The Royal Griffin (The Plantagenents Book 2)

by Juliet Dymoke

  Richard was as good as his word. When he ceased to condemn the secret marriage and showed himself openly reconciled to his new brother-in-law, the opposition disappeared. There were grumblings, chiefly from the Earl of Pembroke and his particular cronies, and the clergy stood firm, but the battle was half won.

  Simon took Eleanor to Leicester and set about raising money.

  'That is what speaks in the Curia, or so I'm told,' he said with a touch of cynicism, 'and it is all-important to give gifts in the right places to persuade the Holy Father to a quick decision.'

  'I wish I could come with you,' she said but he shook his head.

  'This is man's work and I'll travel faster alone. Besides, to show ourselves together would not forward matters. We must seem humble, parted and awaiting his Holiness's decision.'

  'Very well,' she agreed, 'but I wish you did not have to sell those woods at Leicester. It is not good to part with land.'

  'I must raise money. There are some debts I can call in, but it is tiresome that Henry has never seen fit to settle your dower properly. He signed away your rights for a paltry sum far less than you should have had, and even that my lord of Pembroke is slow to pay.'

  'Gilbert Marshal is as tight-fisted as he can be,' she said tartly. 'William was not like that.’

  'Well, we will see what can be done about it when I come home. At least you will be able to keep my affairs in order while I am gone.'

  He wanted her to see Kenilworth where he had completed Henry's building plans and took her there a few days before he must leave.

  The great castle, built in local sandstone of a pinkish-brown colour, stood imposingly on a knoll, surrounded on three sides by water, by a mere and a pool, and on the fourth by the moat. As they rode over the drawbridge Eleanor knew why he talked so much of it. There was a beauty here, a strength, that was to make it her favourite home.

  Together they toured the keep, tall and defensive, the more comfortable hall with its bedchamber above. They heard Mass in the newly finished chapel and Eleanor inspected the kitchens while Simon took Finch to the stables.

  She made herself familiar with every detail of the place and they dined with the Abbot whose convent was close by the outer wall. She tried to forget that Simon must leave her so soon, that she would be sitting in solitary dignity at the high table in the hall, looking along the trestle tables at their retinue. She would be alone once more. When the last night came she clung to him as they lay together in their great bed, the bed which Henry had installed for himself and his Queen when they visited Kenilworth.

  Simon soothed her, stroking her hair, as unwilling as she for the separation.

  'I don't know how long it will take,' he said, 'and I thought it might be politic to pay a visit to the Emperor Frederick and present myself to him. He would be a valuable ally, and I can take messages to your sister.'

  'Oh, take her my dear love, and tell her' – she paused, twining her arms about him. 'Tell her I am with child.'

  'Eleanor!' he cried out, 'My dear, my love, are you sure?'

  'Quite sure now. I wanted so much for it to be so before you went.'

  His mouth sought hers and found it. 'I am so glad, so glad. It is a sign of God's forgiveness, I'm sure of it. And it will be a boy, it must be a boy. Please God I will be home long before the birth.'

  Her time was nearly come, however, when at last he rode once more under the barbican and into the great court of Kenilworth Castle. He had the Pope's absolution in his pocket, the papal blessing on their union, and the good wishes of the Emperor Frederick. He had had the luck to arrive in time to distinguish himself at the siege of Brescia and had won Frederick's approval. One of the Queen's uncles, Count Thomas of Savoy, entertained Simon on his way home, and reminded his guest that there was the small matter of an outstanding debt which Simon had owed old Randulph of Chester and which on Randulph's death had, by various means, been transferred to himself.

  'Two thousand marks?' Simon queried with rare carelessness. 'A small sum, my lord, and my brother-in-law the King will stand surety for it.'

  'I'm glad to hear it,' the Count said. 'My wife's father left Flanders poor enough and I have need of money.'

  'Who has not?' Simon agreed, having emptied his pockets in Rome, and promptly forgot the matter. He had no liking for the Queen's relatives and when he reached Kenilworth no thoughts for anyone but his wife.

  He laid his hand on her swollen body and felt the child move. 'Beloved,' he said, 'you carry our son proudly.'

  On a dark November afternoon he was proved right, for the baby was a boy and seemed strong and well made, with dark hair and Eleanor's blue eyes. Simon stood by the bed while her women bustled about attending to the child, rubbing his little limbs with salt, putting a tiny amount of wine into his mouth and wrapping him carefully before laying him in the wooden cradle awaiting him.

  He kissed his wife, smoothing the hair from her damp forehead, his deeply passionate nature stirred by this crowning of their love.

  It had been a difficult birth and she was exhausted, but she smiled up at him, his hand held tightly in hers. 'My lord – a boy – as you wished.'

  'A fine boy,' he agreed. 'Shall he be called Henry for your brother?'

  'A good notion.' Her eyes closed. 'I am so tired, Simon.'

  'Then sleep,' he said, 'sleep, my heart. You have done well.'

  He bent over the cradle, looking down at the little puckered face and then went out to climb to the roof above their chamber. The afternoon was dank and cheerless, an eerie mist lying over the water, the last wet leaves fallen from the trees, and he remembered how they had said that bad weather had always proved their good fortune. Standing there in the raw cold, the dampness in the air clinging to his hair and eyebrows and silently crying out his Deo Gratias, it seemed to him that the world had never been so filled with light and hope and promise.

  CHAPTER SIX

  In June the Queen was safely delivered of a son also who was named Edward because of the King's devotion to Saint Edward the Confessor. There was general rejoicing that after two years the Queen had proved not to be barren and Henry was beside himself with pride. He demanded costly gifts for his heir, certain that every liegeman in the country would wish to commemorate the birth of a future king and one disgruntled lord was heard to mutter that though God had given England the infant, the King was selling him.

  The christening, in Henry's usual manner, was to be an extravagant feast and it was distinguished by the attendance of all the nobility. Among the godfathers were the boy's two uncles, the Earls of Cornwall and Leicester and together Richard and Simon lifted him from the font, all animosity long gone. There were still odd remarks made, which Simon and his wife ignored, while those who had murmured that there must have been some reason for the haste of the marriage had been confounded when no child appeared until eleven months after that January day. Only Matthew Paris, writing with his pen dipped in sarcasm, maintained that the ways of the Curia were too subtle for mere Englishmen.

  A few weeks later, for the ceremony of the Queen's churching, the Earl and Countess of Leicester were offered the fine house of the Bishop of Winchester on the banks of the river not far from Westminster. They arrived there on a summer afternoon with their retinue, their eight-month-old son and his nurses, and all the baggage with which Eleanor found it necessary to travel. She was not going to be outdone in the matter of dress, even by the Queen.

  The Bishop's house was built of stone with a high vaulted hall, several chapels, and every comfort possible was supplied. 'We shall do very well here,' Eleanor said. 'I shall be interested to see how my new nephew has grown. Our son was a lusty boy from the day of his birth.'

  Simon smiled. 'Will you take a measure and scales to court?'

  They arrived at the palace of Westminster just before the supper hour to find the ball filling up with guests and among them Count Thomas. Simon bowed to him in a courteous manner and was about to make some welcoming remark when he receiv
ed only a cold inclination of the head as the Count passed by without pausing.

  Simon was pardonably annoyed. 'What in God's name is the matter with him?' he muttered to his wife. 'I can't conceive I have offended him in any way, barring the – matter of that debt which God knows is trifling enough between men of our rank.'

  'He is a tiresome, stupid man, puffed up because his niece is a Queen,' Eleanor said indignantly. 'Let us go and find my brother.’

  Henry was in his chamber with his lady, two of her other uncles, Peter Earl of Richmond and Bishop Boniface, and the Abbots of Westminster and St Albans attending him with a number of other lords. The Earl and Countess were announced by a page and entered, Eleanor sweeping her brother a deep obeisance before coming forward, her hands held out for the customary embrace, while Simon bowed, a step behind his royal wife.

  To their utter astonishment Henry's face was dark with anger, the mottling creeping up into his hair as it did when he was in a temper. He turned on them with a stream of vituperation. 'I wonder you dare to show your faces here,' he burst out. 'I wonder God does not strike you down for the way you have violated all the laws of Holy Church. I swear I did not know what a devil I was taking as a friend when you came to England with your grasping schemes.'

  There was sudden and utter silence. Simon and Eleanor both stood aghast, stunned by this torrent of words so completely unexpected and unheralded. Only a few weeks ago Simon had been so highly honoured as to stand godfather to the young prince. Henry had walked arm-in-arm with them both in the palace gardens, yet here he was turning on Simon as if they were the bitterest of enemies.

  Eleanor stood transfixed, glancing round the faces there and seeing little to encourage her, only Isabella trying to convey some sort of warning from her place behind the Queen's chair.

  Simon found his voice first. 'Sire, what can we possibly have done to offend your grace. I cannot recall –’

  'Cannot recall?' Henry's voice rose to a higher pitch. 'Jesu, your memory is short when only eighteen months ago in this very chapel here you entered into an illicit union with my sister.'

  Simon gasped and Eleanor cried out, 'With your consent!' She felt a sudden trembling in her knee. She had always been Henry's favourite sister, who had never had a cross word from him, and to be the object of such a vicious tirade, seemingly without reason, bewildered her. She looked round for Richard, that voice of sanity, but he was not there. 'Harry – Harry, for God's sake what are you saying?'

  'Do not name God,' he stormed. 'It is He whom you have offended most. And you, Sir Simon, you have dared to corrupt the Holy Curia with your filthy money, buying my sister's absolution when my Archbishop refused it.'

  Simon was staggered. 'But, sire, since the Pope's absolution Archbishop Edmund has signified that he will bow to his Holiness's decision.'

  'I think you may be counting too much upon that;' Bishop Boniface said in his silky voice. 'You cannot be unaware that the Archbishop is always the first to insist on the laws of the Church being upheld. England is a long way from Rome.'

  'You, my lord, know little of England.' Simon swung round. 'I was once a stranger too, but I have been here a great deal longer than you and I think I can count on Archbishop Edmund's charity.'

  'You may not!' Henry interposed. 'You should be excommunicated for what you have done and my Archbishop will not be unwilling to carry that out, I promise you.'

  Simon had become very pale, his pallor accentuated in contrast with the darkness of his hair. 'My lord, you astound me. You yourself set your sister's hand in mine, you yourself gave me letters to the Pope asking him to look favourably on us, you gave us your blessing.'

  'Blessing!' The word became almost a screech. Don’t you dare take me to task. I didn’t know what advantage you would take of my goodwill.'

  'I took no advantage other than that you gave me. And all this happened last year. You gave us no cause then, nor since, to think that anything was amiss between us. You have treated me as a brother, named me godfather to your son.'

  'A mistake,' the Queen said with studied negligence. 'I said at the time, Henry, but you would not have it.’

  'Aye,' the King agreed, 'fool that I was. I did not know then what you had done. You owe a great sum to my wife's uncle Thomas, a sum the Pope ordered you to pay, and you've done naught about it except swear I'll stand surety for it, and for other debts. And in Rome you had the effrontery to use my name to aid you with the Holy Father himself.'

  'Is all this because of a trifle of money owed to Count Thomas?' Simon demanded. 'If so it is very ill-judged, sire. My debts will be paid in time and who better could I call on to vouch for my good intentions than my new brother-in-law?'

  'Oh aye,' Henry retorted. 'You would use me all you can, I don't doubt, but I'll not have it. Great God, are there no lengths to which your ambition will not drive you?'

  'Harry!' Eleanor took a step forward. 'How can you accuse my lord of such things. You know well how we love you, bow grateful we have been for your care for us.'

  'And how ill I've been repaid! I see I can trust no one but my dear Queen, my uncles. Oh, get out of my sight, both of you, I do not want you at my court.' A brief malicious smile crossed the King's face. 'You had best get back to the Bishop's house.

  It is no longer at your disposal. I have sent my guards to eject your people and your possessions into the street.'

  At that Eleanor flung herself at his feet and gazed imploringly up at him and then at the circle of faces about him. The Queen looked oddly satisfied, the Provencal uncles smug, and the Abbot of Westminster wore a hard look, his opinion wholly on the side of the Church. Only Isabella appeared near rare tears. 'Harry,' Eleanor cried again, 'have you forgotten who I am? Your sister whom you love! We have always been so much to each other. Oh, where is Richard, he would tell you –’

  'I have the facts before me,' he said brutally, 'and protestations can't deny them. You have cheated me, cheated Holy Church. Go, I say, go.'

  Simon came forward and helped Eleanor to her feet, his hands shaking with the effort to control the tide of rage and injured pride that was sweeping over him. 'Come,' he said in a tight hard voice. 'We do no good here.'

  'None!' Henry jeered. He clapped his hands for an attendant. 'Escort the Earl and Countess to their barge.'

  There was nothing for it but to withdraw and they went, Simon's hand holding Eleanor's fast, hers trembling in his, and they did not speak until they were in the boat and the oarsmen rowing them down river.

  Eleanor was too stunned even to weep. ‘Why, Simon, why has he changed so?'

  'By the arm of St James,' Simon swore his favourite oath, 'I wish I knew.' But then he shut his mouth hard, aware of the curiosity of the oarsmen summoned so soon to return the Earl and Countess to their lodging. Simon felt his anger rising with the rhythmic sweep of the oars. If his people and goods were really in the street the news of their dismissal would be all over London by nightfall.

  The boatman pulled in by the steps leading to the Bishop's palace and there Simon helped his wife out of the boat. There was no sign of anyone here except four guards at the door. Simon gave them no more than a cursory glance and led the way through an archway to the front of the building; a small courtyard giving on to the road that ran from Westminster to the city. And here indeed were all their people, standing about and waiting for them or sitting on loaded chests. Several men were still heaving packages into a wagon while the maid­servants, pale and frightened, stood in a huddle whispering together. The baby's nurse was holding him in her arms and rocking him gently while the Earl's steward, Walter, seemed to be having a vociferous argument with one of the guards at the main door.

  It was Finch who came forward to tell how the King's men had come and turned them all out under the astonished eyes of the bishop's own servants. How it had seemed best to obey for he had no idea what his master and mistress would wish. He was bewildered but in his stolid way merely asked what was to be done now. He had the horses
saddled and ready and dusk was beginning to fall. Walter came hurrying over and added his indignant voice to Finch's.

  'We must go to an inn, at least for tonight,' Simon said. His mouth was drawn down hard. 'There is the Wolf and Duck or the Bell further along. Between the two we should find rooms enough.'

  'Oh, lady,' Doll cried out. 'Thank God you are come, we did not know what to do.'

  'We'd scarcely time to pack your gowns,' Megonwy said, 'but I've your jewels safe. We've had no supper.'

  'We will all have supper soon,' her lord said. 'Finch, get them all ready to go. Are the wagons loaded?'

  Finch nodded and while he assembled the anxious servants, Simon himself lifted Eleanor into her saddle. She was shaking, not with cold for the evening was warm but with shock and distress and, desperately anxious as he was, he held her for a moment.

  'Take heart, my love. You know Henry – his anger will pass and we will get to the bottom of this affair.'

  'But why?' she said again. 'He was so merry with us that day in his own chamber, so happy for us, why should he turn against us now. Can it be that the money, the debts, weigh so heavy with him?'

  Simon gave a little shrug but he said nothing for there seemed to be no explanation. The baby began to cry, instinctively unsettled by the disturbance about him, and his father gave him a swift glance between tenderness and anger that he should be 'We must find shelter for him and all our people.'

  He led his little cavalcade to the first inn where the landlord, astonished by the unexpected arrival of such company, hastily ejected a merchant from the best bedchamber and found accommodation for the Countess's ladies, her son and his nurses. The rest of their knights and squires and servants found space where they could, but the smoky ill-lit tavern rooms and the plain boiled meats for supper were no exchange for the luxury of the Bishop's palace.

  Finch stabled the horses and then entered the back part of the inn where he found the Countess's maids, his lord's barber, Peter, and other servants gathered. The landlord's wife was bustling about trying to find food for all these mouths and she had sent her son to rouse the pastry cook and demand more pies. 'Out of my way,' she demanded as Finch came in with two young squires. 'God's life, not more of you? Yes, there will be supper but not if you get under my feet.' She darted to the great hearth where there was a suspicious smell of burning and ordered one of the Countess's pages to turn the spit. Seeing the lad's indignation at being given a task he considered below him