‘What will your mother say about Stephen adopting you?’ she asked when they had both recovered and were refreshing themselves with wine and curd tarts from the platters on the trestle.
Henry gave a grunt of amusement. ‘She will be incensed, I have no doubt. It was bad enough that Geoffrey of Anjou was my sire, and to have me adopted by the man who stole her crown will disgust her.’ He shrugged and took a bite from the tart Alienor was feeding him. ‘She will accept it, though; she is pragmatic and she has no choice. I just won’t refer to Stephen as my “stepfather” in her company.’
‘What of Stephen’s other son? What does he think of his father making you the heir and cutting him from the inheritance?’
‘He was not best pleased at first, but not prepared to take it further. No one would support him, including his own father. We had a long discussion before the tomb of my grandsire at Reading and William agreed to step down. Those who began the fight are growing old and do not want to see their own sons caught up in the conflict when there’s a sensible solution under their noses.’
Henry went to pick up the long leather roll from his baggage. ‘We must arrange a ceremony to display this before everyone.’ Within the roll, wrapped in a purple silk cloth, was a scabbard of embossed leather over a wooden core. The sword hilt within was of Nordic style, beautifully crafted and engraved. The grip was bound with red silk cord and the hilt ends were fashioned into the shape of beasts with open mouths.
‘This is the sword of my great-great-grandfather, Duke Robert of Normandy,’ he said. ‘He left it to his son, William, who then bore it into battle when he came to conquer England. It has hung at the tomb of my grandsire in Reading Abbey for almost twenty years and it is mine now. William of Boulogne will not contest my right to wield it. It was given to me as a token of my future kingship by the consent of all the barons in England.’ His eyes shone as grey as the light on the steel and as sharp as the blade. ‘Stephen will live out the rest of his life as king, and when he dies, the crown will be mine.’
Alienor felt the power in him and her heart filled with pride and exultation, but it did not blind her to practicality. ‘What of your enemies, those who have built castles and made themselves little kingdoms throughout this war?’
‘The order has already gone out that all adulterine castles are to be demolished and everything restored to what it was on the day when my grandsire was alive and dead. This sword symbolises a return to the peace and justice we had before – and shall have again. That is my priority.’
She nodded with approval. It was a future vision made of practicality, not golden dreams. Something worthwhile, steady and solid, which, in due course, would be built to last. For the moment they had Normandy, Anjou and Aquitaine to govern – and each other to enjoy.
51
Fontevraud Abbey, May 1154
Drawing rein, Henry gazed at the walls of Fontevraud Abbey and began to smile. ‘It’s good to be back,’ he said. ‘My father often brought me and my brothers here to visit our aunt Mathilde and sometimes left us in her custody while he went about his duties.’
Alienor looked amused. ‘I expect you disrupted the life of the nuns?’
‘We were not allowed to – our aunt saw to that; but we were indulged by the ladies of the Magdalene house who had not taken vows.’ A look that was almost yearning crossed his face. ‘If I were to call somewhere home, this would be it.’
His words gave Alienor food for thought. This, then, for Henry was a place of the heart. Not Rouen, not Angers or even Le Mans, but Fontevraud. And that must be because of the feelings it evoked.
Abbess Mathilde abandoned all formality in greeting Henry and hugged him to her bosom with all the fondness of an aunt for her favourite nephew. ‘It has been so long!’ she cried. ‘Look at you, a grown man!’ She turned from a grinning Henry to Alienor and embraced her fondly. ‘And your beautiful wife. Welcome, welcome. And where is my great-nephew? Let me see him!’
Alienor took little William from his nurse and handed him to Mathilde.
‘Just like his father as a baby! Look at that hair. He’s a proper Angevin.’ She gave the baby a smacking kiss on the cheek.
‘I should hope he is, madam my aunt,’ Henry said. ‘Lions breed true.’
She took them to their lodging in the guest house where she had refreshment brought, and then sat down before the hearth to dandle the baby in her lap. ‘So,’ she said to Henry, ‘you are now officially England’s heir.’
‘God has willed it so,’ Henry replied.
Mathilde bounced William up and down, making him crow with laughter. ‘Strange to think had my husband not drowned, I would have been Queen of England and my son heir to the throne.’ She kissed her great-nephew’s soft cheek. ‘Motherhood was not my path, but my nieces and nephews have brought me great pleasure – as has my work here; and I have contentment that I would not have found in the world. Everything happens for a reason.’
Alienor felt a brief moment of envy for Mathilde’s lot. ‘To have power and contentment at the same time, that is a rare thing indeed.’
‘Yes, but hard won.’ Mathilde gave her a shrewd look. ‘When I came to Fontevraud, my heart was full of grieving and bitterness. It took many years of prayer and searching to discover joy beyond sorrow and to accept what had happened instead of railing against the dish fate had served to me. I found healing here and I rediscovered my pleasure in life. If not for Fontevraud and God, I would still be lost.’
During their time at Fontevraud, Alienor witnessed a very different side to Henry. He was still exuberant and full of restless energy, but in church he found the patience to be quiet, and the sharper edges of his character smoothed out and became more relaxed. He slept for longer at night and was not in a tearing hurry the moment he rose in the morning. Fontevraud’s spirituality was a grounded, practical one that well suited his personality, and the place had been that kind of haven for him since childhood.
‘When it is my time to leave the world, I have a mind to lie here,’ he said as he walked hand in hand with Alienor in the early morning through the cool, wet grass of the cemetery.
‘Not in Angers or Le Mans?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘Nor Reading or Westminster. All of those places will be open to my hand in the days to come and I can walk there as I choose. But here …’ He sent her a self-conscious glance as if admitting to something untoward that made him vulnerable. ‘Here is a place that I can carry in my heart like a sacred fragment within a reliquary. Even if I do not visit, I know it is here for me.’
Alienor’s throat and chest tightened. ‘That is a wonderful certainty to have.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘because I can carry it with me and at the same time set it aside and focus on the business in hand.’
It was eminently practical, she thought, and so fitting to Henry’s character. To live in the world and walk through it with power and vigour, and then have a place of personal, tranquil repose when all was done.
She felt the hard grip of his hand and the cold brush of the grass under her feet – solid, tactile reality, weaving a fabric of memory she would keep until she too was laid in her tomb, wherever that might be – perhaps here at his side.
Empress Matilda held her wriggling grandson in her arms. ‘You have done well, daughter,’ she said. ‘A fine healthy boy to carry the line, and more in the fullness of time, one hopes.’
‘If God wills it, madam,’ Alienor replied with courtesy. From Fontevraud, she and Henry had travelled into Normandy and had spent the past three weeks in Rouen with the Empress. Alienor was feeling the strain of being constantly polite and deferential to her mother-in-law.