Devil's Consort (13 page)

I saw my chance since my praise mattered so much to him.

‘More proud than you could ever imagine,’ I soothed. ‘How could a wife not be proud of the husband who won back her lands and her possessions? And her pride. You’ll make a magnificent king, Louis—when the time comes, of course.’

‘I shall!’

He was flushed, his eyes bright. Raising a hand, I touched his cheek with my fingertips. Followed by my lips. His skin was hot, the scent pungent of man and horse and outdoor living. A heady mixture. Even the pallor of religious life had been overlaid by the effects of the sun. I transferred my lips to his mouth in experimentation, a soft, virginal kiss.

With a grunt of pleasure, Louis banded his arms
around me, pulling me hard against him, without thought for the sweat and dust and the effect of their proximity to my silks. His blood ran as hot as his skin—I could all but feel it as he trembled against me. His kisses rained down on my face—lips, cheeks, temple—undoubtedly extravagant but disappointingly without finesse.

‘I want you, Eleanor,’ he croaked. ‘I love you.’

And he was pushing me back onto my bed, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste, fumbling with the lacings of his chausses as he climbed beside me.

‘Wait, Louis …’ I tried.

But already he was dragging aside my robe and shift, parting my thighs with his knee, spreading himself over me with clumsy haste. At least he was erect, I observed as if I were not truly involved in this event, but aware of the hardness of him against my belly. Hopefully this time it would happen … A heave, a thrust, and he was inside me. I caught my breath at the dry pain that seemed to tear apart my body but Louis, his face buried between the pillows and my neck, oblivious to my own responses or lack of them, continued to thrust in increasing urgency to end in a final, tense, shudder and groan.

And that was it. All over before I had concentrated my mind to it, Louis spread-eagled still, heavy on my body, gasping for breath like a floundering plaice cast up on the fish dock at Bordeaux—an unfortunate thought in the circumstances—the heat of him all but
suffocating me. Crushed and uncomfortable, I wriggled beneath him.

‘Forgive me …’ Immediately Louis propped himself on his elbows and looked down at me, eyes feverish, a little diffident as the extreme energy drained from his face to leave it lax, as if his features were blurred. ‘Dear, beautiful Eleanor. Now you are my wife.’ His mouth on mine was dry-lipped and tender. ‘Did I hurt you?’

‘No,’ I lied.

‘I’ll never hurt you, Eleanor.’ He searched my face. ‘Are you sure? You’re very quiet.’

I was very sore. I could not lie again but, moved by a surprising rush of tenderness, I pushed my fingers through his sweat-slicked hair. It seemed to reassure him.

‘You fired my blood. I pray God will forgive me if I took you too forcefully. I must go and order a Mass—for my safe return and the health of my lovely wife. I’ll pray for an heir.’ His face broke into a radiant smile. ‘Do you think you have conceived?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘My father will be doubly proud if you already carry my child when we return to Paris. Will you kneel beside me and pray for a son of our begetting?’

‘Yes. I’ll pray with you.’

‘God’s wounds! I feel like shouting our good fortune from the roof of the palace.’

‘I hope you won’t,’ I replied dryly. Everyone would wonder why it had taken us so long to get to this point.
But Louis was no longer there to listen. With a bound he was gone from the bed, straightening his clothing, making for the door.

Leaving me to lie on the disordered linens, and consider—was this what all the fuss was about? I could not believe it. A discomfort, a sharp pain—nothing to write eloquent verse about. I had felt no pleasure in the deed. All rather messy and undignified, I decided, conscious of the slick stickiness between my thighs.
Your innards will become as liquid. Your belly as the sweetest honey, your skin as hot silk.
My nurse had had a way with words but not, it seemed, with truth. My muscles had tightened, clenched, against what had seemed a hostile invasion rather than a longed-for consummation. Giving pleasure to a man was one thing, but should I not receive pleasure too? Was the fault mine or that of Louis? He seemed pleased enough. It had all been rather—brief! And I thought his desire for an heir took precedence over his enjoyment with me, despite his sensitivity in asking if I had survived the experience.

Did I think I had fallen for a child? I buried my face in the pillow. Was he so untutored to think I would know so soon? The door opened and I rolled onto my back. Since it was Aelith who approached the bed with a smug smile, I pushed myself up, pulling down my shift and clasping my knees as I met her avid expression.

‘Well! The blood-letting aroused him, I see. Was he a good lover?’

‘Too quick to tell,’ I admitted ungraciously.

‘Was it as magnificent as the troubadours say? I’d arrange another expedition if I were you.’

‘Perhaps.’ I forced a smile. I’d not tell her of all my misgivings. I was not sure of them myself. Louis had been so thoughtful, and yet. ‘At least I am now his wife in the eyes of God and man.’

‘And in need of a bath!’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Horse and sweat!’ She laughed. ‘So he was successful.’

‘Yes. Order some hot water for me—and then I must pray with Louis for an heir. Do you know … he thanked me as if I had bestowed a miracle on him.’

‘And so you had. Not everyone beds a princess of Aquitaine! Did you enjoy it?’ she asked.

‘Not greatly.’ I saw her disappointment as I began to loosen my hair from its night braid and was sorry for my brusqueness. ‘It’s early days, Aeli. We need to grow to know each other, I expect.’

It was true, after all. We had made a start. I could teach him more of the intimate pleasures of the bed, to his and my benefit. Once we had settled into our accommodation in Paris, life would become simpler. Louis would not feel so pressured by constraints of time and those around him. I would live with him, replacing Suger’s voice with mine. I would teach him what he needed to know about me and the vast lands he had taken on.

‘Do you know what he did?’ I found myself asking her. It had preyed on my mind through all that had
followed Louis’s blurted confession. ‘He chopped off de Lezay’s hands.’

Aelith’s lips made a soundless ‘Oh’.

‘Louis said it was a just punishment for a thief.’

‘Our father spilt enough blood in his time,’ Aelith said consideringly.

‘I did not think our father was so.so vindictive.’

‘It’s nothing out of the way, as I see it,’ Aelith concluded, as if it did not merit further discussion. ‘De Lezay was an arrogant fool.’ She carried my ruined shift to cast it on the bed. ‘I see we have the proof at last. And not before time.’ She had lifted the bed linens, stained with Louis’s sweat and semen and my blood. ‘What shall I do with them?’

I pushed aside the persistent scrape of concern that Louis could be unpredictable in his response to threats or danger, and smiled with not a little malice.

‘Send them to Abbot Suger, of course. I trust he’ll be satisfied. You can tell the Abbot to parcel up the sheets and send them to Fat Louis. His prayers have been answered.’

Fat Louis was never to receive the happy news of his son’s consummation of our marriage. Next morning when we were on our way to Paris before the sun had risen, when we had travelled no longer than one hour, a hard-riding messenger, his
fleurs de lys
all but obliterated by dust, intercepted us. He flung himself at Louis’s feet.

‘Your Majesty!’

Which was enough to tell us all the news. The courier gasped it out. Louis the Sixth, Fat Louis, was dead.

Louis wept into his hands. And when he finally raised his head and turned his face towards Paris, his blue eyes held the panicked fear of an animal caught in a snare. It was in my heart to feel pity for him, but not much. Why would he not want to be King of France? There had been no close affection between father and son as far as I could tell.

I did not weep for a man I did not know. Instead I appraised my new horizons.

I was Queen of France.

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?’