The Silken Rose Read online

  ‘You will wear these garments again and again in varying ways, long and flowing or belted and just touching your ankles. Whatever way you choose, you will look elegant - as a princess soon to be Queen of Scotland must.’

  Margaret allowed the material to slip through her fingers. ‘It reminds me of how a lady of Rome in ancient times might appear, quaint like the name!’

  As they laughed together, for a moment something rattled the window panes startling them. As a shadowy, dark crow tumbled past the glass to the ground, Ailenor felt a presentiment. What if Margaret was unhappy in Scotland? What if she were treated badly by the Scottish lords? She picked up the slippery fabric and trailed her hand over its smooth silkiness, seeking comfort. If that happened, Henry must send an army to fetch their precious daughter home.

  The royal cavalcade wound its way up the old North Road towards York, Margaret riding on a gentle brown mare between Henry and Ailenor. She was wrapped in a soft but warm woollen travelling cape, and wore comfortable furred gloves and boots. Ailenor and Henry tried to be cheerful but, even so, they could not help sharing sadness at the coming parting. The grandeur of the procession compensated. Along the route the people cheered for them. Ailenor remembered her miserable waterlogged procession from Dover to Canterbury many years before and was glad for Margaret, for the December weather was mild and it did not rain. A hundred knights gleaming with gold and silver, jewels glittering from silk and velvet, accompanied them. It was a stately procession with Henry generously distributing alms as they passed through towns.

  Ailenor drew the children around her. In the privacy of the chambers they occupied, in whichever monastery or city, she read stories of Scotland and the North. She discovered tales of giants, fairy folk, magic, and adventure. The Gododdin was her favourite and even Edward, his cousin, Harry, and Nell’s children, also cousins, joined them to hear it told. This long poem about a battle lasted for days.

  Ailenor explained that the Gododdin, a tribe at the time of the Romans, held territories in Northumberland, beyond York, which was their destination. The story originated in Wales but no matter; the location was magically in the north. A force of three hundred warriors assembled from Pictland to drive enemies from Scotland. Their king permitted his warriors a whole year of feasting in Edinburgh before they attacked north Yorkshire. Their heroes fought for glory and to the children’s delight, the valiant King Arthur was present at their battles. The book Ailenor read from was one she had commissioned especially for Margaret. She said, ‘It was originally written in Welsh but I asked a scribe to translate it into French so you can read it. Tis a gift for you to bring to your new land so they do not think you ignorant of their history.’

  ‘Not if it was written in Wales,’ Margaret pertly said. ‘I shall treasure it always, Mama. I’ll think of you every time I read it.’ She touched an illustration of a warrior clad in mail very like her own Papa’s best suit of chainmail, the one he had worn to Wales when he recently took homage at Woodstock from the Welsh princes. She peered at the French writing and listened closely as her mother read:

  ‘Gododdin, I make claim on thy behalf

  In the presence of the throng boldly in the court

  Since the gentle one, the wall of battle, was slain

  Since the earth covered Aneurin

  Poetry is now parted from the Gododdin.’

  ‘So sad for a kingdom to lose their poetry,’ remarked Margaret.

  ‘Poetry is what makes us civilised. That and our love of God. Always remember this, my sweet.’

  ‘Were they Christians?’ Edward said, his long legs nonchalantly stretched out towards the blazing monastery fire.

  ‘The poem says they had altars and did penance, but their enemies were heathens.’

  ‘See,’ said Edward. He unfolded his legs, stood to his full height and squinting over his mother’s shoulder at the text, remarked, ‘It says he fed ravens on the rampart of a fortress, though he was no Arthur.’ He read, ‘Amongst the powerful ones in battle, Gwawrddur was a palisade.’ He returned to the fire, saying, ‘I shall be a leader like this hero, Gwawrddur, or Arthur perhaps, and fight with Uncle Simon in Gascony. He will make the rebel lords obey me.’ Hal, Simon’s son, glanced away. Ailenor knew Hal wanted desperately to squire in Gascony with his father.

  ‘We must all fight for Uncle Simon,’ said Harry, Richard’s boy, looking fiercely from Hal to Edward.

  ‘My husband Alexander will be a warrior too,’ Margaret declared fiercely.

  ‘As long as they decide not to do battle with each other.’ Ailenor carefully closed the book. ‘That would never do.’ She turned to Edward. ‘I don’t want to hear another word of Gascony from you. You are still a boy.’

  Edward too often talked of fighting and of his territory of Gascony. He admired the older boys, Hal and Harry, who were almost of an age to squire. Ailenor hoped it would not be too soon. Next, Edward would be betrothed. And to whom? She puzzled at this often, now that Margaret was to be wed.

  After the wedding ceremony, with a heavy heart Ailenor watched Margaret ride from York. She looked minute as she rode beside little Alexander, but Margaret seemed happy with her husband. She would surely be well and safe. After all, she had Maria de Cantelope, a widow and trusted lady-in-waiting, to watch over her. A long train of sumptuary carts followed her, filled with gowns exquisitely embroidered by Rosalind as well as expensive tapestries, linens and silver tableware.

  Ailenor slept well, comforted by the thought that Alexander and Margaret were too young to consummate the wedding. They would have time to get to know each other. Ailenor recollected how impatient she had been, but she and Henry had taken their time. Ailenor studied her husband’s countenance with affection and hoped Margaret would come to love Alexander as she did Henry.

  After Margaret and Alexander departed for Edinburgh, a storm blew in from the North Sea. Skies darkened. Joy fled. The storm hung about for two long days and nights whilst Ailenor prayed daily for her daughter’s safety on her journey north. She remembered the crow that had knocked against the window in Windsor months before and shuddered. The sinister omen had not been forgotten.

  The Court continued to celebrate in York. Ailenor sat beside Nell throughout the feasting between Christmas and Epiphany, glad of her sister-in-law’s company. They had not seen each other since the Christmas Simon had returned to Gascony to put down the rebellion. It was a rebellion that was proving impossible to quash. Nell said Simon was constantly besieging castles, assiduous in his insistence on oaths of loyalty from the lords he had punished. If they were slow to obey, he imprisoned them and demanded ransoms.

  ‘Do you think perhaps Simon is too uncompromising?’ Ailenor said at the Epiphany feast.

  ‘I think he hopes to keep Gascony loyal to Henry. He hasn’t enough money to pay his troops and recruit more.’ She looked resentful. ‘We are in debt again to the Italians because of Gascony.’ Nell shrugged. ‘Now Hal wants to join his father as a squire.’

  ‘Will he?’

  ‘Not yet. I won’t countenance it.’

  ‘Why don’t you permit Hal and young Simon to join Edward’s court? They can train with him.’ It was not the first time Ailenor had made this suggestion. They already had care of Harry, Richard’s son by Isabel, who was to begin his training as a squire at Windsor that year. It was safer than being thrown into combat too soon.

  Ailenor glanced over at the table where Nell’s two older boys sat with Edward and Harry. They were a lively company of boys and bonded as such on the journey to York. She said, ‘They are all growing up so fast.’

  Nell said, ‘My sons are studying with Bishop Grosseteste in Lincoln. They seem content. Perhaps next year they can join Edward’s court at Windsor.’

  Ailenor lifted a spoonful of lampreys in a lemon sauce. ‘I shall pray for you and Simon. There is no better leader than the Earl. He will achieve peace in Gascony.’

  ‘Amen, Ailenor,’ Nell said. ‘I pray so too.’

  32<
br />
  Rosalind

  Gascony, 1252

  Rosalind glanced up from the tunic she was embroidering for Nicholas. ‘Must you return to Gascony, Thomas? We’ve been so happy since we came home.’ Thomas looked away, clearly unable to face her disappointment. The family were lodging with her father and Dame Mildred at Alfred’s new house in St Martin’s Lane. She enjoyed its private, south-facing courtyard, and liked to visit the barn-like busy workshop on the far side of it. The merchant house was far grander than the house Rosalind had grown up in, though Papa still retained the creaking old house in Paternoster Lane as a home for his journeyman’s family.

  Although Alfred was approaching fifty years his eyesight was as keen as ever. Mildred’s haberdashery trade was a successful addition to Alfred’s tailoring concern, so much so she was able to employ two extra apprentices and several embroiderers of her own. Their two boys had grown quickly, too soon, mused Rosalind looking at her own children. At nine and ten years of age respectively, her half-brothers were already apprenticed to become tailors themselves. One day they would inherit one of the best businesses in the City.

  Thomas was at her elbow in the garden adjoining the courtyard behind a large kitchen. He had just come from a meeting with Earl Simon at the Bishop’s palace on the river. ‘Rosalind, my love, I have to go to Gascony again. There’s trouble there again. I owe Earl Simon loyalty.’ He glanced down at his sleeping daughter, a little girl they called Eleanor in honour of Earl Simon’s Nell. ‘And fealty.’

  She swallowed back tears. She was with child again and more than usually emotional. Biting her lip, she said, ‘Let us pray you are back soon.’ She would miss Thomas. He was her rock and she could not imagine her life without him.

  ‘Stay here where you have good people to care for you,’ he said, taking her hands. ‘Until the baby is born.’

  She nodded. This time she was not returning to the troubled province. Being with Mildred and Papa was a fair compromise. She loved the City. She enjoyed the bustle and the opportunity to visit the Westminster workshop as she had when she had come to stitch Princess Margaret’s wedding trousseau. ‘I think I should, if they will have me.’

  ‘Of course they will,’ Thomas said. ‘Our steward will look after the manor.’

  Winter was a quiet time on their estate. In recent years they had enjoyed warm summers and mild winters with rain and sunshine at the right times. Their estate had prospered before whilst they had been in Gascony with Earl Simon. Hopefully, it would continue to yield good harvests with Thomas away from England once again.

  Alfred and Mildred were pleased with the arrangement. Their house was spacious, with five bedchambers, and there was room for all of them. By now Papa was an alderman, known and respected in the City. He sat at the top table at Guild feasts held on saints’ days, was called upon to judge internal Guild disputes and he donated generously to their parish of St Martin. After Thomas took his leave and crossed the Narrow Sea, Rosalind’s days passed pleasantly helping Mildred in the still room, with the haberdashery and embroidering for Alfred’s business.

  Because Rosalind had been favoured by Queen Ailenor and had proved her innocence of any heretical leanings, no one dared to challenge her again. The grocer, Adam de Basing, and his son had avoided her family since. Even so, Alfred warned her never to go out without the faithful Master Gruff by her side, saying, ‘There’s unrest in the streets. There’s bad feeling rising amongst City traders against King Henry. His daughter’s wedding was extravagant. He is now talking about a crusade. All talk. I’ll wager he’ll spend the money he’s collecting on his great abbey at Westminster or pour it into Gascony.’

  ‘Ah, I suppose I must understand how the people feel,’ Rosalind said, though in her heart her loyalty to Queen Ailenor had never faded. ‘Is it true the King asked the merchants to pay for Princess Margaret’s wedding? Surely the traders are wealthy enough. You contributed fabrics, suits for nobility, sourced quintise for Princess Margaret’s gowns at your own expense.’

  ‘But, Rosalind, it really was too much. It almost bankrupted us. I could afford it, just. When the grocers, ironmongers, fishmongers, chandlers, and the rest refused a tax levy on top of gifts, King Henry thought up such a nasty revengeful scheme.’ He grunted as if in pain. Rosalind reached out to him and caught his arm fearful he might have a seizure. Alfred ignored her and continued his complaint. ‘He established a fair at Westminster that went on for a fortnight. If any London shops opened during that period they were fined. Either traders lost two weeks’ business or they paid his tax.’

  ‘Did they pay the tax?’ she said, knowing it was harsh.

  ‘No, they thought it cheaper to lose business.’ Alfred shook his head. ‘Ah well, he’s a weak king but at least he’s a loyal husband and a good father. His son, people hope, will make a better king. Henry won’t rule for ever. Even so, the King must take care. Londoners will not put up with his taxes. If there’s a prolonged war in Gascony, they won’t support it either.’ He put his hand over hers. ‘If I were you, I’d avoid seeing Queen Ailenor for now. I have gathered from Guild chatter the King is unhappy with Earl Simon. This could become an issue of loyalty for you and Thomas. You helped Queen Ailenor with the Princess’s wardrobe. You are with child, and if she does not know you are in the City, she will not send for you.’

  Rosalind recognised wisdom in her father’s words. Much as she longed to visit the Queen’s ladies, some of whom she considered her friends; much as she loved the workshop in the palace courtyard, she resisted the temptation to visit Westminster. She continued to busy herself with Dame Mildred in the buttery making cheeses, in the pleasant still room with herbs, and on embroidery in her solar.

  Before she knew it, the new baby quickened. She grew more careful of her diet and although winter was mild, the spring that followed was chill. She kept out of the wind and rain. She remained calm as she baked, stitched, and looked after her children.

  A day came when she did leave the house to purchase rennet for cheese-making, taking her two little boys with her for company. The dairy was only a short distance away so there was no need to ask Gruff or one of the maids to accompany her. A mistake, because that was the very day she tumbled into Jonathan de Basing. It was, she realised later, an inevitable event, given they both dwelled in the same section of the City. She tried to push past the merchant’s son who over the years had grown larger. His girth looked like an enormous blown-up pig bladder children kicked around. He refused to give her passage and stood, legs akimbo, wide as a church door, blocking the lane. She stared him out and did not retort when he looked greedily at her russet velvet cloak and remarked in his squeaking voice, ‘Lady Rosalind, you are well-wed, I see.’ He glanced down at her boys. ‘Children, too. So, by St Jerome’s balls, you condescend to leave your estates and visit us humble merchants?’ He sneered at her two small lads. ‘Little lords.’ She continued to stare straight at him without losing her temper. His face was pock-marked. Jonathan de Basing certainly had not aged well.

  Clutching her sons’ hands tightly, she said quietly, ‘I have nothing to say to you, Jonathan de Basing. I am about my own business.’

  At that, he moved aside and she pulled her boys past him as he called after her, ‘De Montfort will come to no good end. I have it on reliable authority. Your knight will die in Gascony with his master.’

  She momentarily glanced back, her face furious, and hurried on, the bag containing the rennet swinging from her shoulder. She clutched her two shocked boys’ hands tightly in her own and after what seemed an age at last gained the gate of her father’s house. Her breath caught as she let go their hands and ordered the children not to move from her side. On her frantic knocking, the gatekeeper slid back his peephole. He hastily opened up. As Rosalind pushed the boys into the courtyard, bells from nearby St Martin’s rang out the midday Angelus so loudly her ears tingled. She shook her head when her older boy began to ask who the stranger was.

  ‘No one we want to know. G
o and see if Cook has gingerbread for you.’

  The little lads ran off gladly. She drew in a long deep breath, glad to be safely inside her father’s gates. For a moment she leaned against the wall before entering the dairy. What had Jonathan meant about Earl Simon? She shook her head. If all was amiss, Thomas would send her word soon. In his last letter to her, he said they were besieging Castle Castilian.

  After that April afternoon Rosalind made sure she was accompanied by both Jane and Gruff every time they exited their tall wooden gate into St Martin’s Lane. Occasionally when she’d see shadows she often wondered if Jonathan watched her and still sought revenge. She prayed daily before the statue to the Virgin in St Martin’s that Jonathan de Basing would leave her alone and that Thomas would return to her before the baby was born.

  It was past midnight. The knocking on the gate, though not loud, was persistent. It awakened Rosalind because her chamber was to the front of the house, up on the third floor, and she wondered who could demand entry at this time of night, unless they had news? She climbed down from her bed, feeling cumbersome because she was in her seventh month. She opened the shutters and peered into the courtyard. Starlight was not as clear in the City as it was in the country. She could just make out the cloaked figure crossing from the gate towards the house. The cloaked person approached the front door leading into the great hall where they ate and servants slept; by his walk, she realised who it was. She pulled a mantle over her nightgown, and lifting the chamber latch quietly so as not to waken her maid and children sleeping on pallets by the great bed, she climbed down two narrow staircases into the hall. Servants slept in alcoves about the hall. Thankfully, no one stirred as she hurried to the great front door. But Papa was there before her, pulling bolts back just as she reached the porch area.

  Thomas fell into the porch through the door. He was wrapped in an enormous cloak and clutched a bundle.

  ‘Thomas,’ she said softly. She hugged her husband hard. ‘You’ve returned.’