The Silken Rose

Book 1: The Rose Trilogy

by Carol McGrath

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

1236. Beautiful Ailenor of Provence, cultured and intelligent, is only thirteen when she marries Henry III. Aware of the desperate importance of providing heirs to secure the throne from those who would snatch it away, she is ruthless in her dealings with Henry's barons. As conflict escalates between them, Ailenor's shrewd and clever Savoyard uncles come to support her but her growing political power is threatened when Henry's half-siblings also arrive at court. Henry and Ailenor become embroiled in an unpopular war to protect Gascony, last English territory on the continent, sparking conflict with warrior knight, Simon de Montfort, the King's seneschal. Ailenor, desperate to protect Gascony for her son, strives to treat with France and bring peace to Gascony. Caught in a web of treachery and deceit, 'she-wolf' Ailenor's courage is tested to the limit. Can she find the strength to control her destiny and protect her all that she holds dear?

Release date: April 2, 2020

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 230

Sample

Canterbury, January 1236

The road from Dover to Canterbury was mired with winter mud so progress was slow. Ailenor, Princess of Provence, had never seen such weather in all of her young life. She tugged back the oiled canvas that served to keep out the worst of the rain and peered from her long, box-like carriage into the January landscape. A collection of gaunt faces stared back; figures huddled in heavy cloaks, watching the golden lions of Savoy and Provence pass through Canterbury’s southernmost gate into the cramped lanes of the city.

Domina Willelma’s rhythmic snores competed with the splashing of hooves moving laboriously through the gateway, the roll of wheels belonging to sumpter carts, the cracking of whips and the protesting snorts of an escort of three hundred horsemen. All the way from Dover, thirteen year-old Ailenor had listened to rain rattling on the curved roof of the carriage. With a hiss, it occasionally dripped through a minute crack onto the box of hot charcoal that warmed her feet.

She let the curtain drop and withdrew into her furs. Was this country a place of eternal deluges? It’s so different to my golden Provençal fields on which sun shines winter and summer.

A tear slid down her cheek. She instinctively drew her mantle closer. This was not what she imagined after Richard of Cornwall, King Henry’s brother, had visited their castle of Les Baux last year and she had listened to his thrilling tales of romance. England was not the magical land she visualised when she wrote her best poem ever, set in Cornwall, verse that Prince Richard admired. Nor was it the luscious green country filled with wild flowers she dreamed of when Henry, King of England, sent for her to become his bride.

She shivered in her damp gown. She had not wanted woollen gowns and underskirts. Rather, she desired velvets, silks and satins, and the finest linen for under-garments. But after two days’ travel over the Narrow Sea and on waterlogged roads she understood the need for warmth. Her mother, Countess Beatrice was right. She was now to dwell in a land where winter never ended and summer was but a distant prayer.

The carriage jolted to a halt. Uncle William, the Bishop Elect of Valence, thrust his head through the heavy hanging.

‘We are approaching the Archbishop’s palace. Prepare to descend.’ He almost fell off his horse as he pushed his neck further into the carriage to waggle a long finger at Ailenor’s senior lady. ‘Waken that woman at once. Order her to tidy your dress.’ With an impatient grunt, he withdrew before Ailenor could reply.

‘Domina Willelma, wake up.’ Ailenor gently shook her lady’s shoulder. ‘Uncle William says -’

‘By our sainted Lady, my child, forgive me. Why have you permitted me to sleep?’ Lady Willelma sat straight up, her dark eyes wide awake.

‘Because, dear Willelma, you have hardly slept since we left Vienne and that was three weeks ago. We’ve almost arrived.’

‘I’m neglecting my duty to your mother.’ Willelma fussed about the seat and opened the tassels of a velvet bag. My mother, Ailenor thought, a leaden stone invading her throat, tears gathering again. If only she were here. She would make jests and have me laugh at it all. How can I face this awful land alone? A heartbeat later her lady was holding a comb. She plaited Ailenor’s luxuriant dark hair - Ailenor let out a wail of protest. Willelma tugged again and it hurt. She coiled the plaits into crispinettes which felt uncomfortably tight.

Dragging a mantle lined with ermine from the travelling chest, Willelma wrapped it around her shoulders and pinned it closed with a jewelled brooch. ‘I feel like a wrapped-up gift, not a person,’ Ailenor said, her voice almost a screech.

‘There, much better.’ Domina Willelma sat back and tossed the cloak Ailenor had been wearing to one side. ‘Servants can look after that now.’ Ailenor had no choice but to compose herself, though she wanted to shout, ‘Turn about. Take me home.’ It was too late.

A jolt and the carriage stopped. Uncle William opened the carriage door. They had pulled into a vast courtyard. Ailenor allowed Willelma to arrange her flowing mantle. A servant raced forward with a carpeted step. Placing her foot down on the top tread, Ailenor descended onto slippery cobbles, her arms flapping outwards as she tried to steady and balance. Above the courtyard a pale midday sun reached awkwardly through fat grey clouds.

‘The sky is clearing,’ she said, seeking something polite to say, though she did not feel like showing off fine manners today.

‘Indeed,’ said Uncle William. ‘The Archbishop is here to greet you.’

The English Prelate, Edmund Rich, picked his way forward stork-like, his hands extended. Ailenor managed a smile, bent her knee, and kissed his ring. Glancing up, she looked into the most austere face she had ever seen in her thirteen years.

‘No need, my lady,’ he said, raising her. ‘Welcome to Canterbury. You will wish to rest and refresh yourself before meeting the King. Come, come.’

Ailenor took a quick glance around. Noticing the sumpter vehicles rattling into the courtyard, her courtiers and servants descending from painted boxes, and others climbing off horses, she turned back to the Prelate. ‘J’espere que vous avez beaucoup des chambres.’

The Archbishop smiled thinly, his chin thrusting forward like a stork’s reedy beak. ‘Indeed, indeed, my stewards will escort your retinue to accommodation close to your own. Perhaps your domina will select those ladies who are to accompany you to your apartment.’

Domina Willelma called out four names as Ailenor caught her arm and said, ‘I need all my ladies.’

‘It’s only for a short time. They will all accompany you to your wedding, all of them. For now four of those ladies will suffice.’

Uncle William frowned and Ailenor knew she had no choice. She would be compliant today but later she would decide who stayed with her. The damsels who were to remain with Ailenor gathered behind her as servants dragged two leather chests from a covered wagon. These coffers held linens and clothing for her wedding on the following day.

With the Prelate leading, they hurried into the warmth of the Archbishop’s palace, a vast stone building of several storeys connecting houses, towers, and exterior staircases. The Archbishop led them through an immense pillared hall where nobility stood in clusters waiting to see their new Queen. As she passed, they bowed and curtsied. Ailenor inclined her head and raised it, determined to appear every inch a queen. Where was the King? Why was he not here to welcome her?

‘Where is the King, my husband?’ she asked.

‘He is with God,’ the Prelate said, eyes glancing heavenward.

‘With God?’ She stared at the Archbishop. ‘In Heaven or on earth?’ she asked.

‘The King is at prayer,’ he said, his tone deferential, clearly towards God and the King, not her. She looked straight ahead. No one would be dismissive to her once she was queen, not even her husband. The Archbishop raised his hand, jewelled rings glinting in the candle-light, glittering stars on his finger bones. He stopped their procession and signalled to a lady whose countenance appeared both serious and sad. She wore a simple grey velvet gown and close wimple with confident elegance.

‘My lady, Princess Eleanor, the King’s sister, will escort you to the women’s quarters and see you and your women are comfortable.’

The Princess bowed. ‘Welcome, Lady Ailenor, welcome to England.’

Ailenor, her deportment erect despite her exhaustion, returned the obeisance. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

At once a body of ladies surrounded Ailenor and guided her to a wooden staircase. The palace was such a strange place. It smelled damp and as she climbed towards the dimness beyond, she imagined all sorts of strange creatures lurking in corners. Halfway up, she turned and looked down, her eye seeking out Uncle William amongst the scattering throng below. She glanced at Willelma who wore an impassive expression. She must do likewise. Climbing again, following the sister of the strangely missing King, sensing all nature of perceived things watching from the shadows, Ailenor slowly mounted a second staircase towards the unknown.

Her chamber was spacious and, unlike the gloomy staircases and corridors, was well-lit with wall sconces which cast light over rich hangings and a large curtained bed with an embroidered coverlet. Ailenor looked out of a large window onto a garden. A robin was flitting from one pollarded tree to another. She breathed more easily to see the sky and the walled garden below it patterned with winter herbs. Willelma directed servants to unpack Ailenor’s two leather chests and she felt even better as she watched familiar mantles and her linen tumble out, gowns and mantles hung on a clothing pole, her under-garments neatly folded into a wall-cupboard. But when the most important item, the cloth of gold wedding dress, was lifted from its linen wrapping, the maids drew back, and Domina Willelma looked dismayed, her dark eyes surprised and her nose wrinkling. Ailenor came close to the bed and immediately recoiled. ‘What is that disgusting odour, Domina Willelma? It stinks.’ She tentatively touched the creased silken fabric. ‘It’s ruined. I can’t wear that.’ She burst into tears.

‘We can air it, hang it with lavender. I am sure it will have just been the damp, my lady.’ Domina Willelma said in a soothing tone as she examined the silk pleats, peering into every crease and crumple. ‘Praise God, no stains.’

Princess Eleanor touched the gown and calmly called one of her ladies over. ‘Ann, take Lady Ailenor’s wedding-gown to my chamber. Have it hung with lavender and fennel.’

Willelma dabbed Ailenor’s eyes with a linen cloth and placed a protective arm about her charge. ‘Merde,’ Ailenor muttered into her domina’s shoulder. ‘Will it ever be the same again?’ Her father, who could not afford to, as he was an impoverished count, had spent a fortune on new clothes for her wedding to Henry of England. This union with the great English King was as prestigious for her family as that of her sister Marguerite’s marriage to the King of France. It was important everything was perfect. Now her wedding dress reeked of wet hay. She had been right to feel unease in this palace. Its shadows harboured malevolence.

She watched uneasily as Princess Eleanor’s lady whisked the gown away. Frowning, Domina Willelma laid out her new burgundy tunic with flowing sleeves trimmed with gold embroidery. Ailenor was not consoled, not even when Willelma leaned forward, sniffed and lifting her head announced, ‘It is fresh and uncorrupted, my lady. You can wear this tonight with the gold slippers.’

‘I may be wearing it tomorrow if my wedding dress is ruined.’

‘No,’ said Princess Eleanor. ‘Your wedding gown will smell sweetly. I promise.’

‘I hope so,’ Ailenor said, trying hard to regain her poise.

Princess Eleanor indicated a comfortable winged chair by the fire. Ailenor, exhausted by her uneasy welcome to Canterbury, sank back into soft cushions. The King’s sister took the straight-backed chair opposite and called for refreshments, which soon arrived on a silver tray as if ready all along. The Princess poured two cups of hippocras and offered one to Ailenor, saying, ‘They will serve your ladies in the ante-chamber. They must be famished.’

Servants discreetly vanished. As she sipped her honeyed wine, Ailenor felt the Princess studying her. Raising her eyebrows she said, ‘My lord, the King, was not here to greet me. When shall I meet him? Surely he is not always at prayer?’ She was reminded of Marguerite’s husband, King Louis, who was so religious there was no time for anything else. Marguerite had confided to her sister when her retinue had paused in Paris, ‘Not even love-making. How will I ever give him a son?’

‘Soon.’ Princess Eleanor said, and offered her a dish of warm pasties. They had not eaten since dawn that morning. Ailenor bit into the crust and, at once, a velvety smoothness caressed her tongue. The pasty was light and tasted of cream, chicken, and eggs mixed with herbs. She felt a smile of pleasure begin to hover about her mouth. The warmth of the fire, the Princess who was kind, the honeyed hippocras which she sipped slowly, savouring it, and the delicious pasties restored her sense of excitement. All would have been as all should be if only Henry, himself, had greeted her instead of the pious Prelate and the King’s sister.

‘I’ll take you to my brother when you have refreshed and changed your gown,’ Princess Eleanor said. Ailenor helped herself to a second pasty. She glanced at the candle clock on the table. ‘There is no need to hurry, Ailenor. The King will escort you to the Archbishop’s great hall for supper. Do not feel overpowered, because only a few of our friends will join us tonight and, after you have dined, we shall show you the cathedral where you are to be married.’ Princess Eleanor stood and added, a natural cordiality radiating from her, ‘I’ll leave you to your Domina for now. Rest and do not feel anxious. I’ll return later to fetch you.’ She touched Ailenor’s hand lightly and floated from the chamber as if she walked on air.

She is truly a princess, thought Ailenor looking after her. I like the Princess already. But the King should not have kept me waiting.

The candle clock burned down. The supper hour approached. Dressed in her burgundy gown, her hair combed yet again and plaited into crispinettes, Ailenor waited for Princess Eleanor’s return with an impatience that caused her to fidget. Why should she have to wait?

At length, Princess Eleanor returned and said the King would receive them. Ailenor stood, held her head high, ran her hand along the skirt of her burgundy gown and tried to imagine she was simply attending her mother in their hall at Les Baux, wishing with all her being the Countess was in attendance on her now. Slowing as they turned corners, they negotiated two dim narrow corridors.

‘You must call me Nell,’ the Princess said as she escorted Ailenor and her ladies along yet another dimly lit passage to the King’s waiting chamber. ‘The family always calls me Nell. Too many Eleanors.’

Ailenor nodded. ‘No one will change my name. I am to be a queen. It would not be fitting.’ She added, ‘But I do like Nell.’ Nell smiled.

Ailenor’s heart pulsed as they approached the great doors behind which the King waited. She was sure Nell could hear it beat like a drum that could not stop drumming, in a frantic fairy-tale manner. It felt like it could not stop dancing. Everything she had longed for during her long journey through France and over the sea was to happen at last. Would her betrothed love her - would he even like her?

Doors flew open. They entered the great chamber. Pages stood about the walls dressed in livery, displaying on their chests three lions wearing crowns. Uncle William stood by the King’s chair, his face inscrutable. Her throbbing heart leapt and her hands felt clammy. Domina Willelma and Nell stopped walking.

Henry rose as she approached. Measuring her steps with care so they were even and she appeared to glide, she proceeded alone until she stood still, several paces before the King. He was of average height and stocky like Beau, her favourite dog. I hope I have stopped growing, she thought anxiously. I am too tall for him.

Henry wore a long green velvet coat trimmed with pearls that flared out from his waist. An expensive scent of sandalwood wafted towards her as he stepped forward to meet her. His hair was flaxen and fine and it fell to his chin where it fashionably curled under. She tried not to stare at his face. His eye! Mon Dieu, it droops. She lowered her own gaze and sank into a deep obeisance, her gown sweeping the tiles as her mother had instructed her. She imagined she heard Countess Beatrice whisper in her ear, ‘Remember he is your betrothed but he is also your king. Show him your most refined obeisance when you first meet.’ She had practised hard to her hound in their sun-baked courtyards scented with lemons. Beau had always barked approval.

‘Ailenor, rise,’ he said. As he raised her, their eyes met. His were a pale blue, at least what she could see, with that drooping eyelid. Closer, she saw she was correct. She was almost his height. ‘Come sit with me.’ His voice was musical, gentle, and he spoke in elegant French. There was nothing to fear from this man who was, of course, twice her own age.

He took her hand and led her to a chair beside his own. Uncle William smiled at last and, with a bow, withdrew to a cushioned bench on one side of the room. Her ladies followed Nell to another bench opposite. The King snapped his fingers. Within a few moments a procession of pages advanced with gifts. One by one, extravagant offerings were laid out on a table to her side for her appraisal. First, she was presented with a sapphire brooch for her mantle, a necklace of creamy pearls, and an enormous ruby set into a gold ring.

The King leaned over and slipped the heavy ring onto her middle finger where it sat beside her sapphire betrothal ring. She held her finger stiffly. ‘It is overly large for such a little finger but we can have it adjusted. The ruby belonged to my grandmother, Queen Eleanor, Countess of Aquitaine.’

Other gifts followed: jewels in tiny coffers and lengths of silk in baskets. A selection of gowns and tunics arrived, carried into the chamber by long-coated men whom she thought must be tailors. Her father could have spared his own coin because when the pages held the garments up, she saw at once they would fit perfectly. As she touched the silks and velvets she remembered a gown had been borrowed from her wardrobe by Prince Richard when he had visited them in the summer. They’ve allowed for me growing. Finally, servants delivered belts for her new silken tunics, and purses with the treasured gold and silver embroidery that across France they called Opus Anglicanum, English work.

She heard her ladies’ gasps of astonishment as so many gifts arrived.

Tears threatened. She blinked them away. ‘My Lord King, I know not what to say. I have only one present for you, an Arab stallion called Caesar. He is a lovely creature, white as snowfall with a grey nose. He is a good horse but nothing as generous as all this.’ The words poured from her mouth in a rush as she stared at the fabrics, jewels, gowns, and tunics.

‘Hush, little princess.’ He took her hands in his own. She smelled his sandalwood scent again. ‘I shall love Caesar and look forward to meeting him,’ he said, smiling. ‘It pleases me to give you gifts. I expect nothing in return.’

The stallion had been transported all the way from Aragon by a distant relative who bred horses. The bridle and reins were finely tooled and the saddle was studded with jewels. She hoped desperately that Caesar would please the King and whispered a prayer to St Bridget, her name-day saint, ‘Please let the King love me.’ Henry squinted over at Uncle William with a smile hovering about his mouth.

‘Come,’ the King said, taking her hand. ‘It is time we presented you to my closest friends. Come, Bishop William, you too. My chamberlain will take all of these to Ailenor’s chambers.’

If this kind man remained generous and was always good to her and her family, Ailenor thought, she would be content with her royal husband. He was not as handsome as French Louis. He was not King Arthur either, but he would be devoted to her, unlike the King of France over whose heart, Marguerite insisted, the Queen-mother Blanche ruled. Ailenor had met Queen Blanche, who reminded her of a beady-eyed spider. There was no queen-mother in England. Uncle William had explained how Henry’s own mother, Isabel of Angouleme, had run away to France many years ago to marry her first love, Count Hugh of Lusignan - an old scandal. No, Henry must be ruled by one heart, hers.

On her wedding morning, Ailenor’s ladies, those permitted to attend her, bathed her in rose-scented water and dried her with perfumed cloths. She was anxious for her gown, until, at last, it arrived. Gently she held a handful of pleated golden skirt to her nose, feeling relief.

‘Nell, it’s as if it had never smelled foul. You have saved my wedding dress and saved me, too.’ She wanted to hug Nell but drew back. Instead she said, ‘Will you ever marry again?’ It was a forward question and she should not have said it. She bit her tongue. Uncle William had explained how the King’s sister had been widowed at sixteen. She was once married to William Marshal, son of the great knight of the same name who managed the kingdom of England when Henry was only nine years old and a king.

The Princess’s violet eyes filled with tears. ‘I cannot, for I took a vow of chastity after my husband died.’ Her voice became a whisper. ‘William was a good man, son of a great man. I was only ten when we married but I came to love him. Now I don’t think of marriage. I must not.’ Nell seemed so sad, Ailenor wished her runaway tongue had not taken her over. Nell touched Ailenor’s gown. ‘I shall wear plain garments all of my days and never wed. I swore it in front of the Archbishop.’

‘A bride of Christ but not a nun. A ring but no earthly husband. And no other jewels.’ Ailenor looked at the gems laid out for her to wear that day. ‘It is unfair to gaze on others wearing these and not to possess any of your own.’

Willelma, who was lacing her gown, groaned. ‘Stay still, my lady.’ Ailenor ignored her and reached out to touch Nell’s finger on which a plain ring declared her loyalty to Christ. ‘I hope we are to be friends,’ she whispered to Nell.

‘I hope so, too. Your wedding dress is so beautiful.’ She smiled again. ‘You will be much admired, Ailenor.’

They clasped hands for a moment and, Nell’s mood restored, Ailenor spun around so her golden pleated skirt flowed about her legs. It made her feel beautiful.

The wedding took place at noon. The fair-headed King, whose crown made him appear much taller than she was, was clad in a long cloth-of-gold coat embroidered with golden lions, jewelled, and trimmed with ermine. He was handsome. Over and over, at the previous evening’s supper, he had admired her beauty until she glowed in his praise. She had enchanted this king who had not been there to greet her when her carriage entered the Archbishop’s courtyard, that absent king who would never again treat her in that way.

Before she had set out for her long journey through France, Countess Beatrice had engaged in an intimate and slightly embarrassing conversation with her daughter.

‘Fourteen by Candlemas. Soon you will be old enough to be bedded. Your duty will be to bear your husband a son.’ She had coughed and coloured. ‘And daughters, of course.’ Beatrice had four beautiful girls and no sons. Ailenor smiled to herself at her mother’s hesitation. ‘Your compensation for the marriage bed is that like your sister, Marguerite, you are to be a queen of a great country. Perhaps you will be the greater queen.’

She demurely assented. ‘Yes, Mama.’

‘You give him your body without complaint. He will penetrate you. You have seen cats and dogs copulate.’ Ailenor had reddened. She had. This was the bit that worried her. It seemed strange and brutal. Even so, it was expected and she demurely said again, ‘Yes, Mama.’

‘Painful to begin with but you’ll get used to it. You might come to enjoy it. Let him think you do. In bed, make him the centre of your world. It is how you bind him to you. Just don’t confess that to a priest.’ Ailenor knew priests thought that women led men astray with their sinfulness. She determined that even if she never enjoyed it her husband would not fault her.

Oh yes, she would never complain. They would have sons. She would be a great queen.

Ailenor lifted the pleated front of her wedding gown as they stepped into the great west porch of Canterbury Cathedral. Her gold silk gown shimmered and she was aware of how perfectly it fitted below her small breasts, its sleeves, trimmed with ermine, falling to her feet. When she stood beside Henry in his cloth-of-gold she murmured, ‘Look, my lord, see how we match.’ He inclined his head.

In the Cathedral porch, Archbishop Rich’s scribe read out the long list of lands, tenements, towns, and cities that Ailenor was to possess as her dower. Considering she had brought nothing to her marriage other than her intelligence, her love of poetry, and the luxuriant beauty that had won the heart of the man by her side, this dower was generous. Whoever said that daughters could not bring greatness to their families? Yes, she was grateful to Henry.

If only her mother could see her today in her pleated gold gown, a circlet of gold on her flowing dark hair. If only her beloved papa could have heard the dower promise and further promise of estates, castles, and ten thousand marks; such a great sum. Her head high, she processed into the Nave for her wedding mass.

After the ceremony was over, while kneeling on an exquisitely embroidered cloth, from the corner of her eye she glimpsed Uncle William, Bishop Elect of Valence, smiling at her from the side, pleased as a hawk that had just made a kill.

During the feast that followed, Ailenor sat beside Henry, delighting in every moment of his obvious adoration. From his spoon she sampled frumenty of hulled wheat and milk of almonds with a little venison and saffron, tiny morsels of duckling, crayfish set in jelly, salmon from the river, capon in lemon, carp from the Archbishop’s own fishponds, roast swan, a minute portion of pasty of young hare and peacock, minced kid, blankmanger of mince with cream and almonds, parmesan pies gilded in a chequer pattern with banners of England and Provence set on top, wafers served with hippocras, fruit, a variety of hard cheeses Henry said were English and which tasted sharp, plus compote and custard tarts.

When the subtlety was placed before them, a tall castle of marchpane with windows of coloured sugar, turreted towers and a moat with a perfectly crafted ship in full sail upon it, Henry broke off a bit of silver marchpane from the tallest tower and, popping it into her mouth, whispered, ‘I wonder, can I make you happy?’

She swallowed the delicate sliver of marchpane and looked into his eyes. ‘My lord, you have raised me up. All I wish in the whole world is to please you.’

‘When we enter London, smile in this way, you will win the hearts of a difficult people.’

Ailenor’s smile turned into a frown. In Provence their people never questioned her father’s authority. This was not the way God intended people to behave. ‘Why are they difficult? You are their king. How foolish.’

‘The merchants overreach themselves, as do many of my barons.’ He lowered his voice. ‘They wish to control my power. They forget that a king is closer to God than they. But smile at them as you smile for me and you will win even the hardest of hearts.’

I shall smile. They shall know that I am their queen, she thought to herself, and they shall never disobey me either.

Princess Nell and Domina Willelma were approaching. Nell touched Ailenor’s sleeve. ‘It’s time,’ Nell said in a quiet voice.

Ailenor rose to her feet. Nell drew her up the staircase to her bedchamber that had been prepared for their wedding night.

They washed her hands and feet with rose water. They cleaned her perfect white teeth with a soft twig and gave her liquorice to sweeten her breath. As soon as her Domina slipped her shift over her shoulders, Nell took her hand, drew her towards the bed, and drew back the covers. Henry entered the chamber clad in a night robe embroidered with golden lions and acanthus tendrils. His favoured nobles stood by the door peering in. The Archbishop followed Henry into the bedchamber and solemnly proceeded to bless the marriage bed with prayer and a sprinkling of holy water. As if this throwing of water could make her marriage fruitful. She would be fertile because she wished it so.

She knelt beside Henry to say her prayers with him and they were put to bed.

After the chamber had emptied and they were left alone, Henry drew her close and buried his face in her hair.

‘Do I please you?’

‘My lord, I am the most fortunate of women.’ He did please her, and he smelled of musk and some exotic spice she could not identify. She forgot the drooping eye because she was used to it already. His body appeared firm and his breath smelled of cloves. He excited her.

‘We will not do this, not for some time, my sweet. Not until you are a woman. I would never wish to hurt you.’

‘But, my lord, I am ready. I love you. My duty is to bear you an heir.’

‘You are still a child. What would you know of love?’ He seemed amused.

‘I have read the poets, listened to their songs of love. As for the rest, I am a willing pupil,’ she said firmly.

‘Let us be companions first, get to know each other and, little by little, discover what follows.’

‘As you wish, sire.’

Was there a mistress? Could there be a boy? She had heard of such things.

He climbed down from her bed and left her after dropping a kiss on her forehead. Ailenor thought about him long past the midnight Angelus bells’ peals. She would bind him to her somehow. There would never be others.

London, January 1236

Ailenor stepped onto the blue ray cloth of silk spread out for her hu