‘“The King will try to be fair. Your wine will have its time,” I said back to him. He was also quick to identify a wine merchant who might be defaulting on tax. And he fits the description.’ Simon laughed. ‘I’ve found my man, a Soler, as I thought he might be.’
‘You must question him. Tell Master Mansel of your discovery.’
‘I intend to. I doubt he will have anything to do with the Templars, though you never know. I’ve met him before, I suspect, since he provides wine for the Bishop of London. I’ll seek him out later today.’
Simon confided to Nell, as she was folding sheets in their bedchamber, that he could find no evidence that the merchant was plotting against the King. ‘His name is Master Abelard and our dear Master Abelard was clear that he could not recollect any cleric propositioning him to commit treason.’ Simon creased his brow. ‘I think he was lying on that score. He looked uncomfortable, though he said he would swear to this on Holy Relics in the Cathedral in front of witnesses. He claimed no wine business with the London Templars either. I asked him if he knew the King’s grocer, Adam de Basing, and he said “If I do, what of it?”’
‘Did you ask him if he knew the son?’ Nell placed a folded sheet inside a cupboard.
Simon sat down on their bed. ‘Oh yes, he does, but the De Basings, unpleasant as they are, are loyal to Henry.’ He let out a laugh. ‘And, they are certainly not monkish.’
He paused for a moment.
‘I shall speak to Ailenor, warn her. As long as Henry has all his food tasted and his wine sampled. . .’
Nell spun around. ‘Still. . . can you trust any bishop these days? With no bishop in Winchester Henry has collected revenue from both Winchester and Canterbury. Henry still wants Boniface as Archbishop of Canterbury. The clergy are angry.’ She shook her head and folded two more pillowcases. ‘Henry always insists he is right. I hope they are not all plotting against him.’ For a heartbeat she considered. Simon might be forthright and impatient with Henry, but he was loyal, though he had good reason to be disloyal.
Simon shrugged. ‘Unlikely any of them are, in truth. But there’s no sensible order. No Pope in Rome either, Nell. Not since the old Pope died, though they say Innocent will be confirmed as Pope this year. . . so he must arbitrate between the King and the Church.’ He frowned at her. ‘Your grandfather, old Henry, did not learn that lesson either. Remember Becket. It’s nothing new.’
He came to stand by the cupboard where she was now stacking swaddling and feminine items, slipping sachets of lavender amongst them. ‘Boniface as Archbishop won’t please the English bishops. Henry doesn’t like or trust Bishop Fulk of London. He infuriates the old baronial families. It all bodes ill. Henry wants new men administrating the exchequer so he gets what money he wants for his pageants, his friends, building projects, and his hopeless wars.’ Simon gave a deep sigh. ‘The barons always had their own men controlling the Crown’s purse. They don’t like Henry’s clerks from Savoy.’
‘Why,’ Nell said, turning from the cupboard to face him, ‘why does he upset the barons and bishops? Henry never thinks of consequences.’ She lifted a sprig of lavender to her nostrils and inhaled the scent.
‘He’s not as foolish as you think. The Savoyard clerks are efficient and they are manipulated by him. But Henry is careless with money. It will come to a bad end one day. There’s little control of his spending. Pageants and weddings, he adores them all. Dreams of recovering lost lands. . .’
‘What’s to be done?’
‘Enough said for now. I’ll report my conversation with the wine merchant. Master Abelard will be watched closely.’ He grasped her hands. He looked exhausted, his eyes shot through with red. She raised her hand and sweeping back his dark mane, rose onto tiptoes and kissed his forehead. How she still loved him. ‘We’ll keep out of Henry’s disputes,’ he said into her hair. ‘Once we return home, we’ll stay away from court and enjoy our boys, our lands, and our castle of Kenilworth. That is what will be done.’
Drawing back, Nell looked into his eyes. ‘When can we leave?’
‘Henry wants to return to England in September.’
She nestled her head against his chest. ‘Our goods will be at Kenilworth before us, waiting for us to return.’ She sighed. ‘So many beautiful tapestries and fabrics, and they all tell the story of my longing for your return from the Crusade,’ she said. She shook her head. ‘Though if they had been lost, I would not have minded at all. How I long for home. So many lost years.’
Simon smiled down at her. ‘They soften our lives, but you speak truth. They are only things. I long for Kenilworth too. Two of our children have never seen it. How the years fly by us like dragons in stories racing through the skies. The sense of time passing is lost.’ He frowned, ‘We must attend Richard’s wedding and that’s in November.’
Nell tucked the sprig of lavender into her bodice. ‘That’s true enough, so why don’t we spend the winter at Odiham? It is closer to London. Besides, Henry owes me my lands, those the Marshals took.’
‘He paid my debts and confirmed me as Earl of Leicester. I have Kenilworth, you Odiham. Isn’t it enough?’
‘But we need lands for our children.’
‘Perhaps. We can only hope he is in a jovial mood for Richard’s wedding. Then he might listen to you.’
They docked at Portsmouth and rode to Winchester. Nell dreaded the welcome they might receive in England after the disastrous Poitou campaign. Her anxiety was unfounded. The streets of Winchester were lined with flags and banners belonging to the barons who had gathered to welcome Henry home. No one dared condemn the King and Simon was cynical. ‘He is blaming his barons for sending him to war in the first place.’ A guffaw escaped his mouth. ‘Probably believes it too. Like John the father, we have Henry, the son. Henry is playing them all off against each other whilst appearing pious and angelic. You’ll see, Nell, he’ll demand a magnificent wedding and it’ll cost the kingdom a fortune.’
‘Richard will have eased a way for him.’
‘Henry has to take responsibility for his own foolhardy decisions,’ Simon said.
‘But our stepfather and mother asked for Henry’s help in Poitou in good faith.’
‘Good faith, my bollocks. Nell, you cannot say that. Count Hugh switched sides taking his own supporters with him when it went wrong last year.’
She held her reins tightly. ‘At least England is at peace. There are crops in the fields. The people will forgive Henry because a good harvest is what matters most. A short rest, Simon, in Winchester, no more,’ she insisted. ‘Odiham is waiting for us. Think of the hunting in the park.’
‘Worry not. I’ve sent word ahead. All will be ready for our return to Odiham.’
Nell glanced over her shoulder to the wagon that carried her boys and their nurses. Young Simon and Hal were excitedly climbing out. Her eyes strayed sideways to the golden-headed squire seated on a dark jennet and the pretty girl who rode beside him on a dun-coloured palfrey. Both were laughing and glancing at each other. Love-struck, she thought, remembering how five years ago she felt the same about Simon, and how she still felt.
The rest of their small household trailed into the bailey of Winchester Castle, including their falconer who rode beside a large cage with their hooded birds perched on a cart. It rattled through the gate and along the courtyard’s cobbles; its precious load three goshawks and a falcon. They would soon be home and hunting in Odiham’s woodland.
Sancha and Richard’s wedding was held on the twenty-third day of November. It was the most magnificent wedding Nell had ever seen. Thirty thousand dishes had been prepared for the wedding feast. Three thousand guests were seated at the fabulous gathering.
Nell considered Sancha gentle, sweet, kind, and beautiful, and fearful of the duty expected of her as Richard’s wife. Sancha was overshadowed by her mother. A powerful personality and cultured beyond compare, Countess Beatrice proudly walked about the wedding guests in a ruby silk robe which Henry had ordered made into
gorgeous gowns for Ailenor, Beatrice, and Sancha. Somehow, Sancha managed to appear regal, if not entirely confident, on her wedding day and Nell hoped Richard would treat her with consideration. He always marries beautiful women, but this girl is simple in comparison to Isabel Marshal, by far she’s too unworldly for him. Sancha of Provence is a child whereas Isabel was the daughter of the greatest knight England ever knew.
They attended the Christmas Feast Richard held at Wallingford. After New Year, Henry led Nell and Simon into his private chamber. Countess Beatrice, Ailenor, and Sancha sat by the fire fingering embroidery in their laps. They were invited to sip cups of Henry’s best Gascon wine and eat wafers. A liveried servant stoked the fire and another stood close to the King’s shoulder. He dismissed them both and addressed Simon.
‘They have tasted this wine. It’s not poisoned. Your merchant was banished from my kingdom, both Gascony and England, exiled. His trade has been confiscated as you requested and I am granting his business to the Columbines.’ Henry threw another log onto the fire. ‘Nor are the wafers poisonous.’ He offered Simon and Ailenor the silver plate laden with crisp wafers.
Simon said. ‘Not my merchant, Sire. Still, he was suspicious. It might be sensible for Mansel to watch the Bishop.’
‘He will, indeed, indeed,’ Henry mumbled, his mouth full of wafer. ‘Be sure the Bishop will be watched.’
Nell nodded and Ailenor said, ‘Amen to that incident, I hope.’
For a time after that, they talked of non-consequential matters – the Christmas gleemen; the procession of dishes at the Christmas Feast; the Yule Log that burned endlessly, and the subtlety, a great castle with marchpane turrets; the magnificence of Richard’s hospitality.
As the afternoon darkened, more candles were lit. After calling for supper to be served, Henry turned to Nell, ‘I know, dearest sister, you are returning to Kenilworth tomorrow. As a New Year’s gift, I am reimbursing you for the rest of those lands the Marshals neglected to give you, your dower.’
In disbelief, Nell thanked him. Henry had confiscated Marshal lands which he considered did not belong to the clan.
Henry turned his attention to Simon. ‘We hope that all previous bad feeling between us is gone, Earl Simon.’ There was lightness in the way Henry waved his long jewelled fingers towards the windows. ‘As dissipated as the mist out there. We intend granting you five hundred marks as a gift. I pardon the final thousand pounds of your debt.’
‘My King.’ Simon leaned his great frame forward, knelt on the floor straw, and kissed Henry’s hand. ‘You are most generous. Thank you. The mist has dissolved.’
For now, thought Nell, lowering her head to conceal the cynicism in her eyes.
Countess Beatrice bowed her head discreetly over her embroidery. Nell did not miss the fact that as Henry made promises Beatrice was smiling like a contented cat that had supped cream. Were Ailenor and her mother behind Henry’s generosity, a clever plan because this way Simon would never join the discontented barons and bishops once life was business as usual.
Nell narrowed her eyes and bit into another wafer. What favours might Countess Beatrice be demanding from Henry for her own family? She studied Sancha who sat demurely beside her mother but, as usual, never seemed to speak for herself, her large eyes looking to Beatrice and Ailenor for approval. Poor lovely Sancha was a sacrifice. But then, when one considered it, they were all pawns in this cruel game of kings and queens.
26
Ailenor
Spring 1245
For several years freezing winters turned into gentle springs, hot summers, and damp autumns. Spring again and Ailenor curled up in the window seat of her chamber in Windsor Castle enjoying the March sunshine. She had been in England nine years and had reached the great age of twenty-two. She considered herself not only a queen but almost, though not quite, a matron. Her nursery was filled with children’s happy voices. She was content, though the year after Sancha’s wedding to Richard she had miscarried. Sadly, Sancha too had endured a miscarriage. Therefore, Ailenor was joyful when she conceived again but saddened when her beloved sister suffered a second loss.
Edmund, the new royal baby, smiled at her from his cradle. He closed, opened, and closed his blue eyes again and slept. Ailenor lifted her Breviary from a cushion and gazed at the page appropriate for the day, March 25th. The exquisite illuminations always stole her breath away. She studied a gilded miniature containing a drawing of The Annunciation. Lady Mary and the angel Gabriel were placed before a snowy white castle surrounded by spring flowers - anemones, primroses, and garden pinks. Angels peering from the foliage decorating each corner of the page spread their wings; others lifted up trumpets in tiny hands just like baby Edmund’s.
Turning the page slowly, Ailenor read aloud the prayer known as The Little Office. Could Breviaries like this one be written in English rather than scribed in Latin? If so, all women wealthy enough to own these little books could read the prayers they contained. She squinted at the pretty script. Her daughters must be as well educated as her sons, just as her father had taught his own daughters to read and to write, to speak French as fluently as the Provençal dialect, and to understand Latin.
Two sons and two daughters; she was as happy as the tabby cat that purred by her fireplace.
Henry, too, was delighted with their family. There will be more, she promised herself, safe in the knowledge their throne’s future was secure. Gascony was for Edward when he came of age, where he could learn to rule. They must seek a suitable inheritance for Edmund too, perhaps another kingdom or betrothal to a great princess.
She ran her hand along her slim figure. I never thicken after childbirth, she considered. I’m still attractive. Henry loves me. It’s time for me to conceive again.
Shortly after Vespers, Henry swept into her antechamber. One look at his face told her all. Her heart beat faster. He was in a passion over something. What now? We’ve had months of harmony. He tossed his velvet mantle over a settle and waved her ladies away. His face, usually pallid, was fiery-red; his eyes glittered like icicles.
‘Archbishop Edmund’s mantle. What did you do with it after Edmund’s christening?’
‘In the Abbey,’ she faltered. She had not wanted the fusty relic near her birthing chamber and had sent it away.
Henry glowered. She waited for him to speak again, her patience stretched, her hands gracefully folded in her lap.
Without raising his eyes he grunted, ‘Boniface is siding with the Pope over the election of Paselewe to the bishopric of Chichester. Says my man is ignorant of scripture and Latin, not good enough to be chosen as bishop! I should never have appointed Boniface to Canterbury.’
The words slipped from her mouth. ‘My uncle has a point perhaps.’
Although she knew the candidate for Chichester was no scholar, she would do better to humour Henry, and not side with Boniface, well, not obviously anyway. Her uncle had turned out to be a better archbishop than she’d expected. He was pleasanter than Edmund Rich.
‘How dare Boniface support Innocent’s selection, an exiled Pope at that. How dare he?’ Henry’s voice was chill as winter which was worrying because it meant Henry was determined to be stubborn. ‘After all I have done for your uncle.’ He jabbed a heavily ringed finger in her direction. ‘Too worldly to be an archbishop, handsome, and ambitious. He’s modernising clergy who don’t want his new ways. The bishops are furious.’ Henry folded his arms. ‘I should never have requested him for Canterbury, following in the footsteps of that good man, Archbishop Edmund. And,’ Henry drew breath, ‘after all that I do for God. Who is more holy, I ask you? Uncle Boniface or myself? Daily I give alms, feeding hundreds of our poor, rebuilding Westminster, presenting God with a beautiful house with high vaults, elegant arches, window traceries, flying buttresses ; no less than a cathedral as good as Amiens, Chartres, Reims.’ He put his head into his hands and groaned. ‘God’s house costs highly and they all resent it, all of those bishops. . . Fulk of London, Grosseteste of
Lincoln, Bishop Raleigh. . .’ He banged his fist on the knobbly carved arm of his chair, hurting it because he lifted it and groaned. ‘I need my man Paselewe within that hornet’s nest.’ A spray of angry spittle sprayed her gown. She drew back. ‘I need Uncle Boniface’s support,’ he shouted at her. ‘See to it.’
Ailenor kept her voice even as she said, ‘You are wrong about Uncle Boniface, Henry. There is a letter from him. Allow me to read it to you again.’ Before Henry could answer, she was rummaging about the top of a small oak desk. ‘Here it is.
‘Please beg the King’s pardon. . . there is little I can do on the question of Paselewe as he is not of the Church. He is a lowly clerk. The bishops are of the opinion Paselewe is not versed enough to be Bishop of Chichester. . . Pope Innocent refuses to consider Paselewe as a bishop. Even so, you will have my support as far as I can give it.’
‘As far as he can give it is not good enough,’ Henry said with petulance. As Ailenor glanced up at Henry she could see the storm was passing. If she was quick, she could make use of his temporary calm.
She opened her arms, the letter hanging from her hand. ‘Henry, you are right when you say Paselewe is far, far better at collecting money than any tax collector we have in our own service. Why don’t we use him that way, not as a bishop but working for us? If we insist on raising a clerk to a bishopric we shall make enemies.’ She tapped a finger against her forehead, causing the parchment she held in her hand to crackle. ‘I think I have a solution.’
‘Have what?’
‘A suggestion.’ She modified her language. Henry must think it his own idea. ‘I wonder if that other man I heard mentioned for Chichester - what was his name – Wych - would be better. We can keep Paselewe to collect money for us from the Templars and Jews.’
‘Yes, the Templars have too much wealth. And they may be involved in plots to destroy the Crown. Paselewe might be useful rooting those out. I did think Paselewe could collect money for us.’ He swallowed. ‘Perhaps Wych is better for a bishopric, less controversial.’
The Silken Rose Page 26
