The Summer Queen (23 page)

‘I hope you approve of them, sire.’

He made a non-committal sound and went to examine a cross standing in an embrasure.

She waited for him to return to her and give her his cloak. He washed his hands and face using the plain ewer and dried them on the coarse linen towel neatly folded at the side of the bowl. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he patted the rough woollen coverlet. ‘Yes, this is better,’ he said. ‘Perhaps at last you are beginning to understand.’

Alienor bit her tongue on a sharp retort, determined to play the role of submissive, prayerful wife to the hilt if that was what it took to succeed in begetting an heir for France and Aquitaine. ‘Everything became clear to me at Saint-Denis,’ she said demurely. ‘I realised that a change was needed, and that I had to be the one to make it because you had already done so.’ All of which was true. She had married a young man, never realising he would become this warped semblance of a monk.

Louis pointed imperiously to her side of the bed, indicating she should lie down in it. Anger coiled within her, but force of will held her to her purpose. She was sad too. She wanted him as he had once been, with his tender, shy smile, his tumble of long fair hair and all his boyish enthusiasm and desire. But that person no longer existed.

The sheets were scratchy and uncomfortable and she had to suppress a grimace. Louis, however, seemed to relish the feel of them against his skin, as if their very coarseness made them more real. She turned towards him and put her hand across his chest. ‘Louis …’ His eyes were closed and she felt him recoil. ‘Is lying with me really so terrible?’ she asked.

He swallowed. ‘No,’ he said, ‘but we must guard our honour and do this thing not out of fleshly lust, but because it is the will of God.’

‘Of course,’ she said as if surprised. ‘It is my intention to follow God’s will. I do not kiss you out of lust, but out of a desire to do His bidding and be fruitful.’ Slowly, as if a sudden move might startle him, she sat up and removed the wimple.

He touched her tightly braided hair. ‘All I have allowed myself to feel are harsh things,’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘Punishment things, because I am not worthy of more. The soft and beautiful things are sent to lure us. You must see that?’

Alienor was tempted to say that the beautiful things were God’s creation too. Where else had Eden come from? But that would only agitate him further. ‘I see that we are being tested, just as the Abbot of Clairvaux said we would be,’ she replied. ‘And I see that we are punished in all manner of ways, but procreating is the will of God and we must do our duty.’

He groaned and rolled on top of her, pushing up her chemise and gown. Alienor lay inert and forced herself not to be a participant. Usually she would have raised her knees and parted her thighs; she would have twined her arms and legs around him, and moved her hips in counterpoint to his; but now she did nothing. He kept his eyes tightly closed, as if even to look at her was unbearable. She heard him muttering a prayer between clenched teeth. He tugged her legs apart and she felt him fumbling. ‘God wills it,’ he gasped. ‘God wills it. God wills it!’ And then he was inside her and thrusting wildly, calling on God to watch him doing his duty, his voice rising to a shout that was a mingling of triumph, guilt and despair as he spilled his seed.

He lay inert on her for a moment and then withdrew to gain his breath. She closed her legs and pressed them together. She was sore from the intrusion without any preparation, but she had achieved her goal – as had Louis. A glance at him showed that his eyes were still closed, but his features had relaxed. He left the bed and went to kneel at the cross she had placed at the foot of it, and there thanked God for his great mercy and benevolence in restoring grace to him. Joining him, Alienor thanked God too, and silently prayed for a swift result.

Alienor arrived at the abbey church of Saint-Denis feeling tense and sick. The prayers and the strategies had worked and she was certain she was with child. She had wanted to be sure of her condition before she told Louis, but now that time had arrived, she was apprehensive.

Abbé Suger greeted her with a bright gleam in his eye. ‘I think you will approve of this,’ he said and took her to a locked cupboard containing the vessels used in the mass. Standing on the middle shelf in pride of place was her rock-crystal vase, but she barely recognised it, for Suger had had the neck and base adorned with filigreed gold, precious gems and pearls. There was an inscription around the base, detailing the history of its giving.

‘How beautiful,’ she said, because it was, even if no longer hers. Bernard of Clairvaux would have approved of its plain state – pure and unembellished. Now it was entirely Suger’s thing. He hardly needed an inscription to set his mark on it. ‘And so in keeping with the rest of the church.’

‘I am glad you approve. I wished to do full justice to your gift.’

‘Indeed you have.’ Alienor was almost fond of Suger. He was a consummate politician, prepared like her to deal in practicalities. ‘I have a favour to ask of you.’

Suger looked wary. ‘If I can help, I assuredly will.’

She studied the quatrefoil pattern of the floor tiles. ‘All our prayers have borne fruit,’ she said. ‘I am with child.’ She placed her hand on her belly which showed a slight curve under her belt.

Suger’s face lit up. ‘That is wonderful news! Praise God that He has heard our entreaties!’

Alienor bit her lip. ‘I have not yet told the King. I did not want to raise his hopes after so many years and our other loss. I do not know how he will react to this. I would be grateful if you would prepare him to hear the news.’

‘Leave it with me.’ Suger set his hand over hers in reassurance. ‘I cannot see that the King will be anything but overjoyed by this news.’

Alienor smiled, but her feelings remained ambiguous. These days she did not know how Louis would react from one moment to the next.

Louis gazed at Suger with barely concealed anxiety. He had recently come from prayer and had been in a relaxed frame of mind until the Abbé said he wanted a private word. He was bracing himself for yet more tidings of court and ecclesiastical machinations. The matter of Bourges had been concluded and de la Châtre was smugly ensconced in his archbishopric, but something else was bound to have cropped up.

‘The Queen asked me to convey the news to you that God has heard your prayers and supplications and seen fit to bless your marriage. Your lady is fruitful and will bear a child in the spring,’ Suger said.

Louis’s stare widened with astonishment. The news was so enormous it was like colliding with a giant. At last. After all the years of prayer and struggle and doubt. Finally they had been successful by following God’s rule. If of course she bore a living child this time. ‘Are you certain of this?’

Suger nodded. ‘As certain as the Queen is herself,’ he said. ‘She wanted me to tell you since it was through the advice and intervention of the Church that it has come about, and also to prepare you for when you meet.’

Louis felt excitement fermenting within him. A child! A son for France at last!

‘The Queen has retired to the guest house,’ Suger said, smiling.

‘I shall go to her in a moment,’ Louis said, for first he would return to the church to fall to his knees and give thanks. Perhaps he ought to take Alienor a gift? His first thought was that she would appreciate a fine brooch or ring, but he swiftly dismissed the notion. He must not encourage such embellishment because it was not godly and they had only begotten this child by getting rid of such tawdry items from their congress. Better to make a donation to the Church to glorify God rather than beautify his wife.

Alienor’s maids had just lit the lamps in the guest chamber when Louis arrived, his pale face flushed, his eyes sparkling with tears and his demeanour alive with a glow that Alienor had not seen for a long, long time.

‘Is it true?’ he demanded. ‘What Suger tells me, is it true?’ He seized her hands in his.

‘Indeed it is,’ she replied, smiling but still wary.

He leaned forward and kissed her face, although not her lips. ‘You have done well. You have pleased God, and now may it please Him to give us a healthy son.’ He knelt to her and pressed his head and one palm against the swell of her belly. Alienor looked down at his tonsure and tried to feel affection for him. A thread still existed but it was so thin and frayed.

He stood up. ‘You must rest and not over-exert yourself. I am trusting you to bear a strong living son this time. You must have your women with you at all times, and you must employ midwives immediately. Indeed,’ he said, with a frown, ‘you should not have ridden here today lest it harm the child.’

Alienor felt the prison door closing on her already. He would put her in a cage in order to protect his blessed heir. ‘I knew I would be safe,’ she replied, ‘because our prayers for a child were made at Saint-Denis.’

‘Perhaps, but you must not take such risks again where our son is concerned.’

‘Be assured I shall take heed of all wise counsel,’ she said.

‘Make sure you do. I do not want you to lose this one as you did the last.’

Alienor clenched her fists at her sides. Perhaps going into confinement would not be such a bad thing after all.

Eventually he left, and Alienor slumped down with a feeling of wrung-out relief. There was so little left of their marriage now, just the rags and tatters of a once-bright cloth. She knew how dependent she was on his approval. For now she had it, but he was not consistent. She never knew from one moment to the next how he was going to behave towards her and therefore she constantly had to adjust her balance. It was exhausting.

Alienor gasped and pushed, summoning all her strength to bear down, and then fell back, panting, as the contraction subsided. Her labour had begun the previous evening; it was full morning now and early April sunshine flooded through the window arches, reminding her of Aquitaine.

‘Not long now,’ Petronella soothed, wiping Alienor’s brow with a cloth dipped in rose water. ‘I know you think you’ll burst but you won’t, I promise you.’

‘You sound very sure of that,’ Alienor panted. Her hair had been unbound so that it would not bind the child in her womb and was spread on the pillow in a heavy golden fan.

‘I am. I am smaller than you, and I managed.’ Petronella’s expression was smug. Having been through the ordeal of childbirth once, and with her second pregnancy beginning to ripen her breasts and belly, she was feeling well qualified to give advice.

‘But Isabelle was a small baby,’ Alienor said.

‘Well then, yours is bound to suit your size. Raoul’s much taller than Louis.’

Another contraction surged. Alienor grimaced and gripped the eagle stone in her fist. It was an egg-shaped rock that contained another stone inside it and was supposed to ease the pains of childbirth. In a rare act of compassion, her mother-in-law had presented it to her, saying it had helped her during her own labours. If its powers were working, Alienor dreaded to think what labour was like without one. Once again she pushed for all she was worth. The midwives bustled around her, encouraging, watching carefully, oiling her perineum so that it would be less likely to tear.

The head was born and then with a gush and a slither the shoulders and the rest of the body. A baby’s wail filled the space around the bed, growing stronger with each breath, but the silence of the attendants in the room told Alienor everything she needed to know.

‘Oh, how beautiful!’ Petronella was the first to recover. ‘Alienor, you have a daughter, a perfect little girl!’ She bent to kiss Alienor’s cheek. ‘And a playmate cousin for Isabelle!’

Alienor looked beyond Petronella. A shaft of sunlight illuminated the squawking baby still attached to her by the umbilical cord, and it was a holy thing. Then a midwife snicked the cord with a small, sharp knife and removed the child from the sun-shaft to bathe her in a brass bowl of warm water – the decorated one that had not been used since the night before her conception.

Adelaide, who had been witness to the birth, watched the women bathing the infant. ‘Girls are always useful for forming marriage alliances,’ she said. ‘I had one daughter myself in between seven sons. It is better to bear the boys first to secure the lineage, but at least a healthy living child is cause for thanksgiving, and reason to believe you will do better next time.’

Alienor let the words flow over her, imagining she was protected inside an impervious glass bubble where nothing could do her harm.

The senior midwife brought the baby to her, now wrapped in a soft blanket. She was tiny and perfect and so very alive, with all of her limbs in motion and her little face screwed up. Alienor took her in her arms and her heart blossomed. She would not think about Louis’s reaction or anyone else’s. Not in this moment, because there would never be another one like it. The baby’s skin was so soft, and each finger was tipped with a miniature pink fingernail.

‘How is she to be named?’ Petronella asked.

Had the baby been male, he would have been christened Philippe, for his paternal grandsire. ‘Marie,’ Alienor said. ‘For the Holy Virgin Mary, to thank her for her grace.’

Louis was dining with the court in the magnificent hall built by his ancestor Robert II. He knew Alienor was in labour, but had tried to push the awareness to one side. Both Abbé Suger and Bernard of Clairvaux had sent special prayers and supplications to God for a living heir for France. He had done all in his power to safeguard a good outcome and to ensure Alienor fulfilled the same obligation. He had even sent her into confinement a fortnight early in order to give his son additional peace and quiet before his birth. His main anxiety was for the child. If Alienor died bearing him, he could always find another wife, but the boy was of supreme importance: as well as being his heir, the child would also be heir to Aquitaine.

An usher made his way down the hall and round the back of the high table. Louis wiped his lips on his napkin with fastidious care and beckoned the man over. The servant stooped to whisper in Louis’s ear. Bidding everyone continue with their meal, Louis left his seat, and followed the man from the hall to a small antechamber where his mother was waiting for him.