Devil's Consort (52 page)

In honour of the occasion the Pope, Eugenius himself, had journeyed across the Alps to give us his blessing, and there he stood before the altar to imprint our hearts and minds with God’s Holy Presence. As tears flowed unchecked down Louis’s cheeks—Louis had no sense of occasion!—as he trembled visibly with the emotion of the moment, the Pope lifted the silver chest containing the bones of Saint Denis and held the sacred relic for Louis to kiss. Then he handed to him the gilded pike of the red and gold silk Oriflamme, the sacred banner of France, to be taken to the Holy Land and placed on the altar of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

A triumphant roar broke from hundreds of throats. Louis wept copiously. Even I felt emotional tears dampen my cheeks. Mostly from relief that at last—at last!—we were ready to depart.

It had not been without a struggle. Pope Eugenius had damned the taking of fine gowns and cosmetics on Crusade in the same manner as he thundered against whores and blasphemy. My example had been followed by my women and the well-born ladies who agreed to accompany me—how could we be expected to travel the hundreds of miles without some of the comforts and
luxuries to which we were accustomed? Why should a number of ox wagons not be set aside for our needs? And of course we needed our tirewomen. Could we be expected to wait upon ourselves? Was I extravagant? I did not think so.

‘But so much clothing!’ Louis had remonstrated with me when he saw my provisions for months on the road, his lukewarm attention drawn to the steadily increasing number of ox carts by his two beady-eyed advisers.

They disliked me excessively. A feeling entirely reciprocated.

Odo de Deuil, the less poisonous of the pair, was Louis’s secretary, a monk from the abbey of Saint-Denis, appointed on the quiet by Abbot Suger as Louis’s chaplain to keep an eye on him, and, I suspect, on me. A self-righteous little man, under orders to write the official record of Louis’s achievements for posterity. I swear he’d have little good to say about me even if my soul was washed whiter than snow. What possible use would he be to Louis in a war against the Infidel? What was Abbot Suger thinking? Better to have appointed a knight, a man of experience in the field. I found it difficult to keep my contempt within bounds.

And then there was Thierry Galeran.

With this man I failed utterly to hide my dislike.

We were sworn enemies from the first moment we had set eyes on each other. Galeran was of the Knights Templar with experience of Outremer, although limited to the raising and hoarding of Templar gold, he
was appointed as Louis’s treasurer because of his connections along the route. A man who was half a man. Captured by the Turks at some time in his past, he had gained his freedom but had been gelded, and so his temper had soured. Suger intended him to play the part of Louis’s watchdog, a role he took on only too well. He would keep me from Louis’s side, and Louis’s ear if he could, considering me a malign influence. Ha! No eunuch would keep me from speaking my mind. Galeran had a low opinion of women in general and me in particular—perhaps not surprising when his own ability to satisfy a woman had been so thoroughly curtailed. It was a case of mutual enmity.

And there he had been, with Louis, poking and prodding at my baggage.

‘How can you wear so much?’ Louis had whined.

‘Shall we not meet cold weather as well as the burning heat of summer when we reach the mountains?’ I’d asked, knowing the answer. ‘So we need furs for one and veils for the other.’

‘But pallets with mattresses, Eleanor …’

‘You don’t expect me to sleep on the ground, do you?’

‘No. No, of course not.’ Still, he’d looked aghast at the chests and bundles of equipment, lifting a silk tunic, allowing it to trail through his fingers. ‘So much. Is that a basin for washing?’

‘Yes. And soap and napkins and towels.’

‘Perhaps Her Majesty should reconsider the amount
she takes with her?’ Galeran had barely bothered to hide the reproof.

‘Since when does Her Majesty take the advice of a gelded Templar?’ I’d responded crudely—and perhaps not wisely—waving him away. One could have a surfeit of Templar Galeran. ‘Do you really want the Queen of France to enter Constantinople looking like a complete rustic, Louis?’

Louis had retreated in ruffled defeat, Galeran remonstrating furiously but without effect.

Now, before me, Louis held the sacred Oriflamme in his hands but the dedication was far from over. I sighed and set myself to wait out the tedium, and my mind reverted to that day a year ago when we had received our crosses at Vezelay from Abbot Bernard himself. My heart leapt with the memory. I would never forget it.

What an amazing day it had been. A magical day to stir the blood. I had felt like a young girl again, carelessly, selfishly bent on enjoyment and my own pleasure. My spirits had soared to extravagant heights. My life force had returned, my imagination flying free. Too free, some said, but what did they know?

It was a whimsy, of course, but a superbly planned whimsy. With the cross newly pinned to my breast, determined to spur on the faint-hearted, I had whipped up the wives of my vassals for a quick and dramatic change of costume.

Dramatic? Louis had not seen it in quite that light.

‘In God’s name, Eleanor!’ He stared when he saw
us, a strikingly colourful gathering, ready to mount and ride. For a moment his mouth opened and closed without further words. Then: ‘What are you doing?’

‘Gathering support. What else? Look at them …’ I gestured to the ranks of knights. ‘How many here will slink off home as soon as your back and Holy Bernard’s are turned? I’ll get you your army to sweep in victory through the Holy Land!’

‘But this is a sacred occasion. By God, Eleanor! It’s not a Twelfth Night play!’

‘Of course it’s not a Twelfth Night play! Do you not approve?’

Well, of course he didn’t. ‘By God, I don’t.’ It was rare for him to swear on God’s name, and this was the third time in as many seconds. ‘It’s not … not …’

‘Have you forgotten?’ I prompted his memory. ‘At Bourges—did I not say I would be Penthesilea and lead my Amazons? You did not disapprove then when your vassals cheered. And now you see the Queen of the Amazons before you.’

‘You make a spectacle of yourself!’

Which raised my spirits even higher. I laughed aloud for the joy of it and the sight of what I had achieved, with a little forethought. ‘Mount up, ladies. We’ll ride and shame our men who hang back.’

‘You will not, Eleanor! I forbid it! It is frivolous and improper and not to be tolerated …’

Louis’s voice was soon lost to us as, riding astride in leather chausses, we spurred our white horses into the
crowds who had come to hear Bernard preach the War of the Cross.

On that day, that occasion, we were nothing less than Amazon warriors, eye-catching in white tunics emblazoned with our red crosses. With hair streaming free in the stiff breeze, mingling with the red plumes on our hats, we rode like the wind. Red boots completed the striking ensemble as we galloped through the crowds, wielding swords as we called on the reluctant knights and nobles to heed the summons. And those who turned their backs? We tossed spindles and distaffs and insults, shaming them before all.

Oh, I enjoyed it. Of course we did not ride bare-breasted, as some would say, to denigrate our participation. To deliberately undermine my reputation. Of course we did not. How ridiculous that would have been. But if tunics and leather chausses made us men, then we were, and not ashamed of it. What a symbol of freedom it was. What an impact we made on that stolid mass of waverers.

Louis had to concede me victory, if ungraciously. ‘You behaved like a madwoman!’

‘I behaved like a warrior—which is more than you did! And what was the result? Did we not rouse the reluctant, shame the cowards, spur on the brave? You should be thanking me, Louis, for swelling your numbers. Not all are as enthusiastic about departing for Outremer for some unspecified length of time as you are!’

He stalked away in a thoroughly unholy temper, for was I not right? Emotion had flooded across the vast hillside like a storm wave. The demand for crosses had been so great that the saintly Bernard had been reduced to shredding his own mantle into strips to satisfy the numbers.

I sighed again as that bright memory faded under the cloud of incense and the endless drone of the prayers for our success. Now, finally, Louis was given the symbolic pilgrim’s staff and wallet by the Pope, and there was nothing to keep us, except that Louis decided to delay again, to celebrate the feast day of Saint Denis to invoke the saint’s protection. Well, I could tolerate it. What would one more week matter?

‘So it begins.’ After sharing a final frugal repast with the monks, Louis had made his way from the refectory to the abbey guest house where I was staying. White-faced with strain, already exhausted, but still with fire in his eye, he refused the cup of wine I offered him, refused the stool I pushed forward towards the fire, but stood in the centre of the room, blinking at the light from the candles. I thought he looked uneasy but it might have been a trick of the light.

‘So it begins,’ I repeated. ‘Are you satisfied, Louis?’

‘More than you could imagine.’ He smiled at me. He had obviously forgotten my Amazon moment. ‘Next year we will be in Jerusalem.’

Surprising me, I felt a surge of unexpected tenderness for him. This was what he had worked towards for so
long, and now it would come to fulfilment. Perhaps it would give Louis the ease his soul desired, perhaps I would see a return of the handsome youth I had wed ten years before—not this troubled, careworn, anxious man who had to pray before he could make any decision. Perhaps this Crusade would be the healing draught he craved. A mere twenty-seven years old, the religious life had added a score to bow his shoulders and imprint his face. Perhaps those years would fall from him if he could feel truly sanctified.

As if reading my thoughts, Louis fell to his knees before me, to cup his hands around my face. His smile was gentle, tender, reminding me of the days when he might have chosen to stay in my company, to ride at my side. To sleep in my bed. He kissed me lightly on the lips. The pressure of his mouth was warm and firm, in no manner unpleasant, and I leaned into it. Louis instantly pulled back with a shy smile. Did he need encouragement? I would humour him and let him set the pace for our farewells.

‘So I leave tomorrow,’ I said. I knew the plan.

‘You’ll go on ahead. With your women and the baggage wagons and your own vassals from Aquitaine and Poitou. I’ll follow on behind.’ Still kneeling, he enclosed my hands within his as if making a vow of fealty. ‘We’ll meet up at Metz, where we’ll gather on the banks of the Mosel.’

And there, as I knew, we would join our forces with the German troops of Conrad, the Holy Roman
Emperor, who had, somewhat reluctantly, also heeded the Pope’s call to arms.

‘God keep you safe, Louis.’ The tenderness was lingering.

‘And you, my impetuous wife. I am not sorry you’re coming with me. France will be safe in Suger’s capable hands.’

It felt good to part on such amicable terms. I kissed him again, and was urged on by the willing softness of his lips against mine. And because Louis seemed preoccupied—he ran his finger along the edge of my jaw, searching my face as if he had not seen me for a long time—I took the initiative myself.

‘Will you stay here with me, Louis? Tonight? Our last night together for many weeks. There’ll be no time for any private moments—perhaps until we reach Constantinople.’ I twisted my hands to link my fingers firmly with his. Surely he would see a need to stay. It might not be good sense to have me carrying a child when on Crusade but surely our last night should be one of celebration together rather than spent alone. ‘Stay with me, Louis.’ I gestured with a sweep of my hand around the comfortable room. The bright fire, the tapestried walls with their vivid colours even in the soft candlelight. The shadowed bed. ‘Stay with me tonight.’ I turned my face against his palm and pressed my lips there. He was my husband and my duty should not be an unpleasant matter. He would not find me unwilling.

As if stung by a wasp, Louis shook me off, leapt to his feet and took a step back.

‘What is it?’ I looked aghast as Louis retreated yet another step.

‘I have taken an oath.’

‘An oath …?’

‘I’ve sworn to preserve my chastity when on Crusade. Until I have stood in Jerusalem, in the place of the Holy Sepulchre, and been assured of God’s forgiveness for my sins.’

‘Chastity!’ I think I laughed. It was not a pleasant sound in the room. ‘A vow of chastity?’

‘I’ll not indulge in bodily pleasures,’ he explained seriously, as if I might not have understood him.

‘Oh, I understand you right enough! So you’ve vowed to refuse my bed. I should have known!’ I fought to quell the little knot of hysteria that threatened to expand and bubble over into some extreme emotion that I feared I might not be able to contain. Would I howl with laughter—or hit him? ‘And will I know the difference?’ I sneered.

Louis stiffened in holy outrage. ‘You demean my sacrifice, lady.’

I was beyond caring. The emotion transmuted into blind fury. ‘Sacrifice? And what about my sacrifice? You choose to live as a monk, yet you also chose to wed me. Or, no—of course—you didn’t. Your father chose that you should wed me. So if you take the vow
of a monk, do you expect me to reciprocate and take the veil? Before God, Louis …’

His features were frozen. ‘I expect you to live as my wife, Eleanor. I expect you to honour my decisions.’

‘But I am not your wife, am I, except in name!’

‘You are the mother of my child.’

‘And unlikely to get another!’

Louis face flushed. ‘You should not say such things. I’ll not talk to you about it.’

‘You will.’ I stood, advanced towards him. ‘We have no male heir, Louis! How many times do you need to be reminded? Does that not concern you?’

‘You know it does.’

‘But you’d do nothing to remedy it. In God’s name, Louis …’

‘I shall spend this night in prayer. It doesn’t become you to blaspheme, Eleanor!’