Aquitaine had still been beautiful even in old age.
Finch came to adjust her stirrup and she smiled at him, wanting him to share in her happiness this day. He was a short, sturdy young man, sent to her some years ago by the Maid with a recommendation; he had thick brown curling hair and he was immensely strong, yet very gentle with horses. He had been born a 'mantle-child'; his mother had died at his birth whereat his father had disappeared and the abandoned infant was fostered by one of the Maid's serving women.
Eleanor had asked him whether Finch was his father's name or his given name 'and he had scratched his head, saying he didn't think either, but a bird had been singing on a nearby bush when he had been found on the chapel steps at Bristol and his foster mother thereafter called him Finch. He was only a few years older than his young mistress but from the first he gave her the unstinting service of a single-minded young man who had his bread to earn. It was he who had taught her how to handle her mount, he who had found this spirited mare Mabille at Gloucester horse fair.
Eleanor handed the bowl back to the peasant woman and he helped her into the saddle once more. The gentle countryside rolled by, groups of peasants in the fields turning to watch the great cavalcade pass, and at last as the sun went down and the spring evening grew chilly they rode into Bradford-upon-Avon. Isabella complained of being stiff but her small son Richard, who was six years old, slid down from his pony crying out that he could have ridden on all night.
Eleanor slept in a great bed at the manor, sharing it with both Sybilla and Eva, the only other chamber being occupied by the senior Earl and Countess, and the rest of the company accommodated where they could find space to lay a pallet. For a long while after her sisters-in-law slept, Eleanor lay awake. She was thinking of the morning's talk with the Maid and it seemed suddenly remote and far away, for life, surely, was about to begin.
Two days later they reached Winchester and in the hall there, with its high-beamed roof, its walls bright with banners and tapestries, her brother was waiting to greet her.
King Henry III had the red-gold hair of the Plantagenets, the same bright blue eyes, his face handsome in a slender, delicate fashion, only a droop to the left eyelid half hiding a slight but unmistakable squint. He loved elegant clothes and jewels and was wearing his favourite colour, green, his gown trimmed with miniver, his tunic of finest velvet, his coronet of gold, an emerald clasp fastening his mantle. There was nothing he enjoyed more than a state occasion when he might be lavish, shower gifts on his friends and show all the trappings of royalty. He was twenty-two years old and had been king for thirteen of them.
Eleanor swept him a deep obeisance but at once he came to her and kissed her cheek, enquiring about her journey. Then it was the turn of her second brother, Richard, Earl of Cornwall, to greet her. He too had the good looks of the family and he was as richly dressed as the King, but his manner was quieter, his talk less volatile – though everyone knew, from a disagreement a year or two ago over a legal point concerning some land, that he could be utterly determined and carry the day even against his own brother and King. Eleanor was devoted to him. She wished her sisters could have been here, but Isabella was now Queen of Scotland while Joan, betrothed to the King of Sicily, was already living at her future husband's court. At least, Eleanor thought, she herself had not to leave England and her brothers for her marriage.
Henry took her hand and beckoned to the tall man waiting a little to his left. A hand was set in hers and Eleanor looked fleetingly up at the husband she had so rarely seen. He smiled down at her, bowing over her fingers in an accomplished manner, though she knew from talk with his sisters that he was more soldier than courtier, that he had spent much of his life fighting in Ireland or France. He was wise in council and well liked by both friends and inferiors, but they had warned her not to expect pretty speeches from him. She had heard nothing frivolous of him and expected a serious man approaching middle age.
But it seemed he was not like that at all for the head bowed over her hand was without grey in the thick brown hair and when he raised himself he was smiling still, his mouth suggesting a natural humour.
'Welcome,' he said and his voice was deep. 'Welcome, my lady. I have waited long for this day.'
'And I,' she said and everyone laughed so that she flushed and lowered her eyes.
'At fourteen it may not have seemed so long,' he said quickly in an endeavour to ease her embarrassment and he led her to the chairs set for them on either side of the King's on the dais. Trestles were being set up and as the barons and knights and ladies of the court scrambled for their places, ushers and serving men hurried to lay the royal cloth, to set out silver goblets and the tall salt cellars. Small bowls of water and white napkins were set by each place at the high table and as the dishes were carried ceremoniously to the King and his guests, minstrels in the gallery began the entertainment.
Eleanor was hungry, yet after a few mouthfuls from a dish of roast peacock, a favourite of hers, she found her nervousness returning and surreptitiously glanced sideways at the stranger who was her husband. She could not see him clearly for he sat on the King's left and was talking to his sister Isabella, but he seemed so big, larger than she remembered. He had been wed before, when he was a boy of eighteen, but she had been told that his bride had died within a year. Since then, apparently, he had shown little interest in women, though she had heard that in the interminable arguing in council about her marriage settlement, he had shown some impatience.
She did not know what to expect from him, and to cover her nervousness, began to talk animatedly to her brother Richard, describing her journey and the crossing of a swollen ford, telling of the discomfiture of a stiff lady who had been toppled in all her finery into the water. She ate a salmon pasty and laughed at the tumblers who were performing in the centre of the hall, with time now to observe the guests come for her bridals.
There were loud-mouthed barons with a reputation for cruelty such as William de Braose and the Earl of Lincoln; others like Gilbert de Clare who ate and drank greedily, concerned mainly with their pride and their stomachs; there were the marcher lords, the Mortimers and Montgomery, who acknowledged the King's authority but paid little heed to it; and at the lower tables a teeming number of knights who owed fees to one or another of the great men and were eager to make their way in the world. The hall rang with talk and laughter, the guests reaching for dishes of meat or whole chickens to tear to with their teeth, while at the King’s table the guests were given new-fangled forks to help them spear their food. The Earl of Chester pushed his aside, preferring a knife and his fingers, but the King ate neatly with his silver prongs and called it a civilized tool.
The Justiciar, Hubert de Burgh, sat a few seats beyond her, his eyes tired, his hair grey and receding. For twenty years he had guided the young King, first as his guardian and tutor and then as his chief councilor but men said now that he had feathered his own nest too softly in the process. He had had four brides, the last being the Princess Margaret of Scotland, a plain but elegant lady who had given Eleanor a belt of strangely fashioned silver set with semi-precious stones from her own country. She was inclined to be imperious and Eleanor thought her brother growing tired of both the de Burghs, particularly since Hubert's failure against the incursions of Llewellyn, the Welsh Prince.
Among the older men was Randulph de Blundevill, the ageing Earl of Chester, still blunt and outspoken, his manners leaving much to be desired as he reached for a dish of meat, sucking noisily through broken teeth. Ruling the County Palatine of Chester, he enjoyed great power and had spent his life close to the throne. There was little love lost between him and de Burgh, but on the surface tonight all differences were laid aside. The men were drinking deep, some of the ladies also, and Eva de Braose was seized with a fit of hiccuping. Eleanor could not keep back a giggle as the feasting grew more lively and the music swelled louder, the dancing lost some of its propriety, and it was like a sudden dip into cold water when her broth
er signed to the Countess of Gloucester that it was time to escort her to the bridal chamber.
She rose and everyone in the hall rose also. Cups and goblets were raised to her and William himself turned with his in his hand, drinking the contents at one draught. For one moment she thought she saw an expression almost of affection in his eyes, but how could it be? What did he know of her, any more than she knew of him?
Then she was hurried away in the midst of a group of ladies and in a chamber above they undressed her, washing her body with water perfumed with oil from the east, rubbing her skin until it glowed. They combed her hair freely about her shoulders, letting it fall in dusky silken strands well below her slender waist. When she shivered in her nakedness, Isabella de Clare said, 'Never mind, child you'll soon be warm enough, I'll warrant,' and the others laughed.
'Too warm, if William is anything like my lord,' Eva de Braose said. 'When I think of my bridal night and the shock of it –'
Sybilla, the elder by several years, broke in, 'Hush, sister, don't alarm the Princess.' She kissed Eleanor and said cheerfully, 'Pay no heed to Eva. She should have been a nun.'
'If Providence should call my lord away, I promise you I would persuade our brother to allow me to seek a holy house,' Eva retorted severely. 'I would not willingly take another man to my bed.'
Isabella began to turn back the covers. 'What nonsense you talk. The nuns are good women for the most part, but chastity is a cold bed-fellow, at least so I think.' She took Eleanor's hand and led her to the bed. 'There, my dear, lean against the pillow thus and let me draw the sheet about your chin. We must be modest when the men bring your bridegroom to you.' She bent to kiss her little sister-in-law and whispered 'There's naught to fear. William is a kind man and he has waited many years for you.'
Eleanor gave her a grateful glance, but it was impossible to still her jumping nerves when there was a knock on the door and Sybilla opened it to admit a crowd of gentlemen, led by the King and his brother. With much laughing and one or two lewd jokes which Eleanor did not fully understand William was led to the bed. He slid in beside her, the cover was drawn up over him and his long gown removed over his head. Hot spiced wine was drunk and Eleanor was glad of it for it warmed her and made her less aware of all the eyes on her. She did not look at William but something in her, pride perhaps, resisted the amused indulgence of the company, kindly though it was. They knew what she did not, and for a moment she wished herself back in Bristol Castle, sewing with the Maid whose life had been so simple.
Henry came to her, kissing her heartily. 'It is time I saw to my own bridal, eh, little sister? Perhaps I shall follow you to this marriage bed. It is fit for a King as well as a King's sister.' He ran his hand down the hangings of the bed, the royal arms embroidered at the head of it, his slender fingers ringed with emeralds appreciating the feel of the material, while his eyes wandered in a satisfied manner over the rich furnishings of the room, the carved chair by the hearth, the solid table, the coffer inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
He had wanted to marry Marjorie, the youngest of the Scottish King's daughters, but as the eldest had wed Hubert de Burgh his council considered it below him to take the younger and he had to look elsewhere. But he had considered himself in love with Marjorie and it added to his resentment against his Justiciar. The recent proposal that he should wed Leopold of Austria's daughter had come to nothing for the bride had been snapped up by the German King before the Bishop of Chichester had so much as broached Henry's suit. Bumbling old fool, Henry thought, but perhaps he was well out of it. They said the girl had buck teeth.
He looked down at Eleanor and was pleased with this match at least. He owed his throne to William Marshal's father and this union would bind the powerful Marshal family more closely to him. He beckoned to the Bishop of Chichester to proclaim the blessing, kneeling devoutly while prayers were said over the bridal couple.
Eleanor had her eyes cast down and did not raise them when with more laughter and talk the company who had crowded the room filed out. The candles were blown out and then she and William were alone in the darkness.
She shivered and he said at once, 'Are you cold, my bird?' and set his arm about her shoulders. 'You are not afraid of me, are you?'
'No, no,' she said. She had never seen a man's body naked, except in a picture in a book concerning the treatment of broken limbs which her governess had hastily removed, and here was this big man lying beside her, about to possess her, and the lie on her lips only added to her fear. She was in his arms now but for a little while he talked, asking her of her doings in the past few years, of the things she liked to occupy her time, drawing her out on the subject of hawking which she loved. She was only half aware that such consideration was rare among hardliving barons with little time for niceties, and it was only as she relaxed a little, responding to his questions, that he turned to kisses instead of words.
He was restrained at first, his mouth gentle, but as his hands passed over her his lips grew more insistent. His body was heavy, overwhelming her and the hurt, utterly unexpected, made her want to cry out. But she bit back the sound, refusing to reveal her pain. Eva had been right, she was not cold now but hot, aware of sweat between their two bodies, his panting breath on her face, the blood drumming in her ears.
And then it seemed it was over. William rolled away from her and though for a moment his hand lingered on her breast, though he kissed her again, his moustache rough against her lips as he murmured an endearment, his breathing grew slow and regular and he slept, his head against her shoulder.
Slow tears gathered and trickled down the side of her face. Was this what the Maid had so longed for, what Isabella seemed to find so satisfying? Her body felt bruised, her head ached, and she wondered why God had chosen so strange a way to bring about the union between man and woman and the new birth that followed it. Perhaps quite soon she would be pregnant and then there would be more pain, more violence to her young body. Holy Mother of God, she prayed, help me to bear it, to understand Eva must be right, no woman surely would ever willingly choose to take a second husband.
At last, exhausted by the long day and its culmination, she slept and was only awakened by a movement beside her. She stirred slowly, aware of daylight, and saw that William, partly dressed, was sitting on the bed beside her.
He smiled and said, 'I always rise early.' He put out a hand to touch her cheek gently. Unwittingly, as the memory of last night came back to her, she shrank from him and the movement, though instantly suppressed, was not lost on him. 'Dear wife,' there was a deep kindliness in his voice, 'be patient a little while. I will teach you to love me.'
And suddenly she knew that despite the years between them, miraculously he understood. She looked into his face as if seeing for the first, time the true quality and character of this man she had married, a man who kept to the ideals of knighthood, a fighting man but without the common brutality, a man unswerving in loyalty. She sat up, hugging the coverlet about her, half hoping he would take her in his arms again, but he merely lifted her hand and put it to his lips, being wiser perhaps than she knew.
'I will send your women to you,' he said and stood up, fastening his mantle about his shoulders. 'Later we will ride together.' With a brief smile he was gone and the room seemed oddly empty without his large presence. She lay back on her pillows and an entirely new sense of well-being came to her.
CHAPTER TWO
Eleanor had shut her eyes upon the shuddering world and lay with her face pressed into a pillow, not wanting to look at her anxious women, Ellen hovering beside her, a hand on her forehead, Megonwy gabbling prayers, Doll as sick as she was. It seemed extraordinary that the sea which had looked so smooth and calm and beautiful yesterday could turn overnight into this grey heaving monster that turned her stomach to water. She had never been on a ship before and in this moment swore she never would again. The ship rolled and, shivering and exhausted, she longed only for dry land, for something beneath her feet that would keep
still.
Why did Henry have to decide on this expedition to Brittany, to take William with him, and her because she would not leave William? Even the prospect of seeing her mother, waiting to greet them at St Malo, faded before the present misery.
The door of the cabin opened and she heard low voices, but she kept her eyes tightly shut that she might not see the tilt of the cabin, all her possessions rolling about. However, a moment later another hand, much larger, was laid on her forehead and a loved voice asked how she did.
She opened her eyes and tears spilled out of them. 'My lord - oh, my lord, how long will it be?'
'Before we land?' He bent to kiss her clammy brow. 'Your brother is so concerned for you that we are to put into harbour at Jersey to give you time to recover. My dearest love, you will soon feel better, I promise you. Seasickness passes very quickly once you are on land again, and the next time we go to sea perhaps we shall not have such vile weather.' He looked down at her pale, tear-stained face. 'Poor little bird, it will soon be over now.' He gathered her into his arms and she lay thankfully against his chest, drawing comfort from his most comforting presence.
By now the wind was dropping a little and the ship's pitching eased. William stayed with her and when they made port it was he who carried her, wrapped in his own fur-lined mantle, down the gangplank and on to the shore. She was taken to the house of a knight and his lady and there, to her surprise, within an hour or two she began to feel a great deal better. She drank a little wine which put the warmth back into her limbs and her shivering ceased.
The Royal Griffin (The Plantagenents Book 2) Page 2
