'I rejoice for you,' she said formally. 'But you will find that foreigners are not liked in England.'
'Then I shall have to make myself an Englishman,' he said and as she did not answer stood aside to allow her to continue down the stair. She went on and out into the courtyard, wondering why he always gave her a slightly uncomfortable feeling.
There seemed to be little more to do in France, neither side prepared to move further against the other, and in the New Year Eleanor braved the sea again to return to England. They were more fortunate in the weather this time and on landing at Portsmouth were met with the astonishing news that her brother had asked for the hand of William's widowed sister. The King had approved the match and Richard came to see William to ask his permission, for Isabella's marriage was in her brother's gift.
'Gladly,' William said, 'if my sister is willing. She has not mourned half a year yet.' Richard of Cornwall did not, however, seem to think this was any barrier either to himself or to his proposed bride and Eleanor kissed him heartily, only too happy that he should take Isabella to wife. Everyone liked Richard, she thought, and fond as she was of Henry it was to the sensible, reliable Richard that she gave her private confidences. She was, however a little surprised at the speed with which the match had been arranged.
Isabella was at Gilbert's manor at Marlow and thither William and Eleanor rode. He assured his sister she need consider herself in no way bound to remarry as yet, but she replied calmly that it pleased her well.
Later in the privacy of her bedchamber whence Eleanor had followed her, she said, ‘You are shocked? But I do not like my lonely bed. Gilbert was a good husband, a strong man, but he could see no more in life than a day's fighting or hunting, a good dinner and a wife in bed with him. Now your brother is a very different man. He has a mind as keen as any and although he is younger than I am, I think we shall do very well together. My son is eight years old now and as the new Earl of Gloucester he needs guidance. Already he is growing so fond of Richard.
‘I thought you cared for Gilbert,' Eleanor murmured.
'Well, so I did, but he is dead, God rest his soul,' Isabel said practically, 'and I am a rich woman. My Lord Richard is heir to the throne until such time as the King marries and begets a son, so it is an advantageous marriage on both sides.' An amused look came into her eyes. 'Your brother can always turn one gold piece into two and will not waste my heritage.'
‘If you wish it, that is all William and I are concerned about,' Eleanor agreed, 'and of course I am happy that you should wed my own brother. I do believe,' she paused looking directly at her sister-in-law, 'I do believe it is more than just a good marriage with you?'
Isabella smiled, a slow secret smile, and clapped her bands for her maids to come to undress her. 'You are very observant. I think I would have taken Richard if he had had but one hide of land.'
The wedding took place in April in the church by the river at Marlow, the King and whole court attending, and finding lodgings in the manor or the guesthouse of the Templars at Bisham. The bride, only six months widowed, discarded her mourning and wore a gown of vivid blue, while the groom eclipsed even his own brother in the richness of his dress. Eleanor thought her husband seemed pale and quieter than usual and she wondered if he had doubts about the match, but he gave his sister's hand into that of Richard of Cornwall with smiling goodwill, wishing them a life together as content as his own with his young wife. The celebrations lasted several days, all the knights and tenants from the surrounding countryside feasted and wined, even the peasants were supplied with barrels of ale and an ox to roast. A tourney was held in which all the noble guests took part, and at last at the end of the third day, after a long morning's gallop over the Chiltern hills, an afternoon watching the King's tumblers and some Moorish entertainers who could swallow fire, a final feast was given in the ball. It was late when William and Eleanor sought their bed. They lay in each other's arms, too weary for love-making, and Eleanor was just drifting into sleep when William made a sudden sharp sound.
'What is it?' she asked sleepily. 'Were you dreaming, my love?' And then, as he gave an anguished groan, she sat up sharply. 'William! William, what is wrong?'
He was clutching at his stomach. 'Pain – such pain. It has been there – for some days –’
'Oh, why didn't you tell me?'
‘I – I did not want to spoil the wedding. Oh, Jesu!' He rolled over, and was violently sick.
Terrified, Eleanor sprang out of bed, clutching at a night robe and calling out for help. One of the pages who always slept at their door came running, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
'Find a physician,' Eleanor screamed at him. 'Wake my lord's man, get my women – hurry, hurry!' She caught the rush dip from its holder in the wall of the passage and lit the candles by the bed. William was groaning in agony and she grabbed a bowl to hold for him, fear and cold causing her to tremble so that she could scarcely keep it steady. When the spasm passed, she caught his hands and held them to her breast, for he seemed deathly cold. He tried to speak but his eyes were hardly able to fix themselves on her and he seemed only half conscious.'
In a short while the room was full of people in hastily donned gowns, her women bringing extra bedclothes, the King's own physician bending over the sick man. Even the bridal couple had been roused, Isabella's face distorted with horror when she saw how her brother was suffering.
'He must have been poisoned,' she cried out. 'Holy God, who could have done such a thing?'
'He says he has been ill for days,' Eleanor seemed to hear her own voice from a long way off, her mind numbed. One of her women set a furred cloak about her shoulders in an endeavour to stop her shivering.
The physician straightened. 'Lady, I do not think it is poison. I have seen this sort of sickness often before. It is a strange disorder of the belly and I will make a potion that may ease him.'
All through the dark hours William fought his illness. The physician brought medicines but they seemed to give little relief. Once Eleanor cried out to him, 'Can you not do more? God's love, sir, surely you have other remedies to try?'
'I will bleed him, lady. Perhaps that will ease the humours.'
Eleanor watched the operation in a kind of agony herself. It was impossible that William, sturdy as an oak tree, should be lying here sweating and sick, his blood trickling into a bowl, the candlelight flickering on a face drawn and ashen. Afterwards he seemed quieter but much weaker, and towards dawn, in utter weariness, he turned his head a little. He had been lying with his hand in Eleanor's and his fingers tried to hold hers.
'My love.' She could barely hear the words. 'Eleanor, my heart –’
'I'm here.' She flung herself down beside him to be closer to the trailing voice. 'William, I'm here.'
'A priest –' He opened his eyes a little wider. 'Get me the priest. I – I would be shriven.'
'No, no!' she cried out incoherently. 'You need not – this will pass. William! William, don't leave me –'
'Please God, no,' he muttered, 'but if it is His Will – I would not go to Him unshriven.'
The priest came and they all withdrew a little. Eleanor stood in the circle of her brother Richard's arms, unable to believe any of this was really happening, that it must be some nightmare from which she would awake to find herself in bed and William bending over her to kiss her awake. She was vaguely aware of Richard saying something in an endeavour to strengthen her, and he sent a message to the King, lying in the Abbey guesthouse.
When the slow, difficult murmuring had ceased and the priest raised his hand in absolution Eleanor burst into tears and stumbled forward to take William's hand again into her own. It was icy cold and she clutched it in her own, rocking backwards and forwards. He had closed his eyes, one final spasm convulsing him before he opened them again. He looked for her and half raised his other hand as if to touch her cheek in the familiar gesture, but it fell to the coverlet again. There was a faint smile on his face and his eyes remained fixed on her
s.
The physician bent over him. 'Lady, he is dead.'
Eleanor let out one shriek and pressed the hand she held against her mouth, her eyes dilated, oblivious of Isabella's cry, of Richard crossing himself, the horrified murmurs that went round the room, the priest's praying.
And then merciful darkness flooded over her and her brother caught her as she fell.
CHAPTER THREE
Edmund Rich, scholar, teacher at the university at Oxford, treasurer of Salisbury Cathedral, was thought by many to be half-way to sainthood already. Young men flocked to listen to him when he taught or preached and those in trouble came crowding to his lodgings, for his kindness and wisdom were renowned and he turned no one from his door. At the same time he saw through the sycophant and the hypocrite and sent them packing with sharp words and no time for mere courtesies.
His friendship he gave to the honest, the truly religious, and he recognized one of the latter in the knight who had recently been confirmed in the possession of new lands and revenues. The Earl of Chester had given full approval to the transfer and
Edmund Rich, though he disliked the Earl's hard living and blasphemous talk, nevertheless respected his judgement. He met the young man thus honoured at Salisbury where Sir Simon wished to make an offering towards the new building begun by old William Longsword, dead these seven years.
The liking between them was mutual. He had watched Simon at Mass that morning and observed his devotion was more than mere outward form, that he did not occupy half the time chattering to his friends as many men did, but kept his gaze fixed upon the altar and the Host. Afterwards they breakfasted together in Edmund's simple lodging, his guest sharing the plain fare and asking for nothing else.
'You are on your way to Leicester?' he asked and Simon nodded.
'I fear that my lord of Chester has had so much else on his hands that there is much to be done. Leicester castle is in a poor state and the stewards do not appear to have collected all the rents, or else they have lined their own pockets. The knights' fees are overdue and what has happened to the fines in the manorial courts I do not know.'
'The new broom will sweep all clean,' Rich said, smiling gently.
'And doubtless my knights and tenants will not love me for it. They see me as a foreigner, but I will win them over by fair dealing.’
'Nothing could recommend you more.’
‘I mean to be just,' Simon said. 'It seems to be a quality about which the Englishman feels strongly. But my income will be small, not much above two hundred and fifty pounds a year and most barons would look down their English noses at that. I'll not be able to keep many spears about me at first, but with God's help I'll mend all that.'
Rich looked into his serious face, the grey eyes determined. 'I believe you will, my son. I will find a good priest to be your chaplain.'
'There will be much for him to do at Kenilworth. The priest there has been slack and grown fat and lazy and I will have him out. A man who abuses God's privileges can expect no mercy from me.'
'And deserves none, but send him to me. I’ll see he has work to do and does not starve. Now tell me more of – ' He broke off as there came a knock at the door and in answer to his summons a young monk entered.
'Father, there are two ladies below, the Princess Eleanor and Mistress Cecily de Sanford. They ask if they may speak with you.'
Edmund looked a little surprised. 'I did not expect them but I believe I did notice two veiled ladies in chapel this morning. That poor child, she is broken with grief. To be widowed at sixteen is very hard and she truly loved her husband.'
'He is a great loss,' Simon said formally.
'I wish there were more like him. Perhaps I can give the Princess some spiritual comfort, if little else. I must not keep her waiting.'
Simon de Montfort rose at once. 'I'll leave you then, Master Rich. Thank you for your time and your breakfast.'
Edmund smiled up at him. 'You are always welcome, Sir Simon. God's blessing go with you.’
Simon bowed his head reverentially and went out. The Princess Eleanor was in the small entrance below, a veil hiding her face, accompanied by an angular woman of indefinable age. Both were dressed in mourning. Simon stood aside to allow them to approach the stair and as the Princess passed him, he said, 'God give you grace to bear your grief, lady. I am truly sorry for it.'
She looked up, startled, as if she had not been aware who he was. 'Sir Simon? You are kind, but I do not look for comfort.' He made as if to say more, but she went on up the stair, followed by her companion, and in the room above knelt humbly for Edmund's blessing.
He gave it and then helped her to her feet. 'Come, sit down and tell me how I may serve you. Mistress de Sanford, we have met before, I think?'
‘Aye, Master Rich, when my brother studied under you – rhetoric and theology as I recall.' The older woman sat down on the window seat, leaving Simon's vacated stool to her charge. 'As you know the King has placed the Princess in my care. I too am a widow and I know something of grief.'
'Yet I think,' Edmund said gently, 'that you had many years with your husband, that you were not as young as this child when you were bereaved.'
'That is true, sir,' she agreed in a cool voice, and her eyes, set close together, stared at him with an earnestness that he recognized all too clearly. 'The hand of God strikes regardless of time or age and the Princess, fearing He is displeased, wishes to devote the remainder of her life to Him.'
He turned back to the girl. 'Lady? Can it be true that you wish to be a nun?'
Eleanor sat very still, her hands folded in her lap. 'I – I don't know: perhaps. I cannot think just yet. Oh Master Rich,' she looked up at him for the first time and could not keep back the tears, 'why is God so cruel? I loved my lord and he loved me. When there is so much misery in life why could we not have kept our love? Two short years was all we had.'
‘It is hard, my daughter, to understand the ways of God, but Christ in His mercy will help you bear it. As to affliction we do not know why it strikes one and not the other. What matters is how we bear it and you have courage.'
'Have I?' She gave him a wan smile. 'All I know is that I would forswear the world. Already my brother considers another husband for me and I cannot think of anyone else in William's place.'
'You are not with child? I did hear – '
'We wondered if it might be so,’ Cecily put in, 'but now we know that it is not, so there is no impediment to this child forsaking a cruel world.'
'I see.' He rose and went to stand before Eleanor. 'Do you then wish to enter a holy house? I would have you be sure for you are very young yet, and a Princess of England.'
'I don't know,' she said again. 'I have prayed, I have asked Our Lady to show me what is right.'
'We have both prayed,' Cecily broke in, her face tense with fervour, 'and we wish, widows as we are, to take at least a vow of chastity together, to swear before the Queen of Heaven to keep ourselves pure for as long as it shall please God that we remain in this vale of tears.'
Edmund's tone was surprisingly severe when he answered her. 'Mistress, you may do as you wish, but it is my duty to see that the Princess knows what she undertakes. Child, all life is before you and grief will pass. I assure you of this.'
'What can men know of widowhood?' Cecily demanded and Eleanor looked up through her tears.
'No one can ever replace my lord. I would rather live bound to Christ than wed another. Can I not swear that without entering a holy house – yet? Perhaps one day I may, if my brother permits it.'
'Yes, you may swear it,' he agreed, 'but such an oath is binding and as the King's sister, life must hold great opportunities for you.'
'I know – I know!' she cried out, 'but I can only think of my dear lord. I am utterly lost without him at my side and would run from any greatness apart from him.'
'Why do you try to persuade her back to the world's vanities,' her guardian asked. 'Surely to live as a chaste widow, espoused to Christ, is
a higher calling than any other?'
Edmund gave a deep sigh. 'The devil must have an advocate, mistress, and it is a grave step the Princess wishes to take. I would hold no one back from a life devoted to God but it must be taken with a clear mind.'
'She wishes it and I with her. Together, with tears and prayers, we will offer ourselves to Him and it must be done at once before this poor lady is tempted –’
‘– To be young?' he interrupted. 'Mistress, I am God's servant first and man's second, but even so I say that chastity without charity is a poor thing.'
'I would have thought,' Cecily said with an odd touch of annoyance, ‘that you would have been only too glad to see the Princess settled in a manner where her wealth might benefit Holy Church.'
'Many a priest would say so,' he agreed, 'yet I have a horror of those cages in the market place that keep young and tender birds away from the freedom of the sky.'
His words brought a sudden recollection of William's fondness for calling her his bird and Eleanor's tears ran down her face again.
Mistress de Sanford had flushed and something in Master Rich's manner caused her to be silent. Eleanor too sat without speaking, twisting her hands together and trying to control her weeping. At last she said, 'I do wish it, Master Rich. I would like to wear the ring of one betrothed to Christ. We have brought two for the purpose.'
He gave her a long searching look. 'Very well,' he answered and his tone was gentle again. 'Come to my chapel, dear child of God, and it shall be done.'
Together Eleanor and her guardian knelt before the altar and swore perpetual chastity, receiving their rings from Edmund's hand, and he blessed them. Eleanor looked at a statue of the Virgin and out of her misery prayed desperately for comfort. She had found it nowhere. In the first anguished days she had been half out of her mind with grief, hardly aware of what was being said and done. Of the requiem in the Temple Church where William's body was lowered to rest beside that of his father she recalled nothing but Richard's arm about her to support her.
The Royal Griffin (The Plantagenents Book 2) Page 4
