Devil's Consort

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘Eleanor!’

  He had no eyes for Louis. None for Louis’s damned advisers. He looked at me. He walked straight to me, such balm to my soul after weeks—months, even—of being excluded from Louis’s endless, pointless negotiations with those close to him. Closeted hour after hour with Odo de Deuil and Thierry Galeran, not once had my miserable husband asked my opinion, yet he was quick to castigate me for the collapse of his plans. Now I was greeted as if I mattered.

  Louis and his minions might not have been there.

  ‘Eleanor. My dear girl. We feared for your safety. How you must have suffered.’ Raymond’s welcome rolled over me, wrapping me in comfort in the soft accents of the langue d’oc.

  ‘Ah, Raymond. I am so pleased to be here.’ I almost wept.

  He opened his arms and I fell into them. Unable to fight against it, I wept on his shoulder. All my hopes when I had left France—for adventure, for victory, for sheer pleasure in the day-to-day travel—all had been destroyed under the weight of Louis’s stupidity as much as the military skill of our enemies. And I was being held accountable. But now my ordeal was over. This was home. Raymond’s kiss of welcome on my wet cheeks healed my immediate wounds.

  My nightmare was at an end.

  Nightmare? It had been no mere nightmare, to fade with wakening. It had been a never-ending torment, as black as the pit of hell.

  It had all gone disastrously wrong. Oh, we had started out bravely enough, celebrating our journey across Europe, glorying in the spectacle we made, the flower of western Europe. Hunting and feasting. Enjoying good weather and new surroundings, marvelling at the wonder of Constantinople where we were entertained and cosseted in luxury at the Emperor’s court. But then—were we not warned? Had there not been a complete overshadowing of the sun, the sky darkening to black night, as we left Constantinople? An omen, our troops muttered with fingers circled against the Evil Eye. Perhaps we should delay our departure. But Louis refused to be diverted. Were we, bearing the sacred Oriflamme of France, not protected by God and His Holy Angels? Ha! So much for Louis’s intimate knowledge of God’s plan for us! We should have acknowledged the night-black morning when the sun was lost to us as a dire prediction and acted on it, for what was to come could not have been worse.

  It was Louis’s fault, of course.

  Seven months after we had set out so bravely, Constantinople behind us, we were still untold days from Jerusalem, still floundering in the mountainous regions of Asia Minor. The German Emperor Conrad and his forces had gone on ahead. And Louis? Despite our numbers being bolstered by Louis’s uncle, the Count of Maurienne, and a tidy force of knights, Louis’s spirits were dangerously low. For five days he sat and fretted, debating whether to rendezvous with Conrad or sit tight and wait for news of him. Anyone of wit could see that our army was eating its way through our limited food supplies whilst the days passed and winter loomed.

  Louis’s ability to lead men, always uncertain, seemed to disintegrate into indecisive idiocy with every day. I did not remonstrate with him. He would not listen to me. I’d have told him to take hold, to get the army under way and push ahead with all speed. What point was there in sitting tight and making no progress? But Odo de Deuil and Templar Galeran were the only ones to have access to the royal ear, and they whispered caution. How would they—a narrow-minded, scribbling priest and a miserly, venomous Templar clerk—know anything of relevance about pursuing a military campaign? Under their influence, Louis became as useless as a cracked jug. When he heard of Conrad’s defeat at the hands of the Turks, and the total destruction of his army, he was struck dumb with grief. And when Conrad struggled back to our camp with the most vile head wound that had all but robbed him of his wits, Louis burst into a bout of noisy tears.

  Stupid, stupid man!

  We needed leadership, not raw emotion. We needed the advice of knights and fighting men, not men of the Church. And did Louis turn to his barons and knights? Did he turn to his uncle Maurienne or my own experienced vassal, Geoffrey de Rancon, who could have given him some seasoned advice? No, he did not. I had to leave the tent in disgust as Louis wept and fell to his knees to beg God for guidance.

  Finally, at last, we struck camp, taking the route south along the coastal lowlands—a reasonable enough choice—but nothing would persuade Louis against halting again to celebrate the Christmas festivities. How could we mark Christ’s birth when on the march? By God, would the Holy Child have cared, as long as we got to Jerusalem? It proved to be a desperate decision. Louis’s choice of campsite was simply bad. Torrential rain beat down on us, gales brought terrifying floods that swept away our tents, our weapons and equipment. Precious food was spoiled or lost. Men and animals drowned or were battered to death on the rocks. Instead of a glorious celebration, it was ruination.

  It became impossible for me to even speak to Louis with any show of respect.

  After the devastation of Christmas, he decided to press on to Antioch without delay, taking the direct route through the mountains, which of course condemned us to the slowest of progress with winter at its most inhospitable. I will never forget the misery of it. I will never forgive him for it. The mud that sucked at the horses’ feet, the impossibly steep gradients, almost too much for the horse-drawn litters in which I and the women now travelled. The thick leather curtains failed to keep out the constant rain and sleet. Every day we were set upon by Turkish raiding parties, and all the time we retched at the stench of the decomposing bodies of the massacred Germans who had already taken this route and failed.

  Was Louis even aware of our plight? Oh, he prayed interminably for our success. He sent off letter after letter to Abbot Suger, pleading for money, but never did he give the army the commander it needed. In a misguided spirit of unity he divided responsibilities amongst his barons, each night designating a different commander for the next day.

  Disastrous!

  And what use was Louis in facing Turkish raiding parties with their fine arrows and sharp swords, when he turned his horse aside to visit yet one more wayside shrine? If he prayed at one, he prayed at a score. I was full to the brim with contempt. I seethed with frustrated anger.

  We paid the penalty for Louis’s terrible decisions. How we paid, many with their lives. And I? I paid with my reputation. Never will my good name recover from the stain of what happened at Mount Cadmos. Mount Cadmos. I shudder still at the name, a cataclysm that will be engraved on my heart and on my soul until the day I die. Those who recall Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine, even when she is dead, will damn her for it.

  I was not to blame. How could I have been?

  Here’s how it was.

  Louis had sent the vanguard of the army ahead under the command of Geoffrey de Rancon and the Count of Maurienne. I accompanied them with my own Aquitaine forces, leaving Louis with the main body of our forces to bring up the rear with the unarmed pilgrims and the baggage. We were, by his orders, to set up camp on a plateau before the next mountain pass, to wait there for him to join us, a position that both de Rancon and the Count quickly found to be quite untenable, windswept and open, with no water source or protection from either the elements or raiding Turks. We had learned from experience that we could never relax our guard. Since daylight was still good, the two commanders were agreed to push on through the rocky pass to a sheltered, well-irrigated valley beyond, suitable for a camp. I could see nothing but good in the plan. Yes, I agreed to it, if that made me guilty of what was to come. There, in our well-protected camp, we spent a night waiting for the main army to join us.

  And it did not.

  Looking back, it was a long night of dread, the news that reached us the worst possible—that the Turks had swooped and cut our main army to pieces. Fearing for Louis’s life, I prayed through those dark hours until my voice was hoarse, my knees sore. He did not deserve to end his life by a Turkish sword. All we could do was wait until the remnants trickled into our camp. As day broke, I stood with de Rancon and Maurienne, searching every face.
And with daylight Louis rode in, slumped on a borrowed horse guided by a monk who had found him wandering aimless and lost. Almost falling from the animal, he staggered to where I waited for him, hands outstretched in greeting, tears of relief drying on my cheeks.

  ‘Louis! Thank God!’

  Chest heaving, swaying from exhaustion, Louis wiped a smear of mud and blood from his cheek and temple.

  ‘Come with me,’ I urged. ‘Let me—’

  Louis swept aside my hands.

  ‘God damn you, Eleanor!’

  I was struck dumb. Surely I had misheard?

  ‘You’re to blame for this, Eleanor.’ Louis’s voice was cracked with fatigue but he made no effort to control its volume. ‘You and your damned Aquitanians. You and de Rancon!’

  It took a moment for his words to make their impact. There Louis stood, blood-smeared, swaying with fatigue but shaking in anger. A tense little group gathered around us—de Deuil, Galleran, de Rancon, the Count of Maurienne.

  ‘You have caused my army to be wiped out,’ he raged. ‘You have destroyed my hope of reaching Jerusalem.’

  Had I not spent the night in prayer for his safety? Any concern I might have had was fast vanishing. ‘I have done no such thing!’

  ‘Who would de Rancon take his orders from but you? Whose advice would he seek? He’s your vassal, by God! It’s your fault!’

  ‘This is nonsense!’

  ‘Yours was the authority, Eleanor.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Louis. You put de Rancon and Maurienne in charge. They were perfectly capable of making their own decisions. It was none of my doing. They gave me their military assessment of a difficult situation—and we acted on it. Should I have refused to listen? It seemed eminently sensible to me.’

  Louis did not listen. ‘You should have waited for us—as I ordered.’

  ‘On a wind-blasted, unprotected plateau? You must be mad.’

  I was under attack, the culpability for the whole debacle was being levelled at me. At first I could hardly believe it. Then when I felt the bite of the words I was so angry I could barely search for a suitable defence, but it was an anger of cold control. Deadly cold. To be so rebuked, in public, by my own ineffectual husband. And without any just cause. Pride stiffened my spine and I drew my courage around me at the barrage of accusation.

  ‘Your actions left the rest of my army unprotected. I note that your vassals—the troops from Aquitaine and Poitou—survived unharmed at the front.’

  ‘For which you should be thankful,’ I retaliated with icy calm. ‘Without them you would have barely a hundred knights left to your command.’

  ‘You made the wrong decision, Eleanor!’

  De Rancon tried to halt the tirade. ‘Indeed, sire. I made the decision, not Her Majesty.’

  Maurienne made to agree but Galeran silenced him with a gesture, turning his flat stare from me to de Rancon. ‘He admits it. He disobeyed orders, sire. As a warning to the rest of your knights, de Rancon should be hanged for treason.’

  Hanged? I could not believe what I was hearing.

  De Rancon paled, muscles tensing in shock. ‘I made the best decision, sire.’

  ‘I agree, nephew,’ Maurienne added weightily. ‘The plateau was a bad choice.’

  ‘You’ll not hang one of my vassals,’ I snapped.

  But Louis was beyond reason. ‘Thousands killed. Our baggage train plundered. Innocent pilgrims cut down. Horses and equipment lost—’

  ‘For God’s sake, Louis,’ I interrupted the flow. ‘If you’re going to apportion blame, then take some onto your own shoulders.’

  Louis ignored me but strode to de Rancon to deliver a fisted blow to his shoulder. ‘You disobeyed orders, sir. No, I’ll not hang you—but I don’t want you with my army. You’ll go back to Poitou.’

  ‘You can’t afford to lose any more commanders, Louis,’ Maurienne warned.

  ‘I can’t afford to keep those who disobey.’ Louis swung back to me. ‘And in future you’ll keep your fingers out of military matters, madam! Now get out of my sight! All of you. I need to pray.’ He began to stalk to my tent, his own lost with the baggage train. ‘All lost. Everything. If I fail, it will be on your shoulders, Eleanor.’

  ‘I am not guilty.’

  ‘You must repent, Eleanor.’ His condemnation carried harshly on the morning air. ‘You must beg God’s forgiveness for your terrible sin, as I did for Vitry.’

  I will not! I will not! I am not at fault!

  The words screamed in my head as I took refuge with my women, my belly churning in turmoil. Was I guilty? I refuted it, I would always refute it. Yes, I gave my consent but acted on the military experience of de Rancon and Maurienne. How would I know the terrible repercussions? All I knew was that I was chosen for the scapegoat, in disgrace, my reputation trampled in the mud of the mountain pass where our knights and soldiers and pilgrims lay dead.

  Unfair! Unfair!

  Yet I would hold my head high. Not to do so would be to accept guilt.

  I spent a difficult night. Even my women treated me with a strange sort of silent reticence. The rumours of Louis’s bellowed accusations had resounded around the camp and lost nothing in the telling, and Agnes provided me with any detail of my misdemeanours that had passed me by. She was not reticent. I had weighed down the baggage train with the inordinate, selfish load of my possessions. I had left the main army stranded and vulnerable by ordering my vanguard to cross the pass. I had placed my own safety and comfort before that of the knights and troops and pilgrims who followed me. I had caused the death of the women who had chosen to travel with me but had elected to journey at the rear.

  So now I knew why my own women would not meet my eye.

  Eleanor was guilty. Eleanor must bear the weight of the dead. Did not her own husband so accuse her? My skin crawled at the injustice of it.

  ‘I can’t believe Louis would put me in so invidious a position,’ I stormed at last when I could vent my fury without an audience.

  ‘No, but I can believe it of that Templar snake!’ Agnes brushed my hair with long, angry movements. ‘That’s where the blame lies.’

  ‘You can’t exonerate Louis. He would listen to Galeran before me!’

  ‘Galeran fears you. He wants power.’ The stroke of the brush became heavier. ‘He fears Louis’s love for you. He’ll destroy it if he can.’

  I was not mollified. ‘What sort of love is it that accuses and shames without evidence?’

  I rose next morning determined to plead my cause before Louis and his war council. I would be heard. I would not be ignored. Was I not Queen of France? Louis and his knights must give me a hearing. For my sake and de Rancon’s I must put the record straight. Surely Louis, after a night’s sleep and more reasoned thought, would listen to me.

  Did I expect to be included in Louis’s councils? I should have known better by now: weighty decisions of state were not the preserve of women. Thierry Galeran, of course, stiff-legged and snarling, barred my way into the pavilion and Louis refused to see me. Short of an undignified scuffle at the entrance, I had no choice but to retreat. Such anger burned within me beneath the humiliation. I could taste it, as bitter as bile. I had been cast to the dogs by my own husband, my reputation stripped bare to be squabbled over and torn apart by the gutter riff-raff of Europe. If Louis refused to see me, who would listen to my vindication? There would be no vindication. How could he humble me in this way, his wife; how could he put me to shame before those of lesser rank?

  Galeran’s smug complacency disgusted me. His influence was surely in the ascendant.

  Never had I been brought so low.

  If I had to choose the moment when I knew that I could not tolerate this sham of a marriage, perhaps this was it. That my husband would denigrate me without foundation, listening to the slanders of those who bore me ill will, treating me like a woman rather than as a ruler in her own right with as much authority as he. I knew I would never forgive him as I walked away from that pavili
on, knowing that I had been rendered powerless.

  I recall I accused Thierry Galeran of being no better than an emasculated cur, snapping to protect its master. The Templar would never forgive me for that. Unfortunate, as it turned out.

  That was not the end of it. Our shattered army limped out of the mountains to the nearest port, the town of Attalia, where we found no relief but instead weeks of unspeakable horror. Already half-starved, with the loss of our baggage train lack of food threatened our very lives quite as severely as the Turkish attacks. Even now my belly revolts at the memory of being reduced to eating the rotting flesh of dead horses and mules. Some knights bled their horses to drink the sustenance from their blood. We lacked clothes, shoes even. My hands and feet blistered, my lips cracked, my clothes fell into rags around me.

  ‘We will regroup in Attalia,’ Louis predicted.

  He was wrong, of course. Storms battered us. Food continued in short supply and was expensive as the local Greeks determined to make their fortunes from us. Yet only three days away, so short a journey by sea, was the golden city of Antioch. All we needed were the ships to take us there. The local fishermen rubbed their fingers at the prospect of crusader gold falling into their pockets.

  ‘I’ll not pay the price!’ Louis fumed. ‘Four silver marks for each passenger—on top of the cost of each vessel! I’ll not pay it.’

  ‘Do we have a choice?’ I asked wearily.

  ‘Of course we have a choice! Galeran says we can’t afford it. With God’s help I’ll beat them down.’

  God was beyond persuasion. Five weeks of haggling, with Antioch nearly within our sights. Five weeks of indescribable torment. Dysentery broke out amongst the troops. The stench of death and bodily waste enclosed us—and then the first outbreak of plague. Death stalked us, whilst Louis refused to pay and we sat there in Attalia. Filthy, starving, dying.

  Enough! In God’s name, enough! I sought out Louis, as usual praying with Odo de Deuil, Count Maurienne looking jaundiced, Galeran standing guard at the door. Without a word I pushed past him, daring him to draw the sword in his scabbard.