The Summer Queen (20 page)

The assault was fierce and vicious. Fire blossomed along the rooflines and took hold in barns, swiftly spreading from house to house, fanned by a hot summer wind. Louis reined in his stallion on a high vantage point and watched his troops wreak destruction. Battle cries and the clash and scrape of weapons rose amid gouts of smoke and twists of flame. A dull ache throbbed at his temples and the leaden sensation in his belly made him feel as if all the foulness inside him was going to spew out in a glistening dark mass. He imagined that his mail shirt was a burden of sin, weighting his body.

His brother Robert joined him, sitting easily in the saddle but holding his destrier on a tight rein. The sun glittered on his hauberk and helm, reflecting polished stars of fire. ‘The way the wind is veering, there will be naught left of the town come morning.’

‘Theobald of Champagne has brought it on himself,’ Louis replied grimly.

Robert shrugged. ‘But I do wonder what we are bringing down on ourselves by this.’

A grim silence stretched between the brothers. Abruptly Louis reined away from Robert and rode back to the tent that his attendants had set up to provide respite and shade while Vitry was devoured.

The canvas dissipated some of the sun’s punishing strength. Louis dismissed everyone and knelt to pray at his small personal altar. The cold gold and marble concealing various saintly relics gave him a momentary respite from the pounding red darkness inside his mind. Bernard of Clairvaux had warned him that God could stop the breath of kings and he was intensely conscious of each inhalation, and of the weight of his hauberk, his coat of sins. He counted his prayer beads through his fingers, trying to find calm in the cool, smooth agates, while he recited the Lord’s Prayer.

The tent flaps flurried open and Robert ducked inside. ‘The church is on fire,’ he said. ‘Most of the townspeople are inside, including the women and children.’

Louis stared at him and as comprehension dawned, so did the horror. While the monks of Bourges deserved all that came their way, the wider Church was still the house of God. Even if he was laying waste to Theobald’s lands, it was with the expectation that the people would have opportunity to flee or seek refuge. ‘I gave no such order.’ He jerked to his feet.

‘It was wind-borne from the houses.’

‘Well, give the people space to flee.’ Louis had removed his swordbelt to pray, but now he buckled it on again. ‘Tell the men to stand back.’

‘It is too late for that, brother.’

Feeling sick, Louis followed Robert from the tent back to the vantage point. The church was indeed ablaze: the roof, the walls, everything. The wind had veered and the flames surged towards heaven like the ravenous tongues of a thousand demons. No one could survive such a conflagration.

‘Douse it,’ Louis commanded. Emotion twitched across his face like raindrops in a pool. ‘Organise buckets from the river.’ He fancied he could feel his mail shirt becoming as hot as a griddle and see the flamelight dancing on weapons, leaving an indelible stain.

Robert eyed him askance. ‘It will be like a child trying to quench a bonfire by pissing on it. We won’t be able to get near.’

‘Just do it!’

Robert turned away and began snapping orders. Louis called for his horse, and the moment his squire brought the sweating grey from the lines, he grabbed the reins and swung into the saddle. His men scrambled to follow as he galloped down the path and entered the town. Around him the dwellings were ablaze and drifts of choking smoke obscured his vision. He rode through arches of fire. Ragged whips of flame swept out at him, as if striving to drag him in and devour him. His stallion baulked and began to plunge until it was all Louis could do to stay in the saddle and he was forced to pull back. The wellheads and buckets had been destroyed by fire and, even with access to the river, the church and its occupants were doomed.

Louis returned to camp with his head thrown back and tears streaming down his reddened cheeks. His eyebrows were singed, a raw stinging burn shone on the back of his hand like a stigma and his mind was a red conflagration.

He spent the night kneeling at his altar and refused to let anyone tend his injuries. In the pale light of dawn with smoke rising from the ashes and mist curling off the river, he visited the smouldering ruins of the church: a pyre for more than a thousand men, women and children. Although the fire had died, the charred timbers were still too hot to touch. From the corner of his eye, although he tried not to look, he could see twisted, blackened shapes sticking up like the limbs of bogwood trees rising out of a swamp. The stench of burned flesh, timber and stone made him gag. Falling to his knees in the hot cinders, he wept, and in between sobs raised his voice to God in remorse and fear. His rage towards Theobald of Champagne and the monks of Bourges only intensified, however, because this desecration was entirely their fault.

Alienor glanced round the chamber prepared for Louis’s triumphant return from Champagne. Water had been heated and the tub made ready for a bath. The best sheets had been aired and laid on the bed. Curtains of gold brocade hung from the canopy poles and tawny nuggets of frankincense burned in the braziers. Servants had set out dishes of food on trestles covered with fine white napery. There were crisply roasted songbirds, cheese tarts, almond balls dampened with honey, pastries and fritters, fragrant white bread and bowls of blood-red cherries.

During Louis’s absence, she had received sporadic messages of a general nature. The campaign was progressing well. They had encountered little opposition from Count Theobald and, despite all the latter’s posturing, Champagne’s underbelly was soft and the defences had not stood against the French. Naturally the Church had condemned Louis’s actions. Letters had flown between Bernard of Clairvaux and the papal court on Theobald’s behalf and Louis had been ordered to cease his attacks on Champagne on peril of his soul. He had obeyed in person and turned back, but his troops had remained in Champagne and continued their ravages. As far as Alienor knew, Louis was doing what he must to bring Theobald of Champagne to heel, and doing it well. She was anticipating a victorious return and had dressed carefully for the occasion. Her gown was embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lis, her hair was twisted into elaborate braids, and she wore a coronet set with pearls and rock crystals.

When her chamberlain announced Louis’s arrival, Alienor’s heart began to pound. Part of her was desperate to see him: his tall, athletic body and glorious silvery hair. She imagined flinging herself into his arms and welcoming him with kisses. Perhaps they could start afresh; pretend they were meeting for the first time as man and woman instead of boy and girl. Her women in tow, she left the chamber and processed to the great hall to welcome her husband home.

Louis and his retainers entered the chamber on a flourish of trumpets. Alienor looked for him but there was no sparkle of flaxen hair, no flicker of gold silk, no sense of his presence. All that met her eye in the space where she expected to see him was a bedraggled, travel-stained monk with stooped shoulders. For a moment she thought he was one of the minions of Bernard of Clairvaux, but then the monk raised his head and looked at her and she realised with a jolt of absolute shock that she was looking at her husband. Dear God, dear God, what had happened to him? He was an old man! Drawing on all her reserves, she curtseyed to him and bowed her head. He shuffled forward to raise her up and kiss her lips, and it was like being touched by death. His hands were clammy, his breath so fetid that she almost retched. He stank of sweat and sickness. A monk’s tonsure glistened on his skull and around the shaved area his hair was greasy and flat, all its silver beauty gone. Shorn almost to his scalp, it looked grey not blond.

Alienor was aware of all the servants and attendants staring at him. She caught the eye of Robert of Dreux, who gave an infinitesimal shake of his head. Rallying, she touched Louis’s sleeve, managing not to flinch as a flea jumped on to the back of her hand. ‘Sire,’ she said, ‘I can see you are tired. Will you come to your chamber and let me tend you there?’

Louis hesitated, but then allowed himself to be led from the hall on stumbling feet. Arriving at his room in the Great Tower, he stared at the food laid out, and his throat jerked. He flicked a single glance at the tub and steaming cauldrons of hot water, and shook his head. ‘If I eat I shall be sick,’ he said, ‘and the state of my body does not matter.’

‘Of course it matters! You must eat after your journey, and wash for your ease and comfort.’

‘I must neither.’ Louis sat down in a chair and put his face in his hands. Alienor knelt to remove his boots and recoiled at the stench from his feet. They were filthy beyond belief, black between the toes and the skin peeling off. His toenails were long and rimed with dirt. She almost gagged. In her peripheral vision, she was aware of Raoul de Vermandois and Robert of Dreux exchanging glances. ‘Bring me a bowl of warm rose water and a cloth,’ she snapped to a staring maid.

‘I have told you, I do not need tending,’ Louis said stiffly.

‘But it is a sacred task to wash a wayfarer’s feet,’ Alienor replied. ‘Would you have me shirk that duty?’

He made a fatigued gesture of capitulation. When the maid returned with the water, Alienor steeled herself to the vile task of cleaning his feet. She wondered what had happened to him. He had set out as a great prince at the head of his army, proudly flaunting his banners, determined to grind Theobald of Champagne underfoot, and had returned looking like a wild holy man who had been starving and mortifying himself to the point of madness.

He continued to refuse all offers of food and wine until she brought him some plain spring water in a chalcedony cup. ‘It will purify your blood,’ she said.

He raised the cup to his lips with trembling hands and sipped while she knelt to finish her task. She rose and touched his brow to see if he was feverish, but he pushed her away. Immediately he was contrite. ‘I need to rest,’ he said. ‘That is all.’

‘You cannot do so like this. At least change into clothes more suited to the chamber than the stable.’

‘I care not,’ Louis replied, but allowed the maids to remove his soiled garments. Once more Alienor was horrified. If his outer robes were dirty and dusty then his shirt and braies were rancid. Insect-bite marks pocked his body and stinking black grime threaded every fold and crevice of his skin. He had lost muscle and bulk and was as bony as an old man. She wondered when he had last eaten a decent meal and felt a mixture of revulsion, compassion and deep anxiety. ‘I will care for you now,’ she soothed, wiping the rose-water cloth over his emaciated body.

He shook his head. ‘It is a waste of time.’

He refused to wear the fine linen shirt she had ready for him, insisting instead on a coarse chemise from the ones that her women had been stitching to give to the poor. At least it was clean, and Alienor yielded to his whim. She eventually persuaded him to lie down on the bed. As well as keeping the light, he insisted on having chaplains sit either side of him to pray for his soul.

Alienor left the room in a state of anxiety. It was one thing to deal with enemies when you had a powerful husband to protect you, but if Louis lost that power, the implications for herself were terrifying.

‘What has happened to him?’ she demanded of Raoul de Vermandois and Robert of Dreux. ‘Why is he like this? Tell me!’

Raoul rubbed a tired forefinger across his eye patch. ‘He had not been himself for some time, but Vitry was what tipped him over the edge. He has barely eaten or slept since, and as you see he has to have his chaplains with him all the time.’

‘What happened at Vitry? There has been nothing in the letters I have received.’

Robert said, ‘The church burned down with the townspeople inside it – over a thousand men, women and children.’ He looked away and swallowed. ‘I never wish to witness or smell such a thing again. I fear it has turned my brother’s mind. He blames Theobald of Champagne and the monks of Bourges, but still he sees his own hand upon the torch.’

‘You should have warned me before he arrived,’ she said. ‘I could have been better prepared.’

‘We thought he would recover and come to terms with it,’ Raoul replied. ‘Indeed, he may do so now he is back in Paris.’ He gave her a piercing look. ‘He called out in the night for you … and for his mother.’

Alienor bit her lip. She had not been prepared for this – could never have imagined it happening – but she would have to bring Louis round. If she did not, others would seize the moment and she had precious few allies at the French court.

At Raoul’s home in Arras, Alienor sat in a window embrasure with Petronella. Outside the leaves were turning russet and gold. Petronella was spending her confinement here, having conceived in the months following Raoul’s return from Champagne.

‘There is no room for the child to kick now,’ Petronella said ruefully. ‘It surely cannot be long, or I will burst asunder!’ She laid her hand on her swollen belly. ‘I can barely walk as it is.’

‘You look well,’ Alienor said. Her sister’s skin was blooming, and her hair as lustrous as brunette silk.

Petronella preened a little. ‘Raoul says that too.’

‘Now that Pope Innocent has died, we might be able to resolve the matter of the Archbishopric of Bourges and your marriage. Pope Celestine is prepared to be more conciliatory. He has already said he will lift the interdict on France.’

Petronella jutted her chin. ‘It does not matter what the Pope says. I know I am married to Raoul.’ She picked up her sewing. ‘How is Louis?’

Alienor made a face. ‘Better than when he returned from Champagne, but so changed. He dresses like a monk and he talks like one too.’ She waved her hand impatiently. ‘It’s God wants this and God wants that. You could not begin to imagine how much God wants! Sometimes I do not see him for days on end, and when I do it is impossible to talk to him. You and Raoul, you are at ease with each other, you laugh and kiss; yet you are under interdict and vilified by Rome and the Church. When I reach out to Louis, he draws away as if I am unclean. You are round with child, but how am I to bear an heir for France when I sleep alone? Since his return from Vitry, he has not lain with me once.’