The Summer Queen (6 page)

‘Bernard of Clairvaux is a very holy man,’ Gofrid admonished gently. ‘Above all he seeks the clear path to God and if sometimes he is critical or zealous, then it is for the common good and for God to judge, not us. If you encounter him in Paris, I trust you to act with good and proper judgement as befits your position.’

‘Yes, Father,’ Alienor said neutrally, although she felt mutinous.

Gofrid pressed a light kiss to her brow. ‘I am proud of you, as would your father be if he were here.’

Alienor swallowed, determined not to cry. If her father were here, she would not have to make this marriage. She would be cherished and safe and all would be well. If she thought too hard about it, she knew she would blame him for dying and leaving her this legacy in his will.

In Alienor’s absence the wedding presents from Louis had been moved to her chamber and placed on a trestle for her to examine at leisure. Many items were only in her custody for a brief time; she would be expected to make gifts of them to the Church, or bestow them upon families of importance and influence. There was a reliquary containing a sliver of bone from the leg of Saint James. The casing was of silver gilt, decorated with pearls and precious stones, and a little door of hinged rock crystal opened to reveal a gold box containing the precious fragment. There were two enamelled candlesticks, two silver censers and a box filled with tawny shards and lumps of aromatic frankincense.

For Alienor’s personal use, there was a circlet adorned with gems, as well as brooches, rings and pendants. Petronella had been given a chaplet fashioned from exquisite golden roses set with pearls and sapphires. She wore it now, pinned to her brown waves, while she played with some coloured glass balls Raoul of Vermandois had given to her.

Alienor looked round; there were yet more boxes to be examined and she felt like a diner at a banquet with an excess of courses. There was too much richness, too much gold enclosing and smothering her. In haste she changed her elaborate gown for one of plain, cool linen and replaced her dainty embroidered shoes with her riding boots. ‘I am going to the stables to see Ginnet,’ she said.

‘I’ll come with you.’ Petronella put the glass balls away in her coffer. When Alienor suggested she should remove the golden chaplet, Petronella shook her head and pouted. ‘I want to keep it on,’ she said stubbornly. ‘I won’t lose it.’

Alienor gave her an exasperated glance but held her peace. Arguing with Petronella over such a trifle was too much trouble on top of everything else.

In the stables, Ginnet greeted Alienor with a soft whicker and eagerly sought the crust of bread her mistress had brought as a treat. Alienor stroked her, taking comfort in the sweet smell of straw and horse. ‘You’re going to be all right,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll take you with me to Paris; I won’t leave you behind, I promise.’

Petronella leaned against the stable door watching Alienor intently as if the words were meant for her. Alienor closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the mare’s smooth, warm neck. In a world where so much had changed so rapidly, she was taking what solace she could from the dear and non-judgemental familiar. She would rather bed down in the stable than return to her chamber and that glittering pile of wedding gifts.

As full dusk fell, Petronella plucked at Alienor’s sleeve. ‘I want to walk in the garden,’ she said. ‘I want to see the fireflies.’

Alienor allowed Petronella to lead her to the courtyard where they had feasted earlier. It was much cooler now, although the walls still gave off soft warmth. Servants had stacked the trestles against a wall and cleared away the white cloths and fine tableware. The fish in the courtyard pond made lazy splashes as they leaped for midges in the last reflection of light. The air was thick with an ancient smell of baked stone. Alienor’s heart was heavy. On top of losing her father and being pushed into a marriage not of her choosing, she now had to leave her home and go to Paris in the company of strangers, one of them her own bridegroom.

She remembered childhood play here: darting around the columns, playing tag with Petronella. Colours, images and echoes of laughter wove like a transparent ribbon through the reality of now and were gone.

Petronella gave her a sudden, fierce hug. ‘Do you think it will be all right?’ she asked, burying her head against Alienor’s shoulder. ‘You said it to Ginnet, but is it true? I’m scared.’

‘Of course it’s true!’ Alienor had to close her eyes as she hugged her sister, because this was unbearable. ‘Of course we are going to be all right!’ She drew Petronella to sit on the old stone bench by the pond where they had so often sat in childhood, and together they watched the fireflies twinkle in and out like hopes in the darkness.

Louis gazed at the vase. He had placed it on the small devotional table in his tent beside his crucifix and his ivory statue of the Virgin. The simplicity and value of the gift filled him with wonder, as did the girl who had presented it to him. She was so utterly different to everything he had expected. Her name, which so recently had seemed like a strange, unpleasant taste when he spoke it, was now honey on his tongue. She filled him up, and yet he still felt hollow, and did not know how this could be. When the light from the vase had spilled on to the tablecloth, he had taken it as a sign from God that the forthcoming marriage was divinely blessed. Their union was like this vessel, waiting to be filled with light, so that it could shine forth with God’s grace.

Kneeling before the table, he pressed his forehead against his clasped palms and thanked his maker with his heart and soul.

Alienor felt a constriction throughout her body as once more she entered the cathedral of Saint-André. This time she was preceded by two rows of choristers and a chaplain, bearing a processional cross on high. Usually marriages were conducted at the church door, but hers to Louis was to be celebrated within the cathedral itself before the altar, to emphasise its rightness before God.

Alienor took a deep breath and set her feet upon the narrow carpet of fresh green reeds, strewn with herbs and pink roses. The trail of flowers led her down the long nave towards the altar steps. Acolytes swung silver censers on jingling chains, and the perfume of frankincense rose and curled in pale smoke around the vaulted ceiling, mingling with the voices of the choir. Petronella and three other young women bore the weight of her pearl-encrusted train, and her maternal uncle Raoul de Faye paced at her side to represent her male kinfolk. Her skirts flared out and swished back with each step. Occasionally she felt the soft pressure of a crushed rose underfoot, and it seemed almost like a portent.

The congregation standing either side of her pathway to the altar knelt and bowed their heads as she walked past in slow procession. With their faces hidden, she could not tell their thoughts and see neither smile nor frown. Were they glad for this union of Aquitaine and France, or were they already plotting rebellion? Were they joyful for her, or filled with misgiving? She looked and then looked away, and, lifting her chin, focused on the soft gleam of the altar, where Louis waited for her, flanked by Abbé Suger and the lords of his entourage. It was too late to do anything but go forward, or to think she had a choice.

Louis’s blue silk tunic was embroidered with fleurs-de-lis and his swift breathing caused the fabric to shimmer with light. A coronet set with pearls and sapphires banded his brow and as Alienor joined him at the altar steps, the sun rayed down through the cathedral windows, illuminating her and Louis in slanting swords of transparent gold. He held out his hand, slender and pale, and gave her the faintest curve of his lips in greeting. She hesitated, and then put her own right hand into his keeping, and together they knelt and bent their heads.

Gofrid de Louroux, resplendent in embroidered and gem-studded episcopal robes, conducted the wedding service and the mass, each gesture and movement imbued with gravitas. Alienor and Louis gave their responses in firm neutral voices, but their clasped hands were mutually clammy with anxiety. The communion wine glowed like a dark ruby within the belly of the rock-crystal vessel that Alienor had presented to Louis at their betrothal. It surprised and unsettled her to see the vessel being used today. She felt as if she was being tied into this marriage and even helping her captors to secure the knots as she took the blood of the Redeemer into herself and promised to obey Louis in all things.

With the metallic taste of the wine on her tongue, she heard Archbishop Gofrid speak the final words of binding, pronounce the marriage and seal her fate. One flesh. One blood. Louis kissed her on either cheek, and then on the mouth with closed dry lips. She accepted the gesture passively, feeling detached and a little numb, as if this moment belonged to someone else.

Married in the sight of God, they turned from the altar to walk back up the nave, and amid all the heads bowed in prayer and obeisance it was still impossible for Alienor to tell who was ally and who was foe.

The glorious singing of the choir accompanied her and Louis to the church doors in a swelling harmonious chant that was almost applause. At her side, she felt Louis stand taller and puff out his chest as if the music was filling him up and expanding him. A swift glance at his face showed her the tears glittering in his eyes and the beatific expression on his face. Alienor felt no such strength of emotion but by the time they reached the carved golden stone of the cathedral door, she had managed to hide behind a smile.

The air outside struck like a molten hammer after the cool interior of the church. Louis’s coronet dazzled her eyes until they hurt. ‘Wife,’ he said, his complexion flushed with triumph and possession in his voice. ‘Everything is as God wills.’

Alienor dropped her gaze to her new wedding ring, sparkling in the light, and said nothing because she did not trust herself to answer.

From Bordeaux the wedding party journeyed towards Poitiers via detours to fortresses and abbeys so that all could fête the young Duchess and her consort. On the third day they came to the great, reputedly impregnable castle of Taillebourg on the Charente River, belonging in heredity to the seneschals of Poitou. Taillebourg was the last crossing place before the river reached the ocean, and a steady stream of pilgrims passed through on their way to the shrine of Saint James at Compostela.

Their host was Geoffrey de Rancon, important vassal, family friend and the man Alienor would have chosen to wed had she been permitted a choice. He had not been present at the marriage in Bordeaux for he had been dealing with matters on his lands, but he was pleased to welcome the bride and groom, and to host their wedding night, which had been deferred until the third day, following long-held tradition.

Geoffrey knelt in welcome to Alienor and Louis in the castle courtyard and pledged his allegiance. Alienor gazed at the gleam of the sun on his rich brown hair. There was a dull ache in her heart, but her voice gave nothing away as she bade him rise. His own expression was courteous and neutral, his smile that of a courtier. Like her, this drastic change in circumstances had forced him to close the door on particular hopes and ambitions and seek a new focus.

Many lords who had been unable to attend the wedding in Bordeaux had come to Taillebourg to swear fealty to Alienor and Louis, and all had been arranged by Geoffrey to run as smoothly as oil from a jar. A formal feast had been prepared with Louis and Alienor as guests of honour and hosts to their subjects. Later, over an informal gathering, Louis was able to meet and talk with barons and members of the clergy whom he had not met before.

Amid the throng, Geoffrey paused to speak with Alienor. ‘I have arranged a hunt tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I hope the Prince will approve.’

‘He tells me he enjoys the chase providing it is not a holy day.’

‘You have made a very great match,’ he leaned forward to say softly. ‘One that any father would be proud to make for his daughter.’

She looked across the room at Geoffrey’s children, standing with their nurses. Burgundia was the eldest at seven, Geoffrey his namesake was six and Bertha the youngest was four. ‘Would you have made it for one of yours?’ she asked.

‘I would do the best I could for them and for the name of Rancon. It would be too great an opportunity to pass up.’

‘But in your heart?’

He raised his brows. ‘Are we still talking of my daughters?’

She flushed and looked away.

‘Whatever hopes I nurtured, I now see clearly were never going to come to fruition – even if your father had lived. He was a wiser man than me. It would not be beneficial for Aquitaine, and that is always our greatest duty … Alienor, look at me.’

She met his eyes, although it cost her to do so. She was horribly aware that they were under the gaze of the entire court and one beat too long, one moment of overheard conversation was all it would take to ignite a destructive scandal.

‘I wish you and your husband well,’ he said. ‘Whatever you ask of me in loyal service, I shall perform as a faithful vassal. You may trust me, always and without reserve.’ He bowed and moved smoothly on to engage in urbane conversation with Ralph de Vermandois.

Alienor continued on her own trajectory, speaking a word here, giving a smile there, and a gesture of the hand to emphasise the gold lining of her sleeve and the shine of a topaz ring that had been among Louis’s wedding gifts to her. She was the gracious and lovely young Duchess of Aquitaine and no one would ever see her wounds or know the turmoil she felt inside.

Alienor quietly entered the bridal chamber at the top of the tower. Night had fallen and the shutters were closed. Numerous candles and lamps had been lit and the room flickered with soft amber light and umber shadows. The escape she had made was brief. In a moment the women would arrive to prepare her for her wedding night.

Someone had hung her father’s shield on the wall – Geoffrey, she suspected – both as a reminder of her bloodline and as a symbol of paternal sanction. She swallowed as she remembered picking it up as a little girl and running behind her father, pretending to be his squire, making him laugh as she strove not to drag its tip in the dust.