The Loves of the Lionheart

by Margaret Brazear

  “Of course.”

  “That is not what you said just now,” Alys argued, feeling her heart begin to hammer against her ribs. She never would have thought herself brave enough to argue with him. “You said you expected to be betrothed to another. If that is the case, you may as well persuade your father to send me home now.”

  Henry shook his head and retreated back into his chamber, while his brother took the hand of the Princess and placed it in the crook of his arm. He began to walk with her towards the chamber she now shared with the Princess Joanna and with her sister, Marguerite. He did not notice that she was limping.

  “Alys,” he said gently. “What I said was a mixture of truth and bravado. The King will not want to return you and your dowry with you, and more than that, he will not want to offend your father. But you need to remember that you and I are merely pawns in the game of politics. You are not betrothed to me; France is betrothed to England. Twice as it happens and when my brother weds your sister, France will be married to England.”

  “He said he loves her.”

  “He did,” said Richard with a smile. “That surprises me somewhat, but it is good. I hope the marriage takes place quickly, before our fathers have a chance to change their minds.”

  “She is old enough now, so she told me.”

  “She is, in years, but I think your father wants to wait a little longer and so does my brother. She is still very childlike.”

  “Oh,” said Alys. “What do you mean by that? Childlike?”

  They had arrived at the door to the maidens’ dormitory and he turned to look at her with a thoughtful twist to his lips.

  “I’ll not lie to you,” he said. “She is not yet ripe for marriage.”

  Alys flushed and wished she had never asked the question.

  “She will be disappointed.”

  “Perhaps, but not for long. My father is anxious to get his hands on her lands; he will not wait any longer than he has to for decency’s sake.”

  She curtsied quickly before turning towards the door.

  “Thank you for telling me,” she said.

  His hand came down on her shoulder and he turned her to look at him.

  “I did not intend for you to hear what I said to my brother, but since you did, it is as well you realise that nothing is settled, nor will it be until the marriage takes place. And that cannot happen until your sister weds Henry. I only want to warn you not to take things for granted, for your own sake.”

  She nodded briefly, her face flushed, before disappearing inside the dormitory and slipping silently into her bed.

  BY YULETIDE, ALYS FINALLY felt at home in King Henry’s court. She could look back on those first days when she was alone and so homesick she thought she would die of it. She never thought she would fit in here, but Richard and his brothers had been kind to her and the King had been more than kind. Joanna had become a good friend, although she would one day have to leave for her own marriage so Alys knew she would lose her.

  Yes, most of them had been kind. Alys could not say the same for Queen Eleanor, but she had formed the opinion that she was incapable of kindness. The only person she seemed to treat with respect was Richard; he was definitely her favourite child and Alys told herself that when she had children, she would be sure to treat them all the same, no matter how she felt about them.

  Earlier that year, the King had invited Thomas a Becket to return to England and take up his rightful position as Archbishop of Canterbury. The two men had still not rekindled the friendship they had once known, but at least things were easier. Well, that was what Alys had been told, grudgingly, when she asked.

  Some of the adults refused to answer her questions, telling her that such things were not the business of women. Others thought her questions amusing, but these were the ones who were more likely to answer. Richard would explain if he were here, but that was not often. He was always out hunting or jousting with his brothers, or even wrestling. Alys had tried to take an interest, but it seemed that females were not supposed to be concerned with those things either, at least not in the practice of them.

  Wrestling was the best. She had slipped out early one morning, wanting to go for a walk on her own and think, speculate on her future, when she heard shouts and laughter. Wondering if the servants were wasting time when they should be working, she walked toward the sound and what she saw made her leap behind a bush where she could not be seen.

  Henry, the young King, was there laughing as he watched his two brothers, their arms wrapped around each other as they wrestled each other to the ground. All three boys wore only their thin breeches, which hung a little below their waists and their muscles rippled as they moved.

  Alys knew a little flutter deep within herself that she could never have imagined. The naked chests of all three boys was a handsome sight, but the urge to touch Richard’s was so great, she had to turn away lest she give in to it. This was what she had to look forward to when they were married and she made a wish that Marguerite would soon be ripe for her bridegroom, so that Alys did not have to wait too much longer.

  Recalling how she had been discovered listening outside the Princes’ door and how angry Henry had been, she took more care this time and sneaked away without being detected.

  It was just a week into the springtime when Alys attended her first tourney. There was a pavilion with seats, all decked out with ribbons and rosettes, where the ladies could sit and watch. The King himself was to take part and the young men looked glorious in their armour. They had chain mail which clung to their thighs and arms, and steel plates over their chests, helmets with visors to protect their faces.

  The sun glinted off the steel, causing Alys to shade her eyes from the glow, and from beneath that hand she saw the young King Henry ride close to them and hold out his arm for Marguerite to tie her kerchief around it over his armour. Alys gasped. It was expected; they were betrothed and their marriage would take place within the week, but Alys thought it very romantic.

  Sensing someone close to her, she turned to see Richard, sitting upon his horse and holding out his arm to her, bearing that arm for her to tie her own favour. Her eyes opened wide in surprise and she searched her gown for some token to give him, but she had nothing. She had not expected this; nobody had told her.

  At last she found the scarf which rested on her shoulders and she pulled it off, leaned forward and tied it securely on Richard’s arm. He gave her that warm smile before he turned to ride away and she felt that same little flutter again.

  By asking for her favour and wearing it so proudly, he was telling everyone that he was hers and she was his.

  From then on, the tournament was filled with tension for Alys as her heart hammered with fear that Richard might be injured, or even killed. Every time his lance met another, her heart jumped and she gasped.

  But she was so proud as she watched her brave knight. He was very well built and was already a skilful warrior who would one day win battles and glory. But for now, she could think only that he wore her favour and that despite all the doubts that had gone before, their future was settled.

  Soon her sister would be married to the young King Henry and once that was done, she could begin to plan her own wedding to her handsome Prince.

  CHRISTMAS OF 1170 WAS exciting in many ways. Alys felt at home here, she had been here for over a year and she was half in love with her Prince, although he did have a fragile and violent temper which scared her more than a little. Already her sister’s betrothed had been crowned King. He was known as the young King, because his father still lived, but so far he had been given no real authority, no real power.

  The Archbishop of Canterbury was back where he belonged. Alys was not alone in thinking it wrong that the head of the English church should be exiled from England, but he had continued to cause trouble and everyone feared he might find himself exiled once more. And it was Alys’ father, King Louis, who had been helping Becket in his exile.

  That made it
personal. If her father caused friction between France and England, she would lose her betrothal and so would her sister. No matter what Richard had said about his father not wanting to give up her dowry, or Marguerite’s, their futures and their lives could be changed on a whim. Once more, she began to feel unsettled at this foreign court.

  The Christmas celebrations were held at Winchester and were supposed to continue, as was the custom, through to twelfth night, but not this Yule. This Christmas celebration had been overshadowed by the King’s anger about the continuing dispute with his Archbishop. It seemed there was some new rule to which the King needed Becket’s agreement and he was refusing to give it.

  There was a lot of shouting that Alys could not decipher, then a few days later the celebrations were cut short by news of the murder of the saintly Thomas a Becket on the very steps of Canterbury Cathedral.

  Alys overheard the Queen screaming about it.

  “What the hell have you done now?”

  “Me?” Replied the voice of the King. “Why are you blaming me?”

  “Word is you gave the order,” she answered angrily. “They say you asked for someone to rid you of the priest. Are you saying they lie?”

  That was all she heard before the King and Queen retreated to their chamber and closed the door. Alys shuddered. Blood spilled in the house of God? And the blood of a high priest at that. This could only mean the worst fortune for England, for the King and for everyone in his household. But no one was going to tell Alys the details.

  CHAPTER THREE

  An Awakening

  BY THE TIME ALYS WAS twelve, she had accepted that her future was sealed, that her betrothal to Prince Richard would not be torn apart by feuds between their two fathers and that now she was old enough to wed, all that stood in her way was the marriage of her sister.

  Despite the King’s persistence, her father was still reluctant to allow that final step to be taken. Nobody really knew why, but Henry was desperate to take control of the castles and territories Marguerite brought with her and she was equally desperate to marry the young King.

  She wrote to her father, begging that he allow the marriage to proceed. She felt insecure, she told him, with the delay. She did not understand why they must wait. She had been betrothed to Henry since she was but two years old; she knew no other life, no other expectation. If anything were to tear her away from him now, she was sure she would die of a broken heart.

  Something worked. King Henry believed it was his own threats and blustering that secured King Louis’ consent, but Alys wanted to believe it was her sister’s heartfelt plea. If she believed that, she could also believe that the King actually cared for his daughter’s happiness. If that were true, he might also care for the happiness of his younger daughter, of Alys, and then she could tell him that she, too, was in love.

  She was unsure what that was, but she was certainly looking forward to her marriage to her handsome young prince with the kindly smile.

  Now that Marguerite had been moved to her own bower, the private chamber she was now entitled to as she awaited her marriage, and Joanna was with her mother, Queen Eleanor, helping to plan the wedding, Alys had the dormitory to herself.

  There would be a maidservant coming in later to sleep on the trundle, but for these few hours she had a privacy she had never known in her life before. Even when she bathed, there would be someone with her, either the other princesses just going about their usual pursuits, or a maidservant to wash her hair and soap her, rinse her off and dry her. At night, even beneath her bedcovers she had little privacy, with a servant on the trundle and the other maidens reading by candlelight.

  Alys had never had a chance to discover her developing body, to look at herself and decide whether she was happy with what she saw. Sometimes she wondered if she had something wrong with her, to want to inspect herself like this, but the thought did not deter her.

  Two years ago, Richard had explained to her why her sister’s marriage could not yet be celebrated and now his words returned to her. She had never forgotten them really, because she was so grateful that he had thought her important enough to take the time to explain. He had said Marguerite was not yet ripe for marriage and now she was afraid that he might think the same of her.

  She made sure the door was firmly closed, then she slipped her kirtle from her shoulders, letting it settle on her hips, and stood gazing at her own reflection. The mirror was old and marked, covered in black splotches where the damp had penetrated its various resting places. Nobody thought that maids in this dormitory would have much need of such a thing, but there was enough surface still showing for Alys’ purposes.

  She put her hands beneath the tiny buds that would soon be breasts and pushed them up. Yes, they were definitely larger than Marguerite’s had been at this age, but still not full enough to be called ripe. She thought perhaps she could find some sort of wrapping to draw tight about herself, something that would make her bosom lift and appear larger.

  She pushed down the rest of her kirtle and let it fall about her feet, so that she stood naked before her reflection. Her hips were flared, but they still had a long way to go. She closed her eyes and Richard’s image formed in her mind, that warm smile lighting his face. She remembered that first tourney when he had offered his arm for her to tie her favour and by so doing, claimed her as his own.

  She imagined him entering this chamber quietly and standing behind her, thought about him slipping his arms around her naked body, taking her breasts in his warm hands, his lips touching her neck as he stroked her hips and moved his fingers over the lower part of her stomach.

  She moved her legs so as to stand with them slightly apart and she closed her eyes. She could almost feel the warmth of his hands on her, imagined his breath on her neck as she leaned back against him. And she felt his flesh against hers, because in this fantasy, he wore no shirt, just as she had seen him wrestling with his brothers. Firm muscles held her tightly against his broad chest and she sighed ecstatically.

  She could almost hear him telling her she was ripe enough for him, that he could not wait for the marriage bed. She felt that unfamiliar throbbing again in that lower part of herself and her eyes snapped open. She was suddenly terrified that she was being watched, that somewhere there might be a place where prying eyes could observe the maidens in this dormitory.

  And if there were such a thing, what would Richard think about her behaviour here this night? Her cheeks burned as she ran to her bed and slipped beneath the covers, pulling them up over her head.

  But the feelings refused to go away. Curling herself into a ball, she closed her eyes again and saw him beside her, his beautiful head on the pillow next to hers. He moved his hands over her body, bent his head and took her breast into his mouth, slipped his hand inside her thighs and stroked her gently.

  Once more, her eyes snapped open. She had never felt like this before. These were not feelings a lady should have, were they? Or yet a child? But she was no longer a child; she was ripe for marriage, Richard had said so. But no, he hadn’t. That had been in her imagination, that was between her and God. And now she feared she would have to confess to her priest. She must confess her sins, but she was not sure if thoughts could be a sin.

  Once more her cheeks burned. Her confessions in the past had been sins of greed, of covetousness. She confessed that she wanted that beautiful emerald brooch the Queen had given to Joanna. She confessed that she was envious of her sister’s wedding being so close, when she had to wait longer for her own.

  She could almost hear the gasp of shock which would come from the priest in his confessional if she told him about these thoughts. She sank beneath the covers and talked herself out of believing her recent thoughts had been a sin that needed confessing.

  THE KING SPARED NO expense in giving his eldest son the most sumptuous wedding and banquet he could, and after the marriage, young Henry was once again crowned as King of England, this time with his new wife at his side. She was crowne
d as well, but Queen Eleanor could not spare a smile for her.

  Young Henry’s eldest sister had come from Saxony to stay, to attend the wedding, and since the castle was full of guests, she was to share the maids’ bedchamber with Alys. She was about fourteen years of age, but had been sent off and married to the Duke of Saxony three years ago.

  Alys was still in awe of the Queen, still afraid of her, still believed she was a witch with powers of the Devil. It was the King’s bloodline that was thought to be that of the Devil, but that was merely a legend. If she believed that, she would have to believe that her Richard was also from Satan’s lineage and that she would never accept.

  She had heard someone saying that after the marriage ceremony, Eleanor would be leaving England and she would not want to miss the marriage of her favourite son, which meant that it might be soon as she was anxious to return to Poitiers. Now Henry had been crowned the young King twice, his father would be bound to give him more authority and his brothers with him. Then peace would prevail and she and Richard could be wed. Only then would she feel really secure; only then could she plan her future.

  Whilst she stood through the ceremony, listened to the vows her sister made, she found it impossible to concentrate. There was but one thought in her mind: that now Marguerite was wed to Henry, it would not be long before she would be joined to his brother and find out if those tempting thoughts she had experienced had any basis in fact.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and pushed the memories away. The monks were chanting, the choir boys were singing and the Archbishop was reading from his Bible in Latin. This was not the place to be having these erotic thoughts.

  Instead she concentrated her gaze on Marguerite’s wonderful attire, her satin kirtle, her surcoat of cloth of gold, her veil of the finest silk. She looked absolutely enchanting and Alys was so proud of her. She had shown great patience in waiting all this time for her wedding, especially when she had told her sister that she loved young Henry.