The Summer Queen (7 page)

The great bed, which had travelled with them in their baggage train, was layered with fresh linen sheets, soft woollen blankets and a silk coverlet embroidered with a design of eagles. Curtains of red wool formed deep swags, heavy with shadows. The bed had a long history reaching back beyond her parents and grandparents to earlier rulers of these lands, even to a son of Charlemagne who had been King of Aquitaine in the days when Aquitaine had kings. For centuries it had served its purpose as a platform for wedding nights, conceptions, births and deaths. Tonight it would be a stage for the consummation of the bond between France and Aquitaine begun in the cathedral three days ago.

Alienor knew what to expect. The matrons in the household had explained her duties to her, and she was neither blind nor unknowing. She had seen animals mating, and observed the intimate embraces of people in dark corners when bitter winter weather put outdoor trysting places beyond bounds. On more than one occasion she had heard her grandfather’s explicit poetry and that in itself had been an education. Her fluxes had come regularly for over a year now: a sign that her body was producing seed and ready to mate. But having such awareness was not the same as personal experience, and she was apprehensive. Would Louis know what to do, having been raised as a monk until his brother died? Had someone explained everything to him?

Petronella opened the door and peered round it. ‘There you are! Everyone’s looking for you!’

Alienor turned, feeling a flicker of resentment. ‘I wanted a moment just to be alone.’

‘Shall I tell them you’re not here?’

Alienor shook her head. ‘That would only lead to more trouble.’ She forced a smile. ‘It will be all right, Petra; I told you so, didn’t I?’

‘But you don’t look as if you think that. I wish you were still sleeping with me, not him.’

Alienor wished it too. ‘There will be time in the future. You will always be a part of my chamber – always.’ She put her arms around Petronella, seeking comfort for both of them.

Petronella returned her embrace fiercely, and the sisters only parted when the ladies from the wedding party arrived to prepare Alienor for her bridal bed, scolding her for disappearing. Alienor imagined fending them off with her father’s shield, and projected an air of pride and command to conceal how frightened and vulnerable she felt. Sipping from a cup of wine laced with spices, she let them remove her wedding clothes and dress her in a chemise of soft white linen, before combing her hair until it shimmered to her waist in golden ripples.

The sound of masculine voices lifted in praise to God heralded the arrival of the men. Alienor stood straight and faced the door like a warrior on a battlefield.

Archbishop Gofrid entered first, solemnly pacing, accompanied by Abbé Suger and twelve choristers, chanting a hymn of praise. Louis came next escorted by Theobald of Blois and Raoul of Vermandois, followed by the nobility of France and Aquitaine, bearing candles. There would be no bawdy revels tonight, but a dignified and solemn ceremony to witness the future King of France and the young Duchess placed side by side in the marriage bed.

Louis wore a long, white nightshirt similar to Alienor’s chemise. In the candlelight, his eyes were wide and dark and his expression apprehensive. Gofrid instructed Alienor and Louis to stand together and join hands while he prayed over them, asking God to bless the marriage with fruitfulness and prosperity. While he was doing this, Louis’s attendants set up a small portable altar at the bedside.

The bed itself was blessed with much sprinkling of holy water, and then Louis was guided to the left side of the bed and Alienor to the right, the better to ensure the conception of a son. The sheets were cool and crisp against her legs. She stared at the embroidered coverlet, her hair swinging forward to screen her face. She was aware of Geoffrey among the group of witnesses in the chamber, but she did not look at him and had no idea if he was looking at her. Only let this moment be over. Only let it be morning.

At last the chamberlains ushered everyone from the room, the bishops and the choir being the last to leave in stately procession, singing. The latch fell, the chanting voices receded, and Alienor was alone with Louis.

Turning towards her, he propped himself on one elbow, one hand cupped behind his head, and gazed at her with unsettling intensity. She adjusted the pillows at her back and remained sitting up. He smoothed the sheet with his other hand, tracing the outline of one of the eagles. His fingers were long and fine; beautiful, in fact. The thought of him touching her made her shiver with fear – and a stirring of desire.

‘I know what is expected of us,’ she said in a tight voice. ‘The women have explained to me my duty.’

He reached out and touched her hair. ‘My duty has been explained also.’ His fingers brushed her face. ‘But this does not feel like a duty. I thought it would, but it doesn’t.’ His brow furrowed. ‘Perhaps it should.’

Alienor tensed as Louis leaned over her. She had thought they would talk more, but it seemed he was intent on his business and she need not have worried that his early training as a monk had left him ignorant.

‘I won’t hurt you,’ he said. ‘I am not a beast; I am a prince of France.’ A note of pride crept into his voice. He kissed her cheek and temple with a butterfly gentleness that was almost reverential. His touch was eager, but he was not rough. ‘The Church has given us sanction to do this, and it is a holy thing.’

Alienor steadied herself. The marriage had to be consummated. Proof would be sought in the morning. The deed couldn’t be that terrible or else men and women would not return to it so often or write songs and poetry about it in vivid, carnal detail.

He kissed her on the mouth with his lips closed, and began tentatively to untie the laces at the throat of her chemise. His hand was trembling and his breath shook in his chest. Alienor realised that he too was out of his depth, and it gave her courage. She returned his kiss and put her hands in his hair. His skin was smooth and supple, and his breath smelled of wine and cardamom seeds. Amid clumsy, breathless kisses, they undressed each other. Louis pulled the sheets over them both, creating a barely lit tent within the confines of the bed curtains, and he lay on her. His body was damp with sweat and as smooth as her own. His fair hair was silky under her fingers. She could have stayed like this all night, kissing and touching, wrapped in this mutual, tender embrace with everything still to discover. But Louis was keen to progress the matter and, after a moment, Alienor parted her legs for him.

It was the secret channel. The place where children were conceived from a blending of male and female seed, and from which they were pushed into the world nine months later. A source of sin and shame, but also of pleasure. The work of God; the work of the Devil. Her grandfather had been excommunicated for falling prey to his lust for that place within his mistress’s body, and refusing to give her up even though she was another man’s wife. He had written paeans to the glories of fornication.

Louis fumbled and muttered something that sounded like an oath, but then she realised he was entreating God to be with him at this moment and help him do his duty. Alienor felt a sharp, stabbing pain as he pushed into her and she arched and gritted her teeth, striving not to cry out. He moved above her half a dozen times, and then with a gasp and a final lunge, shuddered and was still.

After a moment he heaved a deep sigh and withdrew from her. Alienor closed her legs as he lay down at her side. There was a long silence. Was that it? Was that all the deed consisted of? Was she supposed to speak? She had once come across a couple in an empty stable lazing in post-coital bliss and they had been talking and kissing in a warm and languorous way, but was that appropriate for her and Louis?

Eventually, he stroked her arm and, drawing away, donned his nightshirt. Leaving the bed, he knelt before the small altar and offered up a prayer of thanksgiving. Alienor was astonished at his action, but he looked so beautiful with the candlelight shining on his hair, and his features aglow with devotion, that she felt admiration too.

He turned to her. ‘Do you not come and pray too, wife?’ he asked with a frown.

Alienor stretched. ‘If that is what you want me to do,’ she said.

His frown deepened. ‘It is what you should do for God, and without question. We should both thank Him and pray that He makes us fruitful.’

Alienor thought they had already done that, but she humoured him and, donning her shift, came to kneel at his side and make her own prayer. Louis’s tense shoulders relaxed and his gaze grew tender. He stroked her hair again as if it fascinated him. And then he cleared his throat and turned back to his prayers.

When eventually they returned to the bed, Alienor’s knees were on fire as well as the place between her thighs. She was shivering too. A small red blot had soaked into the centre of the sheet. Louis looked at it with an expression of mingled satisfaction and distaste. ‘You have given proof of your purity,’ he said. ‘Abbé Suger and the Archbishop will bear witness tomorrow.’ He gestured her back into bed. Alienor climbed in and started to close the curtains.

‘Leave them,’ he said swiftly. ‘I like to see the light; it helps me to sleep.’

Alienor raised her eyebrows, thinking that Louis was just like Petronella. He needed the comfort and security of a candle. She gently touched his shoulder. ‘As you wish, sire,’ she said. ‘I understand.’

He clasped her hand but said nothing.

Alienor closed her eyes. On her side of the bed the candlelight was so dim that it did not impinge. The blood spot was cold and damp under her thighs. She felt a little let down. The embracing, the kissing and twining had been delicious, but the strangeness and discomfort of the final act had left her feeling disappointed and more than a little sore.

Louis seemed to have found his pleasure. She wondered if God was pleased too, and if she had conceived a child. That notion frightened her and she put it from her mind and turned over to face away from him, seeking her own space. Louis’s breathing soon grew deep and slow as he fell asleep, but it was a long time before her own restless mind settled to slumber; there was too much to think about, not least how to deal with this stranger in the bed who had mingled his seed with hers so that they were now irrevocably bound as one flesh.

Wearing a gown of red sarcenet, the coronet of Aquitaine held between her hands, Alienor sat alone by the pool in the palace gardens. A relentless sun had beaten down all day and now a bruised dusk was mantling the city.

No one had come looking for her yet, but they soon would. Not for her the freedom to do as she pleased. This last fortnight, she had either been immersed in public duties or travelling between them, constantly attended by servants, vassals and family. Her every moment was accounted for as if her time was being apportioned like beads on an abacus counted out by a keen-eyed merchant. Even when she was kneeling in church or at her needlework, she was aware of being scrutinised by members of Louis’s entourage and by Louis himself. He couldn’t take his eyes off her and wanted her with him all of the time, as if she were a precious jewel stitched to his tunic.

She had grown accustomed to the night duty and it hurt less now; indeed it was pleasurable on the occasions when Louis lingered over the foreplay. She just wished he did not have to kneel and ask God’s blessing every time, and then thank Him afterwards and expect her to do the same. He did not share her bed on Fridays or Sundays because he said they should be kept pure for God, but she used those occasions to cuddle up with Petronella in the old way – except it wasn’t the same any more. Her marriage and bedding had severed her from girlhood. Petronella had demanded to know what it was like, sleeping with a man, and Alienor had put her off with vague remarks about it being part of the duty of a wife.

Alienor was still unsure what to make of Louis. Sometimes he was the aloof French prince, looking down from his tall horse, but he was like a child too, having to be told what to think and do by his courtiers, who vied for influence over him. Also like a child, he could be petulant, stubborn and unreasonable. And then there was his stifling piety, born of his upbringing by the Church, coupled with his overweening need for structure and order. Unlike her, he was not good at adapting to suit his circumstances. Yet he could be sweet and charming. He was knowledgeable about nature, loved the trees and the sky, and enjoyed being on the road in merry company where he would shed his solemnity and find his smile, which was winsome and tender. She found him physically attractive too, with his lean, graceful physique, his shining fair hair and dark blue eyes.

Today he had been invested with the coronet of Aquitaine and the look of pride and satisfaction on his face as the diadem was placed on his brow had filled Alienor with resentment and misgiving rather than pride. It was as if he was taking it for granted that it should be his because God had willed it. Receiving her coronet at his side, she had been politically astute enough to show nothing on her face, but seeing him sitting in the ducal chair with that superior look in his eyes had brought to the fore all her feelings of grief and loneliness over her father’s death, together with the certainty that Louis was never going to fill his shoes.

‘There you are!’ Floreta came hurrying down the garden path. ‘People are looking all over for you; it is almost dark.’

‘I was thinking of my father. I wish he was still here,’ Alienor said wistfully.

‘We all wish that, mistress,’ Floreta said, her tone compassionate, but added, practical and brisk, ‘Yet we must make the best of what we have. He did his best to make sure you would be safe and secure.’

Alienor sighed and stood up, dusting the back of her gown. The first stars had begun to twinkle over the battlements, but it was still no cooler. ‘I was also thinking of my mother,’ she said. ‘I miss her too.’

‘You were named for her.’ Floreta gave Alienor a hug. ‘She will always be with you. Assuredly she is watching over you from heaven.’