Your news was most welcome. I pray that you take after our grandmother, for, as Mother always said, she was a woman made by God to bear sons and to do so with remarkable aptitude.
As for myself, I wish I could tell you that I likewise expect a child, but I do not. I begin to think I never shall. Louis continues to be far more interested in God, in governing, in nearly anything, than he is in me. How can it be that after only five short years of marriage I have come to mean so little to him? The pain occasioned by His Majesty’s behavior as a husband pierces my heart and tries my patience. Yet I feel guilty complaining as I am never mistreated but am always respected (by all save my mother-in-law). And what right have I to demand precedence over an entire kingdom of French subjects? I ought to be pleased that Louis strives ever to be a good king. How unfortunate then that my capricious woman’s heart feels as it will, not as it ought.…
Yours,
M
ELEANOR
JUNE 1239
PALACE OF WESTMINSTER, ENGLAND
“I am huge!” Standing in my wardrobe while Colin, my tailor, makes an adjustment in my new gown, I regard my increasing girth with wonder.
Sybil Gifford, who joined my household the moment my condition was confirmed, summoned by Henry because of her great reputation for deftness in assisting women in childbirth, laughs gaily and says, “Never have I looked forward to attending at a confinement as I look forward to attending yours.”
I place a hand upon my stomach and offer Sybil a blinding smile. I am the center of the known world just as surely as if I were painted on my husband’s massive mappa mundi. I feel it to be so, and I am thoroughly enjoying it. And it is all because of my little prince. After nearly three years of marriage, the king had begun to think that, despite how often he planted my garden, I might never come up roses. Then in the autumn, my courses stopped. Henry had priests praying to the Confessor that we might not be deceived or disappointed. They are praying still, though my pregnancy is long past the point of doubt.
My fitting over, I make my way to my chamber to find new gifts from Henry—a bolt of golden cloth and a jeweled amethyst brooch that looks lovely laid against the fabric. I pin the brooch on immediately and run my hand over the expensive material.
“His Majesty asks that you commend him to your tailor and says he hopes to see you in a gown made from his gift very soon,” Isabel d’Attalens tells me with a smile, while her mother, Lady Willelma, picks up the bolt of cloth to bear it away to my wardrobe. I am glad that these women who came with me from Provence and who worried with me while I remained stubbornly unfruitful now share my pleasure in my good fortune.
Indeed, all my ladies, Provençal and English alike, seem to enjoy my glory as much as I do. Henry is very liberal with them in his current good humor, and the mood of the entire court is elevated along with his.
Never once has anyone dared to raise the question that haunts my nights once Henry has left me—it would no longer be seemly for him to stay the night in my bed; that he visits it at all we keep secret as best we can—what if this babe is a girl? Like everyone else, I abstain from speaking the possibility aloud. If Uncle Guillaume were here, I might share my fear with him, but he left England more than a year ago, right after the nonsense with Richard over the marriage of his sister to Simon de Montfort ended, and is now prince-bishop-elect of Liege. Several times in the last months, as the babe rolled and kicked within me, I considered writing to Marguerite to share my private fears. But how could I when my sister, married even longer than I, has yet to bear a child of either sex for her husband? So instead, I swallowed my personal worries and included a line of encouragement in one of my missives, pointing out that since I was thought barren and am not, it may, with God’s grace, be so with her as well.
“Your Majesty, is anything the matter?” Isabel regards me quizzically, her mouth a flat line of concern. I must have allowed my own visage to reflect my thoughts.
“Nothing,” I say brightly. “Let us go into the gardens and take some air.”
I AM DELICIOUSLY SLEEPY. My limbs are heavy. My eyelids are heavy. Even the air in the room seems heavy, slowing my every movement as if I were swimming in honey.
June has been remarkably warm this year, for England that is. The truly magnificent summers of my childhood will never be equaled by England’s pale imitations. The late-afternoon sun worms its way through the vines hanging heavy outside my window, painting a fascinating pattern in light and shadow against the covers of the bed and Henry’s naked back. I long to lift my hand and trace the pattern with my finger, but I lack the energy to suit my desire. We have been making love. Mortal sin or no, Henry’s desire for me has not abated through all of the months I have carried his child. Even now, when I am past the time when Sibyl expected me to begin my confinement, my breasts swollen and my belly distended, Henry tells me I am beautiful. A soft, rumbling snore rises from Henry’s form. He has surrendered to sleep. I let my lids fall closed and prepare to do the same.
Then I feel it—a powerful twinge. I am fully awake.
“Henry,” I whisper, rising up on one elbow.
“Mmm,” he mumbles, and rolls to his back without waking.
“I think it has begun.”
Immediately Henry is fully awake too, his eyes wild. “I will call for Sybil.”
I laugh out loud. “You might want to get dressed first.”
“Yes.” Henry scrambles like a dog with its tail on fire.
I rise ponderously and, as I do, I notice a rush of straw-colored liquid as if I have soiled myself, but I know that I have not. This must be the “birth water” of which Sybil has spoken. Before I can do more than put on my chemise, Henry darts from the room, calling Sybil’s name as he goes.
But as the hours of my labor pass, I myself wonder why Henry was in such a hurry to find Sybil. The thought would be humorous if I were not suffering. Such pain—I have never known such pain. But oh the reward. A cry at last sounds that is not my own. Laus Deo, I have a son! And I know as I look at his downy hair, his perfect miniature fingers, what it is to love fiercely. The memory of a boar with her brood that I once saw cornered by hunters comes into my mind. At the time her ferocity scared me, but now I am she. Let anyone try to hurt my Edward and they shall see my teeth.
London is going wild. No matter that it is the middle of the night. I can hear the drummers and the shouting in the streets. Henry arrives, and he is the most wild of all. After praising me and admiring our son, he races off to wake poor Walter de Lenche so that he may round up the clerks of the Royal Chapel to sing the Laudes Regiae as they did on my coronation day. Truly the man is mad, but mad with love for me and for Edward—named for the Confessor, of course; how could it be otherwise?
“Get me a pen,” I tell Willelma, whose eyebrows rise at the odd request. “I must write to my sister the Queen of France.”
“FOR MERCY’S SAKE, HENRY, YOU must stop turning back gifts.” I run my hand playfully through my husband’s hair as he sits in my hall, holding Edward who is nearly two months old. My son, in one of his increasingly long periods of wakefulness, is returning his father’s earnest gaze.
“Why is that? Why should we accept anything unworthy of our little prince?”
“Because we are offending the givers.”
“And they offend me by sending such trinkets.”
I laugh. I know I should press Henry further. His rejection of certain of the prince’s gifts is impolitic, but, I am beginning to sense, with some unease, that my husband has not the knack I might have hoped for things political.
A knock sounds at the door. “If it is the nurse, send her away,” Henry says. “We are fine here, is that not so?” This last utterance is directed to Edward as Henry holds out a finger for our son to grasp.
“Enter,” I call, expecting, like Henry, to see Edward’s nurse, Lady Alice. But when the door swings open, it reveals the Duke of Flanders, coated in dust and clearly fresh from the saddle.
“
Uncle! We did not expect you until tomorrow,” I exclaim, both pleased and honestly surprised to see Thomas.
“The roads were good and my desire to see my great-nephew strong.”
“Here he is,” Henry says, holding the babe up, “the Lord Edward.”
“Splendid,” my uncle replies with real enthusiasm. And I can guess what he is thinking: the blood of Savoy extends itself to the throne of England.
“And how are things in Flanders?”
England and Flanders have always been allies, but never more so than since my uncle’s marriage made him count there less than two years ago. My uncle is a very attentive vassal, visiting with us often, and my husband could not be more welcoming.
“Very well”—Thomas pours himself a glass of wine and takes a seat—“apart from being short of funds.”
Henry laughs. “It is the same everywhere, whether a man be a count or a king.”
“I told Your Majesty he need not expend so much on my churching.” I am conscious that the event, to be held less than a week from now on the ninth of August, is costing hundreds of pounds, but Henry insists that everything, from the five hundred tapers to be lit before the Confessor’s shrine, to the food and drink for the banquet following, be absolutely of highest quality.
“Nonsense. If I thank God for our prince, I must also thank you. No one is more deserving of celebration.” My husband turns to my uncle with a ready smile. “Thomas, I shall instruct the exchequer to ready the money fief you are owed as my vassal. Will not five hundred marks in some part relieve your distress?”
“Most handsomely. But if Your Majesty would also consider paying those debts of the Earl of Leicester for which you stand as surety, I would be both grateful and obliged. My own debts incurred in support of my brother’s candidacy at Liege are considerably more than five hundred marks.”
Something is very wrong. Henry’s face, a moment ago a model of friendly, open hospitality, has begun to color a deep purple. Instinctively I reach out and retrieve Edward from him.
“Debts of the Earl of Leicester?”
The change in Henry’s tone is not lost on my uncle. “It is no matter, Your Majesty. Pray forget I made the suggestion. After all, I am not in England to collect money but rather, like all your other guests, to celebrate my dear niece.”
“I, a surety for Simon’s debts?”
“Yes, well…” Thomas looks at me helplessly. “Let us say no more of it.”
“I fear, sir, that we must. What are these debts and in what amount?”
“I do not know the debts’ origin, Your Majesty, as they were transferred to me by another with whom I had business. But the sum total is two thousand marks.”
“Two thousand marks! That is more than thirteen hundred pounds!” Henry rises to his feet and strides about in great agitation. I withdraw slightly so that Edward and I might not be in his path. “And I am surety?”
“Your name was given.”
“By Simon de Montfort?”
“You did not know?”
“I did not! And my sister’s husband will wish it continued to be so!”
Once my uncle and I are alone in my hall, left by Henry in a huff and by Edward in the arms of Lady Alice, he says, “Believe me, Niece—I would not have intentionally created such trouble.”
“I know it, Uncle.” Poor Thomas seems despondent. I place a hand on his shoulder, then withdraw it. I may be a grown woman and a queen, but it feels odd to comfort one to whom I have always looked up. Taking my uncle’s glass, I refill it. “But I think you make too much of this. Henry is angry, but Henry is often angry. His temper rises quickly, which is no good thing. But it falls just as quickly, and that ameliorates much. The Earl and Countess of Leicester will not be here for a few days. Henry loves Simon well and Eleanor more. I cannot believe our words here will even be recalled when he sees them.”
“I pray it is so. I would not like to be the source of a family quarrel.”
“I am only sorry that you must go away without the monies. If you are truly in extremis, I can look to my own gold.”
“Henry lets you manage it then?”
“He does.”
“That is well. A queen with favors in her gift is always better positioned to direct the Fates than one without.”
“Would that you could stay and guide me. For having the ability to be of influence and knowing how to best use it are not one and the same. While Uncle Guillaume was here, I knew better how to direct my efforts.”
“My responsibilities prevent it. But if Guillaume is not able to return soon, he and I shall consult upon who may come to your service. You have uncles aplenty.” He offers me a smile.
“God be praised.” I smile in return. “And all of them are welcome here. Whoever comes can count on His Majesty to be generous.”
THE DAY OF MY CHURCHING has arrived.
“Your Majesty, you are the loveliest woman in Christendom,” Margaret Biset effuses.
“How I wish I could see,” says Emma. Margaret’s daughter, who, like her mother, was selected by Henry for my household before I ever set foot in England, was blinded last year by a sudden illness, but I insisted she remain with me for her mother’s sake. Margaret could not be easy were Emma not here.
“Come, I will let you feel my headdress, so that you may be amazed by how many pearls are upon it.” And, good as my word, I tilt my head down to Emma’s eager hands. When she is satisfied, I take a final look at myself in my mirror and say, “Shall we go to the great hall?” Henry has summoned all his richest and most influential magnates to London for my special day, and a grand party of their wives is assembling in the hall to escort me to Westminster Abbey.
“Ah, the Queen of England and of my heart,” Henry exclaims when he catches sight of me. “And notice she is so modest that she colors to hear herself praised.” He is in high spirits indeed.
The Countess of Devon and the Dowager Countess of Lincoln move forward, between Henry and me, and curtsy to me.
“Your Majesty appears well recovered from your confinement,” the Countess of Devon remarks. “I am heartily glad to see it.” She herself nearly died after the delivery of her second child, a daughter, two years ago.
“Have you seen the prince?” I am eager to hear praise of my son.
“Indeed, at his baptism,” the Countess of Lincoln replies effusively, “and as fine a child as ever I laid eyes upon.”
“We must have your Edmund for the Lord Edward’s household.”
The Countess of Lincoln opens her mouth to reply, but it is Henry’s voice I hear. “Viper! Of all the unmitigated gall. How dare you show your face here?”
I look for Henry. He is no longer where he stood moments ago but is advancing through the crowd toward Simon de Montfort and his Eleanor, who, it appears, have just arrived. Simon’s face is drained of color, and Eleanor looks as if she has been slapped.
“Your Majesty, were we not invited with everyone else to celebrate the birth of your son and the churching of his mother?” Simon’s voice is cautious rather than dismayed.
“That is so, but I would never have issued the invitation had I known you were a thief.”
“Thief, Majesty?” The color rises in Simon’s cheeks. “Pray what have I taken that you label me so?”
“My very name! You used it as your guarantee. And, knowing that you have done so, even as I did not, you ought to have thought the better of coming.”
“Henry”—Eleanor’s voice is pleading—“however my lord has offended you, can we not speak of it in another, better, setting? No doubt his actions were error, not purposeful effrontery.”
“He did not know he named me surety for a massive debt? Madam, perhaps you did not know, but he knew it certainly.” Henry is only a few feet away from the couple now but continues to shout as if they stood at the other end of this great and cavernous hall. “Is it not enough,” he continues, turning to Simon, “that I gave my sister to you against my better judgment and in contraventi
on of the wishes of my council? Must I also stand liable for the bribes that you found necessary in securing a dispensation? As if a piece of paper could make your ill-begun marriage acceptable in the eyes of God.”
I have no idea what to do. My stomach heaves. Fits of Henry’s temper I have witnessed before, but never, no never anything like this. Part of me wishes to rush forward and stop this horrible entertainment before it goes further, but another counsels me to stay where I am, safely out of the range of the king’s anger.
Eleanor is crying softly. Her husband puts a protective arm around her, which seems to enrage Henry further. He is now a horrible shade of purple.
“Your Majesty, whatever debts I have incurred, I swear that I will pay them and make this right,” Simon says.
“The things you have done, sir, can never be put right! How will you repair the honor of my sister whom you seduced before you wed?”
Eleanor, looking past Henry, stares at me with disbelief. I would swear to her that I never told Henry of her surrender to Simon before their marriage, for it is the truth. But I cannot find my tongue, and even if I could, such a protestation would confirm what Henry already thinks as well as the rumors that doubtless gave rise to his thoughts.
“Your Majesty—” Simon’s color is now as high as Henry’s.
“Besmircher!” Henry prods the earl on the chest with one angry forefinger. Heaven help us if swords are drawn. I can see the Earl Richard moving in from Henry’s right. Surely he must end this, but how with all the eyes of the court upon the quarrel? And suddenly, instinctively, I know what must be done. I let my knees go and collapse onto the ground.
“Your Majesty!” The Countess of Devon’s distressed voice brings Henry’s eyes to where I lie—a pile of expensive fabrics and jewels—and it is enough. He moves in my direction immediately, and all the court’s eyes move with him. As I am helped to my feet by a concerned Henry and several other pairs of equally gentle hands, I see the Earl Richard shepherding Simon and Eleanor out of the doors at the far end of the hall. There is some satisfaction in that. But, I reflect miserably as Henry leads me to sit down, when I thought to be the center of attention today, it was certainly not like this.
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