The Summer Queen

20

Castle of Arras, October 1143

At Raoul’s home in Arras, Alienor sat in a window embrasure with Petronella. Outside the leaves were turning russet and gold. Petronella was spending her confinement here, having conceived in the months following Raoul’s return from Champagne.

‘There is no room for the child to kick now,’ Petronella said ruefully. ‘It surely cannot be long, or I will burst asunder!’ She laid her hand on her swollen belly. ‘I can barely walk as it is.’

‘You look well,’ Alienor said. Her sister’s skin was blooming, and her hair as lustrous as brunette silk.

Petronella preened a little. ‘Raoul says that too.’

‘Now that Pope Innocent has died, we might be able to resolve the matter of the Archbishopric of Bourges and your marriage. Pope Celestine is prepared to be more conciliatory. He has already said he will lift the interdict on France.’

Petronella jutted her chin. ‘It does not matter what the Pope says. I know I am married to Raoul.’ She picked up her sewing. ‘How is Louis?’

Alienor made a face. ‘Better than when he returned from Champagne, but so changed. He dresses like a monk and he talks like one too.’ She waved her hand impatiently. ‘It’s God wants this and God wants that. You could not begin to imagine how much God wants! Sometimes I do not see him for days on end, and when I do it is impossible to talk to him. You and Raoul, you are at ease with each other, you laugh and kiss; yet you are under interdict and vilified by Rome and the Church. When I reach out to Louis, he draws away as if I am unclean. You are round with child, but how am I to bear an heir for France when I sleep alone? Since his return from Vitry, he has not lain with me once.’

‘You should give him a love philtre,’ Petronella suggested. ‘Slip some grains of Paradise into his wine.’

‘I have tried that, but it made no difference.’

‘Then perhaps you should dress as a nun, or a monk … or a Templar. Have you already tried that too?’

Alienor wagged her finger at her sister. ‘Enough. That is going too far.’

‘Is it?’ Petronella gave her a long look and rose to her feet, pressing her hands to the small of her back. ‘I would do those things if that was what it took. Who knows, you both might enjoy it.’

Alienor bit her lip. Petronella was incorrigible, and yet there was a worrying truth in her sister’s words. The delayed remark about the Templar was telling. Louis had been taking fiscal advice from a Templar knight called Thierry de Galeran who had also been one of his father’s advisers. He was a eunuch but had been made so after manhood and still exuded an aura of power and virility. Louis was unduly influenced by him, especially since Thierry had become one of the guardians at his bedside dedicated to banishing the fear of demons that plagued his nights. Once she had come to see Louis early in the morning and Thierry had been there clad only in his shirt and braies as he washed his face and hands in Louis’s basin. She suspected that he and Louis shared the same bed, platonically or otherwise, but suspicion was not proof, and she could not bring herself to take that final step and find out.

Alienor gazed at the washed and swaddled baby girl lying in the crook of her arm. She was to be baptised with the Vermandois family name of Isabelle. Her skin was softer than petals, the hair on the tiny skull had the glint of a gold coin and she was utterly beautiful.

Petronella had had a swift and easy delivery and was already sitting up in her clean, fresh bed, drinking wine fortified with strengthening herbs and enjoying the attention following on from the drama.

‘Madam, your husband is asking to see you and the child,’ announced a chamber lady who had just taken a message at the door.

‘Give her to me,’ Petronella said to Alienor, setting her cup aside and gesturing for the baby. Alienor carefully transferred the small bundle into Petronella’s arms and, with a pang of envy, watched her sister arrange herself like a madonna. ‘Tell my lord that I am pleased to receive him,’ Petronella called to the maid.

Raoul entered the chamber and tiptoed to the bed, an incongruous sight for he was such a large man. He kissed his wife tenderly. His gaze then flicked to her engorged breasts with appreciation, and she laughed softly. ‘These aren’t for you just yet,’ she said.

‘I’ll look forward to the day when they are then.’ He folded aside the blanket to look at the new arrival. ‘Aaah, she is almost as beautiful as her clever mother.’

Alienor left Raoul and Petronella and went to look out of the window. She felt wistful and teary because she would never have such an intimate and tender bond with Louis. He would be horrified at the thought of coming anywhere near the birthing chamber, let alone taking her hand and sitting with her so soon after childbirth, especially of a girl, because it would sully his purity and he would view the baby’s sex as failure. The teasing, the frank sensuality, the genuine love shining between her sister and Raoul made her throat ache. Petronella, despite all the opposition she faced, was rich indeed, and standing here now in this chamber, a party to their joy in each other and their daughter, Alienor felt bereft and impoverished.

‘A baby girl,’ Alienor said to Louis. ‘They have named her Isabelle.’

Louis grunted. ‘That is all to the good since Raoul has a son from his first marriage. At least there won’t be a fight over inheritance.’

‘But she may yet bear a son. She quickened swiftly with the first.’

‘That bridge can be crossed later. We have a year’s grace at least.’

Alienor poured Louis a cup of wine and brought it to him. Today he was wearing a long tunic of plain wool, dyed a rich midnight blue, with a large gold and sapphire cross around his neck. Although he had kept his tonsure, his hair had grown back around the shaved area and was silvery bright. He had mercifully recovered some balance since his return from Champagne and the grubby hermit now resembled an aesthetic prince of the Church. The effect was not unattractive and, despite their difficulties, Alienor still felt affection for him. Besides, being with Petronella and Raoul had spurred her on to try and conceive. It was politically essential for herself, for France, and for her husband.

‘I missed you while I was gone,’ she said, putting her hand on his sleeve.

‘And I missed you,’ he replied with a wary note in his voice.

‘Will you come to me later?’

He hesitated, and she could see him working through all the possible excuses not to do so. She swallowed her anger and impatience. Petronella would not have to ask it of Raoul even once.

‘We have to beget an heir,’ she said. ‘We have been wed for more than six years. I cannot give a child to France unless you give me the means. Surely it cannot be so difficult a thing to contemplate.’

Louis stepped away from her and, drinking the wine, went to look out at the river. She allowed him to stand alone for a while before joining him. ‘Let me rub your shoulders,’ she said in a soothing voice. ‘I can see how tense you are, and we have not talked in a while.’

He sighed and allowed her to lead him to the bed. She fetched a small vial of scented oil from a wall niche and bade him remove his gown and shirt. His skin was pale and smooth, cool as marble. She set about the task with slow sweeps of her palm. ‘Will this new Pope sanction Raoul’s annulment, do you think?’

‘I do not know,’ he said into his folded arms. ‘He has lifted the interdict, but there are factions who continue to press him to hold firm. There is a meeting tomorrow at Saint-Denis with Suger and Bernard of Clairvaux to discuss matters.’

‘And what of de la Châtre and Bourges?’

She felt him tense under her hands. ‘There is no news on that. I swore my oath, and they know where I stand.’

She continued to knead and smooth and said casually, ‘If you accepted de la Châtre, it would take the wind out of their sails and we could go forward.’

‘You would have me go back on my sworn word?’ He twisted to look up at her, his eyes bright with anger. ‘You would have me glide through all this like a false serpent? I have so sworn and that is the end of it.’

Alienor thought he was being foolish and stubborn, but she was trying to gentle his mood. ‘Of course you must do what you think fit,’ she soothed. She kissed his ear and his neck and worked her way down his back, under his shirt.

He turned over and with a groan put his arms around her and began to kiss her. She kissed him back and loosened her braids, shaking them out in a tumble of golden twists. Her loins were heavy with a dull ache. She knew she would conceive from this. She could feel the seed within her body, ripe and waiting. Louis rubbed his face against hers, and she felt the prickle of his beard. He pressed himself against her and unfastened the laces at the sides of her dress to put his hands inside. They rolled on the bed, pulling clothing out of the way, gasping between kisses. Alienor tugged off her gown and swiftly followed it with her chemise so that she was naked except for her stockings, tied with blue silk garters. Louis, still in hose and braies, ran his eyes over her; he licked his lips. His pale complexion was flushed with lust. She lay back, parting her thighs for him.

‘Louis, come to me,’ she said. ‘Make us a child.’

He fell upon her, his hips bucking and thrusting. She reached down to free him and guide him home, felt him firm and hard as she stroked him. He groaned at her touch, but as she opened to him, he suddenly became flaccid and soft in her hand.

‘Louis?’

He pushed her aside and rolled away. When she reached for him, he struck at her. ‘Let me be with your whore’s tricks!’ He stuffed his failure back into his braies and, almost weeping, threw on his tunic and strode from the room.

Alienor sat up and covered her face with her hands. She could smell him on her fingers. What was she going to do? How could she reach him? If this state of affairs continued her position as queen would become untenable. And, as much as she loved Petronella, she wanted her own offspring to rule Aquitaine after her, not those sired by Raoul de Vermandois. Wearily she sought her chemise and gown. Perhaps Petronella’s jesting was right. Perhaps she ought to dress as a nun … or a Templar.

‘God does not love me, but I have ever striven to obey him,’ Louis said to Suger, his voice echoing between the carved pillars of the new ambulatory in the abbey church of Saint-Denis. Behind him the light from the magnificent stained-glass arches strewed the tiled floor with jewelled luminescence. He sat down on a bench and rubbed his hands over his tonsure.

Suger had come from contemplation in his cell to attend on Louis, who had arrived on a lathered horse in a state of agitation. ‘Why do you say you do not have God’s love, my son? Is it because of this meeting tomorrow? Is that what bothers you?’

Louis shook his head. ‘No,’ he said bleakly. ‘That will just be more talk of the kind I have heard many times over.’ He swallowed, struggling to say the words. ‘It is because … because I cannot procreate with the Queen. I am cursed and robbed of my purpose as a king and a man.’ He raised a tormented gaze to Suger. ‘I swore a public oath that de la Châtre would never cross the threshold of Bourges Cathedral as its archbishop. Do you think that oath is the reason for my failure? The Queen suggested I should rescind my vow, but how can I do that when I made it before God?’

Suger frowned at him. ‘What prevents you from procreating with the Queen?’

Louis flushed. ‘I cannot … cannot perform the deed,’ he muttered. ‘When I go to her, it is with every intention of begetting a child, but my body refuses to obey my will – sometimes in the final moment. It is God’s punishment.’

Suger laid a firm hand on Louis’s shoulder. ‘Then you must ask for God’s help and mercy, and so must the Queen. He will show you the way if only you ask Him with an open heart.’

‘I have asked.’ Louis’s voice grew querulous. ‘I have prayed and made offerings, but He has not answered.’ He leaned forward, clasping his hands. ‘Perhaps it is her fault,’ he said, his mouth twisting. ‘Perhaps she has done something to anger God. After all, she was the one who miscarried of our child.’

‘That is for her conscience, not yours,’ Suger said neutrally. ‘For yourself, I tell you to lay yourself open to God’s will with true humility and intent, and accept His chastisement if it be necessary. I will do what I can for you – as I always have.’ He transferred his hand to Louis’s dishevelled tonsure in a tender gesture. ‘However, perhaps the Queen is right. If you show your humility by agreeing to let Pierre de la Châtre take his place as Archbishop of Bourges, it will ease the pressures on you and on France, and that in turn will lead to greater harmony in your life. I will pray for you and ask God to look with favour upon you and the Queen.’ He added after a moment, ‘It will do no harm for you and the Queen to show humility and respect to Abbé Bernard. He is a terrible enemy but a powerful ally, and it is in your interests to wean him away from Theobald of Champagne.’

Louis began to feel a little better. ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I will think on your advice.’ He raised his gaze to the glorious windows. Their shining clarity gave him tenuous hope and inspiration. Suger always knew what was for the best.

Alienor held the rock-crystal vase between her hands. Although she cupped it securely, she still imagined dropping it and watching it shatter on the tiled floor like ice smashed on a frozen pond.

Louis had suggested they should present it to Suger as a dedication gift to the new church of Saint-Denis. He was fired up with enthusiasm, and it was as if last night’s tearful rage had never happened.

‘It will be a fitting place to keep it,’ he said.

‘And Suger has long coveted it.’

‘It was not his notion, but mine.’ Louis sent her a sharp look. ‘I saw the light shining through the windows and I wondered what I could give that would be fitting for a dedication. I thought this might cause God to shine His light on us and give us a child.’

The overcast daylight painted the vase in varying shades of white and pale grey, revealing none of the subtle, heavenly fire. Alienor had the feeling that it would never do so again in her hands. Remembering that she was loved was difficult indeed. She had always known Suger would eventually claim it, but what did it matter? Whatever it took to render Louis capable of performing his duty, she would embrace. If the vase could accomplish such as miracle, it was worth the price. ‘As you wish,’ she said. ‘Whatever you deem necessary.’ She gave it to him, just as she had done in Bordeaux, with equal care, but the feeling was different now – flat rather than optimistic.

Louis took it carefully and for a moment their fingers overlapped. Then he withdrew. ‘I am going to break my oath, and allow Pierre de la Châtre to assume his position as Archbishop of Bourges,’ he said.

She looked at him.

His mouth turned down at the corners. ‘It is a great shame for a king to break his word, but I have no choice. I have done all I can, but it is like beating my fists against a solid castle wall until my hands are worn down to the bleeding bones.’

‘In exchange for that, at the very least, we should have the ban lifted on Raoul and Petronella’s marriage,’ she said quickly.

‘That will be open to negotiation,’ he replied in a way that told her not to expect a positive outcome. ‘I expect you to do your part in this too.’ Holding the vase as carefully as he might hold an infant, he left the chamber.

Alienor sighed, and then drew herself upright. She would not shirk what had to be done. And Louis might have finished beating his fists against walls, but there were other subtler means of taking castles down.