Something in his solemn eyes gave me the urge to strike him. As young as he was, how could he possibly love as I had loved, carrying the weight of loss for so many years?
But then I remembered. I was fourteen when I first saw Richard. I had loved him then as I loved him now. I closed my mouth over any other words I might have said. “Let us leave this place. I am tired of the dark.”
William tucked my hand into the crook of his arm. He led me out of that cathedral into the bright light of morning. It would soon be noon. We would ride on to his lands in Ponthieu. We had tarried long enough in Rouen.
Though a groom and our men-at-arms stood close, it was my husband who raised me to my saddle, as Henry once had done long ago. His hands lingered on my waist as he set me on my horse, and I thought there might be a quickening between us.
But his touch moved to my foot to check the length of the stirrup, and the moment was gone as if it had never been. I wondered why a man so young would turn from women so completely. I drew my mind away from that. I did not understand the thoughts of men, and I never would. He had respected my privacy. It was the least I could do to respect his.
We left Rouen as the morning burned away in the warmth of the noon sun. We did not speak, but rode close together, going slowly, for it had been twenty years since I had last ridden a horse, and my pace could not be fast. William reached across the distance that separated us and took my hand.
The leather of his glove covered the kidskin of mine. I was surprised to see how small my hand looked in his, and how protected I felt in that moment as he rode beside me.
8
In My Husband’s House
I had never had a home before, save for my father’s palace when I was very small. Though the Abbey of St. Agnes had been comfortable, it had also been a sort of prison, and religious life eluded me, for all my earnest prayers. Perhaps I would make a home for myself among my husband’s people.
As we rode into the sunlight of the afternoon, I saw that William’s country was full of growing things. Trees towered over us like sentinels, whispering as we passed. Their varied shades of green called to me; I had never seen so fine a forest in England or anywhere.
William saw my love for his country in my eyes. He began to tell me of his lands at Bellême, how much the land yielded in a season, how his people were healthy and prosperous. He sounded like a country farmer speaking of his home, not like a count who had served my brother for years at court.
Though I knew little of farming and of the daily care of the land, the life he painted with his words seemed peaceful and full of joy. Perhaps I had found a place to be free of the ties that bound me, a place where I might grow roses and learn once more to be content.
The forest yielded to vast fields of barley and wheat. Though it was early in the year, the land was covered with bright green grass that swayed in the wind. There were farmers in the fields, and they did not stop and kneel as they would have done had we been carrying my brother’s standard. Instead, they waved and doffed their caps to my husband, who waved back as if they were his friends.
“We are coming closer to my lands here,” he said. “The people have seen me ride through on my way to court. They know me.”
We stopped to eat in a field that lay fallow. A tent had been set up to keep the sun off our heads, but three sides were raised so that the breeze would cool us as we ate.
Marie Helene sat at our table and dined with us as if she were family, for truly she was the only family I had left. This was another gesture that raised my husband in my esteem. I kissed his cheek before he went to fetch the horses, and he blushed as if he were a boy in truth.
We rode onto his lands just before the sun began to slant far into the west. William raised one gloved hand to shade his eyes and showed me the new crops that had been planted, a new strain of wheat from Flanders, one that never would have been tried while his father was alive.
“It may keep more children and old people alive this winter,” he said as he looked out across his fields.
I saw that he did not say this to gain favor with me but was simply speaking openly from his heart.
“God willing, my lord.”
He quirked an eyebrow at me. His liking for God and the church was tenuous at best. “It is in His hands, is it not, lady?”
I smiled, knowing that he teased me. Despite the pious mutterings of many, few actually knew the grace of God. I had only glimpses, though I had sought it all my life. “Indeed, my lord. As we all are.”
William turned from me then, and I changed the subject. “I would like to plant a garden of roses, if I might. The soil here looks to be good for all growing things, and I learned a great deal about roses in my last years at the abbey.”
He was delighted to be able to offer me something within his power to grant. “You may have all the gardens you wish, my lady. I would indulge you in all things.” He waved to his lands around us, as if offering them to me.
The sweetness of the gesture touched me and I took his hand. We were riding close together, for the track was narrow, though well laid.
Something shifted in his eyes when I touched him. The shadow passed over his face for a moment and then was gone. I had overstepped, but I could not be sorry for it. William took his hand away from me as we rode into his castle bailey.
The house at Bellême was stone, as all the Norman castles are, as all the castles of my childhood had been. His bailiff was a good steward, for the stones of the courtyard had been washed, and clean rushes laid down.
The servants of the keep stood in the courtyard as we rode in. The household was well run, for they had posted a look out, and had seen us coming.
I had never been mistress in my own house, though Mother Bernard had trained me to it as a child. I had learned how to run a household when it still looked as if I would be allowed a decent marriage, before Henry ever saw me. I hoped some of those lessons would come back to me.
As I greeted my husband’s servants, I felt as if Mother Bernard stood by, approving my soft voice and calm gaze, traits she had often praised in me as a child. My husband’s people curtsied to me, some awkwardly, some with grace. I could tell within a moment which worked in the buttery and which served at the high table on feast days.
One little girl offered me a bunch of handpicked wildflowers from the roadside. I bent low and gave her my hand. She smiled at me as Rose might have done had she lived, and the light of her smile followed me into my husband’s house.
There were no speeches, for we had traveled far that day. Holding my hand in his, my husband said only, “My lady wife.”
His people bowed to me, then rose and went about their business as we walked into the keep.
My husband’s housekeeper greeted us in the great hall. She had been with the family many years, since before William was born. She smiled at him affectionately, and he took her in his arms, lifting her off her feet. “Maisie! You are a sight for sore eyes.”
“Ah, you’ve been too long at court, my lord,” she said.
Her piercing blue eyes took me in as he set her down. Despite her jovial smile, she missed nothing. I was glad I had worn a new gown from my dowry to honor my husband’s house. Maisie curtsied with grace. “My lady, you are welcome. I trust you will find everything in order.”
She was a little afraid of me and of the changes I brought to what had been her household. I admired that she fought so valiantly to hide her nerves. The gentle hand of Mother Bernard was on my arm as I smiled at her. I knew it would take weeks, if not months, to win her over.
“Thank you, Maisie. I have no doubt I will.”
She led me through the main hall, with William trailing behind us over the rushes. I caught the scent of rosemary and cloves. The trestle table was well scrubbed, and the chairs by the fire were filled with plump embroidered cushions.
Maisie took me the long way to the staircase, so that I could see everything and know that she had nothing to hide. If I had asked her, she would have led
me on a tour of the laundry and the buttery.
I would leave those things to her, but I wanted to ask about the kitchen garden. I would never feel at home until I had planted something myself.
She led us up the wooden staircase to the floor above the main hall. All the while, William followed behind us, saying nothing. I praised each room, each display of her housekeeping. Even Eleanor’s household had not been run so well.
Maisie had saved the best room for last. She opened the great wooden door with a flourish and stood back to let me pass. I caught my breath, for it was the loveliest room I had ever seen.
The bedchamber’s floor was a wide expanse of polished wood, stretched larger than any room I had ever slept in. The windows were set with glass through which the last light of the day shone.
On each wall, tapestries hung in brilliant blues, yellows and greens. Flowers and birds were worked in bright colors. A unicorn knelt in the center, close to a clear pond. It gazed at its own reflection, lowering its horn to the water to purify it.
I almost crossed myself at the sight, so beautiful was that work of art. I could feel the presence of Christ reflected in the image. The calm, clear eye of the beast looked out at us, as if to say that we had only to repent. We were forgiven already.
I drew my gaze from the tapestries and looked at the rest of the room. The last of the afternoon sunlight slanted across the floor. The windows faced south, letting in the sun both afternoon and morning. The soft light transformed the tapestries around us, until they seemed almost to come alive.
When I turned from the windows with their beveled glass and their view that led far down to the river, I saw the bed was draped in satin.
I had not seen such costly material since I was at Henry’s court. I stepped forward to touch it, to see if it was real. The satin was soft, smooth under my hands as nothing else had ever been. I swallowed tears as I turned to my husband. William had outfitted this room as if a queen had come to live there.
Maisie saw my tears and slipped away. William and I stood alone in the light of the fading sun.
“These rooms were my mother’s.”
“They are beautiful. My lord, the expense-”
William raised one hand to silence me. I thought for a moment that he would extend his hand and touch my cheek. But he did not. His gloved hand stayed in the air between us.
“My lady, you honor our House. My mother, had she lived, would be pleased to have you here, among us.” My husband lowered his arm. We stood looking at one another across what should have been my marriage bed.
Marie Helene came in, directing the servants with my trunks. “Place them there for now,” she said, gesturing beneath my windows. “There should be enough light to unpack before sundown.”
“I will send candles.” William walked out of my bedroom and did not look back.
Marie Helene caught my eye and smiled at me, as if her smile might heal the sorrow I felt over my marriage. “Lady, your bathwater is boiling in the kitchen. I have not seen such a well-run household since the queen’s. I did not even have to ask for it.”
As she spoke, two women came in with a wooden tub draped in linens. Trailing them was a line of women carrying water in great urns. They set the bathtub between two braziers, then filled it. One woman offered to stay and attend me, but Marie Helene sent her away.
“It is good to be in a civilized country again, is it not, my lady?”
Marie Helene knew me well, even after all the time that had passed. England had always seemed a wild country, a place apart. Truly, I was glad to be home.
We kept silent after that, as she left me to my own thoughts and slipped into her own. The day since my marriage had brought a new home and a great deal of pain. My husband honored me but wanted nothing further from me. I bled for what might have been with Jean Pierre. And I had seen Richard for the last time. Marie Helene was the only woman left alive, save Eleanor, who knew what that had cost me.
Marie Helene stayed silent, her hands gentle on my hair, for indeed, there was nothing left to say.
9
Jean Pierre
Though my husband never touched me but to take my hand to lead me into dinner, I found his home a welcoming place. The house had been without a mistress since his mother died three years before. But Maisie had run it beautifully ever since, so there was little for me to do but to sit in the sun and smell the green things growing in the garden. I would sit, taking in the sight of the river as it wound round its bend, down the hill from the castle keep.
Each day was peaceful in its simplicity. William knew I did not like to hunt, so he never invited me to ride out with him and his men. He was an avid hunter and came back with venison and boar from the forests. His lands were vast, but I had no interest in exploring them.
In those first days in my husband’s house, I waited to see what might come next. So much change had come upon me so suddenly that now I waited for it to show its face again.
But as the month of May passed, and June came to us with its afternoon rains and its sunny mornings, I began to trust that I was where I would always be. No force would come from the court to tear me away from that place and from the peace I had found there.
I began to take more interest in the running of the household. Maisie took my suggestions easily, sometimes even gratefully. I did little to change the way she ran things, but she took confidence from my interest. She carried herself with more authority. It gave her pleasure to say, whenever she ordered a task done, “As my lady would wish it.”
Marie Helene would smile, offering no suggestions, though she had run a great house for over twenty years. She was retired now, she told me, and would not lift a finger in this life again except in my service.
As time passed, the sorrow in her eyes lifted. My husband’s country soothed her as much as our renewed friendship. The land all about us seemed to have been left under an enchantment, as if such things as armies and courtly love, warfare and strife had never been seen or heard of there.
I knew this to be false. My father had fought battles nearby to keep the Vexin from the English. After his death, my brother had fought again to defend what was left of my honor.
But all evidence of such warfare was gone as if it had never been. Fields of grain and flowers grew on land armies had once ravaged. I went walking in those fields alone one morning when Marie Helene was too tired to rise from her bed.
As I walked, I was grateful for the silence and the rising wind. The wind in my face always made me feel free, as if I were on the sea or flying, as I sometimes did in dreams. This sense of freedom was an illusion, but after my life of sacrifice, I had come to cherish my illusions as the children I would never have.
The sun had come up over the trees beyond the river, and I stopped to look out over the water. It was at least twenty feet to the other side, and the land beyond the river belonged to my husband as well.
By the river grew irises and daisies, the same flowers that had flourished long ago by the river near Windsor. Henry had woven me a crown of flowers and placed it on my head. I stood with my memories, looking out over the river, when Jean Pierre came to me.
“My Lady Alais.”
The sound of wind and moving water had concealed his footsteps as he crossed my husband’s lands to stand beside me. I knew this, but in that first moment, I felt as if the Virgin had opened Her Hand and given him back to me. His horse stood close by, munching grass.
We looked at each other, the sunlight burnishing the gold and copper of his hair. His eyes were a cerulean blue. It had been only two months, but already his eyes were a deeper blue than I remembered.
“Jean Pierre,” I said.
He knelt in the grass before me and took my hand. I looked down at his bared head. His hair covered his face in a curtain of gold. He clutched my hand as if he were drowning.
I knelt beside him, and his arms came around me, all thought for my marriage forgotten. I clung to him, and he to me, in silence, exc
ept for the wind and the water that moved beside us and around us, with no thought for us or our pain.
We did not move for a long time. It was he who remembered himself first. He rose to his feet and drew me with him. He would have stepped back and let me go, but I still clung to him.
“My lady,” he said. “I left my men at the village one mile hence. I am leaving for the Levant, and I could not go without seeing you again.”
“Come to the house,” I said. “My husband is kind and will welcome both you and your men.”
“No.” His face was as dark as if I had asked him to step into Hell. “I cannot linger. I should not be here now.”
There were many things I wanted to say to him, things that now could make no difference. When I spoke, I meant my words as a blessing, but they sounded hollow in my ears.
“God be with you when you go to war. My prayers will be with you, always, wherever you are.”
Jean Pierre held me, but he would not let me come too near. He breathed in the scent of my hair once, then set me back from him. I saw in his face that my nearness pained him, so I did not cling to him again.
We stared at each other, his hands on my arms. I did not come close to him again, but I could not take my eyes from his face.
“I have heard a rumor at court that your husband cannot love you,” he said.
“For once, the rumor is true.”
A muscle leaped in his jaw. In that moment, if my brother had been standing there, Jean Pierre would have taken the sword he wore and run him through. He breathed deeply, his hands flexing on my arms. Even in his fury, he was careful not to bruise me.
“I have sworn to go on Crusade with your brother, the King.” On the last word, he looked as if he would spit, as if he tasted something vile. But something in his tone gave me hope for the first time since my benighted marriage. I watched his face as he spoke again. “If I live, I will come back to you.”
We stood in the tall grass beside the river on my husband’s land, the sun rising behind us. I took in the blue of his eyes and the curve of his cheek and felt for the last time the strength of his hands on my arms.
Princess Of France (The Queen's Pawn Book 2) Page 8