CHAPTER XVI

 

The Year 1120

King Henry’s Castle at Caen

 

“I have a plan for the garden,” Marie said.

“This is the king’s garden.” The caretaker sounded annoyed.

“The renovation I have in mind would be for the king,” she persisted. “My husband’s father is so fond of labyrinths that I thought what a wonderful surprise it would be to plant a natural labyrinth of flowers here. I would border circular pathways with hedges, which can grow into a maze. At the foot of each hedge I would like seasonal flowers so there will always be color, and I picture benches surrounding a perfect rose bush in the center, where His Majesty can sit and meditate. Even a king needs a peaceful place to get away from things once in a while, do you not agree?”

The gardener stared at her blankly. “I take orders from the king’s steward alone,” he said coldly.

Marie felt the color rise to her face. She struggled to keep her voice calm. “Am I not the mistress of this castle now?”

“No, Milady, you are not. I take my orders from the king’s steward.”

“I shall speak to my husband about this.” Marie turned and left the garden with as much dignity as she could summon. As soon as she was out of the gardener’s sight, she ran into the castle, tears streaming down her face. Tripping over her skirts, she raced up the stairs to her tower room. Her needlework on its wooden frame sat gathering dust before the fireplace. Marie picked up the frame and threw it across the room, where it shattered.

“I cannot spend the endless hours of every day with a bloody needle,” she cried furiously, flinging herself across the bed in tears.

The servants had no respect for her. They snickered when she requested used bread trenchers to be filled with leftover food and given to the needy. The dogs got the only alms in this castle. It was positively barbaric. How could she ever become like Saint Margaret when her attempts to give alms to the poor were laughed at and ignored? To be ridiculed by servants was humiliating. To see dogs treated better than hungry people was maddening.

Marie’s married life so far had not been as happy as she had imagined. When could she speak to her husband about the insolent servant in the garden? She seldom saw William. The prince spent almost every day out hunting or drinking with his friends. Who knew where he spent his nights, certainly not in her bed. They had been married almost a year, and still her womb was empty.

It takes a man’s seed to grow a child, she thought bitterly. My husband is never here to plant that seed. How ugly I must appear to him.

Marie’s loneliness stabbed at her heart like a sword. No one understood her feelings of isolation. Her lady-in-waiting often said she envied her mistress, for she herself would be content to sit by the fire and stitch monotonously all day. She made it sound as if there was something wrong with Marie for hating needlework.

The countess who was now a princess had no end of beautiful dresses to wear and jewels fit for the queen she would one day be. These things would have pleased and satisfied her mother, but not Marie.

She tried making friends with the ladies of the court. They were all so much older, so much more sophisticated. They talked about fashion and recipes and their babies. She was aware that they whispered behind her back and stared at her stomach for a hint of growth, but alas her figure remained trim for she had no new life growing inside her.

When Marie was with the ladies, her attention wandered to the corner where the men were discussing politics and philosophy, and telling jokes that made them laugh. If only she could join in the conversation of the men and discuss matters of substance and interest to her. They always seemed to be having fun.

William’s half sister, Mathilde, was kind to her. She went out of her way to try to help Marie fit in. Frequently, she invited Marie to go riding, and they talked freely as sisters do. She was grateful for Mathilde’s kindness, but never sure her sister-in-law understood her feelings. Mathilde was the daughter of a king, and the happy wife of a count. Her fearless nature gave her a freedom Marie envied.

“What is wrong with me?” Marie cried. “Why can I not be content to be as other women?”

Marie never thought she would miss Anjou, but now she felt homesick. She missed the babies, who used to come to her for stories and hugs. The bright moments her little brothers and sister had given her were denied to her now. Her arms ached for the lack of them. She longed to kiss the tops of their curly red heads.

“I want a baby,” Marie sobbed in frustration. “I want my husband’s love. He does not even give me a chance to be a wife to him.”

She thought if William would only come to her bed at night she would tolerate his clumsy stabbing at her happily if it would put a baby in her womb. She would not care if he flopped around on top of her like a sweaty fish. Perhaps if she pretended to like it, he would come to her bed again. But she had no idea how to entice him. Obviously William found her body repulsive.

Marie’s only hope was that when they got to England, she would be the mistress of their home at last. Then things would change. Caen was Henry’s Castle; in England, they would have their own. As soon as this business with William’s investiture as Duke of Normandy was done, she told herself, they would leave Caen. By Christmas they would be in their new home, where the servants would take their orders from her and not dare look annoyed to have to lower themselves to tolerate her like she was a child. She would order the lands keepers to plant a hundred labyrinthine gardens if she wanted to, and no one would ever say her nay.

Once this business in Normandy is settled, she thought, when we move into our own castle across the sea, I will find a way to make William love me. We will fill our home with children.