The Queen's Pawn

by Christy English

  Her waiting woman brought from her clothespress the deep blue gown that had come from Henry. Alais took the scissors from Marie Helene’s workbasket, and cut away the skirt. The royal blue silk gleamed in the light of the lamps. Alais fingered it, and decided that it was soft enough to touch her daughter’s skin.

  She wrapped the child in that blue silk, until only the baby’s face was visible above the cloth. She leaned down and kissed her daughter’s brow. Already, it was as cold as stone.

  After she laid her child down, we both looked at that little girl. All my own lost children came back to me, one by one: Charles, who had died stillborn in the Levant; little William, who had not lived to see his third birthday; and Isabelle, Louis’ infant daughter, buried and left behind long ago in France.

  At sunset, we stood together in the churchyard in the cold wind of that winter day. Rose did not rest in a box, but was laid directly into the earth, still wrapped in blue silk. The sight of her child laid in the ground was Alais’ undoing. She almost dived into the grave, to bring her baby out of it, but I held her back.

  “It is hard,” I said. “Nothing will ever be as hard as this. But you must bear it.”

  The priest made the sign of the cross. When I nodded my permission, he went into the chapel to prepare for the mass that would be sung for the child’s soul. In spite of all my teachings, I still had not wrested from Alais her childhood religion. That day, for the first time, I was glad I had not. Perhaps her religion and her prayers would bring her some consolation, when I myself could not.

  That night, Alais and I sat alone in the rooms that once had been mine. Her waiting woman, Marie Helene, would not leave us; only when I ordered her, and made it clear that I would brook no refusals, did she obey me. She saw that then, as always, I was queen.

  My own Amaria went to find her bed at my prompting. She knew me well, and knew that I would sit alone with my adopted daughter, keeping vigil that night, and for the nights to come, should Alais have need of me. Our rancor was gone like a dream cast off at morning. We sat together, two women who loved each other, for now Alais was a woman indeed.

  The scissors from Marie Helene’s sewing basket lay on the table, the blades Alais had used to make her daughter’s shroud. They were heavy, for they were made of steel, polished to a fine sheen.

  Alais picked up those scissors, and cut into her hair. A great sea of curls fell at her feet, all around the table where I sat. When she was done, her hair was only an inch long, as a nun’s would be.

  “Ah, Alais,” I said. “Ever and always, you are a woman of extremes.”

  She smiled at me. Her mouth shuddered, as if she could not remember how to form a smile, as if she might weep. But she steadied, and her smile grew, until it almost reached her eyes.

  “Come here, daughter, and let me trim it.”

  She knelt beside me, and I combed her short hair with my fingers, tidying the strands of it, so that it lay over her skull more like a cap, and less like a nun’s devotion.

  “There,” I said. “You are a beautiful woman. The loss of your hair does not dim it.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she clutched my hand. I thought she might lose control then, but she did not. She pressed my hand to her lips. I felt them quake against my skin; then she pulled away.

  Alais sat beside me in a second chair, lowering herself gingerly, still sore from giving birth. Her body spoke of her labor, even if she wished to forget.

  “Perhaps someone might use it to make a wig,” she said.

  I laughed as she had meant me to. I poured her a cup of Anjou wine. When she took it up, I placed my hand over hers.

  “I love you, Alais. Now and always, no matter what comes after.”

  She did not shed tears even then. Instead, she spoke in a steady voice, undimmed by pain. “And I love you, Eleanor. I always have. I always will.”

  It was my turn to swallow my tears as I turned my face toward the firelight, her hand warm on mine.

  I sent word to Henry as soon as the baby died, but he was in London planning the hunt for Richard, and did not come. We heard soon afterward that Richard had left England, and had made safe landfall in Barfleur. It was April now and the cold of winter had broken. I knew that spring would bring war. But not yet. I had not yet given the order that would set my sons in motion.

  As Richard mustered his troops in the Aquitaine, Henry received final word from His Holiness the pope. The Holy See would not support his marriage to Alais.

  My spies brought the knowledge to me, secondhand. I, in turn, gave it to Alais, who accepted it, pale and unmoved. She spent all her time at prayer when she was not with me. Alais’ short hair shocked my women, and they withdrew from her. I found I did not want them by me, either, so Alais and I spent a good deal of time alone, with Bertrand to play for us.

  Alais was quiet, as she had been when she first came to me as a child. But day by day I saw a little of the light of her soul coming back into her eyes. She was brokenhearted by the death of her daughter, but her spirit had not been broken. I had never been prouder of her than I was during those dark days.

  On a day in mid-April, Henry rode into the keep at Windsor. The sky was a bright blue, and the wind was from the south, and warm. It promised joy, a sense of hope that Alais did not feel. I saw in her eyes that she thought her life was over. She was so very young.

  Henry came to me first in my solar. He did not announce himself, nor did he knock, but walked in past my women, raising one hand so that they knew to withdraw.

  I stood looking at the husband who had tried to rid himself of me. We had been parted only a few months, but already it was as if I did not know him. As I looked at Henry, standing aloof and remote before me, I saw that I would never know his mind again.

  “Henry,” I said. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  His gray eyes met mine, but I did not feel their warmth. He stared at me, cold, remote, as he might stare at a stranger.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Alais came in, and I was grateful for her presence. She moved slowly, as an invalid might. She felt the loss of her daughter keenly.

  The princess did not hesitate, but went straight to Henry’s side. Despite all that had happened, she still felt drawn to him, as if she had the right.

  And I suppose, if the right was something Henry gave her, she did have it. He opened his arms to her as if they had never been apart, as if she had not betrayed him to Richard.

  I saw the love between them. I looked beyond their lust, beyond politics, and saw that they were kindred spirits, just as Alais and I were, just as Henry and I once had been.

  Henry held her gently, close to his heart, as if she were made of Venetian glass and might break at the slightest touch.

  “Henry” His name was the only word she spoke. She drew the heavy wimple and veil from her head, so that he might see her shorn hair.

  His features darkened when he beheld the small cap of dark brown, all that was left of her glorious curls. He held her face between his hands, staring down into her eyes. He kissed her gently on the forehead, his lips as soft and fleeting as his love. He kissed her once, then let her go.

  The pain in his eyes receded, drawn back into his heart, where he would never look at it again. I saw the shutters of his eyes close to her, as they already had closed to me.

  He stared at Alais for a long moment, then took a step away from both of us. Though he loved her almost as much as he had once loved me, he had decided her fate already.

  “It is good that you have shorn your hair, Princess. For in two weeks’ time, you will return to the Abbey of St. Agnes, to pray for your sins, and to think on the good of France.”

  Alais listened to her lover as if he spoke of someone else. I do not think she believed him. She was so used to having him come to terms with her. She had never seen this side of Henry, the implacable king, the man whose mind, once made, was set in stone.

  Alais did not beseech him, nor did she beg for m
ercy. She turned from him and came to stand by me.

  “So you have won her back, have you, Eleanor?”

  Even then, Henry’s eyes were cold as he looked at me. I would have welcomed hatred, even anger, even bile, but in his eyes there was nothing. Just cold gray emptiness, like the sky before dawn.

  And then he spoke in a voice as empty as his eyes. “She was the last pure thing in my life, before she turned back to you.”

  He left us without another word, without even a glance at Alais. She leaned against me, and I took her hand in mine. She needed my strength to hold her up.

  “He never loved me,” she said. “He never loved me if he could leave me like this.”

  I drew her into my arms, pressing my lips against the softness of her hair.

  “Ah, Alais. It is because he loved you that he leaves you like this. If he had not loved you, he would have sent someone else. He would not have come alone.”

  My words did not comfort her. But she was living in the world now, by her own choice. She, like the rest of us, must learn to face what comes.

  Alais was full of sorrow at the loss of Henry. She might have been young enough, even after all she had seen, to still think herself living in a fairy story, where princesses are rescued, even from the folly of their own choices. But the death of her daughter had taught her the truth: life is fleeting. We must take what gifts it brings us, and enjoy them while we can.

  So we sat together, in my rose garden at Windsor. It was a small garden, but it had a view of the river. Spring came upon us early that year, and the warmth of the season rose up from the ground itself, as if to comfort us.

  As many hours as we could, we spent in that garden. Those two weeks in April were blessed by the Virgin, Alais said, for it did not rain even once. And yet the flowers still bloomed as if under an enchantment.

  Our idyll did not leave me quiet, as Alais was. I wrote to Richard at once, as soon as Henry was on the road to Southampton. I asked him to contact his brothers, that they all might be ready when I came. In two weeks more, I would meet Richard in the Aquitaine, and ride with him from there, into a battle Henry did not yet know was coming.

  But during those last two weeks with Alais, I resolved not to think of politics. I did not know how long Henry would hold Alais in the prison of her abbey. I knew well that he would never let Richard marry her, even if my son had been willing. But I was certain that I could convince Richard to do my bidding, even in this. Someday, Henry would release Alais, and I would be ready.

  I arranged a marriage for Marie Helene, since she would not be going into the nunnery with Alais. We saw her off, with Alais’ little dog in her arms. She went to her mother-in-law in Anjou, who would preside over the wedding in my stead. Marie Helene wept to leave the princess; after shedding a few tears of her own, Alais kissed her, and let her go.

  Alais was calm, much calmer than I would be if I had been consigned to a nunnery for who knew how long.

  Henry still loved her, for he was kind to her, even then. He sent her to the religious house I had chosen for her when she was a child. She knew the women there, and the Reverend Mother. Perhaps she would be safe there, as well as happy.

  She was not happy to leave me. But after I assured her that she need not fear, that I would come for her once I had the king’s leave, we did not speak of her nunnery again. We spoke instead of Richard, of his prowess in war, and of how we both loved him.

  There was no jealousy between us, which six months before I would not have believed. We had been reduced to the essentials of our lives: our love for Richard, and our love for each other.

  We sat, our chairs drawn into the sun. Birdsong was thick along the branches by the riverside. The roses had bloomed early, though the Persian roses I had brought from the Levant still had not yet budded. They would bloom in June. I would be on the Continent, and would not see it.

  I watched Alais as her gaze drifted over the rose garden and down to the river. She had her rosary of diamonds and pearls between her fingers. Though her lips did not move, I knew she was praying in silence for the soul of her daughter.

  The next day, she was to be taken away to her nunnery, and I would leave for the coast. I had forestalled the rebellion among my sons until May, for love of her.

  “Alais,” I said, “I gave your father that rosary.”

  The princess looked up from her prayers, her mind finally drawn from the Virgin and the child she had lost. Her attention did not waver from me. I smiled, lifting my hand to my forehead. The bronze of my hair peeped out along the edges of my wimple, just as I liked it to.

  I settled into storytelling mode, but found I did not have the patience to tell the whole tale, of how my lover Raymond had gifted me with that rosary when first we met, thinking me genuinely pious. Once he knew me better, we laughed over it, and I gave the rosary to Louis.

  “Your father and I rode together on Crusade.”

  “You did not want to return to France with him,” she said.

  I smiled. “Yes, that is true, Alais, but that is not part of this story.”

  Her eyes gleamed with a little wickedness, but she did not refer to her father again. She settled back against the rose embossed cushion I had given her to hear my version of the tale.

  I raised my goblet of wine. Alais watched me as I leaned back in my chair, savoring the moment. She realized, as I did, that we must make the most of this one day.

  “That rosary was given me by a great knight in the Levant, a man who held the kingdom of Antioch against the infidel.”

  Alais loved tales of great knights in the Holy Land, so I exaggerated slightly when I spoke of Raymond’s piety. He was a soldier of Christ, of sorts, which I suppose was all that Alais ultimately cared for.

  She listened, wide-eyed, and once more I was reminded that for all her recent loss and heartbreak, she was but fifteen years old. Alais seemed younger than I had ever been, even in the happy time before my father died, when I had been cherished and cared for. I leaned across the arm of my chair, and touched the soft skin of her cheek. I wished that I had protected her better. I wished that I had kept her safe.

  She saw the tears in my eyes, and followed my thought, though I did not speak it and had lost the thread of my story.

  “I love you, Eleanor. What I did, I did for myself. You could not have stopped me.”

  I laughed, tears standing in the emerald green of my eyes. “I tried to stop you, Alais, as you well know.”

  She took my hand in hers and pressed her lips to it. I saw that she would love me for the rest of her life, just as she loved me now.

  “Eleanor, you are the mother I never knew. I am sorry for all the pain I caused you. I will never be able to thank you for the succor you have given me.”

  “You are the daughter of my heart, one of the great loves of my life. That was always true, even at the darkest times, even when we were apart.”

  Alais came out of her chair and knelt at my feet, as if she were a servant, or a child. She leaned her head on my lap. I drew off her wimple, that I might run my fingers through the short silk of her dark hair.

  “Do not fear, Alais. We will be together again. I have foreseen it.”

  She did not answer, but her tears dampened the silk of my gown. We sat that way a long time, her head in my lap, my hand in what was left of her hair. We rose only when the sun had set, and Amaria came out to bid us come in, for the night grew damp, and we might catch our deaths.

  Alais and I both laughed as we stood, my lady-in-waiting frowning down on us, pecking at us like a mother hen. Alais wrapped her arm around my still-slender waist, and we went inside to see what the cook had made for us. I knew supper would be good; he was also in my employ.

  Epilogue

  ALAIS: A ROSE IN SPRING

  Abbey of St. Agnes, Bath

  May 1178

  I became myself again, living the next five years among the nuns of St. Agnes. Mother Sebastian welcomed me back with open arms. I wondered at f
irst if she had not heard of my affair with the king and of all that followed. But when we prayed together alone in my room, in front of the prie-dieu that they had built for me so long ago, she commended the soul of my daughter to heaven. I knew then that she had heard the whole story of my time with the king.

  I prayed for Marie Helene, safely married to Charles of Anjou at the queen’s bidding. I prayed also for Bijou, though she was only a dog. Marie Helene had taken my puppy away with her when she went by ship to meet her husband. Even I could keep no dogs in the nunnery.

  I prayed for Henry and for Richard, the men I would always love, the men I could not keep.

  And always, I prayed for Eleanor.

  I took to painting again almost as if I had not left it. I found myself fascinated with the Birth of the Holy Child, and I would paint nothing else. I worked with deep colors, leaving the dark tones of the vellum to stand in place for the skin of Our Lord. I painted Him always in the manger, surrounded by His Mother and singing angels, His limbs swaddled and His mouth smiling. Always, when I was done, the Christ Child wore her face.

  These little vellum paintings became valued by the sisters as objects of devotion, and in the last year there had been a call for them even out in the world. The wealthy women of the county would come by litter in person to take one of my paintings from the convent, leaving a healthy gift of gold or silver in its place.

  The Mother said that these paintings caught something of the joy as well as the sorrow in the birth of Our Lord. She said also that I was not the only woman ever to lose a child. I was old enough by then to understand her.

  I sat in the garden on a beautiful spring day, five years after my daughter had been born and died. I wore a simple black gown and veil. My hair had grown back long past my shoulders.

  The sun was high and warm, and I worked with my paints laid in the shade so that they would not dry out. I had brought my high table into the yard, as no one else would have been allowed to do. Though I lived among the sisters, I was not one of them.