Читать книгу Devil's Consort - Anne O'Brien - Страница 11

‘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.