Devil's Consort (23 page)

‘Look at you, woman! All airs and graces and mincing steps, laden with ornament.’

I smoothed my hands down my silk-damask skirts, aware of the shimmer-rich tawny cloth. Had I not taken utmost care with my appearance to honour my husband before this important delegation? Would a visitor to our court address me, the Queen of France, in such a manner?

He would if he were Bernard, Abbot of the Cistercian order of monks at Clairvaux. There he stood in the Great Hall, spittle flying with his words of condemnation, his flowing white hair giving him an air of prophetic sanctity as if he were a figure come alive from the Old Testament.

‘Your hair—revealed for all men to see! Have you no understanding of what God demands from the fallen daughters of Eve? In recompense for her seduction of Adam into sin?’

Neither was he finished.

‘Daughter of Belial! Your appearance is an affront to God! If your husband will not take you to task, it is my duty to do so, in God’s name!’

I held the pale gaze, marvelling at the passion in this man, skeletally thin as he was from fasting and the rigours of his holy life. So frail he looked as if a buffet
of storm wind would lay him low, but he still claimed the authority to rebuke me.

‘I recall your execrable grandfather, madam’ He was quivering with holy fire. ‘I recall his flouting of God’s teachings.’

True enough. The ninth Duke had preserved an ambiguous relationship with both the Almighty and His Church, upholding the motto ‘I will do as I please’. The Duke would honour God, as long as God’s will did not conflict with the Duke’s. My grandfather had spent much of his life excommunicate from one cause or another, chiefly his unholy liaison with Dangerosa.

‘My grandfather respected God well enough,’ I remarked frostily, looking towards Louis for help and getting none. Louis looked predictably tongue-tied. I decided it would not be politic to recall Dangerosa to Abbot Bernard’s vicious judgement. It would not help this situation.

‘You must learn to curb your tongue, daughter,’ Abbot Bernard challenged, his hostility unabated. ‘How can it be seemly in a woman to voice her opinions? It is not your place.’

‘It is my place, my lord Abbot.’ I would not be silent before this crude attack. ‘I was raised to have opinions and not fear to express them. I shall continue to do so. My lord the King does not object. Why should you?’

Which predictably failed to silence my vicious-tongued adversary. ‘I will preach to this misbegotten court what is acceptable in the eyes of God!’

And he did, every point sharpened like the tip of a poignard to rip my outrageous appearance to shreds.

The skirts of my gown—’… a virtuous man might think such a woman to be a viperous snake by the tail she drags after her in the dirt …’—the embroidered and furred decoration on my hem and cuff—’ … skins of squirrels and the labour of silkworms, all to clothe a woman who should be content with plain cloth …’—cosmetics to enhance, as any woman worth her salt would wish to do—’ … a thrice-damned superficial beauty, put on in the morning and laid aside at night …’

Such was Holy Bernard’s condemnation, his voice trembling with ire, his fist hammering against the lectern, whilst I sat, backbone straight, unmoved by the vitriol. How dared he condemn a daughter of Aquitaine? I would never bow my head before the Abbot of Clairvaux—but I was aware that beside me Louis sat transfixed, concentrating on every word. Louis’s face glowed as if Bernard’s delivery came straight from the mouth of God.

This was dangerous. In that moment I knew I had an implacable enemy. Abbot Suger would undermine me in a subtle, subterranean manner. Adelaide was as vicious as a vixen, snapping at my heels with sharp teeth, but without real influence. Now Bernard of Clairvaux—he was the wolf at my door. Here was Louis hanging on his every word. I could not afford to
underestimate Bernard of Clairvaux. He was no friend to me. With Louis’s ear, he might cause me harm.

But then Bernard was forgotten in the excitement of my first escape from the Isle de la Cité. I was crowned Queen of France on Christmas Day at Bourges. In the great cathedral, in a sumptuous ceremony under the astute hand of Abbot Suger, Louis and I were acknowledged as King and Queen of France. Although already crowned in his father’s lifetime, the Abbot considered it no bad thing to remind the cynical and battle-hardened vassals of the Frankish king that Louis was their new monarch. I watched as the crown was placed on his head.

Louis twitched with apprehension, as if he expected the crown to fall at his feet.

I sighed.

Why could he not have been better matched to the position he held? Why could he not have resembled the men of my own family—proud, confident in his demeanour, power at his fingertips? Even with the weight of gold and jewels on his fair hair he looked more boy than man. Why did he have to fidget so? Why could he not stare down these lords who had an eye to every weakness? Louis had the crown and God’s blessing. Why did his hand have to clench nervously on the hilt of the sword of state?

God’s bones! I could play the role with more conviction than Louis ever could.

I was crowned too. I felt the thrill of it run through my blood. I was still young and inexperienced enough to believe that the mystical symbols of crown and oil and holy water would mean something. How could they not bring me happiness and contentment? In those days my heart was full of hope, and Louis did his best to make my experience of Bourges memorable.

By the Virgin, it was!

Louis ordered the creation of a masterpiece to impress me and his vassals. At the climax of the coronation feast, four men staggered from the kitchens under the weight of a giant platter bearing a subtlety worthy of one of my own master cooks.

‘I had it made for you.’ Louis beamed, beckoning the men forward.

It was manhandled onto the table before me, a vast pastry crust on a pottery base, the whole fashioned and gilded into a castle with towers and crenellations, just like the Maubergeonne tower. With its moat of green leaves and ribboned banners imprinted with
fleurs de lys
floating from its towers, it was a tour de force indeed. With an ingenuous smile of delight, Louis indicated for the lid to be raised.

‘What’s inside?’ Sweetmeats? Flowers? Some impressive creation of precious sugar? Or perhaps even a jewelled coronal to match the official one of my crowning?

‘Wait and see …’

A knife was run around the circumference. I leaned
forward. A hush fell as all waited. The lid was raised in a piece …

A gasp.

A murmur of agitation arose from the women as, with a frantic flutter of wings, a flurry of small songbirds escaped from their prison up into the rafters and roof spaces or flew with swooping panic over the tables. The women shrieked, hands to their veils, the men shouted with ale-fuelled appreciation. In mounting terror the birds flew more madly with loud cheepings, their droppings splattering down indiscriminately on tables, food and clothing.

I think I gawped. I certainly hiccupped on an entirely inappropriate laugh. I might have ducked below the level of the table to escape a darting flock of finches.

‘Shit!’ Raoul of Vermandois guffawed crudely.

‘Your Majesty!’ Abbot Suger said deploringly, still retaining his ecclesiastical dignity against all the odds.

Poor Louis! If he had hoped for melodic tweetings, he was disappointed. Shrill and tuneless, the creatures merely added to the pandemonium. Nor was that all. With shouts of laugher from the barons, crossbows appeared in eager hands, arrows aimed—dangerously—at these unexpected targets. Their aim was remarkably good, all things considered. As the barons roared their approval at every hit, my own vassals amongst them, the songbirds began to fall, to be snapped up by the hounds that swarmed and waited below.

I watched with growing dismay.

Aelith giggled in horror.

‘Well, Louis …’ I sought for words through my distaste at so much thoughtless bloodshed, through pity for the small corpses. ‘That was truly spectacular!’

Louis, on his feet, paled to the blue-white of a corpse. ‘I did not mean for this.’

Of course he had not. But had he not thought? Two score or more birds encased in a pie, released from their captivity, would assuredly cause havoc.

‘Clear them out,’ he ordered as one wounded, cheeping creature fell onto the table under his nose.

‘How is it possible?’ I asked, angry now. ‘If you wait long enough, your barons will dispatch most of them.’

It was indeed pitiful. Blood and death and poor little bodies. I tried not to mind the smirks and ridicule from the lords who were sober enough to mock Louis’s failure. The whole was only brought to a halt when a casually loosed arrow buried itself in the shoulder of one ill-fortuned squire.

Poor Louis.

Even his best efforts were crowned with disaster.

When Louis solemnly gave the formal kiss of peace on the mouth to each of his barons, I shivered with uneasy premonition. He was no leader of men and never would be.

It was impressed on me in those early days of my marriage after my crowning that I had misjudged my self-appointed task to make Louis attend to me. Louis
continued to apportion his time spent with me and in matters of government to the barest necessity. Almighty God ruled Louis’s world. God demanded his devotion, his meticulous observance of the offices, the measuring of his days. Oh, he was always pleased when his path crossed mine. I could never fault the depth of affection and kindness in him. He would kiss my cheek, give me gifts. Sometimes he would kiss my lips and stroke his hand down my hair, looking at me in delighted, innocent amazement as if he could not quite understand how he had come to have a wife at all.

Sometimes I did not see him for days on end.

Before God, I was patient with him. I would not shout. I would not scold or upbraid him for his neglect of me. Sweet Virgin, I would not! I had to keep a tight hold on my temper as my life was smothered by the flat, tedious, all-encompassing monotony of it all.

Boredom had a heavy hand.

How did I pass my time?

With my women I set stitches in belts and altar cloths. We played chess, we sang and read and gossiped when the weather was unkind. We strolled in the gardens. On bright mornings we rode out to hunt and hawk.

It was stultifying. Suffocating.

Sometimes Louis came to my bed, but not before praying through the order of Compline as if his soul could not survive the night with me without the click of the rosary beads through his fingers. He slept beside me. He did not touch me.

My courses came regularly, again and again, as the months passed. Why would they not? Although Louis’s face fell at my failure to conceive, he had not felt moved to repeat the experience beyond that first brief occasion.

‘How do I bear a child if you will not play the man?’ I demanded, furious with him, unable to contain my frustration when he enquired yet again after my health.

Louis turned his face away.

But not before I experienced that first flutter of fear. What if I failed to carry an heir for France? What would be my future then? Even more important to me—what if I conceived no heir for Aquitaine? I stamped down on the thought before it could bear fruit.

I was thrown back on my own devices. What did I do with my time, my energies? What did I do to warm this cold northern existence, to exercise my mind and my imagination? Songs and stories had a finite quality. The constructions Louis had promised me continued apace. Soon I had my glazed windows and fireplaces, my beautiful tapestries that filled the rooms with vibrant colour and tales of daring and courage, but my heart remained far away in Aquitaine. In Poitiers. I yearned for the warmth, the beauty, the songs and dancing that stirred the blood to passion. I wanted feasting and laughter and.

So there it was. It was no great leap to set up my own court, a close mirror image of what I knew and
loved. I would be Duchess of Aquitaine first, Queen of France second. I would drag this backward court into an Aquitanian world of rich hues and sensual pleasures. I would create a little Aquitaine in the heart of Paris. And surely, somewhere in the novelty and excitement of it all, I could bring Louis to my bed as man and lover instead of as an affectionate brother.

‘You’ve been busy again, Eleanor.’ His hands plucked uncomfortably at the embroidered band around his cuff as he surveyed what I had done to the High Table. A linen cloth stretched fair and stainless along its length, as white as snow, with a napkin, a glass, a knife and a spoon at every place. Plates of polished pewter and silver. No more bread trenchers for those who sat at my table. The pages’ hands were scoured to red-fingered purity, the finger bowls perfumed with citrus and rosemary, frequently replenished. A troubadour warmed the strings of his lute. ‘Does it make you happy?’

‘Yes, indeed.’ I smiled encouragingly. I had his full attention. ‘One thing would please me far more,’ I whispered in Louis’s ear. ‘One thing would make me very happy.’

‘Then I will grant it. You only have to ask.’

‘Come to me tonight. We will pray together—’ a lure he could not refuse ‘—and then I will tell you. Will you come?’

‘Yes.’ There was no hesitation. Louis smiled at me.

‘Promise me.’

‘I promise.’

Excellent. I had a plan. My experience told me that there was perhaps one pathway to Louis’s reluctant loins.

‘Do you recall the success of your expedition against de Lezay at Talmont, Louis? When you rescued my gerfalcons?’

We had prayed. At some length. Now at ease, Louis lay beside me in the bed. The room was warm, the bed-hangings sumptuous, the linens soft against our naked flesh. Louis’s skin gleamed in the light from the single candle. I had hidden the Book of Hours in the bottom of one of my coffers.

‘Yes.’ A smile, swiftly followed by a little frown. ‘I recall de Lezay …’

‘It was a victory,’ I broke in, to obliterate his memory of de Lezay’s severed hands.

‘Yes. A victory.’ Still he was troubled.

‘To impose your authority on an impudent vassal who had stolen what was mine.’