The Silken Rose Read online

  Blood was seeping through Ailenor’s sleeve. She laughed and said, ‘It’s only a scratch.’

  Henry peered at it. ‘Not a scratch. It’s deep.’

  Willelma and Mary dismounted their palfreys and hurried to Ailenor, the aging Willelma slower than Mary. Rosalind tried to dismount but her mare would not be still. It turned in circles with Rosalind trying to control it. The King examined the wound, trying to staunch the blood flow himself with a cloth. Bells rang out, resounding through the trees. Nonce already. ‘We shall continue to the Friary. I want the cut looked at by their herbalist.’ Henry held onto the Queen’s arm and peered down at the blood seeping into her sleeve, concern creasing his face and his eye drooping badly. He looked up again and said to the squire, ‘Help the Queen onto her palfrey, lad.’

  The King called for the hunt to stop and for the hawk to be captured and destroyed.

  ‘You, you, and you, turn about.’ He pointed to half the company crowded into the glade. ‘Return to the castle. The rest, come with me. I know the Friars.’ He looked at the two squires who were bagging the catch. ‘Leave that and find the wretched bird. Alain, go with them.’

  The sumpter cart turned back. Rosalind’s mare was calm at last but she was not sure what she was supposed to do now that Lady Mary and Lady Willelma were riding ahead with the King and Queen and a small band of nobles. In the chaos she’d been forgotten. She assumed she was meant to ride with them too and egged the mare on to follow Domina Willelma and Lady Mary. Mirabelle obeyed but the riders were trotting so fast she couldn’t keep up. There were trees everywhere and now she was frightened a branch would leap out like a serpent and catch her. She reined Mirabelle to a walk. By the time she reached a fork in the trees she couldn’t see them. She could hear the distant jingle of bells and the clatter of hoofs. But which way had they gone?

  For a few moments she rode along the left track until beech trees seemed to close in on her. Soon the trail vanished. She would have to turn back and take the other fork. By now the forest had become so dense with holly, brambles and strangely shaped coppiced trees she made a decision. She dragged her leg around and over the pommel and awkwardly slid off Mirabelle’s back. It was best to lead the horse. At first, her legs felt wobbly but she wasn’t afraid of the palfrey anymore. It was the shadows amongst the trees that scared her witless. She couldn’t hear the royal party at all, nor could she hear the Friary bell because it had stopped ringing.

  Moments later, retracing her way, she discovered the second path and took it. She had not been leading Mirabelle for long when she came to a stream. Her palfrey bent her neck and began to drink. Rosalind waited for Mirabelle to quench her thirst, wondering if this was the correct path to the abbey as the trees seemed so gnarled and ancient, when of a sudden something swooped out of the tall trees. Fast as a small siege missile, a stone hurled, the sparrow-hawk dropped onto her arm. She remained standing very still. The bird’s broken strap trailed down to the forest floor, its leather pleats unravelling. She knew she must not terrify the creature. Mirabelle raised her long neck from the water and gave the hawk a wary look.

  ‘’Tis fine, Mirabelle,’ Rosalind spoke softly. ‘The hawk knows me.’ She turned to the sparrow-hawk, no longer afraid of it. Touching the velvety brown creature, she said, ‘You do, don’t you?’

  The sparrow-hawk surveyed her through tiny jet-black beady eyes. She softly stroked its head and took hold of the creature’s jesses with her other hand. If she returned the hawk to Queen Ailenor they would kill it, a cruel fate for such an intelligent, beautiful creature.

  Voices travelled along the trackway. Horses trotting through the woodland! Anxious as they came closer, their hoofs scudding the earth, she glanced towards the pathway, wondering should she release the bird.

  ‘There it is.’ A horse came bursting through the trees, its rider shouting gleefully.

  ‘What, by the cross!’ called the second rider, waving a net from a pole.

  Petrified, frozen by fear, Rosalind remained still. Mirabelle raised her head and whinnied at the approaching horses as if in protest. A moment later, three squires had surrounded her. Alain Froissart and another leapt off their mounts and tossed their poles on the ground. Rosalind tried to hold onto the sparrow-hawk. Finding her voice, she spoke gently to it. ‘Don’t be afraid, I won’t let them hurt you.’

  ‘By all that’s holy, she is a witch indeed. What is this, crooning to that beast of a hawk,’ snarled Alain Froissart, who led the pack. ‘I believe she commanded the hawk so it scratched our Queen. She has called her creature back to her.’

  ‘What are you doing here, girl? Why are you not with the Queen at the Friary?’ his companion demanded.

  ‘I lost my way. They were riding so fast. The hawk knows me. When I am in the Queen’s chamber I feed her titbits. She’s not my creature. She’s a sparrow hawk that’s frightened. Come no closer.’

  ‘A likely story.’ Alain pointed at Rosalind. ‘What witchery is this?’ he hissed through his teeth. ‘Low blood always outs.’

  ‘Who is she? You know her?’ said the second youth. The third just looked down at her haughtily from his mount.

  ‘The palace embroideress. I’ve heard she deals in the dark arts. Embroiders forbidden things, secrets I hear. Claims she’s afraid of horses.’

  Rosalind backed away as the three squires came closer, one turning his horse’s head in a threatening manner. Focused on the bird, he raised his net. The hawk spread her wings and began to flap them wildly as if to take off in flight.

  ‘I said, don’t frighten her.’

  Alain laughed. Rosalind stepped closer to the stream. She turned her back on the squires and let go the hawk’s jesses.

  ‘Fly to safety,’ she commanded.

  As the hawk rose up, dived down and flew up again, Mirabelle galloped off along the track.

  ‘The horse is frightened of her,’ said the mounted squire, laughing.

  ‘Enchantress,’ Alain spat at Rosalind. ‘You’ll come with us back to the castle and explain yourself. Get up behind Simon there.’ He reached up and prodded Simon in the back with his net. ‘Eric, help me get the girl up. I’ll catch the palfrey. You stay with Simon.’

  Before Rosalind could protest, she was seized roughly from behind by two pairs of hands, lifted off the ground and placed behind Simon. ‘Hold onto him and none of your spells either, if you wish to live that is.’ Alain spat on the ground and hurried off in pursuit of the palfrey. Moments later he returned, leading Mirabelle back by her expensive, jewel-studded reins.

  Rosalind said, ‘I can ride her now.’

  ‘I think not, my lady,’ replied Alain.

  ‘The Queen will have much to say to you for this,’ Rosalind protested. Tears sprang up and threatened to spill. She blinked them back. Queen Ailenor would not countenance this treatment.

  ‘We have much to say to the Queen,’ Alain said. After that there was no further speech as they rode towards Marlborough, no noise apart from the rustling forest, horses’ snorts and the metal of their hoofs striking the packed earth.

  Some days earlier, a newcomer to the summer court, a Dominican friar named Alphonse, had arrived. He was hunched over, black-cloaked and white-gowned, and flapped his way through the castle Hall, swooping forward like a buzzard. The friar had blown into Westminster some months previously from Languedoc where the Black Friars had dealt with the heretics, calling them sorcerers. It was their remit to root out heresy wherever they could discover it. This one had walked west to attach himself to their court at Marlborough.

  To Ailenor’s irritation, the Friar, a malevolent presence, drew her devout husband into his dark company. He dampened her gaiety from the moment he appeared in their Hall. She had felt him frowning when, some days previously, she suggested taking parts for a play about the unfortunate lovers, Tristan and Iseult and, in particular on the day she’d decided to put the question was it a women’s right to keep her own property after marriage to discussion in the garden one
afternoon. Henry, on the other hand, liked the Friars’ consideration for the poor and refused to turn the obsessive away. She disliked the way he moved now, as if he had an evil purpose in mind. She was sure it concerned her embroideress.

  Within a day of the hunt, talk had spread throughout the castle suggesting that her embroideress had bewitched her sparrow-hawk. Rosalind returned from the hunt accompanied by three of Henry’s squires badly shaken. At the time, Ailenor, whose wound was of little account to her, felt grave concern for Rosalind as she would for all of her ladies.

  She ordered a posset for the girl and asked Willelma to watch over her. Yet, it was odd, because since the incident, Rosalind had not broken her fast nor had she left her chamber. Ailenor did not know what to do to persuade her to eat and speak. She wondered if Rosalind had heard the gossip. Something, she said gravely to Willelma, must be done to allay the cruel rumours that were whispered amongst the castle servants. She suspected Friar Alphonse was involved.

  So when Friar Alphonse reached the dais that morning, Ailenor stared angrily at him, at his hooked nose, piercing blue eyes and long sallow face and felt disgust. Her eyes fell on his jewelled ring and fine woollen cloak. He did not look impoverished. Nor did he strike her as humble. He stared back at her before bowing low, his countenance immoveable.

  He jerked up his head and said, ‘Your Graces, may I speak privately about a matter concerning the embroiderer, Rosalind?’

  Ailenor rose without speaking and raised her hand to her ladies to follow her. Henry lifted one of his hands to stay Alain Froissart as his squire began to moved forward, ready to follow his master. Opening a door, Ailenor, the King, her ladies and the Friar entered the sunlit chamber behind the Hall.

  Henry took his velvet-covered chair, arranged his mantle to flow gracefully over the sides, and only then did he acknowledge the Friar who hovered by the window. ‘Explain why you have disturbed our dinner.’

  ‘The hunt.’ The Friar was hesitating. Henry raised his brow. Ailenor was seated calmly on her chair but now she, too, looked quizzically at Friar Alphonse, though she, forewarned by gossip, had an inkling of his business.

  ‘What about it?’ Henry folded his hands and studied the friar.

  ‘The Queen’s hawk was enchanted by that girl. I heard her mother belonged to the sects, the heretics in France, Sire. As you know. . .’

  ‘I know of the story you bring me. It’s the talk of the court, thanks to loose tongues and speculation. Pah, it’s not proven her mother was a heretic. If it were, it does not make the Queen’s lady a sorceress. She attends service daily with the Queen and her ladies.’

  ‘That may be so. Such creatures are sly. I wish to question her. Cathars deny the sacrament. . .’

  ‘These are false accusations. Her mother was French and is long dead. Her father has remarried,’ Ailenor interjected. ‘I know my ladies’ history. You do not need to question her or me as to whom I chose as my attendants, Friar.’

  ‘If she is innocent she will pass my questioning.’

  Henry opened his hands. If she was innocent it would out, he said, though he had no doubt of her innocence.

  He finished by saying, to Ailenor’s horror, ‘I shall consider this matter. Thank you for bringing it to our attention. That will be all for now. You may leave us.’

  Ailenor turned to Henry after the Friar gathered his cloak about him and left the chamber. ‘They cannot accuse her. This is nonsense.’

  A plate of wafers sat between them untouched. Henry reached over and poured cups of crimson wine.

  ‘Ailenor, let me worry about the girl.’

  Ailenor sat her wine cup on the table. It tasted sour. She glanced over at the window seat where her ladies sat with downcast eyes sewing. Lady Margaret seemed tense. Ailenor considered the empty perch beside the window.

  ‘Henry, my hawk was not bewitched.’

  ‘Where is your lady now?’

  ‘Rosalind is resting. Your squires frightened her. All this talk of Cathars, witchcraft, and sorcery.’ She leaned towards Henry. ‘No wonder she is distressed. How could you agree to Alphonse’s questions? It will destroy her. I don’t want her accused of anything. Alain Froissart’s head is full of the Inquisition, and all from his father. For some peculiar reason, he has spread untruths about Rosalind and spoken to Alphonse. Question your squire, my lord.’

  ‘Maybe so. But, do remember, heretics don’t adhere to the teachings of the Church. They believe in an evil God.’

  ‘And a good God in Heaven. Nor do Jews adhere to our faith. You are happy enough to borrow money from Jews.’ She could not resist this stab at Henry, though she too borrowed from the Jews.

  ‘I simply confiscate their wealth. That is different.’ Henry’s lower lid was drooping and that was a warning sign. He was not getting away with this attack on her lady.

  ‘You should banish the Jews from the Kingdom, if they really do offend you.’

  Sand sifted through the glass clock on the table. Henry lifted her arm and studied her bandaged arm. ‘This occurred.’

  ‘It is healing. The monks applied comfrey and honey.’

  ‘Maybe so; perhaps the girl meant no ill.’ Henry’s anger had reduced but not entirely dissipated. He would treat with her now.

  ‘Rosalind was on her horse and nowhere near the hawk when it happened.’

  ‘But if her mother was a Cathar and a sorceress, or whatever the squire claims, it’s possible the girl inherited traits. Her embroidery is too perfect. Maybe it’s bewitched.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Henry. How can embroidery contain spells? I will not have her questioned.’

  Henry rose and sighed. ‘My dear, I hope you are right. As she’s your lady, I shall leave you to decide what to do. If you cannot find a solution, this talk will touch you too. If that happens I shall have to let Friar Alphonse question her. . . and you.’

  ‘That will not be necessary.’

  ‘You could ask the nuns to examine her for witch marks. Otherwise. . .’

  ‘What? What are you suggesting?’ For a moment Ailenor recollected the witch marks carved into the bench in the workshop and had to repress a shiver.

  Henry continued, ‘Alphonse knows all about these heretics. You do not. You, Ailenor, must not be tainted with heresy. Many could whisper you are. They don’t like foreigners at court. Your people. Queen’s men. . . whom they call our Savoyards.’

  ‘I shall speak with her, Henry, but remember that you are a king. A king cannot be ruled by his subjects. You are appointed by God to rule, not by your subjects.’

  ‘Ah, lesson observed. You have a week to get that girl away from here back to her people, Ailenor.’

  Henry hurried from the chamber angry-faced, slamming the door closed. Ailenor’s ladies looked startled, their sewing dropping onto the floor tiles. She waited for a few moments listening to him stomping into the Hall. After his steps faded, she turned to Willelma’s shocked face. ‘You cannot believe this nonsense.’

  ‘I do not, but others will.’

  Lady Mary said, ‘Rosalind will not eat nor drink.’

  ‘I can’t subject her to questioning. I cannot.’

  ‘If she is willing,’ Lady Mary said quietly, ‘it would be safer for her to enter a convent. The sooner she disappears from court, the safer she will be, and, in time, she’ll be forgotten. Talk will fade.’

  ‘Where do you suggest?’

  ‘The Convent of St Helena. Are not the nuns of St Helena stitching a bishop’s cope? They are a small convent and open-minded, respected Benedictines. They teach embroidery. Rosalind will prove herself a true Christian if she joins them. She must not return to her father. Tales will follow her there.’

  ‘Bring me parchment and pen, Willelma. And my writing desk. She may not need to take vows. They can use her skills. Who knows, she may enjoy Church embroidery. I’ll miss her, for I’ve found her company pleasant.’ Ailenor paced thinking quickly. ‘With a fast messenger and an inducement, a gift of a relic, we
can send her to the nuns within the week, assuming she agrees.’

  As Willelma hurried to find both writing desk and ink, Ailenor said to Lady Mary. ‘Walk with Rosalind in the garden. We have a solution, tell her, but she must eat before we explain it. Speak to none, no maids, nor to any of the servants. For now, Rosalind must remain secluded.’

  ‘She is too frightened to not remain hidden.’

  ‘Poor girl,’ Ailenor said, taking up her pen. ‘We must get her away. We must.’ Ailenor bit her lip as she wrote. She should never have brought Rosalind away from the other embroiderers, but then, she rationalised, this evil could have attached itself to her anywhere and at least with her close she could offer protection. Could the de Basings be behind it all?

  A response from Prioress Elizabeth arrived by messenger. The Queen summoned Rosalind to her antechamber. She asked her embroideress to be seated on a cushioned bench by her own chair. Rosalind was thin and her appearance neglected; her eyes were red from weeping and her face pinched and pale. Her fine linen gown hung loose looking as dejected as Rosalind herself.

  ‘Rosalind, how are you? Not well, I suspect.’

  Rosalind clasped her hands together. ‘Your Grace, it’s untrue, all of it. I don’t know why it has happened, why anyone could or would accuse me of witchcraft? I am confused. I am frightened. I don’t know what will become of me.’ She twisted her hands, anxiously rubbing at her gown.

  Ailenor said quietly, ‘I am so very sorry for it. This misery should never touch one such as you. But I have to ask. Did you enchant my hawk?’

  ‘The squire lied. I’m no witch, Your Grace.’

  Ailenor, by now, thoroughly disliked Henry’s squire. The week had been painful for her. She had publicly attended every Mass, three times daily like Henry, praying for calm and for the Madonna’s guidance. Braving Friar Alphonse’s scrutiny, she insisted that likewise Rosalind attended Mass accompanied by Lady Mary and two loyal maidservants. She observed the extent of Rosalind’s unhappiness for herself and promised herself that once Rosalind was safe, she’d persuade Henry to send Squire Alain to one of their Border barons for the rest of his training, to the de Bohuns. They would not be easy on him. They were harsh men.