The man was bundled away, not exactly in peace; he was cursing and bellowing as the pikemen jabbed him with the tips of their sharpened weapons. Henry turned his horse’s head, smiled reassuringly at me, and we headed on towards the palace. Its shadows fell long over me, bringing a sudden cooling to the heat of the day, and I strove to keep myself from shuddering. The madman at the gate had unnerved me; he had been too close—close enough to strike had he borne a weapon. Uneasily, I also recalled the legends about this palace—of how Henry II, Henry’s grandfather, kept a beautiful mistress there, one Rosamund Clifford, a young girl of exceptional beauty. His wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, had grown insanely jealous, causing him to build a hidden maze with a bower to keep Rosamund safe from her wrath. Legends said Eleanor had murdered her rival anyway, creeping into the maze using a strand of wool as a guide, and then offering her victim the choice between dagger and poison.
The story was scurrilous nonsense, of course; Rosamund had contracted a fatal sickness and gone to the nuns at Godstow, where she eventually died. Nevertheless, my young head was full of foolish tales of poisonings and stabbings, of a young girl lying in a bath being suckled by poisonous toads (yes, that was one of the ridiculous and lurid stories men told!)
Henry and I dined alone that evening, but I found myself lacking appetite even when presented by such delicacies as blancmange, mortews, and a suckling pig in spiced orange sauce. The wretched madman and his ravings had disturbed me deeply.
Henry did not notice my untouched plate. “I have some business to attend to early this evening,” he said, imbibing some claret and finishing off the piglet. “Then I will come to you in your chambers, my dearest, and we will spend the rest of the evening together. Maybe, in the fresh, clean environment of Woodstock, our greatest wish may come true.”
I coloured, nodding. I knew he referred to an heir. I doubted somehow if the air would aid in any conception…but on that night, I did not want to be apart from Henry.
As I waited for my husband to finish his business and come to my chambers, I sat sewing with one of my favourite ladies, Margaret Biset. Margaret was a quiet- spoken, homely woman with a long, pale face and soulful grey eyes that were perhaps her handsomest feature. She was very pious, frequently found on her knees in the chapel, and very caring of those less fortunate. Long had her family served the King, and she was held in such esteem she was even allowed to visit Eleanor of Brittany, sister to Arthur whom John had murdered, because of his closeness to the crown. Eleanor had been imprisoned for the same reason, passing from castle to castle for safekeeping as her youth fled. At present, she was confined in Gloucester. Eventually, when her childbearing days were long past, she would be allowed to seek a nunnery….
“I am restless, Margaret,” I said. “I cannot eat or drink. I feel quite ill. I was most distressed by the lunatic today.”
“He distressed me too, your Grace,” said Margaret. “But he is gone and I am sure walking down the road to Oxford, still crying his evil words.”
“The King should have imprisoned him,” I said grumpily.
“Kings must be merciful,” Margaret chided me. “Sometimes.”
I thought of poor Eleanor of Brittany then, shunted from castle to castle, an inconvenience to all. No one was merciful to her, though she was better off than her murdered brother, stabbed in the heart and his body thrown into a river. He had no known grave. But Eleanor was only a woman and not likely to harm anyone, though in my heart I knew she was dangerous in another way. Through her Plantagenet bloodline.
“What is Eleanor of Brittany like?” I asked, suddenly curious about the imprisoned princess.
Margaret looked surprised, and perhaps a bit embarrassed that I was asking such questions about one deemed as an ‘enemy’ (despite the fact the King called her ‘cousin’ in an almost affectionate way). “Getting old…but beautiful still,” she said shortly. “Red gold hair, like the early Plantagenets, and green eyed. She is an intelligent woman, as are you, your Grace.”
“Poor Eleanor,” I said. “Kept in all those castles but never knowing a true home.”
“So it must be.”
“But you said kings must be merciful!”
Margaret sighed. “Not if it is at risk to themselves and their Houses, your Grace. In the end, Eleanor of Brittany’s incarceration benefits you and any children you will bear.”
I looked thoughtful; the madman was still on my mind, even more than the unfortunate Eleanor of Brittany. “ Hmm. And you think the strange, raving man was not a threat? When he said he would be a better king than my husband?”
“The miscreant is long gone, your Grace. With a mind so troubled, he may not even remember the foolish words he spoke. Now, let me come and brush out your hair before his Grace comes to stay the night.”
Henry and I were deeply asleep. I lay in the crook of his arm, against his warm shoulder. His breath was a faint rasp; the moonlight, shining through the open window, turned his plain brown hair into an aura of gold. He looked much younger and more vulnerable then, washed free of his cares.
I touched his cheek, moved a strand of hair from his forehead. I could not sleep, still felt an odd unease that churned in my belly. Rising quietly, I donned a thin kirtle and sat in the window embrasure, letting the refreshing night breeze stroke my hot skin.
And then I heard the frenzied shouting from below.
And screaming. A woman’s repeated screaming.
“Henry!” I cried. “Wake up! That’s Margaret’s voice. Margaret Biset. Something has happened!”
Henry was on his feet in a flash, hurling on a tunic and robe and reaching for a weapon as he shouted for his squires to attend him. Outside in the hallway, there was a clashing of arms and more shouting. Feet thundered on the stairs and glancing out the window, I spotted a hundred torches bobbing in the gloom. The entire household was awake and mobilised!
Blade in hand, Henry rushed out of our apartments, and I stumbled a few steps behind him, terrified, wanting to find out what had happened but knowing I should stay out of harm’s way.
I was soon to find out what had transpired, however. A flush-faced page rushed into the hallway, skidding on the tiles. He seemed shocked to see me standing there, dishevelled, hair uncovered, and holding a cloak about me. (Maybe he thought I was naked below the mantle—I know not!)
“Your Grace!” He bowed so low he nearly fell over and lost his cap. “The King is asking that you attend him in the hall below; a miscreant has been caught prowling around within the walls of Woodstock. His Grace wants your Grace to attend him when he confronts the criminal.”
“I will come at once.” I pulled the hood of the cloak over my bare head to keep the boy from staring. “Well, come on, page…lead me to the King!”
The page stopped gawking, bowed again, and then guided me to the great hall. Entering the hall, my eyes were dazzled by a blaze of torchlight. Men at arms were milling everywhere, weapons still in their hands.
Henry was seated upon his chair looking both angry and satisfied. Margaret stood next to him, face white as milk, but seemingly unharmed. It shocked me that she was dressed in a most unseemly fashion, just her kirtle and nothing more…then I remembered I was no different, having risen with such swiftness. And I was Queen.
“Look what we have here, my Lady.” Henry pointed to the reed-strewn flagstones at his feet. On the floor, writhing in chains that bound his arms and legs, was the madman who had accosted us earlier in the day.
“This miscreant…” Henry rose and addressed the others in the hall, pointing at the scowling, spitting creature at his feet, “returned to Woodstock to attempt to murder me and my Queen. He broke into my private quarters seeking me, then when he could not find me, came looking for us both…with this…” He held up a wicked looking blade, glinting fully in the torchlight. “He planned to cut both our throats. Luckily Lady Margaret…” he nodded toward my lady in waiting, “was still awake, reciting her Psalter. She heard the noise of his passage an
d seeing the fiend with weapon in hand, raised the alarm. The would-be assassin tried to barricade himself into a room, but the guards pried him out.”
“Margaret, Margaret, are you unharmed?” I ran to my lady, clasped her in my arms, despite the impropriety.
“Hush, your Grace, I am fine, if shaken. As we all surely are.”
Henry beckoned me to draw nearer. I stood at my husband’s side, gazing down at the man who had wanted to kill us. Despite his predicament, he looked unrepentant, snarling at me like some cur, his lips drawn back over his ragged teeth. He looked less man now than beast.
“At whose behest did he attack?” I asked slowly.
“I do not know but I will soon find out, my Queen!” said Henry, his tone heavy with meaning. Still the attacker did not blanch; he uttered a weird, gurgling laugh then spat at the king’s feet, a great, green gobbet that oozed on the flagstones.
“What would you say this man’s punishment should be?” Henry glanced over at me.
Showing neither fear nor pity, I stood like a statue. The attacker glared at me with hot, burning eyes, hateful eyes that stripped away my garments and encompassed my very death. Evil eyes. I averted my own gaze from his florid, sweating face. “Death,” I said, my voice as clear as a bell in a suddenly silent room.
The man gave a roar like an embattled bear, and threw himself forward against the links of his chains. Roughly, he was dragged back by the men at arms.
“So will it be,” said Henry, hard as stone, and suddenly that dear, kindly familiar face became like granite, and I could imagine that, with darker hair, here stood the very image of his father, the dreaded John. “Once the man is racked for information, he shall meet a fitting death for the infamy of attempting to assassinate his lawful King and rightful Queen. In the morning, he will be tied to four horses and torn apart before the eyes of all men. Guards, take him away.”
As the sentence was pronounced, the attacker suddenly paled and the defiant expression left his eyes. Why he changed his demeanour so suddenly, I did not know. When captured, he must have known he faced death. Perhaps he thought that if he struggled and flung terrible insults Henry would order him killed swiftly on the spot. Now he realised what he had reaped, what his ultimate fate would be.
No quick end for a would-be assassin.
He began to scream, a thin, terrible sound that assailed my ears and made my stomach churn.
“Shut him up!” Henry ordered, his brow like thunder.
An iron fist hit the failed assassin’s jaw and he dropped like a stone to the ground, his bloodied face buried in the rushes. With little care, he was dragged away.
Four horses waited.
I was sick for days after the murder attempt, barely able to rise from my bed. My beloved doctor, Nicholas Farnham, tended me with great diligence, and I bade our saviour, Margaret Biset, remain at my side, where I held her hand in gratitude for what she had done for us, at risk to herself. Christ Jesu, what if the intruder has stabbed her to stop her screaming?
“Margaret, how can the King and I repay you?” I said. “What gift do you want? Name it, and it shall be yours!”
At it turned out, she wanted nothing for herself, that good woman, only a little money to give to the women lepers in the lazar house at remote Maiden Bradley. It was a cause near to her heart, and I saw her eyes grow sorrowful when she spoke of those tragic women; but even I dared not ask for the story as it was no business of mine.
Henry sent to my chambers imported fruit, gifts, gemstones the size of pigeon eggs. I grew no better.
I began to be sick, voiding my gut and turning up my nose at even the most delightful delicacies.
And suddenly Margaret’s pale face became full of wonderment and her big grey eyes lit like lamps. “Your Grace, could it be that you are not ill?”
“Not ill?” I said peevishly, reaching for a brass basin in order to vomit. “I am deathly ill, Margaret—look at me.”
“Your Grace, it has occurred to me, these symptoms that you have could be the signs of…”
Holding the bowl for my spew, I suddenly gaped at her. Due to my youth, I knew but little of such matters, but yes, yes, I supposed it could be…
“Oh Margaret!” I cried, tears springing to my eyes. “I think…I think it is. I am not stricken with some dreaded malady. I…I think I am pregnant! I am carrying my lord husband’s much wanted prince!”
Midsummer was nearly upon England; the heat ran high and the nights were long, with hot sunsets bleeding on the horizons. I did not see the sunrises, sweltering noon, the red dusk, though I felt the heat, rising even to warm the stones of cold castles. I sweltered in confinement, locked away for over a month with my women, awaiting the birth of my child.
The pains of my travail began late at night while I was sleeping. A cramp, a sudden dampness. I called for my women, who summoned the midwives.
I was afraid, as all women are the first time they give birth. No amount of reassurance or tales from my ladies of their own travails could prepare me for what was to come. I had written my will, as all sensible women did before enduring childbed, and I could thing of nothing else. Nothing but death and the tomb.
Gentle Mary, protect me!
Gasping as the pains took me, I writhed on the bed, possessed by agonies such as I had never imagined. My women clustered around, laving my brow as the midwives examined me. Margaret Biset was there and the indomitable Sybil Giffard, an intelligent and industrious woman who had looked after me as her own daughter during my confinement. The women had loosed their hair as well as their girdles and their jewellery; to unbind such items was rumoured to help free the unborn child from the ties of the womb. Special sacred stones were pushed into my hand for luck; I clutched them with a death-grip as pain washed over me in waves.
“Is it stuck?” I cried at one point. “Is the baby going to die? Am I going to die? Ah Mary, Mary, have mercy.”
“No, your Grace.” The midwife was a fat woman whose cumbrous body bore the signs of having borne many children. “Everything is as it should be. You are young and strong. Your pains are not exceptional, just the burden we must bear because of mother Eve…”
The torture went on. Sweat rolled down my skin in gleaming rivulets. I ceased to talk but grunted embarrassingly, like some animal spawning its brood.
Sybil sang to me, trying to soothe; sometimes her mannerisms changed and she spoke sternly, telling me to stop weeping and to bear down.
Then…it was over.
I lay there for a moment, surprised, chest heaving, my burden removed.
Did the infant live? Was it male?
“Your Grace, you have a healthy son!” A baby’s strident scream pierced my ears.
I began to weep, any pretence at queenliness lost in that moment, as the midwife held up the King’s son and heir, who let out a piercing scream and thrashed his tiny red limbs as if already fighting this new world into which he had been thrust. A warrior already.
“It is a prince!” I cried. “A prince. Let King Henry be told! Let him be told at once!”
Sybil Giffard hastened to the door, summoning a page who waited outside. Shortly thereafter, the sound of cheering sounded in the courtyard below, and then the bells of all the nearby churches began to ring, and ring, and ring…
The King was elated at the birth of his son; he sent me a collar of rubies as a gift and then he got drunk with his favourite lords. “A boy!” he kept slurring. “It is a boy! I knew it would be, what else could it be? My heir, my wonderful, long-awaited heir!”
The child was taken to Westminster Abbey with great pomp and baptised at once; he was called Edward, after the Confessor, whom my husband revered so much. Sybil was given a pension for assisting me during my travail, and all other babes baptised the same day as my son were given monetary gifts in honour of Edward’s birth. Surprisingly, Henry asked Simon de Montfort to act as our child’s godfather; I supposed he did it to show his sister Eleanor that he had forgiven her for her former t
ransgressions, but I still had my doubts about Simon having any part in my baby’s life. And I knew his marriage still rankled with Henry, due to the difficulties it had brought.
In the weeks that followed, Edward thrived, just as we hoped and prayed he would, suckling from his plump wet-nurse without difficult and swiftly putting on weight. Henry and I still treated him like fine glass, however, for we knew babes could be suddenly snatched away—a blast of stagnant air, soured milk, bad humours. To protect from this as best we could, we donated money to the poor, hoping Christ and his blessed Mother would intercede, and had a little silk tunic, tailored to be child-sized, sent as a gift to St Mary’s at Southwark, where it would lie as an offering on the high altar.
Once the required month had passed, I was ready for my official churching, my purification after which I would return to public life and re-enter my marital bed. Now that Edward was born, it was my duty to swiftly become pregnant again, and have a second son in case anything untoward happened to the first.
Surrounded by my women, clad in a pure-white robe and veil, I entered the incense-bound shadows of Westminster abbey. Thousands of candles flickered before the Shrine of the Confessor and the monks were singing, their voices deep and melodious, echoing down the vast cavern of the nave.
Great lords and ladies gathered round to witness the purification. The ceremony went smoothly enough and with great magnificence, but when we returned to Westminster Hall, the King was presented with a letter delivered by the Treasurer. The man looked grim, Henry even grimmer. I chewed my lip, dared not asked what had gone wrong.
The King started looking wildly around him, ignoring a perplexed Archbishop of Canterbury, who had been trying to engage him in conversation. Henry suddenly released an animalistic yell, and stormed away from the Archbishop towards a tall figure lounging in the corner of the chamber. Simon de Montfort.
MY FAIR LADY: A Story of Eleanor of Provence, Henry III's Lost Queen Page 5