'Is your lake full of fish? I thought it was more a pleasure place for sailing. It is a formidable defence and I should not care to assault this place.'
Eleanor laughed. 'I can't conceive that you should ever have to besiege me.' But the moment she had spoken the words she wished them unsaid for she felt a curious chill as if they were prophetic.
Edward clearly had no such intuition for he was smiling amiably, still watching the fisherman. 'Nor I. I do believe that is Simon swimming. God defend us, what an occupation!'
She roused herself at once. What nonsense put such a thought into her head? 'Yes, he is a strong swimmer, though I cannot imagine anything pleasurable about it. Edward, will you not sit for a while? I cannot converse happily with a poplar tree.'
He laughed and sprawled his long limbs on a stool, his eyes wandering at the same time to the girl sitting beside his aunt Eleanor. She was young and extremely pretty and when she raised her head just enough from her embroidery to return his gaze there was a coquettish expression on her face.
'I wish I had not to leave you so soon,' he said. 'The company is so pleasant here.'
Eleanor gave him a sharp look, intercepting that exchange of glances. 'I know you find it so. Sadly I shall also lose Alice's company when her husband comes to fetch her at the end of the week.'
He yawned. 'I had forgotten. Gilbert has a bad habit of turning up too soon. I hope you are happy with him, cousin Alice.'
‘You should not ask such questions,' Eleanor interposed before her niece could answer. Eleanor had a shrewd suspicion that her nephew, married for some years to another Eleanor, the King of Castile's daughter, was only too happy to flirt with Alice. His bride was too young to be bedded yet and was still under the care of the Queen Regent of France. It was only natural, Eleanor supposed, that Edward should amuse himself for a while. She hoped, however, he did not intend to carry matters too far.
'Alice, my dear,' she said, 'pray go and find your cousin. The Demoiselle would no doubt be glad of your company since we are to lose you so soon.'
'Very well, madame.' Alice laid down her sewing, curtseyed, smiled provocatively at Edward and withdrew.
'If you must seek your pleasure,' Eleanor remarked amusedly when the door closed, 'pray, Edward, seek it elsewhere than with Alice. She could be a dangerous conquest.'
'Do you think I am afraid of Gilbert the Red – or old Gloucester?'
'Gloucester is younger than I am,' she retorted, 'and no mean adversary if you annoy him. You would do well to respect him, though I'm sure you are more than a match for his son. I hear you unseated Gilbert at the Nottingham tourney.'
Edward grinned like the boy he still was. 'Yes, and very satisfying that was. But I promise you, aunt, I would not behave myself so badly under your roof. I've too much care for you and my uncle for that.'
'I'm glad to hear it. Sometimes I wonder why you go about with such a rapscallion crew. That knight of yours, Roger Leyburn, is unprincipled and a lecher. If there is mischief afoot he is bound to have started it, and Roger Mortimer, for all he is my sister-in-law's grandson, is no better than a brigand. It is a blessing Eva did not live to see her daughter bring up such a boy.'
'My Rogers are not all bad,' he said. 'Mortimer is sowing wild oats – we all are – but I suppose we'll come to more serious matters soon. Something will make us, no doubt. In the meantime they are good company and I'd trust Leyburn with my life. We are off to France tomorrow to some jousting and to pay our respects to my aunt Marguerite. My mother wishes her sister to be reassured of our friendship.'
'Then pray don't cause a scandal in Paris,' Eleanor said smiling. 'You don't wish to grieve your father.'
'Never,' Edward said firmly. 'He may be in trouble with his barons and sometimes I think he does not understand what kingship is, but he's the best father in the world.'
There was, Eleanor thought, even more truth in what Edward said than he, at his age, could realize. But it seemed that with the years Henry had not only not learned wiser ways but was even more inclined to say and do rash things.
When he welcomed their mother's second family, the Lusignans, to England, it had proved a most unwise move. The eldest, William de Valence, had married Joan, the daughter of another of Eleanor's sisters-in-law, Joanna Marshal, and now called himself Earl of Pembroke. Eleanor thought his long features effeminate yet with a hint of viciousness in the thin mouth, and she hated his undoubted influence over Henry. He was milking the Marshal inheritance while she was still owed money from her dower and Henry would do nothing about it. Aymer de Valence became Bishop of Winchester and Guy and Geoffrey were loaded with gifts of land and gold and jewels. They were as disliked as the Queen's uncles had been in the early days and Simon had no time for them.
Simon's position was vastly changed. He was greatly respected, and it seemed that Englishmen looked to him as a natural leader. Even this boy idolized his godfather.
He said now, 'Madame, when do you expect my uncle home? I would like to see him.'
'In a few days, I hope. Why do you not wait until then, Edward?'
'I wish I could,' he answered restlessly and got to his feet, 'but I am promised with my knights to the tourney at Evreux and I would not have the French think we dare not face them. They say they have a new champion even greater than Renault de Nevers. But tell my uncle – I don't know – tell him I would talk with him soon. I shall be King one day and he has ideas that would turn England into a kingdom fit for all states of men.'
Eleanor rose and reached up to kiss him. The lad had grown so tall and handsome with his ash-blond hair and blue eyes, and she really was so fond of him, and to find him so in sympathy with his godfather warmed her doubly to him. 'I wish your father could see it.'
'He is set in his ways,' Edward said smiling, with the confidence of youth to improve on what the previous generation had done. He put her hand to his lips, bowing. 'But time is running away. Have I your leave to go and find my cousins? Harry promised to show me his new destrier and then we are all to go to the butts for an hour before supper.'
'Of course,' she said. 'Come again soon, Edward.'
'How could I not? My dear aunt, you are as charming and as lovely as ever and if you were not my aunt I would flirt with you instead of Alice.'
He went out, leaving her laughing. A trifle wild he might be but he had more than his share of the family charm with which he credited her without the temper and instability that so often destroyed the good qualities of the Plantagenets. When as he said, 'something would make him’ mature out of his youthful high spirits, she thought he would sit well in his father's place.
The years had brought much of joy and some sorrow. After the crusade, which achieved nothing but to establish Simon with the reputation of a fine soldier, they came home to a genuine welcome from Henry. For a while there was peace. Henry seemed only too willing to forget the past, though neither Simon nor she could ever entirely banish that spiteful and unjust slur on her virtue; in a burst of generosity he gave them Kenilworth Castle as an outright gift and showered them with lesser presents, rich materials for clothes, silver and gold for their table, casks of wine and tubs of dates and almonds and figs which reminded Eleanor of her visit to Bristol so long ago.
She was proud of her sons, Harry, Simon, Guy and Amaury now growing into tall lads. Six years ago she had given birth to a second daughter after losing the first in childbed, and the girl was baptized Eleanor. But the boys nicknamed their sister the Demoiselle and the name stuck so that she was never called anything else. She was a happy child with the promise of her mother's beauty, that beauty which, in her forties, Eleanor still possessed with the added poise of maturity.
For a long time after Simon's return all had gone well. Then Henry sent Simon to Gascony as seneschal, for the Gascon nobles had got out of hand and become, as Simon said, mere bands of robbers, pillaging and slaying and not behaving as responsible Christian men should. His hand was heavy on them. The worst offenders he shut in p
rison and when one elderly knight died in his cell a screech of protest went up. Wild accusations were flung at the new seneschal and a deputation sent to London. As usual Henry listened too easily and was too easily persuaded. He was already annoyed by Simon's pressing demands for money to carry out his commission and ordered him home to answer a list of charges.
Eleanor's face burned at the memory of that trial in St Stephen's Hall. That Simon should be put to such indignity had infuriated her, but he came out of it well. He proved himself to have done no more than keep order in a country not given to obedience, and showed that he had emptied his own pockets to pay the King's soldiers. The lords sitting in judgement cleared Simon of all guilt and a furious Henry had gone off to Gascony himself, certain that his presence would settle the quarrels there for good. He found he was sadly mistaken. Inept as always where military skill was concerned, and lacking all judgement, he gave up and sent for his seneschal, told him to complete his seven-year term of office, and returned home.
Eleanor could never resist recalling that return with a touch of the old malicious resentment of her namesake, the Queen. Eleanora of Provence had taken it into her head, during her husband's absence, to revive the old law of Queen-geld. She had demanded payment of this money from the citizens of London, imprisoned those who refused and made herself hated in that most independent city. When Eleanor had tried to warn her that she was going too far, the Queen looked down her elegant nose and said, 'The impertinent fellows need a lesson. Who are they to defy their King?'
Eleanor felt like saying that it was not their King they were defying but his Queen who was exceeding her rights, but she said no more. Henry came back and pacified the protesting Mayor and aldermen, but if there was one thing he understood it was the need of money and he was far too devoted to his Queen to blame her.
Eleanor understood it equally well for she maintained almost royal estate at Kenilworth, entertained lavishly, and it was seldom that there were not important guests at Kenilworth or Odiham or Leicester.
The years had robbed her of a number of friends. Archbishop Edmund had died and been succeeded at the King's insistence by Bishop Boniface, a choice approved by no one. Bishop Grosseteste too, Simon's great friend, had also died and was sadly missed for he had educated their boys and had always been a voice of wisdom at court. A little smile flickered across Eleanor's face as she recalled how he had once asked if he might borrow her excellent head cook, John, for a particular function and had kept him for six years. But there was sadness in her face too, for the Bishop had been spiritual adviser to her and to Simon for so long and not even his friend, the friar Adam Marsh, was a real substitute for him.
Other faces were gone too. Gilbert Marshal had died in a jousting accident and two years later both Waiter and Anselm, his brothers, were dead too. Strangely none of them had an heir and the office of Marshal went to Roger Bigod, Matilda Marshal's son. Amaury de Montfort had succumbed to a fever, his son ruling Montfort L'Amaury in his place. Eleanor remembered him with affection for his kindness to her and to Simon when they were in need. And not only death had robbed her, for Richard of Cornwall had accepted a crown as King of the Romans and had been absent from England for some time. But their great affection for each other remained, and Eleanor was fond of Richard's second wife Sanchia.
In her own household Doll had married and brought up two children and when she died last year Eleanor took her daughter Mary as a waiting woman and her son Philip as a page. Megonwy was elderly now and ruled the sewing women, a girl named Dionysia having taken her place. Finch, rather grizzled but as tough and sturdy as ever, remained as her chief groom with his son serving under him. She and Simon had been fortunate in their servants; the marshal of their household and their steward, both trustworthy men, kept their establishment, under Eleanor's own keen eye, running smoothly.
She rose now and glanced out of the window. The young men were coming back from the butts and she could see Edward and Harry walking together arm-in-arm. Harry was nearly as tall as Edward, smiling as always, a cheerful friendly lad. Simon, walking alongside, his bow in his hand, was shorter and darker than his brother, less handsome, less talkative, but she sometimes thought he was the most reliable, his mood seldom varying. Guy had more of the true Plantagenet colouring, with hair the colour, so old John of Lincoln told her, of her long dead uncle, Richard called the Lionheart. Guy also had the Plantagenet temper. He would flare up into a rage over nothing and though it would die as quickly, nevertheless she foresaw that he would always be in the thick of some trouble or another. Amaury at fourteen was the quietest member of the family, his head always in a book or scribbling poems which he refused to show to anyone, but when it was suggested he should enter the Church he refused with surprising vehemence. He wanted, he said, to remain with his father and brothers and become a knight in due course, but Eleanor guessed that even more he did not want to leave her. They spent a great deal of time together; he was a master of the lute and often sang to her the lovely Provencal songs which Simon had once drily remarked were the only good thing to come out of that country.
She gave a little sigh. She wished life was easier for Simon but he had a new cause, one that he would not forsake as long as he lived and which, she thought, might indeed drain the lifeblood from him. Yet she admired that very tenacity so much. She wished he would come home, then perhaps she could make him rest a little.
Edward departed in the morning after an evening spent enjoying Eleanor's rich supper at which the cook excelled himself, serving cranes in a spicy sauce, salmon pasties made with mouth-watering pastry, almond tarts and sweet coloured jellies. Gallons of beer were provided and both red and white Gascon wines and Edward drank a great deal. Afterwards he led his cousins into hilarious games, dancing and flirting again with Alice. Eleanor watched him go in the morning, amused by the obvious regret on Alice's face and the resignation with which she accompanied her husband Gilbert when he strode into the hall a few days later to claim her. Eleanor liked neither Gloucester nor his impetuous son, but as both supported Simon's ideas she tried not to show her mistrust of them.
The day after Alice's departure the Earl of Leicester came home. After the first greeting in the hall with his large following of knights and squires, some hundred and fifty of them, filling the place, be followed his wife upstairs to their bedchamber. There he embraced her and enquired for her health.
'I am well,' she said, 'but you – my lord, you look so tired.'
She gazed up at the hollows beneath the dark eyes, the gauntness of his face. He was so thin these days, carrying too heavy a burden of responsibility, but this time, with her perception sharpened where he was concerned, she saw that he was greatly disturbed. She drew him to their bed and sat down, her hand in his. 'My dearest, I can see that something is wrong. What is it?'
But he would not sit still and loosing her hand began to pace, his long mantle brushing the floor, slapping his gloves from one hand to the other. 'Sometimes I think Henry should be locked up, like Charles the Simple. Jesu, there are iron bound doors at Windsor that could hold him!'
Something contracted within her. 'What has he done now?'
Simon's mouth was a thin hard line. 'He heaps folly on folly. He will do nothing to curb his spending, and as for this new Chapter House he has added to the Abbey at Westminster, it is wild, wanton extravagance with money he does not have. His tomb for the Confessor's bones would make that saint shudder, and he demands and demands more and more money. He twists everything to suit himself and one would think the Great Charter had never been written for he tramples on each sentence one by one. I tell you, Eleanor, it is past bearing!'
'I think he should not have been a King,' she said slowly and thought of Edward's words of a few days ago. 'Richard would not have been so foolish.'
'Richard has sense, nothing shows it more clearly than his handling of his own kingdom in Germany. As for Henry's last piece of nonsense, it has tried us all to the limit. Why he thought it wou
ld benefit his younger son to be King of Sicily I can't imagine. Now the whole affair has become ridiculous with Henry in debt to the Pope for God knows how much money for an enterprise that has failed lamentably. All we of his council can do is to try and extricate England somehow from what he has done. Dear God!' His exasperation seemed to shake his thin frame. 'How is it that a man can be so stable and loving a husband and father and so insane outside in the world. Sometimes I think he is insane.'
Eleanor listened to this outburst in silence. She felt no great partisanship for Henry, her thoughts were all for Simon. 'Is this all, my lord? It is not new and I think my nephew Edmund well out of that Sicilian business. I feel something further has happened to distress you.'
He paused to look down at her. 'You are the heart of my heart. You know what I care for most. No, it is not all. William de Valence has been causing trouble again. I'll not call him Pembroke for he has no right to the title. I'm sorry, for I know he is your half-brother, but I loathe the man and I'd like to see him shackled in the Tower.'
'I don't care a snap of my fingers for him,' she retorted.
'What has he done now?'
'He and his hunting party chanced to ride across the Bishop of Ely's land two weeks ago and bethought themselves that they were thirsty. The Bishop was away but they entered his palace and when the servants brought beer, as any honest Englishman would find satisfying, they demanded wine. William let his fellows smash open the casks and get drunk on the best wine. They broke off the bungs and the wine was still running when they rode off, hardly able to sit in their saddles. By the arm of St James, I'd have the lot flogged.'
'And then the Bishop found out?'
'Good man that he is, he said they might have had the wine for the asking without damaging the casks and wasting it all. And that's not the end of it. One of de Valence's brigands got into a fight with a miller of ours and beat the fellow up and set the place on fire. Wicked, vicious behaviour and needing sharp punishment – and so I told de Valence at the council meeting.'
The Royal Griffin (The Plantagenents Book 2) Page 13
