The Silken Rose Read online

  Rosalind shifted on the widow seat, her face colouring. ‘My father wishes me betrothed to Adam de Basing’s son, Jonathan.’

  ‘Do you mean the royal grocer who appoints tailors and dressmakers and buys spices and other goods for us? A good marriage. Your families would be matched in wealth.’

  ‘My father believes so.’ Rosalind dipped her head. She looked tearful.

  ‘You don’t wish to marry his son.’

  Rosalind shook her head. ‘I fear Jonathan’s mother. And I’ve seen him kick dogs in the street for no reason. He is cruel.’

  ‘Ah, is there another?’ Ailenor said, clapping her hands, and almost but not entirely regretted her words.

  The girl shook her head.

  Ailenor was about to question her further, but instead she said, ‘I can keep you very busy. My ladies need instruction in English embroidery. Could you attend me here once a week, well, maybe until we set off on our summer progress? Perhaps on a Monday?’

  Rosalind brightened. ‘I have hoped for this all winter. I have thought about it. But it is a distance from St Paul’s steps to the Tower. My father would have concerns.’

  ‘I’ll send a boat for you and an escort. We shall pay you well.’ She smiled to herself, recollecting her embarrassment over payment on the previous occasion Rosalind had come to her. On her birthday, Henry had settled an allowance on Ailenor as well as giving her a Master of the Wardrobe to organise her household and to her delight, she owned several river vessels and a larger merchant ship which would bring her goods from France. ‘I’ll speak to your father today if you’re agreeable.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’

  ‘And I’ll ask him to delay your betrothal for a year. Master Alfred cannot refuse his queen.’ Rosalind’s wide smile convinced Ailenor she had saved the girl from an unwanted courtship. There was a rustling from behind the arras. ‘And here your father is returned to us.’

  Alfred’s pleased face appeared through the curtain followed by his plump body, his hand holding a knotted measuring rope.

  ‘When will they be ready?’

  He tugged at his beard as if considering this. ‘They should be ready by Michaelmas.’

  Ailenor nodded and drew a long breath. ‘Master Alfred, I wish to learn the skills possessed by your daughter.’ She swept her hand along her gown. ‘Also I shall need my new gowns embellished. Rosalind might like to embroider these.’

  Master Alfred’s eyes twinkled with pleasure. ‘Your Grace, we are honoured. As you may know, I am tailor to Earl Richard, the King’s brother, and for my daughter to be an embroideress to the Queen is indeed a privilege.’

  Ailenor judiciously hesitated as the bells for Nonce rang around the Tower. When they stopped clanging she said, ‘Your daughter tells me she is to be betrothed. May I ask that this is delayed for a year whilst she is my embroiderer? Would this be agreeable to you?’

  Ailenor noticed how the girl dropped her head as if she was studying the stout leather boots on her feet.

  ‘Well.’ He turned to Rosalind after a short silence. ‘Would you like to embroider for Her Grace?’

  Rosalind nodded and another heartbeat passed before she said with confidence, ‘Yes, Papa, if you are happy to delay my betrothal, I am indeed content.’ She turned her earnest eyes to Ailenor and smiled. ‘Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.’

  ‘In that case, Master Alfred, it is agreed.’ Ailenor inclined her head momentarily. ‘I’ll send for your daughter on Monday next. She’ll come by wherry to me, accompanied by a royal guard.’

  Master Alfred beamed with pride.

  Ailenor considered she had handled the likeable tailor well. Next time she met him, she must find more reasons to keep Rosalind safe from an unwanted betrothal. What would Queen Guinevere say were she listening from Heaven? She would approve. A queen is benevolent and always considerate towards her subjects.

  The calends of May approached and with it plans were made for Henry to show her his kingdom, or a part of it. He promised to escort her to King Arthur’s grave in Glastonbury. She could talk of nothing else for days and insisted they read stories of Arthur over and over. Together, she and Henry read French and Norman legends. They pored over painted illustrations in a book of stories and discussed them, growing closer and closer every day as spring tumbled towards summer.

  The sun shone daily. The night sky was filled with brilliant stars. Each morning, she fed a blackbird that scratched at the thick glass window with its yellow beak, insisting she lifted the catch, push the window open, and place crumbs on the narrow ledge. As she crumbled a piece of manchet loaf and indulged the persistent creature Ailenor mused to herself. Henry loved her and she loved him back. They were Arthur and Guinevere.

  She climbed from her bed on May Day filled with anticipation as the journey drew nearer. Somewhere beyond the wall a cockerel crowed. Church bells rang for Prime. Ailenor spun around and around making herself dizzy until she had to stop. She valued this early morning time to herself without her damsels. Her gowns hung on rails in an annexe to her bedchamber. What could she wear this May Day? How could she ever possibly wear all of these satins, velvets, and fine woollen gowns in so many lovely colours and trimmed with embroidery and fur? How could she choose?

  She stared at the rails and muttered, ‘I hope I don’t grow taller before I’ve worn them, or wider.’ She touched her budding breasts. ‘They are growing. That is good and bad both. Good as Henry will desire me, but it’s bad because my gowns will soon be too tight.’

  Glancing towards her door, she convinced herself she heard Domina Willelma’s steady snores. On an impulse she dragged out gown after gown and held each up to herself. She had never possessed such luxury, never in Provence, nor such jewels.

  She allowed gown after gown to drop onto her bed and spill onto the carpet, covering the floor straw. As the sun’s rays slanted through her high glass window, bathing them with summer light, their hems shone with jewel colours.

  Her own embroidery lessons had begun that spring. Each Monday, Rosalind had been ferried along the river from St Paul’s, east to the Tower or west to the Palace, when she taught Ailenor and her ladies English embroidery. Often she embellished the Queen’s gowns with gold and silver threads stitched into birds, flowers, and tendrils with woodland leaves. Ailenor decorated belts and purses and took pleasure in her own skill. These joined the pile on the bed and floor. How can I decide; I cannot. They are all beautiful.

  Pushing open her window, Ailenor thrust her head out. No waiting blackbird yet. Glancing downriver towards the great bridge she watched a pair of swans gliding towards her. They mate for life, she thought to herself. ‘It will be so for Henry and me too.’

  A sharp voice cut across the room. ‘Diable, Your Grace, come away from that window at once. You will catch a chill.’ Then, ‘What by the Sainted Virgin is this?’

  Ailenor spun around to see a horrified Willelma staring at the piles of damask, silk, and woollen gowns. Her other ladies were trying to conceal laughter behind raised hands.

  She snapped, ‘Mary, close the window. Sybil, help me into my crimson gown.’

  Willelma lifted the gown before Lady Sybil could reach it. Holding it up, she said to Ailenor, ‘A messenger came from the King. He wishes to discuss the summer progress with Your Grace, after you have broken your fast.’

  ‘I must not keep my husband waiting. Sybil, please fetch my sleeves, the pair with the gold heartsease flowers I embroidered myself, and a belt to wear with my gown.’ She turned away from Willelma. Her senior lady would not treat her as if she were still a child in her father’s court. She was a queen and a married woman. Provence was becoming a memory.

  A yellow sun shone from a sapphire sky on the morning they set out on the summer progress. Ailenor sat erect on her grey palfrey, Bella, impatient for them to begin their journey. Pennants and banners - her banners and Henry’s entwined - flew in the breeze, displaying griffins, dragons, and golden lions. She
anticipated their journey west, pausing at various important castles and manors on the way. Henry wished to introduce the people of England to his queen. Once they visited King Arthur’s grave at Glastonbury, they would ride to Gloucester and turn east into the Midlands before returning to London. He had sounded out strange names she had never heard of such as Thame, Watlington, Wallingford, and Stroud, Berkshire, Wiltshire, Somerset, and Gloucestershire, held her close and told her he loved her.

  She glanced back at the sumpter carts in which her collection of leather coffers were filled to the brim with silks and velvets, soft shoes and boots, delicate veils, sarsinette fillets, and golden crespines; another containing belts and gloves; a box of jewels and a collection of mantles, all variously trimmed with embroidery, marten fur, squirrel, and ermine.

  Ailenor nudged Bella towards Earl Richard and Lady Isabel, who were already in position a little behind her. As the creature skittered about, Isabel was desperately clutching her reins. Richard had not noticed his wife’s attempts to control her mare.

  Simon de Montfort, dark hair flopping onto his forehead, rushed across the swathe to her sister-in-law’s aid. His blue surcoat, which was slit down the sides, flapped about his colt-like long legs as he slipped around horses and carts. After he righted Isabel’s mare, he moved towards Nell who was ushering a group of chattering maids into a line of painted wooden carriages. Nell wove her way through stable boys, carriages, and courtiers to her own palfrey. Sir Simon called out, ‘Lady Eleanor, may I assist you to mount?’

  Nell was smiling. Ailenor strained to listen but with the hubbub about them she could not hear Nell’s reply. Even so she observed how Nell blushed as Sir Simon helped her onto her mare. How sad that Nell still wore dull colours whilst he was vivid in silk the colour of sky. Such a shame, for Nell possessed a beautiful face, her violet eyes shining. A small section of dark hair showed on her forehead beneath a plain white linen wimple.

  Ever since Ailenor’s Coronation in January, Simon had sought out Nell’s company. On Candlemas Day Ailenor had watched as they walked together through the Abbey Nave at Westminster, solemnly holding candles lit for remembrance. On the feast of the Annunciation she observed how the tall, dark knight sat next to Nell. He amused them both with stories of his youth in France. At Eastertide he persuaded them to laugh at the glee-men and acrobats as they performed at the Easter Day feast in the hall at Westminster. Nell confided that day, ‘He brightens my colourless existence.’

  It was sad, Ailenor thought, that Henry’s youngest sister was confined by a cruel promise. As their friendship grew she had learned how the vow had come about. Nell was persuaded by her friend, Cecily, to take an oath of chastity after her husband died. Ailenor was sure this ridiculous oath could be reversed because it was a promise made under duress. Nell and Sir Simon were destined for each other. Widows could choose a second husband for themselves, except Nell for whom marriage would be a matter of state. Ailenor never dared to confess her suspicions to Henry. He was the most devout man at court, but if Nell and Simon sought each other’s company he would notice too. Already rumours were flying about the court concerning Simon’s attentions to Nell. Uncle William had reported these to her with disapproval in his tone. It was only a matter of time before he spoke to Henry. If only she could help Nell and Simon, for surely they were in love. . .

  Moments later, horns sounded. With a jingling of bells, they were away. Ailenor looked out for Sir Simon’s dark head but he had already vanished. For certes, he would be riding with the King’s men, guarding the rear. She kicked Bella’s flanks and took her place beside Henry.

  They rode in a carefree manner through lanes with hedgerows fat with hawthorn blossom and alongside verges smothered with celandine and primroses. Clumps of bluebells edged the woodlands. Lines of swifts criss-crossed the skies above the trees. The scent of fresh grass lingered in fields. When they entered villages, children sang and threw flowers at them. Ailenor opened her belt purse and, to the children’s obvious delight, threw pennies back. The countryside, the jongleurs accompanying them with song, the pennants, the heralds, and the promise of several days hawking at Wallingford Castle where Earl Richard would host a great feast, lifted her mood into soaring heights. As they jogged along she became possessed by a mission. Nell must be persuaded to wear brighter colours this summer. Nell must be as happy as she herself was. Nell must marry the admiring knight.

  All had been prepared for their arrival at Wallingford by Richard’s steward. Shortly after they dined on their first afternoon, Ailenor and Nell seized a few moments of privacy. They chose a garden seat amongst cherry trees where they thought none would disturb them. For a while they sat in companionable silence watching tiny finches flit in and out of the foliage that climbed the castle wall.

  ‘It will be a fine day tomorrow for the hunt,’ Ailenor said after a while. ‘Do you think. . .’ She hesitated and lowered her voice further so her ladies could not hear her, though she need not have worried for the ladies were distracted by a troubadour who was playing his viol for them across the garden. ‘. . .I mean, do you think. . . listen, Nell, look, I have an idea. Could I persuade you to wear one of my gowns at tomorrow’s feast?’ There, she had been impertinent again and had spoken too impulsively. ‘Nothing extravagant but something different to your grey tunics and gowns; a change.’ Nell opened her mouth and Ailenor raced on. She couldn’t help it. ‘No, don’t refuse. I was thinking of a deep blue silk I possess with a low-slung belt and a little jewelled dagger. I want you to have it. And, just think how it will send the bishops the message you have no intention of entering the cloister.’ It was true. Nell had complained to her that just because she had taken a vow of chastity some bishops thought she should enter a nunnery and become an abbess. One such was William, Ailenor’s uncle.

  Quietly, Nell said, ‘I promised to remain chaste but not to wear grey for the rest of my life.’ For a moment, Ailenor and Nell both studied a pair of jackdaws as they flew cackling into the air like black cut-out shapes, stark against a deepening sunset. The birds hovered by the tall walls that edged the garden before roosting in a sweet chestnut tree.

  Nell spoke again. ‘If Henry sees that I am determined to embrace the world this summer, if I give up drab garments, for instance, he might recognise my need for a castle of my own as well as the fact I have no calling to the cloister. The Marshals have never granted me my widow’s third portion and Henry is in possession of many lands belonging rightfully to my estate. Of course, he says he will look after me for the rest of my life and why would I want to be saddled with castles of my own.’ She sighed. ‘Ailenor, I do want my own manor. Henry does not need me at court as his first lady now he has his queen. Everything has changed.’ Tears filled Nell’s violet eyes. ‘I want my own lands, to be independent, to be me.’

  Ailenor touched her friend’s hand and tried hard to understand Nell’s longing for a castle of her own. It was the first time Nell had spoken of a longing for her own estates. If Nell left court she might miss her, Ailenor realised. She must not be selfish, and if Nell married her knight as she planned Nell could be mistress of her own castles. She had vowed to herself to help Nell return to the world and she determined to keep that promise. Ailenor’s heart jumped when Nell added, ‘And, Ailenor, I might discover that moment this summer to ask Henry for my own demesne.’

  Ailenor had thought Nell was about to say she might discover love this summer. She took Nell’s hand. ‘I shall ensure that Henry lends you his support.’

  ‘Thank you. I hope he listens.’

  Isabel was gliding along a pathway toward them, faery-like, in that floating way she possessed. ‘The blue gown?’ Ailenor said in a very low tone.

  ‘Yes,’ Nell said. She squeezed Ailenor’s hand and they stopped talking.

  ‘Would you like to dine tonight in my bower?’ Isabel asked when she reached them. ‘The men are feasting in the Hall, where they are planning and scheming goodness only knows what. It will be the hunt tomo
rrow, I am sure. Are you both hungry?’

  ‘Very much so,’ Ailenor said, rising from the garden bench.

  Domina Willelma, who had been overseeing Ailenor’s unpacking, joined the ladies for supper. Isabel’s ladies welcomed her and Ailenor’s dwarf page, Jacques, begging him for rhymes and riddles, for Jacques was a wit.

  ‘It’s been long since the dinner hour. I’ll have supper sent up at once.’ Isabel hurried two of her maids to the kitchens.

  The musician strummed on his viol. A trestle appeared, and a table covering, napkins were laid, spoons set out on the table, and benches drawn up. Dishes began to arrive as the ladies chose their places – eggs and rice in saffron, lampreys, fruits, cream, cheeses, and soft white rolls. When jugs of cider arrived, Ailenor, who refused the top place and ceded it to Isabel, exclaimed, ‘It is just as it was in Provence, informal suppers and afternoon dining out in our gardens, fine weather and good company. Do not wait on ceremony because of me. We are all friends here.’ She leaned towards her hostess. ‘Thank you, Lady Isabel, thank you for your hospitality. I am honoured because you have made us welcome.’

  ‘And why would I not?’ Isabel said, her voice quiet, though there was no true enthusiasm in it.

  Ailenor felt in her heart that Isabel, so delicate and so much older than she, ten years older than Richard, old as her own mother, Countess Beatrice, had not warmed to her yet. She determined to try harder to win her English ladies’ hearts. It was not just Isabel who never betrayed her feelings but seemed distant. Apart from Mary and possibly Sybil, many were cool towards her. She thought it was because the ladies’ husbands, the King’s earls and barons, were unhappy with Henry. He could not see it, but Ailenor could. She wondered if they disliked Uncle William and some of her ladies from Provence too - well, apart from Willelma, whom clearly they did like. They enjoyed Jacques, of course, who entertained them, but he was lowly. They looked down their noses at the Alyses, Yolandes, and Christines who had accompanied her from Provence.