Devil's Consort

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘No, I don’t! You’re a fool!’

  ‘When I have earned my salvation, I believe it will be God’s will that we have a son.’

  I gave up. There was no arguing with him. ‘Of course you do.’ Weariness descended on me like an enveloping blanket. There was no moving him.

  ‘I must go.’ He retreated to the door. ‘I’m expected in the abbey church.’

  ‘Then go. Go and talk to God. But how he will answer your prayers for an heir without some direct intervention from you I have no idea!’

  ‘You should respect my motives, Eleanor.’

  I turned my back on him. I could not look at him any longer. The monkish habit, the gaunt cheeks, the shaven head, they repelled me. ‘Do as you will, Louis. Spend the night with your precious Oriflamme and the oath to your long-dead brother. They mean far more to you than I.’ I could not stop the bitterness from flooding out.

  I heard the door close softly and I was alone, and celibate for as long as it took Louis to get us all to Jerusalem. I wondered if Odo de Deuil or Galeran had had any part in Louis’s decision to separate himself entirely from me. Perhaps not. He was quite capable of making it himself.

  How angry I was. As much with myself as with my contemptible husband. How could I have ever thought that the Crusade could mend the rift that Louis had created between us? How could anything mend it? He would remain a celibate at heart, and for the most part in body, until the day he died. And so, physically, through necessity, would I. I was too angry to weep.

  I despised him. I washed my hands of him.

  Nothing would be allowed to dampen my spirits. Cheering crowds lined the route next morning when finally I threw off the dark restrictions of life on the Ile de la Cité. At twenty-five years of age, the beauty of my face and figure was unimpaired, my authority over my Aquitaine vassals unquestionable. For the next month there would be no restrictions on my time and how I chose to spend it. I was free of court life, of protocol, and not least of Louis. Constantinople beckoned with glittering gilded promise. Then Antioch, where Raymond held tight to his control and prayed for help. We would bring it to him. It would be a glorious victory. And finally Jerusalem! By the new year, in Louis’s reckoning, we would be in Jerusalem. The adventure unfolded before me in my mind.

  What an impression we made, what a magnificent sight, this vast army inspired by its Papal promise of driving the infidel Turks from the Holy Land so that we might worship feely in Jerusalem. The sun shone on helmet and armour, glinting off the hilts of swords that carried fragments of the true cross. Destriers fretted and stamped, Banners unfurled and lifted in the summer air, proclaiming the might of my vassals from Poitou and Aquitaine. I rode in their midst, their liege lord, my horse proud-stepping with its plaited mane, my saddle picked out in silver. My robes, as richly flamboyant as any I owned, embroidered with the royal fleurs de lys. I smiled at my subjects as we passed. Still simmering with anger at Louis’s intransigence, I was not sorry to be travelling without him.

  ‘Pray for us in Jerusalem, lady.’

  I raised my hand in acknowledgement.

  And Marie, my daughter? I had already said my farewells. She had gazed with wonder at my jewels and touched her fingers to the fur of my cuffs. She would be well cared for.

  My spirits were high, but doubts nipped at my mind as a terrier nipped at the heels of recalcitrant cattle. Louis was certain of his calculations, his route, but could we trust him to lead such an army to its victory? His past failures scratched at my confidence. How could I have confidence in a dynamic leader of men when he insisted on keeping his pilgrim’s gown? So vast an army of soldiers and pilgrims depended on us, and all those who hung on our sleeves. Servants and minstrels. Vagabonds and criminals and whores. Hunting dogs and hawks. The vast baggage train. Would Louis be able to get us all safely to our goal?

  The thought made me shiver in the warm sunlight.

  I made a silent prayer that he would surprise us all. Before God, he would need to.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE Angevins were forgotten. The moment of my liberation grew closer, minute by minute. What a glorious adventure it would be. The bells tolled until their vibrations beat painfully against my ears like the throb of a military drum. Once again I stood in the abbey church of Saint-Denis. Once again Louis approached the altar, and as before the heat and emotion pressed down on us. Today he was clad in a black pilgrim’s tunic, the red cross of the crusader emblazoned on his breast, as it was on hundreds of others around me.

  It was over twelve months since Abbot Bernard had preached the Crusade at Vezelay. How long does it take to muster an army and all its accoutrements? Far longer than any of us had expected. Now we were ready, the army gathered, the retinues assembled, the baggage carts pulled by oxen packed and repacked. Around me the church blazed with thousands of candles. Banners and gonfalons shivered in the air from every surface. It was an awe-inspiring occasion—if only it would end and we could get on with it. I would be in my dotage, my hair grey-streaked, before we set foot out of Paris at this rate.

  In honour of the occasion the Pope, Eugenius himself, had journeyed across the Alps to give us his blessing, and there he stood before the altar to imprint our hearts and minds with God’s Holy Presence. As tears flowed unchecked down Louis’s cheeks—Louis had no sense of occasion!—as he trembled visibly with the emotion of the moment, the Pope lifted the silver chest containing the bones of Saint Denis and held the sacred relic for Louis to kiss. Then he handed to him the gilded pike of the red and gold silk Oriflamme, the sacred banner of France, to be taken to the Holy Land and placed on the altar of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

  A triumphant roar broke from hundreds of throats. Louis wept copiously. Even I felt emotional tears dampen my cheeks. Mostly from relief that at last—at last!—we were ready to depart.

  It had not been without a struggle. Pope Eugenius had damned the taking of fine gowns and cosmetics on Crusade in the same manner as he thundered against whores and blasphemy. My example had been followed by my women and the well-born ladies who agreed to accompany me—how could we be expected to travel the hundreds of miles without some of the comforts and luxuries to which we were accustomed? Why should a number of ox wagons not be set aside for our needs? And of course we needed our tirewomen. Could we be expected to wait upon ourselves? Was I extravagant? I did not think so.

  ‘But so much clothing!’ Louis had remonstrated with me when he saw my provisions for months on the road, his lukewarm attention drawn to the steadily increasing number of ox carts by his two beady-eyed advisers.

  They disliked me excessively. A feeling entirely reciprocated.

  Odo de Deuil, the less poisonous of the pair, was Louis’s secretary, a monk from the abbey of Saint-Denis, appointed on the quiet by Abbot Suger as Louis’s chaplain to keep an eye on him, and, I suspect, on me. A self-righteous little man, under orders to write the official record of Louis’s achievements for posterity. I swear he’d have little good to say about me even if my soul was washed whiter than snow. What possible use would he be to Louis in a war against the Infidel? What was Abbot Suger thinking? Better to have appointed a knight, a man of experience in the field. I found it difficult to keep my contempt within bounds.

  And then there was Thierry Galeran.

  With this man I failed utterly to hide my dislike.

  We were sworn enemies from the first moment we had set eyes on each other. Galeran was of the Knights Templar with experience of Outremer, although limited to the raising and hoarding of Templar gold, he was appointed as Louis’s treasurer because of his connections along the route. A man who was half a man. Captured by the Turks at some time in his past, he had gained his freedom but had been gelded, and so his temper had soured. Suger intended him to play the part of Louis’s watchdog, a role he took on only too well. He would keep me from Louis’s side, and Louis’s ear if he could, considering me a malign influence. Ha! No eunuch would keep me from speaking my mind. Galeran
had a low opinion of women in general and me in particular—perhaps not surprising when his own ability to satisfy a woman had been so thoroughly curtailed. It was a case of mutual enmity.

  And there he had been, with Louis, poking and prodding at my baggage.

  ‘How can you wear so much?’ Louis had whined.

  ‘Shall we not meet cold weather as well as the burning heat of summer when we reach the mountains?’ I’d asked, knowing the answer. ‘So we need furs for one and veils for the other.’

  ‘But pallets with mattresses, Eleanor …’

  ‘You don’t expect me to sleep on the ground, do you?’

  ‘No. No, of course not.’ Still, he’d looked aghast at the chests and bundles of equipment, lifting a silk tunic, allowing it to trail through his fingers. ‘So much. Is that a basin for washing?’

  ‘Yes. And soap and napkins and towels.’

  ‘Perhaps Her Majesty should reconsider the amount she takes with her?’ Galeran had barely bothered to hide the reproof.

  ‘Since when does Her Majesty take the advice of a gelded Templar?’ I’d responded crudely—and perhaps not wisely—waving him away. One could have a surfeit of Templar Galeran. ‘Do you really want the Queen of France to enter Constantinople looking like a complete rustic, Louis?’

  Louis had retreated in ruffled defeat, Galeran remonstrating furiously but without effect.

  Now, before me, Louis held the sacred Oriflamme in his hands but the dedication was far from over. I sighed and set myself to wait out the tedium, and my mind reverted to that day a year ago when we had received our crosses at Vezelay from Abbot Bernard himself. My heart leapt with the memory. I would never forget it.

  What an amazing day it had been. A magical day to stir the blood. I had felt like a young girl again, carelessly, selfishly bent on enjoyment and my own pleasure. My spirits had soared to extravagant heights. My life force had returned, my imagination flying free. Too free, some said, but what did they know?

  It was a whimsy, of course, but a superbly planned whimsy. With the cross newly pinned to my breast, determined to spur on the faint-hearted, I had whipped up the wives of my vassals for a quick and dramatic change of costume.

  Dramatic? Louis had not seen it in quite that light.

  ‘In God’s name, Eleanor!’ He stared when he saw us, a strikingly colourful gathering, ready to mount and ride. For a moment his mouth opened and closed without further words. Then: ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Gathering support. What else? Look at them …’ I gestured to the ranks of knights. ‘How many here will slink off home as soon as your back and Holy Bernard’s are turned? I’ll get you your army to sweep in victory through the Holy Land!’

  ‘But this is a sacred occasion. By God, Eleanor! It’s not a Twelfth Night play!’

  ‘Of course it’s not a Twelfth Night play! Do you not approve?’

  Well, of course he didn’t. ‘By God, I don’t.’ It was rare for him to swear on God’s name, and this was the third time in as many seconds. ‘It’s not … not …’

  ‘Have you forgotten?’ I prompted his memory. ‘At Bourges—did I not say I would be Penthesilea and lead my Amazons? You did not disapprove then when your vassals cheered. And now you see the Queen of the Amazons before you.’

  ‘You make a spectacle of yourself!’

  Which raised my spirits even higher. I laughed aloud for the joy of it and the sight of what I had achieved, with a little forethought. ‘Mount up, ladies. We’ll ride and shame our men who hang back.’

  ‘You will not, Eleanor! I forbid it! It is frivolous and improper and not to be tolerated …’

  Louis’s voice was soon lost to us as, riding astride in leather chausses, we spurred our white horses into the crowds who had come to hear Bernard preach the War of the Cross.

  On that day, that occasion, we were nothing less than Amazon warriors, eye-catching in white tunics emblazoned with our red crosses. With hair streaming free in the stiff breeze, mingling with the red plumes on our hats, we rode like the wind. Red boots completed the striking ensemble as we galloped through the crowds, wielding swords as we called on the reluctant knights and nobles to heed the summons. And those who turned their backs? We tossed spindles and distaffs and insults, shaming them before all.

  Oh, I enjoyed it. Of course we did not ride bare-breasted, as some would say, to denigrate our participation. To deliberately undermine my reputation. Of course we did not. How ridiculous that would have been. But if tunics and leather chausses made us men, then we were, and not ashamed of it. What a symbol of freedom it was. What an impact we made on that stolid mass of waverers.

  Louis had to concede me victory, if ungraciously. ‘You behaved like a madwoman!’

  ‘I behaved like a warrior—which is more than you did! And what was the result? Did we not rouse the reluctant, shame the cowards, spur on the brave? You should be thanking me, Louis, for swelling your numbers. Not all are as enthusiastic about departing for Outremer for some unspecified length of time as you are!’

  He stalked away in a thoroughly unholy temper, for was I not right? Emotion had flooded across the vast hillside like a storm wave. The demand for crosses had been so great that the saintly Bernard had been reduced to shredding his own mantle into strips to satisfy the numbers.

  I sighed again as that bright memory faded under the cloud of incense and the endless drone of the prayers for our success. Now, finally, Louis was given the symbolic pilgrim’s staff and wallet by the Pope, and there was nothing to keep us, except that Louis decided to delay again, to celebrate the feast day of Saint Denis to invoke the saint’s protection. Well, I could tolerate it. What would one more week matter?

  ‘So it begins.’ After sharing a final frugal repast with the monks, Louis had made his way from the refectory to the abbey guest house where I was staying. White-faced with strain, already exhausted, but still with fire in his eye, he refused the cup of wine I offered him, refused the stool I pushed forward towards the fire, but stood in the centre of the room, blinking at the light from the candles. I thought he looked uneasy but it might have been a trick of the light.

  ‘So it begins,’ I repeated. ‘Are you satisfied, Louis?’

  ‘More than you could imagine.’ He smiled at me. He had obviously forgotten my Amazon moment. ‘Next year we will be in Jerusalem.’

  Surprising me, I felt a surge of unexpected tenderness for him. This was what he had worked towards for so long, and now it would come to fulfilment. Perhaps it would give Louis the ease his soul desired, perhaps I would see a return of the handsome youth I had wed ten years before—not this troubled, careworn, anxious man who had to pray before he could make any decision. Perhaps this Crusade would be the healing draught he craved. A mere twenty-seven years old, the religious life had added a score to bow his shoulders and imprint his face. Perhaps those years would fall from him if he could feel truly sanctified.

  As if reading my thoughts, Louis fell to his knees before me, to cup his hands around my face. His smile was gentle, tender, reminding me of the days when he might have chosen to stay in my company, to ride at my side. To sleep in my bed. He kissed me lightly on the lips. The pressure of his mouth was warm and firm, in no manner unpleasant, and I leaned into it. Louis instantly pulled back with a shy smile. Did he need encouragement? I would humour him and let him set the pace for our farewells.

  ‘So I leave tomorrow,’ I said. I knew the plan.

  ‘You’ll go on ahead. With your women and the baggage wagons and your own vassals from Aquitaine and Poitou. I’ll follow on behind.’ Still kneeling, he enclosed my hands within his as if making a vow of fealty. ‘We’ll meet up at Metz, where we’ll gather on the banks of the Mosel.’

  And there, as I knew, we would join our forces with the German troops of Conrad, the Holy Roman Emperor, who had, somewhat reluctantly, also heeded the Pope’s call to arms.

  ‘God keep you safe, Louis.’ The tenderness was lingering.

  ‘And you, my
impetuous wife. I am not sorry you’re coming with me. France will be safe in Suger’s capable hands.’

  It felt good to part on such amicable terms. I kissed him again, and was urged on by the willing softness of his lips against mine. And because Louis seemed preoccupied—he ran his finger along the edge of my jaw, searching my face as if he had not seen me for a long time—I took the initiative myself.

  ‘Will you stay here with me, Louis? Tonight? Our last night together for many weeks. There’ll be no time for any private moments—perhaps until we reach Constantinople.’ I twisted my hands to link my fingers firmly with his. Surely he would see a need to stay. It might not be good sense to have me carrying a child when on Crusade but surely our last night should be one of celebration together rather than spent alone. ‘Stay with me, Louis.’ I gestured with a sweep of my hand around the comfortable room. The bright fire, the tapestried walls with their vivid colours even in the soft candlelight. The shadowed bed. ‘Stay with me tonight.’ I turned my face against his palm and pressed my lips there. He was my husband and my duty should not be an unpleasant matter. He would not find me unwilling.

  As if stung by a wasp, Louis shook me off, leapt to his feet and took a step back.

  ‘What is it?’ I looked aghast as Louis retreated yet another step.

  ‘I have taken an oath.’

  ‘An oath …?’

  ‘I’ve sworn to preserve my chastity when on Crusade. Until I have stood in Jerusalem, in the place of the Holy Sepulchre, and been assured of God’s forgiveness for my sins.’

  ‘Chastity!’ I think I laughed. It was not a pleasant sound in the room. ‘A vow of chastity?’

  ‘I’ll not indulge in bodily pleasures,’ he explained seriously, as if I might not have understood him.