by Lise Arin
At the same time, Her Majesty enchants Henry, although the Plantagenet is less successful in his addresses to the royal lady. Marie’s name, once so dangerous to him, becomes an empty byword. The prince dreams only of the jaded Southerner, lively and stubborn. My splendid young duke values her regal cunning, perceiving that it could complement his capabilities. Thus, he bemoans his youth, for she is his elder. He disparages his robust and manly form, for he fears that she judges him thickset. He discovers that he lacks what the troubadours term “imperial legs,” thin and well molded at the thigh and calf.
Woebegone Denise! It falls to me both to admonish her and to essay to dissipate her wretchedness. This afternoon, I walked with her in the palace garden, surveying the wilting, emaciated remains of the season’s blooms.
She paced silently beside me, scrutinizing the ground.
I huffed at the absurdity of cheering up my husband’s discarded mistress. “Cease this unmannerly sobriety! We are here to celebrate the Plantagenet’s ascension to grace.”
The leman started to cry. “He has nothing to smirk over, for his father purloins his prize.”
I groaned. “Neither duke presumes to woo the married queen with anything more than empty courtesies.”
Insolent Denise had not forgotten her old grievances. “Men took liberties with you, Empress, who were as willing as this slut.”
I stopped my promenade, forcing her to halt as well, for she could not go before me. “This is not the time for you to vex me, who attempts to ease your burden.”
Tears rolled down her chin. “Her Majesty embraces Geoffrey in lust. Yet she teases Henry out of ambition. Your little prince plots to betray his French overlord, to whom he has not yet even sworn.”
I picked out wrinkles on Denise’s face that had not been there in the spring. I did feel for her. “Who is not base?”
She trembled with impotent fury; her cheeks burned as fiery as her hair. “Frog bitch! Did you see her sharp, white teeth rip the meat from the roast? She could maim a man with those fangs.”
I cradled the leman’s shoulders. “Eleanor’s heart aches. Deserving of a robust, virile husband, she finds herself espoused to a prim monk. Yet, she must bear this finicky, unsexed man a son. Her two daughters, one six and one lately born, shall not suffice. For two centuries, every king of the Capetian dynasty has sired an heir; the French succession has been uncontested. Louis is no romantic knight, but it is his consort who is the culprit.”
I had shocked the wench, who followed my reasoning further. “You wish both your dukes to bed this woman, so that she can birth a boy for Louis? What do you care for the tribulation of your enemy?”
Vehemently, I denied it. “I did not mean to suggest that one of my house should come to rule here. I was merely explaining Her Majesty’s motivation to you. France will never let her go. It thinks of her dowry, the entire southwestern Mediterranean basin. She is doomed to live here, without love. Under these circumstances, the lady amuses herself at our expense. She understands that one of our Normans is too old for her, and one is too young.”
My rival could not lay aside her unhappiness. “Queens freely spend other people’s treasure!”
†
On three successive days, Denise called upon the good angels, Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael, to rekindle Geoffrey’s preference for her. She fasted throughout, bathed in scalding water, and dressed herself all in white, so as to purify her body to receive divine intervention. Gerta sniggers that the necessity for celibacy did not present a problem to our would-be necromancer. Despite his leman’s pious arrangements and Latin invocations, my husband continues to tangle the coverlets of the queen.
Last night, my maid heard high-pitched shrieks and the Angevin’s angry recriminations. She crept near the duke’s private quarters, where Denise kneeled before the barred entrance to her lover’s chamber. The naïve fool called on her sweetheart, pleading for his forbearance and affection. Finally, His Grace stormed out of the door, dragged his sobbing mistress back to her own room, and bound her to her bedposts.
I can still remember the feel of the back of his hand.
†
Yesterday, Denise and I were taking in our stockings, which hang too loosely around our ankles. They are nowhere near as stylish as the tightly fitting hose that the women wear at the French court.
Making himself at home in my solar, Bernard de Ventadour settled himself on an elaborately cushioned divan, primed to divert us with gossip.
The wench sniffed, peering at her stitches, and pouted becomingly.
Bernard gaped at her, and his palm drifted, coming to rest upon his member.
My husband’s mistress blushed deeply, and inched her bench away from the knave. Despite her carnal nature and rampant appetite for evil tidings, her idol worship of Geoffrey does not abate.
Finding Denise unreceptive to his suggestive advances, Ventadour began to flatter me. “Empress, your wit is the boast of the English and the Normans. You have besotted the Frankish courtiers, who praise your talents and, of course, your fine face.”
I discounted the cad’s remarks, focusing instead upon my altered stockings. They were finely remade and would accentuate my still slender limbs. “How can the dogs see anyone else beside their radiant queen? We are all cast in her shadow.”
Slighted a second time, Bernard straightened his posture. “The French king is surely obsessed by her. He would idealize her, the way a small boy venerates his illustrious mother, but he cannot do so in the face of her trifling, her wantonness, and her cynicism.” Here the troubadour paused, waiting for us to exclaim at his deft metaphor. Neither of us was in the mood to stroke his ego.
The jongleur resumed his prattle. “Eavesdroppers are privy to Louis’s violent outbursts and Eleanor’s devious explanations. Somehow, under the spell of her manipulation, His Majesty ends every marital argument by apologizing for his own abuse.”
What could the queen of France teach me?
Denise considered her adversary’s stratagems. “He knows she is culpable, but the witch will not toss away her crown.”
De Ventadour smirked, quick to flaunt his clerical education. “A wife’s adultery destroys the marital union of the flesh.”
I dropped my work onto my lap. Did the minstrel credit every rumor that circulated above my own head?
†
Despite my resolutions to transform myself into a votive of the sacred, I husband the flame of the profane. Unable to withstand the pervading atmosphere of Eleanor’s decadence, my shallow piety is no match for the troubadour’s unrelenting cajolements. Surely, he is some hellish succubus, luring me into the abyss of fire.
More vain, now that my prettiness wanes, I respond when Bernard serenades me, calling me his “magnet, ” or naming me “Beautiful Glance.”
Gerta shakes her head, and stamps her feet. “How can you bed the spawn of a kitchen wench? He is hardly worthy of my notice, and should be entirely invisible to you. His love songs were written for the ears of common prostitutes.”
Perhaps it is so, but having a jongleur at my beck and call has its benefits. I set de Ventadour the arduous task of making a horoscope for the Plantagenet. He rises to the occasion, with more discretion than I had supposed him to possess, drawing “a figure for the arrival of a certain person in England.” Gerta rolls her eyes at the number of questions about Henry’s birth that Bernard puts to me, and points out that I deserve most of the accolades for the document he produces. Not every biographical detail remained at the forefront of my mind; I could not assure him with absolute certainty that a star had fallen into my mouth at the moment of the prince’s conception. But we agreed that it must have done so, for who was delivered into the world on that day but England’s Messiah?
Tonight, I have been on my knees in the rushes, praying to the Holy Mother. Seeing through me, unveiling my secrets, Mary does not answer my petition. I need Her intercession, for I cannot hold myself aloof from the devil’s enticements. No matter
that I belittle my love for Stephen, clambering up into the hills of faith. Here, in France, my foot has slipped upon the twisting path, and I stumble back and down, collapsing into a cesspit of sin.
†
Today, my young duke did homage to the French king. Now, without question, all the territory of Anjou, Maine, and Normandy falls to my family. It is almost incredible, verily a miracle. Anjou and Normandy have been enemies for the last two hundred years, but in the Plantagenet they are united as one. In return, Henry regretfully acknowledges that the coveted Vexin belongs to France.
This morning, we gathered in the church dedicated to the Virgin, on the eastern tip of the Island of the City. Once sacked, the building has been stupendously restored. Still, I measure it too small for a royal cathedral. I have heard that Louis intends, on this same foundation, to build a great house of God, dedicated to Our Lady.
First, the French sovereign demanded of the prince: “Do you wish, without reserve, to become my vassal?”
Henry firmly declared: “I wish it,” thereby engaging himself.
They two great men clasped hands. My heir swore faithfully to defend his liege lord and to protect him from all comers. Louis bequeathed him a kiss of peace.
To end the service, a choir of monks performed some extremely captivating chant, written by a celebrated abbess, praising the vast wheel of the cosmos, encompassing all the Lord’s creation, encircling all that He has given life. This type of music, another of Eleanor’s new fashions, has a refrain that repeats itself, over and over, low and grave, while higher voices sing a melody above it. This polyphony, born in the south with the queen, is like my best embroidery, winding fine, luxurious filaments into coarser, hardier fabric.
At none, on a wide, open meadow just over the Seine to the south, there was a ceremonial performance of martial skill, in single combat. The two dukes had agreed to tilt against one another, so that the French should not have cause to mock Norman horsemanship. Henry was eager to increase his fame, and Geoffrey to reestablish his importance in the eyes of the world.
The Angevin displayed a new shield, the gift of the French queen. In comparison to the Plantagenet’s heavier and broader one, his was somewhat petite, less convex, almost triangular. Its inside panel was painted, and depicted two figures wrapped in an embrace. I doubted that this fancy love token would protect my husband as well as Henry’s apparently obsolete weaponry.
A pained Denise whined. “Why does a knight joust, other than to win the adulation of whores?”
Wound around the Angevin’s lance was a plait of narrow ribbon, in the queen’s heraldic colors, blue and gold. Henry’s spear bore a twisted knot of my red and gold. He did not seem satisfied with his equipment, and the two men faced each other with a worrisome lack of amity.
The ritual began with the ordeal of the lance. Both of my dukes sat atop their steeds with upright poise; neither posture could be faulted. Both spears were couched at perfectly right angles. When they galloped toward one another, I could see my husband’s thighs flexing. My son relied more on his spurs. Both charged at a leisurely pace, with loose reins but enormous control, so as to strike at each other with restrained force. Both of their shields, old and new, withstood the collision, which splintered and shattered their lances. Neither man was unhorsed.
I exhaled. The large Parisian crowd clapped politely, but did not seem overwhelmed by their composed performance. Were they waiting for blood?
After acknowledging the applause, Geoffrey and Henry trotted off to receive the attentions of their squires. Dismounting with care, they handed off their broken weapons, and strode toward one another with their swords at the ready. The Angevin’s insouciance was met with the prince’s grim annoyance.
I closed my eyes, as their blades clashed together, and let the clanging din wash over me.
Gerta pinched me. “What a racket they make! Watch the sparks fly, Empress!”
When the noise had lessened, I looked again, and discovered my dukes bowing to each other’s closed faces, before moving off in opposite directions.
The French queen made her way to my side. “The brave lord of Normandy is noble of bearing and virtuous of heart.”
“My son is a true prince.”
Eleanor smiled opaquely, not bothering to correct my interpretation of her remark.
To conclude the day, His Majesty dispersed munificent gifts of Hungarian stallions and Arabian spices to all the chamberlains, stewards, impresarios, philosophers, and minstrels who organized or ornamented the proceedings. His munificence ensures that the troubadours and historians will broadcast the details of the festivities, and his royal largesse.
The Mirror of the Plantagenet
Scroll Twenty-One: 1152
As it is ever so, the empress’s second husband came to the end of his earthly sojourn. Rapidly, her son ascended to greatness, according to the awesome judgment of God. This prince was blessed in everything: in the bride of his choosing and in his command over her. There were those who begrudged him so many favors, but he trod upon their envy with his heel. His mother, once the subject of our story, and of history, stepped aside, committing herself, at long last, to the pure and the true.
†
Winter
On the frigid journey home, far less pleasant than our coming hither in the summer, I am not consumed by the promise of a new amour. Before we left Paris, I gave Bernard the boot, forbidding him my private company. Whenever we coupled, it was the poet who panted and swooned, and sang to me of his intense delight. My tepid avowals dismayed him; my rejection humiliated him. For several days, he brooded and expostulated, insisting that a wise man such as himself well knew how to conceal an affair.
Exasperated by his stubbornness, Gerta called the fool to my solar, and flourished one of my rings, set with a superb emerald, placing it in a silver bowl. I spit on the stone and induced the poet to mingle his saliva with mine. My gem glistened before us, as if stimulated by our commingled fluids. My maid then rinsed it clean with a draught of wine. Turning to de Ventadour, she demanded that he set his sights instead on Eleanor’s beauty and generosity. Cowed, the disappointed sycophant agreed to exchange one queen for another.
My latest affair was a newly sprouted seedling, exposed too early to the frost, dying overnight. At my advanced age, I am still capable of laughter and elation, but Bernard could not stir me to my core. I see how far I have come. Even my perfidious cousin, once my secret treasure, cannot exhume my heart.
†
The alliance of interest between my two dukes unravels under the spell of the queen of France. Some of our party speculate that Eleanor gave herself both to the father and to the son, while others dispute the likelihood of Henry’s success with his sire’s conquest. Either way, the trollop frays the accord that had grown up between the Plantagenet and the Angevin.
Yesterday, the two Graces rode alongside one another in a narrow ravine. My destrier ambled directly behind the pair, and we three were some distance ahead of our retinue. The creaking of our leather saddles and the huffing of our horses in the icy air muffled our conversation.
Geoffrey’s tone was acid. “I forbid you to correspond with Her Majesty. As I have known her, so any relation between you two would be incestuous.”
Henry looked over his shoulder at me, shrouded up against the weather in a thick wool mantle, trimmed with ermine. “You dishonorably slight your duchess, an empress, before all the world, and cruelly supplant your court favorite, all to fornicate with a woman for whom you can have no real use.”
My husband snorted. “The queen is the wife of your liege lord. To sully her would be treason.”
The prince shook his head. “I shall not touch the lady before she is mine.”
I was bemused to hear my son turn his failed seduction into respectable circumspection.
Geoffrey raised his eyebrows at the Plantagenet’s ambition. “She is all licentiousness, without any propriety. Your wife should possess an unanswerable dignity.�
��
Dispersing a shower of small stones, Denise’s stallion caught up with our mounts.
Looking displeased, her lover straightened his back. But he took his spleen out on my boy. “Eleanor would never consent to such a union. Look in your mother’s mirror. You are short and broad, fat, I tell you. She, with her gleaming white skin that glows like the moon, could never give herself to you.”
Of course, the leman encouraged Henry’s suit. “I think the two would be well matched, with their red hair, noble foreheads, and eyes that burn brightly, like the night stars.”
The Angevin refuted his strumpet’s tactics. “The queen’s curls cascade like molten gold, giving radiance to her whole face. They cannot be compared to his carrot tufts.”
My throat tightened at this aspersion. Would jealousy undo all that had been done?
Now Geoffrey was lost in a reverie. “Her ivory throat, her snowy bosom: these were charms out of legend.”
I had no patience for my husband’s mania. “Her sumptuous garments blinded you. At the welcoming banquet, they were worth a castle.”
Denise’s eyes went dark. Her mouth looked wan above the folds of her rough cloth veil. “The only robe that matters is the cloak of our good deeds.”
This exalted piety was new to her and not at all credible. None of the three spoke sensibly, warped as they all were by Eleanor’s poisonous influence.
What could I say to combat her appeal? “Her Majesty is descended from heretics. Her grandfather kidnapped her grandmother and made her his concubine. The old man died excommunicate from the Church, cursed by a hermit who swore that no one of the house of Aquitaine would ever know happiness. Both parents were also buried without the promise of redemption. Would either of Your Graces risk an eternity of damnation to be with such a one, a sprig of a house of infamy?”