Devil's Consort (86 page)

‘It’s a heavy oath. With a fine ring to it.’

‘I like to make a good impression. My father taught me that, if nothing else.’

The vestige of a grin, a gleam in his eye, stirred the whisper: ‘Beware.’ Henry Plantagenet was a devious
man after all. Yet he surprised me when he transferred his sword from right to left, and held out his right hand to me—and he must have read it in my face.

‘To seal our agreement, lady.’

I placed my hand within his and felt it close around mine. A man’s way to seal a pact, hand to hand, palm to palm, an agreement of equals. It was a strong hand, dwarfing mine, the callus of sword and rein rough against my fingers, the gold shank of his ring digging in. I liked it. I liked the gesture. My hand felt as delicate as a songbird within his protection. As, I knew, he had intended. I thought I would get on very well with Henry Plantagenet, as long as I did not trust him! His fingers tightened around mine.

‘I’ll make you Queen of England,’ he promised, as if it would tip the scale of my decision.

I was not so sure. England. What did I know about this northern kingdom, other than it being an uncivilised and barbaric place, worse than Paris with its lowering skies and constant rain? But to be Queen of England.

‘Do you doubt me?’

I shook my head, admiring his skill at making the impossible seem entirely possible. And I laughed as a memory returned with sharp clarity.

‘King Roger of Sicily called you the Angevin brat,’ I remarked.

‘By the eyes of God! Did he indeed?’ Henry was surprised into a bark of laughter that echoed up into
the arches, then sobered just as rapidly. ‘No. That’s not me. That’s Geoffrey, my brother. I have come of age.’

Then, with nothing more than a brusque little bow, he thrust his sword back into its scabbard and strode up the chancel, leaving me standing. He stopped at the stone-carved screen and swung round.

‘Until Poitou, Eleanor.’

‘Until Poitou, Henry.’

He turned away.

‘Henry …’

He looked back over his shoulder.

‘How old are you, Henry Plantagenet?’

‘Nineteen years.’

Nineteen years! Eleven years between us. Silence stretched between us, a moment suspended in time. Until he turned away, but not before I registered the curve of mischief on his mouth.

I watched him go, to disappear into the shadows of the nave until even his footfall died away. The force of him, the swagger, the outrageous confidence. Not once had he touched me other than that one clasp of hand but I felt his presence with me still, wrapped round me as a velvet mantle on a cold morn. Still so young, yet he had ordered my life and pointed my direction in it.

Would I give myself over to a man of nineteen years?

Yes. Yes, I would. King Roger’s Angevin brat had grown up. He had stirred my cold heart.

At least he had the courtesy not to return my question.

In the remaining days of the Angevin delegation there was no obvious working out of terms. So much for Henry’s assertion that there would be no war. Count Geoffrey expressed his intention to leave, even though there was nothing between him and Louis but hard words. The Count demanded a final audience with Louis, who was irritable at being interrupted from his prayers.

‘What use in this?’ Louis grumbled. Geoffrey scowled. Henry gazed blandly into space. ‘I’ll not recognise your son as Duke of Normandy.’

Count Geoffrey cleared his throat. ‘I will offer terms. I want peace.’ He produced the map again, unrolling it with distaste. The words were wrung from him. ‘I’m willing to pay to get it, and to end hostilities between us. My offer—that I give up the Norman portion of the Vexin, in return for your recognition of my son as Duke of Normandy.’

Now, if I had had to guess the basis for an agreement between the Angevins and Louis, it would never have been the Vexin. As a stretch of territory it was notorious for warfare, a much-disputed piece of land stretching between France and Normandy and coveted by both. Snarled over, in fact, for more years than I could count,
like a tasty bone between two starving curs. France held the south, Normandy the north. And both, in the interests of border politics, wished to annex the whole.

So Count Geoffrey would give up the Vexin, would he?

‘The Vexin?’ Louis was as startled as I. ‘You’ll give up the Vexin?’

The only one not openly astonished was Henry, whose hooded eyes gave nothing away.

‘I want peace.’ Count Geoffrey.

‘And you’d hand over the Vexin?’ Louis.

‘So it seems,’ Count Geoffrey snarled.

‘Then I accept,’ Louis replied, before the Count could change his mind, ‘and I’ll thank God for it.’

Louis held out his hand, meeting Count Geoffrey’s reluctant one.

And for one brief moment Henry’s glance touched on mine. So he had persuaded his father. Count Geoffrey might detest it but Henry would have his way.

Well, we would see.

I was sorry to see him go.

‘A miracle,’ Louis announced almost gleefully. ‘I prayed for this.’

‘Then God answers your prayers.’

‘It must be so, to change the Angevin’s mind.’

Ha! God had had very little to do with it.

It is never good policy to make plans for the future and expect them to materialise. Two weeks later,
unexpected news: Count Geoffrey was dead of a virulent fever after swimming in a river to relieve the heat of the day on his return to Anjou. I was sorry. Despite his unscrupulous wooing of my affections, I had pleasant memories of that sojourn in Poitiers when the Count of Anjou had opened a closed box of delights for me and taught me the pleasure that could exist between a man and a woman.

Louis cloaked his satisfaction in a High Mass for the Count’s unworthy soul. Holy Bernard claimed inner knowledge of the Count’s punishment for reviling the Lord’s name.

I was simply regretful.

So now what? His death opened quite another box, which proved to be not to my disadvantage. The old lion of Anjou was dead, and into his shoes would step the young lion. Henry, Count of Anjou, Duke of Normandy, now with no curb on his power or his direction. Henry would rule. My future suddenly seemed bright with possibility.

And even at home Fortune was angling her capricious face to smile on me. Within a matter of months, in January of the new year of 1151, Abbot Suger was dead, the one voice that was raised so eloquently to the bitter end to keep Louis from setting me free. He died peacefully in his sleep and that voice was silenced at last, Almighty God taking him to His bosom for all his Good Deeds in Louis’s name. And thank God for it. I would now hound Louis at every step and there would
be no one to drown out my demands. There was still Galeran, of course, but I ignored him with smiling arrogance and set my sights on my quarry.

The tide was running strongly for me at last.

At Matins I knelt at Louis’s side in Notre Dame as the choir lifted its voice to heaven in joyful praise.

‘In God’s name, Louis, give me an annulment.’

Louis closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands.

At supper, when Louis picked at the fish during Lent.

‘Why will you not consider it? There’s nothing left in this marriage for either of us.’

‘We are man and wife in the eyes of God and the law.’ He gobbled the mess of salt cod as if it were his last meal.

‘The saintly Bernard doesn’t see it that way.’ I considered a spoonful of the harsh, unspiced flesh, then rejected it.

Louis too pushed aside the portion unfinished, eyes bleak. Much as those on the cod’s head on the serving platter. ‘I can’t do it. You’ll make me a laughing stock.’

‘Better an annulled marriage than no male heir,’ I stated under cover of the mournful wailing of a group of travelling minstrels who did not deserve my patronage. His face paled. I had him there. I was destroying his appetite and had no compunction.

* * *

In his audience chamber. I approached as a supplicant with Alix in my arms.

‘If this is the last child I carry for you, your brother will inherit your throne.’

‘I know what you want. My answer is no.’

I smiled serenely. ‘You know it is so. Your brother can’t wait to snatch the crown. He watches every breath you take, and prays it will be your last.’

‘I won’t do it, Eleanor. The Pope blessed our union.’

‘But I am incapable of conceiving a son.’

When Alix let out a high-pitched female shriek of infantile wrath, Louis flinched.

In his bedchamber, where I sat in wait for him to return from a night vigil, pale-faced and gaunt.

‘Is Aquitaine worth all this, Louis?’

He shut himself in the garderobe and groaned as if his bowels were gripped by a flux.

I pursued him to the stables where he inspected a favourite horse.

‘Majesty …’ I was conscious of the listening grooms.

‘No!’

‘You louse, Louis! I’m out of all patience with you!’

In the Great Hall. I steeled myself. I would not relent. If I could not rest with this marriage, Louis must not be allowed to sweep the problem behind the tapestry
either. And here was Galeran at his shoulder, deliberately summoned to stiffen Louis’s spine. Even better.

I marched across to them.

‘Grant me an annulment! I will have it!’ Louis turned to look at me, eyes unnervingly expressionless.

‘Louis …!’

‘Then have it.’

No, his eyes were not expressionless. They were full of misery.

‘What?’

‘Have your annulment!’

‘Do you mean it?’

‘Yes. Have I not said?’

‘But, Majesty …!’ Galeran plucked at his sleeve, lines of agitation suddenly digging deep from nose to mouth.

‘Enough!’ Louis pulled away with quick temper. ‘I know the arguments against this. I know what I’ll lose.’

‘Half your kingdom, Majesty!’

‘Do you think I don’t know? I’ve had enough of it. You’re right, Eleanor. It’s God’s will. Have your annulment. Before God, you’ve worked hard to get it!’

‘But you’ll lose Aquitaine,’ Galeran almost wailed. I watched his efforts to force a rebuttal on Louis, and rejoiced at his defeat as Louis turned on him.

‘Do you think I don’t know it? Of course I do, you fool. But what is Aquitaine to me if I don’t have a son
to inherit it? It’s a choice created by the Devil to torment me.’ And to me, voice thin in querulous anger: ‘We can’t live together any longer. Take your freedom. Go back to Aquitaine. I’m done with you.’

It had come at last. And so swiftly I was astonished. I could barely believe it.

‘I will. Gladly. You’ll not regret it.’

‘Yes, I will. I’ll lose an empire. I’ll lose face. But have your annulment.’ He snatched his arm again from Galeran’s clutches. ‘Leave me alone. And you …’ he glowered at me ‘.can go and crow over your victory.’

Louis stalked into the church to prostrate himself, so I heard.

I was breathless, a constriction around my ribs. But my mind was not at ease. In all these weeks of my wearing away at Louis’s defiance, I had heard nothing from Henry Plantagenet. Not one word. Did our pact still stand? For all I knew, he might be in England, engaged in a lengthy campaign. Would he still come to my aid if I found myself under threat?

Oh, I knew he would. I had to believe in his promise.

One step at a time, I told myself. I would get my annulment and get myself to Poitiers. Then I would face the new Count of Anjou.

W
E
ended our marriage, Louis and I, formally in a court of law, at Beaugency on the Loire in March of the Year of Our Lord 1152. All the years of my marriage brought to an end as if they had never been. My independence and my inheritance returned to me in my thirtieth year, at a stroke of a pen on vellum. All was legal and weightily judicial. And cold, cold as the ice that encrusted the edges of the river, Louis, flanked by his sour-visaged men of law, as unemotional as if casting judgment on a squabble over fishing rights.

I listened to every point. So fast. So smooth. So plain. There were no surprises. I was granted my annulment on the grounds of a consanguinity that had never received papal dispensation. Louis and I were related within the fourth degree, which was forbidden, and which had been known since the day Fat Louis had schemed to get his son a rich windfall. So my lands
were restored to me, although I must acknowledge my allegiance to Louis as my overlord. I could expect no less. My daughters were deemed legitimate despite the dissolution—and given into Louis’s care.

We were both free to remarry, although I must ask Louis’s permission.

Must I? I felt a tremor of anticipation as this restriction was duly noted.

And that, with our joint signatures and seals, as if by magic, was that. Finished. All ends tied, sealed with their official red dollop of wax. Did I feel even the slightest regret? None. Not even for my daughters. Well, perhaps a little, but my heart was not greatly stirred. I may have carried them but they had no call on my emotions.

I stood, and looked across the table to where Louis still sat. Although he had given his assent as if it had meant nothing to him, I knew better. He hated it, detested being forced into this position. I could sense him mentally tossing the conflicting interests from one hand to the other like an inexpert juggler, afraid of which one might drop to smash like an egg on the floor. Every choice for him was anathema. Give up a vast tract of land—or condemn himself to no male heir by me. Condemn me for adultery with Raymond and keep the land—for I would be forbidden to remarry and Aquitaine would pass to Marie. On the face of it an excellent idea. But that was no way forward, for adultery would also condemn Louis to remaining unwed
until my death, and without a male heir for his kingdom. He could imprison me for my supposed sins—but our marriage would remain and he would still be tied to me.

No escape, Louis, no escape in any direction other than annulment.

But now it was done, and to my satisfaction. And if Louis thought to bind my future actions—well, we’d see about that. Did he think I would accept him as my liege lord? Did he really think I would ask his permission for any direction I would take in my life? To ask his permission to remarry?