The Secret Eleanor (31 page)

Petronilla said, “You do not know how you look, Eleanor.” The brush dug into her hair; her whole scalp tingled.

“If I am sitting down, I can disguise it still, in my linens.” Eleanor’s fingers tapped her knee, her rounding belly like a moon from her lap. “Someone has to make the Vicomte take down that wall. You can’t allow people to build walls just anywhere they want.”

“The wall can wait,” Petronilla said. “Alys, show her the looking glass. Even the linen can’t hide it now. I think I shall be very ill all the while we’re in Limoges.” She leaned her head back, enjoying the stroke of the brush through her hair. She watched her sister through narrowed eyes.

Alys held the looking glass before her, and Eleanor leaned toward it. She looked not at her swelling body but at her face, her fingertips touching the skin under her eyes, her lids. Petronilla said, “The Queen’s stall in the monastery church is secluded, though. We can go to hear the singing.” The singing of the monks of Saint Martial was famous everywhere in Christendom, and she meant to hear it, although that meant going out through the streets in foul weather.

Eleanor turned away from the glass and made no more fuss. She lay back on the bed, and her eyes closed. Her belly mounded up the bedclothes. Petronilla realized with satisfaction that her sister was actually obeying her.

She had become Eleanor even to Eleanor, she thought, and inwardly she laughed at that.

De Rançun came in, with many bows and scrapes, a crust of melting snow on his shoulder. “The King has arrived,” he said, talking to them both, his eyes moving back and forth between them. “Everybody here is talking about the lady Petronilla and that she’s about to have her baby.”

Eleanor sat up; she gave a snort of laughter. She adjusted herself awkwardly on the bed; Alys came to pile pillows and cushions behind her. In spite of the smoking braziers the room was still icy. Marie-Jeanne hung Eleanor’s cloak around her again, but the size of her body was evident even through that curtain. “How does my lord the King seem?”

“He looked cold and tired,” de Rançun said. He turned slightly toward her to answer. “He paid no heed to any of the talk about the lady Petronilla. He and his lot are in the main tower, overlooking this one; they shall see us coming and going, every step.” Dimly through the stone walls, the first peals of church bells rang out.

“Is it still snowing?” Petronilla asked.

“Yes, my lady,” he said, glancing back at her over his shoulder.

“Good.” She yawned behind her hand. “Then we shall not go out at all this day.”

Eleanor said, “Keep watch on them, Joffre. Listen to their gossip. I must know everything.”

“I am, Your Grace. I will report.” He turned to Petronilla and said, quietly, “Well done, my lady.” He went out of the room. Petronilla leaned her head on her hand, enjoying Alys’s brushing of her hair, and shut her eyes.

In the morning the snow had stopped; Eleanor and Petronilla picked their way through the icy streets and across the river to the monastery, to hear Mass and listen to the monks sing. Petronilla went in Eleanor’s clothes, and Eleanor in her white widow’s gowns, and then suddenly, in the courtyard of the monastery church, they came face-to-face with the King and his court.

Thierry was among them. Petronilla saw him through a sudden blaze of hatred; she tore her gaze away and drew herself and her train back out of the King’s path, bowing as she did. She remembered to give her bow the kind of extravagant flourish Eleanor always presented to the King, a sort of mockery. Louis only paused a moment, his eyes throwing her a swift, shy glance, and then went on. Beside him, the Vicomte was engrossed in the King and paid no heed to her at all. Relieved, she watched them pass. Louis looked sick again, gray around the jowls; the south had always disagreed with him. Behind three monks swinging censers, he paced up the steps toward the yawning church door.

In his train, Thierry lingered a moment, glaring back over his shoulder, and his face twisted suddenly, his lips quivering. Then he was hastening off after his master. Petronilla, her mouth dry, led the women quickly off to the Queen’s stall and there sat down on a stool.

The church was old, dark even in the morning. Decked for Advent, its crucifix robed in white, the altar hung with white cloths, the church seemed in a kind of mourning. At the back and to the left, the Queen’s stall was high enough that even though the place was filling up with worshippers, Petronilla saw clearly all the way to the altar, where the priests were performing the prayers before the Mass. To her right, on the far side of the church, she could see the King, or where he was, anyway; a carved screen hid him and his court.

As she watched, someone peered around the screen, looking at her, and she sat upright, looking straight ahead, and held her head high and was Eleanor.

Then from the choir there burst out such a blast of song that her whole body rippled with it.

 

 

Unlike other sacred singing, these voices flowed in separate streams, wove together into webs of notes, and the shimmering sound seemed almost to make her ears drunken. The lush music poured over her, and for a moment she hardly even heard the words in the majesty of the sound.

The songs never told of the mother. Petronilla thought of Mary, big like Eleanor, her baby also of a parlous father. Her mind drifted unwillingly to her sister’s baby. She had seen traces of blood on the bedclothes, but Eleanor would not discuss it.
God have mercy
, she thought. She could not lose it now. She thought of Mary again, who had endured everything for Jesus’ sake, done as she was asked, meek and mild, and been exalted for it. She wondered if Eleanor was somehow defying God.

Something poked her in the back, and she started. She realized that in her gloom she had bent over, curled forward, fallen out of the proud Eleanor into her own smaller, feebler self. It was Eleanor who had prodded her. Stiff with resentment, she straightened and squared herself, raising her head into its queenly curve, looking toward the altar.

Now she listened to the music, and note by note opened up to its glory, climbing around and around itself like a ladder to heaven. In spite of her mood, she began to feel herself lifted, borne upward on the song.

She wished she could make her life as true and perfect as the song, which followed its sure inerrant course through ever-changing curtains of voices, a magic way through the forests of the night. This was a thicket she was in; she could not tell anymore what was true in what she was doing. Who she was, really. Eleanor had surely betrayed Louis, although she had never chosen him, and what did it mean, anyway, a loyalty forced on her? Everybody knew that to be binding, an oath had to be freely given. She remembered the master from the Studium, destroying sin with this one idea. And she, Petronilla, had betrayed no one. All she did was to help her sister.

Yet from one view, she knew, she sinned as much as Eleanor, helping her, abetting her against the King, overturning the order of God.

Still, if she believed she was innocent, did that not matter more? Aristotle had said something: The meaning of an act is in the intent. Even if everybody else believed she was guilty, her intention, to help her sister, was no sin.

That was the danger, she saw, that was how good souls found their way down to hell, by playing with the words and forgetting the meaning. But she didn’t know what any of this meant. If she was guilty of something, what was her sin, then, and how did she atone for it? What did she confess?

She had lost the music again, fallen into the jumble of mere noise. She crossed herself. They had set themselves on this course, and they could not change it now. What the end would be she could not make out, if she ever had, really. She felt divided in half: her sister, and her sister’s sister. Neither seemed the true Petronilla. She lifted her head, trying to find the way again through the music.

SOUTH OF LE MANS
DECEMBER 1151

 

 

 

Henry looked up from the ragged slip of paper. He had been coming out the door when this man suddenly approached him; he swept a sharp look around the courtyard again, still wary. Around him were only his own men. He lowered his eyes to the note. It occurred to him he had never seen her written hand before. It could be false. He said to the rough-cut man in front of him, “Where did you get this?”

“In Poitiers, my lord.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“The Queen, the lady of Aquitaine.” His voice rang with a quick pride. He looked Henry in the eyes and gave him no deference.

“The people you were traveling with—where are they now?”

“Going toward the Boulogne road, when I left.”

Henry thought he was telling the truth. Anyhow, he could not take the chance. He wheeled, caught the eye of the page waiting behind him, and sent him for Robert de Courcy. He folded the paper quickly in half. If it was true—if it was true—Impulsively he kissed it. Robert came rushing up to him.

“Get us horses. Ten men, the best.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Henry swung back toward this odd messenger. “You’re going with us.”

That startled him, the arrogant bastard. “My lord, my mule won’t—”

“Get him a horse.” Henry thrust the battered note into the pouch on his belt. If it was false, he would have this man to answer for it. He went on down the steps into the courtyard, then paced up and down a moment. His gaze went again to the messenger. Not Occitan, he thought, not even French; dark, with dark eyes, long ears. Puzzled, he lowered his eyes to the stranger’s hands. Soft and slender; not a warrior’s hands. But a warrior’s pride. The grooms were coming with the horses. He said, “What’s your name?”

“Thomas, my lord.”

“Thomas,” he said, “let’s get going.”

At noon, the company of travelers stopped in a good-sized village, and Claire got down from her mount, her bottom aching. She stayed close by the horse, watching the people around her. She had the lute still in her arms, and she looped the strap over her shoulder. Being alone with all these strangers made her edgy. Then someone spoke to her.

She jumped. It was the Flemish merchant, an older man, with long face whiskers and a tuft of beard. He said, “My nightingale. I could not but notice your . . . companion is gone. Let me offer you my table for the midday meal; you will be safe with me and my servants.”

Her tongue ran over her lips; it was in her mind to refuse, but then her stomach growled. She said nothing, and he nodded.

“Come into the inn. I will have the board spread.” He went away, a little crooked with his age under his expensive fur-trimmed coat. Her heart leaped with gratitude at his kindness.

She went into the inn and sat the board with him and his servants, and they gave her meat and broth and bread and wine. She was glad of this, and for their friendliness also. The merchant sat not far from her and gave her a smile, and she smiled back and thanked him.

“You have given me great joy, you and your fellow singer,” he said. “Such music is rare even in the south, where everyone sings.” He nodded. “I note he left you with the child.”

She jumped, cold, until she realized he meant the lute. It was a joke. He smiled. She made herself laugh. “Oh, yes,” she said. “He will be back soon. Maybe by tonight.”

The Fleming nodded. “Then I invite you to keep company with us until then. Where are you going?”

“To Rouen,” she said.

“Ah, well, then, we will leave you tomorrow afternoon, where the road breaks off to go to Boulogne. But until then I would be honored if you traveled with us.”

“Thank you,” she said. “But he should be back by tonight.”