Devil's Consort (61 page)

‘It’s his influence, isn’t it?’ Louis’s stare at Raymond
was vicious. ‘It’s the self-seeking ambition of a man who has lured you into his power by fair means or foul!’

‘Foul means …? Don’t be a fool, Louis!’ I felt Raymond stir as if to take issue, his hand automatically moving to the knife at his belt, and put out my hand to stop him. I’d misjudged Louis, thinking he would bow before a stronger force. I saw the anger begin to build, the violence that could sometimes race out of control, as the ill-fated de Lezay had once experienced. But I would not back down. ‘Surely any commander of insight would see the good sense of Prince Raymond’s plan of campaign—to attack the Turks in their own base, to drain their strength. But if you choose not to see it …’

It was if I had struck him. Louis loped round the table, clumsy in his urgency, to lurch to a halt so close that his foot crushed the embroidered hem of my gown. ‘Insight be damned! You’ll not stay here. You’ll come with me when I leave, even if I have to tear you away by force!’

Like the crack of a whip his hand closed on mine as if he would drag me from the room, but Raymond’s reaction was even swifter, gripping Louis’s wrist, fingers white so that Louis winced and cried out, letting me go.

‘Tear her away from here by force, man?’ Raymond snarled. ‘Have you gone mad?’

I took a breath, stunned by this show of open
violence, yet still with enough presence of mind to take a step between Louis and Raymond.

‘My lords …’

‘Take your hands off me,’ Louis demanded.

‘You’ll not force her without her consent,’ Raymond flung back. ‘Is she some common kitchen slut to be ordered by you?’

‘She’s my wife and will obey me.’

‘I will not leave Antioch.’ I added to the tension.

There we stood, a three-cornered knot of savage hostility at odds with the sophisticated surroundings, our audience looking on open-mouthed.

‘Are we to have this debate in public?’ Louis, unbecomingly flushed, lashed at me. ‘It’s my right to demand your presence with me. I’ll not brook your refusal, Eleanor. You’ll not dictate terms to me. You are my wife and you will obey me.’

What a day for ill-judged statements. For a long moment I appraised my husband. The furiously working mouth and staring eyes, the clenched fists and monkish attire. This was the man to whom I was tied. By God, it appalled me, but my control was superb.

‘Your wife? Yes, I am. I consider it my misfortune.’

Was this the moment? Should I do it, should I act on the compulsion that had been building and growing within me? My mind flew back to that far distant day when I had visited the Bishop of Laon. It was as if I stood in his room overlooking the green-banked river rather than here in the arid heat of Outremer. What
would it take to be separated from this man who demanded my obedience? This man who had destroyed any vestige of affection or respect or loyalty in our marriage. I knew the steps, but dare I take them?

Everyone was looking at me. How long had I been standing in silence, listening to the Bishop of Laon in my mind, following his pointing finger on the manuscript under his hand? When Galeran shuffled up, and with a hand to Louis’s shoulder leaned to whisper in his ear, when I picked up the words’ … wife … humour her … later we can remove …’ my decision was made.

Humour me, would he? My memory of the content of the clever Bishop of Laon’s document was prodigious. I raised my voice so that everyone in the room would hear and there would be no doubt of my sentiments.

‘Yes, I am your wife, and as such under your dominion, my lord. But the days of that dominion are numbered.’

‘What’s this?’ Louis was puzzled, turning a frowning look from me to Galeran as if the Templar might read my mind. ‘I don’t understand.’

I felt my heart beat against my ribs with terrible anticipation. Dare I do it? Yes, I dared!

‘There’s no misunderstanding, Louis. You heard me. Here, in this council, I state my case. I want our marriage to end. I demand an annulment.’

‘W
ELCOME
, lady. Everything has been made ready for you. Come and regain your strength. Rest now. Be at ease.’

As rich and smooth as the oil from the olive trees that had lined our route. As succulently sweet and melting to a frozen heart as a cup of hippocras on a winter’s eve. Raymond helped me to alight from the cushioned travelling litter he had provided for me into the sun-filled courtyard of his palace. He smiled at me and I smiled at him as bright memory rushed back.

Raymond of Poitiers, my father’s young brother, who, landless and ambitious, had taken himself to England as a young lad where he had been reared and trained for knighthood until King Fulk of Jerusalem had invited him to travel to Outremer and become ruler of Antioch. Raymond’s visit to us in Aquitaine en route for that honour, when I was barely twelve years old,
had left a lasting impression. Only nine years older than I, yet already a man to my young girl, he had been tall, immensely strong and ridiculously good to look at. And he could sing. I recalled the velvet-warm vibrancy of his voice as he had sung the troubadour’s verses of love and devotion of a man for a woman. Sometimes he had been audacious enough to sing them to me. I had watched him as he’d honed his knightly talents in the tilt yard, battling with sword and mace. On horseback he had been a dream of long-limbed grace, of power, of polished skill. Raymond had laughed and danced and played foolish games. For those few short weeks he had entranced me, before disappearing as fast as he had arrived, all energy and vital life, like a magic creature from a troubadour’s tale.

Oh, yes! I recalled Raymond of Poitiers. I had not forgotten him, this epitome of gilded knighthood. And now here he was, in the flesh, welcoming me into his home.

‘This is wonderful!’ It was all I could think to say as I looked around, astonished at the wealth, the sheer luxury. All the fears and that terrible sense of isolation that had dogged me for days now calmed to leave me enfolded in luxuriant pleasure.

Raymond smiled and took my hand to lead me up the flight of shallow steps. ‘I think it will remind you of home. Of Aquitaine.’

‘Oh, it does. It does.’ I did not wait to see if Louis
followed me. In that moment I did not care if I never set eyes on him again.

‘Let me introduce you.’ A young woman was waiting at the top of the steps, her hands lifted to take mine. ‘My wife, Constance.’

I knew of her, daughter and heiress of the late King Bohemond of Antioch. We kissed formally as required.

‘My husband’s family is welcome here.’

Clad in flowing eastern robes, a small, fair young woman with soft blue eyes, a little younger than I, she smiled shyly before leaving us.

‘My wife keeps to the ways of the seraglio,’ Raymond explained.

So I was left to experience this manner of living in Raymond’s care. The sunshine touched my head, my shoulders. It was as warmly embracing and dulcet as a southern spring in the castles of my childhood. On the ten-mile journey from Saint Simeon I had cast back the curtains to look out in wonder. I had not expected so magnificent a city, or the instantly recognisable trace of Greek and Roman foundations as I had known in the cities of Aquitaine. Antioch unfolded before me like a precious book as it gripped the terraces on the slopes of Mount Silpius, quite magically shimmering in the light. So beautiful it was. If I did not love my own Aquitaine so much, I would choose to live here, I decided in that moment. No wonder Raymond was captivated by it. No wonder he was in fear for its survival at the hands
of the Turks. Hanging gardens, tumbling from terrace to terrace, perfumed the air, as did the tall sentinels of pine woods. Orange and lemon groves hemmed us in, their heavy perfume intoxicating.

And then the city. As we entered under the arched portal, it promised comfort in colonnaded villas, its streets paved with marble, a pleasure to walk along. All protected from those who wished us ill by great walls and watch towers.

All now under threat, however impregnable they seemed. It broke my heart that this would be overrun if Turkish aggression was not halted. But now was not the time for such heart-tearing. Indeed I was too weary for it. Here was friendship and quiet enjoyment and the easy tolerance of family. Mount Cadmos with its failure, its hurt and rejection, seemed a thousand miles and an equal number of years away. For the briefest of moments as I stood on the steps I closed my eyes and let my feverish mind rest.

‘You look weary, Eleanor.’ Raymond drew me into the first of a series of cool audience chambers. ‘You look as if you have travelled far and hard.’

‘How flattering you are!’ My cracked lips managed to smile even as I felt the burn of tears. ‘You have no knowledge of how far and how hard it has been.’ His concern struck deep and I was forced to blink. I must be more tired than I had thought.

‘You’ll soon recover your beauty. What better place than this?’ It wrapped me around, as smooth as the
silk of the new robes laid out for me on my bed, as soft as the swan’s down of the pillows provided for me. Without fuss, without drawing attention, Raymond handed me a square of linen to wipe my eyes.

‘I can think of nowhere better.’ I touched his hand in gratitude.

‘I trust there are accommodations for my knights, sir,’ Louis broke in, his voice cold, his Latin clipped. And I realised that Raymond and I had slipped into the
langue d’oc
through ease and habit. Rude, but not intentionally.

Louis had not even noticed that I was so weak as to weep in public.

‘Of course.’ With the slightest apologetic smile to me, Raymond now gave his attentions to his noble guest, returning to educated Latin. ‘Forgive me, Majesty. If I have been remiss, it is only that your wife’s health gives me concern. But now I see that she needs only rest and time.’ He gestured to a waiting servant to present Louis with a cup of wine. ‘You are as free of my hospitality as my dear niece. Your knights have all been allotted accommodation in villas and palaces as befits their rank. You may stay and enjoy what we can offer you as long as you need. Certainly until you have recovered from your ordeal.’

Churlishly, Louis refused the wine. ‘We cannot impose on your hospitality long.’

‘We can stay for a little while.’ I tried to draw the
sting of Louis’s discourtesy. ‘Our knights and foot soldiers need to recover.’

That only earned a sharp response from Louis. ‘We must press on to Jerusalem.’

‘Undoubtedly you must. And we will talk of that.’ The perfect host, in no manner disturbed, Raymond snapped his fingers to summon a waiting steward. ‘Show His Majesty to his quarters.’ Then he turned back to me. ‘Now, let me show you to your rooms, Eleanor. They have the most magnificent view to the north towards Trebizond …’

But I was considering not the views from the palace but Raymond.

He had grown, filled out into manhood since we last met, as fair as I recalled and even more impressively regal, and I saw in his sun-kissed skin and hair, in his patrician cast of feature, in those intense blue eyes the noble blood of Aquitaine—the troubadour, the wily politician, the flamboyantly handsome warrior lord. Warmth flooded back into me from my crown to my toes.

I walked with him to my rooms, senses adrift.

It was like a dream. A sensuous, scented dream. With the windows—superbly glazed now—open to the warm air, I bathed in fragrant water, lulled by perfumed candles. Servants moved silently to bring me fruit and sweetmeats from a fragile porcelain dish and a goblet of wine chilled with mountain snow. Potions
and salves were brought, redolent of herbs, to anoint my wind-and rain-cracked skin. After Mount Cadmos and its aftermath, the glamour of Raymond and his court overwhelmed me. I sank into it, wallowed in it, luxuriated in it. Some of my wounds healed with the scented water that ran into the bowls.

I sank up to my nose in the water in a mosaic tub as I admired this room I had been given. Frescoed walls with a charming frieze of musicians and dancers who leapt and capered, and for my own pleasure a serving girl strummed softly on a lute. When I rose from the tub to a servant waiting with the finest of linen, a silk gown was provided for me, soft footwear and a jewelled band to hold the transparent veil, material so delicate that it slipped through my fingers.

I had never experienced such unabashed luxury.

From my window where I leaned, hands spread on the warm stone, I looked out to the view that Raymond had praised, dominated by Mount Lebanon. There in the valley, tiny figures in the distance, were the strings of camels that followed the caravan routes to bring Antioch its wealth. A fortune in spices and dyes, silk and perfume and porcelain.

Drawn by the sight of cool greenery, I made my way into the garden to sit amongst the flowers. Where, later, Raymond found me.

‘That’s better.’ Sitting beside me on the cushioned stone bench, stretching out his long legs in urbane ease, he tucked back a curl of my hair that was rapidly drying
in the sun and escaping from my veil. ‘I had forgotten how lovely you are. Or how intense your hair is when the sun shines through it.’ He let one of the tresses curl round his finger, memory smiling in his eyes. ‘I remember calling you a vixen when you were a red-haired child.’

‘So do I. It infuriated me.’

‘Now you have become a beauty. How long is it since we last met?’

‘Twelve years or more.’ I tried to laugh, and failed. ‘I was but a child—careless and ignorant and still unwed.’ Even I heard the bitterness in my voice.

‘So you were.’

He drew my hand through his arm, stood and led me to the balustraded edge from where we could look across the expanse of palace and gardens, golden stone, soft greens and the riot of exotic flowers. There was a silence between us, as if Raymond waited for me to decide to speak. If that was what I wished. And so, lured by someone who had a care for me, I did.

‘I am no longer careless and ignorant.’ Raymond’s quiet interest invited confidences. ‘The last months—the last years—impossible! They have made me aware of …’ I could not put it into words after all.

‘You are not content.’