The Summer Queen

41

Paris, Autumn 1151

Raoul de Vermandois had spent an enjoyable evening playing dice with Robert of Dreux and a few other courtiers. Some folk, Louis included, had retired early to bed because on the morrow the court was setting out for Aquitaine as soon as dawn lit the sky. The carts were loaded; the packs for the sumpters were piled up in a corner of the great hall near the door with an usher guarding the heap like a dragon sitting on a pile of treasure. It was a journey to begin the end of Louis and Alienor’s marriage. Once the tour of Aquitaine was complete, Louis would withdraw to France, and all that would remain was the formality of the decrees and the seal of the Church.

‘You’ll be a free man too, eh, cousin, with the Queen’s mad sister out of your life,’ Robert said to Raoul. His face was wine-flushed. ‘I warrant you regret ever laying eyes on her.’

‘I do not regret that, only what came to pass afterwards.’ Raoul scooped up his winnings from the game.

‘Admit it, you seduced her because she was the Queen’s sister and you thought to gain influence through the back door of the bedchamber.’

Raoul shrugged. ‘If I did, I would not be the only man at court.’ He rose to his feet and trickled a handful of coins into the cleavage of the courtesan who had risen with him. He did not want to be alone tonight. Felice was buxom and good-natured and exactly what he needed. ‘I’m for my bed,’ he said.

Robert raised his brows. ‘I can see you are, and with a nice soft mattress.’

‘That’s where I store my treasures.’ Raoul dipped his fingers between the courtesan’s breasts making her squeal again. ‘In my mattress.’

He left the dice table and took her to his chamber, kissing and fondling her along the way. His sexual appetite was voracious, although not in the ways Petronella had been demanding of late. To her, the act affirmed her desirability and convinced her she was loved. But the effect was always fleeting and the more he gave, the more she wanted and was still not satisfied. If he refused her she grew angry and accused him of wasting himself on other women. Well, now he was, and it wasn’t a waste, it was a pleasure. Knowing that Petronella was leaving with Alienor gave him a feeling of having been sprung from a trap.

He swung open his chamber door and pulled Felice into the room with him. She laughed as he pressed her against the wall, kissing her neck, rubbing between her legs. Suddenly she screamed and began pushing him away, her eyes wide in horror. Raoul turned and saw Petronella advancing on them, his hunting knife raised in her hand, poised to strike.

The sharp instincts of a fighting man saved Raoul from being ripped open. He ducked sideways and seized Petronella’s wrist, wrenching it until she was forced to drop the dagger and he was able to kick it away.

‘You son of a whore!’ she shrieked. ‘You son of a whore! I knew it was true. Everyone told me it was my imagination, but I knew it wasn’t!’ She struggled in his grip, trying to claw him. ‘You spurn me in favour of a whore! You disparage me with a slut!’

‘Fetch my chamberlain,’ Raoul shouted at Felice as he struggled to hold Petronella. ‘Rouse my squires and send Jean to summon the Queen.’

Felice fled.

‘I hate you, I hate you!’ Petronella sobbed, kicking and flailing.

‘That is why we must part,’ he panted, his face contorted with effort and shock. ‘There is naught left in you but destruction. You would have murdered me.’

She bared her teeth. ‘Yes, and I would have danced in your blood!’

For an instant he felt a horrible dark thread of arousal, but knew that to act on it would be vile, mutual assault and he was sickened by his own response. ‘You are not well.’ He gripped her hard, holding her away from him. ‘I will have no part in this. You must be looked after by those more able to deal with you.’

The chamberlain and squires arrived with Alienor close behind. For an instant Petronella became a wild thing, redoubling her efforts to get at Raoul, but then suddenly, as if she had taken a mortal blow, the fight went out of her and she flopped like a slaughtered doe.

‘Bring her to my chamber,’ Alienor said brusquely. ‘Marchisa will tend to her.’

Raoul hefted her in his arms and followed Alienor, with the squires leading the way by torchlight up the winding stairs to Alienor’s rooms. Alienor directed him to place Petronella on her bed, and Marchisa hastened to her side.

‘She tried to kill me,’ Raoul said with a mingling of pity and revulsion. ‘She was waiting for me with a knife.’

Alienor sent him a contemptuous look. ‘You were with one of the courtesans, were you not?’

Raoul spread his hands. ‘What if I was? My union with Petronella has long been impossible. I dare not lie with her because I fear for my life – that she might have a blade under the pillow and stab me to the heart. She constantly accuses me of bedding other women even when I have been chaste.’ His lip curled. ‘I decided I might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb.’

‘You knew she was volatile from the first.’

He puffed out his cheeks. ‘I thought she was a lively handful, but, God’s eyes, not this.’

‘You also knew she was the sister of the Queen and thought her worth the risk. You plucked the fruit and enjoyed the taste, and now you say it is poisonous.’

‘Because it is! There is no reasoning with her.’ He made a wide gesture with his arm. ‘All that remains are these black moods and despair. She no longer knows what is imagined and what is real.’

‘I will deal with her. Just leave; I cannot bear your presence here.’

‘If I were you, I would make sure she does not have access to any kind of weapon.’

Alienor closed her eyes. ‘Just go, Raoul.’

‘I will pray for her, but it is finished.’ He left the chamber, his step heavy and his shoulders hunched.

Felice was waiting for him in his chamber, wrapped in his fur-lined cloak and nothing else, but he dismissed her. That appetite had become as cold as yesterday’s pottage.

Kneeling at the small prayer table in the corner of his chamber, he lit a candle and bowed his head. When he rose from his prayers, his knees were so stiff they felt as if they had turned to stone and the unscarred side of his face was slippery with tears.

Biting her lip, Alienor looked at Petronella, who had turned her face to the wall and closed her eyes.

Marchisa said softly, ‘I can do nothing for her. She is in God’s hands, madam.’

‘She is exposed to too much upheaval at court; yet if she retires to Raoul’s estates, she only broods and grows worse. I have been wondering whether to send her to my aunt Agnes at Saintes. She might not find comfort in a nunnery, but she would be supervised and better protected.’

‘Madam, I believe a routine of structure and prayer would help her greatly,’ Marchisa agreed.

Alienor sighed. ‘Then I shall consult with Raoul and write to my aunt and see if she will give her sanctuary. We used to go there often when we were children.’ Her expression grew sad as she remembered running with Petronella in the sun-filled cloisters when their father had visited Saintes. The giggles and laughter, weaving in and out between the pillars, stretching to tag each other, their dresses hoisted to their knees and their braids flying, blond and brown, adorned with coloured ribbons. And then in the church, kneeling to pray but still sending mischievous glances to each other. Perhaps at Saintes, God would remove this darkness from Petronella’s soul and cast out her demons.

‘Oh Petra,’ she said softly, and stroked her sister’s tangled cloud of hair with a loving, troubled hand.

Standing in the palace gardens, Alienor watched the children at play in the golden September morning. They were an assortment of ages, ranging from toddlers only just finding their feet to long-limbed youngsters on the verge of puberty. Among them were Petronella’s three, Isabelle, Raoul and little Alienor. Being without their mother would demand an adjustment but since of late Petronella had been unable to care for them, the parting was going to be less intense. They had been told their mother was unwell and was being taken to the convent at Saintes for rest and healing.

Busy with a piece of sewing, a golden-haired little girl sat beside her nurse. Fair wisps had escaped her braid and made a sunlit halo round her head. She was intent on her task, her soft lower lip caught between her teeth. Another woman held the hand of a toddler with the same blond hair, helping her to balance as she took determined but unsteady steps across the turf.

Alienor remained where she was, feeling marginalised, a part of the tableau yet removed from it like a border on a manuscript. She had bidden farewell to her daughters last night, feeling nothing beyond a regretful sadness as she kissed their cool, rose-petal cheeks. She did not know these children of her womb. The intimacy had been in their carrying, not their lives after the parting of the cord. In all likelihood she would never see them again.

Alienor filled her gaze with a final look at her children, fixing the scene in her mind because it was all she would have for the rest of her life, and then turned away to join the entourage preparing to leave Paris and take the road to Poitou.

On the third day of their journey, Alienor and Louis spent the night at the castle of Beaugency, 90 miles from Paris and 110 from Poitiers. Sitting side by side in formal state for the meal provided by its lord, Eudes de Sully, they presented a united front as King and Queen of France, yet a vast chasm yawned between them, and it was not a calm space. They were desperate to be rid of each other, yet still tied by the process of the law. Louis considered it Alienor’s fault that God had penalised them by denying them a son: she was responsible but he was paying the price. He chewed his food in dour silence and responded to comments in curt syllables.

Alienor was silent too as she concentrated on enduring the moment. Each day brought her closer to freedom from this travesty of a marriage, yet annulment would bring its own crowd of dilemmas. Raising her cup to drink, she noticed a messenger working his way up the hall towards the dais, and immediately she was concerned because only very important news would disturb a meal in this way. The messenger doffed his cap, knelt and held out a sealed parchment, which the usher took and handed to Louis.

‘From Anjou,’ Louis said, breaking the letter open. As he read the lines, his expression grew sombre. ‘Geoffrey le Bel is dead,’ he said. Handing the note to Alienor, he started to quiz the messenger.

Alienor read the parchment. It had been dictated by Henry and, although courteous, gave the barest details. The messenger was relaying the meat of the story: that Geoffrey had been taken ill on his way home after bathing in the Loire, and was to be buried in the cathedral at Le Mans.

‘I cannot believe it.’ Alienor shook her head. ‘I know he was not altogether well in Paris, but I did not think he was sick unto death.’ She felt a welling of deep sorrow, and tears filled her eyes. She and Geoffrey had been rivals, but allies at the same time. She had enjoyed matching wits with him and had basked in the glow of his admiration. Flirting with him had been one of her pleasures and he had been so beautiful to look upon. ‘The world will be less rich for his passing,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘God rest his soul.’

Louis dismissed the messenger and murmured the obligatory platitudes, but there was a glint in his eye. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we shall have to see about the new young Count of Anjou, and whether the boy has the mettle to cope with his responsibilities. I thought him an ordinary youth when he came to court with his sire.’

Alienor said nothing, partly because she was struggling to absorb the shocking news, and partly because this changed everything. She was also wondering how ordinary a youth Henry actually was.

‘It can only be good for France to have an inexperienced youngster to deal with.’

‘He loved his father dearly,’ Alienor said. ‘That much was clear when they came to Paris. He must be sorely grieving.’

‘As well he should.’ Louis turned away to talk to his nobles. Alienor made her excuses and retired to her allotted chamber. Calling for writing materials, she sat down to pen a letter to Henry, telling him how sorry she was and that she would pray for his father. She commended Henry’s fortitude and hoped to express her condolences to him in person on a future occasion. The tone of the letter was courteous and conveyed nothing that could be misconstrued as inappropriate, even by the likes of Thierry de Galeran, whom she had no doubt would read her correspondence if he got the chance. She sealed the letter and bade her chamberlain give it to the messenger from Anjou. Pouring herself a cup of wine, she sat down before the hearth and gazed into the red embers, thinking that if she did marry Henry, she would be facing Louis squarely across a political chessboard, and would need every iota of skill and good fortune to survive.

Alienor entered Poitiers riding a palfrey with a coat dappled like pale ring mail. La Reina perched on her gauntleted wrist, white feathers gleaming. The sky was as blue as an illumination and the sun, despite encroaching autumn, was strong enough to be hot. Alienor felt a wonderful sense of freedom, of coming home, as her vassals flocked to greet her. At first there was no sign of Geoffrey de Rancon, but she could see several Taillebourg and Gençay barons among the gathering. And then she glimpsed him in the throng, recognising immediately the dark wavy hair and tall, straight posture. He turned and her rising heart sank again as she saw it wasn’t Geoffrey at all, but a much younger man – a youth almost.

He approached her and knelt with bowed head. ‘Madam, my lord father sends his apologies for his absence and hopes to meet with you shortly. A slight illness has kept him from riding out to greet you, and I have come as his namesake and in his stead.’

Alienor knew Geoffrey would not have stayed away for a ‘slight’ illness. Nothing short of catastrophe would have prevented him from being here today and she felt a frisson of anxiety. There was nothing she could do here though, trapped in a public situation with a young man who had no notion of the depth of the bond between herself and his father. ‘Then I wish him a swift recovery and I hope to see him soon,’ she said and bade him rise.

He inclined his head but she saw the doubt in his eyes. They were both speaking in platitudes and knew it.

Once again Alienor held court in her great hall in Poitiers. A silk hanging powdered with gold stars canopied the thrones where she and Louis sat side by side. La Reina perched on a tall stand at Alienor’s side, symbolising her authority. Alienor had not been to Poitiers since before the long journey to Jerusalem, and although the decoration in the hall was rich, the entire place needed refurbishment. Some of the mortar had seen better days and after the wonders of Constantinople and Jerusalem, it seemed parochial and small. Once she was free of the marriage, she vowed to herself she would build a new one to better represent the standing of Aquitaine among the courts of the world.

Louis retired early to his prayers, his mood sour. Alienor suspected it was because her vassals had greeted her with cheers and snubbed him. The joy with which the talk of an annulment was being received was a blow to Louis’s pride. His jealousy filled Alienor with amused contempt and she held court with relish. The more Louis scowled, the more she flirted and exercised her wit and power. She knew her vassals were pondering what would happen once the marriage was annulled. Already men were vying to be castellans of the fortresses that Louis’s French garrisons were giving up. Alienor was entertained by the overtures made to her by barons eager for their share, but she neither hinted at nor promised anything she was unprepared to give and she remained cautious. If Geoffrey was as indisposed as the hints suggested, she could not rely on him as she had hoped. She decided to make a visit to Taillebourg her next priority.

Alienor and Louis arrived at Taillebourg on a wet morning in early October. The great fortress guarding the Charente crossing shone as if it were clad in mail, and the river was a sheet of beaten steel, reflecting the heavy sky. The rain was fine and felt like moist cobwebs on Alienor’s face as they rode under the entrance arch and into the courtyard. Geoffrey’s son had ridden ahead the day before to make all ready, and he hastened to welcome them and bid them enter out of the rain. His sisters Burgundia and Bertha were present too with their husbands. Burgundia was tall like their father with his dark hazel eyes. Bertha was plump and merry with dimples in her cheeks, although her customary sparkle was subdued as she knelt to Alienor.

The great hall was spruce and cared for. A lively fire burned in the hearth; the floor rushes had a sweet, clean aroma. Fresh candles burned in the sconces to augment the weak grey light from outdoors. Alienor gazed round the room and felt memories pressing in on her, demanding acknowledgement. She had played chess with Geoffrey in this hall and joyed in music and dance with him and his family. She had seen his children lying in the cradle and wept for them all when Geoffrey’s wife had died in childbirth. Later, she had looked at Geoffrey with a young woman’s first awareness in the spring, and he had taken her hand. Then her father had died and her world had crumbled. Last time she had come to Taillebourg was as Louis’s bride.

She and Louis were shown to separate chambers this time. There was not even the pretence of unity. Alienor was relieved that her allotted room was not the one of her wedding night but a smaller chamber with warm red hangings and a brazier to keep out the chill from the river. Soft lamplight gave the room a welcoming feel. A selection of books stood on a hinged chest-seat, arranged to catch the best of what light there was should she wish to read. As Marchisa was helping her to remove her cloak, the eldest daughter Burgundia brought a brass bowl of warm scented water for washing.

‘I was sorry to hear your father has been unwell,’ Alienor said. ‘Dare I hope he is any better?’

Burgundia looked down, concentrating on not spilling the contents of the bowl. ‘Your visit will much improve his spirits, madam,’ she replied. ‘He has talked about it often and it heartens him.’

Alienor washed her face and hands, and dressed very carefully. She donned an undergown of the finest linen, delicately embroidered, and then a dress of green silk with hanging sleeves stitched with pearls and emeralds, and a gold belt decorated the same. She had Marchisa coil her hair in a net of gold mesh and perfumed her wrists, throat and temple with some scented oil that Melisande had given her in Jerusalem. Lastly, she pinned to her gown the eagle brooch Geoffrey had sent her. Toilet complete, she drew a deep breath, steadied herself, and went to see him.

Geoffrey’s son was present in the chamber, together with various officers of the household. Geoffrey himself sat in a chair by the clear light of the window embrasure. He too had dressed for the occasion and wore an embellished tunic of deep red wool. As Alienor entered the room, he rested his hands on the chair arms and pushed himself to his feet.

She strove to conceal her shock at the sight of this skeleton clad in a parchment-thin covering of yellow flesh. He trembled with the effort of standing upright.

‘Madam,’ he said weakly. ‘Forgive me that I cannot kneel to you.’

Alienor stretched out her hand to him. ‘There will be no talk of forgiveness between us,’ she said. ‘We have known each other too long for that to be necessary. Please – sit.’

Gripping the table at the side of the chair for support, Geoffrey eased himself down and gasped. His son produced a cushioned chair for Alienor, facing his father. ‘Why did you not tell me you were so sick?’ Alienor demanded.

Geoffrey gave a languid wave of his hand. ‘Because I hoped I would improve. I still hope with God’s blessing to do so because there comes a time when there is nothing left but hope, whether for recovery or salvation. If that is gone, what remains but a void? I knew you would come, and I prayed to be given the grace to see you again.’

Alienor’s throat closed. This was unbearable. She wanted to throw her arms around him, and could not because of the public situation. ‘I am here now.’ She covered his hand with her own, the gesture appearing concerned and compassionate to the eyes of witnesses, but meaning so much more.

‘My son will serve you well. I have had him in harness ever since my return from Antioch and he is both skilled and diligent.’

Alienor glanced at the young man and he bowed to her, his complexion ruddy. ‘I am sure you will be a credit to both your father and to Aquitaine,’ she said, and then, turning back to Geoffrey, lowered her voice a note. ‘There are things I would say to you of a private nature between friends.’

Geoffrey gestured to his son. ‘Leave us,’ he said. ‘I will summon you if it becomes necessary.’

Since the lord’s chamber was public during the daytime, the young man’s ‘leaving’ meant withdrawing out of earshot but not quitting the room.

‘I do not know what to say.’ She continued to pitch her voice low, dreadfully aware that they might be overheard. ‘I am filled with great sadness. I hoped to have you for many more years to come.’

He gave a wan smile. ‘You will always have me,’ he said. ‘Nothing has changed. We have always spent more time apart than together, have we not?’

‘Not from choice.’

‘But it is the way of the world.’

She noticed how cold his hands were, and the effort he was making to breathe. ‘It does not make it easier to bear.’ She looked down and bit her lip. ‘I have received an offer of a second marriage when this one is annulled.’ She paused to steady herself, then raised her head and said, ‘Henry, Duke of Normandy, has asked me to accept his suit.’

Geoffrey gazed at her with yellow-shot eyes and his expression did not change. ‘And what did you say?’

‘I gave no answer. I wanted to discuss it with you, but I can see you need to rest.’

Geoffrey gathered himself. ‘I have enough strength to talk with you even if my light is dwindling,’ he said with dignity and leaned back in his chair. ‘He is much younger than you.’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Not long into manhood, although already in the thick of the fray. He came to Paris with his father.’ Knowing that Henry’s father was so recently in his grave brought the spectre of mortality further into the room. ‘I did not know what to make of him. He was circumspect and quiet much of the time, but I think it was a deliberate ploy. It does not accord with what I hear of him from others who say he is brisk and confident in all things. I am not sure of him, and that makes me hesitate.’ And I thought I would have you at my side, to advise me, but it is not going to be. ‘His father was eager to have the match agreed, but he has always wanted to unite Anjou and Aquitaine – and he was careful, as you would expect. If Louis had caught even the edge of a notion about their plan, he would have had them skinned alive.’

Geoffrey drew a laboured breath. ‘If you do marry the young man, Louis will not forgive either of you for as long as he lives.’

Alienor raised her chin. ‘I do not care for Louis’s opinion in this. As his wife I have often feared his moods and been disgusted by the way he has treated me, but as a political opponent, he does not frighten me. He is not my equal.’

‘Indeed not.’ Geoffrey gave a wry smile. ‘You have time to think on the matter and to observe the Duke’s progress.’

She nodded. The word ‘time’ was another that filled her with grieving.

‘You will have to make a match with someone,’ he said. ‘And there are few enough of worthy status.’

She swallowed. ‘You know my thoughts on that.’

‘Indeed I do, but we both know it would not be the right road for Aquitaine, and it is a path that cannot be taken now anyway.’ His head drooped as if it was too heavy for his neck to support, and there was a grey tinge to the sallow hue of his skin.

‘I will make sure your son is given the attention and support he needs,’ she said, striving to keep her voice steady. ‘I will do my best for him as I know he will do his best for me and for his father.’ She removed her hand gently from his. ‘I think you should rest awhile.’

Geoffrey forced his head up. ‘You will visit me again before you leave?’

‘Of course; you do not need to ask.’ She stood up and lightly touched the side of his face in a gesture that to others was the affection of the Duchess towards a loyal vassal in difficult circumstances, but in her heart it was a deep cut. This was not a good place to bid farewell.

He took her hand and held it there. ‘If I could buy back a spring morning from my young manhood and take you there forever, I would do so,’ he said in a hoarse whisper.

‘Don’t …’ Her voice wobbled.

‘I want you to hold that thought and make it into a memory. It never was, but it will always be.’

Her heart was bleeding freely now. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Always.’

He paused to gather his breath. ‘Go on. I will catch you up presently. I am well now I have seen you.’ He released her hand and Alienor left the room as if she were on an ordinary errand, but once outside the door, she leaned against the wall and let the tears come, and they were like acid.

Geoffrey did not have the strength to hide his own grief as he watched her walk away. It was as if there was a cord stretching from his heart to her hand. He did not care who saw him weep, knowing that to observers it would only seem the folly of a sick man, grieving because he no longer had the power to serve his lady and Aquitaine. The truth would go with him to the grave; and the truth would be his private consolation.