Henry put his wine down, did the same with hers and pulled her gently into his arms. ‘That is wonderful news. Do you know when?’
‘The end of the summer or early autumn, I am not entirely sure.’
‘You have done me proud.’ He kissed her tenderly. ‘And you have done well in telling me now.’
‘I would rather that than send word by letter once you were in England.’
‘It is a great gift.’ His smile lit up his face. ‘I shall have even more reason to make a success of this for my son.’
Alienor bit her lip. Not every child was a son, but every man expected of his wife the duty of bearing one.
‘Is there anything to be done to alleviate the sickness?’
‘Food,’ she said. ‘Plain food. A little dry bread and honey.’
Henry strode to the door and bellowed. A bleary squire staggered off and returned with a loaf on a platter and a crock of honey, which Henry snatched from him and brought to her. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, he fed her small morsels and watched her chew and swallow. Between one mouthful and the next, Alienor went from queasy to ravenous and ended up devouring every last morsel.
‘Lie down.’ He patted the bed, a gleam of excitement in his gaze.
Alienor looked at him askance but did as he asked.
He reached up behind his neck and unclasped the chain from which hung his gold cross. Holding it between finger and thumb, he dangled it over her abdomen. ‘The cross goes up and down for a boy, and side to side for a girl,’ he said.
Alienor laughed. ‘Where did you learn such women’s lore?’
‘My mother showed me when she was having William. I was very small, but I remember her letting me do this – although she was further along than you are.’
‘Did it work?’ She looked at the chain glistening in his hand, hovering just above her womb.
‘Yes,’ he said and gave a pained smile. ‘I would have preferred both my brothers to be girls, of course, but this only predicts, it doesn’t alter the sex of the child.’
The chain slowly started to move up and down in pendulum sweeps, becoming more and more vigorous. ‘A boy,’ Henry said with laughing satisfaction. ‘A strong and healthy boy. I did not doubt it for one minute.’
Alienor raised her brows. ‘Did you not?’
He shook his head. ‘Louis did not have it in his loins to beget sons on you, but I do – a whole dynasty of them!’
‘But what if it had gone the other way?’ she asked. ‘What if it had said a girl?’
He shrugged. ‘It would only be a matter of time before we had a boy. Daughters are valuable too. Only a man insecure in himself would fret over such a thing at this stage.’ He fastened the cross around her neck. ‘Wear this and think of me,’ he said; then he lay down at her side, pulled the covers over them both and settled down to sleep, his hand over her belly in a protective, proprietorial gesture.
Alienor remained awake for a short time, stroking Henry’s arm where it lay across her womb, and thought of the family they would become. And then she reached to the cross he had placed around her neck and smiled.
49
Poitiers, August 1153
A burning August sun bleached the blue from the sky and gripped Poitiers in the fierce talons of a heatwave. High in the Maubergeonne Tower, the confinement chamber was insulated by thick stone walls. Linen curtains hung across the shutters, letting in air, but maintaining shade. A baby’s wail filled the room where moments ago there had only been Alienor’s voice, raised in a final cry of effort.
Hair drenched with sweat, chemise bunched around her hips, she raised herself on her elbows to watch the child being lifted from between her blood-dabbled thighs. The little body was streaked with blood and mucus, and the pulsating cord obstructed its genitals so Alienor could not tell the gender. And then the midwife pushed the cord to one side and beamed.
‘A son, my lady. You have a fine boy, praise God, praise God!’
The wails became lusty roars as the midwife wiped out the baby’s mouth and laid him upon Alienor’s belly. He screwed up his face and thrashed his limbs, but as he felt the warmth of Alienor’s flesh, he grew quieter. She reached down to touch and feel him. Alive, squirming, perfect.
The midwife gently lifted him off Alienor, snicked the cord with a small, sharp knife while intoning a prayer, and then removed him to a table where a bowl of scented warm water had been prepared for his first bath.
‘Do not swaddle him,’ Alienor commanded. ‘I would see him first.’
The woman gently washed the baby’s tender limbs and then returned him to his mother, wrapped in a soft towel. Alienor held him close and checked his fingers and toes, his little ears, his puckered face. His hair gleamed like new gold, so did the tips of his eyelashes. He was going to be red like his father. And between his legs, the very obvious proof of his gender. Alienor swallowed. Her throat was tight and she knew she was going to weep a flood of tears, some of joy, some of grief, but all of healing. She held the baby to her breast and kissed his face again and again. ‘He is to be named William,’ she said. ‘For the Dukes of Aquitaine and Normandy and the Conqueror King of England.’
The bells of Saint-Pierre pealed out the news that an heir to Aquitaine was born and every church in Poitiers took up the joyous clamour and from there rang the tidings to all the towns and villages beyond. Scribes frantically copied out the news and messengers galloped from the city, heading far and wide with the announcement.
Sitting up in bed sipping wine, Alienor watched the baby snuffle in his sleep and smiled with triumph. Now let Louis eat his words that she was a useless bearer of girls. How right this marriage must be that God had shown his approval and she had borne Henry a son on the first try. She only wished he were here to share this moment with her, but he would know soon enough, and even without him, the savouring was sweet indeed.
Henry eyed the white stallion recently purchased by his groom. The horse was intended for parade and ceremony rather than everyday riding. Being so full of energy, Henry was always hard on his mounts and wore them out swiftly, but this one was to be coddled for occasional use.
‘Lame,’ he said, his nostrils flaring with temper. ‘I have paid five pounds of silver for a lame horse that has only been a waste of stable space thus far. How is that a good purchase?’
The groom flushed. ‘It was not lame when I bought it, sire.’
‘Hah, it wouldn’t be, but you were duped all the same.’ Henry walked around the horse again, looking at its trembling flank and the white of its eye. ‘No good for breeding either. Nothing but dogsmeat. Get it out of my sight.’ He dismissed both horse and groom with angry impatience. He expected good service in all parts of his life as a matter of course, and when it did not live up to expectations, it made him angry.
He had been in England since the winter and during that time had undertaken two serious campaigns, both of which had ended in stalemate because the barons on either side would not commit to a pitched battle. Everyone was weary of war; everyone wanted peace and, even through the skirmishing and posturing, negotiations were going forth. It all took time and effort, and Henry was having to school himself to a patience he was far from feeling, and it exacerbated his irritation when he could not trust his groom to do a small thing such as selecting a sound palfrey.
Henry retired inside the keep at Wallingford to read the day’s messages and give further orders. A scout had arrived to report that Stephen was in Norfolk, striving to bring the troublemaker and renegade baron Hugh Bigod to heel. Henry had no intention of pursuing him there. Indeed, in some ways it was all to the good that he was chasing Bigod. Henry found the baron useful as an ally, but it did not mean he trusted or liked him. The man had proven himself a cunning, self-serving bastard.