The Silken Rose

by Carol McGrath

  ‘I do, and I enjoy telling them stories.’ Ailenor turned sideways towards Henry. As she did, she caught Isabel glancing at Richard. Would he pray for a royal nursery? Could it have been Richard who had spread the cruel rumour that she was infertile?

  ‘When will you return to Berkhamsted?’ she asked, returning her attention to Isabel.

  ‘Saint Stephen’s Day; Richard wishes to visit Nell to discuss recruitment for the Crusade. After this, he travels west to speak to the knights of Cornwall and Somerset.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The Crusade again, of course. He is enthusiastic. This will all take at least another year, maybe more. Crusades can take years to plan.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Ailenor wondered if, in fact, Richard was off to Cornwall to visit his mistress. Could it be that Isabel didn’t know - or perhaps she knew about the woman and, as was expected of a noble wife, pretended not to know, or, worse, accepted her husband’s bastards into her household? Henry’s father, John, and his grandfather, the second King Henry, had both acknowledged some of their bastards. ‘I hope Richard visits my family in Provence when he travels south.’ Ailenor changed direction. ‘Don’t you wish to see Nell’s Henry? Nell will miss Earl Simon this Christmas.’

  ‘I shall wait until Nell is stronger and Simon has returned from his pilgrimage.’

  ‘I miss them both,’ Ailenor murmured.

  Isabel laid her hand on Ailenor’s. ‘You’ll see her at court soon, I’m sure.’

  They turned their attention to the Christmas feast. Fowl was served and wine poured. Jesters performed tricks; musicians played; jugglers threw coloured balls into the air and caught them. Happily, Ailenor watched the children, who were shrieking with joy and longing. Old Father Time walked about the company shaking a staff with coloured baubles. Course after course was carried to the table. The scent of spices – nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, anise, and ginger – ran through the Hall. Isabel only picked at her food whilst Ailenor ate voraciously.

  The Christmas subtlety was served, carried straight to the King’s table by the smiling cook himself. In honour of Richard’s planned Crusade, the marchpane confection was a gigantic ship coated with sugar. A tiny, brightly coloured crusader flag flew from the mast and miniature soldiers paraded along the deck.

  Henry’s food taster, a young man dressed in livery bearing his silver tasting spoon and a tiny golden goblet, stepped out from his position behind the King’s chair and waited as Ailenor’s husband broke off a tiny sliver of the ship’s sides and handed it to him. A heartbeat later, Henry nodded to Richard and said, ‘You must have the cross or any other piece that pleases you. Choose.’

  As Richard lifted his eating knife from the board and chopped off the sugared flag with the painted cross, there was banging at the Hall door. A tall figure shoved it open, knocking over the pile of scabbards left by it. He marched up to one of Ailenor’s men who was posted close to the door yelling, ‘Savoyard dog. Cur. Whelp. Get down. You will kneel to me, for I am greater than you, foreign pup.’

  The Savoyard pulled a sword from one of the scabbards he was minding. He raised it. There was a shout from one of the barons. ‘That’s my weapon, dog.’

  Ailenor leapt to her feet. Isabel, white as bleached cloth, rose from her chair.

  The tall figure was none other than Gilbert Marshal, his sword at the throat of the Savoyard.

  Richard’s knife dropped onto the cloth amongst a scattering of disintegrating bits of marchpane. He whipped a short blade from his belt. Ailenor drew her jewelled dagger from her girdle.

  ‘Stop them,’ she demanded, clutching her weapon and turning to Henry. ‘He will kill my cousin if you do not. If you don’t prevent this, I shall.’

  ‘Gilbert!’ Isabel shouted to her brother in a clear voice. ‘You dishonour us.’

  Ignoring Isabel, Gilbert hurled words towards Henry. ‘You refused me an invitation to your feast because I am a Marshal. I’ll remind Your Grace I’m the Marshal of England.’ There was a brief pause, followed by murmuring from the barons seated at the trestles. Gilbert shouted, ‘I have come to claim my lands, those you took from my brother. You grant our lands to foreign interlopers, friends of the she-wolf you call your queen. My eldest brother, William, is dead. My second brother, Richard, is dead too. The Marshal lands are mine by right.’ He pointed his sword again at the Savoyard. ‘Next time you head for a privy, you thieving cur, you won’t reach it.’ The Savoyard’s face was white as the table linen. His leggings were stained with urine.

  Henry puffed out with anger, shouted back, ‘Your brother Richard was my enemy. You remaining Marshals hold my sister’s dower.’ He raised his hand. ‘Guards, take them both. Put them in irons. I shall deal with them later. There’ll be no brawling at my feast.’

  Ailenor watched aghast as Earl Richard dismounted from the dais. Her hand flew to her mouth. He had called her a she-wolf. He’d insulted her. It would be murder now. Richard weaved his way through the gaping crowd, waving his sword at his old friend, Earl Gilbert. Henry called out, ‘Put up your weapon, brother.’ Richard hesitated for a moment but with a dramatic gesture sheathed his sword. He hurried over to the children who were wide-eyed with terror as they clung to their nurses, burying their heads in the women’s mantles. Richard appeared to calm the women.

  ‘Remove them,’ Henry shouted to his guards who had already drawn their swords. ‘Both of them.’

  Guards rushed forward from walls and doorways and quickly surrounded the brawling noblemen, disarming them. Several dragged Gilbert who was kicking and screaming abuse. Others seized the Savoyard and pulled him by his tunic tails through the rushes. Richard returned to the table and stiffly sat down, his arms folded as he stared at Gilbert.

  Actors and musicians drew back as the guards removed the men from the Hall. Ailenor felt her heart race. She put away her dagger and sank back into her chair. These grim, backwater, old-fashioned, lacklustre English lords would not have her people removed from court. None would call her a she-wolf. The Savoyard administrators were useful to Henry. Her Provencal courtiers brightened a dull court with new ideas, troubadours and French fashions.

  Henry must make an example of Gilbert Marshal. Was Marshal behind the Woodstock plot, not Richard after all? If so, he must pay the ultimate price.

  Isabel, shocked and tearful, moved around the table and fell onto her knees before Henry. ‘I beg you, my King, spare Earl Gilbert, my brother.’

  Henry raised her to her feet. He sounded more composed. ‘It is Christmas. He is foolish. You may attend him.’ Henry’s tone was mild considering the fracas that had frightened the court and ruined the Christmas feast.

  Ailenor shook her head, but, ignoring her, Henry continued, ‘A night in the cells will temper Marshal’s anger.’ Henry turned to Richard. ‘Go to the idiot with your wife. Earl Gilbert is banished forthwith to the north. This is my final word.’

  Ailenor complained, ‘He attacked my followers. He insulted me. He should be punished.’

  ‘And I shall punish him. He likes to joust. I am banning jousts forthwith. The Church disapproves of them. I dislike them. Earls and barons will not gather in any of my courtyards bearing arms. Neither Gilbert Marshal, nor any others.’ Henry crossed himself and raising his hand signalled to the musicians to play. ‘We shall resume Christ’s feast.’

  ‘Not enough,’ Ailenor said under her breath. She refused to speak to Henry for what was left of the feast. Avoiding the merrymaking that followed, she pleaded exhaustion and, clicking her fingers at Willelma and her other ladies, she swept from the Hall.

  Henry did not pass another night with her that Christmastide. The atmosphere between them grew strained.

  Gilbert, Ailenor heard on Saint Stephen’s Day, had not only been banished from court. He must pay a fine to Ailenor’s smarting cousin. The same cousin demanded Earl Gilbert’s head to be set on a spike by London Bridge. She stormed into Henry’s chamber.

  ‘I want the Marshal’s head. He is a traitor.’ />
  Henry told her, no. She flounced out but not before saying in a chilly voice, ‘Marshal will destroy us. Do something about him.’

  Relations between them remained frost-like for another week, until Henry remarked on New Year’s Day, ‘Richard will insist that Gilbert Marshal takes the cross.’ Her head swivelled on its long neck as she turned to stare at Henry. He would be out of the way, but the Crusade would not leave England for several years yet. Taking a vow to crusade was only the first stage in the whole enterprise. Still, she looked forward to seeing Gilbert Marshal wearing a cross on his breast, occupied with recruitment.

  After a week’s absence, Henry visited Ailenor’s chamber.

  ‘You have found a fair solution.’ She took Henry’s hand, determined to keep peace with him. The quarrel had marred Christmas. Everyone saw how they were estranged. There were whispers and speculations. Willelma reported these. Lady Mary had overheard maids saying the King was angry with his queen. It must not continue. This was not good for the prince she carried in her womb. Women had miscarriages for less annoyance. She must discover an equilibrium with Henry. She said, ‘They will both be gone from court for some time.’ She patted Henry’s hand, knowing he disliked quarrels with her as much as she did with him.

  ‘And now, you shall concentrate filling our nursery with children.’ Henry offered her a dish of sweetmeats and she lifted one to her mouth and allowed her sharp teeth to bite into it.

  ‘I pray every day for a safe delivery.’

  Henry’s face brightened. ‘London is unhealthy for children. Renovations at Windsor are nearing completion - new chapel, new Hall, chambers for you and for me. I shall design a nursery for our family.’

  The quarrel was over. Her ladies preened in Henry’s presence, lowered their eyes but, she noted, smiled their approval.

  Once the Epiphany Feast was over, the larger court was sent away until Eastertide. Ailenor and Henry began to pass long winter afternoons together. She regained her good temper. Soon it was as if the quarrel had never happened. As they sat by the fire in her chamber one January evening, Henry held up building designs and scrutinised them. He tugged at his sandy-coloured pointy beard and nodded. Ailenor glanced over at him and remarked, ‘Who is working on the altar embroideries and the offertory veil for the chapel at Windsor?’ She fingered the embroidery she was working, enjoying her talent, pleased at her progress since Rosalind had instructed her and her ladies in the mysteries of working with gold and silver threads. Gold flower hearts gleamed on the border of a coverlet for her baby’s cradle. A little green dragon embellished with gold graced the middle ground.

  Henry sat the rolls of parchment aside. He looked at her curiously and said, ‘Adam de Basing has a team of embroiderers working for me.’ He bent over her work and studied Ailenor’s neat stitches. ‘That is a very fine embroidery. I like the dragon’s golden eyes. I see Rosalind Fitzwilliam has been instructing you well. That’s accomplished work.’

  ‘She is an accomplished and patient teacher. I have only given her embroiderers secular work. They embellish gowns, cushion coverings, bedcovers, and tapestries for my chambers. I asked them to make a hanging for Nell and Simon’s wedding gift.’ She grinned. ‘Simon on his charger with his colours on his shield. It is very romantic, with a background of roses. He looks like Sir Launcelot of the Cart.’

  Henry smiled wryly. ‘As long as he is not seeking a crown and stays far away from my Queen.’

  ‘He has his own princess now. He is happy. They are in love.’ She thought for a moment, her mind returning to buildings and furnishings. ‘Henry, we must choose a country home for our family as well as Windsor.’

  ‘Say where, and it is yours, my love.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Marlborough.’ Her countenance innocent. ‘Was it once in the Marshal family’s estates?’

  ‘Not any longer; it was disputed after Nell’s widowhood. I’m taking complete charge of Marlborough. You shall have it, Ailenor. I have other estates in mind for Nell.’

  Ailenor folded her hands. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ She had executed her just revenge on Earl Gilbert. Marlborough was one estate he could never claim.

  Adam de Basing, the name floated about in the recesses of her memory, was Henry’s grocer. His son was to be betrothed to Rosalind. Rosalind had said she was not of a mind to marry anyone but, rather, to have her own workshop.

  ‘At Westminster,’ Ailenor had said on the day she offered Rosalind the opportunity to set up the Westminster embroidery workshop. ‘But don’t think you will never marry. The heart can be difficult to ignore if possessed by a love so great you cannot deny it. All the best legends say so.’

  Rosalind had looked away. Something mysterious in her embroiderer’s demeanour made Ailenor wonder if indeed the girl’s heart had already been claimed. By Lent they would return to the City and she would find another commission for Rosalind, whom she was beginning to like more and more. It must be an important embroidery, a religious work perhaps for the new chapels Henry was building.

  9

  Rosalind

  March 1239

  Boats ploughed through the river, creating splashing sounds, as Rosalind was ferried from Westminster into the City. The Queen, resident in the Tower, wished to discuss a new commission so Rosalind asked two accomplished embroiderers to accompany her.

  ‘The wall-hanging for Kenilworth is almost completed. We are ready to take on this commission. You, Martha and Jennet, are my most competent embroiderers.’ She frowned at Jennet who was still young and very wide-eyed but deserved a chance - after all, she was only two years older than her apprentice. ‘When we meet with Queen Ailenor, you will listen, not speak.’

  ‘Yes, Mistress,’ they said, Martha serious, and Jennet in a babbling tone.

  ‘Good, follow me. We mustn’t be late.’

  As they approached the Tower, the shouting of men and the clang of hammers resounded across the river, drowning out the lapping of water and the banging of boats knocking against each other. Their wherry drew close to the passenger wharf. Helped by the boatman and Tower guards they stepped over the watery channel onto the dock. Glancing upwards, Rosalind was astonished to see how far the building of towers and the new curtain walls had progressed. New outer walls were rising. One new corner tower was already halfway to completion.

  She noted the builders’ wharf held an enormous flat-bottomed boat from which a crane was unloading white stone. The master mason was directing operations, pointing to where the new stone was to be placed. Horses dragged carts loaded with rubble up to the outer wall.

  They picked their way around carts, snorting horses, and yelling men and took a path that sailed up the slope through the chaos of building works. Several masons and apprentices turned to stare at them as they passed by the masons’ lodge that was smack up against the walls. Jennet simpered and allowed her hood to fall back, revealing corn-coloured plaits dipping below her white cap.

  ‘Good day to you, Mistress,’ one bold young man called to Jennet, his spade raised.

  Rosalind primly answered for them all. ‘Good day to you.’

  Jennet pouted and smiled. Martha, a widow with more than thirty years, glowered. Rosalind turned to Jennet and waved her hand towards a second path.

  ‘Don’t you see the King on his way to inspect their work? Look ahead and bow that saucy head of yours!’

  Jennet had the wit to lower her head. The King, surrounded by a group of foreign-looking nobles, was fast approaching. His master-builder, waving a sextant and a rod, was hurrying up the parallel pathway towards the new building to greet him.

  Rosalind snapped, ‘Come along now. The Queen said she would see us before Nones.’ She peered up at the chilly blue sky where the sun had reached its zenith. They were late. She chivvied her women through the gateway towards the Queen’s apartments. Jennet stopped at the threshold and Rosalind gently prodded the girl forward. ‘Don’t be nervous.’ Their silent guard followed.

  Queen Aile
nor was specific. The new commission was to be a hanging for the Queen’s chambers at Windsor. She had ordered an artist, a Provençal monk, to design it. Rosalind let out a surprised gasp as she studied the drawings. Queen Ailenor had requested a hanging showing Christ’s Nativity with two midwives attending the Virgin Birth.

  Seeing Rosalind’s puzzled countenance, Queen Ailenor said, ‘The midwives testify to Mary’s virginity. This is what we learned in Provence. Bien!’ She pointed at the stars. ‘These can be couched in silver threads, a sky filled with little glittering stars, but there has to be one golden large star. Oh, and roses, white roses on the borders.’

  ‘Your Grace, is there a reason for your choice of a golden star?’

  ‘It represents my husband’s star in ascendancy.’

  ‘The roses?’

  ‘Roses bloomed in Bethlehem when Christ was born. As you know, I am partial to roses.’ The Queen smiled.

  ‘But the midwives, Your Grace, they’ll will be frowned upon. The Church here believes that the Virgin, herself, delivered the Christ child. Our Lady gave birth alone.’

  ‘Is that so, Rosalind? Our beliefs in Provence are clearly more flexible.’

  Rosalind could not find an argument to counter this nor did she dare gainsay the Queen.

  ‘I see. Where do you intend to hang it, Your Grace?’

  ‘In my chamber at Windsor. I don’t think the English bishops will be invading my apartments. Midwives it will be.’

  ‘As you will, Your Grace, and with a golden star and roses. We must keep this work secret.’

  ‘That is for you to decide but I want it executed as I describe.’ Ailenor folded her hands over her bulging stomach.

  Rosalind glanced over at Jennet and Martha, who curtsied and nodded.

  Rosalind knew there were no midwives present in the stable at Bethlehem. To include them allied the Virgin with earthly women. Earthly women lacked purity. ‘Perhaps the midwives could be nuns who are virgins.’

  ‘Bien. Nuns indeed. Why not?’

  ‘We shall work hard on it, Your Grace.’ Rosalind knew it could not be completed by the summer when the Queen would give birth. It would be an impossible task.