The Summer Queen

6

Bordeaux, July 1137

Alienor felt a constriction throughout her body as once more she entered the cathedral of Saint-André. This time she was preceded by two rows of choristers and a chaplain, bearing a processional cross on high. Usually marriages were conducted at the church door, but hers to Louis was to be celebrated within the cathedral itself before the altar, to emphasise its rightness before God.

Alienor took a deep breath and set her feet upon the narrow carpet of fresh green reeds, strewn with herbs and pink roses. The trail of flowers led her down the long nave towards the altar steps. Acolytes swung silver censers on jingling chains, and the perfume of frankincense rose and curled in pale smoke around the vaulted ceiling, mingling with the voices of the choir. Petronella and three other young women bore the weight of her pearl-encrusted train, and her maternal uncle Raoul de Faye paced at her side to represent her male kinfolk. Her skirts flared out and swished back with each step. Occasionally she felt the soft pressure of a crushed rose underfoot, and it seemed almost like a portent.

The congregation standing either side of her pathway to the altar knelt and bowed their heads as she walked past in slow procession. With their faces hidden, she could not tell their thoughts and see neither smile nor frown. Were they glad for this union of Aquitaine and France, or were they already plotting rebellion? Were they joyful for her, or filled with misgiving? She looked and then looked away, and, lifting her chin, focused on the soft gleam of the altar, where Louis waited for her, flanked by Abbé Suger and the lords of his entourage. It was too late to do anything but go forward, or to think she had a choice.

Louis’s blue silk tunic was embroidered with fleurs-de-lis and his swift breathing caused the fabric to shimmer with light. A coronet set with pearls and sapphires banded his brow and as Alienor joined him at the altar steps, the sun rayed down through the cathedral windows, illuminating her and Louis in slanting swords of transparent gold. He held out his hand, slender and pale, and gave her the faintest curve of his lips in greeting. She hesitated, and then put her own right hand into his keeping, and together they knelt and bent their heads.

Gofrid de Louroux, resplendent in embroidered and gem-studded episcopal robes, conducted the wedding service and the mass, each gesture and movement imbued with gravitas. Alienor and Louis gave their responses in firm neutral voices, but their clasped hands were mutually clammy with anxiety. The communion wine glowed like a dark ruby within the belly of the rock-crystal vessel that Alienor had presented to Louis at their betrothal. It surprised and unsettled her to see the vessel being used today. She felt as if she was being tied into this marriage and even helping her captors to secure the knots as she took the blood of the Redeemer into herself and promised to obey Louis in all things.

With the metallic taste of the wine on her tongue, she heard Archbishop Gofrid speak the final words of binding, pronounce the marriage and seal her fate. One flesh. One blood. Louis kissed her on either cheek, and then on the mouth with closed dry lips. She accepted the gesture passively, feeling detached and a little numb, as if this moment belonged to someone else.

Married in the sight of God, they turned from the altar to walk back up the nave, and amid all the heads bowed in prayer and obeisance it was still impossible for Alienor to tell who was ally and who was foe.

The glorious singing of the choir accompanied her and Louis to the church doors in a swelling harmonious chant that was almost applause. At her side, she felt Louis stand taller and puff out his chest as if the music was filling him up and expanding him. A swift glance at his face showed her the tears glittering in his eyes and the beatific expression on his face. Alienor felt no such strength of emotion but by the time they reached the carved golden stone of the cathedral door, she had managed to hide behind a smile.

The air outside struck like a molten hammer after the cool interior of the church. Louis’s coronet dazzled her eyes until they hurt. ‘Wife,’ he said, his complexion flushed with triumph and possession in his voice. ‘Everything is as God wills.’

Alienor dropped her gaze to her new wedding ring, sparkling in the light, and said nothing because she did not trust herself to answer.

From Bordeaux the wedding party journeyed towards Poitiers via detours to fortresses and abbeys so that all could fête the young Duchess and her consort. On the third day they came to the great, reputedly impregnable castle of Taillebourg on the Charente River, belonging in heredity to the seneschals of Poitou. Taillebourg was the last crossing place before the river reached the ocean, and a steady stream of pilgrims passed through on their way to the shrine of Saint James at Compostela.

Their host was Geoffrey de Rancon, important vassal, family friend and the man Alienor would have chosen to wed had she been permitted a choice. He had not been present at the marriage in Bordeaux for he had been dealing with matters on his lands, but he was pleased to welcome the bride and groom, and to host their wedding night, which had been deferred until the third day, following long-held tradition.

Geoffrey knelt in welcome to Alienor and Louis in the castle courtyard and pledged his allegiance. Alienor gazed at the gleam of the sun on his rich brown hair. There was a dull ache in her heart, but her voice gave nothing away as she bade him rise. His own expression was courteous and neutral, his smile that of a courtier. Like her, this drastic change in circumstances had forced him to close the door on particular hopes and ambitions and seek a new focus.

Many lords who had been unable to attend the wedding in Bordeaux had come to Taillebourg to swear fealty to Alienor and Louis, and all had been arranged by Geoffrey to run as smoothly as oil from a jar. A formal feast had been prepared with Louis and Alienor as guests of honour and hosts to their subjects. Later, over an informal gathering, Louis was able to meet and talk with barons and members of the clergy whom he had not met before.

Amid the throng, Geoffrey paused to speak with Alienor. ‘I have arranged a hunt tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I hope the Prince will approve.’

‘He tells me he enjoys the chase providing it is not a holy day.’

‘You have made a very great match,’ he leaned forward to say softly. ‘One that any father would be proud to make for his daughter.’

She looked across the room at Geoffrey’s children, standing with their nurses. Burgundia was the eldest at seven, Geoffrey his namesake was six and Bertha the youngest was four. ‘Would you have made it for one of yours?’ she asked.

‘I would do the best I could for them and for the name of Rancon. It would be too great an opportunity to pass up.’

‘But in your heart?’

He raised his brows. ‘Are we still talking of my daughters?’

She flushed and looked away.

‘Whatever hopes I nurtured, I now see clearly were never going to come to fruition – even if your father had lived. He was a wiser man than me. It would not be beneficial for Aquitaine, and that is always our greatest duty … Alienor, look at me.’

She met his eyes, although it cost her to do so. She was horribly aware that they were under the gaze of the entire court and one beat too long, one moment of overheard conversation was all it would take to ignite a destructive scandal.

‘I wish you and your husband well,’ he said. ‘Whatever you ask of me in loyal service, I shall perform as a faithful vassal. You may trust me, always and without reserve.’ He bowed and moved smoothly on to engage in urbane conversation with Ralph de Vermandois.

Alienor continued on her own trajectory, speaking a word here, giving a smile there, and a gesture of the hand to emphasise the gold lining of her sleeve and the shine of a topaz ring that had been among Louis’s wedding gifts to her. She was the gracious and lovely young Duchess of Aquitaine and no one would ever see her wounds or know the turmoil she felt inside.

Alienor quietly entered the bridal chamber at the top of the tower. Night had fallen and the shutters were closed. Numerous candles and lamps had been lit and the room flickered with soft amber light and umber shadows. The escape she had made was brief. In a moment the women would arrive to prepare her for her wedding night.

Someone had hung her father’s shield on the wall – Geoffrey, she suspected – both as a reminder of her bloodline and as a symbol of paternal sanction. She swallowed as she remembered picking it up as a little girl and running behind her father, pretending to be his squire, making him laugh as she strove not to drag its tip in the dust.

The great bed, which had travelled with them in their baggage train, was layered with fresh linen sheets, soft woollen blankets and a silk coverlet embroidered with a design of eagles. Curtains of red wool formed deep swags, heavy with shadows. The bed had a long history reaching back beyond her parents and grandparents to earlier rulers of these lands, even to a son of Charlemagne who had been King of Aquitaine in the days when Aquitaine had kings. For centuries it had served its purpose as a platform for wedding nights, conceptions, births and deaths. Tonight it would be a stage for the consummation of the bond between France and Aquitaine begun in the cathedral three days ago.

Alienor knew what to expect. The matrons in the household had explained her duties to her, and she was neither blind nor unknowing. She had seen animals mating, and observed the intimate embraces of people in dark corners when bitter winter weather put outdoor trysting places beyond bounds. On more than one occasion she had heard her grandfather’s explicit poetry and that in itself had been an education. Her fluxes had come regularly for over a year now: a sign that her body was producing seed and ready to mate. But having such awareness was not the same as personal experience, and she was apprehensive. Would Louis know what to do, having been raised as a monk until his brother died? Had someone explained everything to him?

Petronella opened the door and peered round it. ‘There you are! Everyone’s looking for you!’

Alienor turned, feeling a flicker of resentment. ‘I wanted a moment just to be alone.’

‘Shall I tell them you’re not here?’

Alienor shook her head. ‘That would only lead to more trouble.’ She forced a smile. ‘It will be all right, Petra; I told you so, didn’t I?’

‘But you don’t look as if you think that. I wish you were still sleeping with me, not him.’

Alienor wished it too. ‘There will be time in the future. You will always be a part of my chamber – always.’ She put her arms around Petronella, seeking comfort for both of them.

Petronella returned her embrace fiercely, and the sisters only parted when the ladies from the wedding party arrived to prepare Alienor for her bridal bed, scolding her for disappearing. Alienor imagined fending them off with her father’s shield, and projected an air of pride and command to conceal how frightened and vulnerable she felt. Sipping from a cup of wine laced with spices, she let them remove her wedding clothes and dress her in a chemise of soft white linen, before combing her hair until it shimmered to her waist in golden ripples.

The sound of masculine voices lifted in praise to God heralded the arrival of the men. Alienor stood straight and faced the door like a warrior on a battlefield.

Archbishop Gofrid entered first, solemnly pacing, accompanied by Abbé Suger and twelve choristers, chanting a hymn of praise. Louis came next escorted by Theobald of Blois and Raoul of Vermandois, followed by the nobility of France and Aquitaine, bearing candles. There would be no bawdy revels tonight, but a dignified and solemn ceremony to witness the future King of France and the young Duchess placed side by side in the marriage bed.

Louis wore a long, white nightshirt similar to Alienor’s chemise. In the candlelight, his eyes were wide and dark and his expression apprehensive. Gofrid instructed Alienor and Louis to stand together and join hands while he prayed over them, asking God to bless the marriage with fruitfulness and prosperity. While he was doing this, Louis’s attendants set up a small portable altar at the bedside.

The bed itself was blessed with much sprinkling of holy water, and then Louis was guided to the left side of the bed and Alienor to the right, the better to ensure the conception of a son. The sheets were cool and crisp against her legs. She stared at the embroidered coverlet, her hair swinging forward to screen her face. She was aware of Geoffrey among the group of witnesses in the chamber, but she did not look at him and had no idea if he was looking at her. Only let this moment be over. Only let it be morning.

At last the chamberlains ushered everyone from the room, the bishops and the choir being the last to leave in stately procession, singing. The latch fell, the chanting voices receded, and Alienor was alone with Louis.

Turning towards her, he propped himself on one elbow, one hand cupped behind his head, and gazed at her with unsettling intensity. She adjusted the pillows at her back and remained sitting up. He smoothed the sheet with his other hand, tracing the outline of one of the eagles. His fingers were long and fine; beautiful, in fact. The thought of him touching her made her shiver with fear – and a stirring of desire.

‘I know what is expected of us,’ she said in a tight voice. ‘The women have explained to me my duty.’

He reached out and touched her hair. ‘My duty has been explained also.’ His fingers brushed her face. ‘But this does not feel like a duty. I thought it would, but it doesn’t.’ His brow furrowed. ‘Perhaps it should.’

Alienor tensed as Louis leaned over her. She had thought they would talk more, but it seemed he was intent on his business and she need not have worried that his early training as a monk had left him ignorant.

‘I won’t hurt you,’ he said. ‘I am not a beast; I am a prince of France.’ A note of pride crept into his voice. He kissed her cheek and temple with a butterfly gentleness that was almost reverential. His touch was eager, but he was not rough. ‘The Church has given us sanction to do this, and it is a holy thing.’

Alienor steadied herself. The marriage had to be consummated. Proof would be sought in the morning. The deed couldn’t be that terrible or else men and women would not return to it so often or write songs and poetry about it in vivid, carnal detail.

He kissed her on the mouth with his lips closed, and began tentatively to untie the laces at the throat of her chemise. His hand was trembling and his breath shook in his chest. Alienor realised that he too was out of his depth, and it gave her courage. She returned his kiss and put her hands in his hair. His skin was smooth and supple, and his breath smelled of wine and cardamom seeds. Amid clumsy, breathless kisses, they undressed each other. Louis pulled the sheets over them both, creating a barely lit tent within the confines of the bed curtains, and he lay on her. His body was damp with sweat and as smooth as her own. His fair hair was silky under her fingers. She could have stayed like this all night, kissing and touching, wrapped in this mutual, tender embrace with everything still to discover. But Louis was keen to progress the matter and, after a moment, Alienor parted her legs for him.

It was the secret channel. The place where children were conceived from a blending of male and female seed, and from which they were pushed into the world nine months later. A source of sin and shame, but also of pleasure. The work of God; the work of the Devil. Her grandfather had been excommunicated for falling prey to his lust for that place within his mistress’s body, and refusing to give her up even though she was another man’s wife. He had written paeans to the glories of fornication.

Louis fumbled and muttered something that sounded like an oath, but then she realised he was entreating God to be with him at this moment and help him do his duty. Alienor felt a sharp, stabbing pain as he pushed into her and she arched and gritted her teeth, striving not to cry out. He moved above her half a dozen times, and then with a gasp and a final lunge, shuddered and was still.

After a moment he heaved a deep sigh and withdrew from her. Alienor closed her legs as he lay down at her side. There was a long silence. Was that it? Was that all the deed consisted of? Was she supposed to speak? She had once come across a couple in an empty stable lazing in post-coital bliss and they had been talking and kissing in a warm and languorous way, but was that appropriate for her and Louis?

Eventually, he stroked her arm and, drawing away, donned his nightshirt. Leaving the bed, he knelt before the small altar and offered up a prayer of thanksgiving. Alienor was astonished at his action, but he looked so beautiful with the candlelight shining on his hair, and his features aglow with devotion, that she felt admiration too.

He turned to her. ‘Do you not come and pray too, wife?’ he asked with a frown.

Alienor stretched. ‘If that is what you want me to do,’ she said.

His frown deepened. ‘It is what you should do for God, and without question. We should both thank Him and pray that He makes us fruitful.’

Alienor thought they had already done that, but she humoured him and, donning her shift, came to kneel at his side and make her own prayer. Louis’s tense shoulders relaxed and his gaze grew tender. He stroked her hair again as if it fascinated him. And then he cleared his throat and turned back to his prayers.

When eventually they returned to the bed, Alienor’s knees were on fire as well as the place between her thighs. She was shivering too. A small red blot had soaked into the centre of the sheet. Louis looked at it with an expression of mingled satisfaction and distaste. ‘You have given proof of your purity,’ he said. ‘Abbé Suger and the Archbishop will bear witness tomorrow.’ He gestured her back into bed. Alienor climbed in and started to close the curtains.

‘Leave them,’ he said swiftly. ‘I like to see the light; it helps me to sleep.’

Alienor raised her eyebrows, thinking that Louis was just like Petronella. He needed the comfort and security of a candle. She gently touched his shoulder. ‘As you wish, sire,’ she said. ‘I understand.’

He clasped her hand but said nothing.

Alienor closed her eyes. On her side of the bed the candlelight was so dim that it did not impinge. The blood spot was cold and damp under her thighs. She felt a little let down. The embracing, the kissing and twining had been delicious, but the strangeness and discomfort of the final act had left her feeling disappointed and more than a little sore.

Louis seemed to have found his pleasure. She wondered if God was pleased too, and if she had conceived a child. That notion frightened her and she put it from her mind and turned over to face away from him, seeking her own space. Louis’s breathing soon grew deep and slow as he fell asleep, but it was a long time before her own restless mind settled to slumber; there was too much to think about, not least how to deal with this stranger in the bed who had mingled his seed with hers so that they were now irrevocably bound as one flesh.