The Summer Queen

35

Paris, December 1150

Alienor had never known a winter so bitterly cold. The hard frosts had begun in late November and a fortnight later the snow had followed. Although the shortest day had passed, there was no sign of a thaw, and dawn still came late and the dusk early. There was privation. The queue for alms at abbey gates grew ever longer as food supplies dwindled and increased in price. The poor starved – and froze. The Seine was solid and river commerce had ceased. Supplies were hauled on sleds, and people had to melt ice to obtain water for their cooking pots. The price of kindling rose until folk could scarcely afford to build fires.

Alienor had been out giving alms to the needy and visiting the sick, as had Louis. Their plight concerned her, but they had been born to their lot in life even as she had been born to hers. She did what she could for them within her remit.

Under a hard, bright moon in the winter dusk, she walked with Petronella in the frozen palace gardens. Her heavy cloak was lined with ermine and her shoes insulated with thick, soft fleece. Petronella carried a hot stone wrapped in a layer of sheepskin. An ostentatious ruby ring glowed on her wedding finger to remind the world she was now officially the wife of Raoul of Vermandois. His first wife had died, thus removing the impediment to their match, and they had been received back into the bosom of the Church.

Children dashed and played around the sisters, throwing snowballs, taunting each other, their voices sharp as crystal on the still air of dusk. Alienor’s four-year-old daughter belonged in this landscape with her long flaxen hair and twilight-blue eyes. She was a slender faerie child, but her build masked her vigour and she possessed a robust will that made her ready to tackle her Vermandois cousins fearlessly. Alienor had left her barely walking, still a babe in arms, and had returned to a demanding spindle-legged little girl. There was a gap where maternal emotion should have existed. Alienor felt little connection with her daughter; there had been too long a separation. All she could summon was a feeling of wistful regret. She was with child again, the fruit of their stay in Tusculum on their way home, and she was cutting off from that too, because it was too painful to think about.

‘You will have to tell Louis soon,’ Petronella said as they paused beside a snowy bench to look out over the dormant beds. Alienor had brought home roses from the garden at Palermo, but they would not bloom until the summer. ‘I saw him looking at you earlier today when you refused the trout with almonds.’

‘And then he will turn me into a prisoner,’ Alienor said bitterly. ‘The moment he knows I am with child, he will confine me to my chamber and send in his physicians and priests. He will have me watched day and night. He is almost unbearable now. What will it be like when he does know? Do you think he would allow me to walk in the garden now with you? He would say the night air was bad for the child and I should take more care. He would accuse me of negligence.’

‘But you will still need to do it soon,’ Petronella persisted. ‘He may be a man, but he can count. You are always telling me I should think about the practicalities.’

Alienor grimaced. ‘Yes, but not quite yet. I intend to have a few more days of freedom.’

Petronella’s gaze narrowed. ‘There is much you are not telling me. Raoul saw Abbé Suger’s correspondence in your absence. You sought an annulment when you were in Antioch, and you were still seeking it when you went to Rome. Raoul said Louis would have to be the greatest fool in Christendom to agree to it and lose you and Aquitaine.’

‘Yet he would have agreed,’ Alienor said. ‘It was the Pope who bound us together and refused to dissolve the marriage, the sentimental old fool. He made us share a bed and promised Louis a son.’ She pressed her hand to her belly and breathed out a puff of white vapour.

‘But if he had agreed to the annulment, what then?’ Petronella demanded. ‘What would you have done? You wouldn’t have been free – not as a woman alone and without a male heir but with many years of childbearing left. Someone would seize you. Raoul said you were being just as foolish as Louis.’

‘Raoul seems to have a lot to say on many things, and you seem very keen to take his word as the truth,’ Alienor snapped. ‘Raoul knows nothing of my situation. I do not choose to share my plans with him and with good reason.’

Petronella’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘He has been loyal to Louis throughout.’

‘But I have no doubt that he was busy covering all exits and entrances. And who is Raoul to speak of foolishness with his reputation? Ah, enough. I shall not quarrel with you.’

Ahead of her the children were flurrying through the snow. Little Marie slipped on a patch of ice and fell hard. Her bottom lip quivered and she began to wail. Her cousin Isabelle pulled her to her feet, but it was to Petronella that Marie ran for comfort.

‘Hush now, my love, hush,’ Petronella said, and crouched to stroke Marie’s cheek with a hand that was warm from the stone. ‘It’s nothing, a little scrape, hmmm? Such a fuss.’ She gave her a cuddle and a kiss.

Alienor watched, feeling empty and heartsick. ‘Come,’ she said curtly, turning towards the garden gate. ‘We should go inside; it is growing colder.’

A week later, with the bitter chill still straining people’s endurance at the seams, Louis sat in his chamber of the Great Tower in the late-winter afternoon. Dinner was over, the candles had been lit, and everyone was taking their ease. For once Louis was not at his prayers, but sitting in conversation with members of his household. For once, too, Thierry de Galeran was not at his side, having business at his estates of Montlhéry, and as a result the atmosphere was more relaxed.

The court children were playing a simple game of dice near the hearth and their quick cries rang out. It would soon be their bedtime and the nurses were keeping close watch. Raoul’s son and namesake was over-exuberant and the dice bounced from the table and rolled under the trestle where the adults were talking. Little Marie crawled under to fetch them and then squealed as a dog took this as an invitation to lick her face.

Raoul called the hound to heel and peered under the table. ‘What are you doing, child?’

‘Finding the dice, sire,’ she lisped, and held them out on the palm of her hand.

‘Ah, you weren’t spying on us then?’ Raoul said with a twitch of his lips. His words elicited an uncomfortable silence from the adults.

‘What’s spying, sire?’

‘Listening to what other people say without them knowing you are listening, and then reporting what you have heard to others. If you’re lucky, they’ll pay you for the information.’

She continued to stare at him. ‘That’s telling tales.’

Raoul’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. ‘I suppose it is. Just remember that all knowledge is profit.’ He smiled briefly at Alienor and, rising from his stoop, went to join the dice game and show the children one of his tricks. Louis shook his head and snorted with amusement. ‘Fool,’ he said.

‘A knowing fool though.’ She watched him bend over the table and perform a vanishing trick with the newly retrieved dice. Marie leaned against his leg like a kitten after milk and he patted her head.

Alienor looked down at her lap. She knew she had to tell him. That smile from Raoul had been a warning. ‘Louis,’ she said. ‘I am with child. You are to be a father once more.’

His expression went very still and then, like raindrops hitting a pool, the emotion twitched across his face. ‘Truly?’ he said. ‘You speak truly?’

Alienor nodded and set her jaw. She wanted to cry, but not with joy. ‘Yes, I speak truly,’ she said.

Louis took her hands in his and leaned forward to kiss her brow. ‘That is the greatest news you could give me! The Pope was right and wise. This is indeed a new start. I am going to protect you and look after you and make sure you have the best possible care.’ His chest expanded. ‘Tomorrow I shall send for the most learned physicians in the land. You and our child will want for nothing. I shall do everything in my power to keep you and the child safe.’

Alienor tried to smile but could not for she knew that now her incarceration would begin. Already she felt as if she could not breathe.

If the winter had been long and hard, then the early summer of 1150 was hot enough to blister the paint from the shutters and warp doors, creating fissures and cracks in the gasping wood. Even in the top chamber of the Great Tower, with the shutters open and the insulation of the thick, cool stone, the air was warm and stale. Labouring to bear her child, Alienor’s only relief from the heat came as successive layers of sweat dried on her body.

The midwives had told her all was well and progressing as it should be, but the hours still slipped by in the pain and endurance of Eve’s lot. She could not help but remember the stillbirth on the road from Antioch and it churned up all her terror, rage and grief from that time. Those emotions had never gone away, and rode her hard as she sought to push this new child from the womb and be free of the burden.

There came the last moments of struggle, the final effort and the baby was born, pink and wet and living, with a set of lungs that filled the still air in the room like a fanfare. But all the attendants and adults in the room were silent and the anticipation on their faces turned to blank expressions and sidelong glances.

Petronella leaned over the bed and held Alienor’s hand. ‘It’s another girl,’ she said. ‘You have another beautiful daughter.’

The words meant nothing to Alienor. It was as if her mind was cut off from her feelings just as the cord severed her from the new baby. She had had no choice in Tusculum but to share Louis’s bed and this child was a matter between the Pope and her husband. She had only been the vessel. That it was a girl did nothing to pierce her numbness. There was naught she could do about it and so it had to be accepted. She turned her head towards the window, to the faint breath of breeze.

‘Perhaps the next one will be a boy,’ Petronella said. ‘Our mother had two daughters and a son, and so do I.’

Alienor looked at her sister. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘What God decides, He decides.’

Petronella gently stroked Alienor’s loose hair. Then she rose and stood aside for the midwives to deal with the afterbirth as the contractions gathered again. ‘Perhaps it is for the best,’ she whispered. ‘You can be free now.’

Louis had been pacing and waiting for news ever since hearing that Alienor’s labour had begun. As always such things seemed to take forever. This time he knew it would be a son. The Pope had given his word, and the child had been conceived in the papal palace. Everyone he consulted assured him that the child was a boy. He had made sure Alienor had had the best of care and protection throughout the pregnancy. He was to be named Philippe, and Louis was ready to take him to his christening before the altar of Saint Peter in the royal chapel the moment he was brought from the birthing chamber. He had even written some documents in his son’s name, promising gifts to abbeys, penning the words himself without the use of a scribe so that he could form the inky nib around the name ‘Philippe’ and feel that wonderful sense of destiny.

Abbé Suger sat with him. They had been at prayer together earlier and were now busy with matters of government. Suger had aged in the bitter winter last year, becoming gaunt and wizened, his words punctuated by a persistent dry cough. However, despite his physical frailty, he was still politically active and astute as they discussed their troublesome neighbours.

‘It would be better to negotiate an agreement with Geoffrey of Anjou and his son, rather than going to war against them, sire,’ Suger said. ‘The Angevin support was vital to me during the time that I was regent during your long absence.’

‘You are saying I should ignore their impertinence?’ Louis drew himself up. ‘They must be taught their place.’

‘Your brother attacked the Angevins when you were still on your pilgrimage. Geoffrey of Anjou is a powerful vassal. You have recognised him as Duke of Normandy and now he has conferred that title on his son. Better for now to have them in our camp.’

‘Geoffrey of Anjou conferred that title without my sanction, and the young man is a whelp who needs bringing to heel,’ Louis snapped. ‘I shall not let upstarts dictate to me.’

‘Indeed, sire. But you should think of the future. Many favour the Angevin’s heir to sit on England’s throne rather than Stephen’s son.’

Louis’s nostrils flared. ‘I will not see an Angevin wear a crown. They have already seized more than their due.’

Suger persisted with firm but weary patience. ‘But you should leave your pathways open,’ he said. ‘And you should not keep risking yourself in war until you have your own heirs firmly established. The country is still recovering from the harsh winter and spring. The crops are barely in the fields. Make this a time of husbandry and rest.’

Louis looked at his tutor, really looked, and noticed the shadows under his eyes and the hollows in his cheekbones. Suger had been elderly for a long time, but Louis had never thought of him as being frail or mortal. Certainly he had wished him gone or less interfering on many an occasion, but now, suddenly, he saw that what had been a constant in his life, taken for granted, was on the wane. This time of husbandry and rest might also be one of letting go for Suger. ‘I shall think about it,’ he said, and managed to keep his voice steady, even though the moment of realisation had jolted him.

‘That is all I ask of you for now, and I hope your wisdom sees you through.’ Suger gave Louis a shrewd look. ‘And you do have wisdom, my son, even if it is hard-earned and sometimes overridden by your own stubborn will and the foolish advice of others.’

Not so frail that he was unable to lecture. Louis’s moment of concern passed into the background.

A steward rapped on the door with his rod, and announced that attendants from the Queen’s apartments had arrived with news of the birth.

Louis’s chest swelled as he commanded their admittance. Now he would see his son.

The midwife came to him, a bundle carried in her arms. Her eyes were downcast and her expression was neutral. ‘Sire,’ she said and, kneeling to him, spread the blanket open in her lap to show him the naked baby. Louis gazed down at the tiny creature as it wriggled in the sudden exposure to cold air and gave a mewling cry. He was being shown a girl baby, but that was impossible and the sight rendered him speechless. He looked from the baby to the gathering of courtiers accompanying the midwife and back to the baby in utter disbelief. It was true, but it couldn’t be. He set his jaw. ‘I have seen enough,’ he said with a flick of his hand. ‘Take the child away.’

The midwife carefully folded the infant back in the blanket and, with her escort in tow, bore it from the room. Louis looked down at his hands, which were shaking. His mind was blank with shock; he couldn’t think. It was as if the missing genitalia on the child had caused that part of himself to vanish too, and he felt as if all of his body was crumbling inwards.

‘Be steady,’ Suger said. ‘At least the Queen has proved she is fertile.’

Louis paced the room numbly, touching this and that. He paused by his earlier working and the word ‘Philippe’ stood out to him like a brand. ‘I had a son a moment ago,’ he said. ‘Now he is gone, usurped by a girl, and I have nothing.’ He seized the vellum and crumpled it in his fist.

‘Sire …’

He cast Suger a look filled with anguish and fury. ‘What will people think of me that I cannot sire a son on this woman even with the blessing of the Pope upon us? What will people say?’ He could feel a terrible pressure of tears growing behind his eyes and there was pain in his stomach. ‘It is all her fault. She has let me down again. If God cannot persuade her to produce a boy, then surely I cannot.’ He felt a moment of almost overwhelming bitter hatred against his wife for doing this to him, and then the shock surged again. He had been so certain it would be a boy. He had been convinced by the Church that he was doing the right thing. The Pope had promised. They had forced him into this and made him a victim. ‘No,’ he said to Suger, holding up his hand. ‘Do not try to console me and tell me all will be well. I should have had this marriage annulled long since.’

‘I know you are suffering, my son,’ Suger said, ‘but it is not your right to question God’s will, and you have a healthy daughter. That is something to celebrate, because you may make a good marriage for her. You are both still young enough to try again.’

Louis shuddered. ‘Not with her,’ he said. ‘She has let me down for the last time.’

‘But if you annul your marriage, you will lose Aquitaine, and in truth, that is a greater consideration than losing your wife. I counsel you not to act in haste, but to think the matter through. Think of what it will mean to France, not just yourself.’

Louis bit the inside of his cheek. His mind was made up but he knew Suger would fight him to the last because of the great wealth of Aquitaine. The fact was that Louis did not care any more. He wanted to be rid of Alienor. When he had first seen her she had seemed like an angel to him and he had trembled with his love for her, but in the end all she had brought into his life was scandal and disgrace. She made him feel guilty and unclean, and she herself was unclean because all she could bear him were girls. Physicians said that a woman who bore only girls was too dominant in her humours and her unnatural imbalance caused her seed to override her husband’s and thus produce females. The other way of looking at the matter was that the husband’s seed was not strong enough to dominate, but Louis would admit no such weakness in himself. It was her fault, all hers, and he could no longer be saddled with a wife so flawed. He would begin the search for a mate more suitable; one who would bear him a living son. ‘Yes,’ he said to Suger. ‘I shall think matters through.’

The elderly churchman coughed and took a drink of his wine. ‘You must see to the christening of your new daughter,’ he said. ‘You have decided on a name?’

Louis hadn’t. All his focus had been on a son. He certainly wasn’t going to change the name to Philippa even though it was in both families. ‘I leave that to my wife,’ he said. ‘She bore her. Let her have the naming.’