by Robyn Carr
The Troubadour’s Romance
by Robyn Carr
This novel is a work of historical fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents relating to non-historical figures are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of such non-historical incidents, places or figures to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1985 by Robyn Carr
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Westminster Castle
1166
The bowers that Veronique occupied were rich by the English standard, but now more than at any other time she longed for the comfort of France. She had accustomed herself to the drabness of English castles, the absence of the finer silks and fragrances, and even to the cold, damp weather. But there was still no feeling of home.
It was growing late in the year and she hungered for spring; it was chill and heartless and she feared she would never know warm tenderness again in her life. Just three days past childbearing and barely moving out of her bed, she yearned for an embrace of goodness or the light of pride in a husband’s eyes. But all of that was hopeless and there was naught to pray for but mercy.
In this vulnerable state and residing much alone with her thoughts, Veronique could not reach for her baby daughter without going over in her mind each detail that had brought her to the present. And she began instinctively to give consideration to how she could save this baby girl from the same fate.
She had grown up without a mother, her father had been a devoted knight who worshiped Queen Eleanor in the fashion she most adored--chastely and from afar. He would have at any moment laid down his very life that her shoe would not be muddied. To preserve this dedication that Eleanor was intent on, she allowed the motherless child, Veronique, to live in her household.
Veronique did not presume that she was as a daughter to the queen; rather, she was a very special servant and ward of Her Majesty. Just as her father, Sir Flavian, had done, Veronique learned to partake in the lamenting love verse flavored with the chivalry of Arthur’s court and the honorable pursuit of unrequited love. Veronique became, in time, not just a waiting woman for the queen; she rose in her own right to the status of court poetess. She was beautiful, untainted, and glowing with sublime rapture.
As a child she had resided near Eleanor during her marriage to Louis le Jeune, and later had journeyed with Eleanor to England, when she married for the second time. Her new husband, King Henry, was crowned in 1154. In the twelve years since, she had only seen her beloved Poitiers four times, for although Eleanor traveled to France often, Veronique did not accompany her every time. The home of her birth was near Narbonne, and she had seen that fair place even less.
She had either attended or been close at hand for the queen’s childbearing, yet she bore her own child with little assist. The labor had been tedious and drawing, for Veronique was nearly thirty years old. Had Sir Flavian lived beyond the Welsh campaign of the year before, she might have borne this bastard daughter in a farmer’s sty in France. When Sir Flavian left to fight the Welsh for Henry, he fell to one knee before his queen, praised her beauty with his usual reverence and supplication, and beseeched her to “look to Veronique and hers should my life’s blood be shed upon Your Majesty’s husband’s cloak of honor.”
Eleanor smiled in kind supremacy and murmured, “When have I not, sir knight? You of all would know that while I cannot reward your fealty with earthly pleasure, I can yield that loyalty of service which you entrust solely to me. Go with cause and without fear. I treasure Veronique as richly as you.”
The mature virgin, bidden to her queen, took the news of her father’s death as fearlessly as he had died, for her place with the queen had been promised. It was to be a nun’s life without the costume, since Veronique’s place was to beautify Eleanor’s surroundings and lament of love unattainable and pure. The theme of the poems, the discussion, and even the acting done about Eleanor was constant arousal, with consummation the ultimate flaw, as if the seduction was the joy and the actual union of lovers a disappointment. Marriage was not denied Veronique; it was simply never mentioned. It was assumed she was content with the role of seeker of pure love, and furthermore, no suitors met with the queen’s satisfaction. Marriage would mean leaving the queen, and that would cost her dearly.
It came as small wonder then that Eleanor considered the betrayal deep and personal when Veronique yielded to a lover’s caress. No touch had tempted her until his, no lips had brushed her silken cheek until she’d felt his breath, hot and flaming, close to her ear. It was in the troubadour fashion that he had courted her, he was first inspired as they looked across the room at each other, then he sang of her throughout the ladies’ bowers--while all thought that the object of his madness was Eleanor. Then his fingers, roughened from working the sword and lance, had stroked her flesh, melting her resolve for purity. Ice met fire and theirs was an instant flood of passion.
The splendor of his fealty and lust held her strong for his return from a mission for Henry. Upon his homecoming he would speak, nay, plead for her release from the queen, and she would bask in his ardor all her life. It was Veronique’s private fear that when Eleanor became aware of their love, she would be jealous and cruel. The queen’s sensuality and lusty looks were as hungry as Henry’s, and oft times when she looked at Veronique’s suitor, her gaze warmed and held promise. Although Eleanor would be faithful to the king, her love of being worshiped as the perfect woman was boundless, and many times she was angry when one of her troubadours found satisfaction with a woman who was free to return his love.
Veronique’s brave and handsome lover did not return to her. Time melted away, and she came to fear him dead and herself bearing fruit from their coupling; yet she shed no tear and held her eyes level and soft as she amused and served her queen. She dared not ask after her suitor, for the troubadour fashion was to maintain complete anonymity among lovers. And she heard no word of him until the first flutterings of her child whispered within her womb. A returning knight spoke of Veronique’s lover briefly, and he aroused much laughter as he described the man’s pursuit of a wealthy widow residing in the south of England. He had been approved by her, it was said, and could not be rousted from that demesne without owning it through her hand. He quite delayed the troops with his folly, until they left him to seek his lady.
In that very moment, Veronique knew the bitterness of the lie she had been living. The many years of love’s whisperings were nonsense to her, for she was sullied and spoiled not only for a man, but for her station beside Eleanor. In her thoughts she instantly abandoned the languishing drivel of the troubadours and was hard put to discover what she could salvage of her life. She begged forgiveness from a priest and then sought out Eleanor, confessing her deed.
Eleanor slapped her and raged at the indecency and dishonor. This was as Veronique had expected. As she had also foreseen, the queen then softened, asking solicitously for the name of the child’s father, but Veronique refused to identify her lover.
“Tell me then,” the queen demanded, “that the king is not the father of your babe.”
Veronique let her eyes drop and could not face her. The king’s passions were lusty and hard to resist. He kept Eleanor often with child and scattered his seed elsewhere with little discretion. Even Veronique, sheltered as she was by the queen’s watchful eye, had been bothered by Henry on many occasions. She did not feel at risk in his presence, being neither tempted by nor submissive to his desires. There was no longing within her for the energetic king. Yet Eleanor had begun to sense she was losing him, for his affairs were more frequent
than in the early years of their marriage. So long as Henry kept himself strictly to bedmates who would not threaten her position, she was stoically tolerant.
Eleanor had cause to be fearful. Her marriage to Louis had been annulled after a decade and a half on the grounds of consanguinity. Those same ancestral lines could be found within her marriage to Henry, should he too seek annulment. Veronique knew all of this well and took it close to heart as she sought shelter and sustenance at this time, when a woman in her plight could expect to be granted none. Veronique held onto Eleanor’s small seed of doubt, knowing the queen would not turn away her husband’s child, although she might shun the mother.
“Name him or free Henry from your accusation,” Eleanor demanded once more.
“Would you spare me no dignity, Madame?” she had murmured, her moist green eyes twinkling. “Would you have me list those men who did not use me and grant you the identity by default? I beg mercy ... that he is not here beside me proves there is no man. What matter? I am alone. The child is mine ... alone.”
“Sir Flavian chafes even as we speak,” Eleanor snarled. “His beloved remains writhe in pain in his grave.”
Veronique raised her eyes and looked beseechingly at her queen. There was a new strength there, born of worldly suffering and a scarred heart. “Nay, Madame, he rests at peace even now, for you gave your oath to me and mine.”
Veronique was dismissed from her usual entertainment of the ladies and troubadours. Chambers were vacated for her solitary existence and she ventured out but rarely. Eleanor visited on occasion, her mood sometimes black and mean, no doubt wondering which man who praised her had lain with her handmaiden. Other times she proved tractable and could even be considered kind. It wasn’t as though Eleanor was ignorant of the plight of women, whose lives were bent on the whims of men. For herself, when Louis had rejected her, she quickly had to marry Henry lest she be kidnapped and forced into marriage at the point of a dagger. There was naught to stay such an act, and Eleanor was too ambitious to marry a lesser man.
Veronique’s door to her chamber was watched: no men lingered without to betray an interest in the beautiful woman’s condition, leaving the queen at a further loss. Once, when the queen was in a more compassionate mood, she reached out a hand to caress Veronique’s long, red-gold hair and gently asked, “Do you mourn, dear sweet? Did love touch you but once and leave you filled with life but empty of hope?”
“Oh, yea, Madame,” she replied. “‘Twas the cruelest thing that when I would give, I was robbed. I once thought love a heaven of bliss impossible to find, then thought next that I held it at my breast, then what I held was a dagger that ripped my heart from me and left me naught. Now I say truly, I do not know love, nor have I ever. Yet a child is to be born. I grieve for all women and their babes.”
“But my sweet Veronique, do you see the cost of love? Tis why men of greater heart sing of amor de lonh,” Eleanor whispered in her beloved Provencal tongue. Then she laughed softly and added, “Love from afar does little to sate the hunger, but neither does it fill your belly thusly. Have you come to know which is worse? To hunger for love ... or to be fed and, indeed, full upon it?”
“Nay, Madame,” Veronique replied softly. “For I am full upon it--it grows and moves within me--yet... I hunger still. And, I fear, I always shall.”
It was greatly to Veronique’s advantage that the queen could not forfeit her own oath and beg the attentions of her knights. Nor could Eleanor afford to display her affections openly, since adultery for a queen was high treason and punishable by death. But she was intensely romantic, albeit vicariously. She and her courtiers speculated endlessly on the truest form of love. It was as much an occupation of hers as any other thing she did.
So while this handmaiden of the queen was not coddled, neither was she turned away and sheared. Her rooms were well tended and richly appointed. A midwife was called and servants were installed. The birthing was long and tiring, but Veronique delivered a daughter marked by the same reddish-gold locks and white skin as her own.
And now, on the third day of the child’s life, Eleanor was going to grace this bower with her presence. Veronique was both joyful and frightened.
Eleanor had lived two score and four years, yet she was stately and beautiful and adored by men across the land. Her spine was straight and her posture mighty. If her present condition was any clue, old age would never trespass where her strong will reigned. As Veronique watched her approach the bed, her eyes lit up with admiration, as always when in the presence of Her Majesty.
Eleanor drew back the bed curtains and looked down at the suckling infant. “She nurses well?”
“Aye, Madame. She is slight but strong.”
“What will you do with her now, Veronique?”
“I am at your mercy. Your Majesty. I beg counsel.”
“Let me raise the child,” Eleanor said suddenly.
Veronique looked sharply at the woman. “But Madame, you have so many ...”
“Not at my bosom, ma chere. There is naught I can do for you, but this one can reside within my protection, unsullied by her dire beginnings. There are those who would keep her close to me and do my bidding. You must tell me: is she French or English?”
Veronique paused briefly before answering, then finally, knowing it would do little good to lie, gave the truth. “She is half of this English kingdom, Madame.”
“Will you name him that he might meet his due?” she asked.
“Nay, Madame, I cannot. ‘Tis my due that must be met.”
“You will not cease in this self-abuse? Where is your pride? You have this royal support in bringing the cur to heel, yet you deny yourself and throw your pitiful state on my mercy.”
Tears glistened in Veronique’s eyes and she looked with envy to Eleanor. She had wished many times that she could possess that fire and zeal, that ambition and instinct for survival. But time upon time she came up against her shy and lonely feelings and a weakness of spirit.
“Madame,” she said tearfully, “of pride I am stripped bare by my deed. And, God forgive me, I would have your mercy before I would take his forced love. ‘Tis my shame that I cannot have him if he would not willingly come to me.”
In this Eleanor saw a paradox, for it was pride itself that forbade Veronique from asking the queen to force the man into wedlock. Eleanor had a high degree of respect for any woman with a proud and strong disposition. Despite the circumstances, Eleanor’s romantic heart swelled. “And do you love him still?” she asked.
“I cannot do otherwise,” Veronique murmured. “Though he slays me with his absence and does not look to carry this burden with me, no hand but his ever touched me. And in that touch, though fleeting, there was sinful joy. Yea, Madame, I go alone for want of him.”
“Then you are paupered, for all I can give you now is shelter and civil retirement. You may nurse the child for a few months that she might remember a mother’s tenderness, then I will have her placed in a noble English home close to me. Betimes I will carry her with my court that she might learn gentle manners, and your dowry will become hers. Fontevrault will be your home. The good sisters are charitable and generous; they will be more so with a word from me. I think mayhap you will in time join the sisters, for this life of the unmarried mother does not suit anything I have known of you.”
Eleanor paused, sensing some relief coming into Veronique’s expression. She sighed and continued.
“I grieve that you have brought me to this, Veronique. Through all the years of pleasure you have given me, I did not think you would leave me in disgrace.”
“I beg pardon, Your Majesty. In time we may yet heal, though I shall not be near you. And though she will have no memory of my touch or voice, I pray some gentle words and moments will give her a stronger beginning than was mine. My mother died birthing me, and I knew no touch save the wolf who left me this prize.”
“Surely there was a servant who ...”
Veronique shrugged. “The sen
eschal’s wife nursed many children, and my father tossed one more upon the teetering pile. Nay, there was no loving touch. Mayhap that is the reason I fell prey to it. I would this maid knows more of love than I. Then when love’s first touch comes, it will not burn, but rather, glow.”
Eleanor’s eyes held pity for the first time. “Have you named her?”
“I would leave that to you, Madame, for I yielded her the moment you entered this room.”
Eleanor’s smile was gentler than it had been in some time.
“You yielded all, demoiselle. Give her something more than your brief touch. Give her the name she will carry.”
“Felise,” Veronique breathed, tears coming to her eyes. She knew in this instant that Eleanor had given her the single thread of hope that she might see her daughter again one day. She would now have a name to seek. “And the name of her grandfather yet she will bear. Felise de Raissa.”
The queen gave Veronique’s hand a soft squeeze and rose to leave her. Once she was gone, Veronique rested back in the pillows and took pleasure in the child’s feeding, stroking the babe’s tiny head and smiling a contented smile.
“I do not leave you lightly, fair Felise, but, because you are all that I love, I give you over to the strongest to raise. Be not timid as your mother, nor shrinking and mild. And though I give no name for your sire, you are not without a proud and strong father. Yea, I love him even so. In time he will know full well that his seed brought life, for he will venture to these castle walls again, and you will be ever near the queen. Many years cannot fade but that he asks whose child you might be.
“I am better placed in a convent, ma petite,” she whispered. “I was never skilled in wifely matters, nor in occupations of men. In all these years beside my queen, I have served with and for women only. But I will not take the veil, my darling child, until I have seen that you prosper.” She kissed the tiny reddish head. “We shall be one in spirit, until then.”