The Secret Eleanor

Table of Contents

 

 

“[Holland] is at all times a superb storyteller, and her talents have never been better displayed. She not only re-creates a prehistoric people with every aspect of their life opened up for us; she also makes us share that life.”

 

“[An] intelligently and lushly developed saga . . . moves with great energy but without neglecting rich detail; the dim past springs to buoyant and believable life.”

 

“Lively and entertaining . . . a rousing good read.”

 

“Engrossing narrative . . . excellent descriptions.”

 

“Miss Holland’s style is simple, almost stark. She belongs to that small band of writers who can still show us what distinction the historical novel can attain.”

 

“Full of action and imaginative twists of plot. A considerable achievement.”

 

“A fast-paced, action-driven, and highly satisfying saga . . . a wonderful story.”

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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2010 by Cecelia Holland.

 

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PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley trade paperback edition / August 2010

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Holland, Cecelia, 1943-

The secret Eleanor / Cecelia Holland. p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-18899-6

1. Eleanor, of Aquitaine, Queen, consort of Henry II King of England, 1122?-1204—Fiction. 2. Louis VII, King of France, ca. 1120-1180—Fiction. 3. Queens—France—Fiction. 4. France—Fiction. 5. Courtly love—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3558.O348S43 2010

813’.54—dc22

2010011392

 

 

Louis, King of France, seventh of that name, kept his court in his great hall in Paris, on its low sandy island in the River Seine. The hall was a low cave of stone at the center of the palace, dim and shadowy, with loops of filthy cobweb hanging from its upper reaches, and banners and pennants too dusty to distinguish drooping on the walls. Two tall double doors, now yawning wide, led in from the wide porch; the roar of the crowd beyond gusted out like a hot breath, a hundred struggling voices, the stamp and rustle of feet. Petronilla led the little parade of the Queen’s women up onto the porch and stopped, looking around for Eleanor.

Her sister came up beside her. In the magnificent long gown, the golden crown on her head, Eleanor was already drawing every eye to her. She turned to Petronilla and nodded.

Petronilla set forth to lead them into the hall. She dreaded this; she hated calling attention to herself. Nonetheless, as she always did, she obeyed Eleanor. She brought the edge of her widow’s veil over her face and pinned it above her ear and marched toward the throne.

The King’s court always drew a crowd, hangers-on, monks and churchmen, people with petitions, gawkers, Louis’s men, the few faithful Poitevin knights who had followed Eleanor to Paris when she married. The hall was stifling hot, the damp air heavy, stinking of the close-packed people; when Petronilla went in through the door, it was like walking into the sea.

Of course no one really heeded her. At first, just entering the hall, she saw nothing but the backs of the court, a wall of bodies facing toward the throne; but as the pages called for room, in among the packed bodies, heads began to turn, one after another. For an instant, their eyes probed at Petronilla, striding through their midst, her hands lifting the hem of her skirt up out of the mucky rushes on the floor, her eyes aimed straight ahead of her. Then, all together, they looked beyond her, and saw Eleanor.

Her name went up, and all around the hall everybody was turning, in a rustle and stamping like a herd of restless horses. They moved out of Petronilla’s way, doubling over in bows that swept the floor, but they hardly noticed her: they all yearned toward Eleanor. A momentary hush fell over them. Petronilla reached the dais at the far end of the hall, bowed down to the dim man on the throne there, and then stood off to one side to watch her sister approach.

Eleanor moved through the crowd like a swan over a lake, looking neither left nor right, while the courtiers surged around her, bent and bobbed and jostled each other and waved their hands and spoke her name, begging for a glance. Her name sounded constantly. Among this homage she walked as if she were utterly alone, her attention fixed on the throne, and the whole crowd turned after her as if she held their eyes on leading strings. Coming up to the foot of the dais, she dropped into a bow down to the floor and bent her head until the tender nape showed.

“My lord,” she said, and lifted her head up and looked him in the face. “God give all grace and honor to the King of France.”

King Louis was leaning forward a little, his face pale and puffy, his eyes soft. He had limp, stringy hair. His long hands were knobby, his fingernails bitten. He said, “Eleanor. My Queen and wife, come sit.”

Eleanor straightened. The King’s secretary, Thierry Galeran, stood beside the throne, as always, his chubby beardless cheeks creased with his humorless smile; he came forward to help her and she ignored his outstretched hand. On the dais, she turned deliberately around toward the crowd. She gave them a long, heavy look, as if she saw each one separately; spoke to him alone; and beneath the pressure of her gaze, they bowed again, all together as if in a dance, a ripple of flexing bodies across the great shadowy room.

Petronilla clasped her hands before her, warm with pride.
She is true Queen,
she thought,
and everybody knows it
. The other women had come up around her, and now they bustled around Eleanor, settling her on the stool beside Louis, straightening her skirts and smoothing her sleeves, and then drew back behind her. Petronilla sat on the dais beside her stool, drew her feet up under her skirt, and sat there quietly and waited.

Louis had turned toward Eleanor, as longing as the rest of them, soft-eyed, moist. “You look more beautiful every day, dear Eleanor.”

Eleanor’s hand, resting on her thigh, tightened almost to a fist. Petronilla was glad of the veil to hide her smile. She looked quickly through the side of her eye at Louis, whom she could see well enough beyond Eleanor on his lofty throne; his face was drawn, lined, still fish-belly pale from the recent fever. Gray strands glinted in through his yellow hair. She remembered her onetime husband, Ralph, saying the King had been born old. She crossed herself, burying the familiar ache of loss.

Eleanor said, “Sir, I hope you are feeling better.”

“Much better, in fact, my dear. You are kind to ask.”

So close beside her sister, Petronilla could sense every move; she felt Eleanor recoil slightly, and guessed he had tried to touch her. He loved her still, Petronilla realized. Like everybody else, he loved her.

Eleanor said, “What do we have here today, sir? Has the Count of Anjou come yet?”

On his far side, Thierry Galeran said, “Oh, don’t bother yourself with that, Your Grace.” He had a greasy voice. “Such is kings’ work.” He rocked back and forth as he stood. It was rumored he had suffered an injury to his male parts, making a gelding of him, and his looks confirmed this.

Petronilla turned away from them all. She disliked Louis, although she knew he didn’t deserve it; he wasn’t wicked, merely weak.

She wondered if being weak in this world were not worse than sin.

Louis always reminded her of the first time she had seen him, and thus of the calamities that had brought her there: her father’s death off on pilgrimage, the sudden news, the horrible sinking awareness that he would never come back again, that she would never see him again, who had been more wonderful than a god, and who had given her everything.

Worse, that she might always be an exile, all the rest of her life.

Eleanor was talking to the King. “When the Count of Anjou comes, my lord, you must insist on our rights. He settled Normandy on his son, and the boy has to give us the proper homage. You are his overlord and you can’t let that slip out of your hands.”

On the far side of the dais, out of Petronilla’s sight, Thierry said, in a chiding voice, “Your Grace, we are masters of this; this is no matter for a woman.”

Louis rocked in his throne, looking unhappy. He smelled bad, and he looked feeble. Petronilla could tell that Eleanor was losing her temper, not at him, but at Thierry; she sat rigid, canted a little forward, scowling at him, and her hand was fisted in her lap.

Then Louis turned his eyes toward the hall, and his voice lightened, relieved. “God be thanked. Here is the blessed Bernard.” He stood up, his hands out, speaking out.

“My lord Abbot, you are most welcome here. Come grace us with your presence.”

Petronilla hunched her shoulders, her hands together, and ran her tongue over her lips. The Abbot of Clairvaux frightened her. She hoped he would not notice her, even to look at her. He had led the Pope to condemn her marriage; he wished ill to her sister. From the shelter of her veil, she watched him approach, tall and gaunt as a stork, moving up through the crowd like something on stilts. Eleanor had turned to cast an arrow of a glare at Thierry, but now she sat back, her hands in her lap.