Devil's Consort

The Prince halted, as if looking for encouragement.

I studied him while he was still distant from me, gaining a fistful of impressions. My heart sank. Who would I compare him with? The only men I had known, of course. My grandfather. My father. My father’s younger brother Raymond, now Prince of Antioch. With these men as my only measuring stick, I had expected a warrior, a bold knight to march forward to claim the prize, a lord with presence, as much at home in a chamber of government as in the lists or on the battlefield. As a Prince of France I had at least anticipated a supreme confidence. When the men of my family had entered a room, it had been instantly full of their authority and forceful personality.

The lingering shades of the rulers of Aquitaine faded as Prince Louis walked forward slowly, the Archbishop once again at his side with an encouraging smile. This, then, was the man I would wed. He stopped before me, bowed with elegance and smiled. As good manners dictated, I stood and, lifting the trailing hems of my skirts, stepped from the dais and held out my hand in greeting.

Louis was tall, as tall as I, for which I was grateful. His hair was long and fair, waving to his shoulders. Blue eyes, the blue of a summer sky, were direct and almost childlike in their openness. Fine features, a straight nose and austere cheeks. His mouth was well moulded, curved into a sweet, disarming smile. He had taken a razor to his cheeks and chin, his skin soft and smooth. Without doubt, as any woman would see, an attractive man.

Will he be attractive in bed?

The thought that leapt into my mind, as silkily as my rosary beads slipped through my fingers at Mass, did not surprise me. After all, what was the purpose of this union if not to safeguard the future of my domains through the begetting of a child? Would he be pleasing? I thought he would. His shoulders were broad, his figure elegant. His hands were beautiful and slender. I would not object to intimacy with this man.

‘My lady.’ His voice was soft, pleasant to the ear as he bowed again with exquisite grace.

‘My lord, you are right welcome,’ I replied in similar Latin, the formal diplomatic language of the court.

As he bent his head to press his lips to my fingers, I assessed his clothing with some surprise. His garments were of fine wool, the best I had seen, and in the most magnificent red that I did not wear but coveted—a red-haired woman would not choose to wear such a hue unless she was totally witless—but the garment was in what I would have called an outdated fashion. The overgown reached Louis’s ankles, rather than his knees, over a plain linen under-tunic that showed at neck and hem. No bands of braiding or embroidery to enhance the collar or sleeves, only minimal stitching around the neck and that without style. He wore no jewels. His belt was of good quality but plain leather, as were his boots. He had dressed well but completely without show to draw attention to his rank.

He wore no sword at his belt. The Dukes of Aquitaine wore a sword unless in the bedchamber. And even then, until persuaded to remove it by the lady who shared their sheets.

How could the heir of France not wear a sword, the ultimate symbol of power?

I pursed my lips faintly through my smile, trying not to be over-critical. So he did not like display and ostentation. That did not make him less of a man. Perhaps as a Prince of France he saw no need to emphasise his status with sword and poignard on the day he met his intended bride. But his hands and face were pale, un-weathered. The fingers that held mine bore no calluses from sword or shield or even horse harness. He was no warrior, no fighter for sure. He bore no trace of hard campaigning through rain and sun.

Neither was he finding it easy to choose what to say next to me. An awkward little silence fell between us. Which I broke.

‘I have looked forward to this moment when we would meet, my lord,’ I said.

Louis flushed, his fair skin pink as an early rose. I saw his throat convulse as he swallowed.

‘Lady. I have heard much of your beauty. The rumours were not false. Your eyes are as fine and rare as … as emeralds.’

His flush deepened. I saw myself reflected in his eyes and knew that he was much taken with me. But that was not the reason for the ripple of surprised pleasure that stirred the fine hairs at my nape. Oh …

His flattering words were not in Latin!

How this man had courted me. And I had not at first noticed. He had gone to the considerable trouble to learn at least some words in my own language, the langue d’oc of the south, the official language of Aquitaine, rather than the langue d’oeil that Louis would speak in his Frankish kingdom.

‘You honour me,’ I murmured, failing to hide my astonishment.

‘I have tried. I learned the phrases on my journey here,’ he admitted with a soft laugh. ‘But my conversation would be limited. Perhaps we should revert to Latin. God give you good health, my lady.’

And so we slid smoothly into Latin again because we must, but the gesture to me was a fine one.

Louis kissed my fingers again, then my cheeks, enveloping me in a cloud of sweet perfume. His lips were gentle on my skin. So he had bathed and anointed himself before coming to me. My pleasure deepened.

‘Forgive me that I did not come sooner,’ Louis explained. ‘I ordered a Mass to be said. I had to give thanks to God for my safe arrival.’

‘You are certainly well protected,’ I observed, with an eye to his guards.

‘My father and Abbot Suger—my father’s chief counsellor who has accompanied me at my father’s orders—both insisted. They must guarantee my safety in dangerous territory.’

It was said completely without guile, despite the covert slur on the state of law in my lands, neither was it the reply I had expected—but, of course, his father would be concerned. ‘Of course.’ I raised my hand to indicate a table with two low chairs set for us in a window embrasure. ‘Here is wine, my lord. Please sit and be at ease.’

We sat. At a signal my servants approached to pour the wine and uncover gold dishes of candied fruits and sugared plums. Louis accepted the cup from my hand.

‘Let us drink to our union.’ I raised mine to my lips. ‘May it be long and fruitful, to the advantage of both France and Aquitaine. As sweet as the sugarplums.’ I gestured to the bowl.

‘It will be my greatest delight.’

Louis took a small sip before pushing the cup aside. He declined the sweetmeats. His gaze was fixed on my face. Again an uneasy silence fell between us.

‘What is it?’ I asked. I did not care to be stared at quite so fixedly.

He shook his head, formally grave. ‘I can’t believe my good fortune. If my brother had lived, he would have wed you. His misfortune is my gain. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. How can I not love you?’

My breath caught on a little laugh of surprise at his lack of worldliness. ‘I am deeply grateful.’ It was impossible to respond in any other fashion to so ingenuous an admission after ten minutes of acquaintance.

Louis was unaware. ‘I have brought gifts for you, lady, to express my esteem.’ He motioned forward one of his servants, indicating that he lift the lid of a little gold-bound coffer. ‘My father considered these to be a suitable gift for a young bride.’

His father considered …

If I was disappointed I did not speak it. Neither did I show my initial reaction to the choice of adornment for a new bride. In the coffer coiled a heavy chain of gold. A brooch to pin a mantle. Heavy matching bracelets. Valuable without doubt, set with magnificent cabochon gems, as large as pigeon’s eggs, but heavy, as suitable for a man as for a woman. And somehow northern, without finesse or the delicacy of form that I knew. Chains of gold, I thought, to tie me to the marriage. I promptly buried the thought and expressed my thanks.

‘Rubies are the most prized of jewels,’ Louis informed me ingenuously. ‘They preserve the wearer from the effects of poison.’

Poison? Did he expect me to be poisoned in my own domain? Or in Paris? It was in my mind to ask him. And rubies, for a red-haired woman. How unfortunate. And then not least—why had the Prince not chosen them himself for the woman he would marry?

How could a gift have been so unacceptable on so many levels?

‘I will value them,’ I replied graciously. My upbringing had been superb. ‘I have a gift for you too, my lord.’

I had thought long and hard about it. What to give a man on the occasion of our marriage. Not a sword—far too warlike. A stallion? Perhaps. I had rejected jewels. Then I had decided on something lasting, of beauty, an object of great value that would remind Louis of this moment every time his glance fell on it.

It stood on the table beside the wine flagon, wrapped about in silk. With a twist of my wrist I loosed the shroud to reveal a truly spectacular piece of workmanship from our own treasury in Aquitaine. It was old and very rare, a vase of roc crystal, decorated with gold filigree work, inset with pearls. The crystal shone with inner fire in the sunlight.

Louis touched it with one finger, his face solemn. ‘It is beautiful, but no more beautiful than you, lady.’

And that was it. He neither touched it nor looked at it again. Was it not to his taste? How could such a thing of exquisite workmanship not please? It cried out to be handled, the crystal facets stroked and warmed between palms and fingers. I felt a frown gathering and struggled to smooth it out.

He does not look at it because he cannot take his eyes from your own face! You should be gratified indeed.

True enough.

Louis took my hand again, holding it strongly between his as if he needed to urge me. ‘We’ll wed immediately. I must return home to Paris—as soon as we can settle our affairs.’

Oh! So soon! My days in Aquitaine were fewer than I had supposed. ‘I had hoped to show you the hospitality of Aquitaine, my lord,’ I suggested. ‘We can take our time. Do you not wish to know your new land, your new subjects? What need to hurry so?’

Louis leaned forward so that his face was close to mine, lowering his voice. For one brief moment I thought he was actually going to kiss me, and stiffened at his boldness. No such thing.

‘Are your lords so peaceful and welcoming, then, to a Frankish prince?’ he asked, his breath warm on my cheek. ‘I do not think so. Abbot Suger is wary of staying longer than necessary.’

‘My lords are not hostile,’ I remarked carefully, unsettled by his openness, reluctant to admit to the lukewarm acceptance he would receive. ‘It is just that they don’t know you.’

Louis smiled immediately. ‘Then I’ll speak with them and win them over. I’ll be a fair ruler. I know they’ll accept that.’

Was he quite so innocent? So guileless?

‘They’ll come and swear fealty to you,’ I assured him. ‘They have been summoned.’

And pray God they buried their sour temper and bent the knee or we’d have trouble on our hands. How would this gentle, unassuming man deal with open defiance?

‘Then we’ll await their coming. Two weeks, my lady, but no longer. My father is ill. I am instructed to return by Abbot Suger.’

I chose my reply carefully. Soft acquiescence until I knew him better. ‘Then we will leave in two weeks, my lord, as you wish.’

Louis rose to his feet, drawing me with him with a hand to my arm. ‘There’s no need for concern, lady.’

‘Concern?’

‘I can understand your trepidation at being taken so far from your home. Neither have you your mother to give you advice.’

‘I don’t fear it, sir.’ My voice had more of an edge than I had intended.

‘We’ll make you welcome in Paris. My own lady mother is keen to meet you. I trust you’ll not be lonely there. I wouldn’t want you to be unhappy in any degree.’

My reaction at what I had considered to be a slight to my maturity softened. Here was care for my well-being, where I had not expected it. It wrapped around my heart, a warm hand, that the Prince should even consider my isolation in a foreign land, in an unfamiliar court.

‘I would bring my women with me, sir. My sister.’

‘Of course. It’s my wish that you be comfortable,’

Whatever else this prince was, he was kind, generous. I curtsied deeply. ‘Tonight we hold a feast in your name, my lord.’

He placed his hand on his heart and bowed. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

And then as the Prince departed, surrounded by his bodyguard, I was left to sort through those first impressions. A mixed bag, for sure.

He had great charm, a winning smile. He was good to look at—but Prince Louis was not his own man, his actions, even his choice of gift under the thumb of his father. How … disappointing! I had expected a more forceful personality from a Frank, with their reputation for drawing swords first and asking questions later. Louis had not even worn a sword.

I ate one of the neglected sugarplums, licking the sugar from my fingers, considering the weight of jewellery in the casket.

Could this Louis Capet protect my lands for me? Hard to imagine at first sight. Louis was no war stallion, forsooth! More a gentle palfrey. I suspected that, if it came to a fight, the rebel Count of Angoulême would trample him into the dust of Aquitaine before the Prince had buckled on his weapons.

I sighed.

But perhaps all was not lost. Perhaps there were advantages to be gained here. If the Prince came readily to his father’s hand on the bridle, why should he not come equally readily to mine? Could I not replace Fat Louis’s influence with my own? Surely it was not an impossibility? Since the Prince admired my person and my face so greatly, could he not be persuaded to listen to me and take my advice? I would tutor him in how to deal with my vassals. I would educate him in ruling Aquitaine. I would make myself indispensable to Louis Capet.

I smiled as I ate another plum.

Prince Louis might not be the worst husband in the world.

I stood and brushed the sugar from my sleeves. As I prepared to leave the chamber, waving my women to go before me so that I could fall into step with Aelith, it caught my eye. Louis had left the vase. There it stood, the sun still creating tiny rainbows within its crystal. Conscious of a little knot of disappointment, I instructed a servant to wrap and pack it carefully for the long journey to Paris. Then I closed the lid on the French casket. I supposed I would have to wear the gift for my wedding but I would not choose to wear it again. Still, I had hoped that Louis would have admired the vase …

‘Well?’ Aelith.

‘He’s good to look at. He’s thoughtful and considerate.’

‘He’s as pretty as a girl. So your husband will protect your lands for you, will he?’ As ever, my sister was not slow to voice her opinions. ‘Will this boy do it, do you think?’

‘Why should he not?’

‘He’s milk and water compared to our father!’

A flash of my eye silenced her. The fact that she had mirrored my own misgivings did not comfort me. I wanted a hawk. An eagle. I feared I was being matched with a dove.

‘He’s young.’ My reply was diplomatic. ‘We’ll grow together. And I will be at his side to strengthen him.’

‘I think your pretty prince is a virgin, lady.’ Bernart tapped an impudent rhythm against the belly of his lute.

I was feeling beleaguered here. Were Louis’s shortcomings as obvious to everyone as they were to me? I hoped not. To be the object of pity was more than I could tolerate.

‘Perhaps he is a virgin still. He is a perfect knight.’ I tried for magnificent sangfroid.

‘But will he be able to couch his lance?’ Aelith smirked, squeezing my hand.

A jest as old as time. I think I laughed with her.

I did not laugh later.

CHAPTER TWO

‘HOW long will this … this affair last?’ The Prince’s lips tightened into a thin line of disapproval.

As was customary at so momentous occasion as a ducal marriage, we gathered in the antechamber of the Ombrière Palace, to lead the procession through the Great Hall and up to the High Table. Louis looked weary, as if he would gladly cancel the whole affair and make a run for it. It could not be. Today, the day of our marriage, we were on show, and I was alert for even one disparaging expression, one whispered aside.

‘As long as it takes to impress your new vassals!’ I smiled at him with clenched teeth, my new husband of less than an hour, and closed my hand over his arm to shackle him to the spot. Words hot enough to scorch sprang into my mouth. Did this Frankish prince not understand what he was getting from this marriage, how much land was now his? Surely it was worth an hour or two of feasting, of building bridges. I almost lost my struggle not to lecture him on the value of diplomacy over a cup of wine and a platter of succulent meats—until Aelith attached herself to my side. She pulled me a little away.

‘We’ve no time for gossip,’ I remarked, seeing Louis almost physically retreat from the crush without my restraining grip.

Had I said that all was done in a hurry? Two weeks was all it took to get us to the altar. Two weeks that gave my vassals ample time to respond to the summons to attend the wedding and pay homage to their new overlord. Most did, with ill grace, but at least they put in a stiff-necked, close-lipped appearance. Some were conspicuous by their absence—the Count of Angoulême being the one to cause tongues to wag—but enough were present to raise their voices in acclaim of Louis, who, in joining his hand with mine, was now Duke of Aquitaine and Gascony, Count of Poitou. Walking through streets afterwards to cheering crowds, music, leaves cast before our feet, Louis’s guards had pressed close about us, but still it was an auspicious beginning. The cries were not hostile, although, in truth, the roasting carcasses of beef and the hogsheads of ale craftily provided by my Archbishop for the populace would have sweetened the voices.

Now the deed was done.

In those two weeks I never set eyes on the Prince unless he came as a reluctant guest to a celebratory event, and never alone, always hedged about by soldiers and under the watchful eye of the man I learned directed his every step. Abbot Suger, right-hand man of Fat Louis. I knew no more about the Prince than on that first day. Rumour had it that he spent the hours in his pavilion on his knees, thanking God for the success of this venture and praying equally for a safe return to Paris. For certain he had no stomach for outstaying his welcome in Bordeaux, just as he had no stomach for the feasting so beloved by the Aquitanians.

Now back in the Ombrière Palace for our marriage feast, I fixed Louis with a stern regard, willing him not to move, ignoring Aelith’s whisperings as I renewed my own silent vow. Louis le Jeune might now be my sovereign lord, my husband and able to command my obedience. I might have moved seamlessly from the dominance of a father to the authority of a husband, but I would not be an impotent wife, destined to sit in a solar and stitch altar cloths.

‘Eleanor! Who is that?’ Aelith persisted.

‘Who?’

‘The lord in the blue silk and grey fur—the man who’s looking at me.’

Her eye gleamed and I followed its direction.

It was worth the looking. Tall and impressively built, the Frankish lord was well on in years but his hair retained its dense hue and his face was striking, with hawklike nose and heavy brows. At this moment his mouth was taut in consideration of something that had taken his attention—perhaps my sister. His dark eyes were fixed firmly and with appreciation on her. And why not? I thought. Aelith’s burgeoning shape was revealed by the clinging deep green silk and silver embroidery. Obviously the lord was one of Louis’s entourage but I did not know him. Perhaps he was newly arrived.

‘Find out for me,’ Aelith demanded, not so sotto voce.

‘Aelith! In the middle of my wedding feast?’ But I humoured her. ‘Who is the lord with the fiery eye?’ I moved to murmur to Louis.

He looked across, face open in welcome. ‘My cousin, Raoul. Count Raoul of Vermandois. Why?’

‘No reason. He looks very proud.’

Louis raised his hand to draw the lord’s attention. ‘And rightly. He’s Seneschal of France. His wife’s sister to Count Theobald of Champagne. Powerful connections.’

The Count approached, bowed and was introduced.

‘Lady. A happy occasion.’

His voice was as smooth as the silk I wore. When he had retired back into the crowd, to the side of an austere lady with a calculating slant to her eye—his extremely well-connected, powerful wife from Champagne, I presumed—I relayed the information to Aelith as the procession formed behind us.

‘He’s married. He’s also old enough to be your father.’

She looked at me solemnly. ‘He’s handsome. A man of authority. A man—not a boy.’

‘And of no interest to you!’

As ever, Aelith was an open book and I saw her intent: a frivolous flirtation at the feast to pass the time between one extravagant course and the next. I paid it no heed other than to consider that sometimes my sister, for all her high breeding and lack of years, had the heart and inclination of a camp whore.

‘Don’t demean yourself,’ I warned.

‘I would not!’

So now we processed down the length of the hall, took our seats and looked out over the no-expense-spared glory of our celebration. Louis and I acknowledged the good wishes and sipped the marriage cup. I tried not to notice the juxtaposition of my braided hair as it lay on my breast, with my gown and the flash of rubies in the sunlight, but I found time to regret that on the day that I was a bride, at Louis’s insistence I wore red silk damask and Fat Louis’s rubies. Louis would not be gainsaid. Red was a royal colour, he said. I should be clad as the future Queen of France. I humoured him—by the Virgin, the gold was heavy!—but not in the style of my gown. The cut of it was opulent and pure Aquitaine so that Louis’s pale brows rose at my trailing skirts and oversleeves that had to be tied in elegant knots to prevent them dragging in the dust. I was right—he did not approve of ostentation.

At least for once Louis looked the part, fair and comely beneath the Aquitaine gold of the ducal coronet, despite the compressed lips. His servants had got to grips with him and turned him out as a prince, as if he had more than two silver pennies to rub together. In fact, he dazzled the eye. Perhaps his father and the omnipresent Abbot Suger had insisted on the red and gold tunic, heavy with embroidery, giving bulk to his figure and an unquestionable air of majesty.

The feast began, the troubadours sang. The great names of the lords of Gascony and Aquitaine were spread as a mosaic before us. Lusignan and Auvergne, Périgord and Armagnac. Châteauroux. Parthenay. My father had kept them tightly controlled by a clever show of force coupled with an open hand of generosity, but I knew that as soon as I was in Paris they’d be gnawing at the edges of my land, like rats on a decaying carcass. The image made me shiver. I sent platters of food and flagons of ale in their direction and bent a beaming smile on them. Nothing like a feast to soften hostilities. Along the table to my right I tried not to watch as Aelith cast inappropriate glances towards the forbidden Count Raoul, who was not slow in returning them, despite his wife’s obvious displeasure, her hand fastening like a claw on his wrist to keep his attention. On my left Louis was toying with a meagre plate of roast suckling pig whilst all around tucked in with hearty appetite.

‘Does it not please you, sir?’ I asked.

Before us on the white cloth was spread a beribboned swan, proud and upright, its neck skewered with iron to keep it erect, the whole resting on a lake of green leaves. Accompanying this masterpiece of creation was a peppered peacock, a spit-roast piglet, a haunch of venison, while servants carried in an endless procession of ducks and geese and sauced cranes.