Devil's Consort

by Anne O'Brien

  It should have been a delight. And so it was, yet I had to confess that I cared nothing for it except as counterpoint to the rioting in my blood. The churn of desire in my belly that destroyed my appetite. The rich sauces, the plangent song, even the caress of my silk skirts against my body fed my emotions so that I could barely contain them.

  But I did. I was Countess of Poitou, Queen of France, and would behave as such. Did the Queen of France fall at the feet of the first handsome man who smiled at her and showed his hunger in his eyes, the caress of it in his voice? She did not. Eleanor might imagine the whisper of his breath over her skin. Eleanor might burn with a craving—and, before God, she did so! The Queen set her teeth and kept her dignity.

  But when we sat side by side at the High Table on the dais, looking over my vassals who gave themselves enthusiastically to the food and wine, Eleanor had a tendency to replace the Queen. My barons may as well not have been there when Geoffrey’s arm brushed mine as he offered me the grace cup.

  What did we talk of? I had no idea. Art and literature, a little—he proved to be exceptionally well read. The Count’s plans for Anjou. I think he told me about the skills of Alexander the Great as a battle tactician. He admired the achievements of my father and grandfather on the battlefield. Oh, he knew the way to my heart. He refrained from reminding me of how ineffectual a leader my husband was. He made no mention of the disasters of Toulouse and Champagne. Vitry-le-Brule, as it had been sardonically renamed, did not hang in the air between us.

  Neither did Louis. We did not speak of Louis at all. Nor, I recall, did Matilda encroach. We spoke nothing of our lives outside this moment in time.

  So what was it that touched my heart more than all the rest? Count Geoffrey addressed me as an equal, not as a foolish woman who knew nothing but stitching and good works for the poor, who had no right to consider matters of state to be within her grasp. He asked my opinion on the state of Europe, the power of the great eastern empire centred on Constantinople, showing interest on my views on the troubled divided papacy. He conversed with me, listened to me, weighed my comments. How long had it been since any man had done that? Not since the death of my father almost a decade ago, and then I had been too young to give a balanced opinion.

  Had not saintly Bernard damned me for such female impertinence in having an opinion?

  The Angevin listened to my replies, his eyes intent on mine, and invited more. Did I consider Anjou to be an enemy of France? A threat to Aquitaine?

  And I was entranced, so much that I eventually clenched my hands into fists, afraid that I would let down my guard, letting words and opinion spill out. Such openness would be unwise. I struggled to keep my replies cool and measured. And I think I failed.

  Geoffrey Plantagenet cast a spell on me that night. Far from the unpolished lout I had anticipated, he saw to the comfort of those at the feast, of Aelith, with such graciousness. He drew his son into a discussion of where we might hunt on the following day. Yet all the time I felt the power of his concentration on me. He saw to it that I was fed the choicest meats, that my cup was refilled.

  Louis would not have noticed.

  When he offered me a platter of grapes from the south his fingers grazed my wrist. He did not look at me but I knew he wanted me. I knew.

  ‘Well, now!’ Aelith leaned close.

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Beware the Count of Anjou.’ Her eyes were knowledgeable and fixed on the Seneschal as he conversed with the steward over some matter of the provision of dishes. ‘He’s hunting.’

  ‘I don’t take your meaning.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you do. And it’s not deer. You are the quarry.’

  ‘Then he will be disappointed.’

  ‘Make sure you are not the one to be disappointed, sister mine!’ I raised my brows but she grinned. ‘Shall I give you advice?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘I’ll give it forsooth. Take him!’

  ‘As you took Raoul? Look at the mess that caused.’ And instantly regretted it as Aelith flushed from chin to hairline. ‘Forgive me.’ I squeezed her hand. ‘That was unpardonable. But I am not free to follow my desires.’

  ‘So you admit to liking him?’

  ‘How could I not? Liking is one thing. I admit to nothing else. Neither will I act on some crude emotion that will only bring me pain!’

  But then he danced with me. At Count Geoffrey’s instruction, the musicians struck up a simple round dance. He stood, offered his hand.

  How could I refuse? Louis never danced with me.

  We joined the other dancers and stepped the undemanding meandering measure. I knew the steps, and the music—round dances needed no sophistication, merely an ability not to fall over one’s own feet—and thus could give my attention elsewhere. Not least to the careful disposition of my long skirts and sleeves. And, of course, to the man who led me, turned me. And I revelled in it, this hot excitement of music and laughter. It was like the sweetness of honey in my blood. The heavy brush of his tunic against my thighs, the male scent of him, the heat of his body as we came close all added to one surge of irrepressible delight. My breath-lessness had nothing to do with the dance, nor had the flush in my cheeks when the music ended.

  ‘My thanks, lady.’ He bowed low and touched his mouth to my fingers.

  The heat prickled along my spine to centre in my loins. ‘It was my pleasure,’ I replied with cool grace.

  We returned to our seats. Count Geoffrey lifted his cup.

  ‘A toast, lady. To our friendship.’

  ‘To our friendship.’

  I lifted my cup and drank as I ignored the discreet nudge of Aelith’s elbow.

  He wanted more than friendship. So did I.

  As we supped, one of my minstrels sang of the pain and pleasure of unrequited love.

  When I see the lark moving its wings in joy against the light,

  Until at last it forgets and lets itself fall,

  By reason of the sweetness that fills its heart,

  Oh, such envy comes to me of those whose happiness I see,

  That I marvel that my heart does not melt away

  At once with desire!

  Anticipation shivered over me despite the heat of the room. Desire melted in my bones. Oh, yes. I would have that happiness for myself.

  The next day we hunted. A group of us—Aelith, Count Geoffrey’s knights and gentlemen, a crowd of hunt servants—on a bright day with racing clouds and a lively wind, the perfect day for flying the hawks. Carried by our huntsmen, I had ordered up two of the descendants of my original white gerfalcons—superbly proficient at bringing down cranes and herons. How long had it been since I had flown them? I had forgotten how beautiful they were, how supremely fitted for flight and killing, as they stretched their wings and rattled their jesses. How magnificently elegant they were. Out of courtesy I offered one to Count Geoffrey.

  ‘They match their owner in elegance,’ Geoffrey commented, but instead of accepting my offer he summoned one of his own huntsmen with a bird tethered to a wooden perch.

  ‘Oh …!’

  It was difficult to find words. The golden eagle was indeed majestic, casting my gerfalcons into the shade. Golden-eyed, it panted through its open beak, its talons flexing as if it could already sense its prey.

  ‘I thought eagles were the preserve of emperors,’ I remarked, impressed but a little astonished at his presumption.

  ‘They are. But what a waste,’ Geoffrey had a gleam in his eye as he smoothed his gloved hand over the fine feathers. His self-aggrandisement was a remarkable thing. ‘Only two emperors to monopolise so magnificent a bird. I think we can be a little flexible here. Why should I not fly an eagle in my own lands, where I am more an emperor than any other man?’ He took the bird onto his wrist.

  ‘I would fly the gerfalcon, lady.’ And there was Henry on a lively bay at my side, voice creaking with adolescence, his eyes fixed not on the eagle but on my beautiful birds. They were no less fierce than t
hose of the gerfalcon. Taking one of the birds for myself, I signalled to the huntsman to transfer the second bird to the boy. It settled on his wrist, talons tightening.

  I gasped. ‘Your wrist!’ I gestured to the huntsman a second time. ‘A glove, if you please.’

  ‘I don’t wear a glove,’ Henry replied, his whole attention on the white raptor, stroking his fingers over her remarkable feathers.

  ‘But she will mark you. Does it not hurt?’

  A careless shrug was Henry’s only physical response. ‘I’m used to it.’

  These two Plantagenets, father and son! Such confidence. Again I was amused. Yesterday Henry had admired my beauty. Today I had paled beside the silver plumage of my hunting bird.

  ‘My stubborn son, with a mind of his own.’ Geoffrey dropped his reins to clout him with his free hand. ‘I’m not so sanguine.’

  We flew the birds at rabbits and a heron that we flushed from the river bank, then loosed the hounds to pursue hares set up in the meadow. The Angevins pursued them with great energy, riding as if born to the saddle, leaving the rest of us to follow in our own time.

  I watched them with narrowed eyes.

  ‘See, he is not hunting me at all,’ I remarked to Aelith, not altogether pleased. Geoffrey might have lit an outrageous need in me, but for the moment he was as much taken with the hunt as his son.

  ‘Not at the moment, he isn’t,’ she chuckled.

  ‘I’ll soon change that …’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I know so. Since when is Anjou a match for Aquitaine?’

  Suddenly, opportunely, a gamecock lifted from the grass almost beside my mare, taking wing with a harsh cackle and a clap of primary feathers. My mount shied, head tossing, eyes rolling. Then she was away and running. With a sharp cry I hung on but she grasped her bit and pulled out of my control across the open pasture. I clung with knees and hands as I heard the pounding of other hooves.

  ‘Hold on!’

  I knew who it was, having seen him detach himself from the group who pursued the hare and spur his horse at a fast-approaching angle towards me. Now he bore down on me from the right, as my mare showed no signs of slackening her headlong flight, drawing level, reaching for the bridle just above the bit. As he drew his own stallion to a slower gait, he brought the mare close and under control, sliding an arm around me for support.

  For a moment he looked down at me. For that moment his mouth was a breath away from mine. My eyes were wide on his and I could not look away. My fingers curled within the leather of his hunting jacket.

  Lord, I wanted him. But common sense slammed back into me with the force of a buffet from a shield. I slid my hands up to push firmly against his chest until he released me.

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ I brushed my hand over my sleeves as if to remove a layer of dust. ‘The bird startled her and I was careless.’

  ‘No harm done.’ He restored the bridle to my hands. ‘It would not do for the Lady of Poitou to come to harm when under the Seneschal’s care.’

  My heart thudded anew.

  As we returned, stepping placidly towards the waiting party, Aelith coming towards us with a sly look in her eye, I slid the brooch with its sharp point back into the shelter of my glove. Poor mare. She did not deserve to be used so but I was not in my right mind.

  ‘I have never known a horse to bolt with you before,’ Aelith observed, wide-eyed.

  ‘Nor I,’ I observed without hesitation. ‘There’s a first time for everything.’

  The Angevin came to my solar to ask after me. Perversely I surrounded myself with my women and kept Aelith at my side.

  ‘Are you recovered, lady?’

  I remained seated in my high-backed chair, my feet on a footstool, my hair loose and only lightly veiled.

  ‘I am well.’

  ‘You could have been injured, lady.’

  ‘You have little confidence in my skill in the saddle, my lord. I have ridden since I was a child.’

  ‘Your talent is clear for all to see. The fault must be with the mare—a mannerless beast.’ For the length of a breath I thought his glance held an unsettling scepticism, as if he saw my guilt, but then it passed—or he was better than I had thought at dissimulation. ‘I’ll see you are better provided for next time. Will you hunt with me again, lady?’

  ‘If you wish it.’

  ‘The hunt is everything to me.’

  ‘So I see. Is the chase better than the final victory?’

  ‘It depends on the quarry, lady. The end can be sweet indeed.’

  His face was stern, his meaning clear. And I was at fault. Had I not led him into the conversation? I nearly dismissed my women. Nearly. But I did not. I was not so lost to discretion or awareness of the dangers. I needed to think.

  But it almost destroyed me to dismiss him. The curve of his mouth as he bowed and went out held more than a hint of complicity. It would have been the height of good sense for me to leave Poitiers immediately and continue south. If I stayed—what would I do if he pursued the Aquitaine hare in earnest? Would I give in or would I resist?

  Resist. Of course I would.

  ‘I presume you have planned a campaign against this man?’ Aelith asked quizzically.

  ‘Of course. I am wooing Louis’s Seneschal to keep him loyal.’

  Aelith snorted.

  Every day that I remained in Poitiers I woke to feel vibrant life race through my blood. Every night I detested my empty bed. The Count of Anjou kept close attendance and continued to take me by surprise when one evening he took the lute from the minstrel, ran his thumb across the strings and to a ripple of comment began to sing. He had a fine voice. Obviously the people of Poitiers had heard him sing before. It was a song I knew well.

  Since, love, our minds are one what of our doing?

  Set now your arms on mine, joyous our wooing.

  O Flower of all the world, Love we in earnest!

  Honey is sweet to sip out of the comb.

  What mean I? That will I show, little one.

  Not words … but deeds shall be Love’s best explaining.

  Finishing with a flourish and a self-deprecating grin, the Count handed the lute back to the minstrel while I, dry-mouthed, joined in the applause. Oh, he was clever. Clever enough not to be too obvious. Both subtle and gifted, he had delivered the sentiments of the song as much to my women and to Aelith as he did to me, but I knew towards whom his intentions had been directed. I knew!

  I shivered and turned away from his challenging stare.

  ‘Do you sing?’ I ask Henry, to hide my blushes.

  ‘No, lady.’ The croak in his voice was harsher than a raven’s. As ever, his clever fingers were busy, investigating an engraved and pierced incense burner. He drew in his breath as he scorched his finger-ends.

  ‘Have you no liking for music?’

  ‘I like it well enough, but I’ve no voice for it. I prefer to hunt and fight.’

  ‘He’s young,’ Geoffrey laughed as he retook his seat. ‘He’ll learn the way to a woman’s heart, and that to be in her bed can be as satisfying as winning a battle.’

  ‘Have you found it so?’ I was flirting. Flirting damnably.

  ‘I have, lady. And I will again.’

  I expected him that night. I knew he would come, and had dismissed my women, claiming restlessness that would keep them awake. Aelith was the last to go

  ‘What?’ I demanded sharply.

  ‘Nothing—but …’

  I was ill-tempered with nerves. ‘You told me to take him. He wants me. Why should I not have him? I’ve taken no vow of chastity. If I leave it to Louis I’ll never have a man in my bed again …’

  ‘Eleanor!’

  I covered my mouth with my hands. I had never admitted it—other than to Bernard in my confessional. Not even to my sister. The shame was too heavy.

  ‘Does he not sleep with you?’ she whispered, aghast.

  I told her at last and hid none of my humiliation.

>   ‘Then, if I were you—’ Aelith at her pragmatic best ‘—I’d welcome the Angevin to my bed without a second thought. You want him.’

  ‘Yes.’ I wet my dry lips with my tongue. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Then take him. Enjoy it,’ she whispered with a quick embrace. ‘You deserve more than a cold bed and a celibate husband. But don’t fall for a child.’

  Wise advice. ‘Send Agnes to me, will you?’ I asked as she left me.

  We made preparations, Agnes’s knowledge being vast and specific.

  ‘I’ll not guarantee it, lady, but use it if you’re set on this path.’

  She provided for me a plug of wool impregnated with sticky cedar gum, an old Roman remedy that was, she said, better than nothing.

  Geoffrey Plantagenet did not come.

  When I rose next morning, tired and fretful, in no good humour, it was to learn that he had ridden out early, leaving no message for me, giving no reason for his absence. His son was gone too so there was no chance of an interrogation, even if I would so demean myself. He was away all day. Nor did he return to sup in the hall.

  Was he not my Seneschal? Did he not owe me an explanation?

  Between anger and a strange relief, I forced down enough mouthfuls of roast meats so not to draw attention. I could not bear the minstrels to sing but ordered up a coarser entertainment from a troupe of acrobats. A mistake. Even the lithe and sinuous jongleurs made me think of the Angevin. I retired early, dismissing my women, refusing Aelith’s compassion. I did not want compassion.

  I closed my door on a calm solitude I did not want.

  And there he was. Smooth, charming, subtle. But now I knew him for what he was. A clenched fist in a gauntlet of the softest kid. His self-interest might be masked but it was there right enough beneath the damask tunic.

  His bow was perfection. ‘I am vain enough to hope that you missed me, lady.’