Princess Of France (The Queen's Pawn Book 2)

by Christy English

  Tears came into my eyes, and I blinked them back so that the children would not see. Marie Helene knew what those flowers meant to me, and she called to the children and led them out of the garden by a side gate, telling them that it was time to leave work behind and to walk by the river. They both loved the river, so they left us without a backward glance, without even a kiss goodbye.

  William took the basket from Maisie and bade the servants that followed her to leave the rose bush they brought by the garden gate, a bush still in bloom, its roots carefully wrapped for the journey.

  There was a letter penned carefully in Latin on vellum, only one of the many languages that Eleanor wrote and spoke. It was the only language we both could read. William did not have my education, for he had clerks for whatever writing he needed done. But Eleanor had seen to it that all her daughters could read, including me. I opened the letter myself, breaking the seal that bore her crest, and read her letter out loud.

  “My rose without a thorn. For speaking for him when no one else would. Aelinor.”

  She had signed her name in the langue d’oc, the language she had spoken as a girl, the language in which Richard wrote his love songs. I knew that she referred to Richard and his imprisonment, without actually naming him, for my brother’s spies would have read her letter, and any blatant reference to Richard would not have been allowed to pass.

  I sat once more on my bench beneath the pear tree. Its flowers had just reached their peak and had begun to fall.

  William set the basket of roses at my feet and came to sit beside me. “Now you can plant your rose bush and have those roses in your rooms until autumn comes.”

  “Yes,” I said. “If they live.”

  We did not speak of Eleanor’s letter again, the only thanks I ever received for trying to set Richard free. William took my hand in his, knowing as I did not how much those flowers would come to mean to me, how much they already meant, though I could barely feel it, so burdened was I with grief.

  But the loss of Eleanor was an even older one, and those flowers assuaged that grief from that day to this. William was right, for like so much in my new life, the roses did flourish. They still grow down by the river, where their children have also taken root, their seeds caught on the wind and scattered, so that now they grow wild, even on the other shore.

  21

  My Second Jean

  My grief withdrew from me a little every day, so that over time I came to know myself without it. I was a different woman now, for I had loved Jean Pierre as a woman, and not as a girl. All who read this who are past the age of thirty will know the difference of which I speak.

  My children still came to me every day, as if without their vigilance I might fall into a decline. I was made of sterner stuff, but they did not know that. I came to love them more and more as each day passed, and no longer saw the shadow of my loss in my son.

  Rose sat with me now, my lost daughter. I felt as if her soul came to me when I knelt in prayer in the evenings, after the rest of the family had gone to bed. I had long since been shriven of my sin, and now I prayed daily for the litany of my dead, and Rose prayed with me. She came to me now as the age she would have been if she had lived. She stood beside me as I prayed before God, offering the names of my lost loves, her name always first.

  It was a comfort to me, though for all I know it may have been a trick of the fading light, a deception of the softness of the candlelight in my husband’s chapel, some form of illusion that I still do not understand. But it felt as if she were with me, as if she knew my soul with all its failings and forgave me, as even the Holy Mother could not, for Rose loved me as no one else did, living or dead.

  These prayers brought me comfort, as did her presence, real or imagined. During that time, it was the love of my lost daughter that kept me certain of the unwavering mercy of God, as my own strength could not.

  My son Jean was three by this time and was growing into a man of action like his father. William loved to see his fierce pride and encouraged him in it, as long as it did not infringe on the courtesy William diligently taught Jean to use when speaking to the rest of the family. William cultivated strength in my son, but he also cultivated honor, so that by the time Jean could reach the back of my chair, William was already showing him how to help me out of it.

  Jean wanted a horse of his own so that he might go hunting, but even William stopped short of buying him a pony, deeming him too small. Instead, William would take him up before him on his own stallion, so that the little boy could see the hunt from his perch there, never knowing that the whole party slowed their pace whenever he was with them.

  The end came on a day late in summer when autumn was beginning to threaten the green of the trees but did not yet hold sway. Maisie came to me in the kitchen garden, crying.

  I could not get a word of sense from her, so I followed her instead. She led me into the bailey, Marie Helene and Marie trailing in my wake.

  When I saw what waited for us there, I turned quickly and drew Marie hard against me so that her face was shielded from the sight. I could not do the same for Marie Helene, and she wailed, a horrible keening cry that had come from my own throat only once. I did not cry out myself but thought of Marie and of how to shield her, as no one had ever been able to shield me.

  I called to Maisie, my voice low and commanding, so that she obeyed without thinking. Marie was already weeping, so I kissed her and looked into her eyes, leaning down so that she could not look away.

  “Listen to me, Marie,” I said. “All will be well. Go with Maisie now, and I will come to you soon.”

  She looked to me for guidance, for it was clear that Marie Helene could give none. She was as frightened by the sight of Marie Helene weeping and keening as much as anything else she had seen. I think she was glad to go when Maisie took her hand and led her away.

  With my living child gone, I turned then to the dead.

  Jean had fallen from my husband’s tall horse onto the sharp stone floor of the bailey and lay with his back broken and his head cracked, his fair hair matted with so much blood that the golden strands now were red. Marie Helene had torn her gown in her grief, and clutched my son, weeping as if he were her own. I saw in her face the loss of her other children and remembered the loss of Rose, a distant pain, dimmed by time and prayer. I could not feel my new loss yet, which was a mercy from God, for there was much to be done.

  I felt my father’s strength in me as I took Marie Helene’s hands in mine. I thought at first that she would not release him, but at my touch, she let me take him and arrange his body on the stones of the courtyard, so that it no longer looked as if he had fallen, but only that he was in sleep. Except for the blood in his hair. For that, there was no remedy.

  She clutched me then, but she was no longer screaming, only weeping. I called a servant woman over who stood nearby weeping herself, for all had loved my son. He was bright like the noon sky, and just as warm. His sweetness kept his fire from burning those it touched. The serving woman took Marie Helene away, still weeping and calling on God, who did not answer.

  The courtyard was quiet when she left, so quiet that I could even hear the sound of birdsong.

  The groom stood nearby, still holding my husband’s horse. He waited to see what my orders would be, for there was no one else there to give them.

  “Take him to the stable and rub him down,” I said, for I did not know if they had just come from a ride or had been about to go on one.

  Grateful for something useful to do, the groom turned from me, leaving me alone with my son.

  I knelt at his side, lifting his tiny hand in mine. I saw then that he had begun to grow calluses along his palm and thumb, for he had been working night and day with the wooden sword my husband had given him, waiting always for the day when he would be able to lift a real one.

  I held his hand in mine while someone sensible fetched the priest. I watched over my son as he was given the last rights, though his soul had surely
flown already. I made certain that all this was done there under the light of the setting sun, for the shadows had begun to grow long, coming down from the walls around us.

  I washed my son’s hair there in the courtyard, my gown already ruined with blood where Marie Helene had touched me. I knew that I would never wear that dress again, so I knelt beside my son and washed his hair in the water that someone brought from the well.

  At first, I almost sent it away, for the water was in a bucket and was cold enough to drink. I opened my mouth to order the water warmed and brought in a decent bowl, as befit his rank and temperament. But then I realized that he would not be able to feel it. That was when I knew that he was truly dead.

  I bathed him carefully, until the water in the bucket turned red. His brow was clean then, for the cut had stopped bleeding. I wrapped his head in a clean cloth and tied it carefully.

  The women came to raise his body up and take it inside. It was time to dress him in spices and to lay him in the chapel, that we might pray for his immortal soul.

  As I knelt beside him, standing between him and those who would take him from me, I knew that his soul had already flown to Paradise, for he was perfect in the image of God, unsullied and sweet as only young children can be, before they are corrupted by the evil of this world. As I knelt there on the cold stone, I wondered if Henry had ever been so sweet, before he grew into his power and became a man.

  They took Jean from me then, and I let them. The weeping priest had loved him too and was ready to serve his office once the women had served theirs. I let them take him, so that they might serve him as I had done, and find comfort in their service, as I had.

  I knelt alone in the courtyard then, the sun going down. It seemed I could still hear my daughter weeping. I knew that I must change my gown and go to her. As I knelt, my knees aching as they never did when I was at prayer, I saw my husband, alone in the shadows of the coming night.

  William stood in silence, the tears on his cheeks long since dried. I knew then that he had been there all along, watching my son’s death and all that came after. No doubt the boy had fallen, slipping from the saddle before William could climb up behind him and keep him safe. I had seen them mount just that way many times and, every time, the child had been strong enough to hold the reins. But now my son was dead, his soul flown, and my husband was left behind in darkness as we all were, except now he blamed himself.

  William stared without seeing me, his eyes still fixed beyond me to where our son had fallen. Jean’s blood was still on the stones of the courtyard. It had begun to dry, darkening to the color of old wine.

  I stood, my back aching. I saw from my husband’s face that he needed comforting even more than my daughter did. I did not realize how deeply he hated and accused himself until he saw me moving toward him and looked at me as if I were the angel of God, come to earth to judge him. The expression of terror on his face was one I hope to never see again. He fled from me as from hell’s furies.

  I stood still for a long moment, wondering if I should let him go, let him grieve in peace as a man might wish. But I could not get his look of horror out of my thoughts, and I followed him. He was well ahead of me by that time, running full out, a young man in his prime, but I knew where to seek him.

  He was on the ramparts, looking out over the valley where his lands lay, a view that moved in a gentle slope all the way to the river and beyond. William stood gazing out to the west, where the sun was going down.

  The men-at-arms who stood watch there looked frightened, and I could tell that they were grateful I had come. I saw then that William stood too close to the edge, that the old stonework threatened to collapse under him, chipped away by time and weather.

  I stood very still, wondering if I should not call the men-at-arms to take him in hand, and to bring him to his rooms by force. But I thought of the time just after Jean Pierre’s death, when he had not left my side even at night, keeping the lamp always lit beside him, sitting with his hand in mine so that I might sleep.

  I thought of the loving care he had showered on me all our married life, of how he had loved me as no other ever had. For he had let me live my life as I saw fit, within the ties that bound me to duty and family. He had given me more freedom and dignity in my own choices than I had any right to ask. And that was when I knew that I would throw myself from the ramparts myself rather than see him unmanned before his retainers.

  I stepped forward. William did not turn to look at me, but he did not step closer to the edge either. I saw then that he was crying for our lost son, as I could not.

  I gestured, and the men stepped away to give us privacy so that he and I were alone, staring at the horizon. The sun had set already, leaving the sky bathed in purple and orange fire.

  I felt the first touch of my grief then, like a lover’s hand, like a child’s hand that could not be shook off. I stood there, my son’s little hand on mine, and felt the first wave of loss, and the first hint of all the pain that was to come. I touched his hand with mine where I felt him pressing me, his phantom touch much stronger than it would have been if he were still alive. As he pressed me, I knew that his soul had not flown to Heaven yet, that he waited here to see that I would do right by his father.

  For William had always claimed him. All had known that the child was his favorite and could not have been more loved if he was his son and heir in truth as well as in name.

  I took William’s hand in mine gently, the way I still felt Jean’s touch. William turned to me, his face bathed in tears of remorse and horror, a remorse that would kill him if I did not intervene and set it right.

  “You will not do as you mean to do,” I said.

  “And who will stop me?” His face was transformed by grief, the bitterness in his eyes almost more than I could bear.

  But I did bear it, for I had seen worse.

  Perhaps he saw something of this strength in my face, the strength born of years of loss. He seemed to consider that there was hope beyond his present despair, though he did not yet believe in it. The future was a path he could not tread, not even in his thoughts. Even his next breath was painful, and he could not turn his mind to it.

  “I will stop you,” I said. “I will not have you bring about the ruin of your family from the sin of despair.” My talk of sin almost turned him from me, but I gripped his hand. “It is a mortal sin, husband, and I will not let you go.”

  He saw my love for him in my face. He did not pull away from me, though he was strong enough to cast himself over the edge, and me with him. I felt his strength under my hand as he fought against himself to stay with me. He had always hidden his strength from me before, but I felt it then, the strength of a young man in his prime. Though my husband had never been to war, he had trained for it all his life. I felt his strength under my hand, but I was not afraid. I knew that no matter how strong his body was, his soul was stronger.

  He fought himself there under my hand, until he turned from the edge of the precipice, from the illusion of freedom from pain, to me.

  I took him in my arms as if he were my own son and held him against my breast. He lay there, his passion spent, his breath coming fast, as after the act of love. It was the first time I had held a man since Jean Pierre had died. It came to me that my husband was a man in truth, and not a boy, as I had always tried to see him.

  I pushed this thought from me as soon as it came and turned my mind instead to my husband’s pain, and to the loss of our child. I had set aside that death as I fought for my husband’s life on that precipice. The pain of Jean’s death came back to me then, like a shock of cold seawater closing over my head.

  I remembered the sight of the blood matting his fair hair, and the knowledge came to me that I must soon go to him, to sit with him until we could put him in the ground. I must go to my living daughter and offer her love and comfort, and Marie Helene.

  William still clung to me, and I spoke low in his ear, his fair hair soft against my lips. “Husband. W
e must go to him.”

  “I cannot,” he said. “I have killed him.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “He was in my care, and I failed him. I let him go.”

  “He is in God’s hands now, William. It was God’s will. He was too good for this world.”

  I said these things, wondering if they might be true. I wondered why God might have taken such a beautiful child, my husband’s heir, and the light of his life. I had borne such a loss at the age of fifteen, so I knew how hard it was for William to draw his next breath. But I had had my faith to sustain me, the pure faith of my childhood that, at that age, had not yet been diluted by constant sin. I was older now, and though my faith was still strong, I did not feel the hand of the Holy Mother resting on me as I once had done.

  Still, Her strength was with me, for I brought my grieving husband down from the ramparts. I thought that he would even come into the chapel with me to hold vigil by our son, but when we reached the door, he stopped, the scent of candle wax close about us.

  “I cannot see him,” he said.

  “I must go in. Then I must go to Marie. Promise me that you will go to your rooms and wait for me there.”

  He looked at me, his blue eyes red with weeping. He stared at me as if seeing me from a great distance, a distance so removed that he could not quite hear my voice.

  I thought that I would have to go with him, when he finally spoke. “I promise you.”

  I knew that, like Richard, he did not give his word without keeping it. I pressed my lips to his, to give him my strength. I saw his man come behind him then and take his arm. I let his squire lead him away, to put him to bed as I could not. For I had others to comfort if I could.

  I watched him walk away, and I wondered if the strength I had seen in him from the first day of our marriage until this dark day would hold. He was the strongest man I had ever known, but he also felt things deeply. I wondered if his feelings would be the undoing of his strength.