The Autumn Throne by Elizabeth Chadwick Page B

this betrothal to take place?’
    ‘In a few weeks in London.’ He chewed and swallowed. ‘It’s the land that matters. The Gloucester ones are better than the Chepstow ones though.’
    He spoke in a knowing way that suggested he had checked for himself rather than repeating what someone had told him. His eyes were a quenched green-grey and it was difficult totell the expression in them, or to see past the half-mocking smile to what lay beyond. Even as an infant he had always seemed more like an adult – a scheming, manipulating one at times. If he was angry, the recipient of that anger would only find out when they discovered one of their possessions damaged or else sat on the nail that had mysteriously appeared on their chair. Yet he could also be devastatingly sweet and amusing.
    ‘You seem to have considered it thoroughly,’ Alienor said.
    ‘I wanted to know.’ He laid down his knife. ‘I also know why Papa wants an annulment.’
    Alienor lifted her cup. ‘Is that so?’
    ‘Rosamund de Clifford is with child.’ His eyes glinted. ‘The baby’s due in the autumn and he wants to marry her and make her queen.’
    Alienor sipped her wine while she assimilated the news and composed her expression. ‘And that is worth sending envoys all the way to Rome? I somehow doubt that is your father’s intention.’
    ‘She is with him all the time,’ John said, with narrow eyes and a fixed look. ‘She is always in his chamber touching him and petting him.’
    ‘That does not mean he will marry her even if she is with child. You need not worry on that score.’
    ‘I’m not worried.’ He shrugged but she could see he was unsettled – or perhaps jealous. ‘She’s nothing,’ he said with a curled lip. ‘My father’s stupid whore.’
    Isabel made a small sound of protest because it was inappropriate talk at the table, and the way he spoke possessed an undercurrent of violence.
    ‘Yes she is,’ Alienor replied, ‘and therefore beneath your notice. It only matters if you let it matter because then you make it more than it is.’
    John continued to scowl but finished his meal in silence and then went with his cousin William to poke about the palace.
    Alienor changed the subject and asked Isabel how the preparations for Sicily were progressing.
    ‘Wellindeed.’ Isabel was as eager as Alienor to sail the conversation into less fraught waters. ‘Joanna has four new gowns, haven’t you, my love?’
    Joanna joined the conversation, her expression alight with pleasure. ‘King William sent merchants with bolts of silk damask cloth,’ she enthused, and went on to tell Alienor of the painted chests that had been constructed to hold her trousseau – sheets and coverlets, bed hangings, candle holders, napery and silver dishes. Her excitement at going as a bride to the King of Sicily far outweighed her fear of her new situation now she had had time to grow accustomed.
    Alienor was pleased for her, but sad too because beyond the clothes and jewels, beyond all the appurtenances of royalty, she knew what it meant to be the wife of a king. ‘You must write to me often. I shall help you if I can, and I will always be your mother. I want you to remember that.’ Her heart filled with pain because locked up here what influence did she have and what kind of an example could she set?
    She gave Joanna two jewelled combs she had managed to secrete in her baggage from Winchester, carved with acanthus scrolls pin-pointed with tiny sapphires and rubies. ‘Remember me whenever you use these, and pray for me as I shall pray for you,’ she said, and embraced Joanna who reciprocated, but with an air of reserve as if shielding herself from the difficulty of imminent parting.
    ‘Belle is not coming with us,’ Isabel said with a gesture to her own daughter. ‘As our eldest, she must look after the others and wisdom says we keep her at home.’
    Belle said nothing, her eyes downcast.
    ‘She is disappointed of course,’ Isabel said.