The Royal Griffin (The Plantagenents Book 2)

by Juliet Dymoke

  But would he do it? Harry came home and told her of the angry words exchanged between his father and Gilbert, both equally unbending. Gilbert called the Earl of Leicester's attitude high-handed and was now retired to Hertford, simmering with indignation. 'I have given myself and my substance to the cause,' he had said at one point, according to Harry, 'and yet you treat me as an untried squire.’

  'To which my father replied,' Harry went on, 'that behavior made the man, which Gilbert did not like at all.'

  Eleanor could see that flaming red head, the angry freckled face – the Earl of Gloucester would make a bad enemy. She wrote an urgent letter to Simon bidding him be careful, and sent Harry back to his father's side with an injunction to be obedient in all things.

  The spring days lengthened and her anxieties increased, turning at last to immense relief when Simon asked her to meet him at Odiham so that all the family might spend Easter together. Amaury rode down from York to accompany her. He was still the same dreamy youth, but since he had been made treasurer of the Minster in that city there was a streak of ambition appearing, a desire to rise in the Church. They set out together through the awakening woods and fields, the first green buds bursting on the hawthorns, anemones growing under the great oaks, violets showing in the banks, and Eleanor felt her spirits responding to this rebirth, the loveliness of the countryside emerging from winter.

  Guy was already at Odiham when she rode over the lowered drawbridge and as he came dutifully to assist her from the saddle she asked where his elder brothers were.

  'Harry is with Edward in my father's train and they may be here tomorrow. Simon should be on his way too, if he can tear himself from the lady he is chasing so persistently.'

  She shook out the folds of her mantle and gave her whip to young Martin Finch. 'What lady? I have heard nothing of this.'

  'Isabella de Fortibus, William's widow.'

  'The Countess of Aumale ?' She was astonished. 'She is the richest widow in England. I wonder what your father will have to say about that.'

  'I can tell you what the lady has said.' Guy's tone was dry. 'She will have none of Simon and she fears to be abducted as he is always turning up at her door with armed men and a spare horse.'

  'What a way to conduct a courtship.' Eleanor could not keep back a smile. She went into the hall and called to her steward, enquiring if all the arrangements for their stay were well in hand, and that night she slept in her bed in the great chamber, hoping the morrow would bring Simon to share it with her. He came as dusk was falling, a long train of knights behind him, including his eldest son, the Lord Edward, and Henry of Almaine. In their chamber while he changed his travelling clothes and washed the dust of the road from his hands and face she studied him, thinking how the last months had aged him, but she forebore to question him while Peter was shaving his cheeks and his servants laying out a rich gown of red sandal with white scalloping and the white cross of his cause on the shoulder.

  Supper was announced and they went down together, the hall so crammed tonight that many of the lesser folk were forced to eat out in the bailey under the stars. Because it was still Lent the fare was restricted but as varied as Eleanor's cook could make it, and her sons and their royal cousins certainly did justice to it.

  The talk was mostly of the doings of Parliament and the latest threats from the Pope, but with such opposing views at the high table Eleanor soon guided the conversation into pleasanter channels. Simon said little and it was not until they were alone at last in her bedchamber that she was able to sit down by the fire and beg him to tell her how matters stood between him and Gloucester, the subject uppermost in her mind.

  Simon stood leaning against the stone hearth, one thin hand held to the blaze, the firelight catching the gold of the ring she had given him on their wedding day. He was so gaunt that she wondered if he ever paused in the midst of business to eat enough to keep his health. He suffered much from indigestion and she made a mental note to instruct the cook to prepare a junket for that always lay well on an uneasy stomach.

  In answer to her question Simon said, 'There is so much to be done that it is particularly irritating that Gilbert should be behaving like a willful boy at the moment. The country must be settled, and with speed. There has been too much pillaging and lawless raiding and men need security again. Gilbert does not aid me by his attitude. But’ – he gave a heavy sigh – 'no doubt he will come to heel when he has got over his sulking. I wonder if he really thought I should hand over Richard to him?'

  'He is eaten up with pride,' she said. 'Where is he now? Still at Hertford?'

  'No, he has gone to Monmouth, and because I want an eye kept on him I have told Harry and the others they may organize their tourney now that Parliament has ended. Gloucester has been invited and his coming or not seems to be a test of his friendship. If he will not meet us I must deal with him. Such an enemy I cannot have at my back.'

  'No indeed, but’ – her hands gripped the arms of her chair – 'I could have him beaten for so defying you, after all you have done for him, for them all.’

  'It has not come to a betrayal yet,' he said wearily.

  The next day he seemed to make an effort to put aside his depression, to be more the father of his family than the man in control of the state. His displeasure with his sons was forgotten as he went hawking with them and singing together, complimenting his daughter on her voice.

  Lifting her chin he said, 'You are fast becoming the beauty your mother was at your age, and still is in my eyes. Perhaps a certain Welshman has been teaching you to sing and putting that brightness in your eyes at the same time.'

  She looked up at him, a little smile curving her mouth. 'My lord, I am nearly fifteen now and a woman. Mother said you considered it time – my lord Llewellyn –’ She broke off, a pink tinge in her cheeks, and lowered her eyes.

  Her father smiled. 'Since when did a Demoiselle of nearly fifteen arrange her own marriage plans?’

  'But mother said she was wed to the Earl of Pembroke when she was only fourteen, wasn't she?'

  His smile widened into one of his rare laughs. 'Child, do you love Prince Llewellyn so much?'

  'Oh yes,' she said and turned her face to kiss her father's hand.

  'Then you shall be wed as soon as the country is quieter. This marriage pleases me too, for reasons you would not consider important.'

  She responded to his teasing. 'Father, I know what must be considered for the daughter of a Princess.'

  'Do you indeed?' he retorted. 'Thank God, you have your mother's spirit.'

  The Easter feast was celebrated, a choir of boys singing an anthem to the risen Christ in the chapel, the assembled family and their noble guests kneeling together where shafts of sunshine slanted through the splayed windows. The younger

  Simon had joined them in a bad temper, for his widow had fled from his attentions and gone to friends in Wales, but he forgot his disappointment in the rare pleasure of a shared feast.

  For Eleanor there was joy and a poignant sadness in this Easter Mass. She was not blind to the grave anxieties disturbing her lord's sleep so that he often tossed and turned, muttering to himself. She was aware too of Edward's restlessness, of her own sons' ambitions to share in their father's exalted position, wanting the rewards without the labour, and listening to the words of the Easter anthem– 'Surrexit Christus, spes mea . . . tu nobis victor Rex. . .’ she thought of Henry hearing the Easter Mass at the same hour, surrounded by Simon's watchdogs. Did he hate them both now? Could this Easter day bring no hope of peace, of the healing of wounds? But as the Host was raised and she bowed her head her prayer was all for the rigid, absorbed figure at her side. God send him at least a little rest.

  A few days later Edward left with Harry and Almaine and a large following of knights to join his father at Gloucester where the court had spent the feast. Before his departure he came to take leave of his aunt.

  'God go with you, nephew,' she said and then paused, her eyes on his face. H
e met her look straightly, no longer a boy but a cool, wary young man who had learned some hard lessons from the man best able to teach them.

  On an impulse she rose and laid her hand on his arm. 'Trust your godfather, support him. He wants only what is best. Remember all that you and he used to talk of. One day it will all be your responsibility.'

  'I have not forgotten,' he said, 'but my lord of Leicester has chosen a hard path.'

  His use of the title instead of the more familiar address did not escape her. 'Edward, if I could only make you see . . .'

  'I see more clearly than I used,' he answered and shut his mouth hard. How could he speak of the feelings he now had for her husband? 'My dear aunt, never will I forget your love and kindness to me. Be assured at least of that.'

  He bent to kiss her and before she had the chance to say more he bowed and left the bower. A few moments later she saw him ride away to the west and as their cavalcade disappeared into the leafy green where the road wound between woods, a lonely heron winged its way across the river. There seemed to her something ominous about the slow flapping, the solitariness of the bird. It had been nesting nearby and she wondered why it was deserting its young, watching it as it vanished into the blue distance.

  That afternoon her two younger sons left to busy themselves with their tournament, and it was less than a week later that they sent a message to say Gloucester had refused to come. He no longer trusted his person among them. At the same time news reached Odiham that Mortimer was back and that William de Valence had landed at Pembroke with quite a considerable following.

  'Then I must leave at first light,' Simon said to his wife. 'I must have the King under my hand and scotch the danger in the west before they can raise too great an army against me.'

  He could do nothing else, she thought. His enemies were gathering and she was aware of bitterness, of aching disappointment, of frustration that no one wanted what Simon had to give them. They feared him yet, she thought with Plantagenet pride. If she and Simon sat at Westminster the barons could scarcely be worse off than under Henry who got sillier with age.

  'I must make my position stronger,' Simon said, as if reading her thoughts. 'After all, legally I hold no position at all, except Steward of England. I think I shall write to my great­aunt Loretta. Incredible woman, she is past ninety and still as lively minded as ever! I had that office from her husband and perhaps she will know some detail of how I may use it to gain my way.'

  Elinor said, 'So much has gone wrong since you won the fight at Lewes. I thought then all would go well.'

  He gave a wry smile. 'Did you? Then you were more sanguine than I. Let us not deceive ourselves: I have more enemies than friends.’

  ‘If Edward had stayed loyal –’

  'Perhaps we might have held the peace,' he finished. 'But Edward has too great an ambition, too high a heritage to want to stand in my shadow, even for a few years.' He looked very weary and at supper seemed to have no appetite. Later, when she had seen the Demoiselle settled into bed and allayed as far as possible the girl's fears for her father, her brothers, her lover, Eleanor went to her own bedchamber. Simon was not there and knowing intuitively where at this late hour she would find him, she slipped a mantle about her shoulders and went across the bailey to the chapel. The sentries on watch stood stiffly as she passed, well-drilled men alert at their posts, knowing their lord's stern penalty if they were slack about their duties. The dark night was heavy with rain clouds, the first drops falling. It was darker still inside the little building for knowing every stone of it Simon had carried no light. But he was there as she expected, kneeling before the enshrined Host, only the tiny sanctuary lamp burning, his hands clasped, his eyes fixed, deep set and hollow. She knelt, signing herself and he turned his head.

  'Come away,' she said. 'My heart, you need rest.'

  'Rest?' he queried in a low voice. '"Arise and let us be going for this is no place to rest". Is that Job, or perhaps it is Micah? But it is true for me. It is better that I watch for I think my hardest hour is yet to come.'

  'Even Our Blessed Lord had to sleep,' she said and felt the tears stinging her eyes. 'You cannot lead our people if your strength is wasted.'

  'Perhaps not, yet I think my strength lies here, in God's hands, to give or take away.'

  'You have watched long enough. His blessing is on you, my love, I know it, but come away now. Sleep for a few hours at least.'

  He was silent for a moment, his head bent. Then he crossed himself and rose stiffly to his feet. 'I have asked Walter to say Mass at dawn, so I will try to sleep until then. Indeed, to rest in your arms would be balm before I leave.'

  Together they left the chill dark chapel and went slowly up to their bedchamber, undressed and lay in bed, naked, side by side. His body was painfully thin and she drew his head, as so often before, to rest on her shoulder. The spring rain was falling heavily now and she said softly, 'Do you remember how it rained the day we played backgammon in this very room and you told me that you loved me?'

  In her arms the tension seemed to be leaving him. 'I remember every moment of that day; and the day of our bridal. We said bad weather was our good fortune.'

  'Perhaps it will be again. Can you hear the rain?'

  'Aye,' he said dreamily. 'I have always liked the sound of it. Beloved, there is so much I would say to you, but I am too tired tonight and tomorrow I'll be gone, so it must wait until I come again.'

  'What is it, my heart? Not further trouble?'

  'No,' he said unexpectedly. 'It is only that I have been so busy, so overwrought of late, all of England in my care and yet – tonight I feel that nothing else is so important as loving you. You have always been, you are, the wife I desired that day so long ago, nearly thirty years.'

  She had not heard him talk like this before and in sudden fear her arms tightened about him. 'And you are life to me. Nothing, not even death could separate us.'

  'Not even death,' he answered and for a little while they lay in silence, close to each other, every curve and shape known and loved.

  Neither could help but be aware that he was riding away to a final confrontation, that he must have victory or lose all he had striven for. And, if he lost, his chance of survival would be small. Mother of God, she prayed desperately, give him victory, keep him safe, bring him back to me.

  His hands were pressing her body even closer now and she could feel his bones starkly as he possessed her once more. But his love-making was quiet, with less of passion than of a desire for a union that might sustain him when he was gone, a union born out of the shared years, a need in the face of what the future might bring.

  He gave a long deep sigh and presently she thought he slept, but she lay awake in the darkness, torn with fear for him, longing to keep every moment of this night, feeling the loved warmth of him close to her, the weight of his head against her shoulder. She turned her lips into his hair, grey now but thick as always. Ah, whatever came, she would not change one hour of her life with him!

  She slept at last, fitfully, and awoke as the first glimmering of light lifted the darkness of their bedchamber. His face was softened in sleep, the anxious lines smoothed, the mouth gentle, and she looked long as if to impress every line into her memory, a dull ache of dread heavy on her. She bent to kiss his lips and he stirred into wakefulness.

  'It is getting light,' she said and he answered, 'Then I must go.'

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A silent army was riding westwards led by men nominally at peace, their reconciliation blessed by the Church, but with very different feelings in their hearts. Simon rode with his chin on his breast. Gilbert, Earl of Gloucester had broken openly with him now, jealous and bitterly offended, and Simon saw, too late, the wisdom of Eleanor's words. Gilbert, young as he was, was a better man than his father had ever been, and it might have been worth the effort to cultivate his better qualities, take the trouble to keep him loyal. But there had been so many other matters on his mind and now the breach was b
eyond mending.

  He had Henry and Edward with him, mainly that he might keep them under surveillance, the three of them supposedly reconciled. Gilbert and Mortimer with de Valence were skulking in the Forest of Dean, and one last bid for terms carried out by Simon's close friend, Bishop Cantelupe of Worcester, had failed. The King's cousin, de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, slipped away to join the rebels and their forces grew. It would come to a fight soon, Simon thought, and wondered how far the father and son riding either side of him would be assets in the conflict. No, the agreement between them was not worth the parchment it was written on, for they wished him dead.

  It was Maytime and the peasants tending their fields watched the passing army with dulled eyes. They knew only too well that if those great lords astride their destriers, dressed in chain mail with swords at their sides, were to join battle with their enemies, the carefully sown crops would be trampled and poor men would face starvation next winter. But in one or two villages men cried out God's blessing on the Lord Simon, for if they suffered loss he would punish the marauders and see them recompensed, whereas if the King won he would make promises and do nothing.

  Henry also rode in silence, his face as sullen as those of his meanest subjects. He hated the loss of power, of luxury and comfort, for Simon in his preoccupation cared little for such things. He hated the separation from his beloved Queen whom he had not seen since last year, and he hated the helplessness he felt in the company of his brother-in-law, his wishes counting for nothing any more.

  'How far is it to Hereford?' he asked petulantly. 'Are we to have no rest today?'

  Simon answered, 'There is bread and meat and wine ready, sire, but I will not pause longer than to rest the horses. I will be in Hereford before dark.'

  'I am tired,' Henry said. 'Surely is some suitable lodging between here and the city.'

  'None that I consider safe.'