Devil's Consort

by Anne O'Brien

  His absence had been quite deliberate. A cunning ploy, to play ducks and drakes with my emotions. I would not have it! We would play no longer. This would be on my terms, not his. I would call the tune and he would dance to it. I walked towards the window that had yet to be shuttered against the night sky and looked out as if the stars filled my interest.

  ‘Do we have business to discuss? Were you absent on my behalf?’ I waited. ‘Well?’

  ‘I sense your displeasure, lady.’ He answered evasively. ‘If that is so, I ask your pardon.’

  ‘It matters not to me where you spend your time, sir. As long as you fulfil your role of Seneschal, I have no call on your presence.’

  ‘I see I am in disgrace.’

  I heard his footstep, sensed his approach. He was standing behind me.

  ‘Send me away if you wish it, lady.’

  I was playing with fire here and knew it, but I was so lonely, with such an urgency in my heart to know the feel of a man’s body on mine. Not brief or perfunctory, not reluctantly. I wanted a lover who craved me beyond his own self-control.

  ‘You deserve that I should dismiss you.’ I was cold.

  ‘And why is that?

  ‘You neglect me. You absented yourself all day without my permission.’ So much for good intentions. I flinched at the admission I had not intended to make but I kept my back turned against him.

  ‘You think I left you willingly?’ He managed to infuse his reply with a slide of regret.

  ‘Did you not?’

  ‘As your Seneschal it is my duty to keep peace in your lands.’

  ‘And was your journey urgent?’

  ‘Who’s to say? I would not risk your safety.’

  ‘You have an answer for everything, have you not, Geoffrey?’ I used his name, deliberately.

  ‘Not everything, Eleanor.’ It shivered through me. His breath was warm on my neck. And there, following it, the brush of his fingertips. ‘Send me away if that is your wish. But do it now. Before it is too late.’

  Oh, I knew it had all been contrived and he was an inverterate schemer. I also knew when I was beaten and raised my hand to press his against my shoulder so that his palm was warm against my exposed flesh.

  ‘Well?’ Now his lips were against my throat.

  ‘I don’t want you to go.’ Had it not been inevitable from the beginning?

  ‘Eleanor …’

  Slowly he turned me round, and bending his head placed his lips on mine. His touch was light, his clasp on my shoulders insubstantial, as if allowing me the choice to step away.

  I did not.

  Geoffrey’s arms banded round me, his mouth hardened against mine and I sank into the embrace. Louis’s kisses had given me no warning of this. This was a long, dark slide of tongue and teeth, of ruthless possession, into a heat of blatant need in my belly and my loins. From there to my bed was no distance at all, where I discovered that I might lack the experience but I had the desire and a sense of what would please the Count of Anjou. Moving with effortless skill, making me feel neither awkward nor inept, he loved me.

  Pinioning my wrists above my head, he looked down into my eyes.

  ‘Your monkish lover does not satisfy a woman of your temperament. But I can.’

  I was swept along by his words. My skin heated, my breath caught and my emotions no longer obeyed me.

  That night the Angevin conquered Aquitaine.

  I had had no idea.

  Three weeks. For those three weeks I was Countess of Poitou, not Queen of France. I was a young unwed maiden again, not a married woman with a child. I was desired and indulged, flattered and beguiled with delicate pleasure. I was neither ignored nor rejected nor made to feel less than my worth. I was alive, under a breathtaking surge of excitement that I never wanted to end.

  We rode, hunted, feasted, loved. I accompanied him when he rode to test the atmosphere in the neighbouring lands. I sat with him when he dispensed justice. I learned much of him as a man, as a ruler. His justice was fair, tempered with mercy, but he was no fool. Those who threatened the peace of Poitou were punished with a heavy hand.

  Louis and Matilda remained as shades on the edges of our perception.

  At night he was my lover. Or we lay together in my bed in late afternoon, a stolen moment when the rest of the household slept or whiled away the surprising heat of the late autumnal day.

  ‘I think you will go soon,’ he remarked. He stroked his hand down the length of my haunch.

  ‘Yes. Soon. But not today.’ I was sated and drowsy.

  ‘One thing …’

  I lifted my head, intrigued to see him suddenly so serious. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m looking for a suitable wife for my son. It’s time he was betrothed.’

  Ah! So matters of state had crept up on us. Had I expected it? Perhaps I had.

  ‘And have you someone in mind?’ I asked carefully. I would not pre-empt the discussion I foresaw.

  ‘You have a daughter.’

  ‘So I have.’

  ‘Would you consider a match between her and Henry?’

  ‘Marie is less than one year old.’

  ‘A betrothal for the future, nothing more.’ Geoffrey’s hand stroked down again, a slow, firm stroke, as his eyes held mine. ‘There are only thirteen years between them. There are eleven years between Matilda and myself.’ Suddenly he rolled and pinned me to the bed with his weight, his hands holding mine flat on either side of my head. ‘What do you think?’

  I thought I did not like a marriage negotiation to come sneaking into my bed. Nevertheless I showed my teeth in a little smile. ‘So, my lord of Anjou, you have an ambition to be connected with the King of France?’

  He did not return the smile. ‘I would not choose it—Louis is more my enemy than my friend. But this marriage would tip the balance in my direction. With Louis tied into alliance it will enhance my power. And Henry’s for the future.’ Suddenly, despite the intimacy of our position, his words revealed the ruthlessness that I had always suspected. ‘I’d make an alliance with the Devil if it brought me gain.’

  I breathed slowly, remembering my own assertion, so long ago now, that I would wed the Devil if it would keep Aquitaine safe. Geoffrey was staring at me as if he would will me to acquiesce. There was a cold ambition here, a calculation. Matilda, with her mind fixed on England, was not the only one to have an eye to the future. Suddenly the brightness of my chamber was dimmed as the sun moved beyond the window, and doubt, sharp-toothed, bit at my heart. Was this why Geoffrey had wooed me, courted me? Was it to make me compliant towards an alliance?

  ‘Eleanor? Do we make a pact?’

  And I knew he had used me. I must step carefully in my dealings with Geoffrey of Anjou, circumventing any obvious traps. His will, his instinct for survival, was as strong as mine.

  ‘Eleanor?’ he repeated as he leaned and kissed me very gently on the lips.

  ‘You must ask Louis.’ I hedged a little.

  ‘But would you stand against me if I requested such an alliance?’

  I forced my mind to consider, to weigh the advantages. I willed considerations of policy and power to take precedence over my own ruffled feelings.

  ‘No. I would not.’ I had no doubt that the Angevins would make their mark on the map of Europe. And if Henry had inherited any of his father’s charm and skill, he would definitely make my daughter a more fulfilling husband than Louis had ever made me. ‘No, I’ll not stand against you. I’ll give such an alliance my support.’

  I saw victory in his gaze and was forced to turn my face away. I could not be sure that the pain that wrapped around my heart was not mirrored in my eyes and it would not do for him to see it. I must show no weakness with this man.

  ‘Eleanor—have I displeased you?’ His voice was tender again. With one hand he cupped my chin and made me look at him. ‘I think I have. Let me pleasure you again. And myself.’ I looked again at his fine features, the fierce admiration in his eyes. I shivered. ‘
I want you, Eleanor, and for now my desire and your delight take precedence over my son’s future.’

  I would never trust him completely. I would be a fool to do so … but for now …

  ‘Then show me.’

  Did those around us know? Did they suspect? No, I think not. We were discreet. No word of scandal hung in the air. We both knew the value of discretion and we were not so foolish as to be alone together in public. My women were present, often Aelith, often Henry. I was simply the Countess of Poitou enjoying the hospitality of her home and the experience of her Seneschal. Rumour of a liaison between us would bring disaster down on our heads. An affair between those of high birth could be survived, but not for the Queen of France and the Count of Anjou.

  It had to end. Aelith had already gone back to Raoul, with a wealth of gossip for his ears only. I must continue south to Aquitaine, and then back to my other life as Queen of France in Paris; Geoffrey to Anjou, where trouble was brooding and likely to break out in rebellion.

  We knew it must end, had always known, and we would not part in sorrow. No tears, no sighs, no longings. The troubadours would find no meat for their laments of unrequited love in my farewell to my Seneschal. Our final parting was quite public. Our words of farewell, perfectly proper, could be queried by no one around us. The Count kissed my hand briefly before helping me into my travelling litter and placing cushions for my comfort. He handed me a package of documents; charters and decrees appertaining to the government of Poitou.

  ‘God be with you, lady.’ He stepped back and bowed, the sun gilding his russet hair. ‘I’ll be in Paris by the end of the year, to discuss the matter of policy we spoke of.’

  ‘Excellent. It will be good policy, I think. I will advise the King of it.’

  Then he gave the office to start and I closed the leather curtains of the litter, almost allowing the package to slip from my lap, except that my eye was caught. The package contained a jewel. Not a ruby—Geoffrey had far better taste than Louis—and the scrawl with it was as incriminating as his public manner towards me had not been.

  ‘I shall remember our autumn sojourn in Poitiers. My lovely Eleanor. I wish you well. I pray the fire in the heart of the emerald will remind you of our nights together.’

  I studied the words and considered what I had done. I did not love the Count of Anjou. I had wanted him and had welcomed him without conscience, but I had not loved him. I had enjoyed him, relished his attention, gloried in the dominance of his body over mine, yes, all of those. But he did not own my heart. I think we were two of a kind, both selfish, both self-seeking. Aelith had given up everything for love. I would not give up everything for the Angevin. I had enjoyed what he could give me and I would miss him, but his absence would not ruin my life.

  Unexpectedly a sob rose in my throat. I closed my fingers over the emerald, a magical stone to preserve the wearer from sickness and ailments of the mind. Perhaps I did love him a little. My heart was not totally free from anguish. I tucked the jewel into a little travelling coffer, resisting the urge to wear it on a chain against my breast That would be foolishness. Nothing to be gained from dwelling on what could not be.

  And in a sudden little vignette I recalled my parting from Geoffrey’s son, the expression on his face.

  He had been solemn, making his farewells with his customary good manners. In the business of packing all my possessions I had left a case of documents in my room. Forestalling Agnes, he bounded off to recover them, presenting them to me with grace, despite his laboured breathing, and a neat little bow so that I smiled my thanks to him. He did not smile back.

  ‘Adieu, Henry,’ I said, holding out my hand.

  He saluted my fingers. ‘God go with you, lady.’

  What was it I saw there? An unsettling acknowledgement, perhaps. Speculation. Did he suspect my liaison with his father? I did not think it and yet … I felt he was appraising me, and I could not read his conclusion. His lips were thinly closed, unsmiling, his eyes cool and even judgmental. It spoke to me of strong emotion under careful restraint. Whatever his thoughts, he was concealing them from me Did he dislike me, perhaps?

  I gave a little shrug. It was hardly a matter for my consideration. ‘I wish you well, Henry, if our paths never cross again,’ I said.

  ‘They will cross, lady.’

  ‘You are very sure. How can you tell?’

  ‘I know it. It is meant to be.’ His confidence startled me.

  On a thought, I gave Henry a present of one of the white gerfalcons since he had admired them more than he had admired me. His solemn face split in a grin and he could barely thank me in his delight. How could I have thought him enigmatic? Henry was merely a boy with all the hopes and fears that youth suspended over our heads, like of bucket of cold water, to douse us when we least expect it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I WENT to Poitiers. In the autumn of 1145, when the days were still long enough and mellow with the lingering heart of the summer, the warmth of the south, of my own lands, beckoned. I left Marie with her nurses and travelled alone, with Louis’s blessing. I doubt he noticed my absence. I set my course for Poitou, conscious of nothing but the years passing. I was twenty-three years old and had abandoned any hope of so basic and thrilling an emotion as lust. How would I recognise it? How could I know the blast of desire when I had never experienced it? I would go to my grave without my body being stirred by a man. Take a lover, Agnes still advised, but I would not. Love, I decided, was all a deceit, a crafty trick of the troubadours to warm a woman’s heart and loins with longing for the unattainable, and so win valuable patronage for themselves.

  ‘Love does not exist,’ I bleakly informed Aelith, who met me on my journey and continued with me to Poitiers. ‘Physical desire is not worthy of a woman of intellect.’

  She was a grown woman now, confident, fine drawn with the exigencies of the past months but gleaming with contentment. Dismounting in the road, I hugged her, joyful at being reunited with her. I think my emotions were decidedly unsteady, although that may have been a poor excuse for what I did. The choice I made that was far from good sense.

  ‘Ridiculous!’ Aelith laughed.

  ‘How so?’ I remounted. My emptiness was not the subject for laughter.

  ‘Did I give up everything, even my immortal soul, for a warm friendship with Raoul?’ The curl of her lip said it all.

  ‘I don’t deny the strength of your feelings,’ I admitted grudgingly.

  ‘Yes, you do. Just because you’ve no experience of it, it does not mean it doesn’t exist. If you had even the slightest affection for Louis—which you haven’t, and neither would any woman in your position—you would not say anything quite so stupid!’

  Agnes, a willing eavesdropper, smirked. ‘I’ve said the same, lady.’

  Rattled, not altogether pleased, I touched my heel to my mare, encouraging her into a canter with Aelith following, to draw us out of earshot of interested listeners and smart retainers.

  ‘I am not stupid,’ I said through my teeth.

  ‘No. But you’ve never been in love, have you?’

  I hunched my shoulders. ‘How will I know it?’

  ‘You will. When a man touches you and your body responds. When even the caress of his eyes stirs fire in your blood. And I’ll say this, Eleanor—anyone would think you were jealous of my good fortune.’

  Well, I was.

  ‘Eleanor …’

  I looked across at her to see the concern in her face and forced a smile. It was wrong of me to burden Aelith with my ill humour. I begged forgiveness and we were at one once more, but my heart was as heavy in my chest as a lump of over-kneaded dough, my mood as sour as an Aquitaine lemon.

  ‘Welcome, lady.’ My steward relieved me of my mantle as he escorted me to my rooms in the Maubergeonne Tower. ‘We have missed you here in Poitiers. Do you stay long with us? I will make your chambers ready to your requirements.’

  ‘I’m not certain …’ I unwound the veil that had kept the dus
t from my hair. I was surprisingly undecided, lacking any need or motivation other than to get out of Paris. I supposed I would travel on south, sounding out the loyalty of my barons, simply making my presence known, but Poitiers was so welcoming and familiar. The tower closed around me like a soft glove and I sighed with pleasure.

  ‘The Seneschal is here in residence, lady.’

  ‘Oh?’ Now in my private chambers, I dropped the veil, handed my gloves to Agnes.

  ‘He has been here some days, to hold a court of justice.’ The steward placed the mantle over a coffer before moving to open the shutters to let sunlight into the unused rooms. ‘There has been some noise of rebellion in the Limousin. My lord has stamped on it most effectively, I understand.’

  ‘Has he? That’s good.’ Louis had appointed a seneschal to rule in my name—and his—in our absence, a sensible decision all in all, yet I felt a quick brush of irritation that I should not have the palace to myself and Aelith, but must play the role of hostess to the man. I did not want to converse and dispense hospitality. Rather to brood alone.

  The steward waited, bright eyed, accommodating. ‘Do you wish to speak with Count Geoffrey, lady, when he rides in? He’ll be anxious to give his report.’

  Count Geoffrey, Lord of Anjou. I knew his name well enough. I had never met him, had no particular desire to do so. He had a reputation for military prowess but to my mind was little more than a robber baron, much as Louis’s ancestors, descended from a long line of enterprising thieves, striving to make his mark in Europe by snapping up states that were not well protected. A pretentious upstart, so it was said, a dangerous man with an eye to every opportunity to consolidate his power.

  I frowned. Normandy sprang to my mind, one of those opportunities snatched up by the Count. When Louis had been too busy dealing with Theobald of Champagne to watch his back, this Geoffrey had marched his troops into Normandy and overrun it. Since then, the Count of Anjou and Louis had come to terms and Louis had confirmed him vassal status as Duke of Normandy, but I had seen no reason to encourage the man by making him Seneschal of Poitou as well, and had said as much to Louis—who ignored me and did as he pleased.