Though William could have known nothing of my pain, he had compassion for it. He leaned down in front of all the women in that room and kissed me full on the lips. There was no lust in his kiss. Only love, as if he might lend me his strength, as if he might take my pain on himself, freeing me of it forever.
He knelt beside me, smoothed back my hair, and let me weep. “My lady,” he said, loud enough for others to hear, “What would you name our daughter?”
I wiped my face with my hand until Marie Helene leaned over and handed me a cloth. I started to dry my own tears, but William took the kerchief and did it for me.
I found my voice, wondering if some of his strength had indeed infused me. I felt less like dying, and falling out of the world that I lived in. I looked at my daughter, who now lay in her father’s arms. He had risen and taken her from Marie Helene, once my tears were dried.
My daughter blinked at me once, looking displeased to be called by any name. I searched my heart. I knew who had stood by me all the years of my imprisonment in the nunnery, who had sent letters every month, though her husband forbade her. The woman who had comforted me all those barren years, when I had thought never to look on a child of mine again this side of Paradise.
“Husband, her name is Marie,” I said.
Marie Helene wept, gasping, her face contorted with sorrow and joy together.
William raised my daughter so that he could look into her face. “Little one, we name you for Marie Helene, your godmother here on Earth, and for the Holy Mother in Heaven. May She look over you all the days of your life. May She guide and protect you when your mother and I cannot.”
I wept when he said that, for in my just-birthed state, everything moved me. It was generous of him to take her as if she were truly his own. Indeed, the household wondered after that day if perhaps she might have been his in truth, that he and I had lain together, and they had simply not known it.
Marie slept then, and Marie Helene took her from my husband’s arms and handed her to the nurse. We had found a healthy girl on my husband’s estate, and she took to my daughter from the first as if she had birthed her. I thanked God for that, for I knew that I did not have the heart to feed another child of mine from my own breast. I was grateful that the privilege of my high birth let me turn from it.
My room was cleared, the shutters pushed back from the windows so that the flow of air was unencumbered. I sat up, grateful for the smell of the fresh turned earth from the fields down by the river. It was late in the month of May, the month named for the Blessed Virgin, the one woman who had stood by me and guided me all my life.
I took in the scent from the fields, wondering how I could take it in from my high window, even in my marriage bed. As my husband’s women bathed me and dressed me in clean linen, I knew that this blessing, like all others, came from Her.
It was not long before the women left my rooms. Marie Helene sat beside me and held my hand. As tired as I was, I could see that she longed for my daughter.
“Go to her,” I said. “She needs one of us, and I do not have the strength.”
She moved to go, but I clutched her hand. “You must stand for her in my place with the nurse and the servants. You must watch over her as if she were your own. Promise me.”
I could see that at first, she thought my words were just so much air, so tired was I from my ordeal. It had been many hours since I had slept. But she looked into my face and saw that my eyes burned, and not with fever. She knelt beside my bed, though the floor was hard, with no rug beside me. “Lady. I swear it.”
She has never failed me; in that, as in all things, she has always been faithful, a friend far better than my deserving.
My daughter thrived, drinking that peasant girl’s milk. My own milk dried up quickly, and I lost the weight I had gained in carrying her.
I saw my daughter every day. Marie Helene was always with her, for she loathed to be parted from her, even when the girl was feeding her. So, I saw less of my friend in those days and took to walking my husband’s lands alone again, seeing him only at dinner.
Mother Bernard’s garden still thrived at the Abbey of St. Agnes, and she was kind enough to send me seeds and cuttings when she could, though the cuttings rarely survived the salty journey across the Channel. I had planted the first of these seeds when I had come to my husband’s land. Now the mint and thyme grew high, and my lavender promised to come in well the next year.
I sat in my garden, where a willow grew by a small pond. This garden was not walled and looked down the slope of the land to the river in the distance. After my daughter was born, I sat there often, taking in the summer sun, and eating the first of the strawberries straight off the vine, always careful to leave enough for the kitchen servants to gather, to be served later with cream.
One morning, after I had been churched a week or more, my husband came to me in that garden, a letter in his hand. I rose from my bench when I saw him, but he raised one hand, and I sat again. At first, I thought he meant to sit beside me, but he stood with the morning light in his eyes, passing his letter from one hand to the other.
“Your brother sends news,” he said.
Whatever the news, it had sent my husband back to another time, a time when he had waited for letters from my brother with joy. Such was no longer the case between them. I watched as my husband fought himself, striving for mastery over his pain.
In a moment, his struggle done, he met my eyes and held out the letter to me. I took the vellum from his hand and held it close to my heart. I did not read the letter but kept my eyes on my husband’s face.
“The king sends his regards, wife, and asks after your health, now that our daughter is born.”
I listened for irony in his voice but heard none. He had accepted my daughter as his own. He sat down beside me. The wind moved in his hair, pushing it away from his face, the soft blond strands caressing his cheek. William’s eyes were as blue as the summer sky, and as clear. Not for the first time, I wished that more lay between us than respect, and our empty marriage vows. I took his hand in mine.
William smiled at me, allowing me to draw him away from the pain he bore, as he had drawn me from mine on the day my second daughter was born. We sat together in silence, listening to the wind as it rose over the land from the river, and to the birdsong in the trees above us. I thought that we might continue that way for some time, my brother’s letter forgotten. I should have known better. Over a year later, my brother held sway over my husband more than I would ever know.
“He has declared that he will be the child’s godfather and has sent his gloves for me to wear during the ceremony.”
I said nothing, though this was passing strange. I had heard of marriages done by proxy, but never of a godfather sending gloves to a child’s baptism. But Phillipe was just home from the Levant and could not be expected to take the time away from court to come for my daughter’s christening.
Marie Helene was just finishing the lace on Marie’s gown. Now that I was churched, William had set the date for the christening for the Sunday after next. Marie Helene was to stand as godmother, and now the king would stand before God as her father.
“Does he seek to show us his displeasure in some strange way, that he offers to attach his name to my disgrace?”
William frowned at me, his pain over my brother’s letter forgotten. “Wife, I will not have you speak of disgrace and our daughter in the same breath. She is a blessing from God and will bear my name all her life until she is married, no matter who her father was.”
I felt stung by his vehemence, all my self-recrimination swept away in his pure fire.
“Your brother seeks to honor us, as if he had made a true marriage between us.”
We sat in silence, the song of birds in the willow above us the only sound. I opened my brother’s letter and read the calm and steady words, words which no doubt had been dictated to a scribe.
I read it only once, then handed it back to my husband. He mad
e no effort to hide its dearness from me but folded it with care and placed it in the bag at his waist. He sat once again beside me, the waves of his sorrow and misery showing on his face.
I took his hand, but I knew that my touch offered little comfort. He left his hand in mine and we sat, palm to palm, until the morning gardener came to water the basil. William left me then, striding away without a backward glance, like a man who felt no pain, a man who mourned nothing and no one.
13
To Court a King
William held my daughter in front of the priest, wearing the King’s gloves, standing before God in my brother’s stead. I stood back, though I had given birth to her. As Marie Helene and my husband flanked the child, I felt as if my dead had gathered before that altar with me, my father, my daughter Rose, and the mother I never knew.
As I watched my second child brought into the family of God, I thought of my mother. She had not lived to see me christened but had died the day I was born. And yet I seemed to feel her presence clearly on that day, more than any other. She had not come to stand with me at my wedding, nor did she stand with me at any other child’s naming day. But on that day, late in June, I felt her hand on mine as my husband held the child who was not his and claimed her as his own.
There was a feast that day, though my daughter was not present. After she was baptized and blessed, Marie Helene took the baby to her rooms and watched over her as the nurse fed her and put her to bed. So, I was alone at my husband’s table, seated at his right hand. He shared his trencher with me. We said little, content with the peace between us, both satisfied to listen to the wild talk all around. For many of his young friends were back from the Levant, rich with loot, bringing gifts to William of silk and spices. One even brought a bolt of deep blue damask, so that my women might make a gown for me.
We listened to these young men talk, and I felt my age. My husband seemed to see something of this in my face, and he smiled at me.
“Lady, you are as fair as the day I met you.”
I smiled back. We had been married a little over a year at this time, and he had not known me long. “And you are as valiant, husband.”
William made no secret of his distaste for war, a distaste that never brought him censure. My brother had used this distaste to his advantage. Knowing that William would not ride off to war, Phillipe had married him to me.
He took my good-natured teasing for what it was, bringing my gloved hand to his lips. He opened his mouth to respond in kind, perhaps a joke about my hair, which still curled against my shoulders, unencumbered by a wimple or veil, but the words died in his throat.
For we heard a raucous cheer as young men at the end of the high table raised beakers of wine. A man stood among them, toasting my brother. “To the prowess of our King, who throws down all his enemies!”
Another cheer went up at this. William signaled the servers to bring more wine, though he did not raise a glass himself. I, too, sat in silence, to listen for what came next, for it seemed to me that there was something ominous in the tone of these celebrants. I did not have long to wait.
“Richard, King of England, is caged behind bars!”
A roar went up from the crowd, this time from the lower tables. William gripped my hand and I felt his strength through the kidskin of my glove. It seemed that a hole had opened in the floor behind me. If I were to breathe too deeply, I would fall into it.
“This may be only a rumor, love. Let me find out the truth of it.”
William’s breath was warm on my cheek, as he leaned over to whisper these words in my ear. He gestured, and one of his young men came forward to draw back my chair.
“Lady,” the young man said. “You are grown weary with these festivities. Let me escort you to your women.”
I had none, for Marie Helene was in the nursery. Gregory waited silently for me to stand, solicitous; his blue eyes were warm on mine. He was my husband’s current favorite, and I could see that there was kindness behind the beauty of his face. William, when allowed to choose for himself, always chose well.
I rose to my feet, the floor receding dangerously as I stood. I caught the edge of the table, and William’s hand came under my elbow, steadying me. I saw in his eyes that he wanted to escort me to my rooms himself but could not leave his own hall.
I pressed his hand. “Thank you.”
Gregory took my arm from my husband’s grasp and bowed to me, leading me carefully away. There was a door behind the dais which the servants used to bring in more food and wine to the high table. Gregory took me out that door, quickly and silently.
No one noticed us. Indeed, no one seemed to notice that I was gone at all, so bent were they on celebrating my brother’s triumph. Gregory brought me into my room and helped me sit. He placed the brazier by my chair at the window and even went so far as to bring a lap robe, as if I were his elderly aunt.
“My lady, what else can I do for you?”
I looked into the deep blue of that boy’s eyes; he could be no older than seventeen. I saw no pity in his face, only kindness. William was always good to the young men he chose to grant his favor and they, in their turn, were good to him. I found myself drawn into their circle of protection for the first time in my marriage, and the welcoming warmth of it made me want to weep. For I was an outsider, and always would be. My husband’s true life was locked and veiled against me. I saw this more clearly than I ever had as I stared into the blue of that boy’s eyes.
“I am well,” I said. “I thank you.”
He bowed, holding my hand to his forehead in an antique gesture of fealty, which touched me even as it burned. Gregory left me then, and I sat alone, my thoughts bent on my husband and his lover, and on Richard, who was not free, but was trapped in some foreign castle as I was in this marriage that my brother had wrought.
I sat by the window, waiting for word.
When William could, he came to me himself. He entered my rooms without knocking and closed the door behind him. I stayed where I was, an embroidery frame forgotten in my hands.
William smiled to see me at such work, for he knew how I loathed it. He did not smile long but drew another chair to sit close beside me so that he might take my hand.
“There is news, wife, underneath the noise and bluster.”
I schooled my face to blankness, all the hard lessons of my childhood returning. William admired this show of strength. I felt his admiration in the touch of his hand. I had laid my gloves aside and the warmth of his touched soothed me as he spoke of Richard.
“Alais, Richard was taken prisoner this winter as he passed overland through Vienna, on his way home from the Levant.”
“He was set upon by robbers?”
“No, wife. He was kidnapped by his brother king, Duke Leopold of Austria.”
I listened to those words, but it seemed I could not take them in. I could think of nothing but my brother’s face as he had looked on my wedding day, when it seemed as if he loved me.
“And what share does Phillipe have in this?”
William flinched at my words, but to his credit, he did not shrink from them. “It is said that the king Phillipe is behind Richard’s continued imprisonment, that he sends Leopold gold to keep Richard where he is.”
I did not speak but sat with my husband’s hand on mine. The afternoon was waning. As I looked from my window, I saw that the blue of the sky was beginning to darken. Before long, dusk would fall.
“Talk of such gold is rumor only.”
I did not rebuke him for defending his old lover. I could not yet feel the pain of my brother’s betrayal. It would be many days before I felt that. I sat in silence, listening to my husband’s words, feeling nothing but the gentle wind on my face.
“I know that Phillipe has sent word to the Holy Roman Emperor, asking that the Pope turn a deaf ear to any pleas from Richard or his mother to let him go.”
I thought of Eleanor and of how she had not wanted her favorite son to go on Crusade at all. I th
ought of Henry and all the times he had railed against the foolishness of foreign wars and their drain on the treasury. Foreign glory, he said, was too expensive.
“And the Pope agrees to this, in spite of the fact that Richard fought valiantly against the infidel less than a year ago?”
“Yes, wife. Richard fought the infidel. But he did not win.”
The sting of this truth was like a needle behind my eyes. I felt my hard-won calm dissolving. William gripped my hand, but there was little he could do for me.
The pain passed, as with an outgoing tide. I took my next breath slowly, gingerly, as if the act of breathing itself might cause me more pain. Through all this, my husband held my hand.
“I must go to my brother in Paris.”
“He will not listen to you.”
“I know. But still, I must go.”
“Richard of England and Aquitaine left you in disgrace, discarding you in front of all of Europe.” Suddenly, William’s voice was full of anger and loathing for a man he had never met.
“I know,” I said. “That makes no difference. I love him. If there is anything I can do for him, I must do it. I must try.”
William swallowed all other objections that he might have made. He knew well what it was like to love a man who did not love you back. We sat together, neither of us saying a word as the sun began to set beyond the fields. The shadows in my room lengthened until the servants came to light the tapers and build up my fire.
William stayed with me even then, calling for bread and cheese to be brought to my rooms, along with my favorite wine. The taste of that wine burned me. It was the same wine that Richard’s vineyards grew in Anjou. I drank it down, in memory of him and all he meant to me. I drank it because my husband brought it to me, knowing only that I loved it.
I left for Paris the next morning. William did not come with me, but neither did he try to make me stay. I did not take a trunk, only a bag tied onto the back of one of the horses. I would ride a horse myself for swiftness until we came to Rouen and the river.
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