The Summer Queen

39

Paris, August 1151

Henry wandered restlessly around the chamber in the Great Tower that had been allotted to him and his father. The wall hangings were of good quality cloth, thick and heavy, and the walls themselves were painted with a frieze of acanthus flowers. A chessboard occupied a table between the cushioned window seats in the embrasure and there was an illuminated book of psalms should he or his father wish to read. It was all very tasteful yet opulent at the same time, and not what Henry had expected of Louis of France; but then in all likelihood this guest chamber was of the Queen’s design and thus interesting when it came to assessing her personality.

Geoffrey sat on the bed rubbing his bad foot. ‘Remember, not a word of the other matter to anyone. It has to be handled with the greatest delicacy.’

Henry picked up the harp and coaxed a ripple of notes from the strings. ‘And you think me indelicate?’

‘I was reminding you what is at stake, that is all,’ Geoffrey replied irritably.

‘I know what is at stake, sire. I am no more a child in need of correction than you are an old man in his dotage.’

Geoffrey flushed and for a moment his eyes were dangerous. However, he chose to be amused and gave a short laugh. ‘But you are still an insolent whelp. I do not want you pushing yourself forward here. We need Louis’s compliance.’

‘I shall be as meek as a lamb,’ Henry replied with a sardonic bow.

His father snorted with disbelieving amusement.

Louis sat on a magnificent carved chair in his chamber with a length of tapestry spread before it to cushion the knees of those who knelt in obeisance. Henry looked at the man whose place he would take in the Duchess of Aquitaine’s bed if their plans came to fruition. In his early thirties, Louis of France was handsome with striking pale fair hair and dark blue eyes. His expression was open and pleasant on the surface, but with inscrutable undercurrents. Anything could have been going on his mind – or nothing. His cheeks were gaunt from his recent illness and he looked tired and pale, but not without presence. His right hand rested on a sceptre with a decorated knob of rock crystal and gold, and a matching reliquary ring of rock crystal adorned the middle finger of his right hand.

Henry knelt to Louis because it was a formality to one’s overlord and because kingship was an estate to be respected, but he did not feel at a disadvantage and he was not intimidated. Louis might be the anointed King of France, but he was still a man, governed by the limit of his abilities.

Louis rose to his feet and bestowed the kiss of peace on Geoffrey and Henry. Henry concentrated on guarding his own response from Louis’s perception. As Louis’s lips lightly touched his cheek, Henry tried not to shudder. There was something fascinating but unpleasant about the moment. He knew he was playing false in a way that went much deeper than diplomatic dissembling. He didn’t want to be put in a position where he got so close that he gave something away.

‘I hope you are recovering from your illness,’ Geoffrey said to Louis with concern in his voice, as if he had not been earlier speculating to Henry about what would happen should Louis succumb to la rougeole and die as inevitably some did.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ Louis replied. ‘With God’s help I am well.’

‘I am glad for that, sire,’ Geoffrey replied, ‘but at least your indisposition has given us the opportunity to negotiate rather than fight.’

‘Indeed,’ Louis said. ‘It is better to have the harvest in the barns than burned in the fields.’

Henry struggled to keep still and not fidget while platitudes were exchanged. In England the harvests of his supporters were constantly being burned in the fields. He needed to go there and deal with the matter, but had to resolve difficulties with Louis first.

One of the irritants to their dispute, Giraud de Berlai of Montreuil, was brought forward from the antechamber, still in his fetters. The iron had chafed his wrists raw, and he stank of the dungeon at Angers where his family still languished.

Louis sat up straight, the diplomatic smile leaving his lips. ‘What is this?’ he demanded. ‘Why have you brought this man to me in chains?’

Geoffrey shrugged. ‘He is my vassal but he has plotted to subvert me and he has plundered the monks of my patronage at Saint-Aubin. I bring him to you because he is one of the causes of our dispute.’

Bernard of Clairvaux had been standing behind Louis, listening and observing, and now he stepped forward and struck his staff on the ground. ‘What does it say of a lord when he is vindictive beyond all charity? You are abasing this man out of your own pride and anger.’

Geoffrey sent the Abbot of Clairvaux a scornful look. ‘If I was vindictive beyond all charity, this man would be dead – hewed and hanged on a gibbet long since and his family cast out to starve. Do not seek to lecture me, my lord abbot.’

Giraud de Montreuil stumbled over to Bernard and knelt at his feet, head bowed. ‘I throw myself on your mercy,’ he said, almost weeping. ‘If you and my lord king do not intercede, I shall die in fetters as will my wife and children.’

‘I promise you such a thing will not happen,’ Abbot Bernard said, his gaunt features set and grim. ‘God is not mocked.’

‘Tell that to the monks of Saint-Aubin,’ Geoffrey retorted. ‘If you want him, then bargain for him; otherwise he returns with me to rot in Angers.’

Bernard set one hand to the shoulder of Giraud de Berlai in reassurance, and fixed his burning stare on Geoffrey. ‘You shall return him nowhere, my lord, because your days on this earth are numbered unless you repent.’

Geoffrey narrowed his eyes. ‘You speak neither for God nor for the King, old man,’ he retorted. ‘Number your own days before you count the time of others. I will discuss no further with you. You have no authority over me.’ Turning on his heel, he stalked from the chamber, leaving a stunned silence. Henry bowed to Louis, ignored the Abbot of Clairvaux and the miserable chain-bound former castellan of Montreuil, and hastened after his father.

In the stables, Geoffrey waited tight-lipped for his groom to saddle his horse.

‘That went well,’ Henry said sarcastically.

‘I will not have that Cistercian vulture hanging his black prophecies over my head and meddling in my business,’ Geoffrey snapped. ‘I came here to negotiate with Louis, not the Abbot of Cîteaux.’

‘But Louis must have done it deliberately.’

Geoffrey took the bridle from the groom. ‘As deliberately as I am riding out now,’ he said. ‘Let them stew in their own broth. We are here to negotiate, not to let them take control. This gives them time to retire “Saint” Bernard from the fray and now we both know where we stand.’

The Angevin guests, father and son, had arrived back from their ride. Alienor concealed her impatience and stood with outward calm while her women finished dressing her. Clothes and appearance were important tools of diplomacy, especially when facing the Count of Anjou. She had never met his son, the upstart young Duke of Normandy, and she was curious.

They had ridden in earlier in the day, but already there had been trouble. Although she was yet to greet them, she had heard that father and son had walked out following a sharp exchange with Bernard of Clairvaux. Alienor had taken small notice. Such dramatic gestures were a frequent ploy of political negotiations. By all accounts, the Abbot had retired to pray, taking the castellan of Montreuil with him, the fetters struck off, and Geoffrey and his son had returned from their ride and reconvened talks.

Marchisa held up a mirror so that Alienor could see herself in the tinned glass. A beautiful, poised woman returned her gaze and Alienor added an alluring half-smile to that weaponry. She had become an expert at wearing masks; so much so that sometimes it was difficult to find her true self beneath the layers: the laughing child in Poitiers, her future a golden, untrodden road, glittering with possibilities. ‘Well,’ she said to Marchisa, and her smile hardened like glass. ‘To battle.’

Negotiations had ended for the day with both sides wary as the dust settled from the morning’s outburst, but satisfied that progress had been made and understandings reached. As the courtiers mingled in the aftermath of discussion, a fanfare announced the arrival of Louis’s Queen. Henry’s heart began to pound, although he remained outwardly calm. It didn’t matter what she looked like or how old she was, he told himself. She was only a means to an end and he could still have his mistresses as long as he didn’t flaunt them in her household.

She was tall and willowy, the length of her legs hinted at with subtlety by the way her gown flowed around her as she walked. Her shoes caught his eye, for they were embroidered with tiny flowers and exquisite. As she passed Henry and he bowed, he inhaled a glorious scent that was as fresh and intoxicating as a garden in the rain. His concerns about her being a hag vanished in a single bound. Indeed, she looked eminently beddable.

She bent her knee to Louis in a businesslike fashion that acknowledged his kingship as a matter of duty, then she rose and turned to greet Henry’s father, extending a slender hand decorated with a single large sapphire ring. Her gesture emphasised the sweep of her sleeve and bared just a little of her wrist, further stirring the delicious scent of her perfume. ‘It is so good to see you again, my lord,’ she said, her smile warm but regal. ‘You are very welcome.’

‘It is always a pleasure to be in the presence of such poise and beauty,’ Geoffrey replied with a courtly bow. He turned to Henry. ‘You have not met my son before. Madam, may I present Henry, Duke of Normandy, son of an empress, grandson of the King of Jerusalem, and future King of England.’

She turned her smile on Henry now, the curve of her lips slightly less warm than for his father, but nonetheless without strain. There was curiosity and sharp intelligence in her gaze. ‘Your father sets great store by you,’ she said. ‘I am pleased to welcome you to Paris.’

Henry bowed. ‘I hope I may justify his faith in me,’ he replied.

‘I am sure you will.’

‘He does so even now,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Mark me, he is destined for greatness.’

She smiled again and gave a small lift of her brow to show that she acknowledged a father’s pride while not being taken in by superlatives. ‘I do mark you, sire, but as you know, I always make up my own mind.’ She turned again to Henry. ‘You must take the opportunity to visit Saint-Denis. I am sure the building and the late Abbot’s collection of gems and relics will interest you.’

‘Indeed, madam, I intend to,’ Henry replied with a formal bow. Close up, she was very beautiful. Her skin was dewy and flawless, albeit that she was no virginal girl. Everything about her was tasteful, judged to exquisite perfection. He wondered how much it would cost to keep a wife like that in the style to which she was clearly accustomed – even if the revenues were hers.

He could tell that she was assessing him too, although not in the same way that he was assessing her. He wondered how her body would feel under his in the marriage bed and how experienced she was. What would she look like with her hair down? He lowered his gaze so that she would not see the intent in his expression. He was under explicit instructions from his father to do nothing to jeopardise their chance at Aquitaine, and that meant not alienating Alienor and not giving away by so much as a look or a word out of place what their intentions were beyond negotiating their truce.

She moved on to talk to others in the gathering, playing her role with consummate ease, knowing what to say and how to behave towards each person, although it was noticeable that she and Louis avoided each other beyond the most formal of exchanges.

Henry admired her poise, but was wary. A woman of such dazzling accomplishment might be a great asset to his future, but she might create difficulties too if she proved mettlesome. From the rumours he had heard, Louis of France had not been particularly successful in taming her, so it behoved him to think well on the matter.

‘Your foot is troubling you, I can see,’ Alienor said as she and Geoffrey partnered each other for a moment in the dancing that had followed the afternoon’s banquet. He was favouring the left side and she could see the pain-tension in his face.

‘It is nothing.’ Geoffrey dismissed it with a wave of his hand. ‘An old wound from a spear. It will settle down presently, it always does – but if it pleases you to sit with me a little while, I shall be glad of your company.’

Alienor sent servants for a comfortable chair, cushions and a footstool and had her own chair placed beside it.

‘Perhaps a game of chess?’ Geoffrey suggested.

Alienor gave him an astute look. He was up to something. His foot might indeed be sore, but he had deliberately manipulated this situation. ‘If it pleases you, my lord,’ she said and sent a servant for a board and playing pieces.

‘I hear all goes well now with your discussions,’ she said.

Geoffrey half smiled. ‘Now we have laid the ground rules, and ceased the meddling of that cadaver from Clairvaux, yes. I am sure we can bring matters to an amicable resolution for all.’

Alienor returned his look. Anything that discommoded Bernard of Clairvaux pleased her. She wondered if Geoffrey wanted her to intercede over some part of the negotiation in her role of queen as peacemaker. Geoffrey shifted position in the chair and moved his foot until he was comfortable.

‘My son dances well, does he not?’ he said, indicating Henry, who was in the midst of the next set, moving with energy and grace. His smooth young face was alight and his smile dazzled each partner in the change and turn.

‘I am sure he does all things well, my lord,’ Alienor replied with composure. The chess set arrived and she occupied herself in setting up the pieces on the board.

Geoffrey said quietly, ‘You think me a fond father for singing his praises, and to an extent that is true, because all men desire to be proud of their sons and to know their line will continue in strength. But I also see the man he will become. He governs Normandy well.’

‘With his mother’s help and yours,’ Alienor qualified.

Geoffrey hesitated as if he was about to argue the point, but then shrugged. ‘Henry is more than competent and he learns very quickly indeed.’

‘What is all this to me?’ Alienor asked. ‘You approached me about a match between your son and my daughter before Louis and I travelled to Jerusalem and Louis refused. He is certainly not about to change his mind now.’

Geoffrey studied the board and picked up a pawn. ‘I was not thinking of your daughter,’ he said and fixed her with his sharp, crystal gaze.

Alienor’s stomach tightened, but she refused to show him how much he had disconcerted her. ‘That is interesting.’ She resisted the urge to glance in Henry’s direction. ‘It would be a good move for Anjou, but what would I gain?’

‘You would be Duchess of Normandy and you would wear the crown of England.’

‘You are walking ahead of yourself, my lord. Normandy, perhaps, but England lies in the balance, and why should I want to be queen there when I know neither the country nor the people?’

‘Because it would be a fresh start among those who would not judge you,’ Geoffrey replied smoothly. ‘Make no mistake, he will be king. He has greatness in him. It would not disparage you to accept such a match.’

‘Perhaps not, but I say again it would not benefit me either.’ She moved her own pawn to match his and leaned back. ‘The Archbishop of Bordeaux once told me you sought to marry your son to me when he was still in swaddling.’

Geoffrey’s lips twitched. ‘He is not in swaddling now.’ He gave her a forceful look. ‘The moment your annulment is sealed, you become fair game to be seized and forced into another marriage. There are many wolves out there, and surely it is better to be in the company of those you know and who have come to you respectfully. You may think you are able to protect yourself, but you still need the weight of a mail shirt behind you, and he needs to be more than just a hired man or a loyal vassal. Even my termagant of a wife would tell you that.’

‘You are bold coming to me with such a proposal.’

‘There is no point in not being bold, but I am not rash, and neither is Henry. All we ask is that you consider the matter.’

‘I will say neither yes nor no,’ Alienor replied, maintaining a neutral expression, and set out to defeat him at chess. When she did, he accepted it with a rueful smile.

‘Perhaps you would like to play Henry,’ he said.

‘Does he often beat you?’ She glanced at the young man as he left the dancing at his father’s beckon.

‘Let us say we are evenly matched.’

‘Then I would expect the same outcome.’

Geoffrey looked amused. ‘Sometimes things are not as you expect,’ he replied and vacated his chair so that Henry could take his place. Then he limped off to speak with a French baron who held lands on the Angevin border.

Alienor appraised with fresh eyes the young man who took his father’s place at the other side of the chequered squares. What would it be like to be the wife of this supposedly accomplished young man, who had been such a model of modest propriety thus far? She was only nine years older than him, which might either be a gulf or no distance at all. In terms of experience, however, he could not begin to compete. He was a blank page; a very young man whom she might be able to manipulate into whatever she wanted him to be. She needed to know more about him first before she even began to consider such an enormous leap.

His eyes were bright and intelligent, and he already knew how to guard his thoughts. His lips were tender with youth, but set in a straight line, and his jaw was determined. How would it be to lie with him in the marriage bed? To perhaps bear red-haired grey-eyed sons and daughters? To have Geoffrey of Anjou for a father-in-law? That notion almost made her recoil. To wear a northern crown should his ambition and luck bring him to England’s throne? She knew little of that country; it had always lain in the periphery of her vision, misty, green and cold. If she felt far from home in Paris, England was a step further still.

With an open hand and a sunny smile Henry gestured her to begin. ‘Please, madam,’ he said. ‘It is your turn to make the first move.’

‘Well,’ said Geoffrey when he and Henry retired to their chamber for the night, ‘that was not so difficult, was it?’

Henry shook his head and gave his father a rueful smile. He had been steeled to encounter a used-up woman going past her prime, but the reality was one still young and beautiful with poise and charisma, who would make a fitting consort for any sovereign. He was used to women with strong personalities, his own mother being one such, but while his mother was abrasive in her opinions and like harsh steel, Alienor was liquid gold. She still wasn’t the innocent young virgin with whom he would have been most comfortable, but it was no disaster. ‘She is very beautiful,’ he admitted. They had reached a stalemate in their game of chess. He had told himself he could have won but had held back in order to be diplomatic, but at the back of his mind he had the worrying suspicion that she had been doing likewise.

‘Louis is a fool to release her and let Aquitaine go, but that is his concern to deal with, not ours,’ Geoffrey said. ‘The Duchess is the kind of woman to make up her own mind and do as she chooses. We do not have to work at pleasing a labyrinth of advisers and I doubt she will take anyone here into her confidence.’

‘So our success stands or falls on her decision?’

‘Precisely,’ Geoffrey said. ‘You did well today. I think you have made a good impression on her but without putting yourself so far forward as to seem brazen, and without calling yourself to the attention of Louis and his courtiers. I am confident that no one has any idea of the plans afoot. All they can talk about is me bringing Giraud de Berlai here in fetters.’

Henry went to the window and looked out. ‘She will consent,’ he said softly, more to himself than his father, and his mind was on the great wealth of Aquitaine, and what lay open to him as its consort duke. In the space of a few hours he had gone from a state of reluctance to being very keen indeed.

Geoffrey poured wine into the rock-crystal goblets and brought one to the embrasure. ‘To success,’ he said.

Henry took the cup and toasted his father in return. ‘To dynasty,’ he replied.

Alienor sat in bed, her knees raised under the coverlet to form a lectern on which she had placed the sealed letter that had arrived from Poitiers as dusk fell. She wound a twist of her loose hair around her index finger. For all her reputation as a temptress, the only man who had ever seen her hair unbound in the bedchamber was Louis. Contemplating the strand between her fingers she imagined the young Angevin’s stare should she choose to accept his offer and give him a husband’s privilege. It was an interesting proposal and one that had merit, but she needed to think the matter through carefully, because it was her choice this time even if that choice was constrained by who and what she was.

Letting the twist of hair spring free, she smoothed the letter on her upraised knees and bit her lip. Her heart’s desire and her longing lay at Taillebourg with the man who had dictated this letter, but political necessity and the welfare of Aquitaine made their bond untenable. As a girl of thirteen she had believed anything was possible, but time had wrought wisdom and tempered rashness. Her father and his advisers had been right. If she had married Geoffrey, Aquitaine would have tumbled into chaos as factions fought each other for the right to rule.

In the Holy Land she had dreamed of annulling her marriage to Louis and doing as she pleased, but even that had been no more than a fevered dream. Whatever she had with Geoffrey would always have to be kept secret and circumspect. It was her sacred duty to protect Aquitaine and increase its lustre. Whether marrying Henry, Duke of Normandy, would help her achieve her goal was another matter. The chess game had told her nothing about him save that he was fiercely intelligent and keen to please her without being obsequious. In some ways he reminded her of the squires she had raised to good service in her household. If she could raise him to good service too, then all might be well.

She heaved a pensive sigh and broke the seal on Geoffrey’s letter. The glow from the oil lamp shone on the ink, but the muted light made the words hazy. Ostensibly it was a report of the current situation in Aquitaine. Louis’s French castellans were preparing to leave the fortresses they had occupied and the country was being made ready for the final accounting before the annulment. However, the letter was coded too, and as always there was a private note written in the lines, with the relevant letters made that little bit larger or smaller. Geoffrey wrote that he longed for her return. He had been unwell with a malaise he had picked up in the Holy Land, but he was recovering and the sight of her would be enough to restore him to health.

‘God keep you, my love,’ she whispered and kissed her fingers to the parchment before she put it away in her coffer. ‘We shall be together soon.’