The Summer Queen

27

Bulgaria, Summer 1147

Alienor turned her head aside as she rode past the rotting body of yet another horse at the roadside. A German one this time – a knight’s solid destrier, unable to cope with the burning August heat through which they journeyed towards Constantinople. She gagged at the stench rising from the maggot-riddled flesh and pressed her wimple across her face. Shallow graves of pilgrims and soldiers who had died along the route mounded the roadside. Some of the bodies had been dug up by scavengers and the dismembered remains scattered abroad. At first Alienor had been sickened but now she was mostly inured, except that sometimes the smell, heavy and fetid like the butchers’ quarter in Paris at the end of a sweltering summer’s day, made her queasy.

Her cob was flagging in the heat, sweat dripping from its belly, leaving a trail of droplets. For the moment there was water available to replenish that loss, but once across the Arm of Saint George and into Anatolia, that resource would become scarce and the horses would be many hundreds of miles further along the road and less robust than they were now.

Louis’s money had arrived from France on swift pack ponies, their speed not slowed by the non-combatant morass of pilgrims that so hampered the main army. The news from France was one of routine and steady government. Abbé Suger and Raoul of Vermandois were holding the country stable and any minor troubles were being easily resolved. Petronella had written a brief note to say that Marie was running around now and wearing proper little dresses instead of baby smocks. I tell her about you every day, Petronella had written. She will not forget her mama. Alienor had put the letter aside and not read it a second time. Whatever Petronella told Marie, the child’s notion of who her mama was would not be Alienor – would never be Alienor.

Other letters had arrived too, from the Empress Irene, consort of Emperor Manuel Komnenos, asking Alienor what she could do to provide comfort for her when she arrived in Constantinople, and welcoming her as one royal lady to another. Alienor was looking forward to meeting the Empress of the Greeks, who was of a similar age to herself and of German birth. Her real name was Bertha, but she had changed it to Irene on her marriage to Komnenos. Alienor was also interested in seeing Constantinople. The immense wealth of gold, mosaics and holy relics contained within the city was the stuff of legend.

Louis was less sanguine because of the many constraints being piled upon them by the Greeks, who controlled the route through Bulgaria and had rigid ideas about what the French and German armies were here to do. Louis was infuriated by the demand that he and his barons must do homage to Emperor Manuel for any former imperial lands they took from the infidel. Why should he give allegiance for such gains when they were won by his hand?

The governor of the town of Sofia, a cousin of Emperor Manuel’s, had joined the French army and was helping to supply it along the way, but he had a difficult task. Fights broke out over the exchange rate of five French silver pennies to a single coin of Greek copper. Frequently the Greeks closed up their towns when they saw the French approaching, and would only provide food by lowering it over the walls in baskets. There was never enough to go round and as a result, tempers frayed and skirmishes were commonplace. People broke ranks to go on foraging raids. Some returned with heavy sacks over their shoulders and blood on their hands. Others never returned at all.

As the heat of the day increased Alienor began to feel unwell. She had broken her fast on cold grains mixed with raisins and spices and the taste lingered at the back of her throat. Her stomach somersaulted and cramping pain gripped her lower back. She forced herself forwards. Another ten strides of her cob and another ten. Just as far as that bush. Just as far as that clump of trees. Just as far as … ‘Stop!’ she cried and gestured frantically to her women. They helped her down from her horse and one of her women, Mamile, hastily had the necessary private canvas screen lifted off the packhorse and directed the other ladies to form it around her mistress.

Alienor heaved and retched. Her bowels cramped. Dear God, dear God. What if she had contracted the bloody flux? They still had days to go until they reached Constantinople and decent physicians, rest and care. She had seen people die along the way, one moment robust, the next expiring in stench and agony.

When it was over, she felt limp and drained, and still desperately nauseous.

‘Madam, shall I find a cart for you to ride in?’

Alienor shook her head at Mamile. ‘I will be all right by and by. Do not make a fuss. Bring my horse.’

By the time they made camp, Alienor had been forced to retire behind the screen three more times. She refused food and took to her bed, but the vomiting and purging continued intermittently through the night.

Towards dawn, Alienor fell into a fitful doze only to be woken by shouts and yells outside the tent, some in French, some in a harsh, foreign tongue. Then the clash of weapons and sounds of hard fighting. She struggled out of the bedclothes and grabbed her cloak. Mamile hastened over to her, a lantern shaking in her hand and her eyes wide. ‘Madam, we are under attack.’

‘Who …?’

‘I don’t know …’ The women stared towards the tent flaps as the noise of battle intensified. Alienor’s other ladies clustered round, skittish as horses hearing the howl of wolves.

‘Help me to dress,’ Alienor commanded. She swallowed a heave as the women did her bidding. When they were finished, she picked up the sheathed hunting knife she kept at her bedside. Gisela whimpered. Outside someone screamed and screamed again until the sound abruptly choked and cut off. The sound of battle diminished and the shouts reverted to French.

Alienor approached the tent flaps.

‘Madam, no!’ Mamile cried, but Alienor stepped outside, her knife at the ready.

Dawn was flushing the eastern horizon and in the strengthening light the camp resembled a kicked ants’ nest. Soldiers were out of their shelters, many still in their undergarments, spears in hands and faces puffy with sleep. Men were throwing jugs of water over a burning tent. Nearby a serjeant wrenched a lance out of a corpse’s chest. There was a dead horse and a dead infidel warrior trapped under it, his scarlet turban winding away from his body like a ribbon of blood. Geoffrey was striding about issuing brisk orders.

Seeing Alienor standing at her tent entrance, he hastened over to her, slotting his sword back into his scabbard.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked faintly.

‘Nomad Cusman raiders.’ Geoffrey was breathing hard. ‘They were trying to steal our horses and supplies. They killed two sentries and torched some of our tents. Three of ours are dead and another has an arrow through his leg, but we gave them the worst of it.’ He grimaced. ‘They’re the same ones who have been attacking the German lines, so our guides say, in retaliation for pillaging and raids on their herds and livelihoods.’

‘You are unharmed?’ She looked him over quickly.

He gave a short nod. ‘They didn’t get near. We’ll have to be ever more vigilant because the raids will only worsen the further we go. Once we cross the Arm of Saint George, we’ll be subject to far greater hostility than this. I will double the guard, but I do not think they will be back for the moment.’ His gaze sharpened as he took in the knife in her hand. ‘It would not have come to that. I would have defended you with my life.’

‘And then what?’ she said. ‘It is always best to be prepared.’

He looked wry. ‘Are you feeling better?’

‘A little,’ she said. It wasn’t true.

He studied her for a long moment. ‘Rest today if you can,’ he said; then he bowed and left, shouting orders to strike camp.

Alienor’s head was pounding and her mouth was dry. The thought of food made her feel sick and she made do with a few swallows of milk from one of the goats they had brought with them. She was dizzy when she mounted the cob, but the thought of bumping along in one of the carts was unbearable, and she felt more in control on a horse.

Following the Cusman attack, they travelled in anxiety, looking round with wide eyes, but the land shimmered in a late-summer heat haze and they saw no one for the twenty miles they covered that day. The local population had moved themselves and their herds away from the depredations of the advancing French. All they encountered were more unburied German corpses, their positions marked by the wild dogs and kites that temporarily abandoned their scavenging as the troops plodded past. No one was keen to go foraging today. Alienor managed to eat some dry bread at noon, but it lay in her stomach like lead and gave her no sustenance. They passed a small town that bartered them a few sacks of flour, crocks of lamb fat and eggs, again let down from ropes over the walls and only a spit in the ocean of what they needed.

Alienor clung to her saddle and thought of Aquitaine. The soft breezes in the palace garden at Poitiers; the sweeping rush of the ocean at Talmont. The spread wings of a white gyrfalcon. La Reina. Angel wings. Holy Mary, I am coming to you. Holy Mary, hear me now for the love of God and Christ Jesus your son.

Mercifully they found a good camping place by a small stream an hour before sunset and her servants pitched her tent. Alienor almost tumbled from the cob’s back, feeling weak and wretched. Perhaps she was going to die out here and become another set of bones bleaching under this burning foreign sun.

She lay down in her tent, but the bread she had eaten had only been biding its time, and she had to make another sudden dive for the brass ablution bowl.

‘Madam, the sire de Rancon is here,’ a squire announced from outside the tent.

‘Tell him to wait,’ she gasped.

When she had finished retching, she ordered Mamile to remove the bowl. The smell remained though and she had to clench her teeth and swallow hard. Outside, she heard Mamile speak to Geoffrey. Moments later, without her permission, he entered the tent followed by an olive-skinned young woman neatly dressed in a plain dark robe and white wimple, a large satchel carried on a strap between her shoulder and hip.

Dear God, he had brought her a nun, Alienor thought as the woman curtseyed.

‘This is Marchisa,’ Geoffrey said. ‘She is skilled in healing women’s complaints; she comes highly recommended and she will help you.’

Alienor felt too wretched to argue or concern herself with details. She limply waved the young woman to rise. She could have been anything between twenty and thirty with beautiful dark eyes set under well-defined black brows. Although her behaviour was demure, the curve of her lips revealed humour and spirit.

‘Madam, the lord tells me you are sick.’ Her voice musical and fluent. She pressed her hand to Alienor’s forehead. ‘Ah, you are burning,’ she said, and turned round to Geoffrey. ‘The Queen needs to be with her women.’

‘I will leave you then.’ He lingered until Marchisa gave him a stronger look. ‘Make her better,’ he said and ducked out of the tent flaps.

Marchisa returned her attention to Alienor. ‘Your blood must be cooled,’ she said. ‘Permit me.’ With delicate fingers she removed Alienor’s veil and gold net under-cap. She directed the other women to fill a large brass bowl with tepid water. Producing a pouch from her satchel, she sprinkled into it a powder smelling of rose and spices with a clean note of ginger. She gently combed Alienor’s hair, knotted it and pinned it up on her head, and then, dipping a cloth in the scented water, bathed Alienor’s hot face and throat.

‘So many suffer on the road,’ she said as she worked. ‘You eat and drink things you should not; you wear the wrong clothes; you breathe bad humours.’ She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. ‘You must take off your gown.’ She set aside the bowl to unfasten the lacing on Alienor’s dress and help her remove it. ‘Come now, come now.’

Alienor obeyed listlessly. It was almost too much effort to raise and lower her limbs. The coolness was a relief but it also accentuated the discomfort in her stomach, which felt worse in contrast. Marchisa continued to wipe her down, and helped her through another bout of shuddering sickness. When it was over she made Alienor rinse her mouth with a decoction of liquorice and ginger in boiled spring water. She had Alienor’s sour bedclothes stripped and her pallet remade with clean linen.

‘The sire de Rancon is a good man,’ Marchisa said. ‘He is deeply concerned for you.’

Alienor made a small sound of acknowledgement. All she wanted to do was sleep. Marchisa helped her into a clean chemise and saw her tucked into the newly made bed. She anointed her temples with a fresh-smelling unguent. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘You will sleep for a while, and then drink a little and sleep again, and then we shall see.’ Alienor closed her eyes and felt the healer woman’s hand at her brow, cool-palmed and soothing. She dreamed again of Aquitaine, of Bordeaux and Belin, of the roar of the ocean at Talmont. Of Poitiers and the deep green forests of the Limousin uplands. She flew above them on outspread wings like a white gyrfalcon, and her feathers were as cold as snow. The bird’s hunting cry pierced the frozen blue air, and she woke with a sudden gasp. For a moment she lay blinking, uncertain where she was, for the pure, cold blue had vanished and the air she breathed now was dark and scented with spices. She could see the young woman grinding herbs by the soft glow of an oil lamp. As Alienor strove to sit up, she put down the pestle and mortar and came to her side.

‘You have slept well, madam, and the fever is diminished,’ she said, having felt Alienor’s cheek and neck with cool hands. ‘Will you take a drink now?’

Alienor felt light and dizzy, as if all the marrow had been drawn from her bones, leaving them hollow like a bird’s. ‘I dreamed of flying,’ she said and took the cup the young woman handed her, once again tasting the ginger and liquorice mixture. ‘Marchisa,’ she said. ‘I remember your name.’

‘That is so, madam.’ She curtseyed.

‘And how do you come to be in my tent, other than by the grace of the sire de Rancon. Where did he find you? What is your story?’

‘My name is Marchisa de Gençay. I am travelling with my brother to Jerusalem to pray for the souls of our parents.’

Marchisa folded her hands in her lap. ‘As a young man my grandsire went on a pilgrimage and settled on land in the principality of Antioch, where he married my grandmother, a native Christian. She bore him a daughter, and in her turn that daughter married my father, who was on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He brought her home to Gençay with him and they lived out their lives there. Now they are both dead and my brother and I are travelling to pray at the tomb of the Holy Sepulchre.’

Alienor sipped the ginger and liquorice tisane. ‘And how are you known to my lord de Rancon?’

‘My brother Elias is a serjeant in his service; the seigneur de Rancon heard that I had some skill with nursing the sick and he thought I might be able to help you.’

‘You have no husband then? I thought perhaps you were a nun.’

Marchisa looked down. ‘I am a widow, madam, and content to remain so. My husband died several years ago. We had no children and I returned home to care for my parents until they too died.’

Alienor absorbed the tale with sympathy but without pity, because she could tell from the set of Marchisa’s jaw that pity was the last thing her pride would accept. She was tired again and she needed to sleep, but a notion was forming in her mind.

By dawn, Alienor was much improved. She drank more of Marchisa’s soothing tisane and ate some bread and honey without bringing it back up.

‘I am in your debt for Marchisa, thank you for sending her,’ she said to Geoffrey when he visited while the army made preparations to set out on the road.

‘She speaks Greek and Arabic too.’ His tone was enthusiastic, like an eager suitor presenting his lady love with a courtship gift. ‘You look much better.’

‘I am on the mend,’ she agreed. ‘Thank you.’

‘I am pleased to be of service, madam.’

There had been no word from Louis, no concern for her wellbeing, although he must know how sick she had been, but Geoffrey had been there immediately. She turned to Marchisa, who had been silent throughout the exchange. ‘I am in your debt,’ she said. ‘I would take you into my household.’

‘I shall be glad to serve you, madam,’ Marchisa replied with a graceful dip of her head that reminded Alienor of a self-contained small cat. ‘But first I must fulfil my duty to my parents and pray at the tomb of the Sepulchre.’

‘Since I will be praying there too, it is settled,’ Alienor replied. ‘Go and fetch your things to my tent.’

Marchisa curtseyed and left. Geoffrey took Alienor’s hands and his lips touched her knuckles. They exchanged a wordless glance, and then he bowed and followed Marchisa outside.

For three more nights, as she recovered, Alienor had the eagle dream. It was always a jolt to awaken and find herself in the dark confines of her tent rather than soaring above the world, but each time the dream came, she felt stronger and more sure of herself. Louis had still not visited to see how she fared, although he sent messages via Geoffrey, who visited Louis’s daily councils and reported back to her.

‘The King is delighted you are recovering and glad that his daily prayers for your wellbeing have been successful,’ Geoffrey said with the neutrality of a polished courtier.

Alienor raised her brows. ‘How gracious of him. What else?’

He gave her a questioning look. ‘About you?’

She shook her head. ‘I doubt there is anything I want to hear on that score from his lips. I meant what news of Constantinople?’

Geoffrey’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘The King has still heard nothing from the lords he sent as heralds. The Emperor’s envoys say all is well and our men are preparing for our arrival, but we have no news of our own. They could be dead for all we know.’

‘We should consider this carefully.’ Alienor paced the tent. ‘If we are to deal with the Greeks successfully, we must be as cunning as they are, and know their ways. We must learn from them everything we can.’

Geoffrey rubbed his hands over his face. ‘I dream of Gençay and Taillebourg. The harvest will recently be in and the woods full of mushrooms. My son will have grown again, and Burgundia will have made me a grandfather by now.’

‘You are not old enough to have grandchildren!’ she scoffed.

Wry humour deepened the lines at his eye corners. ‘Sometimes I feel that I surely am,’ he replied.

She put her hand lightly on his sleeve and he clasped it briefly in his own before releasing her and going to the tent flaps. Outside, one of Louis’s senior squires was dismounting from his palfrey. He bowed to Geoffrey, knelt to Alienor and said, ‘The King sends word that Everard of Breteuil has returned.’

Alienor exchanged looks with Geoffrey. De Breteuil was one of the barons Louis had sent into Constantinople. His return meant news.

Geoffrey called for his horse.

‘I shall attend,’ Alienor said.

He eyed her dubiously. ‘Are you well enough? If you prefer to remain here, I can report to you later.’

Alienor’s eyes flashed. ‘I shall appear in my own capacity and hear matters as they are discussed here and now.’ She swept her shoulders into the cloak Marchisa was holding up behind her and fastened the clasp with decisive fingers. ‘Do not seek to put me off.’

‘Madam, I would not dare.’ He delayed mounting his horse to help her into the saddle of her grey cob, and plucked her eagle banner from the ground in front of her tent to bear as her herald. ‘It is always an honour.’

She firmed her lips. Her anger continued to simmer. She was a match for all of them but had to fight every inch of the way to be recognised and accorded her due, sometimes even with Geoffrey, who was one of the best.

The army had spread out over a mile: an assemblage of ragged tents, flimsy shelters, horse pickets and cooking fires. In the pilgrim camp, women stirred grains and vegetables in cooking pots, or ate meagre portions of flat bread and goat’s cheese. One sat suckling a newborn baby, conceived when its parents had had a roof over their heads and the security of mundane daily labour. If it survived the journey, which was unlikely, it would be forever a blessed child, born on the road to the Sepulchre. Some women were showing pregnancies that had been conceived along the road. Many pilgrims had sworn oaths of celibacy but had given in to temptation, while others had preferred to remain unsworn and sow their wild oats in the face of death. Alienor was glad Louis had taken such a vow, for she could not bear the thought of lying with him.

Riding into Louis’s camp, she saw the looks of consternation from his knights and felt a glimmer of satisfaction. The falcon of her dream was flying over her and she felt strong and lucid.

Louis was stamping about the tent, hands clasped behind his back, jaw tight with irritation. His commanders and advisers stood in a huddle, their expressions grim. At their centre stood the newly returned baron Everard de Breteuil, a cup in his hand. An angry graze branded his left temple and grey hollows shadowed his cheekbones. Louis’s chaplain Odo of Deuil sat at a lectern, writing furiously between the lines pricked out on a sheet of parchment.

Louis looked up at Geoffrey’s arrival. ‘You took your time,’ he grumbled. His gaze fell on Alienor and his nostrils flared as he drew a sharp breath.

‘I have come to hear your news, sire, since it must surely affect us all,’ Alienor said, pre-empting him.‘It will save you coming to tell me yourself.’ She went to sit on a low curved chair in front of the screen that concealed Louis’s bed, making it clear she was here to stay. ‘What has happened?’

Louis’s brother Robert of Dreux answered. ‘We were meant to rendezvous with the Germans tomorrow, but they have already embarked across the Arm of Saint George.’

‘That wasn’t the plan; we were supposed to join them first,’ Louis said.

‘Komnenos would not allow the Germans to enter the city,’ de Breteuil explained. ‘They were confined to his summer palace outside the walls and food was brought out and sold to them. Komnenos refused to go to the German camp and Emperor Konrad would not enter Constantinople without his army. Each fears treachery by the other.’

Odo of Deuil muttered something over his lectern about what could you expect from Germans and Greeks.

De Breteuil took a swallow of wine. ‘The Germans were ordered to cross the Arm and so were we. When we declined our food supplies were cut off and we were harassed and set upon by infidel tribesmen – while the Greeks stood by and did nothing. At one point I thought we were all going to die.’ He touched his grazed temple. ‘When we sent a deputation to the Emperor, he claimed to have no knowledge of this and said he would set it right, but he was lying. He must have given the order to stop our food, and he did nothing to prevent the infidels from attacking us. He has made it clear we are as a plague of locusts to him, yet he wants us to do all the fighting and dying while his troops look on and pick their nails.’ De Breteuil’s mouth twisted. ‘We are being used, sire, and by men who are no better than infidels themselves. The Emperor has made a twelve-year truce with these tribes who attacked us. What kind of Christian ruler does that?’

‘But whether we like it or not, we need the Greeks to see us safe across to the other side with plentiful supplies and equipment,’ Alienor spoke up. ‘We must continue to speak the language of diplomacy.’

Louis gave her a cold look. ‘You mean the language of deceit and treachery, madam?’

‘I mean that which they regard as civilised. They treat us as they do because they see us as barbarians, with neither subtlety nor finesse. I do not say this is the truth of the matter, I say that this is how they perceive us, and if we are going to make any headway at their gates, it will not be by banging our shields upon them.’

Louis drew himself up. ‘I am the sword of God,’ he said. ‘I shall not veer from my path.’

Odo of Deuil nodded in the background and scribbled down Louis’s words.

‘No one is asking you to,’ Alienor said with weary impatience. ‘Water wears away stone, no matter how solid. And it pours through the smallest crevices. We must be as water now.’

‘And you would know?’ Louis said with contempt.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I would.’ She rose and went to the tent entrance. It was fully dark now and the campfires glimmered at intervals like giant fireflies caught on a spider’s web. She looked at Louis over her shoulder. ‘We need to rest, and we need to garner supplies. You might forgo those things because you distrust the Emperor of the Greeks, but if you were to conciliate with him, think of what you might gain that Konrad of Germany has not.’

‘And what would that be? Why should I wish to clasp the hand of a man who agrees truces with infidels and sets them on my men?’ Louis asked with a curl of his top lip.

‘You travel this road not just as a warrior, but as a pilgrim,’ Alienor said. ‘Think of all the churches and shrines in Constantinople that Konrad has not seen. Think of the precious relics: the crown of thorns that pierced Our Lord’s brow; a nail of the crucifixion stained with His precious blood. The stone that was rolled away from His tomb. If you are desirous of seeing and touching these things, it behoves you to deal with their guardian, whatever your opinion of him.’ She waved her arm, and her full sleeve wafted a scent of incense. ‘Of course, if you do not care for such things, and to have such advantage, then go on your way with your sword in your hand.’

A muscle flexed in Louis’s cheek but he remained silent.

‘The Queen makes a good point,’ said Robert of Dreux. ‘We shall have greater prestige than the Germans. You can have words with the Emperor about the treatment of our men and make a diplomatic triumph out of this that will add to the glory of France.’

Alienor deemed it prudent to leave then. Geoffrey would remain as her eyes and ears. She knew Louis would acquiesce, but not in her presence, because he would never agree openly with her point of view. He was a fool who could barely find his hindquarters with his hands.