Petronilla’s voice sounded once, hollow in the stony vault, and the women’s footsteps faded. In the pitch-dark silence of the back of the Queen’s choir, Eleanor stood, her fingers picking at each other.
She was alone. She had misread him. Or he only played with her. Then, behind her, she heard, or sensed, someone move.
“I am here,” the harsh voice said.
She turned toward him, in the dark, and reached out blindly; her hands brushed over the rough cloth of his coat, and then his arms were around her, strong and fierce. She lifted her face and his lips brushed her forehead, her cheek. He gave off a heat of passion, like an oven in her arms. She stroked her hands up over embroidered cloth, up over the broad, muscular chest, clasped her arms behind his neck, and kissed him.
His arms tightened around her. His lips parted; she touched the tip of his tongue with hers, her eyes shut, her body tingling in a dizzy reel of lust.
He said, in her ear, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I thought so from the first, but when you stood up against my father like that—Where can we go?” His hands slid inside her clothes and his thigh rose between hers. “I could not take my eyes off you.” His hands were plunging in through the folds of her gown. “Where can we go?”
She caught herself. Fast in his arms, she made herself see that this could not happen, not here, like this. She said, “Not now. They’ll come for me soon.”
He groaned, and his arms tightened around her, sure and strong. He moved against her, and she felt on her thigh the prod between his legs. “Then when?”
“Tomorrow,” she said. She pressed herself against him, soaking up his heat. “There is a house called The Sunrise, in Saint Germaine, on the Left Bank. Be there at midafternoon.” She laid her cheek against his shoulder. “I want you.”
“Oh, I want you, too,” he said. “When I saw you today, it was like a sign. I’m meant to have you. We belong together. Someone’s coming.” His grip slackened.
She straightened, forcing herself away from him. “They watch me every moment.”
“You’re the greatest treasure in this kingdom, and so they guard you well.” He drew back, in the dark, his hands on her arms. “You’re sure you can get away?”
“Tomorrow,” she said, again. “I will not disappoint you.” Behind her, back near the door, she heard footsteps on the rough stone floor.
“Nor I you,” he said. “I swear it.”
“Go. Hurry. If they catch you here, all is lost.” She turned away from him into the cold, empty darkness.
Behind her, he said, “Tomorrow.” And was gone.
She stood shaking in the darkness, feeling the imprint of him over her body, as if he had branded her with her own lust. Turning, she composed herself as well as she could. Down near the door the half-lit space was full of people now, calling for her. She clasped her hands together and walked up out of the darkness, in among them, and through them, past Petronilla, whom Thierry Galeran had by the elbow.
“I was praying,” Eleanor said, without stopping, and went on toward the tower.
At night, when they had put Eleanor to bed, the other women all went out to the room next door, but the guards on the landing were Thierry’s men, and often listened, even easing open the door to do it. Petronilla drew the thick bedhangings tightly closed and in the darkness whispered, “What happened? Did you meet him?”
Eleanor was lying on her stomach, propped on her elbows. She leaned closer, speaking into her sister’s ear, lest anyone outside even know they talked. “Long enough to make arrangements.”
Petra snuggled closer to her. In spite of her misgivings, she was beginning to enjoy this. “That sounds like a handshake. Was that all?”
“He kissed me.” Eleanor laughed, exultant, remembering. “God’s love, he is a bull, and I cannot wait to have him mount me, Petra.”
Petronilla murmured in her throat. The widow’s lot: She’d been chaste for months now, when the blood began to heat, the skin to yearn, the dreams to seem better than waking. “He’s much younger than you,” she said.
Eleanor laughed. “Yes, but he’s so well-grown for his age.” She had spoken too loudly; they both stiffened and went still a moment, holding their breath, listening for any sign someone else was listening. Finally Petronilla felt her sister relax in the darkness, drawing closer again.
“Ah. Who cares. All the better. I said I would meet him again tomorrow.”
“How can you? They follow you everywhere!”
“I have a plan,” Eleanor said. “With your help, I shall have plenty of time.” She stretched out along her side, her arms over her head. “Ah, he is perfect, so far.”
Petronilla folded her arms under her chin. “What’s so perfect about him? He’s not even that handsome. Have you ever seen him before?”
Eleanor laughed. “Oh, his father is much more lovely. But Henry is . . . better endowed. Henry has Normandy, and he will have Anjou.”
Petronilla snorted in the dark. “Cold and stony.”
“Yes, but—” Eleanor hitched up closer to her. “His mother was the Empress Matilda, the daughter of Henry Schoolboy, the King of England before they started fighting over it. So that way this present Henry has an excellent claim to the crown of England.”
“Cold and stony and far away.”
“God in heaven.” Eleanor moved, crunching the mattress in the dark. “Is Paris so sweet and gay?” She turned her back.
There was a long silence between them.
A trickle of sweat ran down Petronilla’s side. In the breathless space within the bedhangings she felt lightly cooked in her own skin. She realized Eleanor had more to her plans than just an afternoon playing Phaedra to Henry’s bull. “Well, Paris is what we have. And Henry FitzEmpress doesn’t even have England yet.”
“I’ll help him,” Eleanor said, over her shoulder. “We’ll do it together.”
“And England has a king already.” FitzEmpress’s mother, Matilda, had failed in her efforts to take the crown; she was old now. “As in fact, you do, too. Have a king.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said. “That’s a sticking point.”
“And the King of England is Stephen of Blois, whose son—whose son and heir, this is—is married to your husband’s sister.”
“How like Louis to choose the wrong man,” Eleanor said.
“Every thing you do, Eleanor, turns upon some crown or another. What do you want of me tomorrow?”
“I need to meet Henry in the afternoon. I thought—I’ve noticed, from time to time, you go off, and no one follows you.”
Petronilla was damp all over with sweat; she longed to throw the bedhangings back and let in a cool rush of air, but she dared not. “Nobody cares about me, Eleanor. I could leap off the New Bridge into the Seine and nobody would care.”
“That’s not true; I love you best of all. Especially, though, speaking of the New Bridge, you could go over to the Left Bank.”
“Ah.” Petronilla licked her lips, trying to suppress the feeling that she was getting into far more than she knew. “That’s so, I could go to the Studium and hear the masters there. I’ve done that often enough.” She liked to practice her Latin, listening to the magistri dispute, and they played with ideas there the way carefree boys played with balls in the street.
“That’s good,” Eleanor said. “And if I took your place in your widow’s white and veil, and rode your old mare, I could do as I please, and once I got anyway from the palace nobody would look very closely. But that won’t be enough.”
“What?” Petronilla said, alarmed.
“We need to lay down a false scent. Otherwise they’ll notice I’m missing.”
“What are you suggesting?”
Eleanor said, “Well, there’s this.” And she leaned so close that her lips brushed Petronilla’s ear, and whispered it.
Four
During the night, rain fell in a crash and roil of wind. Petronilla woke from a fitful, sweaty sleep and lay in th
e dark beside her sister, listening to the storm.
Eleanor slept on, sprawled across the bed, her arms flung wide. The bed hangings ruffled in the wind. Petronilla burrowed her head into the pillow, longing for sleep. Ralph’s face came into her mind, and she saw the words again: “We must not be together. We have never been married.” She gritted her teeth together, angry.
Discarded. Worth nothing. Her eyes stung with tears. Outside, the wind howled like a demon, and she pulled the covers up over her head.
Beside her, Eleanor called out in her sleep. Dreaming again of escape.
It was too hot to breathe under the covers. She pulled the bedclothes down again.
She longed to go home, back to live in Poitiers, where she had grown up. She wanted, more than anything, to start over.
The darkness all around made the memory vivid in her mind. She saw the gardens of the palace there, the red roses blooming against the gray stone, the Maubergeon Tower, and nearby music, and the sway of skirts and the tap of silken shoes in a rousing dance. The calling of the vendors in the streets and the women in their coifs talking from window to window. A fruit-stuffed pastry popped into her mouth. The crisp skin of a pullet cooked with lemons, her favorite dish in her childhood, and the crusty bread, the creamy cheese, whose taste lasted forever on the tongue.
The Occitan people themselves had seemed different to her than those in Paris: loud, but not harsh; forceful, but not judging; proud, but not contemptuous. She ached to go back; she longed to be a girl again, in Poitiers. But they kept Eleanor here, in Paris, under key, under watch, and that meant Petronilla stayed here, too.
She would never be a girl again. And perhaps Poitiers was out of reach also, a fairy kingdom, lost in spells. Her spirits sank. She saw disaster ahead for them. Eleanor, in her heedless rush to have everything she wanted, was falling in love with her husband’s worst enemy.
Eleanor had not asked for help. Eleanor had commanded it. She was gritting her teeth again, tears in her eyes again. Eleanor always got her way. She dashed at her eyes, angry at herself for this weakness.
Maybe they could just run away. Maybe, in Poitiers, she could forget about Ralph, and be happy.
She wanted to forget Ralph. She felt now that everything between them had been a sham.
She wiped her eyes on the damp bedclothes. She couldn’t just run away. Eleanor’s marriage was like an iron cage all around them, and she could see no gate through it. She had to trust Eleanor. She had to have faith that whatever Eleanor was scheming would make both of them happy somehow. She knew she would do what Eleanor wanted, anyway. Everybody, in the end, did whatever Eleanor wanted. And she was only Eleanor’s little sister, not even a wife anymore; what choice had she? She squeezed her eyes shut, aching for the oblivion of sleep.
It rained all night, but the morning, fortunately, was fine, and not so hot. The women bustled in, carrying the tray, the cups, the warming pan, the little jars of spice. They gathered in the middle of the room. Petronilla looked drowsy. “I didn’t sleep well,” she said. “You dreamed, again.” As if this were some new crime of Eleanor’s, to dream.
Eleanor leaned toward her, keen with conspiracy. Under her breath she whispered, “Are you ready?” She ignored the little hesitancy in her sister’s manner. Petronilla would warm to this; they had always loved to play tricks on people, even when they were children.
Petronilla’s head bobbed. She reached for the cup of wine and announced, as if she were some kind of herald, that she would go out after Mass and cross the river to the Studium, to hear the masters speak of Aristotle.
“Fetch a page for Joffre de Rançun. He can escort me.”
Alys said, “My lady, you said you were tired—”
“I’m fine now,” Petronilla said. “I can’t stay cooped up in here all day long.” She seemed almost angry, and Alys backed away, her hands up, placating.
Eleanor said, “Be careful, Petra. Perhaps Alys is right.”
Her sister gave her a quick, fretful, warning look. “I will be fine. I love the Studium.” Her voice had a knife edge to it. Do you want me to go along with this or not?
“Very well,” Eleanor said hastily. “You know I can deny you nothing.”
Alys said, “My lady, should not one of us go with you?”
Eleanor stiffened, alarmed, but Petronilla laughed. “Which of you would not fall asleep before the masters and disgrace me? Joffre will be there.” She waved her hand to end the conversation. “I am going; say no more. No one else will care anyway.”
They went to Mass and then ate bread and cheese. Afterward, Petronilla sent a page down to make sure that Joffre de Rançun had brought her little mare.
She turned, and Alys swung her white cloak around her. Petronilla pinned the veil up over her face. Over the top edge, her sister’s eyes found Eleanor’s. “Good day, Eleanor.”
Eleanor smiled, and the understanding passed between them. Petronilla swept out the door. Eleanor paced around the room, unable to be still, while the women watched her owlishly and jumped at her every turn. Claire stuck herself with a needle and wailed, which made the rest all laugh.
After what seemed half the day, the bells began to clang for Nones, which was the signal. She wore only a plain dark gown, and now she went herself to the wardrobe and took out her red hooded cloak.
“Where are you going?” the women all said at once.
She whirled the cloak around her. “I am going out into the garden for a while. And no one is to go with me, or follow me. You will stay here, or I will wring all your necks, one by one.” She glared at them, even Marie-Jeanne and Alys, whom she loved, whom she trusted. “And if any of you watch at the window, I shall know.” She raked them with a scowl and went to the door.
The guard there, as usual, was half-asleep; she got past him before he could stir and ran down the stairs. There on the first landing, in the dark angle between the stair and the wall, Petronilla was waiting. They needed no words but acted together as if they were one; Petronilla seized the red cloak from Eleanor, and Eleanor flung the white cloak on and tugged the veil over her face, and was on down the next flight of steps almost without pausing, and into the bright sunlight.
De Rançun, faithful and good, was there as he had promised, with Petronilla’s small brown mare. Eleanor rode astride, but Petronilla always rode aside, so now she let de Rançun lift her up to sit sideways on the saddle, knees demurely together, and de Rançun led her off toward the little bridge, which crossed onto the Left Bank of the Seine.
She lowered her head and kept her hands on the saddle pommel, to look meek, like Petronilla, but in her heart she laughed and danced for her freedom like a bacchant.
Petronilla, swathed in the red cloak, kept her head down under the hood as she walked out by the guard. From there a short turn took her out through the door into the garden. She squared her shoulders, trying to carry herself with Eleanor’s pride and grandeur, her head high; it felt very unnatural, as if some iron bar ran down her back, and her toes barely touched the ground. But she strode off down between the rows of rosemary bushes toward the far wall.
Her anger at Eleanor faded. To her surprise she was enjoying this, after the long boring summer brooding over Ralph. If Ralph knew she was doing something so bold, anyway, he would be amazed, maybe even admiring. He had always admired Eleanor for daring what she did. She wondered what Eleanor did now.
She went a long way down the garden without turning around, but then almost to the little postern gate, she whirled around and looked back.
Up in the top of the tower, in the chamber window, several faces popped quickly down out of sight. Before they could vanish, she saw that there were only two of them, and she gave a crow of laughter. Without waiting for further signs that she was being followed, she went on the length of the garden to the postern and let herself out the narrow wooden gate.
She walked along more slowly, wanting to let whoever was coming after her keep on the track. This western tip of the city
island narrowed down to a flat yellow spit, ending in three tiny shoals whose sandy banks barely rose above the surface of the river. The ground above the spit was sloping and covered with grass and yellow flowers; here some early king had built a wall of earth, which since had crumbled under a thousand rains to grassy lumpy mounds. She went along the curve of this relic, never looking back, toward the gardens and houses of the city.
At her approach a flock of little birds flew up in a busy whir of wings. Turning east again, almost at the water’s edge, she went up the bank, past a man with a hoe, to his knees in onion greens, who bobbed toward her and pulled his forelock without ever stopping in his toil. In the first cluster of houses, a goat browsing on one of the thatched roofs gave her a long look, its jaws munching. Between two of the little mud-daubed houses she could see down to the river, where women were washing their laundry.
The bustle and racket of the city rose around her. She could hear the thunder of the mill by the big bridge, and ahead of her a shrill voice was hawking meat pies. The path was wide and dusty here. A white chicken scratched industriously at the ground as if to summon worms by sheer desire.
The air smelled of smoke and garlic and baking bread. A stream of half-naked children ran past, shrieking. She started to turn to watch them, remembering when she had been such a carefree child, but thought of her duty, and kept her eyes forward. She went along a crumbling wall of yellow stones meshed in a rose vine, pink petals fallen like warm snow on the ground.
The Secret Eleanor Page 4
