Devil's Consort (17 page)

‘I am happy.’ I would make my immediate wishes plain since it seemed that I must. I leaned close. ‘If you come to me I will show you how happy I am to be here as your wife.’

‘I will …’

I ordered candles to be lit. I bathed and combed my hair, robed myself in a lavender-fragrant linen shift heavy with embroidery. The bed had been newly made up with my own linens, thus obliterating much of the damp, and the brazier was stoked, a handful of herbs from the sun-filled gardens of the south thrown on to scent the air and ward off the chills.

I dismissed my women to find what comfort they could in their own chamber.

Settled against the pillows, I waited.

The brazier dimmed into a dull glow and the candles extinguished in their own wax.

Louis did not come to me. I did not think I could have been more obvious in my invitation, and there
was nothing I could do to remedy his decision. I could hardly summon him, like a lord sending for a lackey, neither did I care to advertise my own failure—my continuing failure—in bringing my husband to my bed.

Climbing from the high bed, I opened the door to rouse my women. For the rest of the night Aelith curled beside me, as she had every night when we were children. For once she was sufficiently sensitive to make no comment. For my part, I seethed with frustration and fury.

I was not a child. I was a wife. I was a woman and I wanted a man in my bed.

Where was my husband?

Next morning I was up betimes. Really, it was very simple. I knew what I must do and how to do it. Before I had broken my fast, leaving Aelith asleep, I was off in search of my absent husband. I would talk to him, tell him of my own needs, and his, not least the need for an heir. He must see sense. If it was shyness I would try to put him at his ease. I would make him talk to me. If necessary, I would demand his presence with me at night.

I would not be neglected in this way.

First his own private apartments after asking directions. I entered without knocking—why should I not?—and walked through corridors and antechambers, finding no trace of life. Eventually, opening doors indiscriminately, I discovered what must be Louis’s
bedchamber. The bed was as vast as mine, hung with the blue and gold of the Capetians, the never-ending
fleurs de lys
glinting in the shadows.

Empty.

And as far as I could see, unused for many weeks. None of Louis’s possessions were strewn about the room. Neither brazier nor means of lighting. The room was cold and unoccupied with dust on coffer and floor. When I punched the bed curtains with my fist, I sneezed on the resulting cloud. I doubted he had been there since his return to Paris.

So where was he?

In an antechamber I came across a servant—a young boy, probably a page—who looked startled to see me but bowed.

‘Where is His Majesty?’ I asked in careful
langue d’oeil.

‘At his devotions, lady.’

Of course. Why had I not thought of that? ‘Does His Majesty have a private chapel in the palace?’

‘Yes, lady. The chapel of Saint Nicholas.’

‘Will you take me there?’

‘Yes, lady … But it’ll do no good …’

‘Why not?’ Had I misunderstood his reply? I thought not.

‘I would take you, lady—but His Majesty is not in the palace’ I thought the page looked pityingly at my ignorance. ‘His Majesty is at the Cathedral of Notre
Dame.’ The vast edifice that shared the Ile de la Cité with the palace.

‘He rose early?’ I asked.

‘He stayed there, lady. Through the night. His Majesty often stays there, rather than here in the palace. The Prince—His Majesty—has rooms set aside for his use there.’

‘And when will he return here?’

The lad shrugged. ‘His Majesty spends all day at Notre Dame. He observes the offices and …’

I raised a hand to stop him as truth dawned. So Louis had returned to the monks almost as soon as he had set foot back in Paris. Better a hard bed in a monkish cell than mine. The thought resurrected a moment in the previous day. Now I understood the Dowager Queen’s insistence that her son put in an appearance at the banquet. Clearly she knew him well, fearing he would run hotfoot to the monks as soon as he left her rooms. She knew him better than I! I would remedy that soon enough. A little heat thrummed through my blood.

‘I need you to take me to the cathedral,’ I ordered briskly.

Notre Dame crouched in the grey dawn, dark and looming like a sleeping dragon painted in one of the old books in my grandfather’s library in Poitiers. My young guide—Guillaume, he informed me—was for
the most part silent, overawed by his royal companion and unsure of why I should wish to go to Notre Dame at this early hour. He led me along the vast arched nave towards the chancel, where I could hear the monks’ voices uplifted in singing the order of Prime.

Where was Louis? Impatient as I was, I could not interrupt the holy brothers. I looked enquiringly at the page, who shrugged his shoulders and ushered me to a seat in the chancel, then bowed and left me as if he considered his task done.

I looked around. It was difficult to see anything in the cool shadows, the early morning light barely illuminating the vast building, but I could certainly not see Louis, neither in the choir stalls nor kneeling before the High Altar, where I might have expected the King to pay his respects to the Almighty. So I set myself to wait until the service was over. And because it seemed appropriate I knelt and bent my head in prayer. For my strange marriage with Louis. For strength to make my new life here.

The blessing was administered, the service ended, the monks filed out towards the refectory for bread and beer before taking up their appointed tasks for the day. With an eye to accosting the Abbot, I rose to my feet. And looked. And looked again at Louis, my husband, his pale hair curling to his shoulders beneath the cowled hood. Now I knew why I had not picked him out. Clad in a rough monkish robe, girded with the knotted rope
of the monks, Louis walked silently amongst them as if he were one of their number, under vows of obedience and poverty. His hands were clasped in prayer, his eyes downcast. He had no sense of my being there at all.

But, then, why should he? His mind was not centred on me. I played no significant part in his life at all. And seemed hardly likely to do so, a caustic voice whispered irreverently in my head, if this was where he chose to spend his time.

I stepped out, almost into his path.

‘My lord …’

Startled from his inner prayers, Louis glanced up. It seemed for just a moment that there was irritation in his face at being disturbed by an impudent petitioner, until he recognised me and the lines around his mouth softened, although I thought he was still not altogether reconciled to my sudden appearance.

‘Eleanor. What are you doing here?’

‘I came to find you.’ I would be patient. Louis looked so young, so unassuming, that the hard words I had practised during the night hours drained away completely.

Taking my hand, Louis manoeuvred me adroitly out of the path of the monks. ‘Did you wish to speak with me?’

‘Yes. Why would I be here if I did not?’ More sharply than I had intended.

‘Come, then.’ And with a genuflection towards the
altar, he led me to his room, closing the door to give us some privacy. ‘What is it?’

At first I could do nothing but look around me. It was a cell. Nothing better than a monk’s cell with bare stone floor and bare walls, except for a small crucifix over the bed. And the bed, on which I sat as there was barely room for the two of us to stand, was a narrow cot with a single thin covering. Nothing else.

This for the King of France.

‘Well?’ Louis asked, sitting beside me.

‘Do you stay here?’ I asked.

‘When I can.’

‘But why? You are the King of France!’

Louis tilted his head. ‘I was brought up with this,’ he reminded me simply. ‘I think it was what my life was meant to be. I should not have been King.’

The admission, the rejection, startled me. He did not wish to be King. He would rather return to his old life of worship and service. I had not appreciated how deep it ran still: his past, the childhood influences on him.

‘Do you never stay in your own rooms in the palace?’ A dark fear, a fear with claws, began to squeeze my heart.

Louis stared at the crucifix as if he realised that he had been indiscreet. ‘Of course.’ He linked his fingers with mine, although his eyes remained on the crucified Christ. ‘I know that I can’t stay here as I would wish. I am King and now I have other duties that demand my time.’

And I am one of them! ‘Why did you not come to me last night?’ I asked, although before God I knew the answer.

‘Because I was here.’ How simple a statement.

‘A husband has a duty towards his wife.’

‘And I will fulfil it. I have fulfilled it. For the past weeks I have put my father’s demands before my own, neglecting my path to God’s grace. My father did not understand. But now I am King and returned home. And yesterday was a Holy Saint’s day, so I kept a night vigil as we are instructed to do. I could not stay with you, Eleanor.’ Now he looked at me, leaned and pressed the lightest of kisses against my brow. ‘You are so very beautiful—but it is not permitted that I share your bed on a Saint’s Day.’

The claws sank deeper, the fear intensified.

‘And tonight? Will you come to me tonight?’

‘No. You must understand, Eleanor. It is no reflection of my deep affection and respect for you, but today is Friday.’ He was very serious, as if explaining to a child.

‘And you are not permitted to enjoy intimate relations on a Friday.’ My tolerance was fraying rapidly at the edges, like an old, much-worn girdle.

‘No.’

‘But … you need an heir.’

‘As I know. You did not to conceive from our last coupling?’ From our only coupling! And I did not yet know the outcome of Louis’s virility. ‘If you did,’ Louis
continued, not waiting for a reply, ‘there’s no need for me to demand intimate relations with you more frequently than seems appropriate.’

Appropriate. Frustration built within me, stone upon stone. I fixed my eyes on his. This was no time for shyness. ‘Do you not think, Louis, that sharing my bed could bring pleasure—to both of us?’

A little frown creased his brow, although he lifted my fingers to his lips. ‘But that is forbidden. It is sinful, Eleanor. The Scriptures teach that the purpose of a man knowing a woman is for the procreation of children, and for no other reason.’

‘But God made us in his image, to experience physical satisfaction—together.’

‘Of course—but within the bounds of Holy Scripture.’

Louis looked at me quizzically, as if amazed that I should not understand this. He was so gentle, so considerate, his certainty so absolute, that I knew I was right to be afraid as I saw my future in his calm explanation. How could any woman—even I—compete with God and the demands of Holy Mother Church for his attentions?

‘God determines the course of my life, although I will always be concerned for your happiness. I’ll not neglect you, Eleanor—but you must understand that I dedicate my life to God.’

‘Will you at least eat with me? Tonight, in my chamber. Privately. Just the two of us so that we might …’ I
shrugged helplessly, clutching at a passing straw. If he would at least spend time with me, I might win him over to seeing that intimacy need not be sinful.

‘No. I cannot. On Fridays I fast—on bread and water. It is a day of penitence for our sins.’ He stood, releasing my hands. ‘And now you must go. I keep vigil every day, when royal duties permit, between Prime and Vespers. I must pray for my mortal soul. For my country. And I will pray for you too, dear Eleanor.’ Hand firmly at my waist, he was almost pushing me from the cell.

‘When will I see you again?’

‘When my time permits.’

His smile held the sweetness of honey, the emptiness of a stone tomb. Without a second look, Louis walked away from me, back towards the body of the church and the brotherhood of monks, not caring whether I followed or not.

‘Louis …’

He did not turn his head.

‘Louis!’ This time I did not moderate my voice.

And this time Louis turned his face, even at a distance a study in reproach. ‘You must not shout, Eleanor. Not in church. It is not respectful to God.’

Which left me with nothing much to say. Louis left me standing there, my blood colder than the stone that surrounded me. Isolated. Adrift. Uncertain as the truth hit me. Here I was no longer Duchess of Aquitaine, a
ruler with power in her hands, merely a woman with no place but as wife to King Louis.

But Louis did not want to be King. Nor did he want me as his wife.

I was thoughtful on my return, seeking firm footing in the swamp that had suddenly spread itself around my feet, threatening to suck me down. How easy it would be to wallow in misery. Instead, I summoned my women. Quiet, pretty Mamille. Florine and Torqueri, sharp and sly, lovers of gossip. Flirtatious Faydide. Solemn, thoughtful Sybille, Countess of Flanders. There was no laughter here. They were as unsettled as I. Seeing their doleful faces as they huddled in their furs made me decisive. There were changes to be made.

‘Come and walk with me,’ I invited Aelith. ‘And you too, Sybille. Tell me what you think of our new home.’

‘You don’t need me to tell you.’ Aelith grimaced at the encrusted muck from the brazier that our slippers and skirts spread across the floor.

‘Pull it all down and start again!’ Sybille stated with unusual candour.

I laughed, my spirits lifting in their company. ‘Our thoughts run together.’

At the end of an hour I sent for parchment, pen and ink. The result was a list, not long but with consequences.
I set it aside until Louis could satisfy God and visit his wife.

The changes I foresaw would not be only in my living arrangements.

I
HAD
travelled all my life. We in Aquitaine were an itinerant restless court, winter and summer alike, journeying from one end of our domains to the other. Since my father insisted that I travel with him, I had stayed in every variety of accommodation, from castle to hunting lodge, from palace to northern manor to villa in the south. From campaigning tent to luxurious pavilion, in Limoges and Blaye, Melle and Beyonne. I knew gardens and tiled fountains, light, airy rooms in summer, satisfying heat in winter.