That evening, streets were as busy as they were on Midsummer’s Day. Everyone spoke with affection of their love for the King, Queen, and Prince, who was to be called Edward for the King’s favourite saint. Hawkers screeched through the narrow alleyways where the second storeys of houses tilted forward, almost touching. Lanterns hung ready to be lit as soon as dusk fell. Pasties and sweetmeats were renamed for the Prince. She heard calls of ‘Prince Edward’s crown!’, ‘Saint Edward’s coffins’, referring to the pastry cases, and ‘Prince Edward’s cradle’ or the more exotically named ‘Jewels in the Crown’ for the various dried apricots, dates, and currants for sale on grocers’ trays.
Dancers pointed their toes and stepped out lightly in chain-like formations, twisting along narrow streets holding hands and inviting passers-by to join them; stages were erected for plays; embroidered cloths hung from windows; jugglers juggled. Fountains flowed wine, and passing them on the way to the guildhall, Rosalind noted raucous apprentices imbibing freely. She was relieved when Gruff, their servant, parted the crowds with a heavy stick from which flew a pennant with the tailors’ badge and led them through crowded, noisy streets to the Tailors’ Hall.
Inside the high, raftered hall, she spoke with many old friends, happy to see her. Women admired her new gown, her soft leather boots, and the yellow and blue ribbons entwined through her plaited hair. They congratulated her on Prince Edward’s birth as if the Queen’s child were her own child. Scanning the Hall, she was relieved to see Jonathan de Basing was not present, though she spotted his parents seated close to two City aldermen not far from her. Adam de Basing acknowledged her with a courteous nod. She nodded back and quickly looked away.
Papa swept his napkin from his shoulder and dabbed at his mouth. ‘They still hope for a betrothal, you know. De Basing says he visits your workshop. He says you surround yourself with women so Johnny does not even have the opportunity to speak to you. What does he expect? The women are your embroiderers and you must mind them.’
Rosalind glanced at Mistress de Basing, whose mouth was steadily pulsating like a fish’s mouth and ugly it was too. ‘I am surrounded by women. Decent women. Quiet women. My women are not like her.’ She indicated the grocer’s wife with a sour look.
‘Won’t you reconsider, my child? You can always give up the workshop. There are other embroiderers there to manage it for the Queen. At seventeen, ’tis time you were wed.’
Rosalind glared at her Papa. ‘I am happy as I am.’ She attended to the lampreys on her platter but their deliciousness was marred for her. She pushed the platter away.
Alfred ran on, ‘The Queen is a mother. Do you not wish this for yourself? Mothering is the state God intended for women.’
‘The Queen is generous. I cannot let her down, Papa. Besides, I like working for her.’
Mildred placed her hand over Rosalind’s. ‘You may change your mind, you know.’
So she was on Papa’s side now. ‘I shall not. Excuse me,’ Rosalind said crossly. ‘I need the privy.’
She pushed her way through the tables. How dare her father speak of that alliance again and how could Dame Mildred agree with him? Adam de Basing could source anything - cloth, sugar, spices. He would not source her. She would never unite their families.
Hurrying along a narrow corridor that led out of the great Hall’s back entrance, incandescent with anger, she found herself in the yard amongst the privies and the stable. She leaned her head into her arms against the stable wall. A body barrelled into her. Before she could twist around, she felt herself dragged behind the row of stinking wooden huts. Her gown pulled up as she was roughly spun around and shoved against the outside wall.
‘Thought it was you,’ a hoarse voice was hissing into her ear. ‘No women to guard you now. Do not shout out or I shall -’
Winded, she gasped, too terrified to scream. Jonathan de Basing held her pinned to the wall with his enormous, beefy arm, his hand reaching up the skirt of her gown.
‘Let me go.’ Finding her voice, she shouted, ‘Let me go, you monster!’ She pushed at him but he was too solid and she could not push past him, no matter how hard she shoved.
‘Shut up!’ He penned her more tightly against the wall.
‘Get off me.’
Lanterns threw a glimmering yellow light over the wall. Someone must hear her but Jonathan slapped a large hand over her mouth. She bit hard. He dropped it, howling with pain.
‘You have no business waylaying me,’ she shouted.
‘Oh, but I do, you little bitch,’ he said, pushing his face into hers. His breath stank of soured ale. ‘My father wants us wed. Wed we’ll be. You are mine, fair Rosalind, witch as you are.’ He tried to press his mouth onto hers.
She twisted her face away. ‘Do not call me witch, you foul creature.’ She shoved again, to no avail. The solid door that was Jonathan held. He laughed. His sweat smelled foul. She began to tremble.
‘What a scared little bird you are. It’s nice. You’ll see. You’ll be wanting more soon enough.’
Holding her so tightly her arm throbbed, he began loosening his breeches, pulling them down with one free hand. She screamed again. Her heart raced like the rapids that surged below the City Bridge. Her legs weakened, her knees collapsing.
A shadow appeared around the side of the privy. What if Jonathan had a companion? They would both dishonour her. Johnny was tearing at her gown, trying to lift it. She saw his swollen member. ‘Bastard, bastard,’ she shouted and pushed. He thrust forwards. The approaching figure grew larger. She was going to die here this night. Smack! Her eyes closed. She felt herself slithering down the wall. She opened her eyes and tried to stand but found her legs unable to move. Jonathan was sprawled on the ground clutching his head. She looked up at her rescuer. Thomas, his kind, concerned face was looking into hers. She couldn’t speak. He reached out and helped her to her feet and gently brushed down her dress.
‘He didn’t?’ Thomas said in a gentle voice.
‘Thomas, thank God, if you hadn’t come he would. . . he’d have ruined me.’
‘Bastard son of a bastard father.’ Thomas kicked Jonathan in the groin. Jonathan groaned. Thomas did not hesitate. He pulled Jonathan up and punched him over and over.
‘Don’t kill him,’ she pleaded. ‘His father is powerful. He’s the King’s grocer.’
‘Come away from here. Come with me, Rosalind, I’ll return you to your father,’ Thomas said putting an arm about her. ‘I know who that scum is. He’s often at the Tower with his father.’ He spat at Jonathan, who was trying to get up after the last punch caught his stomach. ‘Take that.’ A gobbet of spit ran down Jonathan’s face. ‘I know what you were about to do. Your father will hear of this.’
‘She tempted me,’ the merchant’s son whined, trying to wipe off the spittle.
‘Liar and a devil’s son. You attacked her.’ He kicked Jonathan again. The grocer’s son shrieked. Thomas laughed. ‘Who will be believed, you, scum? Most likely they’ll believe an Earl’s squire. Stay away from her.’ He took Rosalind’s arm.
‘Thomas, take me home. I can’t go back to the feast,’ she said. ‘Our servant is waiting outside at the front. He can tell Papa I’m returning home and he can see us through the streets. I can’t be seen with you alone. It would invite talk.’
‘True enough.’
Thomas guided her to where the servant was patiently seated on a bench with a mug of ale on his knee. She told him she had been attacked by Jonathan de Basing and wished to return to Paternoster Lane. She indicated Thomas. ‘This is Earl Simon of Leicester’s squire, Thomas. He saved my honour. I shall tell Papa later. For now tell Papa I am unwell.’ Gruff threw back his ale, nodded and lumbered into the Hall.
They waited in the torchlight until Gruff returned. ‘He’s not pleased but I said you were unwell, Mistress Rosalind.’ Pointing to Thomas, he lowered his tone. ‘I never said about him.’
‘Let us be off,’ Thomas said quickly. ‘Rosalind, I’ll walk with you.
’
With a nod, Gruff held up his lantern. Thomas kept a wary eye out for Jonathan in case he returned with companions to pursue them. She was relieved they had Gruff leading them through the City streets. He was as strong as a siege machine.
Gruff walked ahead with his staff that proudly bore the Tailors’ badge held high. Thomas explained to her how he had been sent with other squires and heralds to fetch the Guild’s gifts for the new Prince. ‘I saw you go out to the privies, and I observed him follow you. I never saw you return so I went to see what had happened. St Thomas’s holy toes, thankfully I did.’
‘The other squires and the gift? Should you not return with them?’
‘I shall catch them up. The gifts from the city guilds are to be kept at the Bishop’s house tonight. Earl Simon is there.’
‘Jonathan will seek revenge.’
‘Tomorrow, I shall visit Jonathan’s father, and I won’t be going alone. I shall have a guard.’
‘Don’t go there; you will only make it worse.’
‘I should challenge them, you know.’
‘The de Basings are too powerful. He will say he was in a fight. He’ll say I tempted him. He’ll make the story stick. He’ll find a sham witness.’
Thomas shook his head. ‘Send for me if there is trouble.’
She nodded.
They reached the tall house. Gruff opened the gate to allow them to pass into the courtyard.
‘A fine home,’ Thomas remarked. ‘You live well, Rosalind.’
‘It’s my childhood abode, but Papa is married now and he’s considering a bigger house. My stepmother is with child.’
‘You are safe here in Paternoster Lane and you shall be at Westminster too. Rosalind, I heard what Jonathan de Basing said about marriage. Don’t allow them to force you into that family. Promise me you will wait for me.’
Her hand was on the door latch. ‘I won’t be marrying anyone if Mistress de Basing speaks ill of me after this, but if I do, you are he.’
‘Wait for me,’ he repeated.
‘I don’t know what the future holds except that I will not marry Jonathan de Basing.’
‘I can hope.’
‘You may hope?’ she murmured. His response was to take her hand, turn it over and kiss it.
‘I shall wait for you, my love,’ he said.
Opening the door, she slid into the house. If only she could hope. Her hand tingled where Thomas had kissed it. Her heart soared high as she recognised her love, flying into the night, like the swallows that crossed the summer skies.
‘So who is this gallant knight who rescued you from that oaf? Mildred and Rosalind were in the small herb garden behind the house gathering angelica for a cordial. Later they would add honey and vinegar to it. The days were growing hotter and Papa found the aromatic flavour of the drink refreshing. ‘I can make candied pieces with these stalks,’ Mildred said as she placed a plant into her basket. ‘You can take some back with you.’ She ran a kerchief over her forehead. ‘So, do you like him?’ She popped an angelica leaf into her mouth and began to chew it. Her eyes were twinkling.
Rosalind felt herself blush. She glanced around to make sure the cook was nowhere about or any of the apprentices. She would have to tell them sometime and they must understand she would never, ever marry into the De Basing family. They could still persist. Her papa could weaken and give into them. She shuddered to think of what Jonathan had tried to do to her.
‘Let me tell you why I like Thomas - and he’s not a knight. He’s a squire.’
They sank down onto the garden bench and Rosalind did her best to explain her feelings, their mutual feelings. She found Mildred a good listener.
‘You must speak to Alfred and soon,’ was all Mildred said but when she laid her hand over Rosalind’s, Rosalind was sure she had an ally in her stepmother.
‘Rosalind, he’s a knight’s son,’ Alfred shook his head. ‘Trade weds trade. Noblemen wed noble women.’
‘But he asked me, Papa.’
‘His guardian would never permit such a union.’
Mildred said, ‘Sweetheart, never will you wed Jonathan de Basing after what has happened, but you are comely and there will be many others of your own class. They’ll be queuing up to be betrothed to you.’
Rosalind shook her head. ‘I shall marry Thomas or find my own way in life,’ she said stubbornly.
‘I hope, Rosalind, you will change your mind on this matter,’ Alfred said, frowning.
‘Excuse me, for I need to rest,’ she replied with simplicity, knowing she would never change her mind.
12
August 1239
‘You have given birth to a warrior. He is a very long baby, a longshanks. And he has a powerful cry,’ Sybil had remarked after Edward’s birth. Well, thought Ailenor, it would take a warrior to control the difficult English barons and earls. This birth had been easy. Edward had slipped from her and into the world with a strong cry, but she must breed more children. Edward would be surrounded with devoted royal siblings.
On the ninth day of August, Ailenor prepared for her churching. She could not enter the world again until she was cleansed and purified by prayer. Domina Willelma and Margaret Biset laced her into her cloth of gold gown. They plaited her midnight hair into filigreed crispinettes and placed a narrow jewelled crown over it to hold her veil in place. Edward was swaddled so tightly only his small face appeared peeping above his gown. She took him from his rocking woman and kissed her son’s downy head.
The purification ceremony was to take place in the Abbey, only a step away. Ailenor worried constantly about her infant son. Who knew what childhood dangers lurked in hidden corners to threaten a baby’s well-being? No harm could possibly befall Edward on this short walk. A huge number of noble ladies attended her; she did not know how many – so many that she hoped she did not have to greet each by name.
She was aware the greatest nobles in the land were watching as she entered through the Abbey’s west door. Followed by her ladies, she approached St Edward’s Shrine. Archbishop Edmund waited to bless her at the high altar before the shrine. A paean of Lauds floated through the nave. She had wanted Nell to hold baby Edward during the long ceremony that would follow but Nell had not arrived by the time she had reached the Abbey Church. Her eyes searched for Nell and Simon amongst the gathering of nobility. She could not see her anywhere. The de Montforts were lodging at the Bishop of London’s palace outside the City gates. They would not have to negotiate crowded City streets to reach Westminster.
‘Where is the Countess of Leicester?’ she said, turning to Joan of Flanders who walked beside her. Countess Joan was visiting the English court with another of Ailenor’s uncles, Thomas of Savoy, who was now married to Joan. As the new Count of Flanders, Joan’s husband sought alliance with England and had arrived at the court to do homage to Henry. Ailenor liked him least of her mother’s Savoyard brothers. She suspected Countess Joan disliked her, but she could not fathom why. Perhaps it was because the de Montforts enjoyed Henry’s favour, and it was rumoured Joan had once wanted to marry Earl Simon herself. Today, as a countess of high rank, ruler of Flanders in her own right, and because she was Ailenor’s aunt by marriage, Joan would walk close to Ailenor.
‘I have not seen her,’ Countess Joan said with nonchalance. Through the luminous silk of her veil, Ailenor noticed her shrug and her haughty upturned nose.
She dislikes Nell, Ailenor realised, recognising a potential enemy in Countess Joan. She turned to Sybil Gifford who had been her midwife and said, ‘Hold Edward. He is happy in your arms.’ Joan gasped her displeasure.
Ignoring the woman, Ailenor stepped towards the five hundred tapers that burned at the shrine of St Edward. Bowing her head as she passed, she proceeded towards Archbishop Edmund who stood waiting beside the altar. Prayers were said over her until finally her purification ceremony ended. Its end was accompanied by beatific glory and song. As she left the altar, the noble ladies gathered behind her, their expensiv
e gowns gleaming with gold and silver embroidery. She proudly reclaimed Edward and carried him back through the Nave, her veil drawn back to reveal her face. She was purified. Yet, although she glanced from right to left, nowhere could she see Simon or Nell.
She was joyful as she floated out of the great doors into the August sunlight outside the Abbey doors where she was greeted by Henry. He would know what had happened to Nell and Simon.
‘Where is Nell? Has she not come? And Earl Simon, where is he?’
‘Not now, my love. Later.’ Henry kissed his son’s head. He took Edward into his own arms. Accompanied by the greatest nobles and ladies of the land, he walked with her, carrying their son to her apartment where she would rest before joining the purification feast.
Since Edward’s birth, Henry had made her brief visits. Hand in hand they had walked in the quiet garden below her apartment, admiring summer roses and breathing the scent of wild flowers. Henry was more attentive than ever, sending her gifts, many of which were presents from the guildsmen of London. Some, he remarked, he had returned to the burghers, asking for more expensive presents for his son. Ailenor shook her head when he told her this. It was ungrateful, she said. It must not happen every time they had a child.
Her ladies sat beside her at the feast. Henry sat with his noblemen on an adjacent table. Simon was not amongst them, Nell was still nowhere in evidence. She tried to ask the women seated about her but her questions were met with shaken heads and tight lips as if no one knew anything - or claimed not to know anything. Countess Joan was placed further along the High Table. She felt sure the Countess knew something. Ailenor puzzled at this odd conundrum all through the procession of courses for her feast.
Nell had visited her after Edward’s birth with Hal, her first child, to see the baby Prince, his cousin. Hal was out of swaddling and, at eight months old, he was beginning to crawl. They planned visits to Odiham where the de Montforts hoped to spend the autumn season. Simon would be recruiting and planning the crusade. She and Henry would hunt in the woodland close by and spend joyful autumn evenings in the castle where they had first consummated their love for each other.
The Silken Rose Page 13