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Devil's Consort
Anne O'Brien
Anne O’Brien’s new novel, Queen of the North, is available to pre-order nowEngland’s Forgotten Queens‘Anne O’Brien has joined the exclusive club of excellent historical novelists.’ - Sunday Express ENGLAND'S MOST RUTHLESS QUEEN. July, 1137. In the baking sunshine of Bordeaux, Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine, eagerly awaits her first meeting with the prince who will become her husband.But Louis Capet is no fit match for educated, independent Eleanor. When he inherits the throne of France, it becomes clear that his monastic ways and indecisive rule could cost him his country – and his marriage.Determined to rule her own lands, Eleanor leads the men of Aquitaine on Crusade. The march to Outremer will make her the most scandalous woman in all of Christendom.And one chance meeting between Eleanor and Henry Plantagenet will change the fate of England – forever…Hers is a story of power, political intrigue, passion and love.Praise for Anne O’Brien:‘One of the best writers around…she outdoes even Philippa Gregory’ The Sun‘Her writing is highly evocative of the time period… O’Brien has produced an epic tale’ Historical Novel Society‘Anne O’Brien’s novels give a voice to the “silent” women of history’ Yorkshire Post‘Once again O’Brien proves herself a medieval history magician, conjuring up a sizzling, sweeping story’ Lancashire Evening Post‘An exciting and intriguing story of love and historical politics. If you enjoy Philippa Gregory and Alison Weir you will love Anne O'Brien’ We Love This Book‘A brilliantly researched and well-told story; you won’t be able to put this book down’ Candis‘A fast paced historical drama that is full of suspense.’ Essentials


Devil’s Consort

ANNE O’BRIEN








All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
HQ is an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
Published in Great Britain 2011.
HQ
1 London Bridge Street
London
SE1 9GF
© Anne O’Brien 2011
ISBN 978-1-4089-3583-5
Version: 2018-07-18

About the Author
ANNE O’BRIEN taught History in the East Riding of Yorkshire before deciding to fulfil an ambition to write historical fiction. She now lives in an eighteenth century timbered cottage with her husband in the Welsh Marches, a wild, beautiful place renowned for its black and white timbered houses, ruined castles and priories and magnificent churches. Steeped in history, famous people and bloody deeds, as well as ghosts and folklore, the Marches provide inspiration for her interest in medieval England.
Visit her at www.anneobrienbooks.com (http://www.anneobrienbooks.com)
Also by ANNE O’BRIEN
THE SHADOW QUEEN (https://www.harpercollins.co.uk/9781474050739/the-shadow-queen/)
THE QUEEN’S CHOICE (https://www.harpercollins.co.uk/9781474032537/the-queens-choice/)
THE KING’S SISTER (https://www.harpercollins.co.uk/9781474007481/the-kings-sister/)
THE SCANDALOUS DUCHESS (https://www.harpercollins.co.uk/9781472010391/the-scandalous-duchess/)
THE FORBIDDEN QUEEN (https://www.harpercollins.co.uk/9781472010230/the-forbidden-queen/)
THE KING’S CONCUBINE (https://www.harpercollins.co.uk/9781408969816/the-kings-concubine/)
DEVIL’S CONSORT (https://www.harpercollins.co.uk/9781408935835/devils-consort/)
VIRGIN WIDOW (https://www.harpercollins.co.uk/9781408927953/virgin-widow/)
Table of Contents
Cover (#ucc32ec1f-73bb-5f07-a728-de28050712f2)
About the Author (#ub7a77f1f-0ce0-5b35-87d2-d7176b76ea79)
Title Page (#u31037e23-0d2f-5b73-ad0d-b9c7a247ce1e)
Copyright (#u22f94b17-75e0-5064-8b7e-d12d86a5433f)
Dedication (#ubd634330-e43f-5998-b8f8-395aa8327b12)
Acknowledgements (#u02bc8bba-66e9-5f04-9ff1-f4913957898c)
Chapter One (#udc450e4c-d5b3-5112-ba43-2faeb677144b)
Chapter Two (#ucfcc4886-0987-51a0-8fd0-ea14301d7b48)
Chapter Three (#u830f02bc-265e-5525-814d-759255c8257e)
Chapter Four (#u2177fbe0-8451-5875-9d23-697fe8ffc3f9)
Chapter Five (#u1935761b-561a-5d61-9360-a61cf383fc5f)
Chapter Six (#uaaf35a64-2442-50ed-a7a7-ab092f51dad5)
Chapter Seven (#u20eccc8b-41d0-5418-b776-1a5eb3e379ce)
Chapter Eight (#u242d9e7b-dab7-5454-ab69-999233cdbf85)
Chapter Nine (#u8bf9bdb8-a473-532e-ad3b-961eef1e4acd)
Chapter Ten (#u7669212c-77d0-550e-9d0f-efdd6ff458ff)
Chapter Eleven (#ucab8bd9d-76f3-5244-aef7-20969e866d38)
Chapter Twelve (#uf0563edd-7311-50bc-b7ed-9015b2826172)
Chapter Thirteen (#u9c6e2c44-59ef-5011-a39f-6b9c5081b07c)
Chapter Fourteen (#u45e7d8f4-e570-5d9f-9d31-4c58a83bca88)
Chapter Fifteen (#uca3fdad1-af6a-59f4-bc6e-cf66ccc8a283)
Chapter Sixteen (#u20af5060-3773-59f6-9397-f4e3ba12b844)
Chapter Seventeen (#ue281bd7f-6af2-5c3e-b04b-d53e609619be)
Chapter Eighteen (#u59a5e985-8766-55ad-905c-f2bd68b71195)
Chapter Nineteen (#u08b4aa22-e632-5476-a99f-a863a0ceba8e)
Chapter Twenty (#ucd4b8b44-48d5-5f9c-808e-54dae2e27f90)
Chapter Twenty-One (#ub76e86c6-b77d-595e-aada-f11237e56aa3)
Epilogue (#u2e2b70d8-91c9-57a5-a963-925a433fd1d1)
Other titles by the author (#u8d0e7a73-f796-51dc-a1e6-5d658b4beae8)
Extract (#u7e59d25b-5408-52df-a24d-cdfb1b55317c)
Read all about it… (#u44e13bc9-543c-51f0-b7da-b5a9428be17f)
About the Publisher (#u4869a1bc-1367-5dbd-87fd-b3de7a90ff1f)
For George, as ever, with love.
And for my father, who gave me my first
love of history.
If all the world were mine From the seashore to the Rhine,
That price were not too high
To have England’s Queen lie
Close in my arms.
—Anonymous German troubadour
An incomparable woman … whose ability was the admiration of her age.
Many know what I wish none of us had known.
This same Queen in the time of her first husband went to Jerusalem.
Let no one say any more about it …
Be silent!
—Richard of Devizes





ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:
All my thanks to my agent, Jane Judd,
who continues to be enthusiastic about
my versions of medieval history.
And to Helen and all her experts at Orphans Press,
who make my hand-drawn maps and
genealogy look splendidly professional.

CHAPTER ONE
July, 1137:
The Ombrière Palace, Bordeaux.
‘WELL, he’s come. Or at least his entourage has—I can’t see the royal banners. Aren’t you excited? What do you hope for?’
Aelith, my sister, younger than I by two years and still with the enthusiasms of a child beneath her newly developing curves, battered at me with comment and questions.
‘What I hope for is irrelevant.’ I studied the busy scene.
I had got Louis Capet whether I liked it or not.
I had thought about nothing else since my father’s deathbed decision to place me under the hand of Fat Louis—the King of France, no less—had settled my future beyond dispute. I wasn’t sure what I thought about it. Anxiety at the choice vied with a strange excitement. Queen of France? It had a weighty feel to it. I was not averse to it, although Aquitaine was far more influential than that upstart northern kingdom. I would be Duchess of Aquitaine and Queen of France. I need not inform my newly espoused husband which of the two I considered to be the more important. Although why not? Perhaps I would. I would not be disregarded in this marriage.
I was Eleanor, daughter and heir to William, the tenth Duke of Aquitaine, the eldest of my father’s children, although not born to rule. Not that I, a woman, was barred by law from the honour, unlike in the barbaric kingdom of the Franks to the north, but once I had had a younger brother who had been destined to wear the ducal coronet. He, William—every first-born son was called William—was carried off by a nameless fever, the same as relieved my mother Aenor of her timorous hold on life. Leaving me. In the seven years since then I had grown used to the idea. It was my right to rule.
But I was nervous. I did not think I had ever been nervous before: I had had no need, as my father’s heir. My lands were vast, wealthy, well governed. I had been brought up to know luxury, sophistication, the delights of music and art. I was powerful and—so they said—beautiful. As if reading my mind, my troubadour Bernart began to sing a popular verse.
He who sees her lead the dance, sees her body twist and twirl,
Can see that, in all the world, for beauty there’s no equal
Of the Queen of Joy.
I smiled. The Queen of Joy indeed. My looking glass confirmed what could be mere flattery, the greasy, self-seeking compliments of a penniless minstrel towards his patroness. But I was not ingenuous. Alone, unprotected, unwed, there would be a limit to my powers. I needed a husband with a strong sword arm, and powerful loins to get an heir on me—for him and for myself. A puissant lord who would stand with me and secure the future for Aquitaine, a man who could lead men and demand the obedience of the power-hungry lords who would snatch what was mine. A man who would be a fit mate for such as I.
Ah, but would Prince Louis fit this mould?
‘Well?’ Aelith nudged me.
‘What do I hope for? A prince, of course,’ I replied.
‘That’s no answer.’
‘A man after my own heart.’
‘Self-important?’ Leaning against the carved window ledge, Aelith ticked them off on her fingers. ‘Opinionated? Arrogant?’
But I sidestepped my sister’s chuckling malice and answered seriously enough. ‘Why not? He will rule my lands. He must do it well. He’ll not do it if he has neither the backbone nor the spirit for it. Better a man with arrogance than one who’d sell himself short to make friends. My vassals need a firm hand.’
We were standing in my bedchamber, Aelith, my women and I, high in the old keep, a spacious, graceful room with large windows to catch the light and any breath of air on this day of impossible heat. A room that I loved, full of my own possessions, and from where I could look out across the Garonne to observe the whole scene unfold hour by hour. It was July, hot as the gates of hell, and I was restless with impatience as Aelith and I observed the settlement grow. Tents, pavilions, sprouting like mushrooms, covered the open meadows, transforming them into a town in its own right. A vivid, richly-coloured Capetian town on Aquitaine soil. A foreign presence, and above it all the fleurs de lys of France. A portent for the future, I acknowledged, a French symbol of ownership over the mighty Duchy of Aquitaine. Before me, horses and armed men swarmed. Farriers and wheelwrights set up their booths and a market was soon under way. Small boats plied back and forth with Frankish noblemen or mounds of cabbages. My vassals, I was well aware, would question the relative importance of the two. It would not be a popular marriage but we would all have to live with it.
‘He must be handsome, of course,’ Aelith announced. She was already precociously aware of the male sex.
‘Of course.’ I had no thought of a husband who was less than pleasing to the eye.
‘Like Raymond.’ Aelith sighed a little.
Raymond of Poitiers, my father’s young brother, now ruling as Prince of Antioch in distant Outremer.
‘Yes. Like Raymond,’ I agreed. My only meeting with Raymond had been of the briefest, four years ago now and for a mere few weeks, but my memory of his golden beauty had not faded with time. Raymond was to my mind the epitome of the perfect knight. ‘If the French prince is in any measure like Raymond, I shall be everlastingly grateful.’ My attention was caught by a flurry of movement across the river. ‘Look! That’s the royal standard!’ I pointed. Aelith leaned to see the blue pennants with the gold lilies of France. ‘So Prince Louis is here at last.’
‘As long as he’s prettier than Fat Louis,’ she remarked.
‘I’ll give you my gold circlet if he’s not. Fat Louis is naught but a mountain of lard ridden with dysentery.’
But I knew better than to underestimate King Louis. His body might be corrupt but his mind was still keen. He might be too corpulent to rise from his bed, too obese to mount either a horse or a woman, so rumour said, but he had seen me as a gift dropped from heaven into his enormous lap.
We watched as another pavilion was erected, larger than all the rest. The Capetian banner was planted beside it to hang limply in the windless air. A group of horsemen drew up and dismounted. Impossible to make out one figure from the next at this distance.
‘They won’t like it, you know.’ I spoke softly. ‘My vassals will detest it.’
‘But they have no choice.’ Aelith pursed her lips. ‘And if the Prince keeps the brigands from our doors, they’ve no right to complain.’
True in essence, but far too simplistic.
Was this, this Frankish marriage, what the Duke my father had intended when he had placed me into King Louis’s keeping? Arrange a marriage for my daughter, he had left instructions for Louis as his life drained from him on the pilgrim’s road to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. And do it fast, before rebellion can take hold. Until that time, I give her and Aquitaine into French safe hands.
What was my father, Duke William the Tenth of Aquitaine, thinking? Surely he’d understood that King Louis would never allow me to escape from his fat fingers. It would be like expecting a fox to show goodwill by keeping out of the hen coop even though the door was left invitingly open, and the King of France was no kindly fox. Arrange a fast marriage for me? By God, he had. Between the vomit and the bloody flux that tied him to his bed, Fat Louis had moved heaven and earth to secure me for his son before anyone could voice a protest.
And there had been plenty. My father’s vassals may have sworn an oath of homage to me in his lifetime, but our lands were torn by unrest. The Count of Angoulême, a vassal lord of Aquitaine, was vicious in his condemnation and was not alone. They would have accepted someone like Raymond, one of their own. They would have just about tolerated a noble lord of the south who might win my hand. But not this Capetian interloper, this foreign northerner from some insignificant Frankish tribe. I knew what they would be thinking as they too watched this impressive arrival. They would see Louis Capet as a foreign power who would drain us to further his own ambitions. My father may have insisted with his final breath that Aquitaine remain independent from France, ruled separately, to be inherited in some distant future by the heir of my own body; he might have insisted that Aquitaine must not be absorbed into French territory, but how many of my vassals would remember that, when faced with this invasion of unveiled power?
‘It might have been more politic—’ I spoke my thoughts ‘—if my father had not thrown us into the hands of a Frank.’
And I marvelled at my father’s unwarranted stupidity in drinking water fouled by a horde of pilgrims, all of whom had doubtless washed and spat and pissed in its shallows. Did he not see, scooping up the bad fish, gulping the rank water, his mind taken up with the successful culmination of his pilgrimage? All he got was a night of fever, of vomiting and flux, rapidly followed by a pain-racked death before Saint James’s altar.
An excess of piety can make us all stupid.
‘Perhaps the vomiting addled his brain,’ remarked Aelith dryly.
And perhaps the outcome would be civil war. It might be like setting a brand to dry timber, insurrection sweeping through Aquitaine and Poitou before we had finished dancing at my marriage feast.
A quick wash of fear replaced the nerves and the anticipation.
Behind me the troubadour, obviously listening in, struck a strident note on a lute so that I turned to look, seeing the lifting of his brow in my direction. When I smiled in appreciation of his intent, Bernart began to sing a popular if scurrilous verse in a soft growl.
Your Frank shows mercy, just to those who can pay him,
There’s no other argument ever can sway him …
He hesitated, breath held, fingers lifted from the strings, to assess my reaction, and even though I knew what would come next, I waved him on. Bernart struck another heavy chord.
He lives in abundance, his table’s a feast,
But you mark my words, he’s a treacherous beast.
My women joined in with relish in the last line. The Franks were not well loved. A coarse, aggressive, unpolished people, compared with our Roman sophistication in Aquitaine.
‘Enough!’ I moved into their midst. ‘We’ll not be discourteous.’
‘No, lady.’ Bernart bowed over his beloved lute. ‘We’ll make our own judgement when the Prince becomes Duke of Aquitaine.’
I frowned at the smooth cynicism but could find no fault with so obvious a statement.
‘It’s an honour that he should come to you.’ Aelith still leaned her arms along the sill, unwilling to abandon the entertainment without. ‘Travelling all this way from Paris, in this heat. They say he travelled at night.’
It was true. Everything had been settled with such speed, as if the King of France had the hounds of hell baying at his heels, although what Prince Louis thought of it I had no idea. Perhaps he would have preferred a Frankish bride. I lifted my chin. I too could be cynical.
‘The Prince only came to me because his father the King instructed him to do so. Fat Louis and my guardian the Archbishop feared that if I set foot outside this palace I would be abducted by some scruffy knight with an eye to a rich wife. I’m far too valuable to be allowed to travel the breadth of the country.’ Impatience tightened its grip, now that the Prince was in my sights. ‘How long do I have to wait before I can see him?’
Aelith laughed, a pert toss of her head. ‘At least he’s old enough to play the man and not so old as to be near his grave.’
‘He’s two years older than I.’
‘Old enough to keep you in line?’
‘No.’ I didn’t like this line of humour. ‘I’ll not be a vessel merely to bequeath my royal Aquitaine blood to my children. I am no brood mare, without opinion or wit, to slave and carry at the behest of a husband. I’ll rule my own lands. The Prince must accept that.’
‘But can you protect them, lady?’ Bernart asked with grave familiarity.
Before I could reply, the Archbishop of Bordeaux, Geoffrey of Lauroux, my kindly guardian since my father’s death, was announced and entered. Resplendent in clerical robes despite the heat, he bowed, puffing from the effort of climbing the stairs.
‘Lady. The Prince is come.’
And I knew immediately what I wanted. ‘I would go out and meet with him.’
‘No.’
I thought I had misheard. ‘I wish to see the Prince. Will you arrange it, sir?’
‘Regretfully, no, lady. You will wait here.’
‘But I wish it.’ I would not be thwarted in this.
But the Archbishop remained adamant. ‘To arrive before your future husband, windblown and hot, in the middle of a camp of soldiers and the usual rabble of camp followers? Less than perfect, my dear Eleanor. I think not. You will wait here. You will allow Prince Louis to come to you. As he should, of course.’ The Archbishop’s eyes twinkled with crafty appeal to my pride. ‘The Kingdom of France cannot compare with the Duchy of Aquitaine. You will stand on your dignity. You will control your impatience.’
Dignity. Control. Maturity was rushing up to meet me, so fast that it took my breath. And I knew it must be so. The days of my wilful girlhood were gone for ever.
‘How long must I wait?’
‘Not long. Tomorrow I will bring him to you.’
Another whole day. But to ride into the Capetian camp, as any common sightseer to peer and pry … No. I would not do that.
‘Tomorrow then. We will hold an audience in the Great Chamber.’
‘I will arrange it.’ The Archbishop bowed again and departed, well satisfied, as was I.
I went back to the window, straining to see if I could make out the distant figure of my future husband. I could not, of course. My gaze strayed to the nearer, familiar vista of Bordeaux. My days here were now numbered. I would have to leave all this, my well-loved home, the dry, sun-baked south. I had known Bordeaux all my life, the warm, golden walls enclosing vineyards and gardens as well as our own ducal palace. Churches with their spires arrowing to heaven. The market and port with ships landing goods from all the known world. Paris? What did I know of it? Very little, I admitted. Landlocked. Cold and damp and northern. Whatever it was, it was about to become the centre of my new life.
‘And have you decided which language you’ll use to address your most puissant Prince?’ Aelith murmured, coming up to tuck her hand through my arm. She was definitely in the mood to annoy.
‘I shall speak my own language, of course.’
‘You’ll not make it easy for him?’
‘Why should I? He’ll gain far more from this marriage than I. Our new combined kingdom …’
‘Never mind the politics, sister. You’re too solemn. Far more important—what will you wear to meet him for the first time?’
‘Aelith! Life’s not all about dresses and mantles …’
‘Sometimes it is. Which reminds me, will you lend me your pleated undergown—the blue silk patterned with silver?’
‘No.’ It was new and precious.
‘Well, if you’re of a mind to be bad-tempered …’
It was in my mind to snap at her but I could not; marriage might demand a parting between us, a thought that brought me no happiness. Moreover she had a point. It mattered that I make an impression on Louis Capet. I would make him notice me. I was Duchess of Aquitaine, not some poor petitioner to fall on her knees to beg the Capetian hand of charity to raise her from the dust.
The Devil whispered in my ear.
Are you sure you want to be bound to a man, to be dependent on his yea or nae? Is this how you see your life—at the beck and call of this unknown prince, for you to be his vassal, his possession, obedient to his commands?
No, I didn’t want it but I had no choice. I was fifteen years old, Duchess of Aquitaine and Gascony, Countess of Poitou in my own right. Unable to defend my lands from the jackals and vultures, I must bow to the inevitable. I had made up my mind to it.
I would mate with the Devil himself if it would keep Aquitaine safe.
Aelith borrowed my undergown anyway, but by then events had overtaken me: blue silk undergowns had become entirely inconsequential.
‘You are magnificent,’ Aelith observed.
I raised my chin. I knew it. True to his word, early next morning, before the heat of the day built to a furnace, Archbishop Geoffrey had himself ferried across the river to escort the Prince to meet me, his affianced wife. I sat in my audience chamber and waited for him, a vision of Aquitaine splendour.
Aelith’s advice in mind, I had chosen a gown of deep blue. To be the possessor of hair the rich red-brown of a vixen’s pelt put many colours out of bounds, but the blue of the Virgin’s robe was becoming. Beneath it I wore under-tunics of silk and fine linen, while over it a long flowing surcoat so that the full skirts lapped around me, trailing as I walked in gilded leather shoes. A jewelled belt clipped my waist with another loop around my hips. A long transparent veil secured by a gold and jewelled filet did not hide my hair but drew attention to it, braided along its length with blue and gold ribbons to hang almost to my knees. All in all a statement of imperious power—if not entirely comfortable in the sultry heat. Attention was drawn to my eyes, to my lips and cheeks by the judicious use of artificial colour. Rings flattered my hands, earrings dripped from lobe to shoulder.
And I waited.
An hour passed.
He kept me waiting.
I was not used to being kept waiting, in a life where servants leapt to do my bidding. But I would show neither anxiety nor anger. I would not go to the wall-walk to look out. I sat on my high-backed chair on the dais and stilled my fingers that wanted to tap their impatience. I watched the door at the far end of the vast chamber. The sun lifted towards noon and sweat trickled down my spine.
Still I sat. Temper began to hum beneath my skin. He dared to keep me waiting! Me, in whose veins ran the blood of a long line of victorious warrior knights. He would slight me, Eleanor …
Where was this Prince of France? By God, I’d wait no longer …!
And then the tramp of an armed guard. The soft murmur of voices. The Frankish soldiers marched into my audience chamber—much as an invading force—to position themselves into a protective phalanx at the door. But I focused on the man who came to a halt under the arched doorway, looking around with wide eyes, only stepping forward at a murmur from my Archbishop on his right.
Louis Capet walked slowly towards me. Louis le Jeune. Now that the moment was here my palms were slick with sweat. I resisted the urge to wipe them down the silk of my skirts.
The Prince halted, as if looking for encouragement.
I studied him while he was still distant from me, gaining a fistful of impressions. My heart sank. Who would I compare him with? The only men I had known, of course. My grandfather. My father. My father’s younger brother Raymond, now Prince of Antioch. With these men as my only measuring stick, I had expected a warrior, a bold knight to march forward to claim the prize, a lord with presence, as much at home in a chamber of government as in the lists or on the battlefield. As a Prince of France I had at least anticipated a supreme confidence. When the men of my family had entered a room, it had been instantly full of their authority and forceful personality.
The lingering shades of the rulers of Aquitaine faded as Prince Louis walked forward slowly, the Archbishop once again at his side with an encouraging smile. This, then, was the man I would wed. He stopped before me, bowed with elegance and smiled. As good manners dictated, I stood and, lifting the trailing hems of my skirts, stepped from the dais and held out my hand in greeting.
Louis was tall, as tall as I, for which I was grateful. His hair was long and fair, waving to his shoulders. Blue eyes, the blue of a summer sky, were direct and almost childlike in their openness. Fine features, a straight nose and austere cheeks. His mouth was well moulded, curved into a sweet, disarming smile. He had taken a razor to his cheeks and chin, his skin soft and smooth. Without doubt, as any woman would see, an attractive man.
Will he be attractive in bed?
The thought that leapt into my mind, as silkily as my rosary beads slipped through my fingers at Mass, did not surprise me. After all, what was the purpose of this union if not to safeguard the future of my domains through the begetting of a child? Would he be pleasing? I thought he would. His shoulders were broad, his figure elegant. His hands were beautiful and slender. I would not object to intimacy with this man.
‘My lady.’ His voice was soft, pleasant to the ear as he bowed again with exquisite grace.
‘My lord, you are right welcome,’ I replied in similar Latin, the formal diplomatic language of the court.
As he bent his head to press his lips to my fingers, I assessed his clothing with some surprise. His garments were of fine wool, the best I had seen, and in the most magnificent red that I did not wear but coveted—a red-haired woman would not choose to wear such a hue unless she was totally witless—but the garment was in what I would have called an outdated fashion. The overgown reached Louis’s ankles, rather than his knees, over a plain linen under-tunic that showed at neck and hem. No bands of braiding or embroidery to enhance the collar or sleeves, only minimal stitching around the neck and that without style. He wore no jewels. His belt was of good quality but plain leather, as were his boots. He had dressed well but completely without show to draw attention to his rank.
He wore no sword at his belt. The Dukes of Aquitaine wore a sword unless in the bedchamber. And even then, until persuaded to remove it by the lady who shared their sheets.
How could the heir of France not wear a sword, the ultimate symbol of power?
I pursed my lips faintly through my smile, trying not to be over-critical. So he did not like display and ostentation. That did not make him less of a man. Perhaps as a Prince of France he saw no need to emphasise his status with sword and poignard on the day he met his intended bride. But his hands and face were pale, un-weathered. The fingers that held mine bore no calluses from sword or shield or even horse harness. He was no warrior, no fighter for sure. He bore no trace of hard campaigning through rain and sun.
Neither was he finding it easy to choose what to say next to me. An awkward little silence fell between us. Which I broke.
‘I have looked forward to this moment when we would meet, my lord,’ I said.
Louis flushed, his fair skin pink as an early rose. I saw his throat convulse as he swallowed.
‘Lady. I have heard much of your beauty. The rumours were not false. Your eyes are as fine and rare as … as emeralds.’
His flush deepened. I saw myself reflected in his eyes and knew that he was much taken with me. But that was not the reason for the ripple of surprised pleasure that stirred the fine hairs at my nape. Oh …
His flattering words were not in Latin!
How this man had courted me. And I had not at first noticed. He had gone to the considerable trouble to learn at least some words in my own language, the langue d’oc of the south, the official language of Aquitaine, rather than the langue d’oeil that Louis would speak in his Frankish kingdom.
‘You honour me,’ I murmured, failing to hide my astonishment.
‘I have tried. I learned the phrases on my journey here,’ he admitted with a soft laugh. ‘But my conversation would be limited. Perhaps we should revert to Latin. God give you good health, my lady.’
And so we slid smoothly into Latin again because we must, but the gesture to me was a fine one.
Louis kissed my fingers again, then my cheeks, enveloping me in a cloud of sweet perfume. His lips were gentle on my skin. So he had bathed and anointed himself before coming to me. My pleasure deepened.
‘Forgive me that I did not come sooner,’ Louis explained. ‘I ordered a Mass to be said. I had to give thanks to God for my safe arrival.’
‘You are certainly well protected,’ I observed, with an eye to his guards.
‘My father and Abbot Suger—my father’s chief counsellor who has accompanied me at my father’s orders—both insisted. They must guarantee my safety in dangerous territory.’
It was said completely without guile, despite the covert slur on the state of law in my lands, neither was it the reply I had expected—but, of course, his father would be concerned. ‘Of course.’ I raised my hand to indicate a table with two low chairs set for us in a window embrasure. ‘Here is wine, my lord. Please sit and be at ease.’
We sat. At a signal my servants approached to pour the wine and uncover gold dishes of candied fruits and sugared plums. Louis accepted the cup from my hand.
‘Let us drink to our union.’ I raised mine to my lips. ‘May it be long and fruitful, to the advantage of both France and Aquitaine. As sweet as the sugarplums.’ I gestured to the bowl.
‘It will be my greatest delight.’
Louis took a small sip before pushing the cup aside. He declined the sweetmeats. His gaze was fixed on my face. Again an uneasy silence fell between us.
‘What is it?’ I asked. I did not care to be stared at quite so fixedly.
He shook his head, formally grave. ‘I can’t believe my good fortune. If my brother had lived, he would have wed you. His misfortune is my gain. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. How can I not love you?’
My breath caught on a little laugh of surprise at his lack of worldliness. ‘I am deeply grateful.’ It was impossible to respond in any other fashion to so ingenuous an admission after ten minutes of acquaintance.
Louis was unaware. ‘I have brought gifts for you, lady, to express my esteem.’ He motioned forward one of his servants, indicating that he lift the lid of a little gold-bound coffer. ‘My father considered these to be a suitable gift for a young bride.’
His father considered …
If I was disappointed I did not speak it. Neither did I show my initial reaction to the choice of adornment for a new bride. In the coffer coiled a heavy chain of gold. A brooch to pin a mantle. Heavy matching bracelets. Valuable without doubt, set with magnificent cabochon gems, as large as pigeon’s eggs, but heavy, as suitable for a man as for a woman. And somehow northern, without finesse or the delicacy of form that I knew. Chains of gold, I thought, to tie me to the marriage. I promptly buried the thought and expressed my thanks.
‘Rubies are the most prized of jewels,’ Louis informed me ingenuously. ‘They preserve the wearer from the effects of poison.’
Poison? Did he expect me to be poisoned in my own domain? Or in Paris? It was in my mind to ask him. And rubies, for a red-haired woman. How unfortunate. And then not least—why had the Prince not chosen them himself for the woman he would marry?
How could a gift have been so unacceptable on so many levels?
‘I will value them,’ I replied graciously. My upbringing had been superb. ‘I have a gift for you too, my lord.’
I had thought long and hard about it. What to give a man on the occasion of our marriage. Not a sword—far too warlike. A stallion? Perhaps. I had rejected jewels. Then I had decided on something lasting, of beauty, an object of great value that would remind Louis of this moment every time his glance fell on it.
It stood on the table beside the wine flagon, wrapped about in silk. With a twist of my wrist I loosed the shroud to reveal a truly spectacular piece of workmanship from our own treasury in Aquitaine. It was old and very rare, a vase of roc crystal, decorated with gold filigree work, inset with pearls. The crystal shone with inner fire in the sunlight.
Louis touched it with one finger, his face solemn. ‘It is beautiful, but no more beautiful than you, lady.’
And that was it. He neither touched it nor looked at it again. Was it not to his taste? How could such a thing of exquisite workmanship not please? It cried out to be handled, the crystal facets stroked and warmed between palms and fingers. I felt a frown gathering and struggled to smooth it out.
He does not look at it because he cannot take his eyes from your own face! You should be gratified indeed.
True enough.
Louis took my hand again, holding it strongly between his as if he needed to urge me. ‘We’ll wed immediately. I must return home to Paris—as soon as we can settle our affairs.’
Oh! So soon! My days in Aquitaine were fewer than I had supposed. ‘I had hoped to show you the hospitality of Aquitaine, my lord,’ I suggested. ‘We can take our time. Do you not wish to know your new land, your new subjects? What need to hurry so?’
Louis leaned forward so that his face was close to mine, lowering his voice. For one brief moment I thought he was actually going to kiss me, and stiffened at his boldness. No such thing.
‘Are your lords so peaceful and welcoming, then, to a Frankish prince?’ he asked, his breath warm on my cheek. ‘I do not think so. Abbot Suger is wary of staying longer than necessary.’
‘My lords are not hostile,’ I remarked carefully, unsettled by his openness, reluctant to admit to the lukewarm acceptance he would receive. ‘It is just that they don’t know you.’
Louis smiled immediately. ‘Then I’ll speak with them and win them over. I’ll be a fair ruler. I know they’ll accept that.’
Was he quite so innocent? So guileless?
‘They’ll come and swear fealty to you,’ I assured him. ‘They have been summoned.’
And pray God they buried their sour temper and bent the knee or we’d have trouble on our hands. How would this gentle, unassuming man deal with open defiance?
‘Then we’ll await their coming. Two weeks, my lady, but no longer. My father is ill. I am instructed to return by Abbot Suger.’
I chose my reply carefully. Soft acquiescence until I knew him better. ‘Then we will leave in two weeks, my lord, as you wish.’
Louis rose to his feet, drawing me with him with a hand to my arm. ‘There’s no need for concern, lady.’
‘Concern?’
‘I can understand your trepidation at being taken so far from your home. Neither have you your mother to give you advice.’
‘I don’t fear it, sir.’ My voice had more of an edge than I had intended.
‘We’ll make you welcome in Paris. My own lady mother is keen to meet you. I trust you’ll not be lonely there. I wouldn’t want you to be unhappy in any degree.’
My reaction at what I had considered to be a slight to my maturity softened. Here was care for my well-being, where I had not expected it. It wrapped around my heart, a warm hand, that the Prince should even consider my isolation in a foreign land, in an unfamiliar court.
‘I would bring my women with me, sir. My sister.’
‘Of course. It’s my wish that you be comfortable,’
Whatever else this prince was, he was kind, generous. I curtsied deeply. ‘Tonight we hold a feast in your name, my lord.’
He placed his hand on his heart and bowed. ‘It will be my pleasure.’
And then as the Prince departed, surrounded by his bodyguard, I was left to sort through those first impressions. A mixed bag, for sure.
He had great charm, a winning smile. He was good to look at—but Prince Louis was not his own man, his actions, even his choice of gift under the thumb of his father. How … disappointing! I had expected a more forceful personality from a Frank, with their reputation for drawing swords first and asking questions later. Louis had not even worn a sword.
I ate one of the neglected sugarplums, licking the sugar from my fingers, considering the weight of jewellery in the casket.
Could this Louis Capet protect my lands for me? Hard to imagine at first sight. Louis was no war stallion, forsooth! More a gentle palfrey. I suspected that, if it came to a fight, the rebel Count of Angoulême would trample him into the dust of Aquitaine before the Prince had buckled on his weapons.
I sighed.
But perhaps all was not lost. Perhaps there were advantages to be gained here. If the Prince came readily to his father’s hand on the bridle, why should he not come equally readily to mine? Could I not replace Fat Louis’s influence with my own? Surely it was not an impossibility? Since the Prince admired my person and my face so greatly, could he not be persuaded to listen to me and take my advice? I would tutor him in how to deal with my vassals. I would educate him in ruling Aquitaine. I would make myself indispensable to Louis Capet.
I smiled as I ate another plum.
Prince Louis might not be the worst husband in the world.
I stood and brushed the sugar from my sleeves. As I prepared to leave the chamber, waving my women to go before me so that I could fall into step with Aelith, it caught my eye. Louis had left the vase. There it stood, the sun still creating tiny rainbows within its crystal. Conscious of a little knot of disappointment, I instructed a servant to wrap and pack it carefully for the long journey to Paris. Then I closed the lid on the French casket. I supposed I would have to wear the gift for my wedding but I would not choose to wear it again. Still, I had hoped that Louis would have admired the vase …
‘Well?’ Aelith.
‘He’s good to look at. He’s thoughtful and considerate.’
‘He’s as pretty as a girl. So your husband will protect your lands for you, will he?’ As ever, my sister was not slow to voice her opinions. ‘Will this boy do it, do you think?’
‘Why should he not?’
‘He’s milk and water compared to our father!’
A flash of my eye silenced her. The fact that she had mirrored my own misgivings did not comfort me. I wanted a hawk. An eagle. I feared I was being matched with a dove.
‘He’s young.’ My reply was diplomatic. ‘We’ll grow together. And I will be at his side to strengthen him.’
‘I think your pretty prince is a virgin, lady.’ Bernart tapped an impudent rhythm against the belly of his lute.
I was feeling beleaguered here. Were Louis’s shortcomings as obvious to everyone as they were to me? I hoped not. To be the object of pity was more than I could tolerate.
‘Perhaps he is a virgin still. He is a perfect knight.’ I tried for magnificent sangfroid.
‘But will he be able to couch his lance?’ Aelith smirked, squeezing my hand.
A jest as old as time. I think I laughed with her.
I did not laugh later.

CHAPTER TWO
‘HOW long will this … this affair last?’ The Prince’s lips tightened into a thin line of disapproval.
As was customary at so momentous occasion as a ducal marriage, we gathered in the antechamber of the Ombrière Palace, to lead the procession through the Great Hall and up to the High Table. Louis looked weary, as if he would gladly cancel the whole affair and make a run for it. It could not be. Today, the day of our marriage, we were on show, and I was alert for even one disparaging expression, one whispered aside.
‘As long as it takes to impress your new vassals!’ I smiled at him with clenched teeth, my new husband of less than an hour, and closed my hand over his arm to shackle him to the spot. Words hot enough to scorch sprang into my mouth. Did this Frankish prince not understand what he was getting from this marriage, how much land was now his? Surely it was worth an hour or two of feasting, of building bridges. I almost lost my struggle not to lecture him on the value of diplomacy over a cup of wine and a platter of succulent meats—until Aelith attached herself to my side. She pulled me a little away.
‘We’ve no time for gossip,’ I remarked, seeing Louis almost physically retreat from the crush without my restraining grip.
Had I said that all was done in a hurry? Two weeks was all it took to get us to the altar. Two weeks that gave my vassals ample time to respond to the summons to attend the wedding and pay homage to their new overlord. Most did, with ill grace, but at least they put in a stiff-necked, close-lipped appearance. Some were conspicuous by their absence—the Count of Angoulême being the one to cause tongues to wag—but enough were present to raise their voices in acclaim of Louis, who, in joining his hand with mine, was now Duke of Aquitaine and Gascony, Count of Poitou. Walking through streets afterwards to cheering crowds, music, leaves cast before our feet, Louis’s guards had pressed close about us, but still it was an auspicious beginning. The cries were not hostile, although, in truth, the roasting carcasses of beef and the hogsheads of ale craftily provided by my Archbishop for the populace would have sweetened the voices.
Now the deed was done.
In those two weeks I never set eyes on the Prince unless he came as a reluctant guest to a celebratory event, and never alone, always hedged about by soldiers and under the watchful eye of the man I learned directed his every step. Abbot Suger, right-hand man of Fat Louis. I knew no more about the Prince than on that first day. Rumour had it that he spent the hours in his pavilion on his knees, thanking God for the success of this venture and praying equally for a safe return to Paris. For certain he had no stomach for outstaying his welcome in Bordeaux, just as he had no stomach for the feasting so beloved by the Aquitanians.
Now back in the Ombrière Palace for our marriage feast, I fixed Louis with a stern regard, willing him not to move, ignoring Aelith’s whisperings as I renewed my own silent vow. Louis le Jeune might now be my sovereign lord, my husband and able to command my obedience. I might have moved seamlessly from the dominance of a father to the authority of a husband, but I would not be an impotent wife, destined to sit in a solar and stitch altar cloths.
‘Eleanor! Who is that?’ Aelith persisted.
‘Who?’
‘The lord in the blue silk and grey fur—the man who’s looking at me.’
Her eye gleamed and I followed its direction.
It was worth the looking. Tall and impressively built, the Frankish lord was well on in years but his hair retained its dense hue and his face was striking, with hawklike nose and heavy brows. At this moment his mouth was taut in consideration of something that had taken his attention—perhaps my sister. His dark eyes were fixed firmly and with appreciation on her. And why not? I thought. Aelith’s burgeoning shape was revealed by the clinging deep green silk and silver embroidery. Obviously the lord was one of Louis’s entourage but I did not know him. Perhaps he was newly arrived.
‘Find out for me,’ Aelith demanded, not so sotto voce.
‘Aelith! In the middle of my wedding feast?’ But I humoured her. ‘Who is the lord with the fiery eye?’ I moved to murmur to Louis.
He looked across, face open in welcome. ‘My cousin, Raoul. Count Raoul of Vermandois. Why?’
‘No reason. He looks very proud.’
Louis raised his hand to draw the lord’s attention. ‘And rightly. He’s Seneschal of France. His wife’s sister to Count Theobald of Champagne. Powerful connections.’
The Count approached, bowed and was introduced.
‘Lady. A happy occasion.’
His voice was as smooth as the silk I wore. When he had retired back into the crowd, to the side of an austere lady with a calculating slant to her eye—his extremely well-connected, powerful wife from Champagne, I presumed—I relayed the information to Aelith as the procession formed behind us.
‘He’s married. He’s also old enough to be your father.’
She looked at me solemnly. ‘He’s handsome. A man of authority. A man—not a boy.’
‘And of no interest to you!’
As ever, Aelith was an open book and I saw her intent: a frivolous flirtation at the feast to pass the time between one extravagant course and the next. I paid it no heed other than to consider that sometimes my sister, for all her high breeding and lack of years, had the heart and inclination of a camp whore.
‘Don’t demean yourself,’ I warned.
‘I would not!’
So now we processed down the length of the hall, took our seats and looked out over the no-expense-spared glory of our celebration. Louis and I acknowledged the good wishes and sipped the marriage cup. I tried not to notice the juxtaposition of my braided hair as it lay on my breast, with my gown and the flash of rubies in the sunlight, but I found time to regret that on the day that I was a bride, at Louis’s insistence I wore red silk damask and Fat Louis’s rubies. Louis would not be gainsaid. Red was a royal colour, he said. I should be clad as the future Queen of France. I humoured him—by the Virgin, the gold was heavy!—but not in the style of my gown. The cut of it was opulent and pure Aquitaine so that Louis’s pale brows rose at my trailing skirts and oversleeves that had to be tied in elegant knots to prevent them dragging in the dust. I was right—he did not approve of ostentation.
At least for once Louis looked the part, fair and comely beneath the Aquitaine gold of the ducal coronet, despite the compressed lips. His servants had got to grips with him and turned him out as a prince, as if he had more than two silver pennies to rub together. In fact, he dazzled the eye. Perhaps his father and the omnipresent Abbot Suger had insisted on the red and gold tunic, heavy with embroidery, giving bulk to his figure and an unquestionable air of majesty.
The feast began, the troubadours sang. The great names of the lords of Gascony and Aquitaine were spread as a mosaic before us. Lusignan and Auvergne, Périgord and Armagnac. Châteauroux. Parthenay. My father had kept them tightly controlled by a clever show of force coupled with an open hand of generosity, but I knew that as soon as I was in Paris they’d be gnawing at the edges of my land, like rats on a decaying carcass. The image made me shiver. I sent platters of food and flagons of ale in their direction and bent a beaming smile on them. Nothing like a feast to soften hostilities. Along the table to my right I tried not to watch as Aelith cast inappropriate glances towards the forbidden Count Raoul, who was not slow in returning them, despite his wife’s obvious displeasure, her hand fastening like a claw on his wrist to keep his attention. On my left Louis was toying with a meagre plate of roast suckling pig whilst all around tucked in with hearty appetite.
‘Does it not please you, sir?’ I asked.
Before us on the white cloth was spread a beribboned swan, proud and upright, its neck skewered with iron to keep it erect, the whole resting on a lake of green leaves. Accompanying this masterpiece of creation was a peppered peacock, a spit-roast piglet, a haunch of venison, while servants carried in an endless procession of ducks and geese and sauced cranes.
Louis frowned at the display. ‘I am not used to such opulence.’
‘But this is a celebration.’
‘And it would be wrong of me not to enjoy it.’ He speared a piece of the meat on his knife and ate it. But only one piece, unlike my vassals who stuffed piece after piece into their mouths until they were sated. Perhaps, I made the excuse, it was a reaction against his father’s gluttony. I could not fault him in that.
Bernart, my favourite of all my troubadours, sank to his knee before me.
‘I ask permission to sing of your beauty, lady.’ And not waiting for assent, because no Aquitanian ever refused a song, he broke into the familiar verses.
For beauty there’s no equal
Of the Queen of Joy.
I threw a pouch of gold to land at his feet in acknowledgement of his compliment, as he slid into a verse I did not know.
‘From afar the King has come, come to interrupt the dance.
‘For he fears another man may boldly seize the chance to wed the April Queen.’
So the gifted Bernart had written this verse for the occasion—and my heart fluttered a little at the compliment. My troubadour knew my value to the King of France and would broadcast it to the winds. April Queen. I liked it almost as much as Queen of Joy—and I certainly approved the idea that I was much sought after. What woman would not? And so I turned to Louis, laughing in surprised delight.
‘Well, sir? Do you like the sentiment?’
‘No. I do not.’
‘Why not?’ The flat denial astonished me. ‘Any woman would be delighted with the idea of rivals for her hand. It is the essence of love.’
The muscles in Louis’s jaw tightened. ‘I don’t like the sentiment of having to snatch you up before another man forestalled me.’ I saw his nostrils narrow as he inhaled. The corners of his mouth were tightly tucked in as if the scents of the spiced meats were suddenly distasteful. ‘And I have feasted enough.’ Casting down his knife, he signalled for a finger bowl.
‘Do you not find it pleasing?’ I asked, suddenly uneasy, uncertain of his intentions. It seemed to me petulant beyond words. Did he want the feast to end? Did he intend to leave? It would be far too discourteous. To end my wedding feast now would be the height of bad manners. Did Louis not see that?
‘Not inordinately. Not as much as you, it seems.’ His soft voice had acquired an edge as he turned to stare directly into my eyes. ‘Do you know what they say of you? The lords at my father’s court?’
‘Of me? No. What do they say of me?’
‘Not of you,’ he amended, ‘but of your people. They say that men from Aquitaine and Poitou value gluttony rather than military skill.’
How patently untrue! Was he being deliberately gauche? Surely he would not be so coarse in his criticism on this day of all days. ‘Is that all they can find to say?’
‘They say you’re talkative, boastful, lustful, greedy, incapable of …’
The words dried on his tongue, his cheeks flew red flags, as he suddenly realised to whom he spoke. ‘Forgive me.’ He looked down at his dish with its uneaten mess of meat and sauce. ‘I did not think …’
I felt resentment stiffen my spine. How dared he slander me and my people on so short an acquaintance? I might see their shortcomings but it was not this Frankish prince’s place to denigrate them. By what right did he measure them and find them wanting? ‘Do you not feast and sing in Paris, then? Do the Franks not find time from government for pleasure and entertainment?’
‘I did not sing and feast. Not at Saint-Denis.’
‘What is that? A palace?’
‘A monastery.’
‘Did you visit there?’
‘I was brought up there.’
The words sank in, but with them not much understanding. ‘You were brought up in a monastery?’
‘Did you not know?’
‘No. As a priest?’
‘More or less.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’ I could not imagine it. My quick anger was replaced by interest.
‘Yes.’ A smile softened the tension in his jaw and the feverish light in his eye faded. ‘Yes, I did. The order of the day, each one like the last. The serenity in the House of God. Can you understand?’ His voice took on an enthusiasm I had not heard before, his pale eyes shone. ‘The perpetual prayers for God’s forgiveness, the voices of the monks rising up with the incense. I liked nothing better than to keep vigil through the night—’
‘But did you not learn the art of government?’ I interrupted. ‘Did you not sit with your father and hear good advice and counsel?’ Surely that would have been of far greater use than the rule of Saint Benedict.
‘I was never intended to rule, you see,’ Louis explained. ‘My elder brother—Philip—was killed by a scavenging sow at loose on the quay. Philip fell from his horse when it reared.’ Louis’s voice was suddenly hoarse with suppressed grief. ‘There was no hope for him—his neck broke in the filth of the gutter.’
‘Oh!’
‘He was an accomplished warrior. He would have been a great king.’
‘My son.’ A soft voice from Louis’s other side broke in. The ever-present Abbot Suger, sent by Fat Louis to keep his eye on the son and heir. He leaned forward, a slight, elderly man with deceptively mild demeanour, to look at me as much as at Louis. ‘My son, the lady does not wish to hear of your life at Saint-Denis. Or of Philip. You are heir to the throne now.’
‘But the Lady Eleanor asked if I had enjoyed my life there.’
‘You must look to your future together now.’
The Abbot had the thin, lined face of an aesthete. His hair was as glossily white as an ermine, his small dark eyes just as inquisitive. They summed me up in that instant and I suspected they found me wanting.
‘Of course. Forgive me.’ Louis nodded obediently. ‘That life is all in the past.’
‘But I think you miss it.’ I was reluctant to allow the Abbot to dictate the direction of our conversation.
‘Sometimes.’ The volume of noise rose around us again as Louis smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘I was intended for the Church, you see. I was taught to value abstinence and prayer. To give my mind to higher pursuits than—than this.’ The sweep of his hand to the now roistering crowd was, whether he intended it or not, entirely derogatory. Unfortunately Bernart, roaming the room with lute to hand, chose the moment to swing into a well-loved song, with a raucous chorus for all to join in. Since the wine was flowing, the merrymakers were in good heart.
Don’t marry this cheat, sweet Jeanne, for he is stupid and unlettered.
Don’t take him to your bed, sweet Jeanne, your lover would be far better.
Louis smacked his hand down on the cloth, making the silver dishes dance. ‘Listen! How can you approve of that? Your minstrels sing of lust and intimacy not sanctioned by the Church or by any moral code. They have no respect for women and encourage them to behave without restraint.’
The hearty phrase ‘these flaming whores’ was bellowed from a hundred throats, both men and women.
‘It is immoral. Degrading. Such verses should be forbidden. Such foul-mouthed braggarts as this … this scurrilous minstrel should be whipped through the streets for their impertinence.’ Louis’s voice rose alarmingly.
‘But he is not a scurrilous minstrel,’ I objected. ‘He is Bernart Sicart of Maruejols.’
A blank look, and derisory at that.
‘He is famous throughout Aquitaine. My father thought very highly of him.’
‘His words are insulting and offensive! I don’t want him at my court.’
A trickle of fear, as hard and cold as ice, invaded my chest. It hadn’t taken my new lord long, had it, to wield his new authority over me? He did not know me very well.
‘I’ll not dismiss him.’
‘Even if I demand it?’
‘Why should you? He is mine and I’ll remain his patron. You’ll not change my mind in this.’ I closed my lips against my lord. I was beyond terms of respect.
As Louis sought for a reply, quietness fell, as sometimes happened in a crowd.
‘Colhon!’
I heard the comment drift across from my left. No attempt was made to mute it and I froze, my fingers clenched around my spoon, in humiliation for Louis—for myself. I felt my skin flush as bright as his. Abandoning the spoon, I curled my fingers round Louis’s wrist. I could feel the temper rising.
‘Do you think that of me? As ruler of Aquitaine? That I am immoral, my thoughts fit only for the sewer?’ My cheeks might flame, my temper might burn, but my voice was tight with control.
‘No. I think you are beautiful beyond measure,’ Louis replied with disarming candour, his voice returning to its low timbre. ‘I think your mind is as fine as your face. I can find no fault in you. I can’t believe you are my wife.’
My mind struggled to grasp the quick lunge and feint of this conversation. Was Louis so naive that he would think to win my favour by this lurch from condemnation to flattery? How dared he pick and prod at my own people, at my way of life, within an hour of our marriage? So he could find no fault in me. I admitted to no fault in me! Or with the uninhibited behaviour and language of my guests. Temper remained hot in my blood as I retrieved my spoon in a pretence of sampling a dish of succulent figs.
Clearly disturbed at the flash in my eye, Louis lifted his cup, intending to take a hearty swallow of wine—but Abbot Suger was instantly there to place a hand on his wrist.
‘Perhaps not, my lord.’
And Louis immediately pushed away the cup. ‘No. It would be better if I did not.’
‘Do you always take his advice?’ I demanded.
‘Yes. My lord Abbot always has my best interest at heart. He would never advise me wrongly.’ Louis looked puzzled. ‘Do you have no one to advise you, lady?’
‘No.’
‘Then how do you know what to do, what decisions to take?’
I had to think about that. It was not a question I had ever been asked, to justify my desires and needs. The answer was simple enough. ‘When my father was alive, we travelled constantly. I watched and I learned. And now I act as I know he would have done. He was a good man. I miss him,’ I admitted.
Louis’s face was transfigured by a blinding smile. ‘You need me, Eleanor. I will advise you.’
Could a child brought up as a monk give me advice, brought up as I had been in my father’s court? I did not think so. ‘I hope we will come to an agreement,’ I compromised.
‘My lord will rule your lands wisely, my lady,’ Abbot Suger interposed.
I bit back a sharp reply. Of course, it would happen whether I liked it or not. I lowered my voice, leaning towards Louis, suddenly intent on mischief.
‘If we are speaking of advice, my lord—try this dish.’ I offered a flat silver platter stacked high with translucent grey shells. ‘Oysters are known to raise the humours and make a man think of a night heating the bed linen with a beautiful woman. Oysters give a man magnificent stamina.’
He looked at me as if I had struck him. ‘My lady!’
‘I am your wife. Is this not a proper conversation?’
Louis swallowed. ‘I think it is very forward, madam …’
I hooded my eyes. ‘It would please me if you would try them. I shall. We might both be pleased with the result tonight.’
Louis le Jeune looked like a hunted rabbit. With regret, I thought we were both in for some inexpert fumbling before we came to know each other. I wished my husband might have some experience, even if he lacked finesse. Entirely oblivious to my anger, my barely concealed scorn, Louis accepted the oysters without comment. I prayed silently that the old wives knew the efficacy of the succulent shellfish.
Barely had he lifted one, unenthusiastically, to his mouth than a courier approached down the length of the hall, pushing aside servants and guests alike. I expected him to come to me, but, of course, he would approach Louis—no, he bowed before the Abbot, which spiked my irritation further. The messenger stooped, whispered in Suger’s ear so that I could not hear. The Abbot issued a number of terse replies, brusque enough to fix my attention. Relaying the information to Louis, there passed between Abbot and Prince a welter of instructions and affirmations as the courier left the hall as fast as he had come.
I had been involved in none of it.
‘What is it?’ I would not be kept in the dark.
Louis turned reluctantly to me. ‘A problem.’
‘Well?’ I raised my beautifully plucked brows.
‘We leave now.’
‘Leave … You mean the palace? In the middle of the feast?’ As bad as I had feared.
‘We leave Bordeaux. It is not safe.’
‘Not safe? How could it not be safe in my own streets, my own city? No one would dare harm me here …’
Abbot Suger offered the explanation, speaking around Louis, his expression bleak. ‘An ambush, I am informed, outside the walls, my lady. Planned for tomorrow, under the auspices of the Count of Angoulême. Your vassal. He will take you both prisoner and assume the power in Aquitaine for himself.’
‘Angoulême? I don’t believe it. A show of force would soon drive him off …’
Louis took my hand, actually patted it as if I needed his comfort. ‘I’ll not risk it. I’ve given orders for my camp to be struck and your immediate possessions packed. We ride at once.’
So he would order the disposition of my own possessions. ‘Are we to run away?’ I asked between disbelief and fury.
‘No, no. We’ll forestall him. A far better course of action.’
‘It seems cowardly to me. Where do we go?’ To leave now before the bridal night? I had a sudden vivid picture of spending it in a ditch, beside a road.
‘It’s arranged, by my lord Abbot. We stay at the castle of Taillebourg tonight.’
‘It’s … it’s more than eighty miles to Taillebourg!’
‘It’s owned by one of your vassals who did homage to me—so it’s safe for us.’ Louis stood. Everyone on the dais surged to their feet, startled. Louis ignored them. ‘Make ready, my wife.’
I had, of course, no choice but to comply. It was as if the prospect of action had given Louis a much-needed bolt of confidence, and I could do nothing but walk at his side between the ranks of guests. Pairs of eyes followed us, in shock or amusement. Did they think we would pre-empt the bridal night? That Louis was too urgent to wait? All I saw on his face was strain, perhaps even fear.
Stopping only to change my marriage splendour for garments more suitable for an all-out flight, I was hurried from the palace—my vassals still unaware and feasting in the Great Hall—and rowed across the Garonne to where Louis was already preparing to mount and waiting for me, clad in mail as if expecting trouble to descend on our heads at any moment.
‘Lady!’ He waved his hand impatiently as I stepped from the boat, Aelith and some baggage following me. ‘What took you so long? Do you really need all of that? We mustn’t stay. I’ve ordered a horse litter for your comfort.’ He pointed to the cumbersome transport with its enveloping curtains, slung between four sturdy horses. I had travelled in such a palanquin—but rarely—and remembered the bruises and bone-shuddering jolts. And the tedium.
‘I thought we were in a hurry,’ I remarked.
‘We are.’
‘Then what point in a litter? I’ll ride.’
‘I think not. It’s too slow,’ Louis fretted, pulling me to one side with a hand around my forearm as if he would rather not have me question his decision in public view.
‘Slow?’
‘Too slow, with a sidesaddle and planchet for your feet and a groom to lead.’
Now I understood. I despised the litter but not as much as I despised the wooden seat with its solid foot-rest to allow a lady to ride in safety. I shook Louis’s hand off. He might be my husband of five hours but this was not good sense. ‘I’ll ride astride. No need of a groom or a leading rein. I’ve ridden all my life.’ I pulled on a pair of serviceable leather gloves, keeping my eyes firmly on his.
‘What?’ He was horrified.
‘I can keep up with you, my lord. Fetch me a horse to match your own.’
Louis cleared his throat and looked askance. Would he deny me that right, to decide the manner of my travel?
‘That is what I wish. And I will do it.’ I left him in no doubt.
‘The lady is right.’ The Abbot, stripped of his ecclesiastical garb for leather and light mail, strode up to chivvy us along. ‘If she is willing …’
‘She is!’ I flashed a warning look, by now thoroughly exasperated. ‘And we are wasting time here, if the danger is so great.’
So I had my way. Louis, his face flaming with high colour, was obviously nettled by my boldness, but I left him no choice. ‘Good!’ I nodded at the well-muscled mount that was brought forward for my approval, and raised my foot for his hand. ‘Lift me, and then we can be gone.’ As I mounted astride, I tried not to look for any sense of grievance in his resigned expression. But it was there.
We rode at breakneck speed, changing horses at every river crossing, soon outstripping the escort of Frankish knights who at first pounded around us, a human wall of defence against my recalcitrant vassals. I tried not to let the snarls against treacherous southerners hurt my heart, even as I accepted the rightness of them. So we rode as if the Devil himself pursued us rather than the Count of Angoulême—and we saw no trace of him. Hour after hour, without rest except to snatch a mouthful of bread and a gulp of wine to sustain us. Abbot Suger urged us on at every brief halt. And since he had our safety at heart, and my own people were the cause of our flight, I could hardly resist, even though I could have fallen from my saddle with weariness towards the end. Aelith, as rank and filthy as I from sweat and dust, fared no better, but Louis showed surprising stamina. Or perhaps it was determination not to be bested twice in one day by a woman.
As the hours and the miles passed, I felt his anxious eyes travel over me when my muscles shrieked their weariness and my eyelids threatened to close. Yes, he had concern for me, I thought. There was no malice in the frequent glances, even though I had insisted and must now pay the price. I doubted there was a malicious bone in his body. But I would give him no cause for complaint. I stiffened my shoulders, set my mind against aching muscles and chafed skin and pushed my horse—a clumsy, raw-boned creature but the best to be had in the circumstances—on again into a gallop.
‘Did you hear what they called him?’ Aelith whispered over a shared cup of wine at the next brief halt. ‘At the feast?’
‘Yes.’
‘Colhon! Stupid as a testicle!’
‘No need to repeat it!’
What woman would wish to be wed to a figure of ridicule?
Taillebourg. At last. In the considerable fortress belonging to one of my more loyal vassals, I was shown into the private quarters of Geoffrey de Rancon where comfort closed around me. Too exhausted to do more than give passing thanks for the hospitality, I took possession. A bathtub was commandeered, hot water ordered. My body might ache unmercifully from crown of head to feet but I would go clean to my marriage night. I looked at the lord of Rancon’s bed, appreciating the solid wooden frame and silk hangings complete with down mattress and fine linen sheets. The whole might not match the splendour of mine but it would suffice. Better than the threat of a dank and very public ditch.
Anticipation was a pleasant murmur in my blood as the servants arrived with a tub and buckets of water. I was neither unwilling nor anxious. I sensed that Louis, an ignorant child-monk, would have more qualms than I. I laughed softly, perhaps unfairly. Louis would not have the good Abbot to offer advice on this occasion. The water steamed, herbs filled the room with aromatic fragrance, my limbs cried out for soothing. Aelith fussed to unlace me. I cast off my gown, my undergown, my full-length shift.
A knock sounded on the door. I raised my hand to the chambermaid to forbid entry, but too late. The door opened and Louis himself, still in tunic, boots and hose and mail, stepped in. He halted on the threshold, pushing back his coif, thrusting a hand nervously through his matted hair, which clung wetly to his neck.
‘Forgive me.’ With a shy smile and what could only be described as a charming little bow, mailed gloves still clutched in his hand as if he had come straight from the stabling—as perhaps he had—he took in our surroundings. ‘I came to ask after your well-being, my lady. I see that everything has been provided for …’
His words dried. His jaw dropped. His eyes focused on my legs, where they became fixed, until they slid nervously away to my face.
‘My lord?’
‘Madam!’
I waited.
‘That … that garment …’
It had been made for me, of chamois leather. Soft, figure-hugging, hard-wearing and above all protective, it enclosed my body, covering each leg as with a soft skin of its own. Wonderfully supple, wonderfully liberating, it enabled me to move and stretch with great freedom. And to ride without discomfort. As accommodating as a man’s chausses on which it was clearly modelled.
‘Excellent, is it not?’ It pleased me to tease him. His opinions were as inflexible as stones set in gold. His reaction was much as I had anticipated.
‘It is indelicate, madam!’
‘Do you expect me to ride well nigh a hundred miles, astride, in a shift? In linen drawers perhaps?’
‘No … I … That is …’ Louis stumbled.
‘I had them made for me. For hunting. We enjoy hunting in Aquitaine.’
‘It is not seemly. The women at our court in Paris would shrink from wearing such a garment.’
‘A woman from Paris would not shrink from it if she had to flee for her life on one clumsy animal after another! But do your women not hunt? I think I must instruct them on such a garment’s practicality.’
‘You will do no such thing. My mother would be appalled.’
‘How so?’
Louis shook his head, refusing to elaborate. He did not see a need to, only to enforce my obedience. ‘As my wife, you will not wear them again.’ The expression that settled on his face was not attractive, almost vicious in its intensity.
Would I not? As if I, Duchess of Aquitaine, did not know how to conduct myself, how to present myself. ‘Really?’ I opened my mouth to tell him exactly that. But realised that I was just too tired to cross swords with this man who was almost squirming with embarrassment. If the floor had opened before his feet I swear he would have willingly leapt in. Glancing round, I saw the sly smile on Aelith’s face. I could not humiliate him more. Louis would soon learn and become accustomed to my ways. Taking pity on him, I donned a robe to cover the offending article. But that was as far as I would go.
‘I should inform you, my lord—I shall wear this garment again tomorrow when we ride on to Poitiers. You have no right to forbid it.’
‘But I am your husband.’ His response was brutally frank.
‘As I am your wife.’
‘You have sworn to obey me.’
‘You will not dictate what garments I choose to wear. Particularly when they are covered by my skirts and not obvious to any onlooker. Only to a man who entered my chamber without my invitation when I might—after the day I’ve had—expect some privacy!’
As a stand-off it was magnificent.
‘As I see it,’ I continued before Louis could draw breath, ‘we’re set to travel another vast distance tomorrow. I will ride at your side, my lord, but not without protection.’
‘As you say, madam.’ He glared his rancour but I knew I had won. Louis’s response was as tight as the muscles in his neck and shoulders. ‘I advise you to take some rest. You must be exhausted. We leave early tomorrow.’ There was that flare of colour again in his face. ‘I’ll not make more demands on you. Your sister will keep you company tonight.’
It took a full minute for his words to make sense.
‘You will not stay with me?’
‘I need to pray, my lady.’ Again almost a rebuke, as if I were thoughtless and inconsiderate of any needs but my own. ‘For my father the King’s health. For our safe travel. Archbishop Suger awaits me in the chapel.’
I wrapped my dignity around me with the chamber robe. He had no intention of spending our wedding night with me. Dismay and disappointment twined to create a bright fury that I could barely contain. ‘Of course it is necessary to pray,’ I snapped. ‘You must not keep God or the Abbot waiting.’
Louis was immune to my barbs. With a bow, he was gone. I might even have thought him relieved to escape.
The water in the tub was cooling as I stepped into it and sank up to my chin, my mind not at ease. Despite the relish of victory over what I might or might not wear, I was mystified by the Prince’s rejection of me. My pride was hurt, and I resented the fact, for was I not descended from an impressive company of proud women? I considered myself not the least of their number. How could I not see my own supremacy in them? Their fire was in my own blood. Their knowledge of what was due to them coloured my own self-worth. Their ghosts had stalked me, their exploits had been the tales of my childhood.
What would they say if they had seen my weak compliance in Louis’s absence from my bed? Forsooth, my female forebears would have taken me to task.
Women such as Philippa, my paternal grandmother. High minded and unbending, she lived by the principles of duty and obedience to God, and the respect due to her as the heiress to the county of Toulouse. A formidable woman, although I found it difficult to condone her retiring to spend her final days with the nuns at the Abbey of Fontevrault, assaulting the ears of God with her prayers for revenge, when the ninth Duke, her husband and my grandfather, lived openly with his lover under Philippa’s very nose, in Philippa’s own favourite palace. I would not have left the field. I would have waged war against my neglectful husband who dared humiliate me, and against the upstart whore who had usurped my bed.
Or perhaps I would not.
Because that whore—Dangerosa—was my maternal grandmother. Originally wife to the Viscount of Chatellerault, she saw my grandfather William in full glory of mail and weaponry, and fell into love, like a gannet diving head first into the waves off Bordeaux. So too did William fall, so heavily that he must abduct Dangerosa from her bedchamber—with no obvious protest on Dangerosa’s part—and carry her off to his palace at Poitiers, where he established her in the newly constructed Maubergeonne Tower. They were besotted with each other, making no secret of their sinful union. Dangerosa raised her chin at the world’s condemnation, whilst Duke William had the lady’s portrait painted on the face of his shield. It was, he boasted, his desire to bear her likeness into battle, as she had borne the weight of his body so willingly and frequently in bed.
A tasteless jest. My grandfather had a strong streak of coarse humour.
Dangerosa never regretted her choice. She was his whore until his death, keeping her unpredictable lover more or less faithful with a will of steel, and with fearful cunning. Since she could not get Duke William legally into her bed, then her daughter would get William’s son. Thus Dangerosa’s daughter Aenor was wed to my father. Dangerosa keeping it in the family, if you will.
What would Dangerosa think of me now?
‘Am I so ugly? So undesirable?’ I asked Aelith. But I knew I was not. What I did know was it would be common knowledge that my husband had chosen not to share my bed, that he would find more fulfilment on his knees before a crucifix than with me. ‘Do you think he dislikes me?’
‘I think he finds you too beautiful,’ Aelith crooned to comfort me as she combed out my hair.
‘But not in chamois drawers.’
‘He is a man. What does he know?’
‘I thought he would erupt in a storm of temper when I refused …’
‘I doubt he has a temper in him,’ Aelith disagreed.
‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Yet there had been just that one moment when I thought I had seen a dark flare of barely controlled rage. ‘But why does he not want me?’
‘He does not know women. He does not know how to please them. Now, his cousin Lord Raoul would not hold back, I swear.’
I slapped her hand away when she tugged on a painful tangle, but she only laughed.
‘I don’t even know that he wants to please me.’ I frowned at my knees emerging from the water.
‘You didn’t make life easy for him, Eleanor,’ Aelith pointed out, fairly enough, I suppose. ‘You challenged him over how you would and would not travel—and what you would and would not wear.’
‘And that wasn’t the first. I’d already been more than forthright over the court position of my troubadour Bernart,’ I admitted with a twinge of guilt.
‘What’s wrong with Bernart?’
‘Nothing—that’s the point. Never mind—we just didn’t agree.’
‘And you haven’t been wed a full day …’
‘I suppose I’ve not been a dutiful wife, have I?’
‘There you have it. He’s a prince. He’s not used to a woman taking him to task.’
My thoughts circled round to the main issue. ‘He seeks the company of God before mine.’ For the first time in my life I was touched with true uncertainty.
‘Then you’ll just have to show him the error of his ways, won’t you?’
I was not much comforted. Aelith shared my pillows. I rose next morning from my marriage bed as much a virgin as I had entered it.

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