Anne O'Brien - Devil's Consort

The feast continued, memorable for its crudity. No songs. No entertainments. Our eating was accompanied by nothing more than the slurp and chewing and belching of Louis’s barons and an increasing volume of coarse comment and laughter as the wine flowed. At the end, a finger bowl was presented to me. It was more than I expected. But I flinched from the layer of grease and traces of food floating on the top. I dipped in the very ends of my fingers and looked up at the page. He stared back at me with an uncertain fear in his youthful eyes. Clearly he did not know what I waited for.

‘Fetch me a napkin,’ I whispered.

He looked askance towards Louis and back to me. Did he expect me to wipe my fingers on my skirts? I found my attention straying from the rank water in the tarnished silver dish to the black-edged nails of its holder. Perhaps he had scoured the fire grate before serving me.

‘I don’t think we have a napkin, Majesty,’ he admitted in a hoarse whisper that echoed along the board, his face glowing with embarrassment. ‘I could try …’

The lack was not his fault. But when the flatbreads were collected, some given to the servants, some thrown to the scavenging dogs that fell on them with enthusiastic snarls, I had had enough. I signalled to my women to leave, gathering my dignity around me to curtsey to Louis. I found it impossible to smile.

‘I will retire, my lord.’

‘It’s been a long day for you, Eleanor.’ Leaping to his feet, with gentle respect he handed me from the dais. ‘I trust you will sleep well.’

I gripped his fingers for a moment. ‘I hope you find the time to visit me, my lord, before you retire.’

‘Yes.’ I thought Louis gulped but perhaps it was a trick of the guttering and inadequate rushlights. His eyes shone with warmth and, I decided, were full of admiration. ‘I hope you are happy with your new home.’

‘I am happy.’ I would make my immediate wishes plain since it seemed that I must. I leaned close. ‘If you come to me I will show you how happy I am to be here as your wife.’

‘I will …’

I ordered candles to be lit. I bathed and combed my hair, robed myself in a lavender-fragrant linen shift heavy with embroidery. The bed had been newly made up with my own linens, thus obliterating much of the damp, and the brazier was stoked, a handful of herbs from the sun-filled gardens of the south thrown on to scent the air and ward off the chills.

I dismissed my women to find what comfort they could in their own chamber.

Settled against the pillows, I waited.

The brazier dimmed into a dull glow and the candles extinguished in their own wax.

Louis did not come to me. I did not think I could have been more obvious in my invitation, and there was nothing I could do to remedy his decision. I could hardly summon him, like a lord sending for a lackey, neither did I care to advertise my own failure—my continuing failure—in bringing my husband to my bed.

Climbing from the high bed, I opened the door to rouse my women. For the rest of the night Aelith curled beside me, as she had every night when we were children. For once she was sufficiently sensitive to make no comment. For my part, I seethed with frustration and fury.

I was not a child. I was a wife. I was a woman and I wanted a man in my bed.

Where was my husband?

Next morning I was up betimes. Really, it was very simple. I knew what I must do and how to do it. Before I had broken my fast, leaving Aelith asleep, I was off in search of my absent husband. I would talk to him, tell him of my own needs, and his, not least the need for an heir. He must see sense. If it was shyness I would try to put him at his ease. I would make him talk to me. If necessary, I would demand his presence with me at night.

I would not be neglected in this way.

First his own private apartments after asking directions. I entered without knocking—why should I not?—and walked through corridors and antechambers, finding no trace of life. Eventually, opening doors indiscriminately, I discovered what must be Louis’s bedchamber. The bed was as vast as mine, hung with the blue and gold of the Capetians, the never-ending fleurs de lys glinting in the shadows.

Empty.

And as far as I could see, unused for many weeks. None of Louis’s possessions were strewn about the room. Neither brazier nor means of lighting. The room was cold and unoccupied with dust on coffer and floor. When I punched the bed curtains with my fist, I sneezed on the resulting cloud. I doubted he had been there since his return to Paris.

So where was he?

In an antechamber I came across a servant—a young boy, probably a page—who looked startled to see me but bowed.

‘Where is His Majesty?’ I asked in careful langue d’oeil.

‘At his devotions, lady.’

Of course. Why had I not thought of that? ‘Does His Majesty have a private chapel in the palace?’

‘Yes, lady. The chapel of Saint Nicholas.’

‘Will you take me there?’

‘Yes, lady … But it’ll do no good …’

‘Why not?’ Had I misunderstood his reply? I thought not.

‘I would take you, lady—but His Majesty is not in the palace’ I thought the page looked pityingly at my ignorance. ‘His Majesty is at the Cathedral of Notre Dame.’ The vast edifice that shared the Ile de la Cité with the palace.

‘He rose early?’ I asked.

‘He stayed there, lady. Through the night. His Majesty often stays there, rather than here in the palace. The Prince—His Majesty—has rooms set aside for his use there.’

‘And when will he return here?’

The lad shrugged. ‘His Majesty spends all day at Notre Dame. He observes the offices and …’

I raised a hand to stop him as truth dawned. So Louis had returned to the monks almost as soon as he had set foot back in Paris. Better a hard bed in a monkish cell than mine. The thought resurrected a moment in the previous day. Now I understood the Dowager Queen’s insistence that her son put in an appearance at the banquet. Clearly she knew him well, fearing he would run hotfoot to the monks as soon as he left her rooms. She knew him better than I! I would remedy that soon enough. A little heat thrummed through my blood.

‘I need you to take me to the cathedral,’ I ordered briskly.

Notre Dame crouched in the grey dawn, dark and looming like a sleeping dragon painted in one of the old books in my grandfather’s library in Poitiers. My young guide—Guillaume, he informed me—was for the most part silent, overawed by his royal companion and unsure of why I should wish to go to Notre Dame at this early hour. He led me along the vast arched nave towards the chancel, where I could hear the monks’ voices uplifted in singing the order of Prime.

Where was Louis? Impatient as I was, I could not interrupt the holy brothers. I looked enquiringly at the page, who shrugged his shoulders and ushered me to a seat in the chancel, then bowed and left me as if he considered his task done.

I looked around. It was difficult to see anything in the cool shadows, the early morning light barely illuminating the vast building, but I could certainly not see Louis, neither in the choir stalls nor kneeling before the High Altar, where I might have expected the King to pay his respects to the Almighty. So I set myself to wait until the service was over. And because it seemed appropriate I knelt and bent my head in prayer. For my strange marriage with Louis. For strength to make my new life here.

The blessing was administered, the service ended, the monks filed out towards the refectory for bread and beer before taking up their appointed tasks for the day. With an eye to accosting the Abbot, I rose to my feet. And looked. And looked again at Louis, my husband, his pale hair curling to his shoulders beneath the cowled hood. Now I knew why I had not picked him out. Clad in a rough monkish robe, girded with the knotted rope of the monks, Louis walked silently amongst them as if he were one of their number, under vows of obedience and poverty. His hands were clasped in prayer, his eyes downcast. He had no sense of my being there at all.