Devil's Consort. Anne O'Brien
on so short an acquaintance? I might see their shortcomings but it was not this Frankish prince’s place to denigrate them. By what right did he measure them and find them wanting? ‘Do you not feast and sing in Paris, then? Do the Franks not find time from government for pleasure and entertainment?’
‘I did not sing and feast. Not at Saint-Denis.’
‘What is that? A palace?’
‘A monastery.’
‘Did you visit there?’
‘I was brought up there.’
The words sank in, but with them not much understanding. ‘You were brought up in a monastery?’
‘Did you not know?’
‘No. As a priest?’
‘More or less.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’ I could not imagine it. My quick anger was replaced by interest.
‘Yes.’ A smile softened the tension in his jaw and the feverish light in his eye faded. ‘Yes, I did. The order of the day, each one like the last. The serenity in the House of God. Can you understand?’ His voice took on an enthusiasm I had not heard before, his pale eyes shone. ‘The perpetual prayers for God’s forgiveness, the voices of the monks rising up with the incense. I liked nothing better than to keep vigil through the night—’
‘But did you not learn the art of government?’ I interrupted. ‘Did you not sit with your father and hear good advice and counsel?’ Surely that would have been of far greater use than the rule of Saint Benedict.
‘I was never intended to rule, you see,’ Louis explained. ‘My elder brother—Philip—was killed by a scavenging sow at loose on the quay. Philip fell from his horse when it reared.’ Louis’s voice was suddenly hoarse with suppressed grief. ‘There was no hope for him—his neck broke in the filth of the gutter.’
‘Oh!’
‘He was an accomplished warrior. He would have been a great king.’
‘My son.’ A soft voice from Louis’s other side broke in. The ever-present Abbot Suger, sent by Fat Louis to keep his eye on the son and heir. He leaned forward, a slight, elderly man with deceptively mild demeanour, to look at me as much as at Louis. ‘My son, the lady does not wish to hear of your life at Saint-Denis. Or of Philip. You are heir to the throne now.’
‘But the Lady Eleanor asked if I had enjoyed my life there.’
‘You must look to your future together now.’
The Abbot had the thin, lined face of an aesthete. His hair was as glossily white as an ermine, his small dark eyes just as inquisitive. They summed me up in that instant and I suspected they found me wanting.
‘Of course. Forgive me.’ Louis nodded obediently. ‘That life is all in the past.’
‘But I think you miss it.’ I was reluctant to allow the Abbot to dictate the direction of our conversation.
‘Sometimes.’ The volume of noise rose around us again as Louis smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘I was intended for the Church, you see. I was taught to value abstinence and prayer. To give my mind to higher pursuits than—than this.’ The sweep of his hand to the now roistering crowd was, whether he intended it or not, entirely derogatory. Unfortunately Bernart, roaming the room with lute to hand, chose the moment to swing into a well-loved song, with a raucous chorus for all to join in. Since the wine was flowing, the merrymakers were in good heart.
Don’t marry this cheat, sweet Jeanne, for he is stupid and unlettered.
Don’t take him to your bed, sweet Jeanne, your lover would be far better.
Louis smacked his hand down on the cloth, making the silver dishes dance. ‘Listen! How can you approve of that? Your minstrels sing of lust and intimacy not sanctioned by the Church or by any moral code. They have no respect for women and encourage them to behave without restraint.’
The hearty phrase ‘these flaming whores’ was bellowed from a hundred throats, both men and women.
‘It is immoral. Degrading. Such verses should be forbidden. Such foul-mouthed braggarts as this … this scurrilous minstrel should be whipped through the streets for their impertinence.’ Louis’s voice rose alarmingly.
‘But he is not a scurrilous minstrel,’ I objected. ‘He is Bernart Sicart of Maruejols.’
A blank look, and derisory at that.
‘He is famous throughout Aquitaine. My father thought very highly of him.’
‘His words are insulting and offensive! I don’t want him at my court.’
A trickle of fear, as hard and cold as ice, invaded my chest. It hadn’t taken my new lord long, had it, to wield his new authority over me? He did not know me very well.
‘I’ll not dismiss him.’
‘Even if I demand it?’
‘Why should you? He is mine and I’ll remain his patron. You’ll not change my mind in this.’ I closed my lips against my lord. I was beyond terms of respect.
As Louis sought for a reply, quietness fell, as sometimes happened in a crowd.
‘Colhon!’
I heard the comment drift across from my left. No attempt was made to mute it and I froze, my fingers clenched around my spoon, in humiliation for Louis—for myself. I felt my skin flush as bright as his. Abandoning the spoon, I curled my fingers round Louis’s wrist. I could feel the temper rising.
‘Do you think that of me? As ruler of Aquitaine? That I am immoral, my thoughts fit only for the sewer?’ My cheeks might flame, my temper might burn, but my voice was tight with control.
‘No. I think you are beautiful beyond measure,’ Louis replied with disarming candour, his voice returning to its low timbre. ‘I think your mind is as fine as your face. I can find no fault in you. I can’t believe you are my wife.’
My mind struggled to grasp the quick lunge and feint of this conversation. Was Louis so naive that he would think to win my favour by this lurch from condemnation to flattery? How dared he pick and prod at my own people, at my way of life, within an hour of our marriage? So he could find no fault in me. I admitted to no fault in me! Or with the uninhibited behaviour and language of my guests. Temper remained hot in my blood as I retrieved my spoon in a pretence of sampling a dish of succulent figs.
Clearly disturbed at the flash in my eye, Louis lifted his cup, intending to take a hearty swallow of wine—but Abbot Suger was instantly there to place a hand on his wrist.
‘Perhaps not, my lord.’
And Louis immediately pushed away the cup. ‘No. It would be better if I did not.’
‘Do you always take his advice?’ I demanded.
‘Yes. My lord Abbot always has my best interest at heart. He would never advise me wrongly.’ Louis looked puzzled. ‘Do you have no one to advise you, lady?’
‘No.’
‘Then how do you know what to do, what decisions to take?’
I had to think about that. It was not a question I had ever been asked, to justify my desires and needs. The answer was simple enough. ‘When my father was alive, we travelled constantly. I watched and I learned. And now I act as I know he would have done. He was a good man. I miss him,’ I admitted.
Louis’s face was transfigured by a blinding smile. ‘You need me, Eleanor. I will advise you.’
Could a child brought up as a monk give me advice, brought up as I had been in my father’s court? I did not think so. ‘I hope we will come to an agreement,’ I compromised.
‘My lord will rule