The Loves of the Lionheart Page 15

  Berengaria heard nothing, neither did Joanna. But Eleanor heard from him the moment he was released. She wrote to her son’s wife that he was on his way home to England. Her letter contained no request that his Queen should join him, but it did end it with the title of ‘Queen of England’.

  So, Eleanor still thought of herself as the Queen of England, and she likely always would. Berengaria could not erase from her memory the woman who had escorted her from her homeland of Navarre to Sicily, to meet her bridegroom. She gave all the orders on the hazardous journey, never once asked Berengaria what she might want and her constant nagging about the importance of giving Richard a son almost made her want to slap her. She would have, too, had she not had her prayers and her books in which to hide. It came as no surprise that now, having not yet conceived, Eleanor would have liked to dismiss her son’s wife from existence.

  Each day, she watched for a messenger, for someone who would bring a letter from Richard to at least tell her that he remembered he had a wife. But once more she was disappointed.

  Joanna had become friendly with their escort, Raymond, the Count of Toulouse, and she wrote to her brother asking his consent to a marriage between them. His reply held no mention of his wife.

  “I am glad you are happy at last, my friend,” Berengaria told her friend. “I hope for better things than you have so far received.”

  Or that I have received at the hands of your brother.

  She did not voice her thoughts. She wanted nothing to come between them and she wanted nothing to spoil her friend’s happiness.

  “It will be a strong strategic match as well,” Joanna replied. “Otherwise my brother would never have consented.”

  “Perhaps he is trying to make up for Saladin’s brother,” Berengaria replied.

  Joanna smiled wistfully.

  “I doubt it. He will have forgotten that by now and will only be content that I have found someone I like and respect who also has land in a useful location.”

  Navarre was very close now, and she would have loved to return home, to visit her brother, now King of that nation, but to return home without her husband would cause a scandal of great proportion. It was strange, that he could return to England without her and no such scandal came of it, yet she could not do the same.

  But she could at least visit her sister, Blanche, who lived nearby. She was to be her strength during this difficult time, when she was neither wife nor Queen, for what is a queen without a country?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Alys Again

  KING PHILIP SAW NOTHING of his sister once he arrived back in Paris from Palestine, nor did she expect or wish his presence. After the vitriolic words of his letter to her, she hoped never to have to face him again.

  She had been in Paris sometime, quietly installed in one of Philip’s many palaces when she heard that he had returned, that he had given up the crusade and left Richard to fight on alone with just the Duke of Burgundy for support. She thought it likely that he had realised just how dirty and hot the country was, realised that no, God was not on their side and Saladin was not the inept coward the crusaders had supposed. But Richard had stayed; he had kept his word to the Almighty and she admired his courage, while knowing it was the appeal of the battle which kept him there, not the battle’s cause.

  Philip had quarrelled bitterly with Richard after his revelation about Alys and he likely felt that he had been made a fool of. He would blame her for that and when he came home, he would be angry and frustrated and likely to punish her harshly for her conduct. She could never forget what he had done to his young queen, whose only crime had been in not being to his fancy.

  But Philip made no attempt to see her and while she was still not free to do as she pleased, she was not as closely watched as she had been. She had her embroidery, her music, her riding and she saw her sister, Marguerite from time to time. Her half sisters were too far away to visit, but they wrote. She was thirty five now, far past the age where anyone was likely to petition for her hand, and for that she was not sorry.

  She would grow old gracefully, perhaps gain the reputation of a wise old aunt to Philip’s children, should she ever be allowed to meet them.

  Alys was startled when she looked up from her book to see her brother standing before her. He was just a boy when last she saw him, but she could still recognise the arrogance in his manner. His hands on his hips, his body and head adorned with beautiful colours and fabrics, he looked every inch the King, but just why he had appeared here after all this time, she could not imagine. She studied his features carefully, wondering if he had heard some new scandal which had caused his fury to erupt.

  But he looked calm enough, even smiled briefly. She looked up at him, knowing she should get up, offer the civility of a curtsey, but somehow she did not feel like paying him that homage.

  “Philip,” she said quietly. “How well you look.”

  He held his hand out, palm down, obviously wanting her to kiss his ring and she did so. There was little point in antagonising him further.

  “Alys,” he said. “You are well, sister?”

  “I am, thank you Your Majesty.”

  “I have news for you. I have arranged a marriage for you, with William, Count of Ponthieu. It will take place as soon as matters can be arranged.”

  She stood at last, dropped her book on the floor and stared at her brother. She could not believe this, not after all this time.

  “Why?” She said. “What advantage is it to you?”

  “I have my eye on Ponthieu. You are likely past child bearing age and when he dies, I will be his heir.”

  She heard again the cruel words of King Henry, telling her she must be barren. So that state was of some use to someone, if not to her. And when she failed to provide an heir for the Count, would she be blamed for that too?

  “Who is this man, Philip?” She demanded. “I know nothing of him.”

  “He is the best I can do for you, since your disgrace disqualifies you from anything higher.”

  “But who is he? What age is he?”

  “He is young and presentable. I believe he is some seventeen years of age.”

  “Seventeen?” She repeated, her voice rising angrily. “I am old enough to be his mother. What are you thinking?”

  “I am thinking of Ponthieu and of gaining allies.”

  “And me? You have given not a thought to me.”

  “You hardly deserve any such consideration. The Count has agreed to the marriage. He can see that it will be to his advantage to join with the Capets, and you should be grateful.” His eyes swept over her and his mouth turned down in a grimace. “Try to make yourself presentable,” he said. “You could pass for a younger woman, with a bit of attention.”

  “Am I to have no say in it? Once again, I am to have no choice in my own life.”

  Philip sighed impatiently.

  “It is not a woman’s place to have a choice in events. It is a woman’s place to acknowledge that her menfolk know what is best or her. I think you have proved that with the choices you have so far made.

  “You think becoming King Henry’s mistress was my choice? You think I seduced him, lured him away from his rightful Queen, or perhaps Lady Rosamund, his favourite mistress?”

  He only stared at her distastefully for a few moments before he spoke his final words.

  “It is done. Make the most of it.”

  Then he left, leaving her to ponder on her future now. She could not help but recall the first time she had met with Richard, when he had been so kind. She could hardly forget the joust where he wore her favour, announcing to the world that he belonged to her.

  She had been happy that day, thinking she belonged somewhere, thinking someone wanted her for herself. Now she realised how wrong she had been.

  Dressmakers arrived to start work on her bridal clothes, which was a pleasure she never thought to have for herself. There was satin and lace, silk and cloth of silver, all in wonderful colours. The
re were delicately embroidered shifts and fine veils to cover her hair.

  She peered closely into the mirror on the morning of the wedding, hoping to find no grey amidst the auburn, nothing which would make this young bridegroom remember the age of his bride.

  Looking closely at the fine lines around her eyes, she saw that they were few and the ones that were there were too fine to see. She had heard those lines referred to as ‘laughter lines’ so it made sense that they would be few. She had had little reason for laughter in her life.

  “You look beautiful, Your Highness,” her lady’s voice drew her attention.

  Alys studied her face to determine if her words were mere false flattery, but the woman’s smile told her they were not. She turned back to study her reflection; perhaps she did look beautiful. She certainly had once been beautiful, when the King of England abused his trust and took her for his own. She had certainly had no reason to smile since then.

  Now she stood in the church porch, looking down the aisle at the finely dressed young man who waited for her. It had been many years since she imagined herself in this position, and now that it had come to pass, all she wanted was to turn and run away.

  William stood waiting, his back to her and she wondered if he, too, wanted to run away. What would he think? Would he be repelled by her as her brother had been by Ingeborg, his second wife whom he had discarded? Or would he close his eyes and pretend she was someone else as he did his duty?

  She had enjoyed bedding with Henry, of that there was no denial, but it was all so very long ago. And he had been a skilful lover.

  At last she began to walk toward the altar, her arm loosely holding that of her brother, Philip Augustus, King of France, who kept his eyes firmly fixed on the bridegroom, his new acquisition. What would William, the Count, do when he learned she was barren? Would he reject her, try to annul the marriage? It hardly mattered. There was nothing she could do about it, whatever happened.

  As she drew close beside William, she was relieved to find him pleasant to look upon. He was taller than her and his wavy hair was a golden brown, not quite red gold like Richard’s and Henry’s, but a warm colour and thick. His beard was neatly trimmed, his figure was that of a man who enjoyed sports and other physical pursuits.

  She was afraid to meet his eyes, embarrassed to be marrying a young man half her age. She expected nothing from him but contempt, but when Philip released her and stepped back, William turned to her and smiled. It was a warm smile of welcome, the sort of smile she had seen on Richard’s lips when first they met. He took her hand, held it firmly in his own, lifted it to his lips and kissed it before releasing it for the ceremony.

  There was little opportunity to talk during the celebrations which followed, celebrations which would continue for five days, while they danced, they drank from goblets held in intertwined hands but it was William’s smile which calmed her nerves and gave her a glimmer of hope for her future.

  It was not the sort of smile a man shows when he is trying to impress the crowd; it was a smile for Alys, for his bride, and she noticed he hadn’t drunk as much as the other guests.

  “I want to stay sober,” he said when she asked him about it. “I want a wedding night I can remember and savour in the years to come, not one which is a blur.”

  His answer pleased her and as the night wore on a memory of that other wedding night began to surface, that night when she had sat with Matilda in a seat beside a curtained bed and listened to the noises of passion coming from her sister and the young King.

  She also remembered the shock she had felt at having to be present for such an intimate occasion and as her eyes moved around the hall, she noticed some of the guests had their eyes on her. She could guess what they were thinking; they were going to enjoy this wedding night, they might even see the jest of this young boy and his aging bride.

  She could not do it. She would have to escape somehow and she began to tremble, to shake with fear. When the young Henry had bedded Marguerite, the guests who sat around the bed were serious, they saw it as a sacred moment, a part of the ceremony which was just as sacred as the rest. This was different and Alys was convinced they would all be sniggering.

  Then she felt the warmth of William’s hand closing over hers and her eyes met his.

  “Do not fret, my wife,” he said. “We shall be private.”

  “How do you know what I was thinking?”

  He smiled, dropped his head closer to hers to whisper in her ear.

  “Perhaps because I was thinking the same,” he said.

  Count William had already given orders to his manservants to bar the doors, to keep the guests in the great hall and prevent them from going upstairs. In the bedchamber, they watched the priest sprinkle the bed with holy water and leave, then they removed their clothes, knelt side by side with their elbows resting on the bed and prayed for a fruitful union.

  That was when Alys began to wonder just how much this new young husband of hers knew, wondered also why she had not thought of it before. She had had no opportunity before now to speak to him, to give him a chance to refuse the marriage, but now she knew she would have to, before it was too late. He had been kind; he deserved to make the decision for himself.

  He got to his feet and sat on the bed, reached out and took her hand, then pulled her to sit beside him. His hand came to rest on her neck, warm and welcoming, and he leaned forward and kissed her gently.

  She caught his hand where it rested on her neck.

  “William, I have to tell you about my past.” Her voice shook a little. “I have no idea how much my brother told you.”

  “Alys, Alys,” he said as he stroked her neck with that oh, so warm hand. “I do not expect to find you a virgin.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. I have heard all about your affair with the late King of England. I have heard about your rejection by the present King of England because of it. I would have to be a hermit living in a cave not to have heard.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Yes, I mind,” he said. “I mind that someone else has loved you first, of course I do. But it makes no difference now. The past is the past and you loved him I think. He was the only one, was he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we are agreed; we will put the past behind us and try to build a future. I want to be honest with you; I would never have been offered a daughter and sister of a King of France were you a young, untouched maiden.” He kissed her cheek, gave her that warm smile again. “We both know that to be the truth, so let’s not pretend. And while we are making confessions, let me make one of my own. When your brother made the suggestion of this marriage, I was reluctant to accept.”

  “I cannot blame you for that.”

  “I was reluctant not because of your past, because of the scandal, but because of your age. You are a lot older than me and I rather feared you would look like my mother.”

  He smiled playfully and she laughed.

  “How could I be expected to bed someone who looked like my mother?” He said. “And when I saw you in that cathedral, I was relieved and delighted.”

  “Delighted?”

  “Yes. Because you are still beautiful, Princess Alys, and you look nothing at all like my mother. I hope you can find me pleasing.”

  In reply she clung to him, wrapped her arms around him and kissed his lips. She never thought to feel like this again and if he meant what he said, she was doubly blessed. The Lord had answered her prayers and forgiven her.

  HENRY PLANTAGENET HAD been wrong. Just a few weeks after her wedding night, Alys suspected that she was with child. She could scarcely believe it, but almost as satisfying as knowing she was not barren, was the knowledge that, if she gave birth to a healthy child who would grow to adulthood, her brother would not get his greedy hands on Ponthieu.

  She had never told William about Philip’s scheme and she had no intention of doing so. They had been happy together, despite the massive age gap, an
d she wanted nothing to spoil that. But William was no fool and Alys thought it more than likely that he had already guessed her brother’s motive for offering his sister to him.

  She spent a lot of time in the chapel, praying that this pregnancy would not end in the same, heartbreaking way as her last. She blamed the upset for that, the distress caused by Richard returning for her, only to find her expecting his father’s child. His words on that occasion were cruel in the extreme and she still heard them sometimes, when she was feeling sorry for herself. But those occasions were less frequent than they had once been since she married William.

  She learned of her impending motherhood at the same time as she learned of King Richard’s incarceration by the Austrian Emperor. Despite all the odds against it, Alys had her good husband and she felt for Richard’s Queen, that hers was locked up out of her reach.

  She had no doubt that his mother would raise the exorbitant ransom of 150,000 marks that would release him, but it would cause great hardship for the people of England. They had suffered enough, having to raise the funds for the failed crusade and in having Prince John as their ruler.

  Alys remembered him, what a horrible little boy he had been and she could see no reason to suppose he had grown into a better man. Thank God no one had forced her into the suggested marriage with him.

  Philip was furious when she gave birth to a daughter, Marie, and less than a year later, another daughter, Isabelle. William was delighted, which surprised her. Ponthieu could be inherited by a female should no male heir appear, but still most men in his position would want a son.

  When the midwives had gone, she opened her weary eyes to see him leaning over the cradle, his fingers stroking the soft skin on the baby’s cheek.

  “Next time, a boy,” she told him.

  “Perhaps,” he said kindly. “But it is of no importance. Marie can inherit my territory; it’s not as if it is a throne.”