The Queen's Pawn (2 page)

My father was tall and thin, with the face of a monk. In a better world, he would have been free to spend his life in holy contemplation, serving God.

That was my father’s true gift: to sit in silence and feel the presence of God. Sometimes, when the business of state was done, and no one else had claim on his attention, he would let me sit with him in his private rooms, and kneel with him at his private altar. This altar was beside the bed of state, where my sisters and I had been conceived.

My oldest sisters did not know me, for they had been married away from France long ago. They were also cursed, I was told, because they had been spawned by my father’s first wife, the wicked Queen Eleanor, the woman who had abandoned my father for a younger man years before. No one spoke of that queen except in whispers. My nurse would summon her memory when she sought to remind me to be a good girl, when she sought to turn me from wickedness. I spent my childhood in horror of that mysterious queen, a woman who was never obedient, a woman who had gone on Crusade against the infidel and ridden astride a horse like a man.

I later learned that Eleanor was not dead and with the devil, but had married the King of England, who was another kind of devil, or so everyone at my father’s court said.

Just before my eleventh birthday, my marriage was arranged, now that it looked certain that I would live. During this time, my father called me to him.

The ladies of the court brought me into a large room made of stone. The windows far above us held clear panes of glass, and sunlight shone in through those high windows, catching the dust that danced over all our heads. The ceiling was made of a latticework of stone so delicate that it looked almost like lace. I craned my neck to look at it.

My father stood with his men-at-arms and gentlemen-in-waiting beside a great wooden chair with cushions and gilded arms. I smiled when I saw my father, but he did not smile back, not because he could not see me, but because this was a solemn occasion. I did not know why I was there, but I knew that I was expected to walk to the king.

For the first time in my life, I walked alone in a room full of men. The court ladies followed me a few paces behind as I moved among my father’s courtiers.

When I came to the dais, which seemed to take an eternity, I curtsied to my father, then knelt before him, as if I were his vassal.

There was a murmur in the room, like wind in a field of barley. Then there was silence. It had a different quality now, not one of people waiting for a task to be completed, but one of people watching a play. I must have done the right thing unprompted. Though my father wore his heaviest robes of state, trimmed in gilt and ermine, now he smiled down at me.

I had never before seen him crowned. He looked like a different person, until he smiled, and I knew him again.

My father raised his hands and blessed me, speaking words I no longer remember. The substance of his speech was that from that day forward I was to be known as the Countess of the Vexin. I would hold the county of the Vexin in my own right, a valuable sliver of land that lay between Paris and the great duchy of Normandy. I swore to serve my king in all things, and to serve the throne of France.

When the ceremony was over, I saw a man standing behind my father’s throne. He was a small, ferret-faced man with eyes that gleamed. I was told little in my father’s court, but I knew how to listen. I knew he was one of the minions of King Henry of England. I also knew his name: Sir Reginald of Shrewsbury; even in my nursery there was talk of him when he first came to Paris as ambassador for the English king.

I wondered why he had bothered to come to my investiture as countess, when even I had not been told of the proceedings until the day they were upon me. Then I heard one of my father’s women speak to another as they moved to lead me away

“God help the girl,” she said. “Going to the court of that devil’s spawn.”

The “devil” meant only one thing to me: the wicked queen who had been my father’s wife.

I froze in midstep, the old fear of my childhood rising from the ground to grip my throat. Its bony fingers closed off my air, and I had to fight to breathe. It was not the first battle I had had with fear, and won; nor was it the last.

I said a prayer to the Virgin, and She heard me, for my breathing calmed and my fear of that evil queen receded. I stood alone in my father’s court, and I knew why the ferret-faced ambassador was there. My marriage had been arranged already; I was to marry one of the devil-spawn princes, a son of my father’s former wife.

I stood still as the rest of the court moved around me. I could feel the eyes of King Henry’s ambassador weighing and judging me, finding me lacking. I was small for my age, but I drew myself up straight. I would not have a servant of my husband-to-be carry tales of me, unless they were tales I placed in his hand.

I did not follow the court ladies to the door, as I was meant to do. I turned back, and the women standing by did not have the sense to catch me. They thought me truly one of their dogs by that time, and did not know until too late that I had slipped the leash.

My father still stood where I had left him. He sensed somehow, as I did, that more needed to be said, words that had been left unspoken. He was a good man, and a good king, but he was never one to speak before crowds. I saw that it was left to me to do it for him.

I met my father’s eyes and stood before him, seeing only him, while his courtiers paused at the door. They had thought to leave, the ceremony over, but I was not done with them. Not yet.

When I heard the courtiers turn back from the outer hall, I knelt slowly, solemnly, my eyes on my father’s. The room fell once more into a hush, until the only sound was the court ladies cooing like doves by the door, until the chamberlain’s harsh voice shushed them.

I raised the hem of my father’s robe, and kissed it. The men around him drew back, but stayed close enough that they might watch my impromptu performance as it unfolded. I did not look at them, but only at my father’s face. In that moment, I took my true oath, one that I kept for the rest of my life.

“My lord king,” I said. “It is for me to serve the throne of France. If you call on me to travel to the farthest reaches of the world, even into the outer darkness, I will go. If France needed me to marry the devil himself, I would do it. It will be my honor to marry King Henry’s son.”

I did not know which hell-spawn prince I was meant for, so I did not use a given name. I knew that King Henry had so many sons, when all God had seen fit to give us was my younger brother, Philippe Auguste, the child of my father’s third wife.

My father looked down at me with such pride that I thought he might weep. I saw in his face regret that he had not called me to him alone before my investiture as countess, before my marriage had been arranged. He saw for the first time that I was old enough to understand what my duty was. Tears filled his eyes as he stared down at me; then he blinked them away.

My father raised his hand once more to bless me, placing it on my veil where it rested on the crown of my head.

“Daughter, when spring comes, you will be sent to marry the Lord Richard, Prince of England, son of our esteemed vassal Henry, King of England and Duke of Normandy. You are the pride of my house, the flower of France. King Henry will welcome you, and honor you, as we honor you here.”

I did not speak again, for already I had said too much. A French princess lives her life in silence, as my mother had done before me. I was not naturally silent, but I was obedient. I knew that I would serve my father better now by holding my tongue.

I thought that he would dismiss me then, my duty acknowledged, all gossip of devils and their spawn cast aside. Instead, my father raised his hand from where it rested on my veil and, with a gesture, dismissed the courtiers around us, and King Henry’s vassal with them.

“Leave us,” my father said.

The room was cleared in a moment. The ladies who had brought me were the last to leave. They were scolded by my father’s chamberlain for letting me get away from them in the first place.

Once we were alone, my father sat down, not on his throne, but on a cushion on one of the dais’ shallow steps.

I realized that the cushion had been set there for me to kneel on. I had knelt early, not having been coached. The ceremony making me countess, and all that came after it, had been accomplished below the dais altogether.

My father gestured to me, and I went to him. He took my hand in his. His skin was like old vellum, soft and almost yellow. I prayed to God, standing there before him, that he would live long enough to see my brother grown and strong.

“Daughter,” he said. “What have you heard of the devil?”

“The ladies said that I was to marry among the devil’s spawn. I knew at once that they meant a son born of your other wife.”

To my surprise, he smiled. I was glad to see a little light come into his face. But his expression turned grave once more, and I moved closer to him.

“Eleanor is not the devil, Alais, and neither is her husband. They are both just sinners before God, as we all are. Sinners who do not repent.”

I was not convinced. I would marry the devil himself if it would serve France. He saw this truth in my eyes, and his hand brushed my cheek. He searched for his next words. He was a man who did not speak much, except to God, and then only in his thoughts.

I waited, for when my father spoke, he always had something to say. At the time, I thought that was because he was king. Now I know that it was the way his soul was made. He spoke carefully in order to do the least harm. It was his sorrow all his life that, as king, harm came from him as often as mercy.

“Daughter,” he said. “You are a good girl. You are the pride of my house. I have made you the Countess of the Vexin in your own right, though this title has never before fallen to a woman. Do you know why I did this?”

“Because I am strong enough to bear it,” I answered.

I thought again that he would weep, but he was a man. Though he was not great in battle then or ever, he was always in control of himself. I have known many renowned in battle who could not say the same.

He pulled me onto his lap, and kissed me. I could not remember a time before when his lips had touched me. Though he loved me, and though I always knew it, our family was bound by tradition and necessity. There was little time for kisses or for tears. I remembered that, even as I felt his tears on my hair.

Once a daughter of the house of Capet is betrothed, she is sent to live among her future husband’s kin. I was ready to face a life in exile among my father’s enemies, for his sake, and for the sake of France. Because I knew King Henry was my father’s enemy; his power stretched far, surrounding my father’s lands. While king in England, Henry was also duke in Normandy and, through his wife, in the Aquitaine. Henry was my father’s vassal, but he was strong. My betrothal was one way to contain the threat of the English king and his many sons, one more way to keep the fragile peace.

My father drew out his prayer beads, for a set of them was always with him. Today he carried gold beads set with diamonds, pearls, and amethysts, leading down into a crucifix of gold where Our Savior lay, His agony made beautiful. My father gave me these beads, and pressed them hard into my palm.

“Keep these with you always, Alais. Use them to pray for me, and for France. In this way, you will always remember where you come from, and who your father was.”

He kissed me once more. I heard his men-at-arms begin to gather by the door. They had come to fetch him away, for he was needed elsewhere, as a king always was.

He did not turn from me even then, but held me. I looked up into his face and saw that my father was already old. It would be many years or never before I would see him again.

He stroked my hair and dried my tears with the sleeve of his brocaded gown. The brocade was harsh, and scratched me, but I would not have traded those scratches for kisses from anyone else.

“Be a good girl, and serve your house always. We will see each other again, at the foot of Our Savior in heaven.”

Looking into my father’s face, I saw that he believed what he said. When life was dark, and the road of duty and honor was rocky and long, I remembered my father’s face on that day. I remembered how he loved me, and how he was a man good enough to see beyond the evils of this world into a certain paradise.

 

 

The day Louis’ daughter came to me, I was not prepared for her. Louis, my ex-husband. My old lover. My old enemy. The only man I ever left weeping who was not strong enough to hide his tears. Or, perhaps he was simply too strong to feel the need.

She came to me and stared up at me out of Louis’ eyes. The color was her mother’s, a light brown tinged with yellow. But her seriousness, her gravity, she had learned from him.

I was alone when she arrived at Winchester Castle. I was surrounded by women, but none of them knew me. They feared me, and loved me, the way a worshipper in a cathedral claims to fear and love the Christ. But none of them saw behind my mask; I would never allow it.

My son Richard was at my castle at Oxford, as were the rest of my living children, until we left in a few months’ time for Aquitaine. I had borne nine children for Henry, the daughters for foreign marriages, the sons to follow their father. But in my heart, Richard was mine, born for me alone.

My husband, Henry, had left me years ago in all but name, following the skirt of Rosamund. She was nothing but some knight’s daughter born of a family that had held their obscure strip of land an hour, while my family, descended from Charlemagne himself, had held the Aquitaine for centuries. The thought of that woman, her blond hair coyly displayed, her beguiling, vapid eyes, raised a taste of acid on my tongue. It was said Henry found peace with her, that he loved her silence as much as her chatter. Perhaps he did. For a certainty, he got neither peace nor silence from me.