Elizabeth Chadwick - The Summer Queen

Many lords who had been unable to attend the wedding in Bordeaux had come to Taillebourg to swear fealty to Alienor and Louis, and all had been arranged by Geoffrey to run as smoothly as oil from a jar. A formal feast had been prepared with Louis and Alienor as guests of honour and hosts to their subjects. Later, over an informal gathering, Louis was able to meet and talk with barons and members of the clergy whom he had not met before.

Amid the throng, Geoffrey paused to speak with Alienor. ‘I have arranged a hunt tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I hope the Prince will approve.’

‘He tells me he enjoys the chase providing it is not a holy day.’

‘You have made a very great match,’ he leaned forward to say softly. ‘One that any father would be proud to make for his daughter.’

She looked across the room at Geoffrey’s children, standing with their nurses. Burgundia was the eldest at seven, Geoffrey his namesake was six and Bertha the youngest was four. ‘Would you have made it for one of yours?’ she asked.

‘I would do the best I could for them and for the name of Rancon. It would be too great an opportunity to pass up.’

‘But in your heart?’

He raised his brows. ‘Are we still talking of my daughters?’

She flushed and looked away.

‘Whatever hopes I nurtured, I now see clearly were never going to come to fruition – even if your father had lived. He was a wiser man than me. It would not be beneficial for Aquitaine, and that is always our greatest duty … Alienor, look at me.’

She met his eyes, although it cost her to do so. She was horribly aware that they were under the gaze of the entire court and one beat too long, one moment of overheard conversation was all it would take to ignite a destructive scandal.

‘I wish you and your husband well,’ he said. ‘Whatever you ask of me in loyal service, I shall perform as a faithful vassal. You may trust me, always and without reserve.’ He bowed and moved smoothly on to engage in urbane conversation with Ralph de Vermandois.

Alienor continued on her own trajectory, speaking a word here, giving a smile there, and a gesture of the hand to emphasise the gold lining of her sleeve and the shine of a topaz ring that had been among Louis’s wedding gifts to her. She was the gracious and lovely young Duchess of Aquitaine and no one would ever see her wounds or know the turmoil she felt inside.

Alienor quietly entered the bridal chamber at the top of the tower. Night had fallen and the shutters were closed. Numerous candles and lamps had been lit and the room flickered with soft amber light and umber shadows. The escape she had made was brief. In a moment the women would arrive to prepare her for her wedding night.

Someone had hung her father’s shield on the wall – Geoffrey, she suspected – both as a reminder of her bloodline and as a symbol of paternal sanction. She swallowed as she remembered picking it up as a little girl and running behind her father, pretending to be his squire, making him laugh as she strove not to drag its tip in the dust.

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.