‘Yes,’ William said bleakly. ‘But it is bad enough.’
The morning’s stark winter daylight revealed the true terrible state of the King’s chamber, the walls, textiles and artefacts ruined by smoke, flame and water, although the motto over the doorway had survived with its ironic declaration that he who desired something must first give everything away.
William had stayed up throughout the night, writing letters and organising the clean-up as best he could. Joanna had made him bathe and had tended his burned wrist with unguent and bandages, but he was ashamed at receiving succour, because he deserved the pain.
Looking at the wreckage in cold daylight, it seemed to him almost symbolic of his brother’s reign. So much promise and beauty, not fully destroyed, and yet utterly ruined.
Henry arrived back from Merton shortly after noon, pale and grim-faced, having received news of the fire from William’s messenger. Filled with trepidation, feeling sick, William waited for him at the gates.
‘How did this happen?’ Henry demanded as he dismounted. ‘Tell me!’
‘I was waiting for you so that I could show you rather than tell you, for a picture is worth more than I could write.’ William could barely meet Henry’s bewildered, furious gaze.
Stripping off his gloves, Henry strode into the chamber that had been his pride and joy, and then stopped and stared in shock. Turning and turning, he looked around at the devastation.
‘The fire started in the repaired chimney and spread fast,’ William said. ‘We were hard-pressed to contain it, but by God’s grace we succeeded. If you wish to blame someone for this, then blame me, for I was not swift enough to act. The first anyone knew was when the flames began to spread. I organised a bucket chain and beaters and we managed as far as this.’
Henry shook his head. ‘It is ruined.’ He drew a deep breath that sawed over his larynx with a sound of anguish, and his mouth stayed open.
‘Sire, if I could mend it for you I would. I am very sorry; I know what this chamber means to you.’ And to himself. He studiously avoided looking at Hope. ‘We can rebuild.’
Henry closed his eyes briefly, blotting out the sight, but had to reopen them. ‘Perhaps indeed it is a portent from God.’ He went to look at the lettering over the door, blistered and smoke-scarred but still legible. ‘I love this chamber.’ His voice cracked with emotion. ‘This is the heart of my home when I dwell at Westminster, part of my life that I had kept whole for myself, and now it is destroyed.’
‘It can be restored, sire,’ William said, and pressed his hand over his bandaged wrist deliberately to feel pain.
‘But it will not be the same.’ Henry shook his head. ‘I need time to grieve my loss before I can think of restoration. But I am glad you were here, for if not, the entire palace might have burned to the ground.’ His gaze met William’s with more than one nuance – a silent exchange of reality and metaphor – and then his gaze dropped to William’s wrist. ‘You have been injured, my boy.’
‘Sire, it is nothing – a hot spark I did not notice in the thick of things. Joanna has tended to it and it will heal.’
Henry opened his arms and embraced him. ‘You remind me that I have a great deal more than nothing, and much for which to be grateful, even now.’
‘I shall always serve you faithfully,’ William replied, chagrined and offering the only thing he could.
‘I know, and it is one of my solaces. We shall speak later, but for now, I wish to pray alone.’
William bowed and watched his half-brother walk away in the direction of the chapel, his figure stooped and dejected, his head bent, and he realised anew and with a jolt that Henry was becoming an old man.
37
Windsor Castle, October 1263
Joanna picked up the little girl tugging insistently at her skirts, and swung her into her arms for a cuddle. The child giggled and put her arms around Joanna’s neck. Edward and Leonora’s daughter Katharine was not quite two years old, with fluffy chestnut curls and wide brown eyes. Joanna already loved her dearly. She had been at Windsor for two weeks, visiting Leonora while the men were occupied at a parliamentary gathering between the lords loyal to the King, and Simon de Montfort and the barons dedicated to reform.
‘A messenger arrived from Edward today,’ Leonora said, her eyes sparkling. Her accent was less strongly Castilian these days.
Joanna smiled. ‘With good news I hope, madam.’
‘The best! He is paying us a visit and says to make ready!’
Joanna loved to see Leonora so animated. She and Edward doted on each other.
‘When will he be here?’
‘Tomorrow morning, he says. Come, we must prepare food and chambers!’
Joanna threw herself into preparations for the rest of the day. She oversaw the brushing of the colourful woven rugs in Edward and Leonora’s chamber, and ensured that fresh sheets, pillow cases and coverlets were aired and the bed dressed fittingly. Joanna noticed that Leonora was brighter and more on edge than usual. Not by nature a butterfly, today she seemed distracted and almost flighty. It could, of course, be anticipation of Edward’s arrival after a long time apart. He had been away in the field and at the counsel table, dealing with the continued rumblings of civil war. De Montfort had been in France earlier in the year but had returned in late April, had revived the Provisions of Oxford against foreigners, and taken to the field. The Burgundian Bishop of Hereford had been seized from his church and thrown in jail. Gloucester, Worcester and Salisbury were all in de Montfort’s hands.
The King and Queen had retreated to the Tower of London for safety, and de Montfort had promptly occupied their home at Westminster, although not the great chamber, which was in the midst of renovations after the fire. Joanna was glad for she could not bear to think of Simon de Montfort sleeping in Henry’s place or using his chapel.
