The Secret Eleanor (6 page)

The Occitan people themselves had seemed different to her than those in Paris: loud, but not harsh; forceful, but not judging; proud, but not contemptuous. She ached to go back; she longed to be a girl again, in Poitiers. But they kept Eleanor here, in Paris, under key, under watch, and that meant Petronilla stayed here, too.

She would never be a girl again. And perhaps Poitiers was out of reach also, a fairy kingdom, lost in spells. Her spirits sank. She saw disaster ahead for them. Eleanor, in her heedless rush to have everything she wanted, was falling in love with her husband’s worst enemy.

Eleanor had not asked for help. Eleanor had commanded it. She was gritting her teeth again, tears in her eyes again. Eleanor always got her way. She dashed at her eyes, angry at herself for this weakness.

Maybe they could just run away. Maybe, in Poitiers, she could forget about Ralph, and be happy.

She wanted to forget Ralph. She felt now that everything between them had been a sham.

She wiped her eyes on the damp bedclothes. She couldn’t just run away. Eleanor’s marriage was like an iron cage all around them, and she could see no gate through it. She had to trust Eleanor. She had to have faith that whatever Eleanor was scheming would make both of them happy somehow. She knew she would do what Eleanor wanted, anyway. Everybody, in the end, did whatever Eleanor wanted. And she was only Eleanor’s little sister, not even a wife anymore; what choice had she? She squeezed her eyes shut, aching for the oblivion of sleep.

It rained all night, but the morning, fortunately, was fine, and not so hot. The women bustled in, carrying the tray, the cups, the warming pan, the little jars of spice. They gathered in the middle of the room. Petronilla looked drowsy. “I didn’t sleep well,” she said. “You dreamed, again.” As if this were some new crime of Eleanor’s, to dream.

Eleanor leaned toward her, keen with conspiracy. Under her breath she whispered, “Are you ready?” She ignored the little hesitancy in her sister’s manner. Petronilla would warm to this; they had always loved to play tricks on people, even when they were children.

Petronilla’s head bobbed. She reached for the cup of wine and announced, as if she were some kind of herald, that she would go out after Mass and cross the river to the Studium, to hear the masters speak of Aristotle.

“Fetch a page for Joffre de Rançun. He can escort me.”

Alys said, “My lady, you said you were tired—”

“I’m fine now,” Petronilla said. “I can’t stay cooped up in here all day long.” She seemed almost angry, and Alys backed away, her hands up, placating.

Eleanor said, “Be careful, Petra. Perhaps Alys is right.”

Her sister gave her a quick, fretful, warning look. “I will be fine. I love the Studium.” Her voice had a knife edge to it.
Do you want me to go along with this or not?

“Very well,” Eleanor said hastily. “You know I can deny you nothing.”

Alys said, “My lady, should not one of us go with you?”

Eleanor stiffened, alarmed, but Petronilla laughed. “Which of you would not fall asleep before the masters and disgrace me? Joffre will be there.” She waved her hand to end the conversation. “I am going; say no more. No one else will care anyway.”

They went to Mass and then ate bread and cheese. Afterward, Petronilla sent a page down to make sure that Joffre de Rançun had brought her little mare.

She turned, and Alys swung her white cloak around her. Petronilla pinned the veil up over her face. Over the top edge, her sister’s eyes found Eleanor’s. “Good day, Eleanor.”

Eleanor smiled, and the understanding passed between them. Petronilla swept out the door. Eleanor paced around the room, unable to be still, while the women watched her owlishly and jumped at her every turn. Claire stuck herself with a needle and wailed, which made the rest all laugh.

After what seemed half the day, the bells began to clang for Nones, which was the signal. She wore only a plain dark gown, and now she went herself to the wardrobe and took out her red hooded cloak.

“Where are you going?” the women all said at once.

She whirled the cloak around her. “I am going out into the garden for a while. And no one is to go with me, or follow me. You will stay here, or I will wring all your necks, one by one.” She glared at them, even Marie-Jeanne and Alys, whom she loved, whom she trusted. “And if any of you watch at the window, I shall know.” She raked them with a scowl and went to the door.

The guard there, as usual, was half-asleep; she got past him before he could stir and ran down the stairs. There on the first landing, in the dark angle between the stair and the wall, Petronilla was waiting. They needed no words but acted together as if they were one; Petronilla seized the red cloak from Eleanor, and Eleanor flung the white cloak on and tugged the veil over her face, and was on down the next flight of steps almost without pausing, and into the bright sunlight.

De Rançun, faithful and good, was there as he had promised, with Petronilla’s small brown mare. Eleanor rode astride, but Petronilla always rode aside, so now she let de Rançun lift her up to sit sideways on the saddle, knees demurely together, and de Rançun led her off toward the little bridge, which crossed onto the Left Bank of the Seine.

She lowered her head and kept her hands on the saddle pommel, to look meek, like Petronilla, but in her heart she laughed and danced for her freedom like a bacchant.

Petronilla, swathed in the red cloak, kept her head down under the hood as she walked out by the guard. From there a short turn took her out through the door into the garden. She squared her shoulders, trying to carry herself with Eleanor’s pride and grandeur, her head high; it felt very unnatural, as if some iron bar ran down her back, and her toes barely touched the ground. But she strode off down between the rows of rosemary bushes toward the far wall.

Her anger at Eleanor faded. To her surprise she was enjoying this, after the long boring summer brooding over Ralph. If Ralph knew she was doing something so bold, anyway, he would be amazed, maybe even admiring. He had always admired Eleanor for daring what she did. She wondered what Eleanor did now.

She went a long way down the garden without turning around, but then almost to the little postern gate, she whirled around and looked back.

Up in the top of the tower, in the chamber window, several faces popped quickly down out of sight. Before they could vanish, she saw that there were only two of them, and she gave a crow of laughter. Without waiting for further signs that she was being followed, she went on the length of the garden to the postern and let herself out the narrow wooden gate.

She walked along more slowly, wanting to let whoever was coming after her keep on the track. This western tip of the city island narrowed down to a flat yellow spit, ending in three tiny shoals whose sandy banks barely rose above the surface of the river. The ground above the spit was sloping and covered with grass and yellow flowers; here some early king had built a wall of earth, which since had crumbled under a thousand rains to grassy lumpy mounds. She went along the curve of this relic, never looking back, toward the gardens and houses of the city.

At her approach a flock of little birds flew up in a busy whir of wings. Turning east again, almost at the water’s edge, she went up the bank, past a man with a hoe, to his knees in onion greens, who bobbed toward her and pulled his forelock without ever stopping in his toil. In the first cluster of houses, a goat browsing on one of the thatched roofs gave her a long look, its jaws munching. Between two of the little mud-daubed houses she could see down to the river, where women were washing their laundry.

The bustle and racket of the city rose around her. She could hear the thunder of the mill by the big bridge, and ahead of her a shrill voice was hawking meat pies. The path was wide and dusty here. A white chicken scratched industriously at the ground as if to summon worms by sheer desire.

The air smelled of smoke and garlic and baking bread. A stream of half-naked children ran past, shrieking. She started to turn to watch them, remembering when she had been such a carefree child, but thought of her duty, and kept her eyes forward. She went along a crumbling wall of yellow stones meshed in a rose vine, pink petals fallen like warm snow on the ground.

Behind that was a little stable connected to the monastery beyond; the monks, she knew of old, used it seldom. Bright orange lichens like round badges grew on the stone wall, and half the slates of the roof were missing. The door was balky, and she needed all her strength to push it open.

Inside the air was still and dusty and dark. Something scuttled away from her into the shelter of the stone wall. A great musty heap of hay stood in the middle of the space. She circled that, going to one side, where a broken shutter covered a little window. The shutter’s missing slats let in thin fingers of light, filmy with suspended dust. She took the red cloak off and hung it over the shutter, so that someone peeping in from outside could see it.

Then she went nimbly out through the back, climbing like a child over a manger and squeezing through another little window, and circled through the monastery’s neglected orchard toward the old rose-covered wall, and hid there, crouching behind the stones, where she could watch the stable door.

For a while nothing happened, and she fretted that the game had failed, that they were even now pulling Eleanor from her wicked bed. But then along came the pasty-faced Claire, and she had Thierry Galeran with her.

Petronilla clasped her hands together, her heart merry. She watched them notice the red cloak; Claire pointed, and the King’s secretary grabbed the girl roughly and put his hand over her mouth. Hot-eyed, eager, he tore the grating door aside and plunged on into the stable, with Claire now on his heels.

Petronilla held her breath, waiting, her eyes on the bit of red showing through the shutter; then she heard a roar of rage, and the red cloak was snatched away. She covered her mouth with her hand, to keep from laughing out loud. Something crashed in there. He was stamping around searching for her among the mangers and the musty hay.

There was a yelp of pain inside the stable, and a volley of curses, and a thump. Out the yawning door came Claire, shrieking, her coif torn and dangling, her hands stretched out before her as she tried to run away, and from behind Thierry pounced on her and punched his fist into her and knocked her down and kicked her.

Petronilla froze, horrified. She could not protest this, could not intervene, which would betray the whole trick prematurely, and likely she could not stop him anyway, and would only get some of the same for herself. Anyway, Claire was escaping. With surprising strength, the girl squirmed away from Thierry and leaped up and ran. The secretary howled vile words after her. He had the red cloak in his hand, and now he looked down at it and gave another volley of awful words, and stamped away.

When they were surely gone, Petronilla stole out of her hiding place. Her mirth had vanished like a mist into the sun. She could not get the sight and sound of Thierry beating the girl out of her mind. That was her fault. She had brought that on the child, just a child, after all, however evilly she did.

She crossed herself, asked God’s forgiveness, and promised to do penance. That would do no good for poor Claire, would not erase her bruises or her fear. She felt again that she was slipping into something deeper and more dangerous than she had thought at first. There were two sides to everything, and the evil side of this frightened her. She had done it for Eleanor’s sake. That, of course, made no difference. Heavy of heart, she went back around the western edge of the island again, back toward the royal garden, to wait for Eleanor to return.

Eleanor lay on her side in the rucked and tousled bed, her head on her arm, and reached out and laid her hand on his chest, sprinkled with curly red hair. He smiled at her. His young, muscular body was smoothly shaped and strong; she had held that square hard chest against her own, and she looked on it now possessively. Her fingers traveled softly down the line of hair that led past his navel to his manly stalk, and he caught her wrist and pressed her palm against it, still sticky with his seed.