by Anne O'Brien
‘Then conduct yourself as one, in the eyes of man and God,’ Bernard thundered back. ‘In God’s name! Why would you go to such lengths to please the woman who is your wife? Could you not see the danger? What persuaded you to disapprove of the consanguineous relationship between Vermandois and his first wife?’
‘Because it’s against the law of the Church,’ Louis snarled. ‘Of God.’
‘You fool! You misguided fool!’ Bernard’s eyes blazed. ‘To draw attention to consanguinity! When you yourself are related to your own wife within the forbidden degrees. Consanguinity is a dangerous game to play. What’s sauce for the damned goose can become sauce for the thrice-damned gander!’
Silence.
The atmosphere was suddenly as thick as a smoke-filled chamber. A strange hiatus held us all. No one moved. Not a breath could be heard. What was this? My whole attention was caught up.
‘What?’ Louis’s voice dropped as his eyes flickered from Bernard to me. ‘That is false.’
‘Of course it’s not false.’ Bernard’s voice once more blasted all present. ‘Are you saying you are not aware?’
‘No. I deny it. There’s no proof—’
‘Proof? The Bishop of Laon himself has exposed the consanguineous affinity.’
Louis’s voice rose into a shout of fury. ‘No. I’ll not believe it. I’ll not have it spoken of, d’you hear? Eleanor is my true wife.’
The proceedings, such as they were, continued to disintegrate around me. I paid them no heed. The matter of consanguinity remained hanging in the air, like a dust mote in a sunbeam, waiting for me to snatch at it and see its meaning. It was a revelation that I must pick apart. And since I knew who had the knowledge to help me.
Louis had denied the accusation—but I would wager Abbot Bernard had the truth of it.
‘Your Majesty …’ The Bishop of Laon scrabbled to his feet, then bent his portly form at the middle into a bow. I heard the intake of heavy breathing, exertion and anxiety in equal measure. ‘Your Majesty …’
He could think of nothing else to say. How could he? I had not advertised my coming. Neither, I imagine, was my expression conciliatory after a long, hot journey into Aquitaine on what I hoped would not be a matter of chasing a wild goose.
‘My lord Bishop.’ I walked forward into the sunny room. The Bishop lived in some style, some comfort, and I admired the light-filled chamber with its tapestried walls, its spread of books on every surface, its cushioned seats that invited a visitor to stay and be entertained. If I had my choice I would live again in Aquitaine. If I could regain control over my own life. I pinned the Bishop with a stare. ‘I wish you to show me the results of your recent studies.’
The round face flushed, the little eyes, remarkably porcine, widened between the pouch of cheek and forehead. His pursed mouth pursed even further. An unappealing man—but an erudite scholar who owed his primary loyalties to me, not to my husband, although one might be forgiven for disbelieving that, seeing supreme discomfort shift over his features.
‘My studies, Majesty …?’
I advanced, forcing him to look up. He was barely over five feet in height. It pleased me to take advantage of my inches.
‘I beg you will not play the fool with me, sir. You know why I’m here. Show me.’
‘Majesty … Indeed.’ To do him justice, he did not pretend further ignorance. ‘But I cannot …’
I allowed a little smile, watched as his rigid shoulders relaxed. ‘Why would that be?’
The Bishop swallowed. ‘The document you seek—confiscated, Majesty.’
‘By whom?’
‘His Majesty the King.’
I swung round towards the window, gazing out over the lake and wooded hills. So Louis had already taken it, destroyed it, had he? He’d wasted no time over it. How typical of him. But did he really think that to destroy the written evidence would destroy the fact, if that fact existed? His naivety continued to be a thing of wonder to me. Quickly I turned my head, to catch the Bishop eyeing me. Cautious, speculative, a hint of victory perhaps. Just as I thought.
I turned a bright smile on the Bishop of Laon. ‘And you did not make a copy of your valuable investigations before it was seized? Do I believe that?’
Not expecting a reply, I wandered around the room, touching the expertly worked tapestry, picking up a document from the table where he had been working, running a cursory eye over it, rejecting it. Lifting another. The Bishop cringed as if he would like to smack my hands away. He sank his teeth in his fleshy under-lip.
Now sure of my ground, I relaunched my attack. ‘Come, my lord Bishop. We’re wasting time. I don’t mean to leave without satisfaction.’
‘Majesty! I dare not.’
Well, at least he had changed his denial from ‘cannot’ to ‘dare not’. I leaned on the table, lowered my voice. ‘Show me. Show me what my husband the King thinks important enough to destroy and forbids you to discuss with his wife.’
He gulped like a carp in a fish pond. And capitulated like a pricked pig’s bladder.
‘Yes, Majesty. But could I beg your discretion?’
‘Do you fear His Majesty?’
‘I do!’
I smiled with a show of teeth. I think he feared me more.
Allowed to return to his own milieu, a man of letters rather than high politics, the Bishop busied himself, finding a key and rooting in the depths of a coffer. He scooped out rolls of parchment, dropping them on the floor. Then took a flat sheet from the bottom and smoothed it on the wooden surface before me. It was a sheet of parchment with a raw edge, as if it had been torn from another. The words and lines were hastily scribbled, a quick copy. There were some blots, crossings out, but I believed in its authenticity. I made myself comfortable in the Bishop’s own cushioned chair and beckoned.
‘Show me, my lord Bishop. There’s no blame. I merely wish to see for myself.’
‘Yes, Majesty. I imagine you might.’ I registered the dry tone as the Bishop prepared to point with stubby fingers.
‘Where am I?’
‘Here, Majesty.’ My tutor lost himself in the enthusiasm and detail of his discoveries. ‘And here is His Majesty King Louis. See, joined in matrimony. Now your own family—here is your own noble father and his father before him.’ I traced the lines the Bishop had sketched in. My father William, and before him my famous grandfather William, knight and conqueror, troubadour and lover.
As far back as my own memories stretched.
Before my grandfather was another William, wed to a lady I had no knowledge of. Audearde.
‘This lady is the key to this!’ The Bishop rubbed his palms as if he had discovered a gold nugget in a mountain stream. ‘She is the connecting link, Majesty …’ His words dried as he realised he had just handed me dangerous material, then with a shrug the Bishop dived in. ‘Her father was Robert, Duke of Burgundy. Do you see? And his elder brother was Henry the First, King of France. Both sons of King Robert the First of France.’
‘Ah … King of France.’ I followed the parallel set of lines, tracing them with my finger from that far-distant King Robert of France, through Henry, then Philip, to Louis the Fat and then to my own husband.
I frowned. ‘We are related.’ If the evidence was correct, it was irrefutable.
‘Undeniably, Majesty. Within the fourth degree.’
‘That is forbidden.’
‘By the law of the Church, it is.’ The Bishop nodded furiously. ‘Within the laws of consanguinity, such a marriage is prohibited.’
I set my elbows on the table, on either side of the document, clasped my hands and rested my chin, absorbing the implications. My hands trembled, my mouth was dry. The names swam in my vision. The implications were not clear but I knew they were vastly important to me. Raising my eyes, I found the Bishop regarding me intently.
‘But we were wed, were we not?’ I queried. ‘By the Bishop of Bordeaux, under the supervision of Archbishop Suger himself.’
‘Indeed you
were. But that does not mean to say that it was legal. There was no dispensation applied for from His Holiness.’
‘Did Abbot Suger—did my husband’s father not know of this?’ I swept my hand over the evidence.
The Bishop raised his brows. ‘I cannot say, Majesty.’ Or will not! There was a knowing glint in those little eyes. ‘As I recall, Majesty …’ he leaned close ‘ … the marriage was very fast. Considering your extreme youth and vulnerability on the death of your father …’
‘Ha! You mean Fat Louis saw the chance of a wealthy unprotected heiress for his son and snapped her up before anyone else could get his hands on her, with or without the stamp of papal approval!’
‘It is true, Majesty—or so I believe—’ the Bishop’s eyes were bright with the spirit of complicity ‘—that the Bishop of Bordeaux was well rewarded for his compliance. He was granted complete freedom from all feudal and fiscal obligations. The charter was witnessed by His Majesty’s father and by Abbot Suger.’
‘So they knew. They all knew.’ I considered. ‘What do I do with this?’
I did not expect a reply but the prelate gave one. ‘Your marriage is not in danger—if His Majesty refuses to accept this proof.’
‘His Majesty might not accept it, but I will.’
‘What do you wish to achieve, Majesty?’
‘I don’t know.’ And I didn’t. It was still too new.
‘If you will take my advice, Majesty—take care how you use your knowledge.’
‘I don’t know how I will. Or even if I will.’ My mood swung from a sudden ray of blinding hope to bleak frustration. I needed to think. ‘I shall keep this.’ I handed over a purse of gold for his troubles.
I travelled back to Paris, my thoughts still scattered. The document in my hand was a fiery brand. I did not doubt for one moment that the connection was accurate. So I was wed outside the law of the Church and the blessing of God. Was this the reason for my failure to quicken? Many might have thought so—God’s punishment for disobedience. Quickly I discarded that thought. I did not believe it—the fault was not from the sin of the marriage. How was it possible to conceive if Louis failed to plant the seed? I could count on the fingers of two hands the number of occasions Louis had shared my bed with carnal desires. Our failure had nothing to do with our common ancestor.
A different seed uncurled within my breast, springing into life.
If my marriage was in sin, should it exist?
This is a way out for you. An annulment of an illegal marriage.
Annulment. Freedom. In the confines of my litter, the curtains pulled against the world, my heart began to beat heavily against my ribs.
Aelith has achieved it, why should Eleanor not pursue it?
The little bubble of hope expanded, only to burst as soon as it grew because, of course, it was not possible. Louis would reject the illegality out of hand. It was useless to even contemplate it. If by some miracle Louis agreed to give me my freedom, he would have to be willing to give up Aquitaine too. He would never do that. Even if he could be persuaded that I was not a comfortable wife for him, Louis would never give up half his kingdom.
Abbot Suger would never allow it.
The door that had opened was suddenly slammed shut.
I had the document now tucked within my bodice where it all but burned a hole. I could have truly laughed if it were not so tragic. Aelith and the Bishop of Laon had inadvertently showed me a means of escape from Louis, from France, from a life that clipped my wings, a means I was not free to take. I had found the doors and window to my prison but was not free to open them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I DID not see it but my feet tottered at the edge of a slippery slope that would take me tumbling down into a black void. It was my own fault. Had I not been so taken up with the loss of my child, with Louis’s disregard, I would never have neglected Aelith. What possible harm could come to her in Poitiers, where she was known and well loved? I should have remembered that she could be too passionate for her own good. But in fairness I could never have imagined the consequences of the freedom she enjoyed there.
She returned to Paris, her face alight, as full of joy as I had ever seen her.
‘Aelith!’ I hugged her. ‘I missed you …’
‘I’m so sorry, Eleanor. I should have been here.’
‘What could you do?’ I studied her, suddenly suspicious. ‘You look pleased with yourself!’
‘Oh, Eleanor! I’m in love.’
I laughed, relaxed a little. ‘Which troubadour this time?’
‘No, no.’ Gravity and an unusual maturity settled on her features. ‘I love Raoul of Vermandois. I want him. I want to marry him and, before God, he wants me. Will you help us?’
Raoul of Vermandois. The man Aelith had cast her eye over at my marriage feast. Count Raoul, the Seneschal of France with the well-connected wife. Of an age to be wed, Aelith had distracted me when I had suggested it was time and beyond to find her a husband. And why was that? Because she’d had Raoul of Vermandois in her sights. And why had she remained behind in Poitiers? To be with him, as Count Raoul had been ordered by Louis to remain there and take soundings of any incipient uprisings.
Aelith’s voice was urgent, her fingers digging into my arm. ‘I am in love with Raoul of Vermandois.’
Simple words but heralding such disaster if I had but known it, so that it was to be Aelith who unwittingly brought me great distress. I meant well. All I wanted was happiness for her, the happiness and fulfilment such as I did not have, with the man she loved and who loved her. I did not see the outcome for her, for Louis, for me. How could I? It was beyond what anyone could have foreseen.
‘Tell me,’ I said.
And she did, her eyes sparkling, her words extravagant with infatuation, unable to sit. In Poitou, as I had guessed. Late summer, the weather had been fine, offering good hunting and long lazy days. It had given much more. Aelith and Count Raoul, free from too many interested glances, had stopped attempting to deny the strange fascination they had for each other.
I produced all the arguments. She would not go blind into this relationship.
‘He’s married, Aelith.’
‘I know.’
‘A wife with powerful connections. And children.’
‘I know that too.’
‘He’s old enough to be your grandfather.’
‘He loves me. He’s more of a man than Louis!’
Which was true. I sighed. ‘What makes you so certain he’s not in love with your dower, more than your mind and body?’ Aelith was a wealthy woman, a desirable bride for any man, with estates in Normandy and Burgundy. Vermandois would be a fool not to see Aelith’s value.
‘He likes my mind and body very well.’ She blushed.
So that was it. I tried not to appear shocked at what my little sister had been doing in Poitou. ‘Have you slept with him?’
‘More often than you have with Louis, I warrant!’ she retorted with uncomfortable percipience. ‘At least when Raoul looks at me, it’s with a man’s desire for a woman, not veneration at the feet of the Madonna!’
‘Aelith!’
‘Well, it’s true!’
True it may be, but I was not prepared to admit it.
‘Please, Eleanor,’ Aelith continued, wrapped up in her own problems. ‘Talk to Louis. Get his support.’
‘The Count is married, Aelith.’ The final nail in the coffin of Aelith’s love, as far as I could see.
‘So Raoul divorces his wife!’ A distinct flounce, unworthy of her claims to adult emotion. ‘If Louis will support him, why should he not demand his freedom? The Church will agree.’
‘Are you sure about this, Aeli?’
‘I am. Raoul’s come to Paris with me. I love him.’ She looked so radiantly happy. ‘Would you deny me love because there’s precious little in your life?’
It was not something I had ever talked of, not even to my sister. How could a proud woman confess that the man she had marrie
d could barely tolerate her body? But how true her accusation. Jealousy! It struck home, a fist to my belly, and I was ashamed. How could I not give her my blessing? I promised to test Louis’s feelings, and soon discovered that I did not need to. Count Raoul had already broached the subject with Louis over a cup of ale. Taking time off from his daily appointment with the Almighty, Louis sought me out to complain of my sister’s flighty ways and questionable morals.
‘Needless to say, I don’t approve,’ Louis remarked, his fist clenching on his knee as he sat and frowned at me.
‘Why not?’ I was completing my dressing, choosing jewels from a casket. ‘They love each other.’
‘So Vermandois tells me. He threatens to leave his wife and children and carry Aelith off and live with her, whether I say yea or nae.’
‘So what are you going to do about it, Louis?’
It had become very important that I win this chance of happiness for Aelith. If guilt was to be apportioned for the events that unfolded, I could not claim my innocence. For I had watched Aelith and Raoul together, in public, marvelling at the latent passion that arced between them. Raoul might be an aging wolf but he was still a wolf, tough and vital. The desire when they looked at each other made me shiver. Never less than courteous and respectful, Raoul’s touch on Aelith’s hand, the deep caress of his voice, the slide of his eyes over her face, had all announced his feelings for her to the whole court. Oh, yes, they loved each other.
What did I have?
Nothing. How long since Louis had last touched me? I burned with longing. My heart and my bed were a wasteland, empty and barren, and I could do nothing to remedy it. It almost reduced me to weeping until I reminded myself that Duchesses of Aquitaine did not weep. They took action to remedy the problem—and I could at least remedy Aelith’s lack. She would have her much-desired marriage, she would have her lover. All I had to do was open Louis’s eyes to the advantage for him, for France.
Louis’s brow creased in familiar worry and uncertainty. ‘Raoul says his first marriage is unlawful. He and the lady are third cousins and no dispensation was sought—so he could demand an annulment.’
