The Secret Eleanor (29 page)

“Joffre cannot do it. We have learned—through good fortune, and some bribes and listening—Louis has entertained a messenger from England, who is going back there, now, as we go on south. He carries a letter it would be of great benefit for the Duke of Normandy to have.”

“Hmmm,” said Petronilla. “The way to the English throne of course is bought with English nobles.”

“Yes, I think so. To get back to England the messenger must go within reach of Duke Henry, and if he is warned in time the Duke can get that letter. I want the troubadour to go with the messenger’s train. It’s a perfect disguise; there will be many travelers, and he will be welcome enough for what he is. And the troubadour can alert Henry to the opportunity while the King’s man is still within his reach.”

Petronilla lifted her eyebrows, her eyes considering. “A good plan. If he fails, what’s lost? If he succeeds . . . Well plotted, Eleanor. You are master of this.”

Eleanor sat back, satisfied. Whatever the appearance, Petronilla still bowed to her. She was still the real Duchess of Aquitaine. At once she laughed inwardly, to think it could be otherwise. She sent a page for the troubadour.

He left the next day, going north with a band of travelers of whom one was the King of England’s man, in some disguise. Unfortunately, Claire left with him, which Eleanor had not foreseen.

The Queen and her sister and their train rode out of Poitiers very early in the morning, for once ahead of the King, because the crowds should have been less then. But when the people heard that Eleanor was leaving, although the dawn was just breaking, they flooded into the streets and cheered her all the way to the gate.

Petronilla traveled at the center of it; she battled the frisky Barbary horse, who spooked in the surging tide of bodies, bounced and tossed his head, his ears wigwagging and his breath exploding from his nostrils. All the while she struggled to hold herself high-headed, straight and proud, the way Eleanor did, to greet the tumult gladly, as Eleanor did.

This was becoming somewhat easier. When she could take one hand off the reins, she waved, laughing at the mobbed frantic faces screaming a name that wasn’t hers: With some relief, she realized she could do this as well as Eleanor.

In the wagon behind her, her sister rode comfortably, protected, out of all eyes. What could be wrong in that? She knew she was doing the right thing.

Once they left the city behind, she motioned de Rançun on ahead, to keep them to a steady pace so that the King’s procession would not catch up. The Barb anyway fussed if she tried to hold him down. Yet she dared not let him step out too freely; she could feel under her in the quick muscular shifting of his body how he would hump his back up if she gave him his head at all, and she knew he wanted more than anything else to throw her into the nearest ditch. He played endlessly with the bit, trying to work it up between his teeth; the reins had worn blisters into her little fingers.

Even out on the high road, she was still Eleanor, as whenever anyone saw her, people came rushing up from all sides, shouting and waving. This grew wearisome after a while. She saw ever more clearly the virtue of being only the younger sister. She felt her life seeping away into this false life. The Barb tossed his head, and she realized she was holding him too tight, and she let the reins slide a little through her fingers. He kicked up his heels as soon as he felt that. She stayed in the saddle; she had him mastered now, and he could not throw her off. She laughed, pleased.

Thomas had a mule, and somewhere he had found a smaller, gentler one for Claire; they joined a group of people going north that got larger all through the first day. There was a Flemish merchant with his servants and some pack beasts, a tinker with his pots hanging from his belt, three monks, a Jew on a white donkey, a half dozen palmers, a man leading a string of pack mules. As they went along, some market wives joined them, walking up to the next village, one with a goose under her arm. They spent that first night in an open field, scattered apart under the far-flung stars.

Thomas said, quietly, “Are you sorry you came?”

She huddled in her cloak, as near their little fire as she could get without burning; they had brought bread and cheese and there was a little wine left. Across the meadow she could hear the shout of voices at the big fire, where the Flemish merchant and the monks and pilgrims all gathered and were getting drunk.

She said, “I’m sorry I’m so cold. I’m sorry there’s nowhere to sleep but the ground.” She looked up at him. “I’m not sorry I came.”

He smiled at her. He was replacing strings on the lute; the twisted lines of gut were set in pairs, and so he needed to put in two at once. A little jar of oil sat by his knee. He turned the wooden peg with one hand to tighten the string. “Well, I’m glad you came. You surprised me, Clariza. I didn’t know you were so brave.”

She said nothing. He had not told her why the Queen had sent him north, only that she had. When he said he was leaving, she gave no thought at all to staying behind. She would not give this up, being with him, the music, which was the same thing.

He said, “Here, listen to this,” and played a little playful run of notes. Frowning, he twisted the wooden peg again. “I thought of that for the King’s song.”

She sang it, under her breath; he was still working on his long story about the knight of sorrows, and the queen who loved him. She had heard most of it in several versions. “Is it too merry?”

“Try this.” He played it again, this time slower, one note stepped down, so it sounded sad.

“That’s better,” she said. She wondered if she could make songs, too. It amazed her how he drew meanings and feelings out of a piece of wood and some entrails. “Let’s sing,” she said. “No one will hear.”

He laughed at her. “You are the only musician I have ever met who doesn’t want anyone to hear.” He picked out the notes of the opening to the knight of sorrow; gladly she lifted her voice to the song.

Two days later they came into Chatellerault. The Jew at once went to his own people in the city, and the rest of them moved into a dank, stinking inn by the river. There for a lot of money the innkeeper brought them bread and wine. The Flemish merchant and his servants took over the only separate room.

There was only one hearth, and everybody else gathered close around it. Night closed in. Claire bundled her cloak around her; the smell of burnt garlic, piss, sweat, and filthy clothes made it hard to breathe. She wondered how she would sleep in such a crowd. Thomas put his arm around her. Against her will, she began to think of the Queen’s apartments in the Maubergeon, the airy rooms, the quiet, the food and the wine, and her mood gave a little lurch downward. Maybe she had made a mistake. He was pulling her closer; he kissed her forehead. He knew, then, that she wasn’t as brave as he thought. As foolish as she acted. A flutter of panic ran over her skin. She stiffened, holding herself away from him, thinking,
I could still go back.

From the other side of the hearth, someone said, “Sing.”

The rest of the group murmured, agreeing. She looked up, surprised, and the man across the way nodded at her. He was the tinker, an older man, his face seamed and lapped with lines. “Sing, the two of you, like the other night.”

Claire flushed. She had not known they listened. Thomas straightened and reached for his lute. “You see,” he said to her, and his fingers moved deftly over the strings. “Let’s sing the Queen’s song.” He knew it was her favorite.

She licked her lips, trying to gather her rattled attention to the music. They were all watching her, these strangers. She began, and at first her voice wavered. She remembered to straighten, to bring it all the way up from her belly. Then his voice joined hers, and she turned and her gaze met his eyes. The rest of the room faded away, and their voices rose together.

Her fear fled. This was what she loved, what she wanted best to do, no matter where it led her.

A door opened somewhere. They were coming in from the other room to listen. She sat watching him play, and giving forth music, and even in the cold and the dark, her spirit soared up; she thought,
I have done well. I am brave, after all
. She laughed, even as she sang, content.

“What do you want, then?” Thomas asked pleasantly, later, in the dark. “To jump over a broomstick?”

She kept her eyes shut, although they were in the darkest corner of the inn’s garret. The innkeeper had brought them up there, with many flourishes, as if he gave away a hidden treasure: this tiny bare room, the narrow pallet. She said, “I want nothing to change.”

Her body still sang with triumph. They had won this place, singing half the night in the tavern; her voice was still raw from the hard work of it, her ears still full of the thunderous applause, the cries for more, the calls of desire and longing and tribute.

“Nothing will change,” he said, “save I will have a comfortable bed, up there with you, instead of sleeping down on the floor.”

She put her hand out, meaning to shut this off. He had been edging toward this since they left Poitiers, but tonight was the first time they had been alone enough. “Good night, Thomas.”

His fingertips touched hers. Then, softer than a whisper, he was singing.

She had to strain to hear him, hold her breath, lean a little toward him. He sang in his own tongue, some strange words whose tenderness came even through their strangeness, note by note of sweetness. She shut her eyes, lulled. He was coming closer. His lips brushed her cheek.

She started a little, but he was singing; and the voice smoothed over her, wiped away her fears, and lifted her, expectant. She held her breath to hear him sing. For a moment he only leaned over her, his lips near her face, the soft words crooned into her ear. Then slowly he slid into the bed beside her.

She trembled; she had known this would come. She could say no. She could deny him. Oh, but she could not deny this. She had always wanted this. He took her cheeks between his two hands and sang to her until the tears sprang in her eyes. He stopped singing only to kiss her.

That was a song, too, that deep, sweet kiss, gentle and eager. She parted her lips. Let him stroke the inside of her cheek with his tongue. Uncertainly, she put her tongue into the warmth of his mouth.

He sucked her tongue. She let a moan slip out of her, and somewhere deep down in her body a little spark leaped. He shifted against her, and one hand slipped inside her gown.

“Clariza. My darling one. My wife. Clariza.”

She gasped, at his touch, at what he said. Were they married, then? Oh, the warmth of his hand on her breast. His thumb on her nipple, as if he played the strings of his lute. He sang into her ear as he stripped away her clothes. He mouthed her collarbone, pressed his mouth to the pulse in her throat. She ran her fingers through his thick curly hair, her body warm, singing with him. He knew just where to touch her. He whispered her name again. She lifted her knees to him, drunk on the song, and he slid his hands under her backside. Something hard rubbed against her woman’s part, fit into it, and then stroked up into her so suddenly she yelled out. She gasped, filled to the brim. She flung her arms around his neck, clutching him, panting, her eyes squeezed shut, amazed. It hurt. Her body throbbed. She groaned, with hurt, with excitement. He held her tight against him, singing.