by Anne O'Brien
I slapped her hand away when she tugged on a painful tangle, but she only laughed.
‘I don’t even know that he wants to please me.’ I frowned at my knees emerging from the water.
‘You didn’t make life easy for him, Eleanor,’ Aelith pointed out, fairly enough, I suppose. ‘You challenged him over how you would and would not travel—and what you would and would not wear.’
‘And that wasn’t the first. I’d already been more than forthright over the court position of my troubadour Bernart,’ I admitted with a twinge of guilt.
‘What’s wrong with Bernart?’
‘Nothing—that’s the point. Never mind—we just didn’t agree.’
‘And you haven’t been wed a full day …’
‘I suppose I’ve not been a dutiful wife, have I?’
‘There you have it. He’s a prince. He’s not used to a woman taking him to task.’
My thoughts circled round to the main issue. ‘He seeks the company of God before mine.’ For the first time in my life I was touched with true uncertainty.
‘Then you’ll just have to show him the error of his ways, won’t you?’
I was not much comforted. Aelith shared my pillows. I rose next morning from my marriage bed as much a virgin as I had entered it.
CHAPTER THREE
WHAT a welcome we received as we rode into the city of Poitiers, making our way towards the Maubergeonne Tower, grandmother Philippa’s tower, the home I loved the most. There was not the slightest hint of the rebellion that troubled the Abbot’s mind. The streets echoed to the cries of joy of my people so that even Louis was forced to smile and wave at their overt approval. And the crowds responded, urged on by Abbot Suger’s largesse. I saw the coin passed from the bound chests in the baggage-wains to the hands of the greedy populace, even if Louis did not. Louis accepted the acclamation as his right. And why should he not? When his face was filled with happiness and he was clad in mail astride a high-blooded destrier as had been arranged for this entry, he was superbly striking, a prince that they could take to their hearts.
Hope surged within me. This night would see the fulfilment of my marriage.
I was bathed and stripped by my women and took to the soft canopied bed in my own bedchamber. Nervously, expectantly, I waited. A soft knocking at the door. It was pushed open and there, at last, was Louis, under escort from Abbot Suger but otherwise alone. Well, this would be no riotous bedding ceremony with coarse jokes and bold innuendo, and I was not sorry. But it seemed to me that Louis looked as if he was under guard to prevent a precipitate flight. His expression was mutinous.
‘It is time, my lord,’ the Abbot murmured. ‘It is your duty to the lady. This marriage must be consummated.’
‘Yes.’ Louis, wrapped about in a furred brocade chamber robe, stood, hands fisted at his sides, face sullen like a child caught out in some misdemeanour.
‘Perhaps if you joined your bride in the bed, my lord …? Now, my lord!’
It might have been a request but Suger’s face was implacable.
Allowing the robe to fall to the floor, Louis stalked across the room. I was impressed. He stripped well, as I had thought he would, revealing broad shoulders and slender hips. The ascetic life had suited him. Lean, smooth, good to look at, he was well made—but obviously not aroused.
That could surely be rectified. My nurse, left behind in Bordeaux, had been explicit in what was expected of me. I had not been raised to be timid with thoughts of the flesh.
At a further impatient gesture from the Abbot, Louis slid between the sheets and leaned back against the pillows beside me, his arms folded across his chest. Making every effort not to brush against me, leaving a chilly space between us from shoulder to foot, he sighed loudly. Was it resignation? Distaste? I think he sensed the sudden leap of trepidation in my blood because he turned his head to look at me. With another little sigh, more a controlled exhalation, I saw his body relax. His smile was warm, reassuring. No, I had no need to be anxious after all.
‘My lord,’ the Abbot intoned, wasting no time. ‘My lady. God bless your union. May you be fruitful. May an heir for France come from your loins this night, my lord.’
From his capacious garments he produced a flask of holy water and proceeded to sprinkle us and the bed with a symbol of God’s presence. With a brisk nod in Louis’s direction, he looked as if he might be prepared to stay to see the deed done. We were not an ordinary couple, to order their lives to their own wishes: our marriage must be consummated before the law.
Such a necessity proved not to be to my husband’s taste. Louis scowled.
‘We’ll do well enough without your presence, sir.’
‘It is a matter of witnesses, my lord …’
‘God will be witness to what passes between myself and my wife.’
‘His Majesty, your father, will—’
‘His Majesty is not here to express his desires. It is my wish that you leave us.’
Well! Louis’s decisiveness impressed me. Abbot Suger bowed himself from the room, leaving us sitting naked, side by side. The room was still, the only sound the soft hush as ash fell from the logs in the fireplace. I sat unmoving. My husband would take the initiative, would he not?
Louis slid from the bed.
‘Where are you going?’ I demanded when I found my scattered wits.
Without replying, shrugging into his robe again, Louis crossed the room and knelt at my prie-dieu, clasped his hands and bent his fair head in prayer, murmuring the familiar words with increasing fervour so that they filled the room.
Ave Marie. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of Grace, pray for us now
And in the hour of our death. Amen.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou.
On and on it went. Should I join him on my knees, to pray with him? But he had not invited me, neither did I think it appropriate when this occasion demanded a physical rather than spiritual response. I clawed my fingers into the linen. I’d wager Dangerosa and my grandfather did not begin their reprehensible relationship on their knees before a crucifix.
‘Hail Mary.’
‘Louis!’ I said, cautiously. Should I disturb him in his prayers?
‘Blessed art thou among women …’
‘Louis!’ I raised my voice to an unmaidenly pitch.
Unhurriedly, Louis completed the Ave, rose, genuflected, and returned to the bed, where he once more removed his robe and slid between the sheets, but bringing with him my little Book of Hours that he proceeded to open, turning the pages slowly from one illuminated text to the next.
‘This is a very beautiful book,’ he observed.
I was tempted to snatch it from him and hurl it across the room.
Instead, I said, ‘Louis—did you not wish to marry me?’
‘Of course. My father wished it. It is an important marriage to make our alliance between France and Aquitaine. The Scriptures say it is better for a man to marry than to burn.’
I did not think, on evidence, that Louis burned.
‘But do you not want me?’
‘You are beautiful.’
So was my Book of Hours! ‘Then tell me, Louis.’ Perhaps he was simply shy. Was that it? A boy brought up by monks might be reserved and indecisive in the company of a woman who was naked and expecting some degree of intimacy. I would encourage him. ‘Tell me why you think I am beautiful. A woman always likes to know.’
‘If you wish.’ He did not close the book, keeping one finger in the page, but now he looked at me. ‘Your hair is … the russet of a dog fox. Look how it curls around my fingers.’ He touched my hair. ‘And your eyes …’ he peered into them ‘ … green.’ Lord, Louis was no poet. My troubadours would mock his lack of skill. ‘Your skin … pale and smooth. Your hands so elegant and soft but s
o capable—you controlled your horse as well as any man. Your shoulders …’ His fingers skimmed them thoughtfully, until he snatched them away as if they were scorched.
‘Look,’ he said suddenly, urgently. ‘Here.’ He lifted the Book of Hours so that I might see and thumbed through the pages until he came to the illustration he sought, the coloured inks vibrant. ‘Here’s an angel with your exact colouring. Is that not beautiful?’
‘Well, yes …’ It was beautiful, but unreal, with its painted features and heavy with gold leaf. Did he see me as a gilded icon? I was a woman of flesh and blood.
‘What about my lips?’ I asked. Daring, certainly forward, but why not? Once my troubadour Bernart had compared them to an opening rose, pink and perfectly petalled.
‘Sweet …’
I despaired. ‘You could kiss them.’
‘I would like to.’ Louis leaned forward and placed his lips softly on mine. Fleetingly.
‘Did you like that?’ I asked as he drew away.
His smile was totally disarming. ‘Yes.’
I placed my hand on his chest—his heart beat slow and steady—and leaned to kiss him of my own volition. Louis allowed it but did not respond. He was still smiling at the end. As a child might smile when given a piece of sugared marchpane.
‘I enjoyed it too,’ I said, desperation keen. Did he not know what to do? Surely someone would have seen to his education. He might not have been raised to know the coarse jokes and explicit reminiscences that to my experience men indulged in but surely …
‘I think we shall be happy together,’ he murmured.
‘Would you like to hold me in your arms?’
‘Very much. Shall we sleep now? It’s late and you must be weary.’
‘I thought that …’ What to say? Louis’s eyes were wide and charmingly friendly. ‘Will the Abbot not wish for proof of our union—the sheets …?’ I wouldn’t mince words. ‘The linen should be stained to prove my virginity and your ability to claim it.’
And saw the return of the initial stubbornness as his brows flattened into a line. His reply had a gentle dignity. A complete assurance. ‘The Abbot will get his proof. When I wish it.’
‘But, Louis … My women—they will mock.’
‘I care not. Neither should you. It is not their concern.’
‘They will say you have found me wanting. Or—’ even worse ‘—that I was no virgin.’
‘Then they will be wrong. I have never met a woman who has touched my heart as you have. And I know you are innocent. There now, don’t be upset. Come here …’
Abandoning the book, Louis folded me into his arms—as if he were a brother comforting a distressed sister. His manhood did not stir against my thigh despite his appreciation of me. Should I touch him? I may not have had the practice but I knew the method.
But I couldn’t do it. I dared not touch him so intimately. In the presence of God and the Book of Hours and Louis’s strange sanctity, I just could not do it.
When Louis released me to blow out the candle and we lay side by side like carved effigies on a tomb, I was mortified. My marriage was no marriage at all. I knew that Louis slept, as calmly composed as that same effigy, his hands folded on his breast as if still summoning God to take note of his prayers. When I turned my head to look at him, his face was serene and completely unaware of the disillusion that I suffered.
Eventually I slept. When I awoke with daylight, he was gone, the Book of Hours carefully positioned on the empty pillow at my side, the page open to the gilded angel. The linen of my bed was entirely unmarked. There were no bloody sheets to testify to my husband’s duty towards me or even his desire.
Well, I could have faked it, couldn’t I? A quick stab to my finger with my embroidery needle—but I did not. It had not been my choice and Louis must answer for his own lack. Faced with the Abbot’s gentle enquiry the following morning, I was haughty. I was defiant but icily controlled.
‘If you wish to know what passed between us in the privacy of our bed, you must ask the Prince,’ I informed him.
I silenced my women with a blank stare and a demand that I would break my fast as soon as they could arrange it. Perhaps now rather than in their own good time. I would not show my humiliation but coated it in a hard shell, as my cook in Bordeaux might enclose the softness of an almond in sugar. As for Aelith’s obvious concern, I shut her out. I could not speak of what had not occurred, even to her. If I had, I think I might have wept.
What passed between the Abbot and the Prince I had no idea.
In a bid to impress my subjects, Abbot Suger himself, in the glory of the great cathedral, placed the golden coronets to proclaim us Count and Countess of Poitiers. Louis accepted his new dignity with an unfortunate show of shy diffidence, whereas I spent the ceremony taking note of those who bent the knee and bared their necks in subservience, and making an even more careful accounting of those who did not.
Such as William de Lezay, my own castellan of Talmot, my hunting lodge. So personal a servant to me, he should have been first in line. He was not. Always an audacious knight with an eye to his own promotion, he sent me an insolently verbal message by one of his knights, who trembled as he repeated it. He had a right to tremble. I considered consigning him to a dungeon for a week for his weasel words—except that the sin was not his. One does not punish the messenger, my father had taught me. It only increases the trouble tenfold.
De Lezay was unable to attend my coronation: there were too many demands on his time. He informed me that such a ceremony was not to his taste, to acknowledge a Frank as his overlord. Such dislike of all things Frankish even overrode his sincere allegiance to me, with my pure and undisputed Aquitaine blood. I almost spat my disgust at the sly insincerity. With careful questioning, I discovered that the man had recently increased the number of troops at Talmont and was preparing for siege conditions.
So he had taken my castle for himself, had he?
He would hold it in the face of my objection, would he?
My temper began to simmer. That he should dare to inform me so blatantly of his defection. But that was not the worst of it. De Lezay’s messenger, remarkably straight-faced, handed over a small flat leather packet. And within it as I tore it open? A handful of white wing feathers, beautifully barred and speckled with grey and black, fluttered to the floor.
By God! I knew the original owners of those magnificent feathers. The simmer of temper bubbled and overflowed. The sheer insolence of the gesture! The birds were mine! My rare white gerfalcons, a gift from my father, kept and bred for my own use. Not fit for the wrist of a commoner such as William de Lezay.
‘God rot his soul in hell!’
The messenger trembled.
‘May he burn in everlasting fires!’ My voice was close to shrill.
‘What is that?’ Louis enquired mildly, entering the antechamber as my rage reached its zenith. He gestured to the knight to rise to his feet. ‘What has this man said to disturb you?’
‘News of de Lezay.’ I could barely force the words out. ‘My own castellan at Talmont. He has stolen my birds. And my hunting lodge. And—before God!—has the audacity to inform me of it.’ I still did not know what hurt most, the lodge or the gerfalcons. ‘My castellan! My father’s chosen man!’
Louis’s features relaxed. ‘Is that all? Most have taken the oath. He’s the only one to refuse.’
All? Is that how he saw it? My temper did not abate. ‘One is one too many! And he thinks he can get away with it because I am a woman.’ I rounded on Louis. I stared at him.
Louis Capet, Prince of France. Looking capable and surprisingly efficient in wool and leather hunting clothes, a knife in his belt. I tilted my chin to appraise him. His hair gleamed beneath his felt cap. Today he looked like a knight capable of holding his own. And there it was. I might not lead a punitive force against my errant castellan, but. Of course! Louis would uphold my rights for me, because they were now his rights too.
Ah … but would
he? I was not certain of Louis’s mettle. When Louis had suspected Angoulême of setting an ambush, he had been quick to hitch his tunic and flee. What price de Lezay keeping his low-born fingers latched onto my property? But I strode to Louis’s side and took his arm, tightening my fingers into the fine cloth. I was determined. Louis must not be allowed to run from this. He must be a warrior lord, not a fool to be ridiculed and despised.
‘What will you do about it?’ I demanded. ‘De Lezay defies you as much as he defies me. He usurps my power and yours. Let him get away with this and we’ll have an avalanche of insurrection on our hands. I can just imagine him with one of my—of our—priceless white raptors on his fist, laughing at us from the battlements of Talmont.’
Louis studied the floor at his feet. Then stared thoughtfully at the messenger for a moment, to the man’s discomfort. Finally he looked at me. ‘What would you have me do, Eleanor?’
‘Punish him for his temerity. Take back my property.’
‘You wish me to launch an attack against him.’
‘Yes.’
Louis blinked as if struck by this novel idea. ‘Then if it will please you, I will,’ he replied, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. ‘I would not have you distressed in any way.’ Astonished pleasure lit his face. ‘I will restore your birds to you. And your castle.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ I made my smile gracious to hide the flood of satisfaction, and reached up to kiss his cheek. I was not powerless in this marriage after all.
‘It will be my wedding gift to you—the restoration of your property …’
‘Ah, Louis. I knew you wouldn’t fail me.’
Before the end of the day Louis and a band of well-armed Frankish knights set out for Talmont to teach de Lezay a much-needed lesson. I watched them go, wishing that I had been born a man and so could ride out to protect my own, but accepting that I must be content with my triumph so far. Ready enough to respond to my promptings, perhaps I could yet magic a dominant, forceful man out of the sweet, shy trappings that made up this Prince of the Franks. A warrior out of a bookish man of thoughts and dreams rather than deeds. Perhaps I could, if I could get him into my bed to do more than praise my hair. The sight of him, face stern and beautiful, clad in chain mail with his royal tabard and glossy stallion, fired my hope.
