Devil's Consort (107 page)

But at the door he spun on his heel and marched back towards me again. With hands cupping my elbows, he lifted me to my feet from my huddle beside the fire, so that my needlework fell to the floor, where it found its way under his boots.

‘I’m going tomorrow, and you won’t change my mind. But you’ll not come with me. Not yet. Too dangerous.’ He eyed my figure dubiously.

Not go? Oh, no! I would not allow this. I had not come so close to be left behind now. I had not tolerated Henry’s furious impatience over the past weeks—whilst I stitched impotently at a panel for an altar cloth, not caring if it was even completed—to be sent home meekly to Rouen or Angers or even Poitiers. Yes, I was afraid of the storms and wallowing seas but nothing would stop me from sailing with him.

‘I won’t be left behind, Henry.’

‘Eleanor …’

‘If you’re going to England, so am I.’ Agnes and Aelith, a critical audience, exchanged knowing glances, probably wagering on the outcome. Henry saw the exchange and reacted in a predictably male manner.

‘Out!’ Henry ordered. And they did.

As soon as the door was closed: ‘By God, Eleanor! You’re in no fit state to travel.’

‘You invited me to accompany you.’ ‘That was before the delay. Look at you! You’re as round and full as an egg!’ I barely opened my mouth to deny this unflattering picture. ‘You’re not going to be difficult about this, are you?’

I raised my chin. I was going to be very difficult. ‘I’m going with you, Henry, even if I give birth on the damned ship.’

Henry was not impressed. ‘Hear me, Eleanor. You’re not going.’

‘I’ll hire my own ship if I have to! I’ll sail alone!’ Pray God I wouldn’t be driven to it.

‘I’ll lock you up in this miserable fortress if that’s the only way I can keep you safe.’

‘Show me a prison door that can’t be unlocked with a handful of gold!’ ‘Eleanor! By God!’ ‘Don’t shout at me!’ ‘I am not shouting!’ ‘I will not let you leave me here!’

The outcome hung in the balance. I punched Henry not so lightly on the shoulder with my clenched fist.

‘God help me!’ Now he did shout. I expect Aelith and Agnes could hear from where they were doubtless eavesdropping outside the door.

‘I expect He will. But I’ll help you more. You need me, Henry.’ I would give no quarter.

‘Do I need a bad-tempered, opinionated woman who can’t follow a plain order even to save her own life?’

‘Yes. If you go to England, Henry, then so do I, by one means or another. It’s as simple as that.’

I felt the moment the balance tipped in my favour.

‘Ha! You are a trial to me, Duchess Eleanor.’

I tilted my head with a little smile and waited in silence.

‘A stubborn, capricious woman. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.’ The tension eased into a suspicion of a grin and Henry’s fingers relaxed their grip. ‘If Louis was stupid enough to take you crusading, I suppose I must take you a short journey to England.’

‘And you, of course, are not stupid.’

‘No. By God, I’m not. I know I need you with me. We have a performance to make, my love. And we will play it to the hilt.’

No sentimentality here. Off he went to chivvy and organise. The embroidery was beyond repair.

So I suffered one of Henry’s diabolical campaigns: twenty-four hours of storm-tossed, freezing-cold misery in the
Esnecca,
Henry’s sea snake, a war galley
as wickedly predatory as Henry himself and with no degree of comfort, followed by a makeshift lodging with vermin and lice in the old Saxon palace on the south bank of the Thames at a God-forsaken place called Bermondsey. And that dubious accommodation only after a flying visit to the Royal Treasury at Winchester where the barons did homage. Quaking like a bed of reeds in a high wind they were, all of them with astonished eyes on their new king who had made a miracle crossing of the Channel, like an avenging angel sent by God to sort out the sins of a weary, war-torn country. But they were all wary. There was not one of them there who did not know what had happened at Limoges.

Not one hand or one voice was lifted against us.

‘I’ll chop off any hands that wield a sword in my presence,’ Henry had snarled at the first opportunity. Perhaps that had something to do with their acquiescence, on top of the rumour of his reaction when he had first set foot in the palace of Westminster, where we had thought to make our residence. Vandalised and stripped by Stephen’s supporters, it was beyond words.

Yet Henry found them.

‘God’s eyes! Do they live like hogs in a sty?’ And this from the man who thought nothing of wrapping himself in a cloak to sleep on the floor alongside his men when on campaign. Who would not always comb his hair from one day to the next unless reminded. ‘Has no one seen fit to make to ready for us? I want food
and warmth for my wife. Now! Not in an hour’s time! Who’s in charge of this misbegotten place? I’ll string up his guts for the ravens to eat …’

No, we were not opposed by any dissenting voice.

And here we are, six days before the feast of the Nativity.

Our filthy travel garments are now gone and our robes are of silk and brocade and gauze. Rich embroidery decorates hem and sleeve, overall furred with ermine. Resting on my shoulders beneath my cloak is Melusine’s Byzantine collar. I think, whatever her antecedents, she would have enjoyed this moment despite the drear surroundings that enhance none of the fire in the heart of her opals. Today they are dull and grey, gloomily sullen and unresponsive as I touch them with frozen fingers. I shiver. Thank God I brought the undershirts with me. I wrap the mantle discreetly around me, masking the fact that I am well into my eighth month, carrying Henry’s child.

Archbishop Theobald anoints Henry’s head with holy oil. Then mine. It trickles on my scalp, uncomfortably cold with a greasy unpleasantness as Henry’s new vassals stand and stare with speculative eyes and hands clenched on sword belts, their expressions masked beneath heavy beards. What a backwater of civilisation this is, worse than Paris. These Anglo-Normans are as uncultured and crude as the Franks: no wit, no charm, no romance and badly turned out. Neither have they any love for the art of the troubadour, although if I have to be fair in
my judgement, a score of years of war and devastation are enough to beat romance out of any man.

God and his angels slept, so they say.

‘How fortunate we are.’ Henry turns his mouth to my ear. ‘I worked and fought for this moment—but it takes the hand of the Almighty to bring it to fulfilment.’

‘Lives are cheap,’ I reply.

I had almost lost him. And it was death that had brought us here. Some long in the past, one very recent, altogether a string of them without which Henry would never have made good his claim. Prince William drowning in the
White Ship
all those years ago. Eustace choking on a pot of eels. And Stephen dead, only a year after the truce at Winchester.

‘We will live for ever!’ Henry chuckles. ‘Or at least until you’ve given me a brood of sons to follow in my footsteps.’ His hand curves over mine, over my belly.

Theobald holds the Crown. A Crown commissioned by the Conqueror in imitation of the imperial crown of Charlemagne. Heavy, jewel-encrusted, it fits well on Henry’s head. Great-grandfather to great-grandson. Henry is still, not a muscle twitching. It is as if he holds his breath, not one hair out of place, not a snagged thread, not an unlatched lace or fastening, not even a grubby hem. The long tunic, all crimson and gold, elegantly lapping over embroidered under-tunics, is a statement of power. Jewelled gloves in white kid replace his usual hunting gauntlets. His boots are polished. I doubt I’ll ever see him as tidy again.

A crown is placed on my head too, a smaller version with a jewelled rim and thick gold
fleurs de lys
rising from it. A crown befitting a queen. Not a ducal diadem, not a coronal, but a crown. Heavy, but I will become accustomed to it. I feel Henry’s fingers tighten around mine.

‘So it is done. Our son has his empire.’

The voices in the Abbey are raised in acclamation. I look at the faces. What do they see? Their new king barely come into his manhood? Let him who thinks so beware. Henry may still be young in years but he has honed his political skills since the cradle. I can see them realise the worth of their new ruler as Henry stands and vows to rule in the precepts of his grandfather, King Henry the First. The days of misery under Stephen are thus swept away with the stroke of a pen, the impression of a seal, the lifting of his rough voice.

We emerge from Westminster Abbey to stand in the grey light of this nineteenth day of December in the year 1154. No sun to greet us, as I might have fancifully imagined. The clouds are low and heavy with the threat of more snow to come.

Before us, our horses stand ready, magnificently caparisoned. And the crowds who line the route we will take shuffle and strain to see. What will they say? Will any man growl and curse and stir rebellion? But, no. Voices begin to cheer, increasing in number and volume until the acclamation all but drowns out the dissonant clang of the bells above our head. I raise my
hand in acknowledgement—and am immediately aware of Henry’s inattention.

I follow the direction of his stare, and see. His eyes rest on a pretty face in the crowd that smiles back at him.

I sigh and transfer my shoe to the top of his boot. Followed by my weight. Henry winces on an intake of breath and his eye slides back to mine with a quizzical lift to his brow. There is no apology. There never will be, I suspect. For now he is mine, the bond between us holds firm, but I have no illusions.

And yet, surrounded as we are by the crowds and courtiers and clerics, we turn to face each other, there on the steps. A silence. A look, a smile. A recognition of what lies between us and what the future will hold. Even though we make no overt gesture, it is as if Henry touches my cheek with his hand or even with his lips.

Yes, he is mine.

The roar bursts again on my ears as we step forward.

‘Waes hael.’
We are greeted in the old Saxon tongue.
‘Vivat Rex!’
thunders in counterpoint from the Anglo-Normans.

Vivat Rex,
indeed.

Henry lifts my hand to present me to my people with a charmingly courteous bow, redolent of pride. Of victory.

‘And
Vivat Regina
also!’ he murmurs, his voice hoarse,
rasping. Henry has done a lot of talking—and a fair bit of shouting—in the past days.

‘Vivat Regina!’
I lift my face and smile at my subjects.

Nineteenth day of December, 1154:
Westminster Abbey, London.

I
T IS
so cold. I clench my jaw against it and try to forget my first impressions of this city that will be my home for at least some parts of every year. All dirty snow banked beside the roads, compacted ice to trap the unwary, the layered filth and excrement of a city under stress, and the Thames frozen over. However much I might yearn for Aquitaine, this is where I must be when Henry demands it. That much I know.

The vast space above my head intimidates me with its dark gloom, the air keen in my nostrils with the slice of a hunting knife, despite the brazier some thoughtful soul has placed beside me. Every time I take a breath my lungs wince, even though two of my undershirts are stretched across my girth. My exhalation puffs out
in white mist, as it does from every baron of England who has had the sense to present himself here today. Any lord who has chosen to absent himself on the pretext of ill health or bad weather—well, I don’t envy his next interview with his new overlord. It might just be at the point of a sword.

Henry Plantagenet has come to claim his own. And I have come with him.

I can barely feel my feet. My fingers are red and raw with the cold as I fist them inside my mantle. I’m paying a heavy price for being here. Chilblains with their irrepressible itch. But nothing—nothing!—can spoil this day.

To my left in the shadow of a squat pillar stands Aelith, who seems to have made her life with me permanent in her widowhood, even to coming to England with me. I am not sorry. I enjoy her company when Henry—as he invariably is—is distracted. She watches in solemn support as she has done since that day when we waited together for Louis Capet to arrive in Bordeaux to claim his bride. My attention is caught. Beside her my fifteen-month-old son squirms in Agnes’s grip and whimpers. I sense the start of a storm. He’s too young for this but I would have him here. He may not remember, but I will tell him how he saw his mother and father crowned King and Queen of England. And then the storm is averted for young Geoffrey reaches up his hand and distracts my son with an impish smile over some shared mischief. Geoffrey is a good boy.

Archbishop Theobald of Canterbury approaches with solemn pomp. His broad face is beaming in satisfaction in getting what he wanted for England. I slide a glance to Henry. All I see there is red-hot impatience for this to be over, but for once carefully banked. Henry knows the importance of this, the impression he must make.

Behind us stretches a month and more of endless waiting at the port of Barfleur, a month of tempest, gales and violent seas that kept us penned like sheep for market. Until Henry could wait no longer. He was no sheep but a predator—and as restless as one of the caged lions I had seen in Byzantium. I smile a little as I recall.

‘We’ve been here a month,’ he had all but shouted, stabbing his finger in accusation at no one in particular.

‘We are all aware of that,’ I had remarked calmly, although his frustration had driven me to distraction.

‘And over there—I could almost spit the distance!’ He jabbed the finger in the general direction. ‘Over there is England, six weeks without a king. Who knows what mischief’s afoot with me shackled here by one bloody tempest after another?’

‘There’s nothing you can do. They know you’ll come when you can.’

He flung down the book that had kept his attention for all of five minutes. ‘I’ll risk it. I’ll go tomorrow, no matter what.’ He marched to the door, shouting orders as he went.

I had expected this, but still it lapped around my heart, a rising tide of fear.