Devil's Consort

by Anne O'Brien

  I might admit it to no one—but I did all of those.

  Oh, I missed him. Through sixteen long months we were apart when Henry took an army to England. Sixteen months! It was unbearable. The news of battles, sieges, skirmishes, the terrible weight of ignorance. For much of the time I had no idea whether he was alive or dead. The arrival of every courier might bring me news that I was widowed.

  Was this to be my marriage?

  I feared his features were growing dim in my mind as every night I struggled to piece together the stormy eyes and dominant nose. The lips that could snarl or smile or kiss into insensibility. Was this to be the rest of my life, loneliness interspersed with occasional breathtaking flashes of joy? Did I love him? If love was missing him, thinking of him, sleeping and waking with his presence beside me, then I was doomed. I would never be dependent on a man, but I missed him so, and when necessity kept me close within my palace the time hung heavily.

  I sighed.

  As if he sensed my melancholy, the troubadour, new to my court, sank to one knee, dark eyes fixed on my face as his fingers stirred the lute to life once more.

  Lady I am yours, and yours will stay,

  Pledged to your service come what

  may, This oath I take is full and free,

  The kind of vow that will hold for sure …

  I smiled my pleasure at these verses written personally for me, expressing all the hopeless devotion of a man for a high-born lady. I smiled until Aelith nudged me back to reality.

  ‘If you smile at him like that, you’ll find him locked in one of Henry’s dungeons faster than he can tune his lute.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Eleanor … he has a reputation!’

  I looked at the young man who still knelt, eyes shining on me in abject adoration. Bernat de Ventadorn had attached himself to my court when Henry and I had made our progress through the south, and I was not disappointed in his talents.

  ‘He’s in love with you,’ Aelith whispered.

  ‘But I am not in love with him.’

  ‘He thinks you are!’

  ‘He does not! It’s the role of the troubadour to worship his lady.’

  ‘That’s not worship. That’s lust. Romantic, perhaps, but lust nonetheless.’

  I looked at him. Handsome, certainly, with fine features and a sweep of dark hair, a tall, lithe figure that carried the clothes of the troubadour with elegance. But I had not considered him as a lover. Is that what people might think? Is that what Henry would think?

  Ridiculous! Talented he may be, but Bernat was the illegitimate by-blow of an archer, got on a willing kitchen maid. Yet others had found him attractive, for he had come to me with the reputation of seducing the wife of his previous patron.

  Of all my joys you are the first,

  And of them all you’ll be the last,

  As long as my life endures.

  I sighed again. What woman would not enjoy a handsome man singing her praises in such a manner?

  The problem was that Bernat sang the words and sentiments I would have liked Henry to address to me. There was no romance in Henry. Yes, he wrote to me often, sending me news, keeping me abreast of the troubled politics across the sea. Surreptitiously I pulled the latest from within my sleeve and read the rapid script that was now so familiar.

  Eleanor.

  Events move apace. I faced Stephen at Wallingford and challenged for battle. The English barons decided a parley was more practical. Thank God Stephen is a man of sense. I spoke with him and we are negotiating a truce. I shall be at Winchester. And then on to Westminster if all goes well.

  It looked as if it had been written on horseback—as I presumed it had. There were blots and rough edges and the stains of travel.

  He’s in the middle of a tense situation, the voice of reason chided. That he bothers to write to you at all is a miracle.

  What’s more, he had drawn me rough maps on the parchment with routes and battles, understanding that the names of places would mean nothing to me. Except by now they did. Had not Henry promised that one day I would be Queen of this warlike island? I had made it my business to learn more of this kingdom—and liked little of what I had learned other than the indisputable fact that the King held supreme power, answerable to none but God. The rest made me shudder. The drink of preference was ale, the wine of such poor quality to be drunk with closed eyes and clenched teeth. I must remember to take my own. And the food—nothing but pottage and onions and red meat. The royal court was itinerant, by God, moving ponderously, constantly from one draughty castle to the next. I would soon change that. I took in Henry’s final words, already knowing there was no comfort to be had there.

  If I can clip the wings of Stephen’s son Eustace, a permanent peace may be possible. I may be with you soon.

  Hope you are well. I know the power is safe in your hands.

  Henry

  Henry … Why could you not write to me as a lover? Where was the romance in that? Informative, reassuring but not what my heart cried out for. No yearning, lingering passion. No hopeless unrequited love. No word of affection, no endearment, while I suffered more than I cared for. I missed Henry Plantagenet. Moreover, I thought crossly, I could not see Henry being laid low by the temporary absence of his lover. He was more likely to take another—some pretty female who widened her eyes at him—to fill the space! I folded the parchment into sharp creases, frowning at a startled Bernat, and stuffed it back into my sleeve.

  Bernat smiled winningly.

  I grimaced.

  ‘I suppose it would be sensible to banish him from court.’

  ‘Give him to me instead.’ Widowed now from her beloved Raoul, Aelith’s eyes shone. I forgot how lonely she must sometimes be.

  ‘I think I’ll save him from your clutches, sister,’ I smiled.

  For all I write and sing

  Is meant for her delight.

  Bernat finished on a flourish and bowed, face flushed with the applause and my reward of a purse of gold coin. Perhaps I should exert some caution. Perhaps I should send him with Aelith when she left. Or perhaps not. Louis, I recalled, had once been insanely jealous of my troubadours, but Louis was a fool. Henry had far more sense.

  Henry continued to keep me informed with unsentimental lack of detail.

  Eleanor.

  Peace with Stephen is made in my favour. The threat from his son Eustace who has been venting his anger on the east of the country has been decided by God. Eustace paid the penalty of greed and choked to death on a dish of eels.

  Perhaps I will be back in Normandy before too long.

  That was good. Very good. Eustace’s death would leave Stephen without an heir, which could only be to Henry’s advantage. The crown of England crept closer by the day. With Eustace’s death there would be no more battles, no figurehead to lead the English rebels. Henry would be safe. He would come home. My heart leapt and optimism resurfaced. Until my eye travelled down.

  It has come to my ear that your troubadour is causing comment for his slavish adoration of your own fair person. Send him here to me. I’ve need of a man with talent. I’ll test his skill at composing martial tunes to roust the spirits of my soldiers who yearn for home.

  I consider your person to be mine. I’ll not tolerate a rival. Nor will I have you the talk of Europe—more than you already are. I expect him forthwith.

  Henry

  Where was the affection, the undying love? The need to see me again? Instead, all I got were unfounded accusations. Were all men capable of such unwarranted spite? Were all men incapable of appreciating the simple beauty of song and music to extol the value of a woman? Did they have to be quite so crude in their suspicions?

  I will not obey, like some meek goodwife! My first thought. But my second? If Henry was clawed by green-taloned jealousy, I was not averse to it. I consider your person to be mine.

  Did he now? Then come here and prove it!

  My loins were hot, but I would not take a lover. Henry fil
led my heart and my soul. Bernat de Ventadorn was pretty enough, but no rival to the Plantagenet.

  As a meek and dutiful goodwife, I informed Bernat of his future.

  He blenched. No, I could not see him composing military marches either, but we all had to make sacrifices. I might resent Henry’s peremptory demand but sometimes good sense argued for compliance.

  I must leave my love and go away,

  Banished I know not where.

  For she does not bid me stay

  Though this cruel exile I cannot bear.

  That night Bernat’s lute sobbed as his voice hung in the rafters, heavy with emotion.

  I sighed and wished my own love would rescue me from this cruel exile.

  Bernat de Ventadorn left for England. As it happened, I could not have sent him away with Aelith. She chose to make her home with me at Angers in her widowhood.

  ‘Why would I leave?’ she asked when I expressed my pleasure but my surprise. ‘The Plantagenet spices everyone’s life! I’ll stay here and watch the fun.’

  And then Henry was home. The Plantagenet courier bowed low. Henry was at Rouen, his capital in Normandy, to spend Easter there and I was summoned to join him. Summoned? He would summon me to Rouen rather than come here to Angers? The courier’s respectful tones could not quite hide the demand. I did not care. After sixteen months I would have followed him to the ends of the earth if he had summoned me. I packed up my household, my necessary entourage and ordered up the palanquin. Then all that was left was to organise my gift for Henry and set off within the day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I DID not know Rouen, neither was I greatly impressed with it, its grey and forbidding walls reminding me too strongly of Paris for comfort, but I was not sorry to arrive. It was a cold, grey afternoon, the sharp showers of April making travel unpleasant and the going slow. When I arrived, the castle was teeming with soldiers and officials so that I had to display my consequence to find a space in the courtyard to unpack my household. Good to tell that Henry was back.

  My heart made a little thud against my ribs at the thought of our reunion.

  ‘My lady. We did not expect you so soon.’

  ‘Where is he?’ I asked the steward, who had come to greet me as I climbed the steps after arranging accommodation for my entourage. Agnes, arms full, and a little body of servants equally burdened with boxes and packages followed me. I had need of them all.

  ‘Ah! That is to say …’

  His eyes would not quite meet mine. Perhaps he had come to waylay me rather than greet me.

  ‘Tell me.’ I continued to walk briskly. Although not knowing my way, it was clear where the main activity was. My ears pricked up.

  ‘My lord is in the Great Hall.’

  ‘So I hear.’ There was some sort of commotion ahead. It was uncommonly loud.

  ‘He’s not best pleased, lady.’

  ‘Hmm. Bad, is it?’

  I knew the steward, a man of integrity. He knew me. He was Henry’s man but not without respect for Henry’s wife.

  ‘All I can say, lady …’ His voice dropped to a furtive whisper. ‘It’s like Limoges.’

  I frowned. Limoges. I had no need to ask for further explanation. Limoges had a habit of preying on the mind.

  Oh, yes. At Limoges I had learned fast. Henry was a true inheritor of the renowned Angevin temper, and I knew what devastation it could create. It was an amazing thing when in full flight, and for the briefest of moments there in Angers it made me hesitate, glance back to Agnes and then at the steward, who awaited my decision. Henry in the grip of anger was a man to be avoided.

  ‘As bad as that?’ I asked.

  ‘Worse. My lord doesn’t tolerate opposition well. Perhaps you should delay your arrival, lady …’

  I considered his wooden expression, his kind advice, then cast it aside. I’d travelled a long way for this meeting. I’d waited until the very limit of my patience. ‘He summoned me here. He’ll speak to me now.’

  ‘As you will, lady.’ And on your head be it!

  I could hear Henry’s furious voice before I even reached the door arch. There I had to wait for the steward to push aside the servants and officials who had withdrawn from the vast hall to take refuge in the outer audience chamber, but eventually I and my little party stood just inside the door, my hand on the steward’s arm to prevent him from announcing me, as I watched the cause of the upheaval, fascination warring with wariness. It was not worse than Limoges—the destruction was not likely to be quite as great—but it was a near run thing.

  ‘Every time I turn my back,’ Henry growled, face white, eyes blazing, ‘if it’s not one bloody vassal, it’s another. And if it’s not one of my lords bent on betrayal, it’s the King of France raiding along my border. Burnt Verneuil, has he? Attacked Vernon? And still calling himself Duke of Aquitaine, as if it’s a God-given right? The bastard!’ The short Angevin accents reverberated from the stonework. ‘The Vexin’s up in arms again. The Vexin’s always up in arms!’

  He flung his arms wide as if to encompass the mess that had awaited him on his return from England and fired his temper.

  ‘My wife’s damned vassals are a law unto themselves. Whilst my brother, God rot him, watches me for every chink of weakness. And I daren’t think of what’s going on in England now I’m not there. God’s eyes! I thanked the Almighty for Eustace’s death, but that was a shade previous. With Louis pinning me down here, I’ll warrant those bloody English barons have torn up my pact with Stephen and are sharpening their swords to stir up trouble for me. By God, I’ll crush their balls like a nut between two stones …’

  His voice harsh and cracked, Henry lunged to sweep his arm along the trestle, sending cups and flagon flying, maps and documents too. Snatching one up before it fluttered to the floor, he tossed it haphazardly into the fire, where it went up in a crackle of flame, the seal melting with a hiss. Henry did not even register the destruction. It could have been the precious agreement with Stephen, signed and sealed between them in Winchester, bought with so much blood and effort. In that surge of blind rage Henry did not even care. Dragging the felt cap from his head, he now proceeded to wrench it into strips, flinging the shredded wool into the air, like a flock of colourful finches, before it dropped to the floor. A precious crystal cup was hurled at the wall where it shattered into pieces, to lie like tears.

  Neither was Henry finished. ‘I’ll have Geoffrey’s balls as well for this and roast them over a slow fire!’ He might have lowered his voice but it was threatening for all that. He roamed the room, overturning benches, stools, dragging one of the heavy tapestries from the wall, his whole manner without restraint. Hounds fled, servants retreated even further. Men died when Henry was in a temper. Men who had resisted his depredations had died at Limoges. I remained unmoving in the doorway, my fingers tightening on the steward’s wrist.

  ‘And now I hear that …’

  I shook my head at the steward who was still intent on announcing me. Could I control him, restrain him? Now was the time to see, to prove it or to slink away. Eleanor of Aquitaine did not slink. I never had and never would. Henry’s ire was not directed at me so I would advance into the eye of the storm.

  Henry would not frighten me.

  I walked forward.

  Henry’s head snapped round.

  ‘Ha! And here’s my lovely wife!’ He pounced. He covered the floor between us in a matter of steps. I would not flinch. I lifted my chin. Yes, my heart thundered, my skin chilled to ice, but I was intrigued rather than afraid. Would he actually cause me harm, and so publicly, in this display of terrifying fury? Could I draw the poison from the passion? Only time and experience would tell, and we’d had so little time together to discover the limits of our relationship …

  ‘My wife! At last! What took you so long? You should have been here sooner. Did I not command you?’ He was within two strides of me now, face flushed as he loosed his attack. So I was to be the object of his ire after all. ‘Torn your
self away from your milksop singer of stomach-churning sentiment, have you? He slipped out of my grasp fast enough, the miserable whingeing fool. I suppose he fled back to hide behind your skirts again. Did he tell you I ill-treated him? By God, I did no such thing!’

  It was true. My less than courageous troubadour had returned to Angers at the first opportunity, and I could not blame him. A military garrison was not Bernat de Ventadorn’s métier. But to do so without Henry’s permission had been more than foolhardy. Henry would not have given his permission, of course.

  ‘Bernat did not accuse you of cruelty, only of lack of sensitivity,’ I replied coolly. ‘Is that all you can say to me, Henry, when you’ve not set eyes on me for over a year? The fact that Bernat returned to me says more about your character than mine. I expect you mocked him unmercifully.’

  ‘I did not.’ For a brief moment reason slid back into his glare. ‘Well, not much. By God, Eleanor, he’s a poor creature. How can you tolerate him? Did he drip words of honeyed love into your ears?’ ‘Yes. He is a troubadour and is paid to do exactly that. I am his Lady and his patron.’

  ‘God’s blood!’

  ‘You weren’t there to drip words, honeyed or otherwise.’ I kept the eye contact even as I trembled. Henry’s gaze raked me with hot fire. ‘It’s been over a year, Henry!’

  ‘Bugger that! I’ve been at bloody war!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And I don’t like your troubadour!’

  ‘I know that too. I have left him in Angers.’