my mother, a queen herself, waiting for three long days!’ He stared at her. ‘Three days and my mother has been a Queen. Pah!’ Henry shook his head. ‘When my mother was granted admission to their presence, Louis and Blanche sat together on their raised chairs. Neither rose to greet her. Nor did they speak, and before you ask, Ailenor, Marguerite was not present, just Louis and his mother.’

  Ailenor read the passage aloud - ‘I expressed my loyalty. Louis nodded. Blanche spoke not a word but looked down on me coldly. I departed without complaint but returned with Hugh later so he could make his oath. Hugh was treated with a winter’s chill as he proceeded to dispute Alphonse Capet’s right to Poitou. It is Richard’s entitlement to govern Poitou. And where is he now? We climbed on our mounts and departed - It is rude, I grant you, Henry, but Richard, as your mother implies, has never showed any interest in governing Poitou. The territory is ceded to the French.’

  ‘Read on,’ Henry muttered with a scowl.

  She studied the letter again and looked up saying, ‘It has developed further, I see, “Hugh has met with the Gascon barons at Pons and with Raymond of Toulouse.” So Count Raymond of Toulouse is concerned about France too.’ She returned to the letter. ‘They ask for your support.’

  ‘I intend to give it. My territories in Gascony are at stake.’ He paused. ‘Our son’s future.’

  Once he spoke of Edward, she saw his point. One day Gascony would be Edward’s inheritance, with all the trade in wine it possessed. ‘But Richard - what will he think?’

  ‘Richard is expected home any day now. I shall ask for his support. And I shall ask the council too.’

  Ailenor thrust the letter back at him. ‘I cannot advise you. You must do as you think best.’

  She picked up her sewing again wondering if she should write to Marguerite. No, her first loyalty was to Henry and to their children. She lifted her eyes to the new embroidery that hung over her great bed. Henry, who was so conservative about faith and who would have had her embroiderer questioned about her faith, had never commented on the midwives hovering about St Anne’s bed. Talk about Rosalind had died down, as Lady Willelma had predicted. Henry, neurotic at the thought of heresy, would ally himself with Raymond of Toulouse who had shown clemency to Cathar heretics.

  ‘You pacified Wales. Perhaps the Council will recognise your ability and grant us a war to protect Poitou and Gascony.’

  Henry consigned Isabel’s letter to a jewelled casket he kept for his own personal correspondence. Locking the little box, he tucked his key into a belt purse he wore under his surcoat. ‘They must,’ he muttered.

  She had soothed him with mention of Wales. He was smiling and stroking his beard. ‘How shall we welcome Richard home?’

  ‘I wonder if Richard visited Sancha on his return. We must send Uncle Peter to Provence to negotiate her release from the marriage contract with Raymond of Toulouse.’

  ‘We shall have to convince my brother first. I think we’ll ride down to Dover to meet Richard on his return. He’ll have a crusader’s welcome home. London made festive. Streets cleaned up. Tapestries hung from windows. Tableaux everywhere. By St Edward’s shroud, the city merchants shall welcome our brother home with a magnificent feast. It won’t cost us anything. If Richard is flattered and feted, he’ll agree to anything, especially marriage to a beautiful woman.’

  Ailenor stood and swept the bits of wax away that clung to her gown. ‘A magnificent homecoming. If anyone can persuade the Council to grant you money, Richard can. He spent so much of his own treasure on his Crusade, they owe him loyalty. They owe us all much since we rule in the service of Christ to keep their lands safe and protect the kingdom from England’s enemies.’ She felt a glow of pleasure in her heart as she did every time she considered the rightness of her queenly state. ‘We’ll make Richard’s return glorious, that of a humble knight who has fought to protect Chri
stendom. After all, he freed prisoners and has beheld Jerusalem with his own eyes.’ Henry looked petulant. He would like to see Jerusalem. ‘A homecoming all shall remember,’ she swiftly said.

  ‘I doubt the City guildsmen would consider my brother humble.’

  ‘When your brother marries Sancha, the people of England will see a devout couple and they will love them both.’ She folded her hands. Her voice determined, she repeated, ‘Send Uncle Peter to Provence. Make him our diplomat. Bind Provence to us.’ And Richard, she thought to herself.

  They welcomed Richard in Portsmouth and escorted him, surrounded by nobles bearing banners with embroidered crosses, to Winchester. The royal party was greeted with garlands of greenery and cheers. Ailenor affectionately remembered her procession from Canterbury to London after her marriage nearly six years earlier.

  At length they crossed the bridge into the City. ‘See how they greet you, brother.’ Henry reined in his stallion as he, Ailenor, and Richard rode through the streets at the head of a glittering cavalcade. Londoners had donned their best clothing and there was not a beggar, pig, or hen to impede the royal passage from the Tower to Westminster.

  ‘Good to be home.’ Richard smiled broadly. He had entered the City wearing his crusader cross with pride, his head high, and his Arab stallion as white as wintery clouds that skittered through a blue sky. He grinned. ‘Lingering in Provence was as delightful as visiting a perfumed garden filled with roses and lavender; those gleaming castles and an enchanting court that loves song and dance.’

  They waved at the crowd with enthusiasm. Ailenor smiled to herself. Provence had welcomed Richard. This boded well for Sancha’s future. Richard would love Sancha. She was young and lovely - and her sister. How could he not?

  It was a joyful day. Groups of traders and merchants cried out ‘For God and the Holy Cross’ and ‘Richard and Henry’ and ‘Welcome home, God’s warriors, peace be with you.’