who shepherds us along from behind with a pained expression as if she were our nurse and we mere naughty children. The archbishop of Canterbury is expected to put up a fuss when he hears of the marriage because ’twas he who witnessed Eleanor’s vow, but she will look duly penitent, and what will she care for Edmund Rich’s words once she has Simon?
When we reach Henry’s apartment, he is waiting to lead his bright-eyed sister through to his chapel and up to the altar. Having presented her to Simon, he takes his place at my side. As the ceremony begins, Henry’s hand finds mine. It is a far cry from our own nuptials, but, as I approach the second anniversary of my marriage, I cannot witness the binding of any two people without happy tears. I hope Eleanor will be as content in her marriage as I am.
Henry absently fingers the wedding ring on my hand as Simon places one on his sister’s, and I give his hand a little squeeze in return. Only one thing could make our happiness more complete—a prince. I must give Henry a son. Only this week my physicians prescribed a new tonic to awaken my slumbering womb. It tastes dreadful, but I take it without complaint—anything to conceive a child. Willelma thinks the tonic a waste. She is adamant that my womb will be fertile when the time is right.
“Women are like gardens,” she insists. “They have seasons. You are still in winter, but spring will come, perhaps with your next birthday, and then you will bloom and your belly will swell like a good melon on a vine.”
The thought of myself as a melon nearly makes me laugh out loud.
And why not?
I think defiantly.
Surely a wedding is a joyful occasion.
ELEANOR AND SIMON HAVE LEFT us and gone off to their estates, but the rancor caused by their wedding more than a month ago lingers. There has been gossip among the court, talk among Henry’s advisers, and tonight it appears we will hear from my husband’s brother.
“The devil!” Richard bursts into the great hall at the Palace of Westminster after dinner. Henry and I were dancing, but Richard now bars our path. “Is it true?”
“Richard,” Henry says, trying to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, only to have it shoved away.
“Is our sister married?”
“With our blessing.” Henry’s voice is cold, but the skin on his neck begins to flush as he grows hot with anger.
“To Simon de Montfort?”
“A good and faithful servant to the Crown.”
“A Frenchman of middling fortune.”
All the dancing has stopped now, and the music too. My uncle Guillaume glides over, a smile on his face. “Your Majesty, Earl Richard, perhaps you would be better met more privately.”
“We would be better met a month ago before this nonsense proceeded,” Richard growls, but he allows my uncle to turn him toward the outside aisle. Henry barks a command for the musicians to begin playing once more and then stalks after his brother. I trail behind, because who shall tell me I may not? Screened from the view of curious courtiers by one of the large pillars supporting the ceiling, the brothers face each other again.
“You had no right to marry our sister without consulting me—without consulting your magnates!”
“No right? Speak to me of rights, will you!”
“Yes, I will. You know, even if you found it convenient to ignore such fact, that custom dictated consultation with and consent from your council over such an important marriage. And as for my rights, am I not also the lady’s kin? As near in relation as you? As concerned about her welfare?”
“Her welfare? If that is all that worries you, be done. Lady Montfort is quite abundantly happy with her situation.” For the first time Henry glances in my direction. “Is that not so, Eleanor? Our sister writes to the queen glowingly of her new husband.”
“This is not a fanciful troubadour’s romance! It is a royal marriage! It ought not to be managed by women.”
My uncle, silent himself, gives me a meaningful
When we reach Henry’s apartment, he is waiting to lead his bright-eyed sister through to his chapel and up to the altar. Having presented her to Simon, he takes his place at my side. As the ceremony begins, Henry’s hand finds mine. It is a far cry from our own nuptials, but, as I approach the second anniversary of my marriage, I cannot witness the binding of any two people without happy tears. I hope Eleanor will be as content in her marriage as I am.
Henry absently fingers the wedding ring on my hand as Simon places one on his sister’s, and I give his hand a little squeeze in return. Only one thing could make our happiness more complete—a prince. I must give Henry a son. Only this week my physicians prescribed a new tonic to awaken my slumbering womb. It tastes dreadful, but I take it without complaint—anything to conceive a child. Willelma thinks the tonic a waste. She is adamant that my womb will be fertile when the time is right.
“Women are like gardens,” she insists. “They have seasons. You are still in winter, but spring will come, perhaps with your next birthday, and then you will bloom and your belly will swell like a good melon on a vine.”
The thought of myself as a melon nearly makes me laugh out loud.
And why not?
I think defiantly.
Surely a wedding is a joyful occasion.
ELEANOR AND SIMON HAVE LEFT us and gone off to their estates, but the rancor caused by their wedding more than a month ago lingers. There has been gossip among the court, talk among Henry’s advisers, and tonight it appears we will hear from my husband’s brother.
“The devil!” Richard bursts into the great hall at the Palace of Westminster after dinner. Henry and I were dancing, but Richard now bars our path. “Is it true?”
“Richard,” Henry says, trying to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, only to have it shoved away.
“Is our sister married?”
“With our blessing.” Henry’s voice is cold, but the skin on his neck begins to flush as he grows hot with anger.
“To Simon de Montfort?”
“A good and faithful servant to the Crown.”
“A Frenchman of middling fortune.”
All the dancing has stopped now, and the music too. My uncle Guillaume glides over, a smile on his face. “Your Majesty, Earl Richard, perhaps you would be better met more privately.”
“We would be better met a month ago before this nonsense proceeded,” Richard growls, but he allows my uncle to turn him toward the outside aisle. Henry barks a command for the musicians to begin playing once more and then stalks after his brother. I trail behind, because who shall tell me I may not? Screened from the view of curious courtiers by one of the large pillars supporting the ceiling, the brothers face each other again.
“You had no right to marry our sister without consulting me—without consulting your magnates!”
“No right? Speak to me of rights, will you!”
“Yes, I will. You know, even if you found it convenient to ignore such fact, that custom dictated consultation with and consent from your council over such an important marriage. And as for my rights, am I not also the lady’s kin? As near in relation as you? As concerned about her welfare?”
“Her welfare? If that is all that worries you, be done. Lady Montfort is quite abundantly happy with her situation.” For the first time Henry glances in my direction. “Is that not so, Eleanor? Our sister writes to the queen glowingly of her new husband.”
“This is not a fanciful troubadour’s romance! It is a royal marriage! It ought not to be managed by women.”
My uncle, silent himself, gives me a meaningful
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