CHAPTER TWO
First Love
THE MAIDSERVANT HELPED Alys to dress then escorted her down the winding, stone staircase of the castle. Alys followed towards the great hall and as she went, she tried her hardest not to feel sorry for herself. She fought against those tears, as well as the anger she felt for this witch queen who had sent away the only friends Alys had in this place.
But she must not cry, not in front of this unknown servant and certain not in front of Prince Richard. She had no wish for him to think her a baby, too young and immature for him. He was only twelve himself, but in two years he would be of an age to marry and Alys wanted him to think of her as a woman, not a little girl.
This castle seemed vast, although it was likely no bigger than her father’s chateaux where she had grown up. Alys was certain she would never find her way around it and she only wondered who there might be here who actually cared.
“Here we are, Your Highness,” said the cheerful maidservant.
Alys’ eyes wandered to the high table and saw them sitting there, eating, breaking their fast. Her new family, the King of England and three of his sons. Alys bit her lip. She didn’t want them to see her showing such weakness, but she didn’t belong here. She thought it unlikely she would ever belong here.
She lifted her eyes to Richard, who smiled a warm and welcoming smile as he gestured her to sit beside him. Immediately she felt better, and she moved toward the bench where he sat, but the witch queen beckoned her to sit beside her, at the far end of the table from Richard.
Alys didn’t want to sit there. She was already afraid of this woman; she had been hearing all her life what an evil whore she was, heard it from her father and from her half-sisters who were the witch queen’s own daughters, Alix and Marie. They had never forgiven her for abandoning them and they hadn’t seen her since she divorced their father.
“Come over here, child,” Eleanor demanded. “Let me have a look at you, see if you look at all like a royal princess, like my daughters.”
Richard pulled a face, a sign of resignation and Alys had no choice other than to sit beside Queen Eleanor and try her best to eat, although eating was the very last thing she wanted to do.
“Your Majesty,” she said as she sat down, before her courage escaped her. “Might I ask why Lady Michelle and my other ladies have been sent back to France?”
Queen Eleanor glared at her, her eyes widening in disapproval. Alys watched as that disapproval gradually turned to contempt.
“You have no need of a nurse,” she replied at last.
“She is more than a nurse,” Alys protested. “She is my friend.”
“She is a nurse for a child. You are no longer a child.”
Was that true? She was only nine years old; she had been a child only a few days ago when she left France and she certainly felt like a child. If she was not a child, if she was indeed a grown up woman, she should be able to choose for herself who she had for her companions.
But only a few minutes ago, she was wanting to appear to be older. She was so confused. Still, she had begun to question this formidable woman, so she may as well continue.
“I may not need a nurse, Your Majesty,” she said, “but I do need a friend.”
“Is that all? You will soon make friends.” Eleanor waved her arm at her three sons and their sister, Joanna, who looked too young to be seated at table with the adults. “Here is Richard, who will one day be your husband. There is Geoffrey, his brother, and Henry who will one day be King of England. Then Joanna, my favourite daughter.”
What a thing to say to her, to Alys, whose half sisters were also daughters of this Queen. She seemed a cold woman, even colder than Alys had expected, and no doubt, Princess Joanna would also one day be sent away to wed some foreign prince.
Eleanor made no mention of the other maiden who sat sewing away from the table and beside the huge stone fireplace. She looked up at Alys and smiled and for some reason she looked somewhat familiar.
“And then there is your sister, of course,” young Henry spoke at last.
He got up from the table and took the hand of the young lady who was sewing, pulled her to her feet and led her to the table where Alys finally realised who she was.
She wore wonderful clothes, a kirtle of brocade and sleeves of silk, the same silk as covered her hair. The square neckline of the bodice was meant to display a full bosom, but Marguerite had no such female charm, not even a hint of such a thing yet showing and Alys could not quite believe that this maid would soon be old enough to wed.
She looked nothing like the girl Alys had been expecting. She was only eleven years old, but in just a year she would marry and she would marry this handsome young prince whose hand she clutched so possessively.
“You are Marguerite,” Alys said. “You are my own sister.”
Marguerite released the hand of her betrothed and pulled Alys into her arms, her warm smile the most welcome she had received since landing in this cold realm. Suddenly, she felt a little less lonely.
“Come, you must walk with me in the grounds,” Marguerite said. She turned to a maidservant. “Fetch Princess Alys’s cloak,” she said. “And mine.”
So the two girls began what was to be an intermittent relationship, as others decided their activities and their residence.
“I am so pleased,” Alys said. “I was afraid you had been sent away somewhere and I would never get to meet you.”
“Henry and I live here most of the time. I fear that might soon change though.”
“How so?”
“I am not supposed to say, but the King has plans to crown his son while he still lives.”
Alys had heard of that before, but she still thought it odd.
“Why would he do that?” She said. “Surely the country cannot have two kings, can it?”
“Well, it is very unusual. It has never been done in England before, but the King has vast lands all over Europe and he needs to be sure of the succession if anything should happen to him. That is all I know, that is all Henry has told me. It promises to be a great ceremony, though.”
Alys was not very interested in great ceremonies. She wanted to know more about her sister’s life and whether she was content with her lot.
“Are you happy?” She asked.
“Oh, yes,” Marguerite replied. “I have been very fortunate. Henry is a wonderful boy and promises to grow into a wonderful man. He is kind and generous and thoughtful. He will make a great king.”
“And you will be his queen.”
“I will, yes. I am not sure how I will manage that, with Henry’s mother overseeing everything. I doubt she will want to give up any of her own power to me, but I shall have to make the best of it. Once I have given Henry an heir, he will no doubt put me above her.”
“And Richard?” Alys said. “He is Count of Poitiers and I will be his Countess. What is he like? Is he also a wonderful boy; is he likely to grow into a wonderful man?”
“I think so. I cannot pretend to know him well, not as well as Henry of course, but I will say he is very charming.”
She stopped talking as a shadow appeared before them and she looked up at her prince with adoration in her eyes.
“Come, My Lady,” said young Henry. “I am engaged to joust with my brothers this day and you must come and watch.”
He took her hand and led her away, leaving Alys once more alone and looking around for any face that might seem in the least familiar. She found none. A sudden sense of gloom washed over her and she tried to steer her thoughts to a possible happier future, but without much success.
A movement beside the bench caught her attention and she found herself looking at a little brown bird with a bright red chest. He was perched on the arm of her seat, very close, as though he was accustomed to the company of humans.
She wanted to touch him, but she was afraid she might frighten him away, and as she turned to look closer he flew up into the sky and she could only watch. Her lip tre
mbled.
“Don’t go,” she called after the little bird.
She wiped at her eyes again but it made no difference. She could not stop weeping; sobs began to rack her body until she felt she would fall apart. What on earth was she to do? She could not go home. No one there would welcome her, even if she could get there. She had to stay here in this desolate place, where even her own sister had no time for her.
She had no idea that anyone was near until she felt a hand on her shoulder, gently brushing the top of her arm and she was so grateful, she did not even look to see who it was who comforted her in her misery. She knew it was a man; she could smell the leather and horse and she hoped it was Richard. It would have meant such a lot to her to know that he cared enough to offer her solace.
She wiped at her eyes then sat up, a smile half formed on her still creased lips, and her eyes met those of her companion. She gasped and slid a little way along the bench and away from him.
“Your Majesty!” She cried out, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.
The last person she expected to be here offering his shoulder for her to cry on was the King himself.
IT TOOK ALYS A FEW more weeks before she began to grow accustomed to the castle and the people in it. Nobody spoke much to her, only Joanna and Geoffrey, Richard and Henry’s younger brother. The youngest brother was as yet a baby and still in the nursery, so she knew nothing of little John.
She divided her time between her lessons in the schoolroom, which she shared with Joanna and Geoffrey, and watching her betrothed as he practiced his fencing skills. As the months went by, those skills developed with him. He seemed to grow taller every time Alys saw him, and his prowess at sports saw his muscles budding along with his strength. Her eyes would follow him as his red gold hair glowed in the sunlight, her heart would race when something amused him and she heard the wonderful sound of his laughter. And when he directed his smile at her, she felt a little flutter that she had never known in her life before.
On many evenings, there would be singing and dancing. Minstrels would play their lutes and Richard would accompany them and sing some of the songs he had written himself. He had a wonderful voice, deep and strong, yet smooth like velvet and she could listen to him for hours. And he would dance with her; he danced beautifully and she began to feel herself very fortunate indeed.
Her only hope was that the King would stay friends with her own father so that nothing would interfere with the future they had mapped out for her and her Prince.
She learned how to speak Latin and Greek, she learned about the mythology of those countries and she learned about the life of the Lord Jesus. Nobody ever suggested learning to speak English, though. English was for the peasants, for the lower classes and the natives of this nation, not for their Norman overlords.
In June the whole household were to go to Westminster for the coronation of the young Prince Henry as King of England. Alys wondered where her sister fitted into it all.
“I will be crowned Queen when we are wed, I expect,” Marguerite told her. “But I am not important. The thrilling thing is that the King trusts his son to be called King as well as him, at the same time as him. Henry is ecstatic.”
During her many months of solitude, when nobody in the household had time for her, she had spent that time reading and learning. Now she was certain she knew a great deal about the way things were run in England, but she was still too young to be taken seriously.
Because of all she had learned, she had an objection, but being so young she did not want to make herself look foolish if she was wrong. Still, Marguerite was her sister; surely she could say anything to her. The Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas a Becket, had been living in exile for some years, since he had quarrelled with the King, yet he was the only one authorised to crown a king.
“I am wondering,” she said timidly. “How Henry can be crowned King without the Archbishop of Canterbury being present?”
Marguerite gave her a puzzled frown. She was a little annoyed that, in all the excitement, she hadn’t thought of it herself, yet this child had. She could not be right, though, could she?
“I think the King can name whoever he wants to crown the young King,” she answered doubtfully. “Either way, I am sure he knows what he is doing. Certainly more than you or I.”
Alys decided not to mention it again, but she still thought she was right.
All her life, Alys had been told she was special, that she was a royal princess, but she had never felt special. In fact, she sometimes saw the young serving girls about her father’s court, and even the peasants when she passed them in her carriage, and wondered if anyone was telling them who they could marry and who they could love.
But now, as she sat in the procession beside Marguerite and Joanna in an open carriage, for the first time in her life she really felt special. The roads along which they passed were lined with people from all walks of life. Some of the wealthier and more important sat on horseback, whilst others just stood watching, but all were cheering.
Flowers were thrown at the people in the procession and petals caught in the gowns of the ladies, some even dropping into their bodices.
As Alys’ coach moved towards Westminster, she heard her own name called. She actually heard someone shout out ‘God bless the Princess Alys!’ Oh, so she was important after all. People knew who she was, they actually knew who she was.
There were calls for Princess Joanna as well and for Marguerite, but the glow of these people knowing her, Alys, would stay with her for the rest of the day, possibly even for the rest of her life. She sat back against her seat and smiled contentedly, possibly for the first time since she had arrived in England, and began to daydream about the day they would cheer her when she rode in the procession to her wedding to Prince Richard, Count of Poitiers.
She watched him now, riding that fine black stallion beside his brother’s open carriage, and noticed with a shock that he had a shadow of red gold beard growing through on his otherwise smooth cheek. Two more years, that was how long she had to wait before she would be old enough to marry him; she wondered if he ever thought the same. She wondered if he felt as drawn to her as she was beginning to be drawn to him.
But she had nothing which would attract a virile young man.
IT WAS SAID THAT THOMAS Becket was furious that he had no part in the coronation of the young King Henry, that the ceremony was carried out whilst he was in exile. The young King was crowned by the Archbishop of York, against all tradition, and Becket threatened England with an interdict in retaliation.
Alys knew all this the same way she had discovered her own fate, by listening at doors and that was just what she was doing now, leaning against the stone wall, her ear close to the hinge of the great door where there was an ancient crack.
“Becket has done nothing wrong,” young Henry was saying. “He should not be in exile simply because he does not agree with our father, because he will not allow the King to rule the church.”
“Have a care, Henry,” Richard replied. “You have only now got that junior crown on your head; you do not want to lose it already.”
“But, Richard, do you realise what this means? I will not be able to marry Marguerite if he places the country under an interdict.”
“And that is important?”
“Of course it is important,” Henry said. “I love Marguerite. I do not want to lose her, but if her father takes the side of Becket in this dispute, that could well happen. And you will also not be able to marry the Princess Alys.”
“I do not expect to marry her, whatever happens,” said Richard.
Alys clapped her hand over her mouth to halt an escaping gasp. What on earth did he mean by that? They were betrothed; it was settled.
“Why not?” Henry was saying. “You have something against her?”
“Not at all. But she is not the first and I doubt she will be the last. When Father decides it is more important to make an alliance with some other kingdom, o
r decides he wants more lands from somewhere else, I will no doubt find myself betrothed to another.”
Alys caught her breath, an ache crept into her throat, but she was too late to suppress the sound. Chairs scraped across the stone floor on the other side of the door, hurried footfalls approached her and she tripped over her skirts in an attempt to flee. She cried out as she grazed her arm on the stone floor, her ankle twisting painfully.
Then she felt a grip on her upper arm, felt herself lifted to her feet where she swayed a little, then felt strong arms holding her upright.
She looked up into the handsome face of her betrothed. She had never been this close to him before, never felt his arms around her, never felt his heart beating against hers and she wanted to stay there, but it was not to be.
Her glance moved to his brother, who scowled angrily at her.
“What are you doing here, My Lady?” He demanded. “Should you not be sleeping by now?”
“I lost my way,” she lied.
“I do not believe that. You wanted to listen, to know what my brother and I were discussing. Am I not right?”
She saw no point in denying it.
“You seem to know the truth of it,” she answered in an insolent tone which seemed to anger Henry even more.
“Why? What did you hope to discover? The sort of discussions we have are not something a woman would understand, much less a young maid such as you.”
Her eyes met Richard’s, silently pleading for some sort of support, but he only released his grip on her and allowed her to stand alone. The weight on her injured ankle hurt and she lifted it off the ground to stand on one foot. Her eyes met Henry’s.
“Now that you are also King,” she said quietly, “I hoped to hear some news of my own future.”
Henry nodded. Apparently her explanation seemed logical to him.
“There is no news that you do not already know,” he answered. “Is that not right, Richard?”
The Loves of the Lionheart Page 2
