by Anne O'Brien
A gasp.
A murmur of agitation arose from the women as, with a frantic flutter of wings, a flurry of small songbirds escaped from their prison up into the rafters and roof spaces or flew with swooping panic over the tables. The women shrieked, hands to their veils, the men shouted with ale-fuelled appreciation. In mounting terror the birds flew more madly with loud cheepings, their droppings splattering down indiscriminately on tables, food and clothing.
I think I gawped. I certainly hiccupped on an entirely inappropriate laugh. I might have ducked below the level of the table to escape a darting flock of finches.
‘Shit!’ Raoul of Vermandois guffawed crudely.
‘Your Majesty!’ Abbot Suger said deploringly, still retaining his ecclesiastical dignity against all the odds.
Poor Louis! If he had hoped for melodic tweetings, he was disappointed. Shrill and tuneless, the creatures merely added to the pandemonium. Nor was that all. With shouts of laugher from the barons, crossbows appeared in eager hands, arrows aimed—dangerously—at these unexpected targets. Their aim was remarkably good, all things considered. As the barons roared their approval at every hit, my own vassals amongst them, the songbirds began to fall, to be snapped up by the hounds that swarmed and waited below.
I watched with growing dismay.
Aelith giggled in horror.
‘Well, Louis …’ I sought for words through my distaste at so much thoughtless bloodshed, through pity for the small corpses. ‘That was truly spectacular!’
Louis, on his feet, paled to the blue-white of a corpse. ‘I did not mean for this.’
Of course he had not. But had he not thought? Two score or more birds encased in a pie, released from their captivity, would assuredly cause havoc.
‘Clear them out,’ he ordered as one wounded, cheeping creature fell onto the table under his nose.
‘How is it possible?’ I asked, angry now. ‘If you wait long enough, your barons will dispatch most of them.’
It was indeed pitiful. Blood and death and poor little bodies. I tried not to mind the smirks and ridicule from the lords who were sober enough to mock Louis’s failure. The whole was only brought to a halt when a casually loosed arrow buried itself in the shoulder of one ill-fortuned squire.
Poor Louis.
Even his best efforts were crowned with disaster.
When Louis solemnly gave the formal kiss of peace on the mouth to each of his barons, I shivered with uneasy premonition. He was no leader of men and never would be.
It was impressed on me in those early days of my marriage after my crowning that I had misjudged my self-appointed task to make Louis attend to me. Louis continued to apportion his time spent with me and in matters of government to the barest necessity. Almighty God ruled Louis’s world. God demanded his devotion, his meticulous observance of the offices, the measuring of his days. Oh, he was always pleased when his path crossed mine. I could never fault the depth of affection and kindness in him. He would kiss my cheek, give me gifts. Sometimes he would kiss my lips and stroke his hand down my hair, looking at me in delighted, innocent amazement as if he could not quite understand how he had come to have a wife at all.
Sometimes I did not see him for days on end.
Before God, I was patient with him. I would not shout. I would not scold or upbraid him for his neglect of me. Sweet Virgin, I would not! I had to keep a tight hold on my temper as my life was smothered by the flat, tedious, all-encompassing monotony of it all.
Boredom had a heavy hand.
How did I pass my time?
With my women I set stitches in belts and altar cloths. We played chess, we sang and read and gossiped when the weather was unkind. We strolled in the gardens. On bright mornings we rode out to hunt and hawk.
It was stultifying. Suffocating.
Sometimes Louis came to my bed, but not before praying through the order of Compline as if his soul could not survive the night with me without the click of the rosary beads through his fingers. He slept beside me. He did not touch me.
My courses came regularly, again and again, as the months passed. Why would they not? Although Louis’s face fell at my failure to conceive, he had not felt moved to repeat the experience beyond that first brief occasion.
‘How do I bear a child if you will not play the man?’ I demanded, furious with him, unable to contain my frustration when he enquired yet again after my health.
Louis turned his face away.
But not before I experienced that first flutter of fear. What if I failed to carry an heir for France? What would be my future then? Even more important to me—what if I conceived no heir for Aquitaine? I stamped down on the thought before it could bear fruit.
I was thrown back on my own devices. What did I do with my time, my energies? What did I do to warm this cold northern existence, to exercise my mind and my imagination? Songs and stories had a finite quality. The constructions Louis had promised me continued apace. Soon I had my glazed windows and fireplaces, my beautiful tapestries that filled the rooms with vibrant colour and tales of daring and courage, but my heart remained far away in Aquitaine. In Poitiers. I yearned for the warmth, the beauty, the songs and dancing that stirred the blood to passion. I wanted feasting and laughter and.
So there it was. It was no great leap to set up my own court, a close mirror image of what I knew and loved. I would be Duchess of Aquitaine first, Queen of France second. I would drag this backward court into an Aquitanian world of rich hues and sensual pleasures. I would create a little Aquitaine in the heart of Paris. And surely, somewhere in the novelty and excitement of it all, I could bring Louis to my bed as man and lover instead of as an affectionate brother.
‘You’ve been busy again, Eleanor.’ His hands plucked uncomfortably at the embroidered band around his cuff as he surveyed what I had done to the High Table. A linen cloth stretched fair and stainless along its length, as white as snow, with a napkin, a glass, a knife and a spoon at every place. Plates of polished pewter and silver. No more bread trenchers for those who sat at my table. The pages’ hands were scoured to red-fingered purity, the finger bowls perfumed with citrus and rosemary, frequently replenished. A troubadour warmed the strings of his lute. ‘Does it make you happy?’
‘Yes, indeed.’ I smiled encouragingly. I had his full attention. ‘One thing would please me far more,’ I whispered in Louis’s ear. ‘One thing would make me very happy.’
‘Then I will grant it. You only have to ask.’
‘Come to me tonight. We will pray together—’ a lure he could not refuse ‘—and then I will tell you. Will you come?’
‘Yes.’ There was no hesitation. Louis smiled at me.
‘Promise me.’
‘I promise.’
Excellent. I had a plan. My experience told me that there was perhaps one pathway to Louis’s reluctant loins.
‘Do you recall the success of your expedition against de Lezay at Talmont, Louis? When you rescued my gerfalcons?’
We had prayed. At some length. Now at ease, Louis lay beside me in the bed. The room was warm, the bed-hangings sumptuous, the linens soft against our naked flesh. Louis’s skin gleamed in the light from the single candle. I had hidden the Book of Hours in the bottom of one of my coffers.
‘Yes.’ A smile, swiftly followed by a little frown. ‘I recall de Lezay …’
‘It was a victory,’ I broke in, to obliterate his memory of de Lezay’s severed hands.
‘Yes. A victory.’ Still he was troubled.
‘To impose your authority on an impudent vassal who had stolen what was mine.’
‘I recall. I had God’s protection.’ Smiling again, Louis rolled to prop his head on his hand and look at me. ‘What of it?’ His eyes shone with benign contentment, and I leapt in before he could think of another prayer to offer. ‘It’s Toulouse. I want you to get back Toulouse for me.’
‘Toulouse?’ A large kingdom abutting Aquitaine to the south-east, stretching almost to the Mediterranea
n. Louis looked quizzical. ‘Do you have a claim on it?’
‘Certainly I do. My grandmother Philippa was Countess of Toulouse in her own right. It was snatched from her when my grandfather was too old and ill to fight to retain it for her. The present ruler, Count Alfonso, has no right of blood, only the right of power,’ I explained simply. ‘It should not be. It should be mine.’ Which was not untrue, even though Toulouse had been lost to us for the past twenty years. But here was a circumstance that might just play into my hands. ‘Now that I have a powerful husband of my own …’
I left the words hanging, for Louis to snatch up. Was this not what I had always wanted? A strong right hand to hold my lands? So why not get back what had been stolen from me? And if success in battle should strengthen Louis’s manhood. So many possibilities here. I let the idea settle in the still room as I reached and handed Louis a cup of spiced wine from the nightstand.
‘Think about it,’ I urged as he sipped, faint colour tinging his cheeks, a glow that had nothing to do with the heady spices. ‘It would extend your lands, as well as enhancing your prestige if you launched an assault and crushed the man who dared to steal what is rightfully mine.’ I cupped his cheek with my palm so that he focused on my eyes so close to his. My unbound hair curled with sensual effect onto his chest, his shoulder. ‘I would be so proud of you, Louis, if you could renew my claim to Toulouse and restore it to me—to us …’
I had planted the seed. I could see it grow in his face, in his eyes. Or it was like I had lit a little flame that bloomed and consumed. Louis drank deep as the vision of fame and glory struck home.
‘What a reputation you will build for yourself.’ I added an extra layer. ‘No lord will dare to threaten you.’
‘True …’
‘And you will have all my admiration …’
‘Do you mean it?’
‘Yes.’
Louis took another gulp, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Then I will. Toulouse will be yours again.’
Taking the cup from him, setting it aside, I kissed him on the mouth. ‘My powerful husband. My victorious lord. I can see it now, the point of your sword at Count Alfonso’s throat so that he has no choice but to hand Toulouse back …’
His lips warmed beneath mine. His hands clasped my shoulders with surprising strength. His erection surged and stiffened against my thigh.
‘Louis …’ I sighed against his mouth.
God was pleased to allow him to complete the deed. Briefly, in truth, but not before Louis had spent the royal seed in me. I felt nothing. How could I, when Louis’s interest was fast and tepid at best? My body remained unresponsive beyond the success at getting him to this point. Through it all I prayed that my womb would quicken.
‘Thank you, Eleanor.’
Louis fell asleep.
By the Virgin, Dangerosa! Did you risk your reputation for this?
CHAPTER FIVE
IT took three days for Louis to feel his soul safe enough, restored to the bosom of the Almighty, to emerge from Notre Dame and come to my apartments. He came after the order of Tierce and greeted me as if no time had passed, and he had no apology to make for his absence. He bowed, kissed my fingers, my lips and cheeks with tenderness, but fleetingly, as if he greeted a friend.
‘Have you ordered affairs to suit you? Are you comfortable, dear Eleanor?’
He was so certain that I would say yes!
‘No. I am not comfortable. How can I be?’ I ignored his startled expression. ‘I cannot be expected to live like this.’
‘Are you unwell?’ he asked uncertainly.
‘Of course I’m not unwell! Do I look unwell?’ Louis needed a firm hand. Pressing a cup of wine into his hand as I drew him towards the detested brazier in my solar, pushing him into a cushioned chair beside it, I presented him with the list.
‘What’s this?’
‘You said you wished me to be comfortable. Did you mean it?’
‘Nothing is closer to my heart.’
‘Then I need improvements to my rooms. These!’
His gaze slid to the parchment. ‘Can you write, Eleanor?’
‘Of course I can write!’
‘Not many women are considered able to acquire the skill.’
I ignored that. Did he think I’d been raised an illiterate commoner in a peasant’s hut? ‘And, as you see, Louis, I have made a list.’
I watched him as his eyes travelled down it. His lips pursed, twisted; he glanced up at me, then back to my demands. If I was to live out my days here, in the sweet Virgin’s name there had to be some concessions to the life I’d been raised to.
‘So you have.’ Louis continued to read—how long would it take him?—tapping the page with one hand. ‘Windows? Why do you need windows? You have windows.’
‘These are not windows. These are defensive slits for shooting arrows.’
‘I need to be impregnable. This is a fortress.’
‘Is the King of France not safe in the heart of Paris? My women do not shoot arrows. We need larger openings to let in air and sunlight. How can we see to sew and read? How can Faydide see to play the lute? Surely your stonemasons can create some wider, taller windows without too much difficulty.’
‘I suppose they could. But would that not allow cold air in?’
‘Shutters! It’s like sitting in a gale even now. I want wooden shutters for all the windows in my apartments. And in my own chambers I want glazing.’
‘Ah! Glazing.’ Louis’s fair brows climbed as if my extravagance was as gaudy as a peacock’s feathers, but he did not refuse. He tilted his head. ‘It says here, “Remove smoke.”’
‘So it does.’ To my good fortune a chance draught wafted a curl of poisonous fumes to envelop him and reduce him to coughing. ‘I’ll die of the smoke if I have to live with it much longer. My hair, my garments reek of it.’
‘But the Great Hall—’
‘Yes, yes, I know the Great Hall must keep its central fire, but in here I want stone fireplaces, Louis, with chimneys built into the thickness of the walls to carry the smoke away.’
Louis eyed the formidable wall of stones before him as if he personally would have to take a hammer to them. ‘A major building programme, then. The cost will be great, of course. My Treasury—’
‘A little thing,’ I disagreed.
‘Well …’
‘In the palaces of Aquitaine we have chimneys,’ I added slyly. ‘Do you not have the wealth to encompass it?’
He thought for a moment. ‘I do.’
‘And I want tapestries,’ I added.
‘As I see.’
‘You have none to my taste. Not one wall in this palace displays a tapestry of any size or quality. Those I’ve seen are in a state of disintegration or covered with soot. What can you be thinking of?’ I allowed him no time to retreat. ‘Think of the display of your wealth and style, Louis. You are not some insignificant lord, still residing in a stone keep, but King of the Franks. Your palace should be a stamp on your authority, not a rough fortress no better than your ancestors could build a hundred years ago. And if that does not appeal to you, think of how much warmer the rooms will be, keeping the damp and draughts at bay.’
‘I don’t feel the cold,’ Louis observed. ‘But if that is what you wish then order them as you will. The tapestries from Bourges are thought to be the best.’
I reached to kiss his cheek, delighted with the resulting quick blush, and tugged at his sleeve. Louis was open to suggestion, a blank scroll on which I might write. And I would write on it. Not Abbot Suger. Not Queen Adelaide. I would be the one to map out Louis’s future.
‘Will you give the orders for the stonework immediately?’
‘If it pleases you, I will. I should be thankful you’ve not gone ahead and done it already, so that I find us knee deep in stone dust and chippings.’ His smile was charmingly rueful, despite the ponderous humour. ‘I’ve been told that you’ve already dismissed one of my appointments.’
So Adelaide had already complained to her son, had she? It had taken her less than twenty-four hours.
‘Yes,’ I acknowledged airily. ‘The cantor at the palace chapel.’
‘My mother was distressed that he’d been removed.’
‘That’s hard to believe.’ I opened my eyes wide. ‘Perhaps you misunderstood her, Louis. The man had no ear and could scare hold a tune. As for leading a choir … When you hear his replacement, one of my own household with a fine voice, you will admit my choice is good.’ I saw the muscles in his jaw twitch as he prepared to refute this, so I pressed on with an argument he could not deny. ‘It’s only fitting that God be praised to the best of our poor talents.’ I was getting the measure of my husband.
‘That is so, of course …’
‘Do you object to my plans, Louis?’
‘No. Not at all.’
‘You would say if I displease you, wouldn’t you?’
‘You’ll never displease me. I admire you.’
Victory fluttered in my breast. It seemed I could play the obedient, grateful wife with skill. I had no experience of it, but a wise woman can learn, and learn fast. I had got exactly what I wanted.
‘And you will give your orders to the stonemasons today?’ I persisted.
‘Yes. Eleanor …?’
‘Hmm?’ I was already halfway across the room to order my women to pack away the most fragile of my gowns.
‘Is there anything you do like here? In Paris?’
I halted. Turned back. He still sat, looking almost dejected at my lack of enthusiasm for my new home, my list in one hand, the untasted cup of wine in the other. How woefully deficient in authority and importance he could be. Poor Louis. He really had no presence.
As if he read my thoughts, he stood and walked towards me, while I sought desperately for something to say to make him look less of a cowed child who had been refused a promised treat.
‘Perhaps you like the gardens,’ he suggested. ‘They’re thought to be very fine. Will you perhaps walk there with me?’
How could I refuse without appearing churlish? I walked with Louis along the pathways enclosed for privacy by walls and trellised vines, bordered with acanthus. Willow, fig, cypress, olive and pear trees gave welcome shade in the heat of the day. They would do very well with some statues and the occasional water display, but these formal plantings were no compensation for the chains on my freedom to travel the length and breadth of my dominions as I had once done at my father’s side. They were no compensation for the stultifying life I had been dropped into. My new existence was almost as rigidly curtailed as if I had taken the veil. The ordered beauty of sight and scent was no compensation at all for Louis’s continued absence from my bed.
