by Anne O'Brien
‘We can’t stay here, Louis.’ I didn’t wait until he struggled to his feet. ‘It’s intolerable. Our army is dying on its feet.’
And, taking me aback, Louis smiled. ‘I know. We leave tomorrow.’
‘Thank God! We’ve enough ships to move most of them—’
‘No. We march.’ What? March? ‘I’m determined on this, Eleanor.’ The fervour was back in his eyes. ‘We’ll march in the footsteps of the first crusaders. Their valour is remembered today—and so will mine be. We shall achieve glory in heaven.’
‘A hazardous journey of two months on foot—when we could be there in three days by sea? You must be insane.’
‘I’m assured of God’s blessing. If we die it will be as martyrs for a righteous cause.’
God’s bones! I was beyond valour and martyrs. I felt the strongest impulse to strike Louis’s self-satisfied, self-righteous face. Did he not understand? What mad dream of martyrdom did he hold to? My mind was made up.
‘No!’
‘I don’t understand.’ At least I had wiped the smile from his face.
‘Then let me explain, Louis! I’ll not march with you,’ I stated. ‘If you persist with this madness I will leave you and go by sea. What’s more, I’ll take my own vassals with me,’
‘But the cost …’ Galeran gasped. ‘No, sire.’
‘Cost? What are four silver marks compared with a man’s life?’ My voice rang clear, fired by a sense of rightness. ‘Our troops who can pay will do so. The rest remain here until we can make other arrangements.’
‘You would not …’ Louis looked aghast as I threatened to rob him of the major portion of the army that was left to him.
‘Try me!’ I showed my teeth in a smile that was not a smile. ‘If you march, you go without the men of Aquitaine and Poitou.’
Louis fell into an agony of indecision. His fingers writhed, his teeth bit into his lower lip. Such weakness! Such unforgivable weakness. Such lack of either compassion or common sense. As he rubbed his hands over his face I knew with real certainty that all feeling I had for him was as dead as the troops on Mount Cadmos.
‘You are forcing my hand,’ he muttered
‘Yes. I am. Tomorrow I sail for Antioch. We should have been there days ago!’
Maurienne smirked. Galeran scowled. Odo de Deuil raised his eyes to heaven for guidance. And in the face of my obstinacy Louis’s resistance collapsed. We were barely on speaking terms when we took to the little fleet of round ships.
A nightmare of a journey.
Storms descended, bringing with them all the fear of shipwreck and grim, unrelenting seasickness. Three weeks it took us of winds that drove us off course. Three weeks in which Louis lamented the loss of his dream to follow in the footsteps of those who had captured Jerusalem. He offered me no comfort, only a continued fretting that my decision had lost him an army on the slopes of Mount Cadmos. By the time we reached Saint Simeon I could no longer bear the sight of his strained features, his bent shoulders, the unending drone of his prayers. He did not even show concern for the thousands of unfortunates who could not pay the passage and had been left behind in Attalia to starve or die of plague.
‘I forbid you to approach your uncle over this,’ Louis lectured me. ‘I’ll see to the rescue of my army. Do you hear me, Eleanor?’
‘Yes. I hear you, Louis. Do it soon, before they all die.’
If we were barely on speaking term when we left Attilia, we were not at all three weeks later when we finally arrived in Antioch. I fell into Raymond’s open, welcoming, compassionate arms.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘WELCOME, lady. Everything has been made ready for you. Come and regain your strength. Rest now. Be at ease.’
As rich and smooth as the oil from the olive trees that had lined our route. As succulently sweet and melting to a frozen heart as a cup of hippocras on a winter’s eve. Raymond helped me to alight from the cushioned travelling litter he had provided for me into the sun-filled courtyard of his palace. He smiled at me and I smiled at him as bright memory rushed back.
Raymond of Poitiers, my father’s young brother, who, landless and ambitious, had taken himself to England as a young lad where he had been reared and trained for knighthood until King Fulk of Jerusalem had invited him to travel to Outremer and become ruler of Antioch. Raymond’s visit to us in Aquitaine en route for that honour, when I was barely twelve years old, had left a lasting impression. Only nine years older than I, yet already a man to my young girl, he had been tall, immensely strong and ridiculously good to look at. And he could sing. I recalled the velvet-warm vibrancy of his voice as he had sung the troubadour’s verses of love and devotion of a man for a woman. Sometimes he had been audacious enough to sing them to me. I had watched him as he’d honed his knightly talents in the tilt yard, battling with sword and mace. On horseback he had been a dream of long-limbed grace, of power, of polished skill. Raymond had laughed and danced and played foolish games. For those few short weeks he had entranced me, before disappearing as fast as he had arrived, all energy and vital life, like a magic creature from a troubadour’s tale.
Oh, yes! I recalled Raymond of Poitiers. I had not forgotten him, this epitome of gilded knighthood. And now here he was, in the flesh, welcoming me into his home.
‘This is wonderful!’ It was all I could think to say as I looked around, astonished at the wealth, the sheer luxury. All the fears and that terrible sense of isolation that had dogged me for days now calmed to leave me enfolded in luxuriant pleasure.
Raymond smiled and took my hand to lead me up the flight of shallow steps. ‘I think it will remind you of home. Of Aquitaine.’
‘Oh, it does. It does.’ I did not wait to see if Louis followed me. In that moment I did not care if I never set eyes on him again.
‘Let me introduce you.’ A young woman was waiting at the top of the steps, her hands lifted to take mine. ‘My wife, Constance.’
I knew of her, daughter and heiress of the late King Bohemond of Antioch. We kissed formally as required.
‘My husband’s family is welcome here.’
Clad in flowing eastern robes, a small, fair young woman with soft blue eyes, a little younger than I, she smiled shyly before leaving us.
‘My wife keeps to the ways of the seraglio,’ Raymond explained.
So I was left to experience this manner of living in Raymond’s care. The sunshine touched my head, my shoulders. It was as warmly embracing and dulcet as a southern spring in the castles of my childhood. On the ten-mile journey from Saint Simeon I had cast back the curtains to look out in wonder. I had not expected so magnificent a city, or the instantly recognisable trace of Greek and Roman foundations as I had known in the cities of Aquitaine. Antioch unfolded before me like a precious book as it gripped the terraces on the slopes of Mount Silpius, quite magically shimmering in the light. So beautiful it was. If I did not love my own Aquitaine so much, I would choose to live here, I decided in that moment. No wonder Raymond was captivated by it. No wonder he was in fear for its survival at the hands of the Turks. Hanging gardens, tumbling from terrace to terrace, perfumed the air, as did the tall sentinels of pine woods. Orange and lemon groves hemmed us in, their heavy perfume intoxicating.
And then the city. As we entered under the arched portal, it promised comfort in colonnaded villas, its streets paved with marble, a pleasure to walk along. All protected from those who wished us ill by great walls and watch towers.
All now under threat, however impregnable they seemed. It broke my heart that this would be overrun if Turkish aggression was not halted. But now was not the time for such heart-tearing. Indeed I was too weary for it. Here was friendship and quiet enjoyment and the easy tolerance of family. Mount Cadmos with its failure, its hurt and rejection, seemed a thousand miles and an equal number of years away. For the briefest of moments as I stood on the steps I closed my eyes and let my feverish mind rest.
‘You look weary, Eleanor.’ Raymond drew me into the first
of a series of cool audience chambers. ‘You look as if you have travelled far and hard.’
‘How flattering you are!’ My cracked lips managed to smile even as I felt the burn of tears. ‘You have no knowledge of how far and how hard it has been.’ His concern struck deep and I was forced to blink. I must be more tired than I had thought.
‘You’ll soon recover your beauty. What better place than this?’ It wrapped me around, as smooth as the silk of the new robes laid out for me on my bed, as soft as the swan’s down of the pillows provided for me. Without fuss, without drawing attention, Raymond handed me a square of linen to wipe my eyes.
‘I can think of nowhere better.’ I touched his hand in gratitude.
‘I trust there are accommodations for my knights, sir,’ Louis broke in, his voice cold, his Latin clipped. And I realised that Raymond and I had slipped into the langue d’oc through ease and habit. Rude, but not intentionally.
Louis had not even noticed that I was so weak as to weep in public.
‘Of course.’ With the slightest apologetic smile to me, Raymond now gave his attentions to his noble guest, returning to educated Latin. ‘Forgive me, Majesty. If I have been remiss, it is only that your wife’s health gives me concern. But now I see that she needs only rest and time.’ He gestured to a waiting servant to present Louis with a cup of wine. ‘You are as free of my hospitality as my dear niece. Your knights have all been allotted accommodation in villas and palaces as befits their rank. You may stay and enjoy what we can offer you as long as you need. Certainly until you have recovered from your ordeal.’
Churlishly, Louis refused the wine. ‘We cannot impose on your hospitality long.’
‘We can stay for a little while.’ I tried to draw the sting of Louis’s discourtesy. ‘Our knights and foot soldiers need to recover.’
That only earned a sharp response from Louis. ‘We must press on to Jerusalem.’
‘Undoubtedly you must. And we will talk of that.’ The perfect host, in no manner disturbed, Raymond snapped his fingers to summon a waiting steward. ‘Show His Majesty to his quarters.’ Then he turned back to me. ‘Now, let me show you to your rooms, Eleanor. They have the most magnificent view to the north towards Trebizond …’
But I was considering not the views from the palace but Raymond.
He had grown, filled out into manhood since we last met, as fair as I recalled and even more impressively regal, and I saw in his sun-kissed skin and hair, in his patrician cast of feature, in those intense blue eyes the noble blood of Aquitaine—the troubadour, the wily politician, the flamboyantly handsome warrior lord. Warmth flooded back into me from my crown to my toes.
I walked with him to my rooms, senses adrift.
It was like a dream. A sensuous, scented dream. With the windows—superbly glazed now—open to the warm air, I bathed in fragrant water, lulled by perfumed candles. Servants moved silently to bring me fruit and sweetmeats from a fragile porcelain dish and a goblet of wine chilled with mountain snow. Potions and salves were brought, redolent of herbs, to anoint my wind-and rain-cracked skin. After Mount Cadmos and its aftermath, the glamour of Raymond and his court overwhelmed me. I sank into it, wallowed in it, luxuriated in it. Some of my wounds healed with the scented water that ran into the bowls.
I sank up to my nose in the water in a mosaic tub as I admired this room I had been given. Frescoed walls with a charming frieze of musicians and dancers who leapt and capered, and for my own pleasure a serving girl strummed softly on a lute. When I rose from the tub to a servant waiting with the finest of linen, a silk gown was provided for me, soft footwear and a jewelled band to hold the transparent veil, material so delicate that it slipped through my fingers.
I had never experienced such unabashed luxury.
From my window where I leaned, hands spread on the warm stone, I looked out to the view that Raymond had praised, dominated by Mount Lebanon. There in the valley, tiny figures in the distance, were the strings of camels that followed the caravan routes to bring Antioch its wealth. A fortune in spices and dyes, silk and perfume and porcelain.
Drawn by the sight of cool greenery, I made my way into the garden to sit amongst the flowers. Where, later, Raymond found me.
‘That’s better.’ Sitting beside me on the cushioned stone bench, stretching out his long legs in urbane ease, he tucked back a curl of my hair that was rapidly drying in the sun and escaping from my veil. ‘I had forgotten how lovely you are. Or how intense your hair is when the sun shines through it.’ He let one of the tresses curl round his finger, memory smiling in his eyes. ‘I remember calling you a vixen when you were a red-haired child.’
‘So do I. It infuriated me.’
‘Now you have become a beauty. How long is it since we last met?’
‘Twelve years or more.’ I tried to laugh, and failed. ‘I was but a child—careless and ignorant and still unwed.’ Even I heard the bitterness in my voice.
‘So you were.’
He drew my hand through his arm, stood and led me to the balustraded edge from where we could look across the expanse of palace and gardens, golden stone, soft greens and the riot of exotic flowers. There was a silence between us, as if Raymond waited for me to decide to speak. If that was what I wished. And so, lured by someone who had a care for me, I did.
‘I am no longer careless and ignorant.’ Raymond’s quiet interest invited confidences. ‘The last months—the last years—impossible! They have made me aware of …’ I could not put it into words after all.
‘You are not content.’
‘No.’
‘Not even as Queen of France, with a daughter of your own.’
‘No.’
‘Will you tell me?’
‘How can I be expected to be content when …?’ I closed my lips and shook my head.
‘It would be no burden for me to listen to you.’
His smile, his gaze were all compassion. It was too tempting. But I would not. It would be too easy and there were so many things I dared not say.
‘Forgive my moodiness, Raymond. It means nothing.’ I buried my sorrow deep and turned my thoughts to the future. It was more than a pleasure to have an intelligent man willing to listen to me, to talk to me. ‘This lovely city … Do you truly fear for your existence here?’
‘Yes. I do.’ A line appeared between Raymond’s brows as he followed my lead from personal to politics, but he allowed it without comment. ‘The Turks are become aggressive.’
‘Is their leader not dead?’
‘Zengi? True enough. But there will be no respite. His son, Nureddin, is a worthy successor. And they now have Edessa.’ He pointed into the distance towards that invisible city. ‘It was a major loss to us and it opens us to attack. And after that? What’s to stop them making a successful advance against Jerusalem?’
‘You’re hoping Louis will lead an attack against them, to retake Edessa?’
‘It’s my hope. If his purpose here is to safeguard the Holy City, it would seem eminently sensible. Edessa is the key. Retake that, and Antioch and Jerusalem can breathe again.’ Raymond led me to another carved stone seat—how well the garden was furnished—and motioned for me to sit. ‘But can we persuade your husband? What do you think, Eleanor? You know him better than anyone.’ He looked down at me so that I had to look up, squinting into the sun. ‘Can he be persuaded to use his forces in the name of Christ against the Infidel and beat them from my door?’
As I raised my hand to shield my face, I decided to be honest. What point in raising Raymond’s hopes when Louis could be fickle and impossibly unpredictable? ‘He may do so. If you can persuade him not to stop at every shrine along the way. Louis is fixed on saving his soul and it takes an unconscionable length of time.’ I was even more honest. ‘But to turn away from Jerusalem? Louis may not see how it lies to his advantage.’ I frowned. ‘It will also depend on what Galeran thinks.’
‘Does Louis not listen to your advice?’
‘No. He banishes
me from his councils in case he is seduced into listening to me! Galeran guards his master’s privacy and his thoughts.’
I was horrified at the emotion that coloured my voice but here in this paradise with a man who would not judge or condemn me I was not afraid to speak the truth.
‘Then we’ll have to see if we can detach Louis from his guard dog, won’t we? Surely between us we can tempt him with the glory of conquest.’
As if the mention of his name had conjured his image, Louis emerged from one of the buildings below us, to stride through the gardens without seeing their magnificence and disappear through another doorway.
Raymond sank onto the stone beside me, smiling ruefully. ‘I see that His Majesty has refused my offer of clothing more suited to his standing.’
I laughed. The embroidered silk and damask robes that clothed Raymond with such opulence had, of course, been rejected by Louis. He still wore the pilgrim’s garb he’d arrived in.
‘The robe was given to him by Bernard of Clairveau,’ I explained. ‘Thus it is sacred to him.’
‘But not very clean! In the short time since you arrived my servants could have done no more than brush away the worst of the filth of your journey. Is it possible that dirt and lice are a sign of sanctity?’
‘For a man who wears a hair shirt, of what importance are lice?’ And I found it easy to laugh again, enjoying the mockery of Raymond’s raised brows. Until I felt Raymond’s eyes narrow on my face. I grew suddenly self-conscious and looked away, as if one of the colourful finches that flitted through the bushes had taken my attention.
His next words stole my breath. ‘How do you live with a man like that, Eleanor?’
He must have seen the despair in my face, however hard I had tried to hide it, for his hand was on mine. I felt the warmth of it, of some unexpected level of attachment. And I felt obliged to pull my hand away.
‘I won’t have your pity,’ I said.
