The Secret Eleanor (13 page)

“Claire,” Eleanor cried. “Claire, you do it next!”

The girl’s pocky, bruised face was flushed. As they circled around, her tongue ran over her lips, and she looked shyly from one face to the next. Then the other women dropped back and began to clap, and Claire sprang into their midst.

She did not know the steps; awkwardly she kicked out one foot, and then the other. Eleanor bounded in to join her. Taking her by one hand, drawing her skirts aside with the other, she showed her how to point her toes, how to hop from foot to foot. Claire laughed. She lifted her face to the Queen, unafraid, her cheeks glowing. Eleanor leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. They spun apart, and back into the circle, and all the women whooped. The door thundered under a rage of banging, but no one went to let them in.

“Kiss the cross, and cast off weeping—”

Petronilla saw that Claire had been seduced; her sister had won her over. She clasped Alys’s hands and whirled around, amazed.

“Glory, glory to the new love, the one that I have waited for!”

Oh
, Petronilla thought fervently.
Let it be so. Let it be so.

The day following, after morning Mass, the King sent his chamberlain to summon Eleanor to him.

Petronilla started to accompany her, but the chamberlain, with many bows, forbade it; the King wanted to see the Queen alone.

Her sister gave her a frightened look. Eleanor smiled, to reassure her, but she felt a start of warning in all her nerves. A little queasy ripple went through her stomach. Maybe they had uncovered something, Thierry and Louis; maybe they knew about Henry d’Anjou. Somehow, maybe they knew what she herself was only now coming reluctantly to suspect.

If they found out anything, there was no telling what Louis might do; she had no control over what might happen next. She wondered if she had celebrated too soon.

She set off after the chamberlain, collecting her arguments as she went. The old man led her up into the North Tower, to the King’s private room, and announced her, and held the door for her, and she went in.

She expected to find Thierry there, and to hear reproaches, and possibly proofs of her adultery and other sins, and as she went along she prepared her defenses, thought of quick, hot words for Thierry, and how to nullify whatever suspicions they might have. But when she came into the chamber, the King was alone.

He had been kneeling at his prayers, on a prie-dieu below the floor below the cross on his wall, and he got to his feet when she entered. He wore the plainest of robes and his feet were bare. His chamber was stark as a monk’s cell, save for the crucifix of vermeil and jewels, the silver basin where he washed, and the splendid furs on the great bed. No hangings covered the stone walls, and the rushes on the floor were plain and filthy as in a peasant’s hut. The only furniture besides the bed and a few stools was the kneeling board, uncushioned, worn into hollows from the King’s obeisances.

In the center of the room Louis stood with his head bowed and his hands together, like a monk. Eleanor dipped down into a salute to him, wondering, with even more alarm than before, what he intended.

“My lord,” she said. “Good day to you, sir, I hope you are well.”

Louis was wan as paper, his eyes red-rimmed. He said, “Eleanor. My Eleanor. Thank you for coming to me.”

She gave an angry laugh, taut, unreassured. “Sir, you command me utterly.”

“Oh, would that I did,” Louis said. He went to a stool by the wall, sank down on it, and passed one hand over his face. “But you are your own lord, my Eleanor, and you heed only your own commands. Come sit by me, and share your mind with me, as you did when we were first married.”

With dragging feet, she approached him. The other stool was on the far side of the room, and she spread her skirts out on the dirty rushes and sat on the floor next to him. Thus she had done when they were so much younger, newly crowned and fresh as flowers; then they had talked like angels over great plans and schemes, which she realized now had been all
her
plans and schemes, which he only longed to inhabit.

He seemed so heavy now, and old. He ran his hand over his face again, as if he could push his features into shape. For a moment he did not speak, and she did not hurry him, edgy as she was over what he meant to tell her.

At last, he said, “The Holy Father himself said we were fit to be married. He led us to the chamber with his own hand. I cannot believe—”

“You heard Bernard,” she said; her belly tightened. Everything she had thought settled seemed about to come undone. “Sir, we cannot stay together. God Himself has unmade our marriage, by keeping from us the seal of it, our son, the prince of France. I know this is God’s judgment. I will obey it; I shall never come to you again as a wife.”

“But what will happen to you?” he cried. “You know—” He bent toward her, took her hand between his; in spite of the heat, his palms were clammy and cold. “If you heard what they say of you. Of what may befall you, if I withdraw my protection from you. I can’t bear it.” He let go of her and raised his hands up to his face; his fingers wound in his hair. “God gave you to me, and now I am giving up my charge; I am failing, again.”

“Sir,” she said, looking up at him, “calm yourself. Remember, you are King of France.”

“I can never forget,” Louis said. He lowered his hands to his lap. Perched on the stool, he straightened a little, as if with a great effort, his lips pressed together, and gave her a long look.

He said, “What I have of kingship I have learned from other people: Suger, and Father, and you. But you were born royal.”

“Bah,” she said.

“I never know what to do,” he said. “And yet everything I do shakes the world.”

She said, “Without me here, you will find it easier. You could marry a German princess. I understand the cold weather gives them iron wombs, where you may cast a prince.”

His pale eyes searched over her face. “Then you want this, in spite of all?”

“Yes,” she said, “for both of us. Louis, it’s the only way.”

He put out his hand, and she took it, trying to be patient, waiting for him to agree, as he must agree, but before he spoke, there came a thunderous knock on the door.

Eleanor got up to her feet, knowing that imperious clamor, and Louis spoke. Thierry Galeran came in, his face shining with sweat, drawing after him a man in a dirty coat. The eunuch secretary went up before the King, who was still sitting on the stool, holding her by the hand. She backed away, letting go of Louis. She expected some barrage of accusations from Thierry, but he spoke straight to the King.

“Anjou’s dead.”

Eleanor said, stupidly, “What?” She thought, at first, he meant Henry, and her heart shrank. Louis only blinked, his lips parting. Thierry looked from Louis to Eleanor and back again to the King.

“The Count of Anjou, Geoffrey le Bel, is dead. They were riding back to Anjou when they left here, and they stopped at the river to swim, it being so hot, you remember, this was a week ago, how hot—anyway, he came out of the water and took a chill and he lay down in a strange bed and he died.”

Eleanor turned slightly away, hiding her chaotic thoughts from them. In her mind, Bernard’s voice rang out, telling Anjou he would be dead inside the month, and now he was. She shivered. Louis’s voice creaked; she knew he remembered that also. “Who is this with you? The messenger? You, tell me your news.”

Eleanor looked over her shoulder. The messenger stepped forward; the dust of the road lay in a gritty film on his skin. He said, “I saw the Count lying there, cold as cheese.”

Eleanor pressed her hands together, not praying. She forced her mind away from Bernard’s curse, toward something else about this: With his father dead, Henry was Count of Anjou, as well as Duke of Normandy, all the better to promote himself to the English crown. She remembered his impatience, his fierce lovemaking, and she began to feel better; a thrill of delight went through her, a lusty throe, that he who wanted her grew greater by the day.

She laid one hand on her belly. Something there, she feared, grew greater day by day, and that could ruin everything.

The messenger was saying, “They dragged him on up to Le Mans, and he’s buried there. There’s a council called, they say, but it’s a wonder who will come; they’re already fighting over his leavings.”

Thierry said, “So. Now that there’s all this uncertainty, we could stir up some of the old rivalries.” He rubbed his hands together, smiling like a merchant over his scales. “Half the barons will rebel, and in Normandy, too. We’ll see how well this new lord manages that.”

Louis waved that off. “They’ll do what they usually do.” He turned his head away, looking down. Anjou’s death itself still held him. “So sudden. He was a man in the fullness of his strength, not much older than I am.” He would not put his mind to policy, was still thinking of Geoffrey the Handsome, now worm meat, Bernard’s curse come to pass. He rose from the stool, which grated on the floor, and Eleanor twisted toward him, looking up. He was watching her. He said, “Bernard knew.”

“Yes,” she said, harsh, following the path through this to her own desires. “Bernard knows what must be, sir. Heed what he said about our marriage.”

“Still,” Louis said heavily. “Anjou dead, and he was only here a little while ago, full of life as a kitten.” He turned to Thierry. “Go. Await me outside.”

“My lord—”

“Go.”

Thierry went out, with his dusty messenger. Louis faced her, his shoulders hunched, his face drawn. Now, with the prospect before her of escape, she looked across the widening space between them and saw how he struggled to be good, and her impatient, resentful heart woke to him, who could never be good enough.

He said, “See how it is. We think we have time, and if we did as God willed, we would have time, God would give us time, but then the blade comes down.” He nodded to her. “My dear Eleanor. You will ever have what you want, God willing or no, but maybe God wills this. I will see to it.”

“Sir,” she said, excited.

“It will take some while,” he said. “There will have to be a council, something, I don’t know. We are to go soon on a progress to Aquitaine, anyway, and I suppose we can summon a council there. Perhaps in Poitiers. We must have the priests at it, the bishops, who know the laws. Be patient.”

Bishops, and priests. She knew how such men twisted laws into their own designs. A new urgency prickled in her veins. Something might yet happen. She said, “Patience is not my virtue, sir.” She had not given much thought to how they would actually accomplish this.

“We have to do something in law, in keeping with holy law, and well announced and proclaimed. We aren’t villagers; we can’t just stand on the threshold and tell the passersby.” He laughed and passed a hand over his face. “Let me do this, Eleanor. It shall come to pass.”

“Thank you,” she said, and bowed, to hide the look on her face from him.

On the landing, Thierry still stood with his messenger and some other men, talking. By the abrupt way their voices stopped when she came out, she knew their subject. They all bent in courtly bows, but they watched her, their eyes gleaming in the dim light, like a pack of wolves. They would dare do nothing now, she thought. But in the time to come, they might try. When she was free of Louis, they might do anything. She would be like a hind, Bernard had said, pursued by packs of hunters. Without a man to protect her. She went on down the stairs; at a word from Thierry a page attended her, who was never allowed to be alone. Behind her, up on the landing, the men’s voices rose in a crackle of excitement.

She was not afraid of them, or of any man. She would protect herself, if need be. They had no understanding of this.

She walked along toward her own rooms, and as she went, she thought unwillingly of Anjou, alive, that handsome lion, that splendid body, all heedless in his prancing and strutting, who as Louis had said must have thought death comfortably far away. And then suddenly it was on him; there was no escaping, no bargains, no calling it something else.

She realized also that the new Count Henry would have his hands full. He might fail; her new love might vanish into another twist of fate. As the fabric of her life here came undone she had to weave another, and that from unknown threads, and full of dangers. Petronilla had already foreseen this, whose cares Eleanor had so airily dismissed. She strode firm-footed back toward her tower. Her stomach was still uncertain. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she had eaten something. But she had been pregnant before, and she knew how it felt. She climbed the stair up to her chamber, to tell her sister what had happened.

“Anjou, dead!” Petronilla said. They had come out into the garden to talk; Eleanor had set de Rançun at the gate to make sure no one crept near enough to hear them. Petronilla wondered a little that she was so cautious, this of Anjou being likely common news.