Count Geoffrey came and tipped a cup of water to Audebert’s mouth. ‘Gerard was all for giving you the Punishment of Hide and Hair – a birching and shaving off your hair – but I negotiated him to this church door penance instead.’
‘I thank you, and will not forget it.’
‘Endure. There is a good end in sight,’ Geoffrey encouraged him.
At the end of the day the guards unshackled him and took him back to a meal in the tower room, locking the door behind them.
Two days after his release from the pit, Audebert returned to the hall to hear Gerard’s decision. In addition to the Limoges family, Emma Duchess of Aquitaine was now sitting alongside the Viscount. Audebert heard of her arrival last night from his guard. Her son, Guillaume, had come with her, and was playing with the boy, Fulk of Anjou. Guillaume appeared large, round, and slow alongside the brilliant, black intensity of Geoffrey’s small son. The Duchess arrived trailing gossip that reached even Audebert’s ears. She had left her husband over his blatant affair with Aldearde d’Aulnay and was returning to her brother in Blois.
Gerard cleared his throat and the chattering hall and company on the dais settled slowly to silence. He summoned Audebert to stand before him. ‘I am pleased to grant you your freedom Count,’ said Gerard.
Audebert looked down momentarily to conceal his intense relief and joy. When he had regained some control of his expression he looked back to Gerard.
‘The terms,’ Gerard continued, ‘are those that Count Geoffrey has negotiated on your behalf and include a heavy fine.’
Audebert hesitated but decided that it would be best to strike now. ‘I thank you,’ he said graciously, ‘and before I leave to return to my lands, I have a request.’ He was conscious that Adalmode shifted on the bench at his words and her mother looked at her enquiringly.
‘Yes?’ said Gerard, his frown increasing.
‘There has been enmity between our two houses,’ said Audebert, ‘which I deeply regret. We are neighbours and I would like to move to the future in a new accord with you.’
Gerard inclined his head.
‘I ask for your daughter Adalmode to wife,’ said Audebert.
There was a stunned silence. Gerard looked taken aback and Rothilde was regarding Audebert with her mouth open. ‘We are greatly honoured by your request,’ stammered Gerard, frowning, ‘but …’
‘The Viscount will no doubt take your offer under consideration,’ snapped the Duchess of Aquitaine in her precise clipped voice, ‘and he will communicate his decision to you in Bellac in due course.’
Audebert turned to her in surprise. What business was it of hers to make a decision for Gerard? He turned back to the Viscount. ‘Lord Gerard I entreat that you consider my offer yourself and now,’ he said.
‘Certainly I will,’ replied Gerard and Audebert saw that this was not going in his favour. ‘You have already been granted the boon of your freedom, Count Audebert, and to make this offer now is,’ he reached for a word, ‘unfortunate. My decision is that your offer for my daughter Adalmode is not, alas, possible to accept, as I am already in negotiations for her hand elsewhere. Yet I will consider the possibility of an alternative betrothal. I have two daughters who are not promised yet.’
The Duchess sat back, relieved. Adalmode looked desperately at Audebert. The party of people were staring down at him from the dais. There was nothing to gain by continuing argument, but wishing to give Adalmode hope he bowed in farewell, saying, ‘It is Adalmode I ask for and only Adalmode and not one of her sisters. I hope you will reconsider Viscount since I am your neighbour and allegiance between us would benefit us both. I vow here that I will marry no-one but Lady Adalmode, and I will ask you for her again.’ He strode out of the hall without looking back, trying to keep his pace swift but sedate, torn between wanting to snatch up Adalmode and ride out with her, and a physical need to put distance between himself and this place of his grim captivity.
Audebert was in the bailey, swiftly preparing the horse that had been handed to him, when Geoffrey of Anjou loped up and took his wasted arm in a firm grip.
‘Congratulations Count Audebert. Glad to see you freed.’ The boy, Fulk, was with him and looking curiously at Audebert’s horse.
‘I owe immense thanks to you, Lord Geoffrey.’
‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, grinning voraciously.
Here it comes thought Audebert. What did he want?
‘I would ask a favour of you in a few years’ time.’
Audebert waited.
‘Fulk here,’ said Geoffrey, ‘is four now but when he reaches the age of training in three or four years, I would like to send him to you as your foster-son.’
Audebert nodded. It seemed innocuous but it was of course Geoffrey’s first move in gaining Audebert’s allegiance and there would be more to follow. The military aggression and expansionism of the House of Anjou was well known, yet Audebert had little to lose from an alliance with Geoffrey. Aquitaine and Limoges were hardly his allies after what he had suffered at their hands, and one way or another they would have to pay. He placed his hand on Fulk’s head. ‘I would be glad to take your cub,’ he said smiling and offered Geoffrey his hand to seal the bargain.
9
Brioude
Easter 982
‘I thought the accommodations would be more splendid, mother,’ says Aina, disappointed at the tiny space with one bed and one pallet on the floor that we have been shown to. Ademar and Melisende have answered a royal summons from King Lothaire and Queen Emma to attend the marriage of their son in Brioude, and Melisende allowed Aina and me to accompany them.
‘They have many guests to accommodate, Aina,’ says her mother, ‘and Brioude is not a royal palace after all.’
Brioude is one of the holdings of Lady Blanche of Anjou who is to marry the King’s son, Louis, after the death of her second husband, the Count of Toulouse. Households up and down the region have been buzzing with the news for weeks and this marriage of an older woman, twice widowed, to the fifteen year old heir to the French throne has been dissected again and again, over laundry, over spits, over chopping boards, on horseback and at table, all over the countryside.
Earlier we stood in the courtyard and watched a stream of chariots bearing the royal insignia entering the gate for the great assembly gathering here. In the privacy of our own room, Ademar told us the Carolingian family are desperately trying to shore up their throne. A few years ago King Lothaire’s brother Charles accused Queen Emma of adultery hoping to cast doubt on the legitimacy of Louis as the heir, and Charles waged war against his brother. Lothaire prevailed but Charles escaped to Germany and was tainted as a traitor. Prince Louis, then only eleven, had been crowned as Associate King, alongside his father.
‘Lady Blanche is more than twice Prince Louis’ age!’ exclaims Aina, who has been very taken with the glimpse of the royal heir that she saw as we entered the city. A tall, thin boy with brown hair, splendidly dressed, but otherwise unremarkable as far as I could see. ‘It’s almost like me and Guy,’ says Aina.
‘Aina!’ says Ademar.
‘Nothing like you and Guy,’ sighs her mother. ‘Guy is not twice your age.’
Aina pulls a face. She does not miss any opportunity to express her dismay at her betrothal, still hoping to sway her doting parents, and I wish she would not bait them so, because it is likely that this marriage will take place eventually and her hopes of change are baseless. He lives a mere five miles away and this is his continuing offence in Aina’s eyes, together with the lack of any glamour she could discern when she met him on the occasion of her betrothal at Poitiers. Yet, for now, Aina has her way, since the marriage has been delayed by Guy’s brother, Bishop Hildegaire, who will not yet give his dispensation.
There is a jaunty knock on the doorjamb and there is the offending groom himself: Guy, long and lean, and ever attentive to Aina and her parents. Aina pulls her veil over her face which is her way of indicating that she is not available for conversatio
n. To soften the insult, I pull my own veil down too, as if it is merely modesty that motivates us both. I hope that Guy has not overheard Aina’s complaints. He greets her politely: ‘Lady Aina.’ Yet he appears to be looking at me and I hear Aina stifle a giggle.
‘Ah, Lord Guy,’ says Melisende, ‘this is Sigrid, our maid.’
Guy is greatly embarrassed and shifts his gaze to the other veiled young woman in the room. Aina nods perfunctorily and lends an unusual focus to some embroidery in her lap. Guy has blushed a dark red and stutters an apology for his mistake. I feel cross with Aina that she offers him no mitigation for his blunder.
‘Come in, Guy,’ says Ademar, who holds a real affection for him. They talk of affairs in Limoges. Viscount Gerard has more or less given over the management of the city to Guy. Aina’s father, as former custodian, is well placed to discuss Limoges with him.
I take the opportunity of my veil to study Aina’s betrothed husband. He has light brown floppy hair, a long thin face with strong planes, a long chin with a slight cleft, a large nose, brown eyes that slant upwards towards brown brows, neat ears, a pale large mouth with a full bottom lip and a bow of a top lip. He is not handsome, but I decide that his looks are interesting.
Bored with the talk of tolls, mills and abbey disputes, Aina asks Guy: ‘Do you know who else is here for the marriage?’
‘All the main families of the south,’ he says. ‘The Duke of Aquitaine and his entourage, his estranged Duchess with her son and brother, the Count of Blois. Geoffrey, Count of Anjou, of course. Audebert, Count of La Marche and Périgord. We from Limoges and Ségur and most other nobles hereabouts I’d say. And the grand lords of the north have accompanied the King: Duke Hugh Capet and the Duke of Normandy.’
‘What illustrious company,’ says Aina. ‘The Duke of Normandy is a Viking isn’t he, like Sigrid?’
‘Aina!’ exclaims her father, ‘Sigrid is not a Viking. She is a demure young lady.’
I am amused at the idea that I am a Viking and wonder what that might mean in the present company – cutting a swathe through sadistic priests and lascivious lords? Leaping into a longship brandishing an axe?
‘And the Duke of Normandy,’ continues Ademar, ‘whilst his ancesters were from the Northland yes, he is a Christian and hardly a Viking either, although it is said that he gives safe harbour to many of them.’
Aina’s mouth curves below the hem of her veil and I know that she is delighted at provoking this reprimand.
Her mother turns to our visitor: ‘Guy, do you know why this royal marriage is taking place here in Brioude? It’s not the obvious choice.’
Guy shrugs. ‘No, it’s not. There is much speculation about it. There is some political intent on the part of the King and Duke Hugh Capet no doubt. They are intending to make some point to us southerners but it is not clear what that is yet. Geoffrey of Anjou, having brokered such a royal marriage for his sister and such alliances for himself, looks like the cat that has had the cream.’
We all smile at this image. ‘Geoffrey of Anjou,’ says Ademar in a low voice, ‘is more akin to the wolf that has taken a lamb, perhaps.’
Guy nods.
‘I wonder how Prince Louis feels being wed to a woman who could be his mother and who has already had two husbands and five children,’ says Aina.
‘Yes a daunting prospect, perhaps, Lady Aina,’ says Guy, ‘for a fifteen year old boy. Nevertheless Lady Blanche remains one of the most beautiful women walking the earth.’
I see the sour set of Aina’s mouth beneath the edge of her veil. ‘Really,’ she says coldly.
‘Excepting yourself of course,’ he says, too late. He leans a little too close to Aina, apparently aiming to decipher her expression, and Aina shifts her stool backwards away from him, with a loud scrape.
‘I am looking forward to gazing on this wondrous beautiful ancient bride,’ she says.
At dinner in the hall Aina has her wish. Blanche of Anjou sits alongside the young prince on the raised dais, together with her brother Geoffrey, the King and Queen, and the two northern Dukes. Many have quietly remarked on the fact that Duke Guillaume of Aquitaine has not been invited to join them on the High Table. We are seated far down the board. I watch as Duke Hugh Capet stands up from the trestle and turns around to speak with Geoffrey of Anjou. Geoffrey has become even richer, now he has wed the widow of the Count of Chalon and taken control of her lands. Yet Duke Hugh is richer still and earns his Capet name from the splendid capes he wears in his role as Lay Abbot. I look with pleasure at the one he is wearing today. It is a deep rich red embroidered in silver thread and seed pearls with scenes of animals and birds. I imagine the process of making such a beautiful textile: first the underdrawing in lead or silver point, then working on it for many, many weeks and months careful not to make mistakes. Perhaps it would take years to complete, depending on how many women were at work on it. I would like to make such a thing. How enormously satisfying it would be at the end of the labours to stand and marvel at it. My attention is pulled away from the display of clothing and jewels on the High Table to my immediate neighbours.
The Limoges household are ranged across the board from us: Guy’s parents and his brothers, Bishop Hildegaire and Lord Aimery, are seated directly opposite us. Guy himself and his sisters Adalmode and Tisalga, are further down the long table, too far away for conversation. The Bishop looks at Aina, who is still veiled, with a mix of lust and distaste as if she has already committed the sin of incest with his brother. Perhaps my mistress will have her way after all and not marry Lord Guy, but I will make sure not to entrust her alone with that burly Bishop.
Lady Rothilde is seated opposite me and leans over the table to speak with Melisende: ‘We hoped that Guy and Aina might be wed at this Assembly, but,’ she says glancing crossly at her son, ‘Bishop Hildegaire is still consulting lawyers and theologians on the matter. He says it will be resolved soon however.’
Melisende smiles. ‘We are exceedingly fond of Guy,’ she says.
‘My daughter Tisalga is to wed Lady Blanche’s son this week,’ Rothilde announces proudly. Aina and I turn to look at Tisalga whose brown head is bowed in conversation with her golden-haired sister, Adalmode. I guess that Tisalga is about the same age as me – nineteen. Suddenly I wonder, will I ever marry? No Christian man would marry me if I remain a pagan slave. I look towards the Duke of Normandy on the dais and recognize his height, his blond hair and his big, broad face as the marks of my countrymen. The Northmen of Normandy are said to have accepted Christianity and abjured Thor and Odinn, but perhaps a man of his company might take a fancy to me.
Melisende and Rothilde are still talking of marriages in loud voices, to be able to hear above the din of the hall. ‘What of Adalmode?’ asks Melisende. ‘We heard a rumour that she is to wed the Duke of Aquitaine’s heir?’
‘Yes,’ says Rothilde avidly. ‘Another marriage that we hoped might take place at this assembly but which also suffers delay.’
‘What causes the delay?’ asks Melisende.
I see that Adalmode has heard her name and turned her head to hear the conversation.
‘The Duchess has been much preoccupied,’ says Rothilde, ‘with her own marriage troubles and the business of Maillezais Abbey where she is patron. And of course we have to wait a while for young Guillaume to grow from boy to man.’
Aina and I look to where Guillaume sits with his mother, Duchess Emma. He is thirteen now but is still carrying a padding of fat on his face and chin. He has a neck so short that his head seems to be simply balanced on top of his barrel-shaped body. He holds a pet squirrel on a leash on his lap and is stroking its red back. Guillaume’s gaze is trained on Adalmode who does not look in his direction. ‘Adalmode is gorgeous,’ Aina whispers in my ear.
‘Yes.’ She is an unlikely looking sister to Guy. Now twenty-two she is in the prime of her beauty with a profusion of honey-coloured hair and striking green eyes. Her fine red velvet gown has bright blue embroidered edging, and empha
sizes the shapeliness and upright carriage of her body. I cannot blame Guillaume for his adoration. She shows no signs of interest in the boy who is her intended husband.
Towards the end of the feasting Ademar is tired and Melisende excuses herself to attend him to our chamber. Aina begs to stay a little longer, feasting her eyes on the rich clothing and manners of the royal court. ‘Take care of Aina, please Sigrid.’ I nod, gratified at Melisende’s confidence in me. Guy too leaves the hall and I tut at Aina when she chooses to throw the veil back from her face, after he has left the company.
‘What?’ she says in mock innocence.
Music starts up and Prince Louis ceremoniously leads Lady Blanche out to dance. They do, I confess to myself, look a little foolish as partners. Blanche’s beauty is the beauty of the matron, not a young girl, and the Prince is clearly more interested in the younger women in the hall. He asks Tisalga to dance when Lady Blanche sits down. ‘Ridiculous!’ says Aina. ‘He will be Tisalga’s father-in-law and he is four years younger than her!’ but she stills her tongue and holds her breath as she sees that the Prince is now coming in her direction.
Aina is one of the most striking young women in the room with her dark red hair, shining grey eyes and small, perfect pink mouth. Aina accepts Prince Louis’ proffered hand. I watch them for a while but decide that she is safe enough. While she dances with Louis and imagines herself a Queen I find that I must go outside in search of the privy. I don’t know exactly where it is and linger at the foot of the staircase in the dark, waiting for my eyes to adjust and to discern some landmark. I hear a murmur of voices to my left and think I must ask for directions. I follow the wall with my fingertips round in the direction of the voices. There is no moon and it is very dark out here. I round the corner but then immediately draw back into the shadow of the wall as I see that Lady Adalmode stands with her hand on the cheek of a tall black-haired man. One of her brothers I think at first but then realize that it is the Count of La Marche. I hold myself very still as I watch Adalmode step into the Count’s embrace and put her mouth on his. I want to close my eyes and not bear such dangerous witness and yet my curiosity keeps my eyelids pinned open. The kiss they exchange is passionate and lingering. I see that the Count holds his hands away from Adalmode’s body, clad in it luscious red velvet, as if contact with her will burn him, and yet it is clear that the kiss burns them both. He steps away, placing his hands on her shoulders. ‘God knows, I love you Adalmode,’ he says, ‘yet this is madness that we indulge.’
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