Fontevraud Abbey, France, May 1246
Clad only in his linen breeches, William de Valence stretched and inhaled a deep lungful of morning air through the open window of the abbey guest house. The scent of fresh grass beaded with dew called to him with all the promise of spring. He was eighteen years old, bursting with life, and whatever his tribulations, nothing could suppress his instinctive response to the season.
The birds had started singing before the stars had set, and the chorus now resounded like a cathedral choir. Blackbird and robin, starling, sparrow and thrush. Going to the jug and bowl standing under the window, he poured water and sluiced his face, torso and hands, drying the latter by pushing them through his thick curls, sleeking his hair into a semblance of order. Ablutions complete, he took a clean shirt from his baggage. The sleeves were a little short on his long wrist bones, for he had grown again since the winter and now stood a head taller than any of his brothers. Indeed, it amused and delighted him that he was bigger than Geoffrey, although Geoffrey insisted it was only William’s unruly hair that made the difference.
His stomach growled but he knew he should pray before he broke his fast. There was no sign of his servant Elias, whom he assumed was tending to the horses. His brothers were absent too. William was bursting to be out in the glorious morning, cantering his horse along sun-dappled woodland paths, but such delightful earthly pursuits were not the reason they were here at Fontevraud, five days’ ride from home.
The sunlit doorway darkened as his brother Aymer entered the room. ‘Our lady mother is asking for you,’ he said. Aymer, older than him by two years, was studying for the priesthood.
‘How is she this morning?’ William threaded his knife on to his belt.
‘Weak, but she has eaten a little bread and milk and she has her wits about her.’ Aymer squeezed William’s shoulder. ‘She wants to see you.’
William tugged his tunic straight. His gut tightened and his joy sank beneath a layer of dull anxiety. Following their family’s humiliating defeat by the French, and his father’s surrender to the inevitable, his mother had renounced her marriage and her life as the Countess of La Marche and retired to the abbey at Fontevraud. She had kissed him a tender farewell and bidden him become a man to make her proud. Now, she was dying, and about to take the veil.
He walked quietly through the leafy spring morning to the cell where she lay on a plain wooden bed made up with a coarse linen sheet and an undyed blanket. A crucifix hung on the sparse white wall facing her bed. Nothing about the diminished, gaunt-cheeked woman lying under the thin blanket indicated she had once been Queen of England, wife to King John, and was the mother of the reigning King. Her life had been filled with rumours, slander and scandal put about by enemies and detractors, but whatever the world said about her, she was his mother; he was her youngest son, and all he had ever received from her was love. His sister Aliza sat at her side holding her hand, but as he arrived she yielded her place, touching his arm in passing before leaving the room.
William knelt at the bedside, awkward because of his gangly height. ‘My lady mother,’ he said and, taking her hand, kissed her dry, febrile cheek.
She turned her head on the pillow and smiled at him. A simple linen cap covered her hair and her white chemise emphasised the yellow hue of her skin. Her breath was sour. ‘My William,’ she said. ‘So much the man.’
Seeing his beautiful mother so wasted and weak filled him with grief. He remembered her cuddling him when he was little, and the way she had teased him when he was fourteen and fussing over his appearance before a feast, and how she had tenderly pinned a brooch at the correct angle on his hat and kissed his cheek.
‘I have thought about you often,’ she whispered. ‘Some say I should not have come to Fontevraud, but there was nothing left for me beyond the purging of my soul.’ She gestured at the cup on the bedside, and he gave her a sip of boiled spring water. ‘I am tired,’ she said, ‘so very tired.’
‘I will pray for your recovery and good health, Mother.’
She shook her head, and an impatient frown twitched her brow. ‘I shall have no more good health in this life. Pray for my soul if you will, for my time is short.’
William flinched. He did not want to believe she was dying even though the evidence was before him. ‘Yes, from my heart.’
‘You and your siblings must take courage and strength from each other,’ she said. ‘Stay united in all you do. Remember your duties and obligations to yourself and to others.’ She squeezed his hand, and with her other, touched his head in blessing. ‘My curly-haired beautiful boy, now you must be a man in all you say and think and do – ask what will be said of you when you make your own end.’
She paused and indicated her cup, and William helped her sip a few mouthfuls until she raised her hand and told him enough.
‘There are things in my life that people have forced upon me, and other things I have done that I deeply regret,’ she continued in a weak voice. ‘But there are also things that make me proud, even if pride is a sin, and one of them is my children. You are the part of me that stays behind, and when you go out in the world you are representing me. You embody your ancestors and in turn you will become someone’s ancestor when you have offspring of your own.’
William bowed his head, apprehensive at the weight and responsibility of her expectation.
‘I have asked your brother in England to help all of you. You have a small portion here, but Henry sits on a throne and you are born of the same womb. I have said my farewell to the world, but I can still strive to give my children what their father cannot.’
William did not reply. His father was a distant figure. He had provided him with protection and education. He had supplied him with horses and servants and training. But William had always been the child trailing in his wake, the last son, the one with the fewest prospects. Essentially his older brothers had raised him, the youngest cub in the pack. He might be the least in the hierarchy, but they had looked out for him. He had always been certain of his mother’s love, even in the dark days, but his father’s for a last-born son was less certain.
‘You are mine,’ she said, as if reading his mind. ‘My womb gave life to the King of England just as surely as it gave life to you and your brothers and sisters.’ She briefly closed her eyes. ‘I did not ask you here to embroil you in such matters. I have set in motion what is needful. Now you must seize whatever opportunity is offered with a whole heart, and listen well. Your father was often deaf, and I do not wish that trait for you.’
‘No, Mama.’ He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the bird-fragile bones.
‘Then it is settled. For my many sins I have left instructions that when I am buried, my grave shall be outside the church. I do not have the grace to lie within it. I shall take the veil and pray for God’s mercy on my soul … I am glad to have seen you again and I give you my blessing. Live your life well, and if God grants you lands and a family, care for them with diligence and honour in remembrance of me – my sweet boy.’ She touched his hair again.
‘Mama …’
‘Do not be sorrowful,’ she said, suddenly sharp. ‘Be joyful. That is a command.’
He swallowed manfully, although the lump in his throat seemed enormous. He left the cool, austere cell and entered the warm May sunshine, but then had to lean against the wall and let the dammed-up tears run down his face.
Aliza rose from the bench where she had been waiting and came to put her arms around him. ‘I know,’ she said soothingly. ‘I know.’
William’s shoulders shook with silent sobs, but he mastered himself and pushed her gently away. ‘I am not weeping for our mother,’ he said. ‘She bade me not to. I am weeping for myself, for not having her in the world. Even if we were parted from her, I knew she was here and I could reach her if I had need.’
