Elizabeth Chadwick - The Summer Queen

‘My grandfather brought this back with him from a holy war in Spain,’ she said. ‘It is of great antiquity.’

The vase looked austere and simple when set against the opulent gifts that Louis had given her, but the backdrop only added to its impact. Holding the piece in his hands, Louis kissed her brow. ‘It is like you,’ he said, ‘clear and fine and unique.’ He set it down gently on the table, and immediately a shower of coloured diamonds spangled the white cloth. Louis’s face filled with astonished delight. Alienor smiled to see his response and thought that while he had given her all these rich and heavy things, her gift to him of captured light surpassed them all.

‘May I?’ Without waiting for consent, Abbé Suger picked up the vase in eager hands, his gaze frankly acquisitive. ‘Exquisite,’ he said. ‘I have never seen such fine workmanship.’ He ran his fingers over the carving in tactile delight. ‘See how clear it is, and yet it reflects all the colours of a cathedral window. Truly this is God’s work.’

Alienor suppressed the urge to snatch it from him. Suger was a close friend of Archbishop Gofrid and she ought to be delighted by his admiration.

‘Abbé Suger is fascinated by such items,’ Louis said with a smile. ‘He has a fine collection at Saint-Denis, as you will see when we return to Paris.’

Suger carefully replaced the vase on the trestle. ‘I do not make the collection for me,’ he said with a hint of rebuke, ‘but for the glorification of God through beauty.’

‘Indeed, Father.’ Louis flushed like a scolded boy.

After one sharp glance, Alienor looked down. She had noticed how often Louis glanced at Suger, seeking approval and support. This man could be friend or foe and he had Louis at his beck and call. She would need to tread very carefully indeed.

Later in the afternoon, as the sun cooled on the river and the Ombrière Palace drew on a mantle of deeper, slumbrous shadows, Louis prepared to return to his camp across the river. He had become more relaxed as the day wore on, and he was smiling as he took his farewell of Alienor, setting his thumb over the ring he had given her and kissing her cheek. His lips were silky and warm, and his fledgling beard was soft against her skin. ‘I will visit again tomorrow,’ he said.

Something inside Alienor unclenched and opened. The notion of marrying him had begun to feel more solid – reality, rather than the cloudy haze of a dream. Louis seemed decent enough; he had been kind thus far and he was handsome. Matters could have been much worse.

Embarking to his camp across a sunset river of sheeted gold, Louis raised his hand in farewell and Alienor returned the gesture with a half-smile on her lips.

‘Well, daughter,’ said Archbishop Gofrid, coming to stand at her side, ‘have your fears been allayed?’

‘Yes, Father,’ she replied, knowing it was what he wanted to hear.

‘Louis is a fine, devout young man. I am much impressed by him. Abbé Suger has tutored him well.’

Alienor nodded again. She was still trying to decide whether Suger was ally or foe, no matter that he was Gofrid’s friend.

‘I am pleased you gave him the vase.’

‘Nothing else would match what he had brought to me,’ she said. She wondered if her tutor had brought out the vase from the depths of the treasury with that intention. She firmed her lips. ‘I am glad Abbé Bernard of Clairvaux was not among their number.’

Gofrid raised his brows.

Alienor grimaced. Twice the redoubtable Abbé Bernard had visited her father, on both occasions to harangue him about his support for the opposition during a papal schism. She had only been a small child on his first visit and vaguely remembered him patting her head. He had been as thin as a lance, and had smelled musty, like old wall hangings. The second time, when she was twelve, Bernard and her father had argued violently in the church at La Couldre. It had been at the start of her father’s illness, and Abbé Bernard, with his stabbing bony finger, blazing eyes and eloquent speech threatening the fires of hell, had brought her father to his knees at the altar, and claimed it was God’s judgement on a sinner. Alienor had feared that Abbé Bernard might be among the French ecclesiasts and had been mightily relieved when he wasn’t. ‘He humiliated my father,’ she said.

‘Bernard of Clairvaux is a very holy man,’ Gofrid admonished gently. ‘Above all he seeks the clear path to God and if sometimes he is critical or zealous, then it is for the common good and for God to judge, not us. If you encounter him in Paris, I trust you to act with good and proper judgement as befits your position.’

‘Yes, Father,’ Alienor said neutrally, although she felt mutinous.

Gofrid pressed a light kiss to her brow. ‘I am proud of you, as would your father be if he were here.’

Alienor swallowed, determined not to cry. If her father were here, she would not have to make this marriage. She would be cherished and safe and all would be well. If she thought too hard about it, she knew she would blame him for dying and leaving her this legacy in his will.

In Alienor’s absence the wedding presents from Louis had been moved to her chamber and placed on a trestle for her to examine at leisure. Many items were only in her custody for a brief time; she would be expected to make gifts of them to the Church, or bestow them upon families of importance and influence. There was a reliquary containing a sliver of bone from the leg of Saint James. The casing was of silver gilt, decorated with pearls and precious stones, and a little door of hinged rock crystal opened to reveal a gold box containing the precious fragment. There were two enamelled candlesticks, two silver censers and a box filled with tawny shards and lumps of aromatic frankincense.

For Alienor’s personal use, there was a circlet adorned with gems, as well as brooches, rings and pendants. Petronella had been given a chaplet fashioned from exquisite golden roses set with pearls and sapphires. She wore it now, pinned to her brown waves, while she played with some coloured glass balls Raoul of Vermandois had given to her.

Alienor looked round; there were yet more boxes to be examined and she felt like a diner at a banquet with an excess of courses. There was too much richness, too much gold enclosing and smothering her. In haste she changed her elaborate gown for one of plain, cool linen and replaced her dainty embroidered shoes with her riding boots. ‘I am going to the stables to see Ginnet,’ she said.

‘I’ll come with you.’ Petronella put the glass balls away in her coffer. When Alienor suggested she should remove the golden chaplet, Petronella shook her head and pouted. ‘I want to keep it on,’ she said stubbornly. ‘I won’t lose it.’

Alienor gave her an exasperated glance but held her peace. Arguing with Petronella over such a trifle was too much trouble on top of everything else.

In the stables, Ginnet greeted Alienor with a soft whicker and eagerly sought the crust of bread her mistress had brought as a treat. Alienor stroked her, taking comfort in the sweet smell of straw and horse. ‘You’re going to be all right,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll take you with me to Paris; I won’t leave you behind, I promise.’

Petronella leaned against the stable door watching Alienor intently as if the words were meant for her. Alienor closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the mare’s smooth, warm neck. In a world where so much had changed so rapidly, she was taking what solace she could from the dear and non-judgemental familiar. She would rather bed down in the stable than return to her chamber and that glittering pile of wedding gifts.

As full dusk fell, Petronella plucked at Alienor’s sleeve. ‘I want to walk in the garden,’ she said. ‘I want to see the fireflies.’