A Pride of Kings (The Plantagenets Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  Henry was shivering now and the smith built up the fire.

  The knights sat about leaning against the walls, some dozing now and then, watching their lord. William and de Born, for once in harmony, sat either side of the dying man – for that death was near no one doubted now.

  It was dawn when John d’Erleigh returned and stood hesitantly in the doorway. William rose and came to him. ‘Well? Is the King come?’

  ‘No, sir. He says – he says he fears it is another means to lure him from his army. I told him, indeed I did, and he was unsure, I could see that, for he walked up and down all the while and I think once he wept – but he would not come.’ John was trembling with fatigue and misery. ‘He only sent this –’ and he held out his hand, a heavy gold ring lying in it.

  ‘God have mercy on us all,’ William said, and taking the ring went to kneel beside his master. Henry stirred, the tired, red-rimmed eyes opening to focus on William with some difficulty.

  ‘My father – is he here?’

  ‘No, my lord. He would not come – he fears for his safety at our hands.’ He saw Henry’s face contract and went on hastily, ‘But he sends you this ring and with it his love, I am sure of that.’

  Tears of weakness were rolling down the Young King’s face now. ‘Did your squire not say I was dying – did he not know –’

  William took one of the hot dry hands in his. ‘I know John said all he could but the King would not trust his word – nor ours.’

  There was a long silence. Then Henry twisted his head towards the door. ‘Bid the priest come then – I must be shriven.’ While they waited he lay silent again, only once he turned to William and said in a faint voice, ‘God is punishing me – don’t you see? And St Amadour. Take the sword back, William – and the rest. I have offended my father too – and you – and so many others, Jesus pardon me …’ His voice faded to a whisper.

  The priest came and they all withdrew out of earshot. William stood outside with folded arms, his eyes on the blue June sky, swallows wheeling towards the little stream where the mill wheel turned slowly. Some of the townsfolk were gathered, waiting, many praying, whatever evil Henry had done, forgotten.

  Gilbert stood beside him and once William spoke, asking where Queen Margaret was.

  ‘In Paris,’ Gilbert answered. ‘Our lord sent her there when he went to Limoges.’

  So there was no hope she could reach her husband before he died. William thought of her grief that must come, for she had loved Henry with all her gentle heart. The thought of her coming widowhood, strangely, made her seem even more remote.

  After he had been shriven the dying man seemed calmer and William and the others came in and knelt while the Viaticum was administered, the Host placed on his tongue, his soul prepared for its journey. When it was done he said in a weak but controlled voice, ‘Take me from this bed. I am not worthy to die here… lie me on ashes, a rope about my neck – and lay my Cross on me.’

  With tears streaming down his face, Sir Bertran de Born helped Gilbert de Clare to do as their master requested, Gilbert cutting a piece of rope and fastening it about Henry’s neck, the smith covering a bier with ashes from the forgotten fire, no work done there today.

  The priest was intoning prayers as William took from a saddle bag the Young King’s Crusader’s surcoat, that emblem he had adopted in Limoges Cathedral, red cross on a white ground. This he laid over him and once more Henry reached out for his hand, the feeble fingers scarcely able to clasp it.

  ‘Promise me… promise me, you will take my Cross to the Holy Land … fulfil my vow? Perhaps then … God will have mercy –’

  William bent and lifted his dying master into his arms. The tears were running down his own face now. He laid one hand on the Cross on Henry’s breast. ‘I swear it. It shall be done – I swear it in Jesu’s name.’

  Henry gave a deep sigh. ‘I could always – trust you, William. And you have forgiven me –’ he paused and then the weak voice trailed on, ‘Bear my love to Margaret and … to my father.’ He turned to look at de Born. ‘Bertram, don’t weep for me … write me a lament if you will, for one who – gained nothing.’

  De Born could not speak for sobbing, his love for the Young King perhaps the only genuine emotion he had ever felt. William held Henry in his arms while the priest prayed and the others answered the words, most of them in tears.

  A few moments later Henry moved his head a little against William’s chest, the shallow breathing ceased, and it was William who laid him down and folded his hands over the scarlet Cross.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Do you really want to marry him?’ Isabel asked. ‘I know he might be king one day if Duke Richard has no heirs, but I would not –’

  The Lady Constance glanced at her with superior amusement. ‘Child, as if our wants had anything to do with it! Avice will do as the King bids.’ She bent to steady her two-year-old son, Arthur, who had stumbled against a stool. ‘There – you are not hurt, so don’t cry.’ She took no notice of his tears and went on, ‘When did we women ever have a choice in the matter of husbands? I was betrothed in the cradle.’

  ‘I know.’ Isabel bent her head over her embroidery. She was making a stole for the chaplain here at Clare and at each end she was fashioning a dove and a spray of olive leaves to symbolise forgiveness. She was somewhat in awe of Constance who had had two husbands and she wondered now how much she had grieved for Count Geoffrey. The King’s third son had been killed two years ago in Paris in a tourney, unhorsed by his opponent. His destrier had trampled on him and he had died of his wounds within a few hours, the grief of the French King Philip such that he had to be restrained from throwing himself upon the coffin. Isabel had met Geoffrey many times and found him delightful company but she had heard that he never kept his word and could be very violent. Little Arthur had been born after Count Geoffrey’s death and last year Constance had married again, her new husband Randulph de Blundevill, Earl of Chester.

  ‘I suppose,’ Isabel said, ‘I would have been betrothed by my father if he had not died when I was so little.’

  ‘I suppose you would,’ the Countess agreed, ‘though of course it would have been a pity if you had been married to one of those wild Irish lords.’ She gave a dramatic shudder.

  Avice of Gloucester said, ‘I don’t see how you can know anything about them as you’ve never been there. John says –’

  ‘No one should heed what John says about Ireland,’ Constance interrupted sharply. ‘He caused more trouble there than one would have thought one young man could. For all that Ranulf de Glanville was with him to advise him, even he could not restrain the Prince.’

  ‘He is very young,’ Amicia de Clare said in defence of her sister’s betrothed. ‘Only eighteen now and this was last year.’

  ‘At seventeen Richard was ruling his court in Aquitaine and at the same age Geoffrey was far more of a man,’ Constance retorted. She was an attractive woman, though she had never been beautiful, but she had a certain toughness of character that came from her Breton ancestry and she had no time for John’s frivolity. ‘It is one thing to keep one’s subjects under control, quite another to ill-use those he must treat with. I can just imagine him sitting on his throne in Dublin, laughing at the Irish kings who came to do him homage – Jesu, Sir Rama said he even pulled their beards. What a fool! I wonder how Sir Ranulf bore it.’

  ‘John will be King of all Ireland when he goes back,’ Avice said in a low voice. There were some things about her betrothed she did not like, but he was handsome and amusing, and she was going to be a loyal wife. ‘The Pope has sent him a golden crown made in the shape of peacock’s feathers, and if the Pope approves –’

  ‘The Holy Father does not have to subdue all the men John upset,’ Constance answered, the mocking note back in her voice. ‘Half John’s men, and I don’t blame them, went over to the natives – what do they call them?’

  ‘Ostmen,’ Isabel said, ‘at least those who live along the coast. It will
be a great thing, Avice, to be married to a King of Ireland whose brother is the future King of England.’

  Avice put down her sewing and folded her hands in her lap. She had a natural serenity. ‘I think so. At least my lady Constance here has experience enough of marriage to tell us that it is better to have a husband than not to have one.’

  Constance pushed her son away from her knees where he was clinging, pulling at the gold fringe of her kirtle. ‘Go and play with Gilbert and his sister – there, take your ball.’ She watched as he trotted over to where Amicia’s children sat on the floor, rolling balls towards a set of skittles. Gilbert said, ‘He’s too young, lady – he doesn’t understand how to play.’

  ‘Then help him,’ his mother told him, well aware that her son would rather be out with other boys or waiting in the courtyard for his father’s return, but he had a cold in the head and as the wind was in the east she had ordered him to remain within. She wished Avice would not be so tactless and she was glad the Countess was only here for a short visit while her new husband set his affairs in order before accompanying her to Brittany.

  Constance leaned back lazily on the cushions of the Lady Amicia’s bed, some marchpane between her fingers, and nibbled at the sweetmeat. ‘Of course it is better to be wed. I grieved for Geoffrey but I had too great an inheritance for the King not to give me another man. And Randulph is a strong and lusty fellow – he will keep my Bretons to heel.’

  Isabel thought of Queen Eleanor whom she attended frequently and who came now sometimes from her less restricted captivity to join the Old King when he held court in England – in fact she had even been allowed to spend Christmas at Chinon a few years ago. Isabel was sure Eleanor had been well able to govern Aquitaine without help from anyone, but Constance was not the woman Eleanor was and anyway she was too indolent. Isabel did not think she herself would have cared for the Earl of Chester as a husband.

  She was fifteen now and no doubt when the King came to England, as they said he would soon to raise money for this new crusade that the priests were so ardently preaching, he might remember, busy as he would be, that her marriage was in his gift. Whom would he choose for her? She did not know but she was glad it would not be Prince John. Another face, known so briefly, came before her eyes and brought colour to her cheeks – but she was foolish to think of him. They said he was still unwed, although to her mind he was quite old now – he must be past forty – but she had never met another man who had made so great an impression on her, and although she had been a little girl then she had never forgotten him, nor his kind smile.

  And he was coming today, to spend the Christmas season with Gilbert and Amicia. Would he have changed? He had been abroad for five years, ever since the tragic death of the Young King, fighting in Syria. Returning knights and merchants told stories of his heroism, his strength and courage, of the astonishing feats he had accomplished. She listened avidly, but thought so great a man as he must be now would hardly notice her – yet her memories were not of a proud or overbearing man, unless indeed he was greatly changed by all he had done. And he had been her father’s friend, perhaps he would want to speak with the King concerning a husband for her, and if he did he would maybe save her from a man of de Blundevill’s kind.

  Isabel put down her sewing, her chin on her hand. Her hair was plaited and hanging down her back as befitted a virgin but she wore a little white headdress that fastened beneath her small pointed chin, and she hoped she looked well, that this blue gown Amicia had so kindly given her fitted her, shaping a figure now well developed. Her pelisse was edged with marten fur and her white sleeves were long and full, and her shoes she had embroidered herself to match the gown. She was not really vain but she did think blue was the best colour for her to wear for it made her eyes even more vividly blue. She was very fond of her cousin Gilbert and of Amicia and she hoped the King might let her stay here a little longer, certainly while Gilbert’s guest was in the house.

  It occurred to her that Avice had not answered her question and she bent her head again over her sewing. ‘Even if we have no choice in marriage, it is well if we can love our husbands, surely?’

  Amicia laughed and nodded, but her sister said, ‘It is our duty to learn to love them.’

  Avice was more reserved than her eldest sister and she had never forgotten that their grandfather had been Earl Robert of Gloucester, son of King Henry I and brother to the Empress Matilda. Earl Robert might have been a bastard, born of King Henry’s mistress in Caen, but he had become a great man and they had royal blood in their veins. Prince John was younger than she was and she could not refute what Constance had said of him, but nevertheless it was a highly prized match. She added a little severely, ‘Love is for peasants tumbling in a field,’ and Constance laughed, and said. ‘Neither of you knows what you are talking about.’

  ‘How should they?’ Amicia asked, aware of Isabel’s embarrassment. ‘I can tell them that respect and affection – aye, and love too – can come after marriage,’ and she changed the subject by asking Constance about the kind of embroidery at which the Breton women excelled.

  Isabel moved over to the window, away from the fire. It was colder here but she did not mind for she could see down into the courtyard, busy as always, and she could smell roasting meat, the meal being prepared for the return of the Earl of Clare and his guest, and she was still sitting there, half dreaming, when there was a clatter of hooves over the drawbridge and a stream of riders came under the archway.

  She knelt upright on the cushioned ledge. There was her cousin Gilbert and beside him a tall man, the hood thrown back from his head, an upright man with long legs. Despite the winter weather his face was tanned, the burnt walnut colour she had seen on other men who had been to Mediterranean lands – she remembered seeing the Princess Joanna’s husband once and his face had been just such a colour – and she longed to see him more closely for she was too far away for smaller details.

  After what seemed a long time there was a tap on the door and a page swung it open for the two men to enter, Gilbert to greet his wife first with formal courtesy and then by a swift and passionate embrace, regardless of the other ladies. Then he bowed to the ladies Constance and Isabel before sweeping his son into his arms and fondling his daughter, but Isabel had eyes only for his companion who, in due course, came over to her.

  No, he was not changed; he was smiling down at her, his grey eyes warm as she remembered them, the brown hair thick and with scarcely a trace of grey as yet, the moustache covering his upper lip but his chin shaved. She had forgotten how broad his shoulders were, how wide his chest – ah, a woman would be safe with such a man! And then her cheeks were scarlet.

  ‘Mistress Isabel,’ he said, ‘how pleasant to see you again. But I left a little girl behind.’

  It was impossible, despite her nervousness, not to smile back. ‘That was some years ago, Sir William. I bid you welcome to Clare. I hope your visit will be a pleasant one.’

  He sat down beside her. ‘I’m sure it will. I have often wondered for your father’s sake where you were, whether you were wed or betrothed.’

  ‘Neither.’ Her blush deepened. ‘My marriage is in the King’s gift, but I stay sometimes with Queen Eleanor – and he – they – he is too busy to consider perhaps –’ Aware that she was growing confused, she stopped and then added more calmly, ‘Most of the time I spend here with Amicia,’

  ‘And you have been happy?’

  ‘Very.’ She gave him a shy smile. ‘Amicia is so kind and I love the children. We – we have heard so much about you, messire – so many exciting tales. The troubadours who visit us sing of you.’

  ‘I suppose they must make verses of something,’ he said lightly, ‘and I have had some good fortune in the Holy Land although,’ a graver look crossed his face, ‘I went upon so sad a matter.’

  ‘I remember. And I remember the Young King that Christmas at Caen. You must have grieved so much for him and yet…’ she paused, wondering whether t
o go on, and then, surprised at her own daring, did so. ‘You were the one to carry out his last wish. That must have comforted you.’

  He did not answer for a moment, touched by her perception, surprising in one who had been too young to understand the full wretchedness of that time. Then he said, ‘Yes, that is true, Mistress – perhaps that is what kept me there so many years. But since I left matters have not gone well. We had a truce with Sallah-ed-din, which was why I decided the time had come for me to return and I had got to Flanders when I heard that he claimed our knights had broken the truce.’ He forgot for the moment that he was talking to a girl, ‘There was a bloody battle at Hattin with nearly every Christian man killed or mutilated. Jerusalem has fallen, but you must have heard that. Not one of us can rest now until we have regained the Holy Sepulchre.’

  ‘It is terrible.’ She had clasped her hands together, ‘We did know – Gilbert’s messenger told us. He said the King will ride with the King of France when the time comes.’

  ‘If they can keep peace between them long enough,’ William agreed rather sceptically. He knew both men too well. ‘Duke Richard plans to sail this spring.’

  ‘Is he to go too? Oh,’ a sudden concern showed in her face, ‘You will go away again so soon?’

  ‘I? No.’ He smiled again. ‘It takes time to raise men and the money for an army. Duke Richard is nothing if not efficient in these matters and men clamour to go with him for he is a great leader and all know what a fighter he is, but I must offer my services to King Henry. I think he and King Philip do not think to go until next year.’

  ‘You have seen the King since you came back?’

  ‘No.’ He paused, looking down at the bustle below, the unloading of pack animals, the men finding room where they might. He could see Jehan and John d’Erleigh arguing with a groom, seemingly about the stabling of his war horses, both burned as brown as he was and John grown into a man. ‘No, I have not seen him. I met Gilbert at Ypres and he persuaded me to sail with him to meet our master at Westminster. Now it seems he will not come until the new year after all, so here I am.’