The Loves of the Lionheart

by Margaret Brazear

  She stood before her, a woman much taller than any other Alys had ever seen. She was thin, almost skeletally thin, her brown hair piled on top of her head beneath her veil, her face lined with age and a grim line of distaste on her lips.

  Alys dropped a quick curtsey.

  “Your Majesty,” she said.

  There was nothing else to be said. She could hardly ask the Queen of England why she was here, she could hardly demand to know her business. Eleanor swept past her and into the great hall, calling to the servants for food and wine as she went. She wore no cloak, no mantle or boots; the weather was warm and such outer garments were unnecessary. She merely sat at the table and waited for the servants to comply with her orders.

  Not until they had laid the table with cold meats, bread and cheese, wine and mead, did she speak and when she did, Alys was taken aback.

  “Come,” she said. “Sit beside me. Eat. We have much to discuss.”

  Alys hurried to slide onto the bench beside her, still at a loss for words.

  “The King, my husband, is dead,” Eleanor said abruptly.

  Alys gasped, caught at her breath, wondering why she had not thought of this. Of course Henry had not freed his Queen after all these years, that would have been Richard. It would no doubt have been the first thing he did when told he was King of England, to give his beloved mother her freedom and send her here, for what?

  “You have my condolences, Your Majesty,” Alys muttered.

  “Keep them. My son is King now, which means a lot of changes for us all.”

  Still, Alys could find no words.

  “He will make a great King, I have no doubt,” she said at last.

  “He will. Certainly a better one than his father.”

  “Oh, but...”

  Alys wanted to argue, but she did not quite dare. Even Eleanor must know that King Henry was a great king, if a bad husband and father.

  Eleanor eyed her suspiciously, making her squirm in her seat. Alys pulled at a piece of chicken and tried to eat it, but such scrutiny was depriving her of her appetite. She wondered if Eleanor knew of the King’s wish for Alys to marry John. She would not mention it. Who knew but she might decide it to be a good idea?

  “Have no fear, little Alys,” Eleanor said as she drank her wine. “I know of your affair with my husband. The whole of Christendom knows of it, so there is no point pretending otherwise. Richard bade me come straight here to collect you and take you to him in Normandy.”

  Take her to him? He could not want her after all, could he? He had made it quite clear that he would not go where his father had been. Alys was still smarting from those words and she had no reason to suppose that anything had changed. Unless Eleanor wanted the marriage. He might go through with it if his mother wanted it, but there was surely no reason why she would want her husband’s mistress to marry her favourite son.

  Perhaps it was for Philip. Richard had ever been close to Alys’s brother, until he informed Philip of the relationship between his sister and the King. He might be prepared to do anything to get back into Philip’s good graces, but not this, surely not.

  Alys should be Queen of England now, had Henry left her alone. Richard’s words pounded once more in her brain: I cannot go where he has been.

  Those words had singed into her heart and mind and filled her with shame. She could not think that the man who spoke them could ever change his mind.

  “What does he want with me?” She asked at last.

  “He is going to be in France until the coronation. He wants to be sure you are comfortable and well guarded there.”

  “Guarded? Again, guarded?” Alys shouted. “I have been locked up like a criminal since I came to this dismal land, despite being guilty of nothing. You have your freedom, My Lady; why can I not have mine?”

  “Guilty of nothing?” Eleanor answered bitterly. “Nothing but adultery.”

  Alys thought she had no more tears in her until this haughty and imperious woman arrived that morning. Now she knew she was wrong.

  “Don’t weep, my child,” Eleanor said surprisingly. “I do not blame you and I will do my best for you. But Richard wants you near to him. For what reason I do not know, perhaps to keep you close for his own ends.”

  “Something to do with my brother, no doubt.”

  “You could be right. Richard is to return to England for the coronation and relations between him and your brother are at their lowest point. I imagine Richard wants you as a hostage to Philip’s good behaviour whilst he is here.”

  Alys swung her legs over the bench and away from the table. She got to her feet, dropped a quick curtsy to the Queen and turned to leave the hall. Once more she was to be held hostage to someone or something, once more her life was not to be her own.

  THEY ARRIVED IN NORMANDY to bright sunshine, the flowers the colours of a glorious rainbow. It had been twenty years since Alys set foot in this land, since she had smelled the wonderful blooms, heard the enchanting music, and just being here brought more of those treacherous tears.

  She wanted to stay, but knew that was unlikely to be her fate. Her destiny had always been in the hands of kings and nothing had changed; now it was in the hands of a new king, King Richard, who had his own reasons for keeping her confined.

  The castle was not far from the coast. She would be able to look out of its windows and see the ships on the sea, could even smell the salt air and the fresh cut grass.

  “Why does he want me, My Lady?” She asked of Eleanor. “Am I to see him? Talk with him?”

  Eleanor shook her head as she led her inside the great hall to where a sumptuous meal was laid out ready.

  “Richard has ordered that you have every comfort whilst you are here. He has sent for ladies from your brother’s court, a concession which you should appreciate. It was not easy for him to arrange this.” She paused as though waiting for a sign of gratitude, but Alys privately thought it far more likely that Philip had sent these ladies to serve his sister. She did not believe for one moment that it had been Richard’s idea. “As well as the ladies,” Eleanor went on, “you are to have dressmakers when you need them and horses.”

  “Horses? I can ride out?”

  “Of course, but not alone naturally. That would not be safe.”

  Alys sat beside the table and poured herself some ale. She would not wait for the Queen to seat herself; she had gone far beyond such niceties.

  “So, I am a prisoner still,” she said. “Why does he not send me to a convent and be done with it? At least there I would have a certain future.”

  “You are still betrothed to my son,” Eleanor replied. Alys’ eyes opened wide in surprise. “You did not realise that, did you?”

  “I thought he might have dissolved the betrothal before this. How can I still be promised to him when he refuses to marry me, when I have betrayed him with his own father? How is that possible?”

  “Nothing has yet been done to dissolve the union,” Eleanor said. “Philip still demands that you wed, the betrothal is still binding. While that is the case, Richard is still responsible for you. He takes that responsibility very seriously; that is why he has brought you here.”

  “I do not believe that, My Lady,” Alys said. “He has brought me here for his own ends, likely more to do with my dowry lands and not wanting to part with them than any sense of duty. Also, he may well be returning to Winchester after the coronation and he’ll not want to stay under the same roof as me.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Berengaria

  BERENGARIA STOOD CLOSE to the mirror, her fingertips stroking her face to see if any lines had appeared. She was well into her twenties now and since her father was growing old and uninterested in politics, her brother had taken a stronger role in the royal court of Navarre.

  She straightened her skirt and left her chamber to answer her brother’s summons. He had something about which to discuss, his note had said, and she had an idea what that something might be. She had an inkling that t
heir father would abdicate in favour of his son, and if that were the case, Sancho would want to talk to his sister about it. They were a close family, one who shared their secrets and their wishes.

  She should have been married a long time ago, but politics changed so quickly, a royal princess never knew where her future lay. There was a time when only a King would do for her, but she was uncertain if that was still the case.

  “You wished to see me,” she said as she entered the chamber.

  The windows were open to the scents of the flowers and plants outside, the smell of the orange groves stronger than any other. It was a comforting smell, a smell of home.

  Sancho stood and stepped toward her, kissed her cheek affectionately then gestured her to sit.

  “Do you remember,” he said, “when you were very young, we had a tournament here in Pamplona?”

  She smiled affectionately.

  “We had many tournaments, Sancho. I remember them all.”

  “You might remember this one more than the others. That was the one attended by an English prince.”

  She could hardly forget that tournament, not when that handsome prince had looked at her with those kind eyes and smiled such a warm smile. Sancho did not need to know that she had thought of that prince a lot since then.

  “Yes, of course I remember Prince Richard. He is now King of England and still not married to his betrothed.”

  “You have taken an interest.”

  “I have indeed. He was a handsome young man and since then he has built a reputation as a brave and skilful warrior.”

  “He has indeed. They call him The Lionheart for his bravery. That should make him even more tempting to a young, female heart.”

  For the first time, she wondered where this topic was leading.

  “What are you saying, Sancho?” She said.

  “He has asked for your hand in marriage,” he said with a smile. “How do you feel about that?”

  Her heart leapt.

  “How should I feel?” She said. “He is betrothed to the Princess of France so how can he make such an offer to me?”

  “It was a factor about which I enquired. It seems Princess Alys lost his regard many years ago.”

  “For what reason?”

  Sancho smiled mischievously.

  “I believe it was after he met you,” he said.

  Berengaria’s eyes widened, her cheeks flushed crimson. She had harboured an infatuation for Richard since the first time she saw him, and she could not help but be pleased that he had chosen her instead of Princess Alys. But that did not alter the fact that he was still tied to her.

  “He would have to dissolve the union before I can consider it,” she said regretfully.

  Although knowing she was duty bound to state the objection, she was afraid it might change his mind. And she did not want him to change his mind. In her years of life as a royal maiden, there had only ever been one man who had found his way into her dreams at night and now it seemed likely those dreams might well have a chance of coming true.

  “He knows that,” Sancho replied. “It would be a great alliance for Navarre. We border Aquitaine, so we need each other as mutual allies against an invasion from France.”

  “Such an invasion will be even more likely when King Philip learns that Richard rejects his sister and asks for me in her stead.”

  “It will. But it’s not just Aquitaine; it is an alliance with Normandy, with Brittany and with England itself. It will raise our little country in the eyes of the world as nothing else can, but I want you to know that if you object to this man, we will think further.”

  “Throughout time, princesses have been used to form alliances. Why should I be any different?”

  “Perhaps because I love you and your father loves you. Yes, it is your fate to marry where it would best serve the country, but not if it will make you unhappy. We would not want that for you.”

  “Sancho, my dear,” she said, her hand covering his, “I was beginning to wonder if perhaps you had run out of territories with which to bond. What other reason could there be for my reaching this age without a purpose?”

  “Father always said only a King would do.”

  “And now he has found one. I wonder why, though. I know I am to give him a strong border for Aquitaine, but even so, he could have chosen a princess from a more important realm. Yet he has no sooner gained the English throne and he comes asking for me.”

  “Does that mean something to you?”

  The one thing she remembered most about that tournament was Prince Richard wearing her favour around his arm.

  “I would like to think it does,” she answered bashfully. “Perhaps he remembers me from that tournament, although I can scarcely think it. I was but a child.”

  “You forget, my dear, that he wasn’t much older himself.”

  “That is true. He led his own army at the age of only sixteen, so they say. He always seemed older to me.”

  “So, you are happy with the arrangement then?”

  Berengaria’s eyes met those of her brother and she smiled. Her heart fluttered a little and she wondered if perhaps she would wake from this dream and learn that was all it was, a dream. She recaptured the image of this English Prince well, remembered his muscular chest and thighs, his chiselled features and his red gold hair, thick and glossy. Even then she had longed to run her fingers through that hair, to hold his face between her hands and kiss those sensuous lips.

  She had felt like a precocious child then, knowing those thoughts and feelings to be far too mature for a maid of her age. But now? Now she could have those thoughts, now she would have the right to taste those lips, feel that body close to her own.

  But not until he had dissolved his betrothal to Princess Alys. To do otherwise would be too dishonourable.

  “I am very happy with the arrangement,” she answered him at last.

  “That is a relief. Queen Eleanor is on her way here to take you to him.”

  The disappointment was almost palpable.

  “He is not coming himself?”

  “He is busy gathering forces and raising funds for a crusade. You are to go to him, to meet him in Sicily. Queen Eleanor will escort you, make sure you arrive safely, then you will travel with him to the Holy Land. It is a great honour.”

  “I suppose so,” she said.

  Her romantic ideas of a few minutes ago were suddenly deflated. If Richard had been anxious to secure her hand in marriage because of a single meeting, years ago, he would surely have come himself, not sent his mother. But he had taken the Cross; the crusade, wresting the holy city from the Infidel was of far more importance than their private affairs.

  It would mean that she would be married in the land where Christ once walked, where He taught his followers and preached his sermons. That was certainly something to be thrilled about.

  “Queen Eleanor is coming here to take me to King Richard,” Berengaria said. “But he is still betrothed to Princess Alys. I cannot go with her until that matter is settled. It would be shameful, Sancho, you must realise that.”

  “I do and I am sure it will be settled by the time she arrives. I certainly don’t relish telling the indomitable Eleanor of Aquitaine that you don’t approve of her methods.”

  THE QUEEN MOTHER ARRIVED with an escort of English nobles, all richly dressed and adorned with jewels. Berengaria watched her brother greet them in the courtyard, but she was too far away to hear that greeting. She did not hear him suggest that Eleanor keep the situation with Princess Alys to herself.

  He was eager for the marriage to proceed, as it was the best thing for his sister politically and emotionally. He had known for years that she had an infatuation for the young King of England and he wanted only her happiness.

  But he knew she had spoken in earnest when she declared that she would not leave Pamplona with the Queen Mother until the business of Richard’s betrothal to Princess Alys was settled. Sancho wanted nothing to get in the way of his sis
ter’s future, even if it was that sister’s own honour.

  After only a few hours in the company of Eleanor of Aquitaine, Berengaria found it hard to imagine that any man could have confined her to a long and tedious imprisonment for sixteen years. For that was what King Henry had done; he had captured her and kept her like some wild animal.

  Berengaria knew it was because she had waged war against him, turned his sons against him, so she supposed she could not blame him, but she was such a formidable woman, so arrogant and domineering, the idea was bizarre.

  Eleanor was very tall, a head taller than most men. Her lined face was still beautiful, her demeanour that of someone who was accustomed to being obeyed without question. Berengaria would do her best to appease her, but she obeyed no one except those who were entitled to that privilege, her father, her brother, her husband when she had one.

  Knowing that she should make subtle enquiries of her guest with regard to Princess Alys, Berengaria could not quite find the right words. It was not out of fear of Eleanor, for she had no such fear. It was more out of fear of the answers she might receive.

  It was delightful to find that Eleanor shared her love of music and between negotiations for settlements between her, on behalf of her son, and King Sancho, they were able to play and sing some of the songs they had written.

  A banquet was prepared for the eve of their departure, a sumptuous feast of meats and delicacies, where wine flowed and music filled the air. Minstrels played outside Berengaria’s window that night, to bid farewell to their beloved princess. It was touching that she was so well loved, but it made her sad.

  Sadder still was her departure from the narrow streets that had been her home for twenty six years. It would be a long journey and an arduous one and Berengaria wondered if she would ever see her dear family again.

  She kept her face turned to look out of the coach window as they drove away; she had no desire for the Queen Mother to see the tears over which she had no control. Eleanor might not understand her sadness, might think it an affront to her son, that his beloved shed tears as she began her journey to be with him.