The Summer Queen (48 page)

‘Do you hear me?’ Geoffrey demanded hoarsely.

‘Yes, sire,’ Henry muttered.

‘Then swear to me you will do this thing.’

Henry swallowed. ‘I do so swear,’ he said through his teeth. There were no chaplains around at this moment to hear the oath. A dying man should not try to impose his will on the living.

Geoffrey bared his teeth. ‘I hold you to your oath on pain of my curse,’ he gasped. ‘You will also care for Hamelin and advance him. He is your right hand and sired of the same seed. I expect you always to acknowledge that. He will be your greatest ally.’

Henry nodded with more readiness to this command. ‘I shall look after Hamelin, sire,’ he said with a glance over his shoulder. ‘When England is mine, I shall find him a suitable heiress and lands of standing.’

‘And your half-sister at Fontevraud. Make sure Emma is cared for also.’

‘Yes, sire. I shall do all that is necessary.’

‘Good.’ Once more Geoffrey paused to replenish his reserves. For a moment Henry thought he had fallen asleep, but as he began to disengage his hand, Geoffrey tightened his grip. ‘Your marriage.’ He fixed Henry with a bloodshot stare. ‘Do what you must to secure your marriage to the Duchess of Aquitaine.’

‘Sire, I shall.’

‘Women are fickle and will lead you down twisted paths if you allow them to. Always be on top of your wife in every sense of the word, because she will try to ride you as women do with all men.’

Henry almost smiled at the analogy, but concealed his humour as he saw his father was in complete and grim earnest.

‘Do not trust women. Their weapons are not the blade and the fist, but the glance, the soft word in the bedchamber and the lie. Put your own men in her household whenever you can, and watch her carefully, for if you do not, you will never be master of your own domain.’ Geoffrey’s chest heaved as he strove to articulate the words. ‘Keep her with child, and make sure your seed overcomes hers so that she bears you sons; otherwise she is no wife. It is for you to rule and for her to provide what you rule.’ His grip tightened on Henry’s hand with a sudden surge of strength. ‘That is the way of God, and do not forget it, my son. I leave this in trust to you, as it was left in trust to me.’

Henry realised these were the last words of wisdom and advice he would ever receive from his father. He would no longer have that standard in his life, that solidity that his father had provided, and thus he focused on them with increased intensity. ‘I shall not fail you, I promise, sire.’

‘I know you will not. You are a good son; you have been a joy to me from the moment you were born. Remember me when you have sons of your own … and name one for me.’

‘Sire, I shall be honoured to do so.’

Geoffrey let out a breath that shook his body. ‘I am very tired,’ he whispered. ‘I will sleep now.’

Henry’s urge to stride about and do things had vanished somewhere during the final efforts of speech from his father. These were taut moments before the final stillness. The time between each laboured breath and the next. He had never been good at waiting. The world was too full of opportunities and promises, bursting like juice from a ripe fruit, ready to be devoured. And yet what did he have to give his father now but his word and his time?

Hamelin drew near to the bedside. ‘I heard what he said.’ He gave Henry a keen look. ‘And what you said; all of it.’

‘I meant it about an heiress and lands,’ Henry said. ‘But only if you swear fealty to me alone.’

Hamelin’s jaw tightened. ‘I will not swear you fealty while our father still lives, but when you become Count of Anjou, you will have my allegiance. I do not love you; there are times when I hate you, but that has nothing to do with putting my hands between yours and swearing to be your man in exchange for what you can offer.’

‘I do not love you either,’ Henry retorted, ‘but I would trust you with my life and I will reward your service well.’

A look of mutual understanding passed between the brothers, and they knelt, shoulder to shoulder, to keep watch.

Raoul de Vermandois had spent an enjoyable evening playing dice with Robert of Dreux and a few other courtiers. Some folk, Louis included, had retired early to bed because on the morrow the court was setting out for Aquitaine as soon as dawn lit the sky. The carts were loaded; the packs for the sumpters were piled up in a corner of the great hall near the door with an usher guarding the heap like a dragon sitting on a pile of treasure. It was a journey to begin the end of Louis and Alienor’s marriage. Once the tour of Aquitaine was complete, Louis would withdraw to France, and all that would remain was the formality of the decrees and the seal of the Church.

‘You’ll be a free man too, eh, cousin, with the Queen’s mad sister out of your life,’ Robert said to Raoul. His face was wine-flushed. ‘I warrant you regret ever laying eyes on her.’

‘I do not regret that, only what came to pass afterwards.’ Raoul scooped up his winnings from the game.

‘Admit it, you seduced her because she was the Queen’s sister and you thought to gain influence through the back door of the bedchamber.’

Raoul shrugged. ‘If I did, I would not be the only man at court.’ He rose to his feet and trickled a handful of coins into the cleavage of the courtesan who had risen with him. He did not want to be alone tonight. Felice was buxom and good-natured and exactly what he needed. ‘I’m for my bed,’ he said.

Robert raised his brows. ‘I can see you are, and with a nice soft mattress.’

‘That’s where I store my treasures.’ Raoul dipped his fingers between the courtesan’s breasts making her squeal again. ‘In my mattress.’

He left the dice table and took her to his chamber, kissing and fondling her along the way. His sexual appetite was voracious, although not in the ways Petronella had been demanding of late. To her, the act affirmed her desirability and convinced her she was loved. But the effect was always fleeting and the more he gave, the more she wanted and was still not satisfied. If he refused her she grew angry and accused him of wasting himself on other women. Well, now he was, and it wasn’t a waste, it was a pleasure. Knowing that Petronella was leaving with Alienor gave him a feeling of having been sprung from a trap.

He swung open his chamber door and pulled Felice into the room with him. She laughed as he pressed her against the wall, kissing her neck, rubbing between her legs. Suddenly she screamed and began pushing him away, her eyes wide in horror. Raoul turned and saw Petronella advancing on them, his hunting knife raised in her hand, poised to strike.

The sharp instincts of a fighting man saved Raoul from being ripped open. He ducked sideways and seized Petronella’s wrist, wrenching it until she was forced to drop the dagger and he was able to kick it away.

‘You son of a whore!’ she shrieked. ‘You son of a whore! I knew it was true. Everyone told me it was my imagination, but I knew it wasn’t!’ She struggled in his grip, trying to claw him. ‘You spurn me in favour of a whore! You disparage me with a slut!’

‘Fetch my chamberlain,’ Raoul shouted at Felice as he struggled to hold Petronella. ‘Rouse my squires and send Jean to summon the Queen.’

Felice fled.

‘I hate you, I hate you!’ Petronella sobbed, kicking and flailing.

‘That is why we must part,’ he panted, his face contorted with effort and shock. ‘There is naught left in you but destruction. You would have murdered me.’

She bared her teeth. ‘Yes, and I would have danced in your blood!’

For an instant he felt a horrible dark thread of arousal, but knew that to act on it would be vile, mutual assault and he was sickened by his own response. ‘You are not well.’ He gripped her hard, holding her away from him. ‘I will have no part in this. You must be looked after by those more able to deal with you.’

The chamberlain and squires arrived with Alienor close behind. For an instant Petronella became a wild thing, redoubling her efforts to get at Raoul, but then suddenly, as if she had taken a mortal blow, the fight went out of her and she flopped like a slaughtered doe.

‘Bring her to my chamber,’ Alienor said brusquely. ‘Marchisa will tend to her.’

Raoul hefted her in his arms and followed Alienor, with the squires leading the way by torchlight up the winding stairs to Alienor’s rooms. Alienor directed him to place Petronella on her bed, and Marchisa hastened to her side.

‘She tried to kill me,’ Raoul said with a mingling of pity and revulsion. ‘She was waiting for me with a knife.’

Alienor sent him a contemptuous look. ‘You were with one of the courtesans, were you not?’

Raoul spread his hands. ‘What if I was? My union with Petronella has long been impossible. I dare not lie with her because I fear for my life – that she might have a blade under the pillow and stab me to the heart. She constantly accuses me of bedding other women even when I have been chaste.’ His lip curled. ‘I decided I might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb.’

‘You knew she was volatile from the first.’

He puffed out his cheeks. ‘I thought she was a lively handful, but, God’s eyes, not this.’

‘You also knew she was the sister of the Queen and thought her worth the risk. You plucked the fruit and enjoyed the taste, and now you say it is poisonous.’

‘Because it is! There is no reasoning with her.’ He made a wide gesture with his arm. ‘All that remains are these black moods and despair. She no longer knows what is imagined and what is real.’

‘I will deal with her. Just leave; I cannot bear your presence here.’

‘If I were you, I would make sure she does not have access to any kind of weapon.’

Alienor closed her eyes. ‘Just go, Raoul.’

‘I will pray for her, but it is finished.’ He left the chamber, his step heavy and his shoulders hunched.

Felice was waiting for him in his chamber, wrapped in his fur-lined cloak and nothing else, but he dismissed her. That appetite had become as cold as yesterday’s pottage.

Kneeling at the small prayer table in the corner of his chamber, he lit a candle and bowed his head. When he rose from his prayers, his knees were so stiff they felt as if they had turned to stone and the unscarred side of his face was slippery with tears.

Biting her lip, Alienor looked at Petronella, who had turned her face to the wall and closed her eyes.

Marchisa said softly, ‘I can do nothing for her. She is in God’s hands, madam.’

‘She is exposed to too much upheaval at court; yet if she retires to Raoul’s estates, she only broods and grows worse. I have been wondering whether to send her to my aunt Agnes at Saintes. She might not find comfort in a nunnery, but she would be supervised and better protected.’

‘Madam, I believe a routine of structure and prayer would help her greatly,’ Marchisa agreed.

Alienor sighed. ‘Then I shall consult with Raoul and write to my aunt and see if she will give her sanctuary. We used to go there often when we were children.’ Her expression grew sad as she remembered running with Petronella in the sun-filled cloisters when their father had visited Saintes. The giggles and laughter, weaving in and out between the pillars, stretching to tag each other, their dresses hoisted to their knees and their braids flying, blond and brown, adorned with coloured ribbons. And then in the church, kneeling to pray but still sending mischievous glances to each other. Perhaps at Saintes, God would remove this darkness from Petronella’s soul and cast out her demons.

‘Oh Petra,’ she said softly, and stroked her sister’s tangled cloud of hair with a loving, troubled hand.

Standing in the palace gardens, Alienor watched the children at play in the golden September morning. They were an assortment of ages, ranging from toddlers only just finding their feet to long-limbed youngsters on the verge of puberty. Among them were Petronella’s three, Isabelle, Raoul and little Alienor. Being without their mother would demand an adjustment but since of late Petronella had been unable to care for them, the parting was going to be less intense. They had been told their mother was unwell and was being taken to the convent at Saintes for rest and healing.

Busy with a piece of sewing, a golden-haired little girl sat beside her nurse. Fair wisps had escaped her braid and made a sunlit halo round her head. She was intent on her task, her soft lower lip caught between her teeth. Another woman held the hand of a toddler with the same blond hair, helping her to balance as she took determined but unsteady steps across the turf.

Alienor remained where she was, feeling marginalised, a part of the tableau yet removed from it like a border on a manuscript. She had bidden farewell to her daughters last night, feeling nothing beyond a regretful sadness as she kissed their cool, rose-petal cheeks. She did not know these children of her womb. The intimacy had been in their carrying, not their lives after the parting of the cord. In all likelihood she would never see them again.

Alienor filled her gaze with a final look at her children, fixing the scene in her mind because it was all she would have for the rest of her life, and then turned away to join the entourage preparing to leave Paris and take the road to Poitou.

On the third day of their journey, Alienor and Louis spent the night at the castle of Beaugency, 90 miles from Paris and 110 from Poitiers. Sitting side by side in formal state for the meal provided by its lord, Eudes de Sully, they presented a united front as King and Queen of France, yet a vast chasm yawned between them, and it was not a calm space. They were desperate to be rid of each other, yet still tied by the process of the law. Louis considered it Alienor’s fault that God had penalised them by denying them a son: she was responsible but he was paying the price. He chewed his food in dour silence and responded to comments in curt syllables.

Alienor was silent too as she concentrated on enduring the moment. Each day brought her closer to freedom from this travesty of a marriage, yet annulment would bring its own crowd of dilemmas. Raising her cup to drink, she noticed a messenger working his way up the hall towards the dais, and immediately she was concerned because only very important news would disturb a meal in this way. The messenger doffed his cap, knelt and held out a sealed parchment, which the usher took and handed to Louis.