The Royal Griffin (The Plantagenents Book 2)

by Juliet Dymoke

  Finch grinned. ‘We'll all have cause to remember this night, I'm thinking, boy, ‘he said but there was not much mirth in his voice.

  Neither Simon or Eleanor felt able to eat and as soon as their retinue were settled, he said, 'I cannot seek our bed such as it is without some explanation. Rest you, Eleanor, while I return to Westminster. I will not be so dismissed. Some answers Henry must give me. King he may be but he is also your brother and he has no right to treat us in such a manner.’

  ‘I cannot rest while you are gone.' Eleanor roused herself into fresh indignation. 'I will come with you, my lord, for we are together in this. And I too will have the truth from Harry.'

  Somberly he looked down into her pale face. 'You are truly the wife I have always desired. I thought perhaps as you are so fond of him –’

  'Fond!' she exclaimed. 'It is you who are my flesh and bone now.' Their embrace was swift and passionate and then she added, 'I know Harry so well. We must throw ourselves on his mercy, beg for forgiveness.'

  'I do not find begging easy. And forgiveness for what? For owing money to Count Thomas? He can find little else I have done amiss. Nor did we do anything without his consent.'

  'Nevertheless,' she said wretchedly, 'we must ask it. And then he will throw his arm about me and call me his little sister as he has done so often after a temper. You will be his brother again and all will come right.'

  'I will not grovel for what I have not done.'

  'I would not want you to, but we did bribe the papal court, I did break my vow, we did go against all the Archbishop's wishes. Perhaps I should have gone to a nunnery, perhaps this is a judgement on us.'

  'For Christ's sake!' He felt his temper rising once more. 'Surely we need not go over all that again? Or do you no longer think I am worth the sacrifice of your conscience, God save the mark!'

  'Simon!' A wave of fury shook her. 'You! To say such things to me. Have I not dared the anger of God and His Church for you?’

  ‘And now must face it yet again.’

  'So I will. How can you doubt me?'

  He caught his breath and then took her by the shoulders. 'Forgive me, forgive me, my heart. I am distraught and Henry has triumphed indeed if he can set us against each other. I wish I had not brought all this trouble on you.'

  She gave a little sob and sank against his chest. 'Simon, I love you. I cannot bear it if we quarrel.'

  'It is only because we are distressed, dear one. We will go to Henry together and show him how united we are. I will even kneel with you and ask his mercy.'

  'He changes his mind so quickly,' she said. 'By this this time tomorrow all may be forgotten.'

  'Perhaps. Yet I think there is more to it than we yet know. Will you brave what is to come with me?'

  There was a knock on the door and Walter came in with Doll, carrying bedclothes from one of the wagons to replace the fusty covers the inn provided, and Simon wrapped Eleanor in her cloak, leaving Walter to supervise the household's shelter. Then with only Sir John Penrose, two squires and Finch attending them they rode along the dark way back to Westminster.

  Henry was in the hall, supper over and the trestles cleared, when they entered. He was talking to Humphrey de Bohun and stroking one of his falcons on its stand near his chair, but he paused, stiffening, as he saw them enter. It was clear in that first moment that they had not acted wisely in returning without his permission but Simon approached the dais and asked for a few words in private.

  A hush had fallen on those who had eaten at the King's table for there was no one there who had not heard what had happened earlier, the tale embellished in the telling, and the ring of faces normally so eager to welcome the King's popular sister, even her Norman husband, were cautious, withdrawn.

  Henry flung himself down in his chair and scowled at them. Trouble! Why must there always be trouble? He hated it and as always said the first thing that came into his head. 'In private? I have no secrets from my Council, nor my court either in matters that affect them all. If I have a grievance against a subject, however high-born, it shall be heard.'

  Despite her further indignation at this public airing of a family matter, Eleanor knelt and Simon with her. 'Whatever we have done,' she said clearly, ‘we ask you pardon, Harry.'

  She tried to smile at him, relying on the old warmth between them, and Simon took her hand, holding it in his.

  'I too,' he said.

  The gesture and the words seemed to be fuel to a fire that had not even begun to die, sending sparks upwards with twice the fury.

  'You? Ask my pardon? Never!' All restraint seemed to leave the King. 'I tell you again I will not have you here and if you value your necks you will not dare to attend the Queen's churching tomorrow. It would defile my abbey if such as you should enter it.' He ignored gasps from several of the ladies gathered about the Queen, and leaned forward, his hands tensed on the arms of his chair, his vivid blue eyes fixed on Simon. 'You – you seduced my sister, you forced me to give her to you. Why should I forgive that?'

  Eleanor gave a sharp cry, her hand to her mouth, and Simon, dropping her other hand, sprang to his feet, his face dark with anger.

  'God in heaven! Am I hearing aright? You cannot believe so vile a thing. Not of me and certainly not of your most virtuous sister. In Christ's name, sire, what makes you accuse me of –' He would not speak the word. 'You have never had cause to think we could so betray you.'

  'Oh, but I know,' Henry shouted. 'I have heard tales.' He cast a quick glance at John Mansel, his closest and most secret clerk, for although Mansel had reported no more than seeing Sir Simon kissing the Lady Eleanor behind the buttery screen, Henry put the construction he chose upon that innocent encounter. 'Seducer! Liar! I had to give her to you to avoid a scandal. And I knew no good would come of it.'

  'None indeed,' the Queen agreed. She laid her hand in a soothing gesture over her husband's. 'My dear, do not distress yourself so. Those who offend God He punishes himself.'

  Furiously Eleanor turned to face her. 'Oh, I know you would like to think me unchaste, madame, but it is a lie – a lie!' She could no longer keep back the tears of rage and shame and she turned to her brother. 'Harry – think what you are saying. I can't deny I broke my vow, but it was only for love. Never – never till we were wed did Simon – ' she broke off, utterly crushed by the shame, the insult of such an accusation made before the whole court. She gazed towards Richard, seeing his figure blindly through her tears. 'Richard, tell him. Surely you cannot believe I would be so base?'

  The Earl of Cornwall leaned forward and said something in a low tone to his brother, but the King was far too carried away by his own emotions to listen.

  'It is all as I said. Why should I be burdened with such trouble, why should I pay the debts of a man who defiled my sister, used my name?' He had worked himself into such a pass now that all sense had left him. 'They should be clapped up, the pair of them. Guards! Escort the Earl and Countess to the Tower. Have them secured in separate quarters.'

  Richard caught his brother's arm, his own voice stern. 'Harry, you cannot do this. Let them go while the matter is sifted, but don't imprison them, for the love of God. This is Eleanor, our own sister!'

  The King snatched up a glass of wine and drank it hastily and in that moment Simon took the opportunity to help his shattered and weeping wife to her feet. He was ashen, a proud man humbled before all this assembly of people, aware of the smug looks, the sly faces of those who did not like him, the Queen sitting demurely with downcast eyes, but only too glad to see the fall of one who criticized her relatives. His friends were stunned but helpless and as Simon looked round the circle of faces, the Earls of Oxford and Norfolk, de Bohun of Hereford, young Richard de Clare of Gloucester, Earl Ferrars and the aged Earl of Lincoln, he saw doubt, incredulity, the expressions varying but none, in the King's present mood, daring to speak for him. Only Richard of Cornwall reiterated his request.

  'With your grace's leave,' Simon said, 'we will go.' Without wait
ing to hear more he led Eleanor through the gaping crowd, for the unbridled language and wild accusations had been heard in every part of the hall.

  Henry's voice followed them. 'Yes, go, go! I never want to see either of you again.'

  They went, but Simon would not forget, nor would he ever forgive the man who had said such things to him, who had without cause sullied forever his wife's good name.

  There was no rest for them that night. They had barely reached the inn when a breathless messenger arrived from Richard begging them to leave London at once, to go abroad at least for a while for the King was reconsidering the alternative of shutting them in the Tower. It was not in Richard's nature to send so urgent a message without cause and with this shadow hanging over them Simon roused the entire household, ordered some to return to Leicester or Kenilworth at first light, and packing the rest into several boats set off down river towards the sea and a ship for France.

  'We will go to my brother,' he said to Eleanor as two days later they stood together on board, watching the dawn come up, the land slipping away from them. 'My poor love, you are so tired. Try to sleep now.'

  'Yes, I will.' But for a moment she laid her head against him. 'My lord, I think I am pregnant again.'

  'My dearest!' There was his old smile, his swift kiss to send life flooding back into her stiffened limbs, but his second reaction was another wave of indignation. 'That you should be put through such a scene at such a time. Great God, if your brother were not King he would not live after the insults he laid upon us! Sometimes I think he is not entirely sane.'

  'He is unpredictable,' she admitted, 'but in the past he has always been more kind than not. I don't understand why he turned against us so long after our wedding.'

  'Don't you?' he queried bitterly. 'I do, by heaven. I see it all now. It was the money. He never has any because it slips through his fingers into gold and jewels and fine stone for his abbey, and he thought I meant to force him to pay my debts. Jesu, we all have debts! But gold has always been his flea in the shirt. I should have known. I should have expected it. Why, he has never even given you a marriage portion!'

  'When we were wed I cared only for you,' she said. 'No other thought but his consent was in my head. But Richard will talk to him, make him see reason. Oh, my lord,' she strained her eyes towards the diminishing coastline, the cliffs white in the brilliant light of the dawn. 'I don't want to stay away from England. I want to go back to Kenilworth where we were so happy.'

  'So you shall, my heart. You are right, we can leave Richard to set matters right. In the meantime we will go to my brother and his wife at Montfort L’Amaury. They will make us welcome and you will like it there.’

  Simon's brother received his unexpected guests warmly, a pleasant unpretentious man who was shocked at the story they told him. His wife fussed over Eleanor who was utterly worn out by all she had undergone. As summer passed into autumn the child in her womb quickened, her spirits revived and she and the lady of the house spent much of their time sewing small garments and talking of the rearing of children, but it was not like home. She longed for Kenilworth, for Odibam and Gloucester, Winchester and Westminster and all the familiar places. She longed to see her dear Harry smiling again, calling her his little sister as he had always done until this last dreadful August day. She was still bewildered, aghast at his extraordinary behaviour, unable to believe he could accuse Simon of seducing her, her of taking him for her lover before wedlock. It was as if Henry had been bewitched and she began seriously to consider the possibility, for the Provencals were a strangely volatile people, prone to much superstition and there were several people among the Queen's retinue who might dabble in such things.

  Letters came from Richard, assuring them that Henry's anger was evaporating as quickly as it had arisen. Richard himself was preparing for the projected crusade and he suggested that Simon should return and raise what money he could for the expedition. He was sure Henry would receive them both favourably now, and Isabella wrote too, assuring Eleanor of her affection and her desire to see them both safe home again.

  'You must go,' Eleanor said. 'Richard would not suggest it if it were not right. But I am too near my time to face the sea and that journey. Go, my love, and write to me soon. If Henry has truly forgotten the quarrel then we must try to forget it too, and then when our child is born I can go home again.'

  Simon agreed to this, and leaving her in the capable care of his sister-in-law, returned to England. There Henry greeted him in a friendly manner as if nothing had happened. He gave Simon five hundred marks towards his debt and Simon raised the rest from his estates. If his manner was cool towards the King, withdrawn as it had not been before, Henry did not appear to notice, for he had a habit of not seeing what he did not want to see. To Simon's dismay the Earl of Cornwall was in deep mourning, for Isabella had died in childbed and her baby with her. She was buried in the Abbey of Beaulieu which Richard had founded and Simon stood beside his brother-in-law as the coffin was lowered, knowing bow Eleanor would grieve for this, her closest of friends.

  Richard did not turn back, however, from the expedition. He buried his grief in a flurry of preparations and Simon spent a good deal of time with him, able at last to thank him for his support.

  'Harry lets his feelings run away with him,' Richard said calmly. 'It only needs time and a cooler atmosphere to bring him to a better frame of mind. You see how changed he is.'

  Aye, Simon thought, like the weathercock on Paul's church, and God alone knew which way the wind would blow next. But the insult had been so great, the taking away of his wife's virtue so unforgiveable, that no amount of friendliness now could wash it away. 'I fear,' he said and his voice was harsh, 'that the King's change of heart, welcome as it is, will not erase suspicions roused in the minds of other men.'

  'A storm in a wine cup,' Richard shrugged, 'and soon forgotten. There is always some fresh gossip to intrigue the foolish, and none of your friends believed it of you. I beg you to forget it, Simon.'

  Simon said no more and they rode to the coast together as companionable brothers. He had barely set foot on shore at Calais when a messenger on the way to England came up with him to say that the Countess had been safely delivered of a son, baptized Simon after his father.

  Richard shook his hand warmly and suggested that Eleanor should return to England as soon as she was fit to travel. Eleanor, however, had other ideas. The loss of Isabella grieved her deeply, reminding her of William's death, and she recalled all the pleasant hours she and his sister had spent together. She did not want now to go home without Simon and he was only too happy that she should come part at least of the way with him.

  Taking their time they travelled south through Italy with their two sons, followed by half the English contingent, the other half marching through France under Richard's leadership, recruiting on the way.

  At Brindisi Eleanor set up her household in a palace lent to her by her brother-in-law, the Emperor Frederick and she was able to visit her pregnant sister. After a pleasant month Richard joined them and when Simon sailed with him to Cyprus,

  Eleanor stood watching the flotilla make for the open sea.

  Young Harry's hand was held tightly in his mother's. The boy was two and half years old now and advanced for his age. 'Where is father going?' he asked. Eleanor smiled down at him, despite the anxiety she could not entirely subdue.

  'To fight wicked people,' she said and forgot for a moment she was speaking to a child. 'To do God's work, but oh Queen of Heaven, mother of God, bring him safely back to me.'

  She watched until her eyes were aching from the glare. Nothing mattered but Simon. How long would it be before she would feel his arms about her again, his hands caressing her? How many lonely nights must pass before he would lie with her again, his body possessing hers, love a great fire between them? She thought of England, of Henry with his Queen who had borne him a second son, Edmund, surrounded by minstrels and craftsmen, by goldsmiths and weavers who filled h
is court. Yet King though he was, he was but half a man compared to Simon and if it ever came to another quarrel between them, she knew she would cleave even more closely to her husband. She saw all Henry's weaknesses now, his instability, his ineptness when it came to government. Though affection remained it was now of a different nature.

  And when she went home, nothing could be the same, nothing after what he had said of her. Richard had made her believe that he did not mean it, that he regretted it, but nothing could alter the fact that he had said it and all England knew he had.

  There were tears on her cheeks now, both for that past insult, for the injustice and degradation of it, and for the parting with Simon. He was far away now, the white sails no more than specks on the horizon. Her thoughts turned to memories of the Maid of Brittany who had died this last year. At least she, Eleanor, had lived, had been loved, borne children.

  She turned away from the empty sea, blue and sparkling. Harry's nurse was hovering by the open door and Eleanor straightened her back, her head high. She took his small hand in hers. 'Come,' she said, 'I see it is your dinner time. I wonder how big you will have grown by the time your father comes back to us?'

  PART TWO

  SIMON'S WIFE

  1258-1265

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  'My dear aunt, your hospitality is delightful, as always.' The Lord Edward, heir to the throne, was now in his twentieth year and so tall that folk were calling him Longshanks. He leaned against the stone window of the Countess of Leicester's bower and looked out across the mere where he could see a cockleboat and a man with a rod.