The Secret Eleanor (8 page)

On his far side his brother Geoffrey spoke out of the gloom. “Gisors castle. Did you hear that? He wants us to give up the castle of Gisors in exchange for accepting your homage. Does that make sense? We should not show them homage for Normandy and also give up something, especially a position that important.”

Henry wheeled on his father. “What’s this?”

Anjou leaned heavily on his forearm on the table. There was a litter of gear on it: crossbow bolts, a broken spur. Anjou’s fingers padded aimlessly over the rucked silk. “They sent a messenger while you were gone.” He sneered, as if Henry’s being gone had made this happen. “They want you to swear homage for Normandy, as promised, in two days, and we’re to give up the fortress at Gisors in return.”

Henry did not speak for a moment. Into his mind came the image of the big tower that dominated the border there at Gisors. His belly tightened. Giving up anything was like having a piece cut out of his flesh.

His father said, “We can just go back to Angers. The devil take the excommunication. The devil take us. Just not Gisors.”

Henry struggled with the two things: giving up a corner of his realm, and getting his hands on Eleanor and her duchy. He said, “There are certain—advantages—to doing what they want. I have to give homage for Normandy; that duty goes back a hundred years or more, to the first dukes. But if I do, Louis as my overlord has to defend that border. Even against King Stephen. It breaks any chance of an alliance between him and King Stephen. I can turn my back on France and go after England.” It was England, and the crown, that made him worthy of her.

His father grunted. His cheeks were flushed. “England. I don’t think we’ll ever get England. Even your mother gave up trying.”

Geoffrey sneered at Henry. “You’ve had your chances, and I didn’t notice you did all that well either.”

“I haven’t stopped,” Henry said.

“You’re making us the laughingstock of Christendom.”

The Count sprawled on the bench. “Shut up, both of you. We could spit in Louis’s face. I go back to Angers, Henry, you to Rouen, and fortify the whole country. Geoffrey could go down to Mirebeau, Chinon, and those other castles.” His head swayed to the other side, the other son. “Those will be yours, Geoffrey.” He nodded toward his namesake. “Then dare this wetnose king to come get us. Dare them all.”

Henry stiffened. Lately his father had been implying that he intended to give Geoffrey some land out of Anjou; his temper rose. Geoffrey was no good at anything, and a sneaking little liar on top of it. There was no sense giving him a crumb.

“I have every intention of taking England,” he said. “The old King wrote me into the list of succession.” He began to walk around before them, his anger flaring that they wanted to think about anything else. He leaned toward his father, firing his words into his face. “You were wrong about dragging around that Frenchman, see. Getting Bernard on us like that, and then you come here and have to give in just to get out of the hall; that was stupid. You let that woman back you down. Pay heed to me. A peace with Louis means I can put every man I can raise into England.”

On the far side of the brazier his brother’s face jutted out into the light, his eyes gleaming. “When you have England, surely, you can just then leave me heir to Anjou.” He nodded at the Count. “That’s what Father wants.”

Henry said, “I’ll give you my fist.” He lunged at his father. “You swore Anjou to me.”

He had to have England, but he needed Anjou, more than ever, the bridge in his empire, linking Normandy and England with Aquitaine. He saw the lands closing together as he closed with her, possessing her. He walked restlessly in a circle. What she had said still gripped his mind, the huge possibilities open before him. He would be the greatest king in Christendom, in liege to no one but God. For that he needed Anjou. And England, and for England he needed Normandy secured, as the ritual of the homage would secure it. He turned on his father again.

“You agreed to this. You hung us up on the whims of this monk. Do what we have to do now and we can call it done. Give him Gisors. This is still Louis, who can’t make anything really happen, anyway.”

Geoffrey said, “But I get Anjou.”

“You don’t get anything but a mouthful of fist.”

“Shut up,” the Count of Anjou said. He waved his arms between them. “Stop arguing. We have to get out of here anyway. And he’ll lift the ban.” For all his big talk, the excommunication obviously made him nervous. He found his cup and held it out, and a servant came for it. “We’ll give him Gisors.” He barely lifted his gaze toward Henry. Once again, he had given in to him; Henry was pleased with this. His father said, looking elsewhere, “As you said, it’s only Louis, anyway.” The servant came back with the filled cup, and he took it.

“One more thing,” Henry said, remembering. “Tell him we want to have the rite celebrated in the new church, out at Saint Denis.” He thought,
Let her take that for a message
.

His brother frowned. “Why there? Isn’t that off in the country somewhere?”

“I’ve heard this church is interesting,” Henry said. She would know what he meant. Robert had come in, was waiting to talk to him. He went off toward the door to make sure all the knights were back.

A few days later they went out to Saint Denis for the rite. The day was fine, sunny and hot. They rode out from the palace to cross the river over the Old Bridge; Joffre de Rançun and some knights of Louis’s led the way, and then Eleanor and Louis themselves, riding side by side. Anjou and his sons and retainers came after. Petronilla did not go, disliking crowds.

They went out the palace gate into the city. Eleanor looked around her. When she and Louis were first married, the mere opening of the palace gate would have brought a crowd of people to watch. Now nobody seemed to notice.

If she had been Louis, she would have made it all merry, brought out baskets of nuts and fruit to distribute, and started the parade with pipers and a drum. She would have had them glad to see their king. Louis made no display of himself, looked so unlike a king, in fact, with his plain gown and hood, that sometimes his own people didn’t recognize him.

They went along the street past houses made of old stone, grown mossy and green in the shade, their thatches overgrown with flowers and squeaking with mice. Doves fluttered and cooed in the linden trees. The little market square beyond was already busy, and a cry went up at the sight of the procession, and a crowd rushed over to watch them ride by. Someone sent up a cheer, and several others joined in a single voice, “God love King Louis!” Market wives in black gowns with their aprons stained and creased, dirty-faced children, and burly half-naked porters pressed up against the side of the street to watch the King pass and stretched their hands out, as if they could draw off some of his royalty.

On impulse Eleanor reached her hand out toward them, to give them something back. They clutched at her, and their voices rose in a chorus of her name. She laughed, holding out her arm, brushing her fingers over the steady succession of outflung longing hands.

The square fell away, and she straightened in her saddle, aware suddenly that the people riding with her were annoyed. Louis was saying her name, over and over, chiding. On his far side, Thierry Galeran glared at her. She bit her tongue; no use getting in a fight now. But her eyes turned nonetheless to look all around, to see everything.

They went on down through the huts of the poor, where women carrying buckets of water stopped and stepped aside to let them pass, their sun-browned faces uptilted to watch. In their fists they held their skirts out of the muck of the street, showing their bare legs and bare muddy feet. Ahead, the bridge swarmed with wagons coming in from the country, heaped with onions and cabbages, and the street stank of crushed rotted fruit and trampled dung. The knights pushed on ahead to clear a space on the bridge. As they approached the stone rise of the bridge, the thunder of the mill wheel under the first arch drowned out every other sound, an invisible wall of noise.

Either side of the long Old Bridge was packed with shops no bigger than cupboards: small treasuries, goldsmiths and jewel shops, arrays of spices that spiked the air with their scents; Jews in gabardine, standing with their hands idle, their money waiting. The bridge humped up and over to the far bank of the river, where women in white coifs hawked flowers and caged birds, and the streets of the city gave way to lanes between houses farther and farther apart, past strips of garden, to the fields and orchards of the monastery.

They rode through the monastery gate and left their horses under the trees on the far side of the great courtyard. The Abbot came to greet them and went along with them toward the broad porch, flanked on either side by figures of the saints. Behind her and Louis came Anjou and his sons, and she wanted to turn and watch, to see his face change, when he saw.

The new church from the outside probably seemed little different from any other, in spite of the statues, although the front doors were magnificent, and she knew of no other church that had a big round window filling the high front wall. The Angevins would not know from this what to expect. It was when they passed through the door, as if through a veil, that they would know. Henry would see. She wanted to watch him see. But she walked along ahead of him, her eyes forward. They entered through the massive doors, like walking into the side of a mountain.

Inside, as always, she had the sudden feeling of tremendous height, of a space that rushed on up toward heaven. She heard, behind her, even through the clump of so many feet, a sharp, harsh intake of breath, a gasp of amazement.

She walked steadily forward into the center of the light-filled space, where the sunlight seemed more substantial than the stone of the walls. Ahead lay the main altar, while on either side, high as clouds, one by one the great windows shone forth like visions, streaming color into the dim vault. She felt the now-familiar rising of her spirit, lifted up, called to glory; for all the strutting of priests and the high words of abbots, she knew the real church was this space, this light, the stonework serving only to shape it.

As she walked, she felt herself reaching out across the empty stillness, struggling toward the center, the place of peace. The high altar climbed up like a ladder to heaven; hung above it, the standard of the King floated in the mysterious currents of the air like a silken hand.

She came into the center of the space, then stopped and turned. Around her, all the men also stopped, turned, and lifted their eyes, and from the Angevins came a collective low gasp. She understood how they felt. She still felt its impact, after seeing it a hundred times. The great round window above them in the darkness shone pure as the sunlight, blue and red and green. In the center Christ was smiling down on her, blessing her with His hand. Every time she saw it a surge of pleasure turned her almost dizzy, strong as sex.

This is God,
she thought, exultant.
This beauty, this delight, this is God, no matter what Bernard says.
He was a saint, but he was walled around with old belief, and he could not see the power in this.

They held the ceremony in one of the chapels along the ambulatory. Everything was very carefully done. Henry came bareheaded, unarmed and alone before the King, who sat in front of the altar with his crown on. They spoke the ritual words, solemn as prayers and probably older, and Henry knelt down and put his hands into Louis’s hands, and commended himself and his duchy unto the King.

Louis at this point was supposed to clench his hands hard around Henry’s, to hurt him a little, reminding him of the King’s power. Eleanor, sitting behind and to the left, saw Louis’s pale white hands tighten, and she saw Henry’s eyes widen in surprise, and then flatten with contempt. Louis had no strength to humble him. When Louis leaned down to give him the kiss of peace, Henry shut his eyes.

Afterward they went into the garden of the monastery, under the pear trees, and there feasted, with the young Duke on the King’s right hand. The sun shone softly through the leaves of the trees and cast dappled shadows all around; at the edge of the orchard the monastery wall rose, its limestones overrun with ivy. The air smelled dusty.

Eleanor sat on the King’s left, the only woman at the feast. Bernard had come to see the ceremony and was there at the table, a darker shadow in the mottled shadows of the pear trees, sitting among his followers on Anjou’s far side. The Angevins’ own pages served them, which privately she thought was wise; there were those who might try to help Bernard’s curse along.

The monks had a good array of meats for them, and some choice breads, all done up in odd shapes and unnatural colors. Eleanor was to share the King’s cup and so she drank nothing, not caring to touch her lips to something Louis’s lips would touch. She took only a few bites of a roasted duck’s breast, dipped in its cherry sauce. She laid her hands in her lap and studied the men around her, watching them through the corners of her eyes, through her lashes, so that they could not say she stared.

Bernard as usual ate nothing, but sat hunched, his head down, his eyes closed, his lips moving. He shrank from every pleasure, every carnal thing, as if it were a weight of earth that kept his soul from God. His skin looked dry as paper, his hair like straw. She thought, suddenly,
His faith consumes him
. Her old cold doubts began to waken. Surely one who gave himself so utterly to God got something in return; maybe he was right. Maybe she should submit to the will of God.

She choked that down, tearing her attention away from him, to the other men up and down the table from her. Everybody else was champing away like a horse at a manger: Louis picking the meat off a capon with his fingers, Le Bel Anjou soaking up bloody meat juice with a chunk of bread, no sound but the contented moving of their jaws. Watching them reminded her of cattle munching. Just beyond Louis, Henry FitzEmpress sat back, planting one elbow on the table, brushed a litter of small bones off the board in front of him, and reached for his wine cup.