Ailenor smiled to herself. She had won this battle with Henry. Now she must make sure that Uncle Boniface came to Canterbury. She would write to him herself.
As they were sewing in the spacious room she had made her bower, Ailenor remarked to Nell, ‘I am pleased Richard and Simon are seeking peace but it sits hard with Henry because it means he’s admitting defeat. If it had not been for Hugh of Lusignan’s betrayal he would have had a chance to recover lost territories.’
Nell knotted a thread. ‘London’s burghers would never finance a prolonged war with the French. They don’t want French merchants in the City again. You are too young to remember the last time they came but I remember it. The French occupied London and much of England. Don’t you see, Simon and Richard must stop this war before it grows impossible to prevent it escalating?’ She studied the piece of embroidery Ailenor was working on. ‘You have learned the art of English embroidery,’ she said with admiration in her voice. ‘Whatever happened to Rosalind? I remember her at Westminster teaching your ladies. She has taught you well.’
Ailenor recounted what had occurred at Marlborough the previous year. ‘Rosalind is not a heretic but a rumour was circulated by a rejected suitor who desired revenge. I hope it’s forgotten now. She has withdrawn to a nunnery to work on a cope for the Bishop of London and if it’s ready, there’s no need for her to remain in St Helena’s.’ She lifted her sewing again, a coverlet for baby Beatrice. Making a delicate stitch, she remarked, trying to keep her tone nonchalant, ‘Henry says we shall stay on in Gascony so we’ll send for the children. I’ll see if Rosalind is willing to return to me.’
‘And if she is not?’ Nell gave Ailenor a firm look. ‘Simon might disapprove of heretics, as did his father. but I believe the Cathars to have been cruelly dealt with. Do you think Rosalind wants to return to court where she could be regarded with suspicion?’
‘She might prefer to become a nun, I suppose.’ Ailenor considered her stitching. She looked up her work abandoned on her lap. ‘Nell, Rosalind refused the suitor because she is in love with a squire. He’s attached to Earl Simon. That might persuade her. She’s in no danger here and my ladies like her.’
‘Simon has three squires. What is the squire’s name?’
‘Thomas.’
‘Thomas is courageous. He was injured at Saintes protecting peasants. We left him in the monastery at Etauliers. In fact, I sent for a report a week ago. He’s recovered enough to sit in the garden. Perhaps it’ll make him happy to see Rosalind.’
‘A romance between a squire with lands and a City embroideress?’ Ailenor creased her forehead. ‘You know, Rosalind’s father is wealthy, but he is not of the nobility. I wonder if the squire’s family might object. What do you think, Nell?’
‘The world is changing. The merchants are rising in importance, especially in London. It could be a good connection for Thomas - no father or mother, his uncle will try to marry him to an aged cousin old enough to be his great-aunt and his uncle is connected to the Marshals. That clan have more than enough lands of their own. They still owe me dower castles.’
‘We shall try to bring Thomas and Rosalind together here, rather than in England.’ Ailenor stabbed her needle into a pincushion. ‘I shall petition for the return of all that the Marshals have stolen from you.’ She appealed, ‘Stay with me here in Bordeaux this winter too, Nell. Please say you will.’
Nell placed her needlework on a bench. ‘It’s up to Simon. If he agrees, I am happy to remain, though I do so miss Odiham.’
‘It will be pleasanter to see Odiham again in the summer. Let us pray that Richard and Simon bring us peace with France,’ she said. ‘I dislike being estranged from Marguerite because of this war. Since it began, my sister hasn’t written. I imagine the White Queen has forbidden it.’
When Nell raised her violet eyes, Ailenor noticed tears glistening in them. ‘It is a matter of great sorrow when siblings are estranged.’ Was Nell thinking about Henry? The quarrel between Henry and Simon brought her divided loyalties. It had, without doubt, been difficult for her.
‘Families should be united,’ Nell said.
‘They should, but it’s not always possible.’ Ailenor’s thoughts returning to peace, she remarked, ‘I wonder if the French have pulled back from Saintes?’
‘I fear for Lord Hubert, the Seneschal, and for Lady Ida.’
‘I never knew them but I shall pray for their safety.’ Ailenor fingered the rosary beads that hung from her belt. ‘Nell, why don’t we go into the chapel now and pray for peace.’
Nell nodded and packed away her threads and linen.
‘And for love between siblings too.’
‘And friendship.’ Nell reached out and touched Ailenor’s hand.
In that moment, Ailenor felt gratified for all who heartened her life. Family was a precious gift.
Later that week, coloured light darted in from the Nativity window patterning the cathedral floor as a bishop shuffled towards the High Altar clad in a glittering cope studded with sapphires and emeralds. For a moment there was quiet. Clouds of sweet-smelling incense from censors drifted about the worshippers, around the rich burghers of Bordeaux who were expensively clad in velvets and silks. As of one, their heads swivelled around to see Ailenor sweep through the Nave followed by her retinue.
With a whisper of silken gown, Ailenor slipped into place beside Nell and Hal. She tapped Nell’s arm to get her attention and whispered, ‘Word came late last night. The French won’t resume hostilities. A treaty will follow if we observe the truce and Henry gives up his idea of attacking Poitou. Our prayers are answered, Nell. Lady Ida and her lord are safe. The French are removing their siege weapons from Saintes.’
‘Thank God,’ Nell said. She looked past her to a statue of the Virgin, one that was painted blue and gold and Ailenor heard her friend murmur her thanks. ‘Thank you, my Lady Mary.’ Nell leaned down to her little son and said, ‘Papa is on his way back to us.’
‘Is the war over?’ he whispered back, clutching at her cloak.
‘Let go my clothing, Hal. Remember where you are,’ Nell said gently. Hal’s tiny hand let go of his mother’s mantle. ‘And soon your cousin Edward will be here.’
‘Who is he?’
Ailenor whispered to Hal, ‘Your royal cousin.’
All the children would come together in Bordeaux. This was a day for celebration. War was cruel. It was better it was over. As she watched the choir chant, Ailenor determined never to call any of her children for Henry’s mother, never. There would be no Isabellas in their family and certainly no sons named Hugh.
Now that their pact to support a war was broken, other Poitevin lords also capitulated to France. There was nothing to be done. Hugh and Isabella had broken Henry’s trust in them. They survived, whilst many English had died for their cause. Hugh had defected to France to recognise Louis once again as his overlord to whom the couple would do homage.
Ailenor bowed her head to God and prayed Gascony would be safe. God would protect their dynasty. He would not, could not, favour the Capets for long because God must have a plan for England. Henry’s and her children were the future. Their girls would make marriages. . . great alliances for England. One day, Edward would need a territory to rule.
As the precentor led the choir in praise, Ailenor considered a happier future. Richard’s wedding would be a diversion for the people of London. Her thoughts drifted to Simon and Nell. If Simon desired Kenilworth returned to him, he would remain in Gascony until the treaty with France was signed. They all could return to England together. She glanced sideways at Nell’s veiled head. Her rich brown hair under a veil was almost as dark as her own. They were as sisters again. How grateful she was for this. As Nonce ended, Ailenor stood and stepped with a light bearing through the cathedral nave.
Long anxious faces greeted her as she exited through the West door. For a moment she, Nell and Harry waited on the cathedral steps whilst their ladies and guard swiftly drew up behind them. Ail
enor turned to her steward and pointed to the purse hanging from his belt. He opened it. Servants distributed alms amongst the expectant poor by the entrance. Ailenor signalled to her herald to sound his trumpet and the people fell silent. In a clear, confident voice she announced, ‘There will be peace with France. God protect our King.’
For a moment it seemed as if they doubted her words, until a man amongst the gathering below the cathedral steps shouted out, ‘God bless the King.’ The people, their people of Bordeaux, joined in, cheered and shouted, ‘God bless King Henry. God bless our Queen.’
Ailenor clasped Nell’s hand and lifted it high. They were a family united, destined to continue a great dynasty. If England sometimes forgot it, Gascony would not.
She noted a gleam of admiration in Nell’s eyes. ‘You think quickly, Ailenor,’ Nell said in a quiet voice.
It would be a pleasant winter if they made improvements to the shadowy palace. Tapestries must be purchased, others mended, heavier curtains hung. Redecoration must commence in time for Christmas. Whilst these improvements were carried out, they would spend a few months at Blaye.
Rosalind must oversee the purchase of new tapestries and the restoration of older ones, so that week Ailenor wrote to her friend Abbess Elizabeth of St Helena’s, requesting Rosalind travel to Bordeaux with the children and their servants. There were no Dominicans amongst their priests in Gascony, none of which she was aware, to threaten her friend.
That evening, Ailenor wrote to Walter Gray, the Archbishop of York, who had charge of England during their absence, demanding that the royal children come to Bordeaux.
22
Rosalind
Autumn 1242
Rosalind was seated under a mulberry tree in the peaceful garden of St Helena’s Convent sorting threads. The Bishop of London’s new cope was almost ready. It had taken the nuns a whole year to complete most of the embroidery. There were still two borders to embroider. The Bishop wanted to choose the final details decorating the hem’s border and that day Rosalind would take the extravagant garment to his palace.
At noon, accompanied by Sister Beatrice, she would travel through London’s streets in one of the episcopal wagons. It would be the first time in months she had left the convent and she could hardly contain her excitement at the thought of this adventure. Life as a novice nun was not her destiny. She desired the world of men and women and thought about Thomas whom she missed every day on awakening and at night as she fell asleep on her narrow cot. Little news entered the sleepy convent. Papa and Mildred knew nothing about Earl Simon’s squire but on one of their visits from behind the latticed screen that separated her from her visitors, she heard how Earl Richard had returned from the Crusade. Had Earl Simon returned? Papa did not know. He had heard nothing of Earl Simon or his squire. Richard of Cornwall was to be married again, this time to the Queen’s sister.
‘Rosalind, Rosalind, there you are!’ Sister Anne came rushing through the herbal plots, her habit flapping about her legs. Rosalind glanced upwards. It was a lovely day; the azure sky she glimpsed above the high walls was cloudless.
‘Have they come for us already?’ she called. ‘If so, they’re early.’
‘No, no. It’s not the Bishop’s carriage, not yet. You have a letter with a royal seal and ribbons. Prioress Elizabeth said I was to bring it to you at once.’
‘A letter for me?’ Rosalind dropped her sewing into her lap. ‘It must be another note from one of the Queen’s ladies. As she stood up, her threads fell from her apron onto the dusty path. ‘Holy Madeline,’ she gasped. ‘They’ll get dirty.’
‘I’ll pick those up. You read your letter.’ Sister Anne thrust the small folded missive into her hand. ‘Oh, and Prioress Elizabeth says she will see you after Vespers, after you see the Bishop.’
The nun bent down and collected the threads into her apron as Rosalind turned over her letter. Its seal was broken. Prioress Elizabeth had read it first. She grimaced annoyance. The Prioress would always read her private letters. A tangle of ribbons hung like withered scarlet stems from cracked wax. With shaking hands, Rosalind sank down on the shaded bench and began to read, thinking it was as well her father had insisted she had learned her letters. Rosalind’s eyes widened as she glanced at the signature. It was from the Queen herself, not from Lady Mary at all.
Rosalind, we request your presence in Bordeaux. Your services are required to oversee the mending and hanging of our palace embroideries. You will travel on the Griffin, my personal ship, with our children. Arrangements will be made for your journey forthwith.
Ailenor the Queen
It was, in short, a summons. She stared at the small folded letter. All those scarlet ribbons on such a small document containing such a brief message. No reference to her year’s exile from the court. No mention of her work on Bishop Fulk’s cope at St Helena’s; nothing of the workshop at the palace of Westminster which she had been compelled to abandon when she had joined Queen Ailenor’s court. Not a word about her supposedly Cathar mother or her hard-working father. It was simply a royal command, one that must be heeded. A shudder grasped her at the memory of the King’s part in her banishment and as she wondered if the Dominican friar was still with King Henry, her heart turned over with fear.
Beyond the Priory walls, bells echoed throughout the City. She folded the letter and glanced up to see one of the novices hurry towards her carrying a dark cloak over her arm. ‘The Bishop’s men are here for you,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Hurry. They are loading the carriage. Sister Beatrice is waiting for you in the workroom.’
Rosalind tucked the letter into the belt purse that hung beside her scissors and her knotted measuring tape.
‘Don’t get gobbled up by Nero,’ Sister Anne called after her from where she was now seated in a pool of sunshine drawing a stitch through the embroidery Rosalind had started. Nero was the enormous black hunting dog that accompanied Bishop Fulk on his visits to the nunnery.
Rosalind called back over her shoulder, ‘Not a chance of it.’
The journey across the City took an age and the hourly bells rang in a cacophony again before they arrived at the palace. Carts, animals, and people jammed up the thoroughfares. It was a scene she had once enjoyed and Rosalind thrust her head through the curtains to watch. The streets were lively in contrast to the sleepy convent. She missed them.
The Bishop kept them waiting on a cushioned bench outside his chamber as he examined the precious cope with his band of acolytes. Sister Beatrice, who had helped in the infirmary that morning as well as overseeing the careful packing of the cope, closed her eyes, leaned back against the wall and began to snore softly. Rosalind wandered along the corridor until she reached a curtained off annex at the end. Hearing voices seep out from behind the curtain, she could not resist putting her ear to its folds. The loud whispering beyond this arras sounded anxious and secretive.
‘What is the delay?’ a voice exclaimed. His accent was French. She peered through a slit in the curtain. Two men holding the conversation had their backs to her. One, she noted, was wearing a priest’s robe. The other, the one with the French accent, was dressed in a long, blue gown. The embroidery on the hem caught her eye. It displayed glittering serpents with jewelled eyes. This man was wealthy to possess such embellishment on his gown. Her eye followed the gown upwards to the back of his head. A hat with fur trim was perched on shoulder-length grey hair. The pair shifted their positions so she drew back and allowed the folds of the curtain to come together again. She laid her ear to the folds.
‘As soon as possible.’
‘Saint Augustine’s bones, who knows when that will be.’
‘The Church tires of the King’s profligate ways,’ the priest was saying. ‘Bishops resent how the Queen’s relatives are placed in positions of power. Henry is bankrupting the kingdom. Poitou is lost.’ The voice lowered but Rosalind leaned further into the curtain to hear what was said next. ‘Why not ensure the King never returns to England? You have contacts in Bo
rdeaux. No one knows who you are, a wine merchant, one of many.’ There was a chortle. ‘Best Gascon wine, fit for a king’s table.’
‘Priest, I cannot be part of that. I’ll lose my business. . . my life. Merde! Take my wine for the Bishop. Forget this nonsense.’ A moment later he said, ‘How much? How much for a King’s life? Tell me that.’
A silence followed. The priest never answered.
‘Well?’ the merchant said.
Rosalind’s heart beat quickly. She cast a glance along the corridor. Sister Beatrice still had her eyes closed, but she must return soon.
The priest spoke at last. ‘My contact would pay you a thousand pounds.’
Rosalind heard the merchant’s gasp, ‘So much for a king’s life.’
‘You would benefit. Edward is a small boy. Richard, an astute prince, would rule. He’d guide the prince. So, an accident. . . an unfortunate cup of wine. And before you ask, Earl Richard knows nothing of this. I repeat, the Council is losing patience with the King’s games in Poitou; the Church tires of Henry’s interference in Church affairs. We tire of Rome’s taxes. An arrow gone amiss, an assassin’s dagger, a fall from a horse, a glass of poisoned wine.’
Although voices continued, they grew fainter. The two men had moved away through another arras into another corridor in this palace of corridors. Rosalind felt blood drain from her face. Clutching her gown, she stumbled back along the corridor. The enormity of the conversation she had overheard struck her deeply, as if an arrow was striking into her own heart. Regaining the bench, she sank down with a thump. Sister Beatrice’s eyes shot open. Before the nun could speak a word, the door into Bishop Fulk’s chamber opened.
‘The Bishop will see you now.’ The servant, a monk, hovered in the opened doorway. Sister Beatrice stood up shaking her habit, awkward and stiff. Rosalind rose shakily to her feet. Beatrice was looking quizzically at her. ‘Are you well, Rosalind?’ she muttered.
The Silken Rose Page 23
