The Silken Rose
Copyright © 2020 Carol McGrath
The right of Carol McGrath to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Headline Publishing Group
First published in paperback in 2020 by Headline Publishing Group
First published as an Ebook in Great Britain
by Headline Publishing Group in 2020
All characters – other than the obvious historical figures – in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 1 7861 5262 6
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About Carol McGrath
Praise for Carol McGrath
Also by Carol McGrath
About the Book
Dedication
Acknowledgements
The Family Tree
Les Heures Bénédictines
Arthur and Guinevere
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Author’s Note
About the Author
Carol McGrath taught History and English for many years in both the state and private sectors. She left teaching to work on a MA in Creative Writing from Queens University Belfast, then an MPhil in English at Royal Holloway, London, where she developed her expertise on the Middle Ages.
Praise for Carol McGrath:
‘Moving, and vastly informative, a real page turner of a historical novel.’ Fay Weldon
‘As delicately crafted as the stiches of the Bayeux Tapestry, The Swan-Daughter establishes Carol McGrath’s exceptional skill as a novelist of the Medieval era.’ Jenny Barden
‘Brings the 11th century alive . . . a wealth of well-researched detail.’ Historical Novel Society
‘A wise and lyrical evocation of the lives of women in the aftermath of the Norman Conquest, and high romance in the true sense of the word. A captivating read.’ Sarah Bower, author of The Needle in the Blood and The Book of Love
‘A beautifully woven tale of an exiled princess’s quest for happiness. Compelling and convincing, the medieval world is brought vividly to life.’ Charlotte Betts
‘An enthralling tale, told with elegance and sympathy.’ Vanora Bennett
‘The Betrothed Sister is like one of its own rich embroideries, cut from the cloth of history and stitched with strange and passionate lives.’ Emma Darwin
Also by Carol McGrath
Mistress Cromwell
Daughters of Hastings trilogy:
The Betrothed Sister
The Swan-Daughter
The Handfasted Wife
About the Book
THE SILKEN ROSE
Book 1 of THE SHE-WOLVES TRILOGY
Meet the she-wolf from Provence . . .
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?
For Elysium
Time passes and princesses grow up
Acknowledgements
An author may write a book but there is a group of talented people behind that author helping to bring it to you, the reader. I would like to thank the Headline Group for publishing The Silken Rose, in particular my publisher and editor at Headline, Eleanor Dryden, and Rosanna Hildyard, her assistant. My thanks also go to editors Greg Rees and Jay Dixon, who both worked on editing this novel.
My thanks also to my patient family, especially my husband, Patrick. His support is amazing. Thanks also to my critique group, Sue, Gail and Denise. Thank you to Dee Swift, one of my beta readers along with Sue and Denise. Thanks also to Katrin Lloyd, Liz, Charlotte, Mel and Theresa who read and commented on various chapters of this book’s first draft.
Importantly, I wish to thank you, my readers, because without you my books might never see the light of day.
Carol McGrath
Les Heures Bénédictines
Matins:
Between 2.30 and 3.00 in the morning
Lauds:
Between 5.00 and 6.00 in the morning
Prime:
Around 7.30 or shortly before daybreak
Terce:
9.00 in the morning
Sext:
Noon
Nones:
2.00 and 3.00 in the afternoon
Vespers:
Late afternoon
Compline:
Before 7.00 as soon after that the monks retire
Angelus Bells:
Midnight
Arthur and Guinevere
‘At the King’s arrival the town resounds with the joyous welcome which they give. Silken shifts are taken out and hung aloft as decorations, and they spread tapestries to walk on and draped the streets with them, while they wait for the King’s approach. . . And the lady came forth dressed in an imperial garb, a robe of fresh ermine, and upon her head she wore a diadem all ornamented with rubies. No cloud was upon her face but it was so full of joy that she was more beautiful, I think, than any goddess.’
Chretien de Troyes (d.1191), ‘The Knight of the Lion’
Project Gutenberg, Four Arthurian Romances.
1
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 weat
her 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 wi
ndow 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.