Devil's Consort (11 page)

It took a full minute for his words to make sense.

‘You will not stay with me?’

‘I need to pray, my lady.’ Again almost a rebuke, as if I were thoughtless and inconsiderate of any needs but my own. ‘For my father the King’s health. For our safe travel. Archbishop Suger awaits me in the chapel.’

I wrapped my dignity around me with the chamber robe. He had no intention of spending our wedding night with me. Dismay and disappointment twined to create a bright fury that I could barely contain. ‘Of course it is necessary to pray,’ I snapped. ‘You must not keep God or the Abbot waiting.’

Louis was immune to my barbs. With a bow, he was gone. I might even have thought him relieved to escape.

The water in the tub was cooling as I stepped into it and sank up to my chin, my mind not at ease. Despite the relish of victory over what I might or might not wear, I was mystified by the Prince’s rejection of me. My pride was hurt, and I resented the fact, for was I not descended from an impressive company of proud women? I considered myself not the least of their number. How could I not see my own supremacy in them? Their fire
was in my own blood. Their knowledge of what was due to them coloured my own self-worth. Their ghosts had stalked me, their exploits had been the tales of my childhood.

What would they say if they had seen my weak compliance in Louis’s absence from my bed? Forsooth, my female forebears would have taken me to task.

Women such as Philippa, my paternal grandmother. High minded and unbending, she lived by the principles of duty and obedience to God, and the respect due to her as the heiress to the county of Toulouse. A formidable woman, although I found it difficult to condone her retiring to spend her final days with the nuns at the Abbey of Fontevrault, assaulting the ears of God with her prayers for revenge, when the ninth Duke, her husband and my grandfather, lived openly with his lover under Philippa’s very nose, in Philippa’s own favourite palace. I would not have left the field. I would have waged war against my neglectful husband who dared humiliate me, and against the upstart whore who had usurped my bed.

Or perhaps I would not.

Because that whore—Dangerosa—was my maternal grandmother. Originally wife to the Viscount of Chatellerault, she saw my grandfather William in full glory of mail and weaponry, and fell into love, like a gannet diving head first into the waves off Bordeaux. So too did William fall, so heavily that he must abduct Dangerosa from her bedchamber—with no obvious
protest on Dangerosa’s part—and carry her off to his palace at Poitiers, where he established her in the newly constructed Maubergeonne Tower. They were besotted with each other, making no secret of their sinful union. Dangerosa raised her chin at the world’s condemnation, whilst Duke William had the lady’s portrait painted on the face of his shield. It was, he boasted, his desire to bear her likeness into battle, as she had borne the weight of his body so willingly and frequently in bed.

A tasteless jest. My grandfather had a strong streak of coarse humour.

Dangerosa never regretted her choice. She was his whore until his death, keeping her unpredictable lover more or less faithful with a will of steel, and with fearful cunning. Since she could not get Duke William legally into her bed, then her daughter would get William’s son. Thus Dangerosa’s daughter Aenor was wed to my father. Dangerosa keeping it in the family, if you will.

What would Dangerosa think of me now?

‘Am I so ugly? So undesirable?’ I asked Aelith. But I knew I was not. What I did know was it would be common knowledge that my husband had chosen not to share my bed, that he would find more fulfilment on his knees before a crucifix than with me. ‘Do you think he dislikes me?’

‘I think he finds you too beautiful,’ Aelith crooned to comfort me as she combed out my hair.

‘But not in chamois drawers.’

‘He is a man. What does he know?’

‘I thought he would erupt in a storm of temper when I refused …’

‘I doubt he has a temper in him,’ Aelith disagreed.

‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Yet there had been just that one moment when I thought I had seen a dark flare of barely controlled rage. ‘But why does he not want me?’

‘He does not know women. He does not know how to please them. Now, his cousin Lord Raoul would not hold back, I swear.’

I slapped her hand away when she tugged on a painful tangle, but she only laughed.

‘I don’t even know that he wants to please me.’ I frowned at my knees emerging from the water.

‘You didn’t make life easy for him, Eleanor,’ Aelith pointed out, fairly enough, I suppose. ‘You challenged him over how you would and would not travel—and what you would and would not wear.’

‘And that wasn’t the first. I’d already been more than forthright over the court position of my troubadour Bernart,’ I admitted with a twinge of guilt.

‘What’s wrong with Bernart?’

‘Nothing—that’s the point. Never mind—we just didn’t agree.’

‘And you haven’t been wed a full day …’

‘I suppose I’ve not been a dutiful wife, have I?’

‘There you have it. He’s a prince. He’s not used to a woman taking him to task.’

My thoughts circled round to the main issue. ‘He
seeks the company of God before mine.’ For the first time in my life I was touched with true uncertainty.

‘Then you’ll just have to show him the error of his ways, won’t you?’

I was not much comforted. Aelith shared my pillows. I rose next morning from my marriage bed as much a virgin as I had entered it.

W
HAT
a welcome we received as we rode into the city of Poitiers, making our way towards the Maubergeonne Tower, grandmother Philippa’s tower, the home I loved the most. There was not the slightest hint of the rebellion that troubled the Abbot’s mind. The streets echoed to the cries of joy of my people so that even Louis was forced to smile and wave at their overt approval. And the crowds responded, urged on by Abbot Suger’s largesse. I saw the coin passed from the bound chests in the baggage-wains to the hands of the greedy populace, even if Louis did not. Louis accepted the acclamation as his right. And why should he not? When his face was filled with happiness and he was clad in mail astride a high-blooded destrier as had been arranged for this entry, he was superbly striking, a prince that they could take to their hearts.

Hope surged within me. This night would see the fulfilment of my marriage.

I was bathed and stripped by my women and took to the soft canopied bed in my own bedchamber. Nervously, expectantly, I waited. A soft knocking at the door. It was pushed open and there, at last, was Louis, under escort from Abbot Suger but otherwise alone. Well, this would be no riotous bedding ceremony with coarse jokes and bold innuendo, and I was not sorry. But it seemed to me that Louis looked as if he was under guard to prevent a precipitate flight. His expression was mutinous.

‘It is time, my lord,’ the Abbot murmured. ‘It is your duty to the lady. This marriage must be consummated.’

‘Yes.’ Louis, wrapped about in a furred brocade chamber robe, stood, hands fisted at his sides, face sullen like a child caught out in some misdemeanour.

‘Perhaps if you joined your bride in the bed, my lord …? Now, my lord!’

It might have been a request but Suger’s face was implacable.

Allowing the robe to fall to the floor, Louis stalked across the room. I was impressed. He stripped well, as I had thought he would, revealing broad shoulders and slender hips. The ascetic life had suited him. Lean, smooth, good to look at, he was well made—but obviously not aroused.

That could surely be rectified. My nurse, left behind
in Bordeaux, had been explicit in what was expected of me. I had not been raised to be timid with thoughts of the flesh.

At a further impatient gesture from the Abbot, Louis slid between the sheets and leaned back against the pillows beside me, his arms folded across his chest. Making every effort not to brush against me, leaving a chilly space between us from shoulder to foot, he sighed loudly. Was it resignation? Distaste? I think he sensed the sudden leap of trepidation in my blood because he turned his head to look at me. With another little sigh, more a controlled exhalation, I saw his body relax. His smile was warm, reassuring. No, I had no need to be anxious after all.

‘My lord,’ the Abbot intoned, wasting no time. ‘My lady. God bless your union. May you be fruitful. May an heir for France come from your loins this night, my lord.’

From his capacious garments he produced a flask of holy water and proceeded to sprinkle us and the bed with a symbol of God’s presence. With a brisk nod in Louis’s direction, he looked as if he might be prepared to stay to see the deed done. We were not an ordinary couple, to order their lives to their own wishes: our marriage must be consummated before the law.

Such a necessity proved not to be to my husband’s taste. Louis scowled.

‘We’ll do well enough without your presence, sir.’

‘It is a matter of witnesses, my lord …’

‘God will be witness to what passes between myself and my wife.’

‘His Majesty, your father, will—’

‘His Majesty is not here to express his desires. It is my wish that you leave us.’

Well! Louis’s decisiveness impressed me. Abbot Suger bowed himself from the room, leaving us sitting naked, side by side. The room was still, the only sound the soft hush as ash fell from the logs in the fireplace. I sat unmoving. My husband would take the initiative, would he not?

Louis slid from the bed.

‘Where are you going?’ I demanded when I found my scattered wits.

Without replying, shrugging into his robe again, Louis crossed the room and knelt at my
prie-dieu,
clasped his hands and bent his fair head in prayer, murmuring the familiar words with increasing fervour so that they filled the room.

On and on it went. Should I join him on my knees, to pray with him? But he had not invited me, neither did I think it appropriate when this occasion demanded a physical rather than spiritual response. I clawed my fingers into the linen. I’d wager Dangerosa and my grandfather did not begin their reprehensible relationship on their knees before a crucifix.

‘Hail Mary.’

‘Louis!’ I said, cautiously. Should I disturb him in his prayers?

‘Blessed art thou among women …’

‘Louis!’ I raised my voice to an unmaidenly pitch.

Unhurriedly, Louis completed the Ave, rose, genuflected, and returned to the bed, where he once more removed his robe and slid between the sheets, but bringing with him my little Book of Hours that he proceeded to open, turning the pages slowly from one illuminated text to the next.

‘This is a very beautiful book,’ he observed.

I was tempted to snatch it from him and hurl it across the room.

Instead, I said, ‘Louis—did you not wish to marry me?’

‘Of course. My father wished it. It is an important marriage to make our alliance between France and Aquitaine. The Scriptures say it is better for a man to marry than to burn.’

I did not think, on evidence, that Louis burned.

‘But do you not want me?’

‘You are beautiful.’

So was my Book of Hours! ‘Then tell me, Louis.’ Perhaps he was simply shy. Was that it? A boy brought up by monks might be reserved and indecisive in the company of a woman who was naked and expecting some degree of intimacy. I would encourage him. ‘Tell me why you think I am beautiful. A woman always likes to know.’

‘If you wish.’ He did not close the book, keeping one finger in the page, but now he looked at me. ‘Your hair is … the russet of a dog fox. Look how it curls around my fingers.’ He touched my hair. ‘And your eyes …’ he peered into them ‘ … green.’ Lord, Louis was no poet. My troubadours would mock his lack of skill. ‘Your skin … pale and smooth. Your hands so elegant and soft but so capable—you controlled your horse as well as any man. Your shoulders …’ His fingers skimmed them thoughtfully, until he snatched them away as if they were scorched.

‘Look,’ he said suddenly, urgently. ‘Here.’ He lifted the Book of Hours so that I might see and thumbed through the pages until he came to the illustration he sought, the coloured inks vibrant. ‘Here’s an angel with your exact colouring. Is that not beautiful?’

‘Well, yes …’ It was beautiful, but unreal, with its painted features and heavy with gold leaf. Did he see me as a gilded icon? I was a woman of flesh and blood.

‘What about my lips?’ I asked. Daring, certainly forward, but why not? Once my troubadour Bernart had
compared them to an opening rose, pink and perfectly petalled.

‘Sweet …’

I despaired. ‘You could kiss them.’

‘I would like to.’ Louis leaned forward and placed his lips softly on mine. Fleetingly.

‘Did you like that?’ I asked as he drew away.

His smile was totally disarming. ‘Yes.’

I placed my hand on his chest—his heart beat slow and steady—and leaned to kiss him of my own volition. Louis allowed it but did not respond. He was still smiling at the end. As a child might smile when given a piece of sugared marchpane.

‘I enjoyed it too,’ I said, desperation keen. Did he not know what to do? Surely someone would have seen to his education. He might not have been raised to know the coarse jokes and explicit reminiscences that to my experience men indulged in but surely …

‘I think we shall be happy together,’ he murmured.

‘Would you like to hold me in your arms?’

‘Very much. Shall we sleep now? It’s late and you must be weary.’

‘I thought that …’ What to say? Louis’s eyes were wide and charmingly friendly. ‘Will the Abbot not wish for proof of our union—the sheets …?’ I wouldn’t mince words. ‘The linen should be stained to prove my virginity and your ability to claim it.’