The Silken Rose

by Carol McGrath

  He climbed down from her bed and left her after dropping a kiss on her forehead. Ailenor thought about him long past the midnight Angelus bells’ peals. She would bind him to her somehow. There would never be others.

  2

  London, January 1236

  Ailenor stepped onto the blue ray cloth of silk spread out for her husband and her to walk upon into the magnificent abbey church at Westminster.

  On the previous afternoon they had ridden in a grand procession of nobles and City aldermen from the Tower, where they lodged, to Westminster Palace. Tapestries were hung from windows as well as garlands of winter greenery tied with colourful ribbons. Crowds threw silky rosebuds at the great procession. Trumpeters sounded gilded horns. Lamps flickered like a thousand golden stars to light the route along the Cheape to St Paul’s, out of the great Aldgate where they turned onto the Strand and rode forward to Westminster, which they reached as dusk descended.

  The walls of her chamber in the palace at Westminster were decorated with ancient stories. Her ante-chamber was green, Henry’s favourite colour. Her favourite legends had been painted on his chamber’s walls as well. How had he known the stories she loved? When she asked, he told her he loved those legends also. On their first evening at the palace, as they shared a private supper in the King’s chamber, he told her what was to happen on the following day.

  ‘I shall be preceded by three earls,’ he said as he placed a little fish on her plate – she was so entranced she could hardly eat a morsel. ‘They carry the swords of state. My treasurer follows, and my chancellor who carries the stone chalice for the holy anointing oil. Two knights will bear our sceptres. I walk before you into the cathedral under a canopy of purple silk and you, Ailenor, you will look magnificent under your own purple silken covering. It will be held up with silver lances and gilt bells on each lance, and will chime sweet as Heaven’s angels as you step forward.’

  ‘But I do not walk alone, do I?’ she had asked, her heart beating faster and her appetite diminished. She felt her stomach cramping and she prayed to St Beatrice that her courses were not descending early. Her flowers, as her mother called them, would render her unclean. She found she was biting her lip. All had been worked out ahead. She was not due for at least another week.

  Henry glanced at her plate. He said, ‘Ailenor, you must eat or you will faint tomorrow and we can’t have that.’ Ailenor dipped a morsel of bread into a sauce which tasted lemony and tried to swallow. ‘You will not walk alone into the church nave.’ Henry lifted another tiny fish onto her silver dish. ‘Two grand bishops shall accompany you. One is to be your Uncle William.’

  She felt queasy as she reached the church door where she paused for Archbishop Rich to read the first prayer. He looked severe and frowning. She had disliked him in Canterbury and she had not warmed to him as they travelled to London. It had only been because she’d insisted and complained to Henry that her damsels were returned to her, and only once they reached the Tower was accommodation granted to the ladies from Provence in her own chambers. Edmund Rich was stern, always so stern. She heard that he wore a hair shirt under his gown, and that he whipped himself. She glanced around, feeling relief. Uncle William was close enough to ease her passage through this foreign ceremony. What would she do without him? How would she manage if her people were sent home to Savoy and Provence? They must all stay, all her damsels and all her clerks.

  She tried hard to concentrate on the Archbishop’s prayer but it was tedious and long. He was reciting the names of women who had borne sons in the line of David, the endless royal line that led to Christ. Her ear caught at particular names such as Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and the Virgin whom she loved with all her heart. She whispered her own prayer, ‘Blessed Madonna, please give me a son, too. It is what they want from me.’ Remembering Henry’s reticence to deflower her, she murmured, ‘And may it happen soon.’ She felt Uncle William’s white gown twitch by her side. He was smiling. Perhaps he had heard her words.

  He nudged her gently. ‘Walk forward, Ailenor.’

  They moved inwards to where the church was ablaze with colour. The greatest nobles of the land were pressed into the nave, clad in gold, furs and silks; everything seemed gleaming in the soft candlelight, perfumes and incense mingling with the sour scent of perspiring humanity. She took a deep breath. Before she stepped to the high altar, Uncle William said into her ear, ‘Remember to prostrate yourself.’

  The Archbishop recited more prayers containing hopes for her fruitfulness and her kindness, and after that, the rest of the ceremony followed in a dreamlike trance. Someone – she could not discern who – removed her gold circlet. She felt the warmth of holy oil, the chrism, trickle onto her head. She was a queen, sanctified and anointed by God’s archbishop, and as Queen she possessed powers bestowed on her by God, power which she intended to use to help her family. After all, she had made her parents a promise to remember Savoy and Provence, and this promise she must keep.

  Like Queen Esther of the Book, she would intercede with the King for the well-being of her people. She had already done so that morning, pleading before Henry on her knees for the life of a criminal. Archbishop Rich had chosen the fortunate man for her royal intercession. She would have preferred to have been able to choose but she was a stranger to this different land.

  A heavy crown of golden lilies was placed on her head. A sceptre was placed in her hands. The Archbishop recited, ‘Christus vincit, Christus regnat, Christus imperat.’ At last it was over.

  She wondered if she could survive the feasting that would follow. All she wished to do now was retreat to her bed chamber, wrap herself in her coverlet, close the curtains, and sleep for a week. Her belly still ached and she was exhausted. Instead, when they returned to her apartments, Nell guided her to a couch where she was to rest before the feast began. Closing her eyes, she lay down, thankful her courses were not quite yet pressing down on her after all. Not yet. Nell kindly massaged her hands and feet and bathed her face with lavender water.

  ‘I cannot eat. My belly aches,’ she said, folding her hands over her stomach.

  ‘A maid will bring you a hot stone wrapped in cloth for your pains and I’ll send for a hot posset. You must attend the feast, Ailenor, if only for a while,’ Nell said with sympathy creeping into her voice. ‘The feasting is for the court, the clergy, and the people. You won’t be expected to stay long.’ Ailenor gratefully sipped the sweet drink when it arrived, then closed her eyes and dozed. When she woke up she was clutching the hot stone to her belly. She felt better and, to her surprise, a little hungry.

  Smiling graciously, as she knew she must, Ailenor prepared to enter the hall. Her ladies fell into step behind and processed with her through the enormous doors. The hall was packed with nobles placed below the high table of state.

  As trumpets sounded everyone rose to greet her and the King’s steward led her to a throne-like chair beside Henry’s. She sank onto a soft cushion for which she was thankful. Henry leaned over and whispered, ‘You need not stay long, little queen. I have ordered refreshments to be sent to the great chamber for you and your ladies.’

  ‘I shall stay awhile, my lord, and enjoy it too,’ she replied brightly, despite longing to return to her apartments.

  She found herself alert again as a striking dark-haired knight served them. A golden-headed page, almost as handsome as the knight, poured her wine. The knight had hair blacker than her own, glossy as a jackdaw’s coat. He seemed mysterious and self-assured. He emanated confidence and power. He was charming. He was like Launcelot of the Lake.

  ‘Your Grace,’ the noble servitor said, ‘may I offer you a portion of larks’ tongues in aspic?’

  She glanced up into the nobleman’s dark brooding eyes and could not refuse, even though she had no real desire for larks’ anything. She accepted the tiny pink things that looked like miniature mushrooms and using her eating knife pushed them to the side of her golden dish.

  ‘Who is he?’ she asked Henry in
a low voice, as the knight moved along the table to stand behind Nell.

  ‘Simon de Montfort-Amaury, a Frenchman.’ Henry spoke into her ear. ‘He’s impoverished and not popular here but I like him. I’m going to make him Earl of Leicester one of these days. He’s been petitioning me for the honour. Apparently he has a claim; thinks he’s Leicester’s rightful heir.’

  Ailenor had no idea where or what Leicester was or about what claims there were. She asked an obvious question; at least she thought it such. ‘Has he a wife?’

  For an intake of breath, Henry frowned. ‘No, he’s unwed. If he serves us well, perhaps I can award him a countess when I make him an earl.’ Henry smiled, his eyelid once again making him look as if he was winking at her. She laughed.

  ‘You are delightful when you laugh, my queen, but I hope you laugh for me and not for Sir Simon. I shall have to send him to the Tower dungeons and have unmentionable things happen to him if he dares look your way.’

  She took his hand and boldly raised it to her lips. ‘My Henry,’ she said. ‘Only ever you, of course.’

  A moment later she watched the handsome steward serving Nell. He was lifting a small gleaming fish onto her plate. He placed an adornment beside it, a posy of herbs tied with gold silk. Nell glanced up at the knight and smiled. Ailenor’s heart fluttered for them both. Could it be a token? Would Nell accept it?

  I am living in Camelot with my very own King Arthur and his knights. As Henry was distracted by a juggler who balanced plates on a pole wound round with golden ribbons, she lifted a chicken wing to her mouth. Nell deserves her knight for she is kind and I must write a song about them. The knight desires a widow dressed in grey wool. But, he knows that she possesses the most beautiful smile of all the ladies at court, surpassing all the jewelled creatures dressed in furs, silks, and velvets dining here today. He tempts her away to a forest dell and wins her heart.

  Ailenor wanted to compose her song at once. She thought herself very clever having discovered what was possibly a secret love affair at court already. It was too sad. Just as in all the best love stories, his love would be unrequited because of the Princess’s vow. She belongs to Christ. Yet how could she refuse such a fine knight? Ailenor turned away, tears in her eyes. And I must not say anything for that would spoil it. There must be a way for them to love each other.

  She listened to musicians play an assortment of instruments as course after course of colourful platters circulated the hall and tried to forget the intrigue she had noticed. She liked the swan dressed in his feathers, and the boar’s head with an apple in his snout that was pierced with cloves. She tasted a sliver of both. Finally, it was enough. If she stayed longer she would faint. She leaned over to Henry and tapped his arm. ‘May I leave now, my lord? My ladies have not eaten a morsel. Domina Willelma has been standing for an hour.’

  Henry nodded. ‘Go, my sweet. I shall join you later.’ Did he intend to come to her after all?

  As she rose she glanced down at her cushion. It had felt soft and warm. The roses embroidered on it had golden hearts. Nell rose from her place. Ailenor noticed a silver plate with a fish spine and a posy of herbs and for a moment she forgot the cushion. Nell was smiling, though she left the posy on the table as she joined Ailenor. So, I am right. Nell does like the dark knight.

  Halfway to the side door, Ailenor stopped. She said to one of her attendants, ‘Lady Mary, could you fetch my pillow, for I would not want it to fall into the Lord Chamberlain’s hands. The embroidery is exquisite.’

  Nell said quietly, ‘I know many of the royal embroiderers. I shall examine the stitching later.’

  Lady Mary returned and Nell took possession of the cushion for Ailenor.

  Once they reached her ante-chamber, Ailenor granted permission to her damsels to dine since they had not eaten all evening. They fell on the food laid out for them on a long table with the hunger of wild beasts, picking up morsels with their fingers, cramming pasties and little tarts into their mouths without ceremony. Yawning, Ailenor asked Nell and Willelma to prepare her for bed.

  She was so exhausted; she thought she could sleep for a month. Even though she was tired, she waited for Henry’s tap on her door. There was wine on the side coffer and a dish of honey cakes placed beside two small goblets. But Henry did not come that night. She was his queen. Had he forgotten her already? A tear fell onto her cheek. Turning to her pillow, she drifted into a lonely sleep, hugging the embroidered pillow to her chest.

  In the morning, she realised her flowers had fallen and it was as well Henry had not come to her. She was spared embarrassment.

  Henry apologised for not coming to bid her goodnight after the coronation. ‘The nobles squabble like children,’ he said when he visited her on the following morning. She lay in bed, feeling unwell. ‘It’s a tradition that the plate from the coronation feast goes to those who served us so I had to settle a dispute between two of my nobles over who could have our golden dishes.’

  ‘I would have banished them both from my presence.’

  ‘I said they could each have one and in return they must give me the weight in coin.’

  ‘Will they?’

  ‘If they don’t I shall have a castle from each of them.’ Henry was laughing. ‘My nobles must obey their king.’ She frowned. He lifted her hand and planted a kiss on it. ‘And their little queen, too.’ With a rustle of his mantle, he withdrew from her chamber, leaving her to the ministrations of her ladies.

  The rain which had paused for the coronation fell with a vengeance during the following week. Ailenor’s courses had come and gone and she shook off a melancholy that accompanied the fuss with rags and a soft belt to hold them in place. She ate and dwelled privately with her women.

  On the eighth day, Henry burst into her ante-chamber where she and her ladies were reading poems together. He first asked her how she fared and looked down at her little book. ‘We are moving back to the Tower. If these downpours continue we’ll soon be flooded. It happens in the palace here. You will find many books to entertain you in the Tower. I have a library.’ He looked concerned. ‘Are you well enough to be moved.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, as ever glad to see him. ‘I am happy to go there.’

  He smiled down on her. ‘Then I am happy too.’

  A day passed with the fuss of preparation to move out of the palace at Westminster. This time, rather than riding through the City, a royal barge carried her downstream. They passed under a great London bridge that was covered with tall buildings, their gables jutting over the river. She peered up through slanting rain.

  Pointing up, she asked Nell, ‘Do people live on that bridge?’

  ‘Yes. Hold on to the boat rail. It can get rough as we shoot the tides under the bridge.’

  ‘It’s thrilling,’ Ailenor said, peering all around her at the rushing murky waters, welcoming the expectation of danger. Life in a damp palace where all she did was stitch, sing ballads, and pray day after day was turning monotonous. It would be fun to shoot rapids.

  ‘Not if you pass under as the tide surges in. This is nothing,’ Nell warned.

  Timing was precise. The boatmen understood the river’s moods, particularly during heavy rains, and they knew the exact moment they could navigate forward. They passed safely beneath the bridge. Ailenor, who had held her breath, breathed evenly again as the barge arrived in calmer water.

  Ailenor’s apartments adjoined the King’s own in the Wakefield Tower. It was a relief to return there where they had slept on their first night in the City. The weather was continually dreary with rain falling in sheets, rattling windows. Her scratchy woollen gowns felt damp. A musty smell clung to all her clothing no matter how much lavender her ladies used to make the garments smell sweet. She doubled over with laughter when Henry told her last time the rivers flooded Westminster his knights had had to ride their horses through great puddles to reach their chambers.

  Here, safely in the Tower, she enjoyed a bedchamber freshly painted with a mural of summ
er roses and climbing vines. Her feather bed felt soft, its heavy curtains protecting her from draughts. Henry had prepared for his queen’s arrival in England here, too. The decoration surpassed those in the palace at Westminster, where her bed had been so uncomfortable that after her coronation she was pleased to gift it to the Lord Chamberlain.

  ‘Henry,’ she said, delighted with her queenly apartment, ‘I shall name this the Rose Chamber. Thank you.’

  She spontaneously embraced him. He held her close and spun her around. His steward placed a gold goblet and silver platter with gold shields engraved on it on an enamelled table by the window.

  ‘For you, Ailenor.’

  ‘You must stop giving me presents. I have nothing more for you.’

  ‘You give me your beauty, and you gave me Caesar.’ He laughed. ‘I shall show you my menagerie. I even have a creature called an elephant.’

  He was watching her face closely for a reaction. She would not show the fear she felt. She clapped her hands. ‘Show me. I’m not frightened of wild beasts, my lord.’

  ‘Really, you are not? Lions - a polar bear that fishes in the river. You must see that, too.’ He grinned. ‘So, if you are not afraid, shall we affright your ladies?’ he said with mischief in his eyes. ‘Let us not prepare them.’

  In that moment of understanding, she loved him. She longed to confront fear, because in confronting terrors it would make her a leader amongst women and a stronger queen and brave. She would be like one of King Arthur’s fearless knights, like the dark knight who watched Nell. Though she never spoke of him to Nell or to Henry, she was sure Nell liked him, too. I shall watch and wait. They love each other yet they cannot declare that love.

  ‘Yes, let’s surprise my damsels,’ she said.

  Some days after her ladies had seen the lion, shrieking and clutching each other in delight and fear, Ailenor asked Nell to discover the embroideress’ whereabouts, the one who had embroidered her coronation cushion. Her damsels disliked the cold English winter. There were endless complaints. They needed distractions and a ferocious lion was not enough to interest them all. Nell told Ailenor the girl’s name was Rosalind Fitzwilliam, and she was a tailor’s daughter. The tailor, a wealthy widower, worked for Richard of Cornwall, Nell’s own brother. It would be an easy matter to send Rosalind a request to come to the Tower and receive commissions.