The Damask Rose

Book 2: The Rose Trilogy

by Carol McGrath

Genres: General Fiction; Medieval; Medieval Romance

Synopsis

Well-researched . . . Fascinating' Joanna Courtney
'Beautifully done . . . Captivating' Suzannah Dunn
'Rich, vivid and immersive . . . Enthralling' Nicola Cornick
'Steeps the reader in the life of a medieval court' Joanna Hickson
1266. Eleanor of Castile, adored wife of the Crown Prince of England, is still only a princess when she is held hostage in the brutal Baron's Rebellion, and her baby daughter dies. Scarred by privation, a bitter Eleanor swears revenge on those who would harm her family - and vows never to let herself be vulnerable again.
As she rises to become Queen, Eleanor keeps Olwen - a trusted herbalist, who tried to save her daughter - by her side. But it is dangerous to be friendless in a royal household, and as the court sets out on crusade, Olwen and Eleanor discover that the true battle for Europe may not be a matter of swords and lances, but one fanned by whispers and spies . . .

Release date: April 15, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 256

Sample

Lewes

1264

The rebel army assembled mid-afternoon on a meadow in front of Lewes Castle. Troops had streamed in from adjacent fields where they had flattened crops, created a bivouac camp, buried their dead before carrion crows ripped flesh from bones, and overnight had suffered their wounds to be tended, as well as legs and arms amputated. A gentle sun belied the horror of the previous day’s battle but it could not conceal the stench of stale bodies and the metallic scent of drying blood hovering in the air.

Gilbert de Clare, only twenty-one years old and already a ruthless warlord, watched from the sidelines as his companion and leader Earl Simon de Montfort took up a position on the raised mound before the castle moat. Gilbert noted how light gleamed off the mail and scale of Earl Simon’s hauberk and slanted onto his face, causing his leader to squint. They had gathered to hear Earl Simon speak of their victory over the King, now a prisoner along with his son Lord Edward and his brother the Duke of Cornwall, secured in the castle keep behind, and of the loyalist nobles whom Gilbert hoped would be exiled.

As a cloud passed over the sun Simon moved slightly into the shade of a tall sycamore tree and lifted high a tattered scroll which he waved at his troops. The excited men cheered. Three strong blasts of a trumpet followed. The crowd hushed and waited.

What, wondered Gilbert, his mouth sliding into a cynical smile, would his leader say now they had the King in their power and mastery of the land. Gilbert drew a deep breath and considered the territorial gains he might add to his vast territories on the Welsh Marches, especially those belonging to William of Pembroke, the King’s half-brother - lands many of which were conveniently situated in Pembrokeshire - and he would at last recover his own castles of Kingston and Tonbridge, taken by King Henry five years ago when war between the King and the rebel barons had first broken out. They would rid the land of Jews too, a race that had long supported the King with money intended to bolster up his foolish reign. Gilbert smirked. He was proud that he had led the massacre of that unchristian race in Canterbury last month. Today he was even prouder, since he had commanded the centre of their army on the downs west of Lewes and led them to victory when Lord Edward had pursued their own vulnerable left wing for miles back towards London, leaving the King and Richard of Cornwall exposed and galloping towards the City. He, Gilbert de Clare, had personally accepted the surrender of Earl Richard, having trapped him in a windmill close to where they were now gathered. Yes, those who supported change in government deserved great rewards, and none more than himself.

Gilbert was a tall man and powerful physically, all muscle. As he watched Earl Simon, he drew himself up even taller as the last seven years fleeted through his vision. He thought of the realignment of loyalties, including his own, because King Henry had broken promise after promise. The barons and clergy had demanded simple changes in government. Henry had accepted the barons’ council of fifteen, after years of negotiations, to help the king rule fairly the shires that made up England. A privy council was designed to advise Henry, curb his building and pageantry extravagances, his outrageous expenditure on feuding in Gascony, England’s remaining territory across the Narrow Sea, and to put right his appallingly poor administration. They would advise the King on the custody of royal castles and oversee ministerial appointments.

After promising to accept these provisions, Henry had reneged, seeking the Pope’s approval for his actions. He broke the agreement, claiming his hand had been forced. That had been the final straw for Gilbert, who had recently come into his earldom on his father’s death. Gilbert’s brow darkened as he felt a frown grow across his forehead and he considered how Henry’s Lusignan stepbrothers as well as the Queen’s Savoyard relatives between them had controlled England and the King. These foreigners were England’s greatest archbishops, bishops, and even earls through marriages forged with their land’s greatest heiresses and heirs. In fact, Gilbert mused with his lips curling with distaste, at only ten years of age he had been pushed into marriage with one of them eight years his senior. He grimaced as a picture of cold, unpleasant, proudly beautiful Alix, his wife, clouded his vision. He had heard rumours of her behaviour with Lord Edward when the King had taken his half-niece prisoner along with the garrison of Tonbridge Castle.

There had been hope of change when Earl Simon returned to England from exile in France two years previously and consolidated opposition to the King. After routs throughout the south, Simon had even attempted to settle the differences between king and barons in a fair manner, or so he had thought. When Simon asked the King of France to arbitrate and persuade Henry to accept the statutes proposed by his barons, pious Louis, like the Pope before him, sided with Henry. After all, the French king was autocratic and he was married to that proud Provençal woman, Queen Ailenor’s sister Marguerite. King Louis would never gainsay his own brother-in-law.

How could they accept such a judgement? The war had begun in earnest after that.

He thought of how Queen Ailenor was in France raising troops to support the royalist cause. It was as well they had victory at Lewes. The victory was a stroke of good fortune after loyalist successes. Gilbert did not believe in God’s will particularly, favouring instead Lady Fortune. At first it seemed as if Lord Edward and King Henry would trounce them since Edward had made such a brilliant cavalry charge, but he later destroyed his luck by chasing his quarry from the field, meaning Henry was left to launch an infantry attack up Offham Hill. Now Henry was their prisoner and must negotiate. And the Queen would shudder with fear when the news reached her Gascon stronghold.

Gilbert whispered his thanks to Lady Luck and shook his mane of startling red hair. What next? He would help Montfort rule, Lord Simon’s right-hand man. His eyes widened at the thought of power, gold in his coffers and new castles, not that he did not have plenty already. After all, his sire had been England’s wealthiest baron. Still, you could never have too much.

Simon was beginning to speak and another fleeting thought flew into his mind. What if he and Alix separated, now the Lusignan fortunes were on the wane? He must look into it, a legal separation; perhaps, one day, even a divorce if he could find proof of consanguinity.

Earl Simon began to speak in English. Gilbert noted that although Simon had never lost his French accent, that bothered none of the men. They, he and Simon, had led them to victory after all, victory over a foolish king and his she-wolf wife.

‘Yesterday our army was victorious. When we marched from London to treat with Henry Plantagenet, he promised peace if we presented ourselves with halters around our necks, ready for hanging.’ He shook the tattered scroll he was holding. ‘That’s what it says here.’ Earl Simon’s face looked as red as Gilbert’s own shock of red hair. ‘Now, the third Henry is our prisoner and must agree to our terms.’

Seizing a brand from a brazier, Simon set the King’s letter alight. The parchment was slow to take flame at first but he kept torching it until it flared up. Cinders fluttered into the breeze like tattered black rags. Wax dripped from the burning words to hiss on the fire. He yelled as if he was God’s own herald sounding out anger at His anointed King, ‘From this day forth, a new council will rule for the King. Its members will be Englishmen. We’ll take back our castles stolen as gifts for foreigners. The King’s nepotism stops here, today. His Lusignan half-brothers will be exiled forthwith.

‘Every shire in the realm will send knights. Every town will send two of their own townsmen to Parliament. Englishmen will seek justice for grievances through laws decided by Parliament.’ He drew a long breath and, even louder, he decreed, ‘Prisoners held at Windsor Castle will be returned to us. And my own dear son.’ Tears swam in his eyes as he spoke of his boy.

‘I would feel the same,’ Gilbert muttered to himself. Bells for Vespers rang out from the abbey. Earl Simon paused until they stopped before continuing.

‘Families who have lost husbands and sons in the Battle of Lewes will receive fair and just comfort this coming winter. You have my word. Go in peace. Return to your homes knowing you fought for justice.’

Gilbert joined in the resounding cheer that arose amongst their troops. Bagpipes played. Priests offering pardons for crimes of war wandered through the crowds. Slowly, Earl Simon’s army dispersed. Gilbert could smell the cooking fires’ smoke mingling with the welcome aroma of roasting meat rise from the fields. The men were hungry. Tomorrow, some would return to their homes but Gilbert’s own men, as Simon had requested that morning, would march north to capture Windsor Castle.

The Lady Eleanor, Lord Edward’s wife, another young she-wolf, was its keeper. She would not be Windsor’s custodian for much longer. He would take the castle from that haughty Spanish princess. Gilbert followed Simon back over the glassy moat trailed by his own squire. Of a sudden, Simon stopped, turned to him and said in a low voice, ‘I’ll travel with Henry to Canterbury and keep him there but I’m sending Edward and Richard to Wallingford under close guard. Separate them, divide and rule, is my tactic for now.’

‘The other prisoners, my Lord?’

‘Oh, you mean Pembroke and the others.’

Gilbert nodded. He had those Welsh lands in his sights but he would wait until Pembroke was out of the way before staking his own claims. Perhaps he would ask initially for Pembroke’s Kent properties and his London houses.

Simon grinned. ‘Exile.’ He laughed. ‘Well, frankly, I can hardly execute them. I’ll strip them of their possessions and hope they go off on Crusade and stay away or die in Outremer, the pack of them.’ Gilbert thought to himself but did not say, it was more likely they would connive at a return. He felt Simon take his arm.

‘Best, Gilbert, that we attend Vespers and give thanks. We may have won the war but we still have to win the peace. Pray for success. Windsor is your first call. We’ll persuade Henry to ask his daughter-in-law to keep him company in Canterbury, nay, command her. I’ll get him to sign a summons after he has eaten a good supper. He will comply once his ear is bent and he sees he has no option but to comply and, tomorrow, you will be on your way to Windsor with that royal summons.’

Supper was what Gilbert wanted more than prayer. The smell of cooking wafted from the kitchen building, assaulting his nostrils as he followed Simon towards the castle’s chapel.

Windsor Castle

21 June 1264

On the feast of St John, Lady Eleanor watched the forest from the castle’s lower battlements. Smoke from rebel campfires twisted above the treeline. The rebels had plundered her park, hunted stags in her forest, and cooked her venison. Occasionally a whiff drifted her way, reminding her that soon the castle would run out of food. She sighed, knowing she would have to consult with Master Thomas, her steward, as to how long they could survive without surrender, before they starved. Earl Simon’s deputy, Hugh Bigod of Norfolk, had positioned his troops everywhere. They were hidden by willows hanging over the riverbanks; they were concealed in meadows and hiding within the barley growing in nearby fields; they camped even closer, amongst the beech trees in the King’s deer park.

Movement on the edge of the forest! A moment later a rider emerged, galloping along the track towards the castle moat. Eleanor shaded her brow. There had been many messengers demanding she gave up the castle and she had sent them away. She edged along the battlements, peering over the parapets until she reached a point directly above the gatehouse. Something appeared very familiar about this particular horseman. A second rider, a squire perhaps, broke from the trees holding aloft a fluttering pennant. She drew breath sharply because rather than showing as usual Montfort’s forktailed lion, this long curling flag displayed the King’s leopards, gold and silver embroidery glinting in the sun. Her heart began to beat faster, pumping hard at her chest. Could he be a messenger from her husband at last?

Time stilled as if the scene below was painted inside a psalter. Eleanor’s mantle billowed out and her short veil was nearly blown from her head by a sudden breeze. The castle rooks, roosting in trees, made loud mewing sounds like babies crying. Bells rang for Vespers. She peered directly below at her ladies trailing into the chapel, miniature figures with bowed heads and clasped hands. She should attend Vespers since it was the feast of St John today, but she remained where she was, as if mesmerised, watching the two riders clip-clopping along the path, their horses’ snorts competing with the rooks’ unsettling caws.

The knight slowed as he approached the moat. He halted, dismounted, and removed his helmet. Her eyes fixed upon his shock of red hair. Gilbert de Clare, the Earl of Gloucester! No other. She knew him well from the days before the barons’ rebellion. And if Earl Simon was the devil, Gilbert of Gloucester, once her husband’s friend, had turned his mantle and was Satan’s helper. Tears of disappointment welled up behind her eyes.

Earl Gilbert tugged a scroll from his mantle and with one hand still holding his reins he held it up to the gatehouse guards. Ribbons dangled from a seal. Anger replaced disappointment. If this was a trick, she would have Simon de Montfort’s son, her prisoner, hanged from a parapet.

She twisted her head to stare up at the range of battlements just above her head. ‘Raise your bows,’ she ordered the waiting archers, her Spanish accent breaking through her English speech. ‘Bring Earl Simon’s son out.’ She pointed to the knight below. ‘Gloucester is not to be trusted. Others may be hidden amongst the trees ready to attack.’ A sergeant gave a sharp order and several guards raced off to fetch the prisoner, a young lad not yet twenty, also called Simon de Montfort.

Gathering her mantle close, Eleanor hurried down the stairway that spiralled through the castle and ran into the hall. She pulled a short sword from a wall bracket as she passed. After all, she had taken lessons in fighting from her brother Enrique in Castile, practising swordplay with him on sun-baked courtyards when she was growing up. Pages stared at her as she sped past them, their mouths wide open. Shocked guards by the great door fell back out of her way as they dragged it open. Not pausing for breath, she raced down the steps brandishing the sword and ran across the courtyard,

‘Lower the bridge. If Gilbert de Clare carries a message from King Henry, fetch it.’

The drawbridge clanked as it was slowly lowered over the moat. A guard raced across it with her demand. Moments later he returned saying breathlessly, ‘The Earl says he must deliver it himself into your own hands. He says go across yourself for it, my lady, else he will bring it over to you.’

Her captain of the guard shook his head at her. Eleanor hesitated for just a heartbeat. ‘Tell Earl Gilbert he may cross but his squire remains beyond the drawbridge with their horses and weapons.’

Her guards fell back, hands on the hilts of their swords. She waited impatiently in the courtyard, trying hard to remain calm, as Red Gilbert casually walked onto the drawbridge and swaggered under the raised portcullis. After what felt long enough to say a dozen Paternosters he reached her. She did not waver but stood with Edward’s short sword raised and pointing towards Gilbert’s breast. The rebel looked her up and down from under fox-like eyebrows. He shook his russet hair and grinned but she kept her sword-arm steady and glared at him.

‘Lady Eleanor,’ he said smoothly, making a low bow. ‘It is good to see you so well. Do put down that weapon.’ He slowly held the scroll out in his open hands as if it were a precious glass ornament and added, ‘I carry an order from King Henry. You are to relinquish his castle to us.’

Her response like his own speech was spoken in the Norman French of court. ‘His castle!’ She felt her face grow hot. ‘My castle. This is a royal castle and I have sworn to my Lord Edward, the King’s son, to protect it.’

‘And he is a prisoner in Kenilworth Castle.’

It was true and Henry was their king, if, she knew well since Edward had complained often enough about his father, a weak one. Since Lewes a month before, Simon de Montfort had had Henry and Edward both in his power. There really was no alternative. She slowly lowered her sword and snatched the scroll from Gilbert. She unrolled the letter and read its brief message, the short sword’s hilt loosening in her hand as she studied the words. It indeed bore Henry’s signature. She grunted her disbelief. Henry ordered her to free young Simon de Montfort, to accompany the Earl of Gloucester, and join the King’s household in Canterbury. There was no mention of her husband.

She crumpled the scroll, crumbs of sealing wax flaking onto her gown. Looking up she said, her anger seeping into her voice, ‘Was King Henry forced to sign this order?’

‘He signed it freely,’ Gloucester said, his tone light, almost amused. How dare he sound amused.

‘Give you Windsor and free my prisoner? I swore to my lord husband I would not and I shall not. Return to the King and tell your master I do not treat with traitors.’ She felt herself glaring. ‘Montfort must bring my husband to me before I return his son to him.’ She waved the scroll in his face and pointed it up to the ramparts, where young Simon de Montfort now stood perilously positioned on the wall, a sword at his back. ‘I give my order and he’ll plummet down like a bird falling from a tree.’

‘She-wolf,’ hissed Gilbert, all amusement now wiped from his face. ‘Call your men off. Release Earl Simon’s son as your King commands.’

‘Bring me my husband first. Bring Lord Edward here.’ She crushed the letter in her left hand, its crimson ribbons fluttering in blood-like streamers. The sword dangled loosely by its hilt from her right hand.

That moment of angry pause was her undoing. With one agile movement, Earl Gilbert grabbed the sword from her and pulled her to him.

She hissed, ‘You lay hands on a princess of the realm, Gilbert de Clare? It is treason.’

‘But this princess disobeys her King. Treason indeed.’

In one smooth movement, gatehouse guards moved forward with outstretched swords. Gloucester spun her around as quickly as if he was turning a child’s spinning top. A moment later, he was holding the short sword across her throat. Her guards drew back. He yelled upwards, ‘Free Earl Simon’s son or the lady’s life is forfeit.’ Holding her tighter, he said into her ear, ‘If you want to see Lord Edward alive, call those dogs off.’ She winced as he shouted, ‘The lady accompanies me. It’s the King’s orders.’

‘I have a daughter,’ Eleanor cried out so all could hear. ‘Where I go, so does my child.’

‘Call your guards off,’ he spat into her ear as he held her tighter against his chest. ‘You’ll have your daughter soon enough.’

She cursed Gilbert, ‘Bastard son of a bastard mother. As God is my witness, I shall have revenge on you and your master.’ She shouted up, ‘Set him free,’

‘I am simply obeying my king. You must do likewise. Have your prisoner brought down here. He leaves with us.’ As if to emphasise his determination he knocked Eleanor’s veil and circlet off her head with the sword, pricking her ear. She could feel blood slowly trickling down her neck. Her chestnut hair tumbled out of its crispinette and rippled down to her waist.

‘If you won’t obey King Henry, you’ll heed me, Lady Eleanor,’ Gilbert’s voice had grown harsh. She knew he meant it.

Eleanor shouted, ‘Bring Simon down.’ She tried hard to wriggle from Gilbert’s grasp, dropping the King’s letter as she attempted to free her arm.

‘Worse for you, my lady, if you struggle.’ He pulled her back. When the shaking youth descended to the courtyard, Gilbert turned her roughly around towards the drawbridge and whistled to the young man holding his mount. A moment later his squire was riding over the moat, leading his master’s stallion. ‘Simon will ride with you, Pipkin,’ Gilbert addressed the squire. ‘Lady Eleanor rides with me.’

‘What do you mean, I ride with you!’ Eleanor felt fear tighten her chest. Keeping her voice steady she said evenly, ‘My daughter is the King’s grandchild. What about my ladies?’ Somehow she was facing her people again and she saw fear on their countenances.

‘Arrangements have been made. They will follow and the child too.’ His tone softened. ‘I am not a monster. Neither is Earl Simon. We seek justice and fair rule.’ Justice and fair rule? Unlikely. They were an evil pair. They were devils and both capable of great savagery. She had heard about the massacre in Canterbury that April.

Eleanor scanned the courtyard where her frightened people had begun to gather in family groups. A priest hurried through them clutching a large cross, his habit flapping in a sudden breeze. He crossed himself and shouted in a voice as clear as reliquary crystal, ‘You, Gilbert of Gloucester, mark this, you are excommunicate by order of our Father, the Pope. You’ll burn in Hell’s fire and you’ll deserve your fate.’

Earl Gilbert turned his head away from him. Pushing Eleanor forward again, he said, ‘Up you go, my lady.’ In a heartbeat, he had hoisted her onto his horse as if she were light as a feather, and jumped up behind her. He said into her pained ear, ‘Tell them they are to obey Hugh Bigod when he enters the castle this evening. He’ll arrange an escort for your ladies and household.’

‘We have no choice,’ she called down as she managed to wriggle an arm free from Gilbert’s grip. She pointed at the crumpled scroll still lying on the earth, and shouted to her shocked steward, ‘Take it. Read it to my people. Tell them the King has been forced to sign it.’

Master Thomas ran forward and scooped up the King’s letter. He picked her veil up from the ground and handed it up to her.

‘See the King’s order is obeyed,’ she said in a grudging tone as she took possession of her veil. Gilbert thrust her sword into an empty scabbard hanging from his saddle, and slowly walked his horse forward onto the drawbridge.

She could not let this seizure of her royal person go without another protest. ‘Gilbert of Gloucester, I shall have my revenge on you,’ she barked. ‘No one treats a future queen in such a manner.’ She knew she was making a formidable enemy but she didn’t care. Her temper could be foul but she did not care about this either.

‘Lady Eleanor, when you behave as a queen should, with suitable decorum, I shall treat you as a queen,’ he quipped. ‘Until then you are no better than a harridan.’

‘Arrogant bastard,’ she said under her breath as they rode into the trees, followed by the trotting horse ridden by the squire with the ridiculous name and carrying young Simon, the Devil’s son.

That evening, she peered from her heavily guarded tent, incandescent, watching as Hugh Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, rode to take possession of Windsor Castle. Her child and ladies would be loaded like cattle into wagons the next day to begin the journey to Canterbury. Her close friend and lady-in-waiting, Joanna de Valance, married to King Henry’s own half-brother William of Pembroke, was pregnant and she, herself, had missed her courses twice.

On the fourth morning after the Feast of St John, wagons and pack horses rattled into the palace yard in Canterbury.

Helped by a groom, Eleanor slid off her white palfrey.

Robert Burnell, a tall man with a thin face and dark hair, and a close friend to her and Edward, hurried from the palace doors to greet her. ‘Archbishop Boniface is still abroad. He dare not return,’ he reminded her. ‘I am here in his stead.’

Eleanor glared at Red Gilbert who took one look at Master Burnell, grunted a greeting, left his horse to his squire’s care, and swept past her into the palace. She had made a point of complaining constantly on their journey and, thankfully, he clearly had had enough of her company. He would be off to seek out Simon de Montfort. Young Simon handed his mount to a stable hand and without a glance in her direction followed Gloucester inside. She looked down her pert nose at him as he rushed past.

‘All’s well here,’ Burnell was saying in his gentle voice. His eyes followed Gilbert and young Simon. ‘The King is in conference with Earl Simon. I expect those two intend intruding on them.’ He took her hands and kissed her on both cheeks. Holding her at arms’ length, he smiled at her. They were old friends. It was reassuring and the burden of strain lifted from her as if she were shedding a shroud that had tightened about her these past days. She felt herself unknotting as he said, ‘Lady Eleanor, you are to have the Queen’s apartment and your ladies are to be accommodated with you. It overlooks the garden and that’s filled with the perfume of roses at the moment. Remember how you ordered them brought to us from Spain?’

‘I do indeed, Robert. My damask roses will thrive and so shall we.’

‘With God’s grace. Come now, and get settled. You’ll be tired after such a long journey.’

She straightened her back. ‘I am never tired, as you well know. If I am, it is that despicable Gloucester who has made my life miserable since he came to Windsor and kept me as a prisoner in their camp. I had to beg for my maid and fresh linens. I missed the Feast of St John and had no option but to eat my own slaughtered deer in their vagabond camp . . . or starve.’ Robert made the sign of the cross. ‘I may have survived that ordeal.’ She watched her ladies descend from wagons. ‘But my ladies not so well. As you can see for yourself, my lady Joanna of Pembroke is about to give birth, and I believe I may be with child myself.’

‘May God bless you and the child, my dear lady,’ he said, laying a hand on her arm.

They watched Countess Joanna awkwardly climb down from a wagon clutching her huge belly. Coming forward, Joanna said, ‘Master Burnell, is my husband with the King? Do you know? Have you seen him? Is he here?’

‘Alas no, Countess. I heard the loyalist earls were facing exile and the loss of all their lands. Earl William has escaped to France.’ He paused and Eleanor saw deep concern in her friend’s eyes. ‘For now, you will be made comfortable in St Mary’s Abbey. This is no suitable place for you to have your lying-in. It is full of Montfort’s supporters and if the King is to remain our third Henry we must do as they wish. We are prisoners.’

‘My ladies must be accommodated with me,’ Joanna said, her eyes brimming with tears.

Eleanor placed an arm about the older woman’s shoulders. ‘I will insist on it.’

Burnell nodded, ‘Of course.’

‘What do you know about Edward?’ Eleanor asked as they began to walk towards the palace door, a little troop of ladies gathering behind her.

‘I believe the King has a letter from him, and a gift of Edward’s own psalter to comfort your prayers.’

Eleanor pondered this whilst her ladies unpacked the travelling coffers. Why would Edward give her his psalter? The thought made her sad. Throughout their ten years of marriage, they had been rarely apart as they were now. She wiped her tears away with her sleeve. They were all suffering at the hands of Earl Simon, all his prisoners. She thought of Joanna and how her husband William had fled to France along with other royalists. Montfort would take their lands, all those in Pembrokeshire as well as the castle which the rebels had in their possession already. Lord only knew what else. She’d warrant Gilbert was after Joanna’s border territories - and Edward’s too, and whatever he could lay his thieving hands upon. Eleanor’s own hand went instinctively to her own belly. Joanna was about to give birth, alone, and without her other children, who had been living on her Oxfordshire manor ever since Pembroke Castle had been confiscated by the rebels.

The hour of Nones passed. Eleanor, preceding her troop of ladies, descended to the hall. Her nose tickled by the scent of roast beef wafting out from the kitchens, she realised she was extremely hungry. Food on the journey to Canterbury had been scant: endless sour wine, apples, cheese, and tough venison. She had been constantly nauseous on the journey but refused to complain. Her women had wrinkled their noses as they drank the unpalatable wine, nibbled stale bread, and tried to swallow rancid cheese. She could not stand its smell.

When she entered the hall, King Henry had already settled into his chair at the centre of the top table. She winced to note Earl Simon with his son, and Gilbert de Clare placed to the King’s left. Looking at Gloucester so close to King Henry, she narrowed her eyes. No one should lay a hand on a princess of the realm, one who would become God’s appointed queen. No one should kill, maim, throw families out of their homes, rape women - Eleanor