The Winter Crown by Elizabeth Chadwick Read Free Book Online Page A

their child.
    Every single member of her household from knight to slop boy knelt in prayer, and the chamberlain’s lad flung the shutters wide to admit a bright May morning, the fresh air bursting with the scent of growing life.
    Alienor’s chaplain, Father Peter, administered the last rites to the limp, barely breathing scrap in Alienor’s arms. She held him to her and watched the erratic rise and fall of his chest. A day since he had hurtled from his bed, his toy sword in his hand, ready to seize life with every particle of his being.
    Hearing snuffling and sobs, she rounded on her women. ‘Cease your noise!’ she hissed. ‘If he can hear us, I will not have him subject to such sounds!’
    Emma detached herself from Alienor’s ladies and, choking, fled the room, her hand pressed to her mouth. Alienor pushed the matted hair away from Will’s brow. ‘Come, little one, my brave one,’ she said. ‘Mama is here. Hush, don’t fret, all is well, all is well.’
    The little boy’s chest rose and fell, rose again, shuddered and was still. Alienor stared, willing him to take another breath, but the moment drew out, stretching into eternity. His eyes were almost closed, just a faint glitter under the lowered eyelids. The dreadful patches of fever had not touched his face, which was pure and perfect, but the rest of his body looked as if it had been ravaged by a demon.
    ‘Madam.’ Her chaplain gently touched her shoulder. ‘He has gone to join his Father in heaven. God will care for him in His mercy.’
    Alienor was numb. Somewhere within her, grief was gathering, waiting to rend her apart, but this moment was the space between the slice of the knife and the realisation of a mortal wound. ‘Why could he not stay with his mother on earth? Why take him?’ Anger sparked through the numbness. Why not take the other child, who was the fruit of fornication? It was a dark and terrible thought, a sin, but she could not prevent it.
    ‘It is not ours to question,’ the chaplain said gently. ‘We cannot know God’s plan.’
    Alienor pressed her lips together before she uttered blasphemy. Her child’s soul was on its journey and she dared not hinder his path by railing against God. She continued to hold him against her, folding him into her body. Even though she knew it was over, she kept waiting for him to draw another breath. He had been hers to care for and protect, and it was all her fault that his bright little life had been snuffed out. But what more could she have done? What would Henry say? He had left the children in her care as her responsibility and she had proven unequal to the task. She gave a low moan and would have doubled over, save that the child in her womb made it impossible. The new life kicked within her, even while she gazed on death.
    ‘Madam…’ She felt the gentle pressure of Father Peter’s hand on her shoulder. ‘Come, I will send for someone to wash and prepare him.’
    ‘No!’ Alienor thrust him off. ‘It is my duty and my right. No one else shall have this task and do what must be done. I am well enough for this.’
    The following hours lasted for an eternity to Alienor, and at the same time the passage of light to dark seemed as swift as the blink of an eye. There was so much to do to arrange the funeral rites and decide on the burial. To dictate letters so that messages could go out to those who had to know of the tragedy. All the practical details setting the seal on the brutal fact of Will’s death. The letter to Henry was the hardest. She was too shattered to find the words and the letter she sent was that of a queen to a king, not of one grieving parent to another.
    Washing her son’s lifeless, blotched body with rose water, she remembered the joy and triumph of his birth on an August morning in Poitiers. All the joy, all the hope and expectation. Cradling him in her arms, and later presenting him to Henry as a wonderful gift when he returned from campaign. A golden child bouncing