Devil's Consort

by Anne O'Brien

  I felt no better for the visit.

  Outside the Cité palace the Seine was solid with ice, the bone-biting winds cutting through the streets, whistling through the windows of my chambers despite the shutters and glazing, despite Abbot Suger’s refurbishment of them for my return. If he thought to worm his way back into my favour after his deceitful conniving with His Holiness, he failed. It would take more than a roomful of hangings, however fine the stitching. Suger had merely gilded the bars of my prison.

  My limbs ached and nausea gripped my belly.

  ‘You don’t need me to tell you what’s wrong with you, lady!’ Agnes hovered, holding a square of linen as I vomited into a bowl for the third time since I had risen from my bed.

  I groaned.

  I suffered.

  Sweet Jesu!

  The only relief from my misery was that I did not have to suffer Louis’s abominable sense of triumph as well. Glowing with incipient fatherhood, he instigated another pilgrimage to the destruction that was once Vitry-le-Brule, to plant a grove of cedar trees brought back from Jerusalem as a symbol of his contrition. I hoped the inhabitants, the families of those burnt to death, appreciated the gesture.

  Incarcerated in the Cité palace, I trembled with helpless fury. Pope Eugenius’s prayers had reached the Heavenly Throne, and God was listening. My courses had stopped. Louis’s royal seed had damned well prevailed against all the odds.

  ‘The Queen is brought to bed. The birth is

  imminent! Thanks be to God!’

  The announcement echoed around the palace, from mouth to mouth.

  I shuddered and whimpered as the familiar clenching, tearing pain took hold. Familiar? This torment was worse than any before, attacking mind as well as body. If it was a boy, an heir for France, these walls would hold me fast, like a novitiate enclosed within a convent until the day of her death. If I gave Louis a son, he would never let me go. He would have his heir and Aquitaine, and nothing I could say would move him from his noxious jubilation.

  ‘The birth is imminent. The birth of the Capetian heir.’

  Even I could hear the blast of trumpets, the joyous announcement from so many throats, above my screams of pain as the child fought for release.

  There was no joy for me. This child could tie me to Louis’s chaste bed for ever.

  It was not an easy birth. The hours seemed to stand still. Louis sent his heartfelt thanks in unwarranted optimism, and gave orders for a Mass to be said in praise of the arrival of his son and heir. He sent me a jewel. Another jewel.

  I groaned and pushed, sipped red wine laced with some baleful substance to deaden the pain, and submitted to the ministrations of Agnes and Mistress Maude, the royal midwife appointed by Louis to ensure my safety. Or so I liked to think. If it came to a choice between me and a male child, I wasn’t so sure.

  The pain was bad but the relief of finally reaching this point indescribable. I had been watched, indulged and pampered ad nauseam since the day I had informed Louis that his efforts—and those of the Pope—at Tusculum had been successful. Everything depended on this child. My life was not my own. I was twenty-eight years old and had become a mere vessel to carry the heir to France. Suger had prayed over me. Louis had lavished me with useless gifts as my body had swelled. My hands and feet had become blocks of ice in the bitter temperatures when the Seine had frozen around us as if to hold me and the palace still.

  My beauty had waned. I had known it even though I’d refused to turn to the reflecting glass, my hair dull and lank without the sun, without the warmth. I had wanted to go home to Aquitaine.

  ‘Let me go. You could come with me,’ I urged Louis. ‘We can stay in Poitiers. I can give birth there just as well as here.’

  ‘We can’t.’

  I had not expected such a blunt refusal. ‘I would like it. Indeed, I would.’

  ‘No.’ He was preoccupied. I had not noticed.

  ‘Why not?’

  Louis took a turn about the room. ‘There’s a rebellion …’

  ‘I didn’t know. You didn’t tell me …’ I was short on patience, and remained single-minded. Rebellion of a parcel of Frankish barons was the last thing on my mind. ‘Can you not crush it from Poitou as effectively as from Paris?’

  ‘It’s the Angevins,’ he said bleakly.

  ‘Oh?’ Which took my mind momentarily from my ills. ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘The Count of Anjou has ceded Normandy to his son Henry. Neither of them—father or son—has bothered to pay homage to me as his overlord for it or even ask my permission. It’s deliberate defiance and I can’t ignore it. I see what they’re doing—do they think I’m blind? They’re empire building, setting up a power to rival mine. But I’ll not have it!’

  He refused to elaborate further, but my political mind absorbed the possibilities, the dangers, glad of something to distract it from my belly. So the Angevins were challenging Louis for pre-eminence, casting around for new territories to seize and consolidate their standing in Europe. Empire-building in truth. Henry, in the fullness of time, would be Count of Anjou, Duke of Normandy, and if he had his way, King of England too. How old was King Stephen? I considered. At least fifty years. Without doubt Louis had reason to feel insecure and nervous. If Henry of Anjou could take the crown of England in his mother’s name, he would be a very powerful young man.

  Shuffling my detested bulk in the only chair that gave me ease in those final weeks, I tapped my fingers against the carved fleurs de lys on the arm. Except that King Stephen had a useful son in Eustace, Count of Boulogne. England would not be for Henry’s taking. Henry Plantagenet might have to look elsewhere for his empire.

  Hmm. My thoughts were well engaged now.

  So was that it? That intriguing letter that had waited for me in Potenza? It made me reassess. Was it all part of the scheme to strip Louis of as much power as possible without direct conflict, Henry making use of me as craftily as his father had attempted to do? Did the young Angevin lord, since he could not be certain to have England, have his eye to Aquitaine instead? I wouldn’t wager against it. I thought he might have an eye to anything for his taking.

  Henry Plantagenet will go far, I predict. If not always comfortably.

  King Roger’s words seemed likely to be fulfilled, but Henry Plantagenet would get nothing from me that wasn’t to my advantage. I was beyond playing games. I’d already had my fingers burned. Were all men such selfish bastards, intent on their own power?

  ‘I’ve sent an army to our border with Normandy,’ I heard Louis muttering.

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good thing?’

  ‘What would you have me do? Close my eyes and let the Angevin power grow? We’ll stay here in Paris. Not much longer now, my dear Eleanor.’

  ‘Holy Virgin!’

  How I abhorred his bracing tones. He eyed my swollen belly with avarice, but seeing my fingers tighten around the cup of warm wine at least chose wisely not to touch me.

  ‘I’ll keep a night vigil for you.’

  ‘You do that, Louis.’

  As the child kicked against my hand, I cursed Pope Eugenius, Louis and all men indiscriminately, and in a fit of petulance, when Louis had gone and I was alone, I struggled to my feet to open my jewel casket. Removing the single sheet of parchment, I consigned that strange little note from Henry Plantagenet to the fire without a second thought, watching the flames curl and consume.

  I was alone.

  I cursed the Pope, Louis and God in equal measure.

  In one brief respite in those bleak days, Aelith braved the ice and cold to come to me. We fell into each other’s arms—as much as I was able as my girth strained against the seams of my gown.

  ‘Why are you still so beautiful?’ She hugged me as we wiped ridiculous tears from our cheeks.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘And why are you so fretful?’ She peered closely at me. ‘You’re unhappy,’ she stated immediately. ‘Tell me about it.’

  And I did. Everythi
ng. I held nothing back.

  She was my sister and sisters do not judge each other. As I had not upbraided her over Raoul de Vermandois, so she did not hear me with horror. Or if she did, she hid it well.

  Her compassion was balm to my soul.

  The pains increased and I was caught in a shadowy world of relentless agony and fear, peopled in my mind by those with an interest in the outcome. Pope Eugenius, nodding benignly, sure of his state of grace and his direct pathway to God’s ear. Louis, of course, his lips moving in prayer. Of what use Aquitaine without a son to inherit it? God, send me a son! And Galeran, stony-faced, hostile, daring me to produce a girl child.

  The child was born.

  ‘Tell me.’

  Agnes and the midwife had their heads together as they wrapped the baby in soft linen. Its lungs worked well. I had no fear for its life.

  ‘Tell me.’ My voice was cracked, my throat as dry as if I had ridden through the desert after Mount Cadmos.

  They approached, carrying the child. All I could see was the fluff of fair hair and one aimlessly clutching red fist. Mistress Maude looked stern. I caught a flash of emotion in Agnes’s eyes.

  ‘Well? Will someone not tell me? Or do I read your silence as my failure?’

  They turned back the cloth and Mistress Maude thrust the child towards me. It squalled on an intake of air. Well formed, active. Fair-haired, as I had thought. I stretched out a finger to touch the perfect cheek, to outline the miracle of the tiny ear. The relief within my belly bloomed, impossible to measure.

  ‘Not what we had hoped for, Majesty.’ Mistress Maude managed to express her disapproval in those few words.

  ‘A girl!’ Agnes said the obvious.

  ‘His Majesty will be disappointed.’ Mistress Maude.

  ‘But not Her Majesty,’ murmured Agnes when Mistress Maude was out of earshot. ‘A miracle, I would say.’

  Surprisingly I wept, holding the child. For relief. For joy. Here I had the key to the chains of my imprisonment. For all his petitioning of the Almighty, Pope Eugenius had been beaten. I had borne another girl. Despite my sore body, my emotions soared. My dower lands remained mine and Louis had no heir to step into his shoes. Louis was once more overshadowed by the black cloud of his failure to advance the male line of Capet. It was perfectly clear—if he remained wed to me he would never achieve his ultimate desire.

  And how he felt it! Louis wore a path to the High Altar in Notre Dame. There was no outburst of festivity, no bonfires, no feasting. No medals to herald this royal birth. All such arrangements were hastily cancelled.

  She was a pretty child. I did not feed her. She joined Marie in their own establishment with wet nurse and governess and body servants. She was called Alix. I considered, all in all, that I had fulfilled my duty to Louis Capet. I swore I would bear him no more children.

  ‘What now, lady?’ Agnes asked.

  I had no idea. In all my dreams of freedom the sticking point was Louis, but I was not disheartened. The trap that had been set for me by Eugenius had failed to hold me. I had sprung it. I would escape yet.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘My children. Such troubles as you have faced together.’

  Pope Eugenius, a small, rotund cleric with the bright smiling features of an ingenuous cherub—and a similar potential for malice, I suspected—held out his hand bearing the papal ring. We knelt to kiss it. First Louis in a disgusting flurry of bent knee and spine-cringing respect. I followed suit, trying not to shudder at the splay of fat damp fingers on mine. His Holiness was not abstemious in the matter of diet. Neither was he well informed of the need for frequent washing. The heavy perfume did not quite swamp the reek of uncleansed silk and skin. I held my breath and touched my lips to the grubby jewel with marvellous respect. This meeting would be my salvation.

  Not being welcome in Rome, part of the ongoing dispute over who might actually be in possession of Saint Peter’s keys, Eugenius had agreed to receive us in his palace at Tusculum, south of the city. It had a lovely aspect, clinging to the northern slopes of the Alban hills, enclosed with gardens and trees. Except that it reminded me of a soft green mirror-image of Antioch and I closed my eyes to its beauty.

  I was resilient. I would let nothing—and certainly not this fat little cleric—stand against me.

  ‘We have looked for this meeting, ever since your messenger arrived to beg an audience.’ Eugenius beamed at Louis. ‘I know your efforts were not crowned with success but God sees the intent in the heart of every Crusader. You are indeed blessed. Come …’

  With a swirl of his noxious robes—he dressed the part in gold and purple, whether his status was in debate or not—Eugenius led us out onto a shaded terrace where we sat, accepting the goblets of wine provided by obsequious servants. The foul scent was less obvious here in the open air. I filled my nostrils with the pungency of cloves in the spiced hippocras, not particularly to my taste but better than the alternative.

  ‘To have worshipped before the Holy Sepulchre. Magnificent! To have stood in Jerusalem …’

  I let His Holiness ramble and murmur in admiration as I sat and sipped the wine. Louis nodded and agreed as the unctuous voice filled every space. Such a powerful, rolling voice for so small a man. So far I had said not one word. But when I did, every word would count.

  ‘And I think your journey to Sicily was not without its trials, my son. We have heard that …’

  Even Louis had had enough.

  ‘Our time here is short, Holiness.’ I saw the quick slide of Louis’s eye in my direction. ‘We need the benefit of your experience. And your intercession. It has been in my mind to proclaim another Crusade—to achieve what we failed to put right. I would ask your advice, Holiness …’

  And so had I had a surfeit by now. The two would be knee-deep in plotting another disaster in Outremer if I allowed it. With a little rustle of distress I placed my cup down on the stone ledge beside me and leaned forward, hands raised in open plea. I played the gamut of despair, voice catching with emotion.

  ‘Indeed, Holiness. My husband has his own concerns. But I need to speak with you. I need your advice. It is a matter of great urgency to me. In fact, without your intercession, I fear for my soul …’

  Pope Eugenius’s eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion. Then he remembered to smile.

  ‘Of course, my daughter.’

  ‘Alone.’ I held his jaundiced gaze.

  ‘Then so you shall.’

  Sweet Virgin! How I despised God’s Representative on Earth!

  He kept me waiting until the following day. I might have insisted but I used my time well. How to make my approach? With Abbot Bernard I had moved from cold rhetoric to impassioned, over-abundant emotion. What would move this fat little cleric other than self-interest? Why was it always necessary for a woman to persuade rather than command? When I finally made my obeisance before him in his private chamber I was still in a morass of indecision. My evidence was undisputable. Had I not had a whole year to plan this meeting? But how to present it—I did not know, now that the moment was upon me.

  As I knelt I breathed deep, despite the stink, to still the trembling in my belly. He would not refuse me. He would see the justice of my plea. My heart tripped and jumped. Victory was in my grasp at last. I would weep over his soiled papal slippers if I had to.

  ‘Tell me what is in your heart, my daughter.’ Eugenius raised me, kissed my cheek with false fatherly affection and led me to a cushioned window seat. ‘I see you are in some torment. I assure you, it cannot be as bad as you think. Tell me all.’

  So I did.

  Eyes downcast as a woman in sorrow and utter frustration, I touched on the illegality of my union with Louis through consanguinity. I lingered on my failure in twelve years to produce any child but a girl who would never rule France. Did His Holiness not realise that over the past two hundred years no Capetian king had ever failed to produce at least one male heir? Yet Louis and I had failed. It was God’s punishment. It must be—a pu
nishment for a marriage that should never have come to pass. Fat Louis had sinned, making no attempt to gain a dispensation for our rushed union and so we—Louis and I—paid the penalty. And so would France if Louis did not have a son, I finished on this most vital of points. I slid over the fact that Louis had a brother who could quite easily step into his shoes and was probably able to rule far more effectively.

  Eugenius sat, head tilted like a gaudy magpie eyeing a nestling. I had kept his attention but could read nothing in his bright gaze.

  ‘I have something to show you, if you would look …’

  ‘Then do so, my child.’

  From my sleeve I drew out and unrolled a document written out in my own hand, as detailed and explicit as my memory could achieve from my long-ago conversation with the Bishop of Laon, the generations of Aquitaine and Capet that united their children, Louis and Eleanor, within the forbidden degree. I offered the scroll and Eugenius took it but his eyes never moved from my face. Impossible to tell what went on behind that masterfully smiling mask.

  ‘It is all most explicit, my child. What would you have me do?’

  Could he not see what I wanted? I smoothed over the jagged edge of impatience. Would this slimily complacent cleric make me, Duchess of Aquitaine, beg?

  ‘This document maps the illegality of my marriage, Holiness,’ I urged. ‘And here …’ I produced another elderly scroll with the flourish of a jester releasing Louis’s disastrous flock of singing birds from the contents of a pastry subtlety ‘ … is the well-considered opinion of our own Abbot Bernard of Clairvaux. Our erudite Abbot has already spoken against our marriage. He thinks it should never have been made.’

  A powerful weapon. His Holiness was not averse to turning to the Holy Bernard for advice. I watched the effect, once again unsettled as His Holiness barely glanced at the letter, his eyes returning to mine as if he would dissect every thought in my head.