The Royal Griffin (The Plantagenents Book 2)

by Juliet Dymoke

He gave a low laugh. 'Will you quarrel with me for that? At least I will not have urged you to a too hasty decision.'

  The tumblers had entered the hall now, a dozen of them in red tunics, leaping and somersaulting to the cheers of the audience. Simon, giving them only a cursory look, went on, his face grave again. 'It is a serious matter between us. I want you, my lady Eleanor, and I will brave the anger of Holy Church to gain you, but what of you? Do you care enough for me to do the same?'

  And then, contrarily because she had longed for him to speak, she held him off for one more moment. The acrobats were jumping from the cupped hands of one to the shoulders of another and she clapped her hands. 'Oh, see! They are clever, these fellows.'

  'Eleanor, don't play with me.' He put a hand to her face, turning it forcibly so that she must look at him. In the hall every eye was on the Hungarians, now climbing one upon the other until they formed a living pyramid. Eleanor gave an uncertain laugh and all pretence left her.

  'You said at Odiham that I loved you. I think you read me better than I knew myself.'

  'Then?' His voice shook with a passion she had never heard from any man.

  'I will dare it for you, my lord. I believe I would dare anything for you.' She was amazed at her own words and as he reached out, taking both her hands, drawing her further from the crowded hall, she felt a tremor of sheer joy run through her, a desire she had never known before. Behind a screen now, hidden from the excited courtiers, everyone cheering the acrobats, he took her in his arms and for the first time put his mouth to hers. His lips, parting hers, sent shivers of sensation through her and his hands, passing over her, awakened feelings unknown to her, so that her arms went up about his neck.

  But only for a moment. Instinctively they drew apart and he said, 'I would not compromise you, beloved. You will wed me, will you not? As soon as I can get your brother's consent? You will not fear nor hold by that foolish vow?'

  'God will forgive us,' she said. 'Such love as ours must come from Him. I knew it this morning. But I do not know what Henry will say. He is so – so careful in such matters.'

  'Then I will carry you away and wed you in secret.'

  'And lose all you have gained?' She saw the smile on his face and went on, 'My dear lord, don't you recall bow angry Henry was about Gloucester's secret marriage? We cannot do that.'

  'I know,' he said soberly. 'Well, we will be open with him, win him over. I think he loves us both well enough to listen to us.'

  'He does, I'm sure of it, but if he should not think it right – ' she broke off.

  He held her closely again, breast to breast, looking down into her face. 'Have faith, my love. Perhaps in his own new happiness he will be gentle with us. If not, we must dare his anger. Will you face it with me? It is not conceivable that we should part.'

  She reached up to touch his cheek. 'I do not think, now, I could live without you.'

  His mouth came down on hers once more in a swift hard kiss and then they slipped back into the ball where the acrobats had just reached the climax of their performance. Eleanor was sure they had not been observed.

  But John Mansel, the King's clerk, had seen them leave and return and his eyes narrowed. He was a man who stored up scraps of information against the day when they might be useful.

  It seemed at the moment that Simon could do no wrong and it so happened that he approached the King when Henry was annoyed with his Council. They were baulking at his demands for funds for his new building schemes and he was weary with being taken to task for having spent so much on his new Queen's adornment and for being so generous to her relatives. The Exchequer was low, Henry's ideas of what was fitting for his two loves, his wife and his abbey church, extremely high. He was tired of having the Earl of Lincoln glower at him, of bumbling old Chichester's quotations from the great Lanfranc's maxims. The Bishop of Winchester, quietly restored to his see, was dying and the barons wanted to force Ralph Neville into his place but he'd not have him, not Chichester by God! Simon de Montfort's strength of personality was a weapon on his side and it never occurred to Henry that the very attributes he admired might mean that he could not manipulate Simon as he wished. At the moment he only saw that his friend had fallen in love with his sister and was providing him with an opportunity to flout his Council and assert his own mastery.

  'Nothing would pleasure me more than to see you wed,' he told them, 'but it shall be done quietly for your sake, my dearest Eleanor. My Council will only be tiresome and protracted. They argued for months, nay years, about your marriage to William and I'll not have that.'

  'I thought,' Eleanor said tentatively, 'after Gloucester's affair you might not –’

  'I was not consulted then,' he retorted. 'That was the offence. Am I not King? You did right to come to me. I can overrule my Council and show them who is master in this palace.'

  'And – and my vow?'

  'Oh, as to that –’ he made an airy gesture, 'I do not consider it so binding under the circumstances. If necessary Simon must go to the Pope, but the churchmen must make the best of it, and I will pray for you.'

  If Simon had scruples he did not voice them, but inclined his head, a faint smile on his lips at the King's confidence in the power of his own intercession with the Almighty. The glittering prospect of marriage with one higher in rank than he had ever dreamed of winning combined with the love and desire that was consuming him was such heady stuff that no other consideration could weigh with him.

  'When, sire?' he asked. 'When shall it be?'

  Henry sat fingering his chin. They were in his bedchamber after dinner on St Stephen's day. Through an archway was his private chapel; he had even had a hole made in the wall that he might hear Mass from his bed, for he was accustomed to hear two or three in the day.

  'It shall be here,' he pronounced, 'on the morning of Epiphany, when most of my guests will be going to their own homes after our festivities – a busy morning when what is done here will be unnoticed.'

  Eleanor and Simon exchanged startled glances. 'Only a few days,' she said, 'so little time to prepare.'

  'You must not prepare,' Henry told her. 'Would you betray our secret?' He rubbed his hands delightedly and Simon, still looking down at his bride, added, 'Your brother is right, my heart. Do we want to wait, maybe for years, while they haggle over the business, councillors and churchmen alike? You know if we go to the Pope first how long it will take, whereas when the thing is done – ' He broke off. 'If you want me, my love–'

  'If?' She could think of nothing but this man beside her and she had, after all, a new gown as yet unworn that would serve as a wedding gown. But she gave her brother one last doubtful look. 'Harry, you are so good to us, you will do what is right, but will the Queen understand? Are we to tell her now?'

  He paused and then a secret smile came over his face. 'My beloved wife trusts me in all things. If I do not tell her first, it is only because she is free in her talk with her own people; one of them might let slip our intention. I am determined, Simon, to have you for my brother and none shall know until it is done.'

  'Sire!' Simon knelt and put Henry's hand to his lips, and in a rush of warm affection Eleanor knelt with him.

  The King looked down at their radiant faces, and leaning forward embraced them both. He had a sense of power, of pleasure in acting in defiance of the tedious men who clamoured to advise him, to argue every point. This time it was he who should have his way. 'Be careful coming here,' he advised. 'Come separately and before the palace is astir.'

  'My lord,' Simon said, 'the words alone will not be sufficiently binding. Words can be annulled. Before the world is told Eleanor must be the wife of my body.'

  Henry's smile widened. Utterly happy himself with his own young bride, he had already thought of this. 'After Master Walter has done his work, I must go down to speed my departing guests. I will leave a guard at my door with instructions to admit no one until I return – and I shall not return until dusk. There will be wine and cold meats here for
you, and my own bed and all the day before you.' He touched his sister's cheek lightly. 'I can trust the rest to you, can I not, Simon – so soon to be my brother?'

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Long afterwards, when so much had gone wrong, Eleanor remembered his words and the warmth and happiness between the three of them on that winter afternoon. Nor did she forget Epiphany, that day when 'the rest was left to Simon'. After Henry himself had given her hand into Simon's and Simon's ring was set in the place of that other one, even as he said it would be, Walter the chaplain pronounced the words over them and said Mass. Henry gave them his blessing as if he was a hoary patriarch instead of a young man newly wed himself, and then he and Walter departed.

  It was a dark morning with heavy rain clouds driving across the sky. Eleanor remembered the day when they had played backgammon at Odiham because the rain kept them indoors, with such portentous results.

  'Bad weather is our good fortune,' Simon said. 'It is dark enough today for it to be night.'

  In the afternoon they ate in the light of the fire which he had replenished himself from the pile of logs by the hearth. Sitting in the King's chair with Eleanor half dressed on cushions at his feet, the glow of the firelight on their faces, they talked in low lover's tones, although there was no one to hear. Simon spoke of Kenilworth and how he would joy to have her sharing the great bedchamber with him, of his hope of children to fill the hall with their games and laughter.

  'I would bear you sons,' Eleanor said, her head against his knee. Her dark hair was unbound and he stroked it, occasionally twisting his fingers in the shining strands, the firelight catching the ruby ring that was her own wedding gift to him.

  'And daughters,' he added. 'Beautiful daughters to be wed in the highest courts in Europe. We will found a dynasty, dear heart, that will spread out over the centuries, God willing.' She was silent for a moment, remembering briefly those two short years with William. She had borne him no child and there was a sudden momentary fear that she might be barren, that she might fail Simon in something he desired so ardently. And then she recalled that strange curse said to lie over the Marshal men. Gilbert Marshal was childless too, and Walter had now been married a year or more and his wife showed no sign of being pregnant. It was clearly no fault of hers that she had borne no child. She thrust the fear away and echoed her lover's words: 'God willing.'

  'As a thank-offering for this day,' he said, 'we will make a gift to the abbey at Kenilworth, a chalice perhaps, or a fine cope for the abbot, for nothing, nothing now can unmake us man and wife.'

  'Nothing,' she said and sliding to her knees entwined her arms about him. His lovemaking all through the dark January morning had been an ecstasy beyond anything she had ever known or imagined, and William and his gentleness faded into the background like a quiet wraith. She felt a deep respect still for his memory, for all he had been, but their nights together had barely stirred her and she remembered the feelings of unfulfilment, the odd longings that were not satisfied. Now she knew what love could be, what fire and delight and satisfaction, for Simon had awakened her body into life, his mouth, his hands, his whole self demanding a response that she found she could give and long to give again and again.

  She gazed now into the dark face above hers and put her mouth to his so urgently that in his swift response, he rose and lifting her carried her back to the bed.

  As the dark day faded they slept, wrapped in each other's arms, and only when the curfew bell rang did they stir.

  'It is nearly the supper hour,' Simon said in her ear. 'We must dress, my heart, and face the world again.'

  'Henry says we will not tell them yet,' she murmured drowsily.

  'But it must be soon. You are my wife and I must have you before all men, my countess, the mistress of my home.'

  'Yes, yes,' she whispered ardently. 'Oh soon, soon!' He had pushed back the covers and she moved her hands over his strong well-made body, recalling how once she had been afraid of William's nakedness. Now she gloried in Simon's and in her own beauty as he kissed the white skin of her breasts. And as he raised his face she wondered how she could ever have thought the deep-set grey eyes were cold.

  The storm broke, as it had to do. It would soon have been observed that the Princess Eleanor no longer kept any of her maidens in her bedchamber at night; some small incident would set tongues wagging, and Henry told them that he would announce the marriage to his Council.

  At first he remained impervious to the explosion of a dozen voices.

  'Great God!' his brother exclaimed. 'Without reference to us, your Council? This was not wise of you, Henry. All marriages of any importance are referred to us, and to give our own sister, without a word to me, to – to a commoner, a damned foreigner, a man who has not been in England more than a few years –’ He paused momentarily, lost for words and the Earl of Pembroke broke in, his face flushed with annoyance.

  'By the Rood, sire, I certainly should have been informed. The disposal in marriage of my brother's widow is very much my concern.'

  'And mine,' Earl Ferrars muttered. He was in a bad temper for his wife Sybilla had just presented him with yet another daughter. 'I too have a share in Marshal affairs.'

  The Earl of Lincoln, very stooped these days, hunched his mantle over stiff shoulders. 'It has always been agreed that no royal marriage should take place without consultation. Your grace has chosen to offend us all in this matter. And I thought the Princess was vowed to Holy Church?'

  'Aye,' de Bohun, Earl of Hereford, interrupted sharply. He was, as always, jealous over matters of precedent and disliked the thought of Simon de Montfort's newly acquired position. 'Or can one make and break such vows at will?'

  His sarcasm stirred the elderly Bishop of Chichester out of his usual timidity. 'No, no! I cannot believe this, that the Countess should do such a thing. Surely –’

  The Abbot of St Albans' comment came far more sharply. 'Of course it is a sin, a great sin. A sacred plight ring is as binding as the veil. Sir Simon and the Princess have committed a sacrilege.' He swung round to face the Archbishop of Canterbury. 'Is not the marriage invalid then, my lord?'

  Edmund Rich had been sitting silently through this exchange, his head bowed, the first stunned horror giving place to priestly determination. He raised his head to look at the King, seated at the head of the table, his fingers tapping ominously on the carved arms of his chair. 'I fear you acted on impulse in this matter, sire. Your Council say, rightly, that you should have consulted them, but even more, you should have consulted your spiritual advisers. You are so true a son of Holy Church I am astonished that you did not do so.'

  'I have some authority in my own kingdom,' Henry retorted, 'and over my own family or do you all wish to deny me that?'

  No one answered this and the Archbishop went on, 'My brother of St Albans is right. Of course the marriage is a sacrilege. I myself heard the Princess take her vow, I myself set the ring on her finger.'

  'And that upstart from Normandy took it off, with your good will,' Richard exploded. 'Henry, King you may be but there are indeed limits to what you can do.'

  Henry's face had flushed, the colour running up into his high forehead. He had not reckoned on such opposition from his brother who had always seemed on friendly terms with their new brother-in-law. 'Aye, I am King, a fact you are all forgetting. There is not a man here who would not consider it his right to bestow his womenfolk where he wished.'

  'But not against God's law.' Rich's voice was stern. 'I believed you had respect for that.'

  'So I have, but Eleanor did not take the veil. You know, my lord, she has not intended to do that these many years. The vow was a mistaken impulse, taken by a grief-stricken girl. I will not have her happiness destroyed because of that.'

  'Well, if she wanted to marry, we would not argue over that,' Richard said, 'but the Archbishop should have been consulted and a dispensation could have been applied for from the Pope himself if necessary.' Richard looked round for agreement and the Bi
shop of Chichester added that he could not imagine what the Papal Legate would have to say to the affair.

  'It is not his business,' Gilbert Marshal retorted. 'I would have thought that you, my lord Archbishop, could have dispensed the lady from her vow – which of course is the Church's business.'

  'Could and would are two different things.' Edmund Rich shook his head. 'Even if I could I would not – not without his Holiness's permission. As for the Legate, he cannot be ignored.'

  'I could ignore him,' Gilbert muttered. 'God's death, we have enough of him poking his nose into our affairs. What concerns me is that my sister-in-law's marriage portion has been handed over without a word to anyone to Simon de Montfort. What has he done to deserve a Princess of England for a bride? Nothing, I say!'

  'Aye,' de Bohun put in. 'He is well enough for a knight, but he has no place among your barons, sire.'

  'He is Earl of Leicester,' Henry flashed back. 'I have given him a place and will confirm him in it tomorrow. And then, whether you like it or not, he will be one of you and have a seat on my Council.'

  'Words can't make him one of us,' Pembroke persisted, 'though he may sit on old Leicester's lands. Nor can you force us to like it, sire.'

  There was a low muttering agreement among the other lords and the Earl of Oxford added superciliously, 'I do not like the cold way the man has of looking down his nose at us as if his blood were as good as ours.'

  'Sir Simon is my friend.' Henry glared angrily from one to the other. 'Hold your tongues, all of you. My sister's affairs shall be dealt with correctly, but Sir Simon is now her husband and entitled to his place here. I insist that you receive him as such.'

  'Oh aye,' Gilbert Marshal grumbled, 'now that it is too late to do anything about it. Yet I suppose the Pope could undo the marriage – unless it is too late?'

  Earl Ferrars gave him a warning look but it was unheeded and the Queen's uncle spoke for the first time. Being a foreigner himself he had wisely held his tongue till then, but now he felt that as Earl of Richmond he could join in the argument.