‘You cannot stop the match,’ Henry said. ‘I agree it is an irritation, but as a ruler it is his duty to find a way to compensate for the loss of Aquitaine.’
Alienor scowled. It was the truth, but that made it no more palatable.
Henry lay back on their travelling bed and pillowed his hands behind his head. ‘He is doing more on his “pilgrimage” to Compostela than worshipping Saint James and marrying off Constance. He is also planning a marriage with the house of Castile for himself – to the eldest daughter of King Alphonse.’
She stared at him. ‘He told you that?’
‘With a smile on his lips.’ Henry said, making a face but at the same time unperturbed. ‘The bride is thirteen years old. He will be fortunate to get a living child out of her if he takes her now. Whatever happens, we still have time before he has an heir. Even if he does father a living baby, what chance is there of it being a boy?’
‘And Constance?’
Henry shrugged. ‘There is time there too. We could always wed our own dynasty into that one and take Toulouse by marriage alliance in the next generation.’
Alienor wondered if Henry was being flippant. Something must have shown on her face because he added: ‘I am not just planning for tomorrow, but for ten years’ hence and more. I agree we should watch the situation, but what matters is that he has relinquished his claim to Aquitaine. As far as Toulouse is concerned, I will put my mind to a campaign in the near future.’ He gave her a sleepy smile and changed the subject. ‘I told him you were with child again. I have never seen a man try to smile while swallowing vinegar.’ He patted the bed and beckoned to her. ‘Whatever his schemes, we still have every advantage, my love, and he has none.’
‘We must make sure it stays that way,’ she said as she joined him. ‘Louis often suffers ill luck in what happens to him from day to day, but he always survives.’
‘I have his measure,’ Henry said confidently. ‘Have no fear of that. And he does not have mine.’ He unfastened the pendant cross from around his neck and dangled it over her flat belly. Together they watched it swing gently up and down and begin to gather momentum. ‘Another boy,’ he said, and smiled.
On their first night back in Rouen, Henry was quieter than usual and heavy-eyed when they visited his mother at the abbey of Bec to tell her about the meeting at Vernon and give her the news of Alienor’s pregnancy. Alienor was tired herself after their long ride and thought little of it. The Empress more than compensated for the gaps in the conversation by holding forth on everything from the right way to wear an ermine cloak to the usual complaint about how inept Stephen was as a king. She was also complaining that Emperor Heinrich of Germany had asked her to return the relics, jewels and regalia that she had brought home to Normandy from her widowhood.
‘They are mine,’ she said with an angry gleam in her eyes. ‘And they shall pass to my sons.’ She turned to Henry. ‘He even demands the crown you are going to wear at your coronation, but he shall not have it. Not one piece of gold, not a single gem from its setting.’
‘Indeed not,’ Henry said, but without his usual spark of irony or relish. He rose to his feet and stooped to kiss her cheek. ‘Mama, I will speak to you more in the morning.’
She looked surprised, and then concerned. ‘What is wrong?’
‘Nothing, Mama.’ Henry gave a dismissive wave as if brushing aside a fly. ‘I have told you, I am tired, that is all. Even I need to sleep sometimes.’
That brought a severe smile to her lips, but did not banish the anxiety from her eyes. ‘Rest well then,’ she said. ‘And God bless your slumber.’
‘Are you sure you are well?’ Alienor asked him as they arrived at the palace.
‘Of course I am,’ he snapped. ‘God on the Cross, why do women always make so much fuss? I’m tired, that is all, and my mother would try the patience of a saint. Do not you follow her example!’
Alienor raised her chin. ‘If women make a fuss it is because we are the ones who always have to clear up afterwards and deal with the debris, but you have made yourself clear. I shall not ask again.’
They retired to bed, irritated with each other. Henry fell asleep almost immediately, but it was a restless slumber in which he moaned and tossed and turned like a demon.
In the early hours of the morning he woke up complaining of a sore throat, and saying he was frozen, although his skin was as hot as a coal to the touch. The night candle had burned down to the stub and Alienor felt her way into her chemise and stumbled to the door to summon the servants. Behind her she heard the sound of Henry vomiting. ‘The Duke is sick,’ she said. ‘Bring fresh bedclothes and warm water.’
She hastily dressed while servants stripped and replaced the stained bedclothes. Henry huddled before the embers of the hearth, a cloak draped around his shoulders and his body shuddering. Kneeling at his side, Alienor took his hands in hers and felt the scalding beat of his blood against her skin. Even by the shadowy light of candles she could see that his eyes were glazed.
‘Ask me again why women make so much fuss,’ she said.
‘It’s nothing,’ he replied, his voice thick and hoarse. ‘A chill. I will be all right by morning.’
But by morning he was delirious and struggling to breathe. His throat was so swollen and raw that he could barely swallow the potions the physicians gave him. They bled him to cool the excess heat of his blood, but it had no effect.
Alienor sat at the bedside, insisting on bathing his body herself and dribbling honey and water into his open mouth. He was propped up on pillows to help him breathe, but every rise and fall of his chest was an effort. She could see his diaphragm sucking in and out, making hollows under his ribcage that echoed the shape of Christ’s image upon the crucifix hanging on the wall.
The Empress flurried in from Bec soon after dawn. The weather had turned autumnal and she entered the room bearing the smell of rain and woodsmoke on her clothes.
‘Henry?’ She hastened to the bedside and, as she looked at her eldest son, her expression filled with shock. ‘How can this be? How can this have happened?’ She flicked an almost accusatory look at Alienor.
‘He must have picked up some bad air at the French court,’ Alienor said, and then bit her lip. The air of the French court had been very bad for his father too. She was terrified lest he die. There would be more conflict and war, and she and her children would be at its centre. She would be forced to make another marriage or else find herself constantly under siege from ambitious suitors.
‘Not my golden boy,’ Matilda said. ‘Not after all this.’ She gazed around at the servants with sharp eyes, marking who was present and what was being done. ‘He is not going to die.’ She pushed an attendant out of the way, and pressed her hand to Henry’s forehead. He groaned and struck out. ‘Burning up,’ she said. ‘He needs to be purged and his blood cooled.’
‘That has already been done, madam my mother,’ Alienor replied.
‘Then do it again until it works. He must have fresh spring water to drink, and gruel, and make sure it is tasted first by someone else.’ She clucked her tongue as if at the incompetence of everyone else, and Alienor clung to her own civility by the tips of her fingers, because she and Matilda were allies in this, and if they argued, they would weaken each other when they needed to be united.
For the next hour the Empress stamped around the chamber issuing orders, flinging blame about indiscriminately, and behaving like the termagant of her worst reputation. But then she stopped for a moment and passed a trembling hand across her eyes, and Alienor’s angry resentment melted, for underneath all the bluster and rage, she glimpsed and recognised desolate terror.