by Anne O'Brien
‘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 EIGHT
THE occasion of the consecration of Abbot Suger’s new abbey church at Saint-Denis brought Adelaide out of retirement and, reluctantly, into my company. We took our seats, prepared to be impressed, and so we were. The building was without doubt incomparable, if somewhat austere and northern for my taste, pointed arches and towering vaults replacing the more sensuous rounded style of the southern cathedrals I knew. Vast stained-glass windows allowed the light to pattern the floors with jewelled mosaics. Abbot Suger might have renounced the sin of luxury for himself but nothing had been spared on this monument to his place in God’s scheme of things. Nothing could take the eye from the High Altar, dominated by a twenty-foot gold cross, lavished with diamonds and rubies and pearls. Crammed with treasures and gifts from every feudal lord in France, the church glittered like a festive woman.
My eye was drawn to one spectacular offering that graced the altar.
I was at first disbelieving. And then speechless. But I vowed I would not be when I next had conversation with Louis.
Louis led the procession into the church, of course. As a symbol of his restitution, he was given the honour of shouldering the silver reliquary holding the bones of the martyred Saint Denis, placing it on the altar where it would rest amidst more gold and precious stones than the saint could have imagined in his lifetime. The procession was lengthy, the singing endless. The heat and smell of ranks of pilgrims were overpowering as every inch of the cathedral was jammed with those who could push themselves within the four walls.
I played my part with appropriate opulence, wearing a pearl-encrusted diadem and a damask robe overlaid with cloth of gold. Even Adelaide drew the eye, gleaming with royal gems that she had removed with her to Compiègne. Louis. on the other hand. He had, of necessity, to abandon his ridiculous pilgrim’s staff, but was still clad in the drab gown, leather scrip and crude sandals of a penitent that he had arrived in the previous day on our seven-mile journey from Paris. Had he even washed? He could be taken for any obscure pilgrim with filthy feet and shorn hair, one of the hundreds of riff-raff that swelled the crowds. I felt unable to look at him.
‘Before God, he is no son of mine,’ Adelaide murmured, her dislike of me buried beneath her despair over Louis. ‘Of all my six sons, that he should be the one. Do you hear what they’re saying? It’s dangerous.’
The whispered conversations around me made no effort to hide the contempt for the King’s posturing. At least I was silent in my abhorrence. Oblivious to the scorn of his subjects, his bare feet might be caked with dust, his face emaciated with fasting, yet Louis’s eyes were aglow with the assurance of God’s blessing as he lowered Saint Denis to the altar. They never glowed like that in my presence.
I saw the brilliance of his pleasure fade only once.
As he came to take the seat beside me, he was forced by circumstance to come face to face with Theobald of Champagne. Louis’s saintly aura dissipated in an instant. His features took on a set and unforgiving cast. If it had been hoped there would be a rapprochement between the two at this holy event, Abbot Suger might find a grub in the heart of his sweet fruit. Forgive your enemies? Louis glared hatred at Count Theobald and the Count glared back. What would Louis’s God make of that?
But I had my own bones to pick over with Louis. As he sat and the choristers surged into soaring notes, I leaned towards him, mouth against his ear.
‘You gave away my gift to you!’
His eyes flickered. ‘Which gift?’
‘The one I gave you on the occasion of our marriage. The crystal vase that now graces the High Altar in Abbot Suger’s Abbey. A gift from you to Saint Denis! Or to Abbot Suger? It doesn’t matter which. You gave away my marriage gift!’
A look of bewilderment crossed his face. ‘I thought it a fitting offering. It was very precious to me.’
‘I gave it to you. I chose it as a symbol of my … my respect and hope for our marriage.’
‘I know. Do you not approve that I considered it precious enough to offer it—as a gift from us both?’
‘I did not choose it as a gift for Abbot Suger, who barely tolerates me!’
‘It is for God, not for Abbot Suger.’
The gentle chiding, the soft, tolerant closing of his hand over mine, stirred my anger to another level. ‘God has no need of more gifts. Look at it.’ I raised my hand towards the glittering array, now partially masked by the grey swirls of incense.
‘It is a mark of my repentance, Eleanor.’
I flicked my fingers over the coarse cloth of his sleeve. ‘I think you’ve shown your repentance quite clearly enough in your less than kingly display. Within the past hour I’ve heard you described variously as a fool, an idiot and a poor excuse for a monarch. I’m not sure which hurts me most. It’s ignominious, Louis. You should have shown yourself to your people as a man of power, not as a beggar in the gutter.’
‘God understands.’ He clasped his hands and bent his head in prayer. He was beyond my tolerating. ‘Pray with me, Eleanor,’ he murmured, suddenly gripping my hand.
‘I will pray for an heir, Louis.’ My tongue was acid. ‘I hope you will do more than offer petitions to the Almighty.’
His smile was serene as it fixed on the distant reliquary of the saint. ‘Thank you, Eleanor. I too shall pray that we shall be blessed.’
And did he come to my bed that night, in our comfortable accommodation in the abbey lodgings? He did not! The lure of a night vigil with the monks at Saint-Denis before the glittering crucifix was too strong.
I cursed him.
But it forced me to accept that the path I had set myself, here at Saint-Denis, however distasteful to me, was now inevitable.
I had a purpose. A two-fold purpose for being here at Saint-Denis. I needed help, and was driven to acknowledge that there was only one man who had the power to help me. Oh, how I resisted. How I shrank from making my requests. Would I willingly prostrate myself, laying myself open to his sneering hatred?
Holy Virgin! My belly curdled. But I would do it. After seven years of arid marriage I had no pride. The two worries that crowded my days and nights were beyond my solving.
The one possible source of
my redemption, the one voice Louis might listen to below God, was that of Bernard of Clairveaux, that most holy and intractable of saints on earth, who had honoured Saint-Denis with his presence, the glamour of the occasion luring him from his austere cell. There was no man with such influence in heaven or on earth. He might damn me as the daughter of Satan, but I had nowhere else to go.
I requested a private consultation with him.
I went to our meeting as Queen of France in robes and diadem, ermine and cloth of gold. I spared no effort, and I had my arguments thoroughly marshalled, my campaign well planned. I would flatter, put my case, and hope that the saint could not resist the sin of pride in achieving what the King and Queen of France could not accomplish alone. When I stepped into the little audience chamber where he granted me a few precious moments of his time I approached him boldly and held his eye, my recent tearful meeting with my sister close in my heart.
Aelith may have achieved her heart’s desire but it had come at a terrible price.
‘Help us, Eleanor,’ she had wept in my arms from grief as she had once wept from happiness in the early days of her love. ‘I’ve condemned Raoul and our children to hell. You’ve got to help me, Eleanor.’ Her tear-drenched eyes were raised to mine.
Pope Celestine might have shown compassion to Louis and lifted the Church’s ban, but my sister Aelith and Vermandois were still excommunicate, their marriage not recognised by the Church. They were living in sin, their children conceived in sin. I could not allow the Pope to plunge them into everlasting fire on a whim. I had to act since Louis was a man of straw. I would persuade Abbot Bernard to use his influence.
‘What do you request, lady?’ Abbot Bernard was more emaciated than ever, more skin and bone than saint. ‘Is it forgiveness for your part in the horrors of Vitry?’ he asked bitingly.
‘No, my lord Abbot.’ I would be respectful. I must be respectful! ‘This is a matter dear to my heart.’ I choked out the words. ‘I would ask your help, my lord Abbot.’ His eyes stared without compassion. ‘I am in great need.’
