The Summer Queen

23

Paris, Spring 1145

Alienor gasped and pushed, summoning all her strength to bear down, and then fell back, panting, as the contraction subsided. Her labour had begun the previous evening; it was full morning now and early April sunshine flooded through the window arches, reminding her of Aquitaine.

‘Not long now,’ Petronella soothed, wiping Alienor’s brow with a cloth dipped in rose water. ‘I know you think you’ll burst but you won’t, I promise you.’

‘You sound very sure of that,’ Alienor panted. Her hair had been unbound so that it would not bind the child in her womb and was spread on the pillow in a heavy golden fan.

‘I am. I am smaller than you, and I managed.’ Petronella’s expression was smug. Having been through the ordeal of childbirth once, and with her second pregnancy beginning to ripen her breasts and belly, she was feeling well qualified to give advice.

‘But Isabelle was a small baby,’ Alienor said.

‘Well then, yours is bound to suit your size. Raoul’s much taller than Louis.’

Another contraction surged. Alienor grimaced and gripped the eagle stone in her fist. It was an egg-shaped rock that contained another stone inside it and was supposed to ease the pains of childbirth. In a rare act of compassion, her mother-in-law had presented it to her, saying it had helped her during her own labours. If its powers were working, Alienor dreaded to think what labour was like without one. Once again she pushed for all she was worth. The midwives bustled around her, encouraging, watching carefully, oiling her perineum so that it would be less likely to tear.

The head was born and then with a gush and a slither the shoulders and the rest of the body. A baby’s wail filled the space around the bed, growing stronger with each breath, but the silence of the attendants in the room told Alienor everything she needed to know.

‘Oh, how beautiful!’ Petronella was the first to recover. ‘Alienor, you have a daughter, a perfect little girl!’ She bent to kiss Alienor’s cheek. ‘And a playmate cousin for Isabelle!’

Alienor looked beyond Petronella. A shaft of sunlight illuminated the squawking baby still attached to her by the umbilical cord, and it was a holy thing. Then a midwife snicked the cord with a small, sharp knife and removed the child from the sun-shaft to bathe her in a brass bowl of warm water – the decorated one that had not been used since the night before her conception.

Adelaide, who had been witness to the birth, watched the women bathing the infant. ‘Girls are always useful for forming marriage alliances,’ she said. ‘I had one daughter myself in between seven sons. It is better to bear the boys first to secure the lineage, but at least a healthy living child is cause for thanksgiving, and reason to believe you will do better next time.’

Alienor let the words flow over her, imagining she was protected inside an impervious glass bubble where nothing could do her harm.

The senior midwife brought the baby to her, now wrapped in a soft blanket. She was tiny and perfect and so very alive, with all of her limbs in motion and her little face screwed up. Alienor took her in her arms and her heart blossomed. She would not think about Louis’s reaction or anyone else’s. Not in this moment, because there would never be another one like it. The baby’s skin was so soft, and each finger was tipped with a miniature pink fingernail.

‘How is she to be named?’ Petronella asked.

Had the baby been male, he would have been christened Philippe, for his paternal grandsire. ‘Marie,’ Alienor said. ‘For the Holy Virgin Mary, to thank her for her grace.’

Louis was dining with the court in the magnificent hall built by his ancestor Robert II. He knew Alienor was in labour, but had tried to push the awareness to one side. Both Abbé Suger and Bernard of Clairvaux had sent special prayers and supplications to God for a living heir for France. He had done all in his power to safeguard a good outcome and to ensure Alienor fulfilled the same obligation. He had even sent her into confinement a fortnight early in order to give his son additional peace and quiet before his birth. His main anxiety was for the child. If Alienor died bearing him, he could always find another wife, but the boy was of supreme importance: as well as being his heir, the child would also be heir to Aquitaine.

An usher made his way down the hall and round the back of the high table. Louis wiped his lips on his napkin with fastidious care and beckoned the man over. The servant stooped to whisper in Louis’s ear. Bidding everyone continue with their meal, Louis left his seat, and followed the man from the hall to a small antechamber where his mother was waiting for him.

‘Well,’ Louis snapped with impatient anxiety as she curtseyed and rose again. ‘What news? Is my son safely born?’

‘The child is indeed safely born,’ she said. ‘Alive and well.’

‘Praise be to God! Let all the churches in France ring out the news! I shall—’ He looked down at the hand she had laid on his sleeve. The grip was as strong as steel, reminding him of the times she had slapped him and brought him to order as a small child. ‘What is it?’ He thought that perhaps Alienor had indeed died in the bearing.

Her eyes on him were as flat as stones. ‘The child is a girl,’ his mother said. ‘You have a lusty baby daughter.’

His breath emerged in a harsh gasp; he felt as if he had been punched. ‘A daughter? Are you sure?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘I was a witness; I am sure.’ She removed her hand from his sleeve. ‘Your wife weathered the birth well. As soon as she is churched, you can set about getting a son on her.’

Louis swallowed. The idea of bedding with Alienor and going through the whole process again sickened him. Could a woman ever be clean again after she had given birth, especially to a daughter? ‘First she delivers me blood and now she delivers me a girl,’ he said. ‘How am I to deal with this?’

‘Through prayer.’ His mother’s tone was impatient. ‘And through perseverance. A king needs daughters as well as sons. Rejoice in the birth of this one and pray for a better outcome next time.’

Louis said nothing. He felt let down by God and the Church and especially by his wife. What else did he have to do to beget a son? All of his prayers, all of the promises made by Suger and Bernard of Clairvaux had come down to this. A girl.

‘You will need to acknowledge your daughter and attend to her baptism,’ Adelaide said. ‘Your wife desires to name her Marie in honour of the Virgin, should it meet with your approval.’

Louis had not even considered girls’ names because he had been so certain that Alienor would bear a son. ‘As she wishes,’ he said.

When his mother had gone, Louis put his face in his hands. He could not return to the feast, knowing they would all be looking at him, awaiting an announcement, although in the way of things, the word would already be filtering through the hall. He could not face the sidelong looks, the smirks. He knew the lore about men who begot girls: that they were ruled by their wives and that their seed was weak. He didn’t even want to see the child, but knew he must, and arrange her baptism, because it was his duty.

The first bells began to toll, telling him that the news had already escaped the confines of the palace. Saint-Barthélemy, Saint-Michel, Saint-Pierre, Saint-Éloi. Louis had always loved the sound of their bells, ringing out the canonical hours, bringing order and structure into daily life and reminding all of God’s presence and purpose. But now, as they greeted the arrival of a princess, the noise jangled inside his skull, mocking him and fuelling his rage.