it would not be real. Other men’s children died, not his: his were strong and blessed. This one would follow him to the English throne. He could see him dashing about, full of vigour, waving his small sword and shouting, could remember the wet baby kiss on his cheek, and the trusting soft hand gripped in his as they crossed the icy yard at Westminster, with all the candles shining for the Christ child’s birth.
Henry put his face in his spread right hand, and rare tears welled. Many times he had been ill himself as an infant, sometimes seriously, but he had survived. Why hadn’t William lived? Why hadn’t he possessed the constitution to win through? Wiping his face on his cuff he cursed, and wept some more, while anger burned in his belly.
Surely something could have been done to save him if his protectors had been more vigilant? Why had Alienor allowed it to happen? She should have kept him in a place where the air was cleaner. Now there was no air in his son’s lungs, only dust. The thought of Will, a fresh little child, surrounded by corpses and decay made him sick. He had left Alienor to guard and care for their son and she had failed in her duty. Probably too busy meddling in politics and matters best left to men, as was her wont. When he thought that he had not been there to rescue his son, the dark feelings became unbearable, and he locked them away because he knew, if he gave them the opportunity to grow, they would break him. He knuckled his eyes and swallowed his tears because all the grief in the world would not restore his son to life. Will was gone. He should go and pray that his soul had found its way swiftly to heaven, but he was not sure he could enter a church just now.
A hand rapped on the door. ‘Henry, let me in.’
He palmed away his tears and went to draw the bar. Hamelin stood on the threshold, his brow wrinkled with sorrowful concern. He cleared his throat. ‘I grieve to hear the tragic news from England – Becket told me. I came to see if there was anything I could do, if there was anything you needed.’
‘No one can give me what I want or need,’ Henry said hoarsely, but stood aside to let Hamelin enter the room. ‘Nothing will bring him back.’ He closed the door and leaned against it again. His chest heaved convulsively.
‘Do you want me to say anything to the court?’
‘No. I am my own spokesman.’ Henry swallowed. ‘I will not have the business of the court interrupted for this. Let masses be said for my son, and let us all pray for his soul, and then let us move on with business that applies to the living. I refuse to make a meal of my grief, and I will not let others make a meal of it for me, do you understand?’
Hamelin frowned. ‘I am not sure I do, but if that is your wish, then let it be so. I am truly sorry; he was a fine little man.’
‘Yes,’ Henry said grimly, ‘and now he is no more, so I must needs beget more sons to ensure the succession.’ That was the way to deal with the matter. To be hard and pragmatic until the shell toughened and nothing could ever pierce it.
‘Will you write to Alienor? She must be distraught.’
Henry’s mouth thinned. ‘We shall speak soon enough. For now I have nothing to say to her that I want to commit to a scribe or bleed on to parchment.’
6
Bec-Hellouin, Rouen, Summer 1156
Henry’s mother, Empress Matilda, held her swaddled namesake in the crook of her arm. A half-smile deepened the lines surrounding her mouth. She had already greeted her grandson of sixteen months before hastily handing him over to his nurse to have his wet clouts changed. ‘I never bore daughters,’ she said to Alienor. ‘Perhaps it was no bad thing, for, strive as we may, it is men who rule the world, and they do not have to face the trials we do.’
‘No,’ Alienor agreed, ‘they do not.’ She had been churched two days ago, almost seven weeks since Will had died. The pain remained raw and desperate, but she dealt with it moment
Henry put his face in his spread right hand, and rare tears welled. Many times he had been ill himself as an infant, sometimes seriously, but he had survived. Why hadn’t William lived? Why hadn’t he possessed the constitution to win through? Wiping his face on his cuff he cursed, and wept some more, while anger burned in his belly.
Surely something could have been done to save him if his protectors had been more vigilant? Why had Alienor allowed it to happen? She should have kept him in a place where the air was cleaner. Now there was no air in his son’s lungs, only dust. The thought of Will, a fresh little child, surrounded by corpses and decay made him sick. He had left Alienor to guard and care for their son and she had failed in her duty. Probably too busy meddling in politics and matters best left to men, as was her wont. When he thought that he had not been there to rescue his son, the dark feelings became unbearable, and he locked them away because he knew, if he gave them the opportunity to grow, they would break him. He knuckled his eyes and swallowed his tears because all the grief in the world would not restore his son to life. Will was gone. He should go and pray that his soul had found its way swiftly to heaven, but he was not sure he could enter a church just now.
A hand rapped on the door. ‘Henry, let me in.’
He palmed away his tears and went to draw the bar. Hamelin stood on the threshold, his brow wrinkled with sorrowful concern. He cleared his throat. ‘I grieve to hear the tragic news from England – Becket told me. I came to see if there was anything I could do, if there was anything you needed.’
‘No one can give me what I want or need,’ Henry said hoarsely, but stood aside to let Hamelin enter the room. ‘Nothing will bring him back.’ He closed the door and leaned against it again. His chest heaved convulsively.
‘Do you want me to say anything to the court?’
‘No. I am my own spokesman.’ Henry swallowed. ‘I will not have the business of the court interrupted for this. Let masses be said for my son, and let us all pray for his soul, and then let us move on with business that applies to the living. I refuse to make a meal of my grief, and I will not let others make a meal of it for me, do you understand?’
Hamelin frowned. ‘I am not sure I do, but if that is your wish, then let it be so. I am truly sorry; he was a fine little man.’
‘Yes,’ Henry said grimly, ‘and now he is no more, so I must needs beget more sons to ensure the succession.’ That was the way to deal with the matter. To be hard and pragmatic until the shell toughened and nothing could ever pierce it.
‘Will you write to Alienor? She must be distraught.’
Henry’s mouth thinned. ‘We shall speak soon enough. For now I have nothing to say to her that I want to commit to a scribe or bleed on to parchment.’
6
Bec-Hellouin, Rouen, Summer 1156
Henry’s mother, Empress Matilda, held her swaddled namesake in the crook of her arm. A half-smile deepened the lines surrounding her mouth. She had already greeted her grandson of sixteen months before hastily handing him over to his nurse to have his wet clouts changed. ‘I never bore daughters,’ she said to Alienor. ‘Perhaps it was no bad thing, for, strive as we may, it is men who rule the world, and they do not have to face the trials we do.’
‘No,’ Alienor agreed, ‘they do not.’ She had been churched two days ago, almost seven weeks since Will had died. The pain remained raw and desperate, but she dealt with it moment
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