Free The Autumn Throne by Elizabeth Chadwick Page B

news.
    Alienor raised her brows. ‘This is indeed a feast day in the midst of famine,’ she said tartly. ‘What have you heard now?’
    Amiria flushed at her tone. ‘A wine merchant was telling one of the guards that your son the Young King and his queen expect a child next summer.’
    Alienor was assailed by two emotions at once: pleasure at the thought of a grandchild from her eldest son, and upset that she had had to find out like this – as overheard gossip from her maid rather than a salutation from an official messenger. How much else of the warp and weft of family life and politics was passing her by? The child would be born to parents who had no lands to call their own, only allowances doled out by Henry, spent almost before they touched the sides of Harry’s coffers.
    ‘It is indeed good news,’ she responded to Amiria, because she had to say something. It was too much to hope that Henry would now give Harry the dignity of lands to govern. It would be utterly wrong should Marguerite bear a son for him to have a father who still had not so much as a yard of earth to his name. Henry was only forty-three, and his grandfather, the first King Henry, had been almost seventy when he died.
    Still, new life was new hope. ‘A toast.’ Alienor directed Amiria to fill her cup. ‘To my son, his wife and their unborn child, may they prosper and flourish.’

9
Palace of Sarum, July 1177

    Beyondthe palace walls a burning summer sun had stolen the blue from the sky. The Downland grass was parched and sere and the cathedral gleamed like a white lantern in the bleaching heat. It was early in the year for thunderstorms but that kind of oppression crackled in the air. Sick of being cooped in her chamber even though the walls kept the room cooler than outside, Alienor bade Amiria leave her sewing and come for a walk.
    Beyond the shelter of the tower, the sun’s heat struck like a fist. Two guards crouched in the shade, their weapons propped against the wall. They were playing a desultory game, throwing small round stones to try and strike a larger one, and after a glance at the women and a swift obeisance, they paid little heed to what was a daily routine. What attention they could dredge from their heat-induced lethargy was focused on some women collecting buckets of water at the well. Gowns tucked through their belts, exposing bare legs, they were splashing each other and laughing. A small boy dashed through the sparkling rainbows of water, wearing nothing but his shirt. The sight reminded Alienor of her own sons doing the same when they were that age, and she smiled with nostalgia.
    For the last fortnight, masons had been busy constructing a new gatehouse and a wall around the inner compound. Their presence was a welcome distraction to the mundane daily routine and helped Alienor believe that Sarum was not a forsaken place at the back of beyond, but somewhere worthy of attention. Why Henry was bothering with these renovations was a puzzle. Surely she was not so much of a threat that heneeded to add new walls and defences to keep her enclosed? Perhaps it was a warning to others that there was no chance of springing her free.
    The women at the well stopped their sport to curtsey. The little boy with no understanding of etiquette continued to caper and splash. When his mother moved to grab him, Alienor shook her head. ‘Let him play,’ she said. ‘I would join him if I could.’
    She moved on, aware of the women’s constraint. The masons toiled on the scaffolding of the new gatehouse. A labourer had stripped to his braies and Alienor appreciated his wiry musculature. The linen clung to his buttocks and thighs, leaving little to the imagination, and her eyes glinted with appreciation. Amiria averted her gaze.
    The guard on watch suddenly reached round to the horn slung on his baldric and, placing it to his lips, blew a long, loud blast. ‘The King!’ went up the cry. ‘The King is here! Bow to your sovereign