The Summer Queen

19

Paris, Summer 1142

Alienor glanced round the chamber prepared for Louis’s triumphant return from Champagne. Water had been heated and the tub made ready for a bath. The best sheets had been aired and laid on the bed. Curtains of gold brocade hung from the canopy poles and tawny nuggets of frankincense burned in the braziers. Servants had set out dishes of food on trestles covered with fine white napery. There were crisply roasted songbirds, cheese tarts, almond balls dampened with honey, pastries and fritters, fragrant white bread and bowls of blood-red cherries.

During Louis’s absence, she had received sporadic messages of a general nature. The campaign was progressing well. They had encountered little opposition from Count Theobald and, despite all the latter’s posturing, Champagne’s underbelly was soft and the defences had not stood against the French. Naturally the Church had condemned Louis’s actions. Letters had flown between Bernard of Clairvaux and the papal court on Theobald’s behalf and Louis had been ordered to cease his attacks on Champagne on peril of his soul. He had obeyed in person and turned back, but his troops had remained in Champagne and continued their ravages. As far as Alienor knew, Louis was doing what he must to bring Theobald of Champagne to heel, and doing it well. She was anticipating a victorious return and had dressed carefully for the occasion. Her gown was embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lis, her hair was twisted into elaborate braids, and she wore a coronet set with pearls and rock crystals.

When her chamberlain announced Louis’s arrival, Alienor’s heart began to pound. Part of her was desperate to see him: his tall, athletic body and glorious silvery hair. She imagined flinging herself into his arms and welcoming him with kisses. Perhaps they could start afresh; pretend they were meeting for the first time as man and woman instead of boy and girl. Her women in tow, she left the chamber and processed to the great hall to welcome her husband home.

Louis and his retainers entered the chamber on a flourish of trumpets. Alienor looked for him but there was no sparkle of flaxen hair, no flicker of gold silk, no sense of his presence. All that met her eye in the space where she expected to see him was a bedraggled, travel-stained monk with stooped shoulders. For a moment she thought he was one of the minions of Bernard of Clairvaux, but then the monk raised his head and looked at her and she realised with a jolt of absolute shock that she was looking at her husband. Dear God, dear God, what had happened to him? He was an old man! Drawing on all her reserves, she curtseyed to him and bowed her head. He shuffled forward to raise her up and kiss her lips, and it was like being touched by death. His hands were clammy, his breath so fetid that she almost retched. He stank of sweat and sickness. A monk’s tonsure glistened on his skull and around the shaved area his hair was greasy and flat, all its silver beauty gone. Shorn almost to his scalp, it looked grey not blond.

Alienor was aware of all the servants and attendants staring at him. She caught the eye of Robert of Dreux, who gave an infinitesimal shake of his head. Rallying, she touched Louis’s sleeve, managing not to flinch as a flea jumped on to the back of her hand. ‘Sire,’ she said, ‘I can see you are tired. Will you come to your chamber and let me tend you there?’

Louis hesitated, but then allowed himself to be led from the hall on stumbling feet. Arriving at his room in the Great Tower, he stared at the food laid out, and his throat jerked. He flicked a single glance at the tub and steaming cauldrons of hot water, and shook his head. ‘If I eat I shall be sick,’ he said, ‘and the state of my body does not matter.’

‘Of course it matters! You must eat after your journey, and wash for your ease and comfort.’

‘I must neither.’ Louis sat down in a chair and put his face in his hands. Alienor knelt to remove his boots and recoiled at the stench from his feet. They were filthy beyond belief, black between the toes and the skin peeling off. His toenails were long and rimed with dirt. She almost gagged. In her peripheral vision, she was aware of Raoul de Vermandois and Robert of Dreux exchanging glances. ‘Bring me a bowl of warm rose water and a cloth,’ she snapped to a staring maid.

‘I have told you, I do not need tending,’ Louis said stiffly.

‘But it is a sacred task to wash a wayfarer’s feet,’ Alienor replied. ‘Would you have me shirk that duty?’

He made a fatigued gesture of capitulation. When the maid returned with the water, Alienor steeled herself to the vile task of cleaning his feet. She wondered what had happened to him. He had set out as a great prince at the head of his army, proudly flaunting his banners, determined to grind Theobald of Champagne underfoot, and had returned looking like a wild holy man who had been starving and mortifying himself to the point of madness.

He continued to refuse all offers of food and wine until she brought him some plain spring water in a chalcedony cup. ‘It will purify your blood,’ she said.

He raised the cup to his lips with trembling hands and sipped while she knelt to finish her task. She rose and touched his brow to see if he was feverish, but he pushed her away. Immediately he was contrite. ‘I need to rest,’ he said. ‘That is all.’

‘You cannot do so like this. At least change into clothes more suited to the chamber than the stable.’

‘I care not,’ Louis replied, but allowed the maids to remove his soiled garments. Once more Alienor was horrified. If his outer robes were dirty and dusty then his shirt and braies were rancid. Insect-bite marks pocked his body and stinking black grime threaded every fold and crevice of his skin. He had lost muscle and bulk and was as bony as an old man. She wondered when he had last eaten a decent meal and felt a mixture of revulsion, compassion and deep anxiety. ‘I will care for you now,’ she soothed, wiping the rose-water cloth over his emaciated body.

He shook his head. ‘It is a waste of time.’

He refused to wear the fine linen shirt she had ready for him, insisting instead on a coarse chemise from the ones that her women had been stitching to give to the poor. At least it was clean, and Alienor yielded to his whim. She eventually persuaded him to lie down on the bed. As well as keeping the light, he insisted on having chaplains sit either side of him to pray for his soul.

Alienor left the room in a state of anxiety. It was one thing to deal with enemies when you had a powerful husband to protect you, but if Louis lost that power, the implications for herself were terrifying.

‘What has happened to him?’ she demanded of Raoul de Vermandois and Robert of Dreux. ‘Why is he like this? Tell me!’

Raoul rubbed a tired forefinger across his eye patch. ‘He had not been himself for some time, but Vitry was what tipped him over the edge. He has barely eaten or slept since, and as you see he has to have his chaplains with him all the time.’

‘What happened at Vitry? There has been nothing in the letters I have received.’

Robert said, ‘The church burned down with the townspeople inside it – over a thousand men, women and children.’ He looked away and swallowed. ‘I never wish to witness or smell such a thing again. I fear it has turned my brother’s mind. He blames Theobald of Champagne and the monks of Bourges, but still he sees his own hand upon the torch.’

‘You should have warned me before he arrived,’ she said. ‘I could have been better prepared.’

‘We thought he would recover and come to terms with it,’ Raoul replied. ‘Indeed, he may do so now he is back in Paris.’ He gave her a piercing look. ‘He called out in the night for you … and for his mother.’

Alienor bit her lip. She had not been prepared for this – could never have imagined it happening – but she would have to bring Louis round. If she did not, others would seize the moment and she had precious few allies at the French court.