The Summer Queen (46 page)

Henry knelt to Louis because it was a formality to one’s overlord and because kingship was an estate to be respected, but he did not feel at a disadvantage and he was not intimidated. Louis might be the anointed King of France, but he was still a man, governed by the limit of his abilities.

Louis rose to his feet and bestowed the kiss of peace on Geoffrey and Henry. Henry concentrated on guarding his own response from Louis’s perception. As Louis’s lips lightly touched his cheek, Henry tried not to shudder. There was something fascinating but unpleasant about the moment. He knew he was playing false in a way that went much deeper than diplomatic dissembling. He didn’t want to be put in a position where he got so close that he gave something away.

‘I hope you are recovering from your illness,’ Geoffrey said to Louis with concern in his voice, as if he had not been earlier speculating to Henry about what would happen should Louis succumb to
la rougeole
and die as inevitably some did.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ Louis replied. ‘With God’s help I am well.’

‘I am glad for that, sire,’ Geoffrey replied, ‘but at least your indisposition has given us the opportunity to negotiate rather than fight.’

‘Indeed,’ Louis said. ‘It is better to have the harvest in the barns than burned in the fields.’

Henry struggled to keep still and not fidget while platitudes were exchanged. In England the harvests of his supporters were constantly being burned in the fields. He needed to go there and deal with the matter, but had to resolve difficulties with Louis first.

One of the irritants to their dispute, Giraud de Berlai of Montreuil, was brought forward from the antechamber, still in his fetters. The iron had chafed his wrists raw, and he stank of the dungeon at Angers where his family still languished.

Louis sat up straight, the diplomatic smile leaving his lips. ‘What is this?’ he demanded. ‘Why have you brought this man to me in chains?’

Geoffrey shrugged. ‘He is my vassal but he has plotted to subvert me and he has plundered the monks of my patronage at Saint-Aubin. I bring him to you because he is one of the causes of our dispute.’

Bernard of Clairvaux had been standing behind Louis, listening and observing, and now he stepped forward and struck his staff on the ground. ‘What does it say of a lord when he is vindictive beyond all charity? You are abasing this man out of your own pride and anger.’

Geoffrey sent the Abbot of Clairvaux a scornful look. ‘If I was vindictive beyond all charity, this man would be dead – hewed and hanged on a gibbet long since and his family cast out to starve. Do not seek to lecture me, my lord abbot.’

Giraud de Montreuil stumbled over to Bernard and knelt at his feet, head bowed. ‘I throw myself on your mercy,’ he said, almost weeping. ‘If you and my lord king do not intercede, I shall die in fetters as will my wife and children.’

‘I promise you such a thing will not happen,’ Abbot Bernard said, his gaunt features set and grim. ‘God is not mocked.’

‘Tell that to the monks of Saint-Aubin,’ Geoffrey retorted. ‘If you want him, then bargain for him; otherwise he returns with me to rot in Angers.’

Bernard set one hand to the shoulder of Giraud de Berlai in reassurance, and fixed his burning stare on Geoffrey. ‘You shall return him nowhere, my lord, because your days on this earth are numbered unless you repent.’

Geoffrey narrowed his eyes. ‘You speak neither for God nor for the King, old man,’ he retorted. ‘Number your own days before you count the time of others. I will discuss no further with you. You have no authority over me.’ Turning on his heel, he stalked from the chamber, leaving a stunned silence. Henry bowed to Louis, ignored the Abbot of Clairvaux and the miserable chain-bound former castellan of Montreuil, and hastened after his father.

In the stables, Geoffrey waited tight-lipped for his groom to saddle his horse.

‘That went well,’ Henry said sarcastically.

‘I will not have that Cistercian vulture hanging his black prophecies over my head and meddling in my business,’ Geoffrey snapped. ‘I came here to negotiate with Louis, not the Abbot of Cîteaux.’

‘But Louis must have done it deliberately.’

Geoffrey took the bridle from the groom. ‘As deliberately as I am riding out now,’ he said. ‘Let them stew in their own broth. We are here to negotiate, not to let them take control. This gives them time to retire “Saint” Bernard from the fray and now we both know where we stand.’

The Angevin guests, father and son, had arrived back from their ride. Alienor concealed her impatience and stood with outward calm while her women finished dressing her. Clothes and appearance were important tools of diplomacy, especially when facing the Count of Anjou. She had never met his son, the upstart young Duke of Normandy, and she was curious.

They had ridden in earlier in the day, but already there had been trouble. Although she was yet to greet them, she had heard that father and son had walked out following a sharp exchange with Bernard of Clairvaux. Alienor had taken small notice. Such dramatic gestures were a frequent ploy of political negotiations. By all accounts, the Abbot had retired to pray, taking the castellan of Montreuil with him, the fetters struck off, and Geoffrey and his son had returned from their ride and reconvened talks.

Marchisa held up a mirror so that Alienor could see herself in the tinned glass. A beautiful, poised woman returned her gaze and Alienor added an alluring half-smile to that weaponry. She had become an expert at wearing masks; so much so that sometimes it was difficult to find her true self beneath the layers: the laughing child in Poitiers, her future a golden, untrodden road, glittering with possibilities. ‘Well,’ she said to Marchisa, and her smile hardened like glass. ‘To battle.’

Negotiations had ended for the day with both sides wary as the dust settled from the morning’s outburst, but satisfied that progress had been made and understandings reached. As the courtiers mingled in the aftermath of discussion, a fanfare announced the arrival of Louis’s Queen. Henry’s heart began to pound, although he remained outwardly calm. It didn’t matter what she looked like or how old she was, he told himself. She was only a means to an end and he could still have his mistresses as long as he didn’t flaunt them in her household.

She was tall and willowy, the length of her legs hinted at with subtlety by the way her gown flowed around her as she walked. Her shoes caught his eye, for they were embroidered with tiny flowers and exquisite. As she passed Henry and he bowed, he inhaled a glorious scent that was as fresh and intoxicating as a garden in the rain. His concerns about her being a hag vanished in a single bound. Indeed, she looked eminently beddable.

She bent her knee to Louis in a businesslike fashion that acknowledged his kingship as a matter of duty, then she rose and turned to greet Henry’s father, extending a slender hand decorated with a single large sapphire ring. Her gesture emphasised the sweep of her sleeve and bared just a little of her wrist, further stirring the delicious scent of her perfume. ‘It is so good to see you again, my lord,’ she said, her smile warm but regal. ‘You are very welcome.’

‘It is always a pleasure to be in the presence of such poise and beauty,’ Geoffrey replied with a courtly bow. He turned to Henry. ‘You have not met my son before. Madam, may I present Henry, Duke of Normandy, son of an empress, grandson of the King of Jerusalem, and future King of England.’

She turned her smile on Henry now, the curve of her lips slightly less warm than for his father, but nonetheless without strain. There was curiosity and sharp intelligence in her gaze. ‘Your father sets great store by you,’ she said. ‘I am pleased to welcome you to Paris.’

Henry bowed. ‘I hope I may justify his faith in me,’ he replied.

‘I am sure you will.’

‘He does so even now,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Mark me, he is destined for greatness.’

She smiled again and gave a small lift of her brow to show that she acknowledged a father’s pride while not being taken in by superlatives. ‘I do mark you, sire, but as you know, I always make up my own mind.’ She turned again to Henry. ‘You must take the opportunity to visit Saint-Denis. I am sure the building and the late Abbot’s collection of gems and relics will interest you.’

‘Indeed, madam, I intend to,’ Henry replied with a formal bow. Close up, she was very beautiful. Her skin was dewy and flawless, albeit that she was no virginal girl. Everything about her was tasteful, judged to exquisite perfection. He wondered how much it would cost to keep a wife like that in the style to which she was clearly accustomed – even if the revenues were hers.

He could tell that she was assessing him too, although not in the same way that he was assessing her. He wondered how her body would feel under his in the marriage bed and how experienced she was. What would she look like with her hair down? He lowered his gaze so that she would not see the intent in his expression. He was under explicit instructions from his father to do nothing to jeopardise their chance at Aquitaine, and that meant not alienating Alienor and not giving away by so much as a look or a word out of place what their intentions were beyond negotiating their truce.

She moved on to talk to others in the gathering, playing her role with consummate ease, knowing what to say and how to behave towards each person, although it was noticeable that she and Louis avoided each other beyond the most formal of exchanges.

Henry admired her poise, but was wary. A woman of such dazzling accomplishment might be a great asset to his future, but she might create difficulties too if she proved mettlesome. From the rumours he had heard, Louis of France had not been particularly successful in taming her, so it behoved him to think well on the matter.

‘Your foot is troubling you, I can see,’ Alienor said as she and Geoffrey partnered each other for a moment in the dancing that had followed the afternoon’s banquet. He was favouring the left side and she could see the pain-tension in his face.

‘It is nothing.’ Geoffrey dismissed it with a wave of his hand. ‘An old wound from a spear. It will settle down presently, it always does – but if it pleases you to sit with me a little while, I shall be glad of your company.’

Alienor sent servants for a comfortable chair, cushions and a footstool and had her own chair placed beside it.

‘Perhaps a game of chess?’ Geoffrey suggested.

Alienor gave him an astute look. He was up to something. His foot might indeed be sore, but he had deliberately manipulated this situation. ‘If it pleases you, my lord,’ she said and sent a servant for a board and playing pieces.

‘I hear all goes well now with your discussions,’ she said.

Geoffrey half smiled. ‘Now we have laid the ground rules, and ceased the meddling of that cadaver from Clairvaux, yes. I am sure we can bring matters to an amicable resolution for all.’

Alienor returned his look. Anything that discommoded Bernard of Clairvaux pleased her. She wondered if Geoffrey wanted her to intercede over some part of the negotiation in her role of queen as peacemaker. Geoffrey shifted position in the chair and moved his foot until he was comfortable.

‘My son dances well, does he not?’ he said, indicating Henry, who was in the midst of the next set, moving with energy and grace. His smooth young face was alight and his smile dazzled each partner in the change and turn.

‘I am sure he does all things well, my lord,’ Alienor replied with composure. The chess set arrived and she occupied herself in setting up the pieces on the board.

Geoffrey said quietly, ‘You think me a fond father for singing his praises, and to an extent that is true, because all men desire to be proud of their sons and to know their line will continue in strength. But I also see the man he will become. He governs Normandy well.’

‘With his mother’s help and yours,’ Alienor qualified.

Geoffrey hesitated as if he was about to argue the point, but then shrugged. ‘Henry is more than competent and he learns very quickly indeed.’

‘What is all this to me?’ Alienor asked. ‘You approached me about a match between your son and my daughter before Louis and I travelled to Jerusalem and Louis refused. He is certainly not about to change his mind now.’

Geoffrey studied the board and picked up a pawn. ‘I was not thinking of your daughter,’ he said and fixed her with his sharp, crystal gaze.

Alienor’s stomach tightened, but she refused to show him how much he had disconcerted her. ‘That is interesting.’ She resisted the urge to glance in Henry’s direction. ‘It would be a good move for Anjou, but what would I gain?’

‘You would be Duchess of Normandy and you would wear the crown of England.’

‘You are walking ahead of yourself, my lord. Normandy, perhaps, but England lies in the balance, and why should I want to be queen there when I know neither the country nor the people?’

‘Because it would be a fresh start among those who would not judge you,’ Geoffrey replied smoothly. ‘Make no mistake, he will be king. He has greatness in him. It would not disparage you to accept such a match.’

‘Perhaps not, but I say again it would not benefit me either.’ She moved her own pawn to match his and leaned back. ‘The Archbishop of Bordeaux once told me you sought to marry your son to me when he was still in swaddling.’

Geoffrey’s lips twitched. ‘He is not in swaddling now.’ He gave her a forceful look. ‘The moment your annulment is sealed, you become fair game to be seized and forced into another marriage. There are many wolves out there, and surely it is better to be in the company of those you know and who have come to you respectfully. You may think you are able to protect yourself, but you still need the weight of a mail shirt behind you, and he needs to be more than just a hired man or a loyal vassal. Even my termagant of a wife would tell you that.’

‘You are bold coming to me with such a proposal.’

‘There is no point in not being bold, but I am not rash, and neither is Henry. All we ask is that you consider the matter.’

‘I will say neither yes nor no,’ Alienor replied, maintaining a neutral expression, and set out to defeat him at chess. When she did, he accepted it with a rueful smile.