Elizabeth Chadwick - The Summer Queen

An usher sidled towards him, a scroll in his hand. Louis beckoned to him with a sinking heart. A message delivered at the table was always important news – usually not good. He took the letter, broke the seal and, as he read what was written, grew white around the mouth.

‘What is it?’ Robert of Dreux leaned towards him in concern.

Louis’s expression contorted. ‘My former wife has married Henry of Anjou.’

A taut silence gripped the dais table.

‘But he’s in Normandy!’ Robert spluttered. ‘He’s at Barfleur!’

‘Not according to this letter.’ Louis swallowed, feeling sick. ‘He is in Poitiers and my wife – my former wife – has married him.’

‘Good God.’

Louis could not believe what he had just read. He felt sick remembering how the young man had come to court. The lowered eyes, the wary but respectful deference and all a front for secret negotiations. The thought of Alienor and the red-haired whelp from Anjou in bed together curdled his stomach. How could she, only two months after their annulment and with a youth of nineteen? And behind his back. The bitch, the whore!

‘They cannot do this,’ Robert said furiously. ‘They are vassals-in-chief; they must have your permission to wed. Since neither of them has sought it, they must be brought to account.’

Henri of Champagne and his brother nodded vigorous agreement, for the development was a massive threat to what they stood to gain from betrothals to Louis’s daughters.

‘I shall summon them to answer,’ Louis ground out.

‘You think they will come?’ Robert gave a disbelieving snort. ‘You’ll have to go further than that. Their marriage is consanguineous. You must write to Rome and bring the full force of the law down upon them.’

Louis nodded, although he was still reeling. Why had she done this? Out of lust because she was a corrupt woman? Because she believed she could manipulate a youth of nineteen into doing what she wanted as she had once manipulated him? Henry himself clearly had delusions of grandeur. ‘If they do not answer the summons, I shall indeed take it further.’

‘Believe me, they won’t,’ Robert said. ‘Act sooner rather than later.’

‘I will act when I decide,’ Louis snapped. He stamped off to be alone with his anger and humiliation that Alienor had seen fit to cavort with Henry of Anjou. Louis’s only consolation was that if she could not give him sons, she was never going to bear them to Henry, because God would punish the couple and render them barren. His own situation with recourse to his heirs was all her fault.

He was kneeling at the portable altar by his bed when his chamberlain craved admittance.

‘What now?’ Louis demanded furiously. ‘Did I not say I wished to be left in peace?’

‘Sire, I am sorry to disturb you, indeed I would not do so, but news has arrived that my lord Raoul of Vermandois is dead.’ The man held out a letter.

It was not unexpected but it still hit Louis like another body blow. Raoul had been a constant in his life ever since Louis had emerged from the cloister as a frightened child to become the heir to the throne. At times they had been at odds, but mostly Raoul had served him well; he had been steadfast in policy even if a fool with women and unable to control his impulses. He left three children all under age who would now become wards of court. They could not possibly go to their mad mother and Louis would have to decide where to bestow them.

He dismissed his chamberlain and knelt once more to pray for the dead man. Tomorrow he would have masses said and bells rung for Raoul’s passing. He felt like a tree in the forest, where all the trees either side that had given him support, shelter and camouflage were being cut down one by one, leaving him to bear the brunt of the storms alone.

‘How did de Vermandois die?’ Alienor’s aunt Agnes, Abbess of Notre-Dame de Saintes, fixed her niece with a compassionate but inquisitive gaze. Her eyes were so light a brown as to be almost pale gold, and they missed nothing.

Alienor had been furnished with a cup of wine and a platter of the abbey’s delicious chestnuts candied in honey, which usually she loved, but for now was too preoccupied to enjoy. She was here to see Petronella, attend on her aunt and tell her about her new marriage. ‘He had been unwell for a while and retired from court, but suffered a seizure while in bed with his new wife, having been warned to abstain.’ Alienor grimaced. ‘He was ever ruled by that part of him, although Petronella’s jealousy always imagined it to be more than it was.’

Agnes shook her head. ‘May God have mercy on his soul.’

‘The manner of his death is not something my sister needs to know,’ Alienor said quietly.

‘Of course not,’ Agnes agreed. ‘Such news would do more harm than good.’

‘How is she?’

Agnes took a moment to ponder. ‘Much improved in her mind. The services and daily prayers have been of great benefit. I cannot say she is happy, but she is no longer distraught. I do not believe she is ready to leave us – may never be, but neither do I believe she will take vows. I shall take you to her in a moment.’

Alienor knew what was coming. Agnes would want to know everything about Alienor’s marriage to Henry as just exchange for looking after Petronella. She gave her aunt an edited but fair telling of the tale.

‘And are you content?’

Alienor smoothed her dress over her knees and looked at her wedding ring. ‘I have no complaint, but then I barely know him. He left for Normandy almost immediately.’

‘From what I hear he is intelligent and well educated.’

Alienor smiled. ‘He soaks up knowledge like moss soaks up water, and is thirsty for more. He is never still, except when he sleeps, and then he is so still that his breathing barely stirs the covers.’ Her face grew warm. When he slept he looked so young and vulnerable that she felt a great welling of tenderness towards him, some of it maternal, some of it the pangs of a lover for her mate.

‘You have much to deal with between you. It is a great gamble you have taken.’

‘But more attractive than the alternatives. He has the capacity to rule an empire.’ She raised her chin. ‘We both do.’

‘Yes, niece, you do. I have always thought that, ever since you were a small child. You ran rings around us all.’

The wine and chestnuts finished, Agnes took Alienor to a quiet, sunlit cloister where two women sat embroidering, one a nun, the other Petronella, robed in a dark blue gown, her head covered by a plain white wimple.

‘Petra?’ Alienor went to her with hands outstretched.

Petronella lifted her head from her sewing and looked at Alienor. Her face was fine-drawn, but her eyes were clear and knowing.

‘It is so good to see you!’ Alienor kissed her sister on both cheeks and embraced her warmly. ‘I hear you are faring well!’

Petronella returned the hug. ‘So they tell me.’ As they parted, she gestured around. ‘With all this light, there is little room for the darkness, and when it comes I pray to the Holy Virgin to help me – and she does.’

‘I am glad.’

Petronella picked up her sewing again and began to work steadily and neatly. ‘I did not want to come here,’ she said. ‘But I know now you were right. If I returned to court, everything would fall to pieces around me. Here I am safe.’

Agnes and the nun quietly departed, leaving the sisters alone. Alienor hesitated and then drew a deep breath. ‘I have so much to tell you that I hardly know where to start. Two weeks ago I married again, to Henry, Count of Anjou.’

Petronella stopped sewing and looked at her in her old, knowing way. ‘You were planning that, weren’t you? When they came to court in Paris. I knew it! I knew you were up to something!’