The Silken Rose Read online

  When Rosalind confided to Dame Mildred in the stillroom of the Paternoster Lane house about her suspicions of the de Basings’s involvement in the attack on her workshop, her stepmother had crossed herself and said, ‘Never speak of this. It would be your word against his. Adam de Basing is powerful. Best it’s forgotten until there is evidence of their involvement.’

  Rosalind shook her head. ‘I told you what Jonathan attempted on my person, and now it’s my workshop.’

  ‘You think he was responsible for the attack on your workshop. You can’t be certain.’

  ‘Jonathan almost deflowered me. He was violent.’

  ‘Yes, we understand that. De Basing has been terse with your Papa ever since. Jonathan, for his part, claims you tempted him. He says you are a witch who called upon a knight from Hell to knock him senseless that night.’

  ‘That knight was Thomas Beaumont, Earl Simon’s squire. Thomas can attest to that.’

  ‘We told them Earl Simon’s squire saved you.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Jonathan shrugged and claimed that you bewitched the squire as well.’

  ‘What a lie.’ She folded her arms and looked Mildred straight in the eye. ‘One day I am going to marry Thomas Beaumont, you’ll see.’

  Mildred had taken her hands, drawn her close and gently said, ‘Sweeting, I want your happiness but that young squire is well above your station in life.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ She’d shrugged. ‘Besides, I may join the Queen’s court. What will my station be then?’ She raised her brows in defiance.

  Mildred said, ‘I hope it is so and that your association with Queen Ailenor helps you discover true happiness.’

  ‘Papa was pleased to provide us with the new cloth.’

  ‘Yes, but Adam de Basing won’t like it,’ Mildred replied. It was during this conversation that she dropped an interesting snippet of information. ‘Did you know that the de Basings have announced the betrothal of Jonathan to Marigold Musgrave? That’ll be a strong alliance, Rosalind. King Henry’s grocer’s son and the Bishop of London’s grocer’s daughter.’

  Rosalind nearly dropped a jug of ale on Mildred’s feet. ‘I know Hubert Musgrave is the Bishop’s grocer. Good luck to poor Marigold and good riddance to Jonathan.’

  She would wait for Thomas. Earl Simon had been forgiven and permitted to return to England and was preparing for the Crusade, which had been long delayed. It was often the way with a crusade, delay after delay and then the year arrived and the crusaders were on their way. At long last it was to be May and once they set off for Jerusalem this spring, she might not see Thomas again for years.

  She wiped a tear from her eye but reasoned as they watched the Easter procession, if she accepted the Queen’s new offer, there would be safety for her as one of Queen Ailenor’s ladies. Perhaps, too, the Queen would, one day, set out on a crusade with the King. If she stayed at court with Queen Ailenor, she might go too.

  Rosalind picked up one of the tiny woven crosses strewn in the churchyard by the processing tradesmen. She let it rest in her hand. It was intricately woven, a lovely Easter token.

  Mildred reached over and touched the little cross. ‘We must light an Easter candle for Earl Richard. He is grieving for his wife. Lady Isabel was a good customer. Alfred said that you used to embroider her mantles when you were a slip of a girl.’

  Lady Isabel had taken ill with jaundice before the birth of her last child. Neither mother or child survived. Earl Richard, Mildred informed her, was so heart-broken his grief rumbled St Michel’s Mont far distant in Cornwall; his sorrow had flown on the wind all the way from Wallingford Castle. Dame Mildred may never have heard how Earl Richard had strayed from his marriage and Rosalind who had heard the gossip at Westminster would not speak of it. Let her think well of Richard. Relationships were complicated. She suspected Earl Richard regretted that he had not loved Lady Isabel enough, or that in his own way the Earl had loved Lady Isabel deeply. Perhaps his Crusade would be a form of atonement.

  Rosalind said, ‘It has been a terrible year. Queen Ailenor once said that my mother was an angel in Heaven watching me embroider. I hope Lady Isabel is an angel in Heaven watching over Earl Richard on his crusade and watching over their little Harry. I saw them last year at Westminster. She adored her boy.’ She murmured a short Pater Noster over the little straw cross.

  Eastertide was over. The Queen’s guard had arrived. Rosalind packed her small oaken chest and descended the rickety staircase from her attic room to bid Papa and Mildred farewell. She kissed baby Edwin’s head, sad to leave the quiet sanctuary of her old home and her family. This was to be another new beginning as the Queen’s lady.

  The street of burghers’ wives appeared by their gates to watch her depart. Rosalind swept along Paternoster Lane, her head high, with her lion- and gold-liveried escort helping her to avoid offal, carrying her chest for her. They began to wind their way through narrow streets to the river where the royal barge waited to whisk her back to Windsor, a journey that would take the greater part of the day.

  As they approached St Paul’s Church, she heard a trumpet sounding. A host of banners were flying against a blue spring sky. A multitude of huge red crosses on a white linen background jostled in the breeze. Fork-shaped pennants displaying various coats of arms were fluttering amongst the red dragons of England. She could hear cheers and cries of ‘Path to Heaven’, ‘Jerusalem, Jerusalem,’ and ‘Destruction to the infidel’ as they fell resounding from the ancient churchyard.

  She stopped. The guards urged her on.

  ‘I won’t be more than a moment.’ The escort set her chest down, wiping sweat from their brows with their sleeves while she edged through a crowd into the churchyard.

  On a platform, Earls Simon and Richard stood shoulder to shoulder clad in full chain mail, wearing white flowing sleeveless gowns with large red crosses stitched onto them. A host of knights, Templars, and priests surrounded them, as did their squires. The crowd of citizens pushing closer were working themselves up into a frenzy as the call to take the cross grew louder. It was delivered by Earl Richard himself. A restless squall gusted through a host of tangled pennants flying above the Crusaders but even so his voice carried over the wind.

  As her skirt blew up and she caught at it, she scanned the cheering throng until she saw Thomas. She elbowed forward, ignoring complaints. He loosened himself from the gathering of knights and squires and pushed his way towards her. ‘Rosalind, my love, I never dared hope to see you today.’

  She stared at his white tabard, at the blood red cross that almost covered it, at the bright passion in his blue eyes, wondering if it was for her or the cross. ‘Are you recruiting?’ she said simply.

  ‘We leave for France within the month. Delay after delay to raise funds and men, and then Lady Isabel’s death. Years of preparation - we are going at last.’ His eyes blazed like stars.

  She caught his arm. ‘Don’t go! No, go, I mean, but please, please come back safely.’ Tears sprang into her eyes blurring her vision. He could not change his mind, had he so wished. A squire always followed his knight. Thomas was enraptured at the thought of seeing Jerusalem. He was determined to fight heathens and she must wait for him. She slipped a cross on a silver chain over her head and pressed it into his hand. ‘Take it. This cross belonged to my mother. Think of me sometimes.’

  ‘Always,’ he said. ‘Every day until I return to you.’ He stared down at the silver cross. ‘My father died on crusade and my mother soon after of a broken heart but, my love, I shall return.’ He slid the cross and chain into his purse. ‘And, when I do, I shall return it to you, and silken threads.’

  ‘God bless you, my Thomas.’ She could not even imagine it: Jerusalem, the centre of the world. ‘How many knights have you raised?’

  ‘Forty-odd this week, and not enough.’

  One of the warrior priests cried out, ‘Kneel. Let us pray for God’s guidance.’

  ‘Go, go, go,’ she said, her
voice anguished, a lump rising in her throat. ‘Go with God’s grace and my heart in your keeping.’ She embraced him and turned away. Her escort was patiently waiting for her by the gate.

  17

  August 1240

  Ailenor trod the garden paths, Rosalind walking alongside reporting how the embroidery was progressing.

  ‘They are about to begin on the roses already,’ Rosalind said. ‘The four embroiderers working on it are determined to finish soon as they can.’

  ‘Are they content with the new arrangement?’

  ‘The chamber is huge and they are happy to be close to the embroidery at night, to watch over it.’

  ‘And your chamber. Is it comfortable? Sybil Gifford says it’s little more than a nun’s cell.’

  ‘It suits me well, Madam.’

  ‘When the hanging is completed we shall move the embroiderers back to the workshop at Westminster but you will remain with us, yes?’

  ‘Thank you. I am pleased to stay with you, Your Grace. Martha will supervise the embroidery workshop. Her apprenticeship ended last year.’ Ailenor noted Rosalind’s shining eyes and wondered if the girl had personal reasons to be at court, the attentions of a young courtier perhaps. She was surprised at the ease of persuasion. Rosalind had loved the workshop. Perhaps the break-in had frightened her more that she admitted.

  ‘Even so, it will always be your workshop. When we travel, you will share a chamber with my junior ladies, do you understand?’

  ‘Thank you. I do, Your Grace’

  ‘We shall speak again very soon.’

  Rosalind curtsied and hurried away back through the garden to the workshop inside the castle. Ailenor watched her speed through the hollyhocks and beds of herbs until she vanished through the arched door into the castle keep. She would still embroider. Rosalind would certainly embroider roses and stitch pearls on the sleeves and train of her churching gown. She touched her stomach. A daughter this time. I am sure of it.

  Ailenor passed her seclusion in Windsor much as she had done at Westminster. Because Simon and Richard had departed for the crusades, she requested a copy of a map of the world for her chamber so she could see the strange lands through which they were travelling. There was a painting of the great world on the wall of the King’s chamber at Westminster. She stared at it for ages, reading aloud the mysterious places it contained until Henry would call her away. When a copy arrived in her own chambers she was delighted because now she could examine it for as long as she wished.

  ‘Look,’ she said to Willelma after they’d unrolled the scroll and laid it out on a table. ‘There is Jason’s golden fleece by that sea.’

  ‘They call it the Black Sea, Madam.’

  She peered more closely at the map and squinted. ‘Is that the Minotaur of the Greeks close by Noah’s Ark? Look there.’ She traced the three continents shown on the map, Europe, Africa, and Asia. Her finger stopped at the very edge of Europe where the map led to Asia, where she could see the city of Constantinople and the Black Sea.

  Her ladies gathered around. ‘And Jerusalem is right in the centre of all, as it should be,’ Ailenor said, looking up with wonder in her voice. ‘I wonder, has Earl Richard reached the sea yet.’ She pointed to a blue patch on the map that stretched from Spain to the Holy Land. He set off in May so -’ Ailenor counted on her fingers, ‘if he left Paris in July, he should be in Provence by now. I sent letters with him for my mother and sisters. He promised to write before he sailed from Marseilles.’

  ‘He will carry news of your lying-in to Paris?’ Sybil Gifford, who once again would be her chief midwife, said.

  Ailenor was thoughtful for a moment. Marguerite had recently given birth to a daughter. A miracle indeed. She often wrote to Ailenor about how the White Queen wished her ill. Queen Blanche persistently separated the royal couple. She was a dominating, bitter woman who wanted the marriage annulled so she could choose a grander princess for him. Ailenor confided in her ladies that if she were Marguerite, she would find every way possible to make that scheming woman’s life miserable.

  ‘Difficult,’ Lady Mary said. ‘Her only hope is if the White Queen takes ill.’

  ‘Just to allow Louis and his queen to sleep in the same bed long enough for her to conceive,’ good-natured Sybil Gifford said.

  ‘If only she would disappear into a convent,’ sighed Ailenor as she folded Marguerite’s sad letter. It did not make her feel better for her beloved sister that she was about to give birth to a second child.

  Henry’s mother, Isabella of Lusignan, hated Queen Blanche with a vengeance. Isabella had been a beautiful queen. Since she had wed Count Hugh de Lusignan, she had been regarded by Blanche as a lesser queen, an ex-queen, and a disgrace for abandoning her own children by King John. Isabella, Henry loyally insisted, was his mother, too, and as the mother of a king, she should never, ever have to kneel to Blanche. They were equal in rank. It was unfortunate, he said, that John lost Poitou to France and his mother and Hugh owed Louis fealty.

  ‘I’ll get Poitou back one of these days,’ Henry would say.

  Ailenor looked away when Henry had such outbursts and changed the conversation. She did not want war with her sister. It would separate them for ever. Henry, Ailenor often tried to remind herself, after these tirades about his mother’s treatment by Queen Blanche, may be changeable but he was a great king, greater than Louis. She, Ailenor, would make sure that everyone knew it. She would never create misery in a daughter-in-law’s life. Edward would grow up in a loving family and when the time came, she would welcome Edward’s bride, whoever she was, into it.

  When Rosalind showed Ailenor a pair of new sleeve bands covered with little pearls and silver embroidery, Ailenor gave them a quick approving glance and drew her to the map. The girl stared at it with wonderment in her eyes. Ailenor watched Rosalind’s delight and fear as she peered down on Jerusalem.

  ‘Madam, the Holy City is as distant as Heaven. So many dangers, shipwrecks, and monsters lurk between here and there.’ She pointed to the monsters painted in the sea, the storms and giant fish.

  ‘They are not all real, Rosalind. Some are just stories.’

  She was sure she saw anxiety cross Rosalind’s countenance.

  ‘Do you have family on crusade?’ she asked. The girl was a puzzle. Sometimes she seemed older and wiser than her years and at others she was childlike. Rosalind thought the Gorgon with her tangled, snake hair to be real and that the monsters peering from the sea could overturn a vessel and gobble a sailor up for supper.

  ‘I have a friend who is on the earls’ crusade,’ Rosalind replied with diffidence. ‘Earl Simon’s squire has gone with him. He has been a good friend to me since the day you were crowned, Your Grace.’

  ‘Ah, his name is. . .?’

  ‘Thomas Beaumont.’

  Ailenor found a smile hover about her lips. So Rosalind was in love. It may even be the reason she had so easily accepted a position at court. ‘I am sure he will return safely to us. When we write to Earl Simon, I shall ask about him for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’

  ‘And I shall add the squire to my prayers.’

  ‘I pray for his safety every day,’ Rosalind said, her voice a whisper.

  Ailenor lifted the intricately decorated sleeves she would wear at her churching. ‘Rosalind, how can I thank you? This embroidery work is without price.’

  When the girl smiled she was beautiful. Her eyes shone like the sky on a clear day, her mouth widened, and her head lifted as if she was about to sing praise to Heaven. ‘I am happy to serve you, your Grace. That is thanks enough,’ she said.

  ‘And we are happy to have you with us.’

  Ailenor’s first daughter was born on a sunny September day. Henry stood by her bed whilst her women set about attending to the child, rubbing salt on her small limbs, placing a drop of wine in her mouth, and wrapping her gently in swaddling before laying her in a new wooden cradle carved with celandines, pansies, and roses.

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bsp; Henry kissed his wife and gave up his thanks to God as he knelt by her bedside.

  ‘We shall call her Margaret for your sister,’ he said, looking up from his prayer.

  She smiled at him. ‘Perhaps you had hoped for another boy.’

  ‘We have a boy. And, God willing, there will be others. This daughter is every bit as beautiful as her mother. Très belle, cherie. I love her as I do you. Now rest. You must get strong again.’

  Ailenor closed her eyes, glad to sleep, after Henry was swept from the chamber by Sybil Gifford. ‘The Queen simply needs rest. She is young and she is strong but she is exhausted. It was a difficult birth, Your Grace. God be praised for she has borne you a beautiful princess.’

  ‘I shall, indeed, recover and have more children,’ Ailenor whispered as she drifted into a pleasant sleep.

  Days passed pleasantly until she was churched in the beautiful gown embellished by the embroideress who was enthusiastically accepted by her company of ladies, for they were for ever asking her to embroider this sleeve or that.

  Ailenor could not resist spending hours with both her tiny daughter and little Edward, who toddled around on a pair of very long legs. She insisted the children were brought to her apartment daily. As Edward played, watched over by his nurse, Ailenor rested, longing for him to grow into a little boy. ‘And you, little Meg,’ she would say to her baby daughter, ‘one day, you will marry a king just like your mama, but not for many years yet. I want to keep you close for as long as I can.’

  Ailenor received letters from Nell, who now had two boys of her own and who had passed a pleasant month following the birth of her second son, little Simon, at Isabella’s castle in Lusignan. She had met her half-brothers and sisters at last. She wrote how they every bit as beautiful as her mother and as charming as Count Hugh, their father.