Devil's Consort (30 page)

Later I was not so sanguine. I dismissed my women, even sensible Sybille of Flanders, and flung myself on my bed, regretful that I did not have Aelith to comfort me, although I could not have told even her of the misery that engulfed me.

‘What shall I do?’ I asked in despair when Agnes came to help me dress for supper.

‘To what purpose, lady? If it’s His Majesty’s strange preferences, I don’t see there’s much you can do.’ Agnes was always brisk, and well informed.

I turned my face away from her. ‘I have no husband.’

‘Take a lover,’ Agnes whispered.

My head whipped round. A lover? ‘I cannot.’

‘Why not? Do you love His Majesty?’

‘No.’

‘So there is no obstacle. Will you burn with desire for ever? His Majesty will not be the man to ignite that flame.’ Her lip curled with the same contempt that had swept through me.

‘I have never burned with desire,’ I sighed.

‘I say you lie, lady.’ Her smile was caustic. ‘I warrant he’s as much use as a eunuch between the sheets—but those southern singers of yours could ignite the blood of any woman with their sighs and soft eyes and sensual words.’

I plucked uncertainly at the edge of the sheet.

‘Will you live out the rest of your life without that experience, that knowledge?’

I was honest. ‘No.’

‘So do it,’ Agnes said, as if the decision was made.

I balked. ‘How do I know it will be any different with another man, Agnes? Perhaps the problem is mine.’

She snorted. ‘And you a beautiful, passionate woman!’

‘I have never felt passion.’

‘You have never known the right man. Will you go to your grave never knowing the pleasure to be found in a man’s arms and loins? Take a puissant lover, my lady, that’s my advice.’

I turned my face into my pillow, much as Louis had done.

‘Go away!’

We were not finished with Vitry. Bernard of Clairvaux descended on us without warning. Despite the ill health that had reduced him in recent months to little more than skin and bone, he demanded an audience with Louis on the instant that he set his holy foot inside the palace. Fragile he might be but he wasted no time, haranguing Louis before whole court. I think he hoped to shock him out of his sorry existence as a penitent. For once I was not the object of his wrath, and the Abbot had my sympathy.

With me at his side, Louis sat, pale and set-faced, clad in an ankle-length tunic in honour of the saint’s visit, although I detected the edge of a hair shirt peeking above the neck opening. He listened to the diatribe in bleak-faced silence.

There was nothing new in it but the Abbot was shockingly forthright. What was Louis thinking, to wage a war—unwarranted at that—against Theobald of Champagne? What sort of behaviour was it for a
Christian king—slaying, burning, destroying churches, consorting with bandits and robbers? It was time he put Vitry-sur-Marne aside and turned his mind to ruling his country. A king’s place was with his hands on the reins of government, not clasped in prayer every hour of the day. Even Abbot Suger was raked from head to foot for failing to give Louis good advice, before the barbs were turned once more on the King.

‘What persuaded you to support this matter of Vermandois’s marriage? You allowed yourself to be led down the path of evil by your wife.’ Disgust dripped from every one of Bernard’s accusations. ‘You let yourself be led by the nose by Raoul of Vermandois. You should be ashamed, Majesty! You should—’

‘Stop!’

The whole court shuddered on an intake of breath. So did I. I could not recall hearing Louis raise his voice before in so commanding a tone.

‘You would silence me?’ Bernard demanded.

‘I would! I will! Led by the nose? You overstep yourself, my lord Abbot!’ Louis leaned forward, hands planted on his knees. ‘You are not my conscience.’

‘Before God, you have need of one!’ Abbot Bernard gave not one inch.

‘You’ll not speak to me like that.’ Louis surged to his feet, striding forward as if he would strike the Abbot. ‘I will act as I see fit. I am King here!’

‘Then conduct yourself as one, in the eyes of man and God,’ Bernard thundered back. ‘In God’s name! Why
would you go to such lengths to please the woman who is your wife? Could you not see the danger? What persuaded you to disapprove of the consanguineous relationship between Vermandois and his first wife?’

‘Because it’s against the law of the Church,’ Louis snarled. ‘Of God.’

‘You fool! You misguided fool!’ Bernard’s eyes blazed. ‘To draw attention to consanguinity! When you yourself are related to your own wife within the forbidden degrees. Consanguinity is a dangerous game to play. What’s sauce for the damned goose can become sauce for the thrice-damned gander!’

Silence.

The atmosphere was suddenly as thick as a smoke-filled chamber. A strange hiatus held us all. No one moved. Not a breath could be heard. What was this? My whole attention was caught up.

‘What?’ Louis’s voice dropped as his eyes flickered from Bernard to me. ‘That is false.’

‘Of course it’s not false.’ Bernard’s voice once more blasted all present. ‘Are you saying you are not aware?’

‘No. I deny it. There’s no proof—’

‘Proof? The Bishop of Laon himself has exposed the consanguineous affinity.’

Louis’s voice rose into a shout of fury. ‘No. I’ll not believe it. I’ll not have it spoken of, d’you hear? Eleanor is my true wife.’

The proceedings, such as they were, continued to
disintegrate around me. I paid them no heed. The matter of consanguinity remained hanging in the air, like a dust mote in a sunbeam, waiting for me to snatch at it and see its meaning. It was a revelation that I must pick apart. And since I knew who had the knowledge to help me.

Louis had denied the accusation—but I would wager Abbot Bernard had the truth of it.

‘Your Majesty …’ The Bishop of Laon scrabbled to his feet, then bent his portly form at the middle into a bow. I heard the intake of heavy breathing, exertion and anxiety in equal measure. ‘Your Majesty …’

He could think of nothing else to say. How could he? I had not advertised my coming. Neither, I imagine, was my expression conciliatory after a long, hot journey into Aquitaine on what I hoped would not be a matter of chasing a wild goose.

‘My lord Bishop.’ I walked forward into the sunny room. The Bishop lived in some style, some comfort, and I admired the light-filled chamber with its tapestried walls, its spread of books on every surface, its cushioned seats that invited a visitor to stay and be entertained. If I had my choice I would live again in Aquitaine. If I could regain control over my own life. I pinned the Bishop with a stare. ‘I wish you to show me the results of your recent studies.’

The round face flushed, the little eyes, remarkably porcine, widened between the pouch of cheek and
forehead. His pursed mouth pursed even further. An unappealing man—but an erudite scholar who owed his primary loyalties to me, not to my husband, although one might be forgiven for disbelieving that, seeing supreme discomfort shift over his features.

‘My studies, Majesty …?’

I advanced, forcing him to look up. He was barely over five feet in height. It pleased me to take advantage of my inches.

‘I beg you will not play the fool with me, sir. You know why I’m here. Show me.’

‘Majesty … Indeed.’ To do him justice, he did not pretend further ignorance. ‘But I cannot …’

I allowed a little smile, watched as his rigid shoulders relaxed. ‘Why would that be?’

The Bishop swallowed. ‘The document you seek—confiscated, Majesty.’

‘By whom?’

‘His Majesty the King.’

I swung round towards the window, gazing out over the lake and wooded hills. So Louis had already taken it, destroyed it, had he? He’d wasted no time over it. How typical of him. But did he really think that to destroy the written evidence would destroy the fact, if that fact existed? His naivety continued to be a thing of wonder to me. Quickly I turned my head, to catch the Bishop eyeing me. Cautious, speculative, a hint of victory perhaps. Just as I thought.

I turned a bright smile on the Bishop of Laon. ‘And
you did not make a copy of your valuable investigations before it was seized? Do I believe that?’

Not expecting a reply, I wandered around the room, touching the expertly worked tapestry, picking up a document from the table where he had been working, running a cursory eye over it, rejecting it. Lifting another. The Bishop cringed as if he would like to smack my hands away. He sank his teeth in his fleshy under-lip.

Now sure of my ground, I relaunched my attack. ‘Come, my lord Bishop. We’re wasting time. I don’t mean to leave without satisfaction.’

‘Majesty! I dare not.’

Well, at least he had changed his denial from ‘cannot’ to ‘dare not’. I leaned on the table, lowered my voice. ‘Show me. Show me what my husband the King thinks important enough to destroy and forbids you to discuss with his wife.’

He gulped like a carp in a fish pond. And capitulated like a pricked pig’s bladder.

‘Yes, Majesty. But could I beg your discretion?’

‘Do you fear His Majesty?’

‘I do!’

I smiled with a show of teeth. I think he feared me more.

Allowed to return to his own milieu, a man of letters rather than high politics, the Bishop busied himself, finding a key and rooting in the depths of a coffer. He scooped out rolls of parchment, dropping them on
the floor. Then took a flat sheet from the bottom and smoothed it on the wooden surface before me. It was a sheet of parchment with a raw edge, as if it had been torn from another. The words and lines were hastily scribbled, a quick copy. There were some blots, crossings out, but I believed in its authenticity. I made myself comfortable in the Bishop’s own cushioned chair and beckoned.

‘Show me, my lord Bishop. There’s no blame. I merely wish to see for myself.’

‘Yes, Majesty. I imagine you might.’ I registered the dry tone as the Bishop prepared to point with stubby fingers.

‘Where am I?’

‘Here, Majesty.’ My tutor lost himself in the enthusiasm and detail of his discoveries. ‘And here is His Majesty King Louis. See, joined in matrimony. Now your own family—here is your own noble father and his father before him.’ I traced the lines the Bishop had sketched in. My father William, and before him my famous grandfather William, knight and conqueror, troubadour and lover.

As far back as my own memories stretched.

Before my grandfather was another William, wed to a lady I had no knowledge of. Audearde.

‘This lady is the key to this!’ The Bishop rubbed his palms as if he had discovered a gold nugget in a mountain stream. ‘She is the connecting link, Majesty …’ His words dried as he realised he had just handed me
dangerous material, then with a shrug the Bishop dived in. ‘Her father was Robert, Duke of Burgundy. Do you see? And his elder brother was Henry the First, King of France. Both sons of King Robert the First of France.’

‘Ah … King of France.’ I followed the parallel set of lines, tracing them with my finger from that far-distant King Robert of France, through Henry, then Philip, to Louis the Fat and then to my own husband.

I frowned. ‘We are related.’ If the evidence was correct, it was irrefutable.

‘Undeniably, Majesty. Within the fourth degree.’

‘That is forbidden.’

‘By the law of the Church, it is.’ The Bishop nodded furiously. ‘Within the laws of consanguinity, such a marriage is prohibited.’

I set my elbows on the table, on either side of the document, clasped my hands and rested my chin, absorbing the implications. My hands trembled, my mouth was dry. The names swam in my vision. The implications were not clear but I knew they were vastly important to me. Raising my eyes, I found the Bishop regarding me intently.

‘But we were wed, were we not?’ I queried. ‘By the Bishop of Bordeaux, under the supervision of Archbishop Suger himself.’

‘Indeed you were. But that does not mean to say that it was legal. There was no dispensation applied for from His Holiness.’

‘Did Abbot Suger—did my husband’s father not know of this?’ I swept my hand over the evidence.

The Bishop raised his brows. ‘I cannot say, Majesty.’ Or will not! There was a knowing glint in those little eyes. ‘As I recall, Majesty …’ he leaned close ‘ … the marriage was very fast. Considering your extreme youth and vulnerability on the death of your father …’

‘Ha! You mean Fat Louis saw the chance of a wealthy unprotected heiress for his son and snapped her up before anyone else could get his hands on her, with or without the stamp of papal approval!’

‘It is true, Majesty—or so I believe—’ the Bishop’s eyes were bright with the spirit of complicity ‘—that the Bishop of Bordeaux was well rewarded for his compliance. He was granted complete freedom from all feudal and fiscal obligations. The charter was witnessed by His Majesty’s father and by Abbot Suger.’

‘So they knew. They all knew.’ I considered. ‘What do I do with this?’

I did not expect a reply but the prelate gave one. ‘Your marriage is not in danger—if His Majesty refuses to accept this proof.’

‘His Majesty might not accept it, but I will.’

‘What do you wish to achieve, Majesty?’

‘I don’t know.’ And I didn’t. It was still too new.

‘If you will take my advice, Majesty—take care how you use your knowledge.’

‘I don’t know how I will. Or even if I will.’ My mood swung from a sudden ray of blinding hope to
bleak frustration. I needed to think. ‘I shall keep this.’ I handed over a purse of gold for his troubles.

I travelled back to Paris, my thoughts still scattered. The document in my hand was a fiery brand. I did not doubt for one moment that the connection was accurate. So I was wed outside the law of the Church and the blessing of God. Was this the reason for my failure to quicken? Many might have thought so—God’s punishment for disobedience. Quickly I discarded that thought. I did not believe it—the fault was not from the sin of the marriage. How was it possible to conceive if Louis failed to plant the seed? I could count on the fingers of two hands the number of occasions Louis had shared my bed with carnal desires. Our failure had nothing to do with our common ancestor.