To Be Queen

by Christy English

  “Thank you, Matthew. You may leave us.”

  The Lady Madeline clung to my father’s arm. Instead of drawing my father into the bedchamber with her, she cast herself at his feet, weeping.

  “William, you must forgive me.”

  I saw that she had never loved him, or me, or Petra. All her sweet words to me and to my sister were only so much air. Madeline had pretended to love Papa in the hope that, one day, she would be duchess after my mother.

  “Madeline, stop this. Stop this at once.”

  My father raised her up, and she clung to him, the warm softness of his voice spurring her on. I looked at my father’s face as he pressed his mistress against his heart. I saw pain in his eyes, but I saw hopelessness, too. In spite of his soft words and honeyed tone, he had not forgotten what she had done.

  “William, I have wronged you, and I am sorry. So sorry . . .”

  Still the woman wept, as if the heart she did not have were breaking. Had I not been under orders to my father, had I been even a few years older, I would have called for guards and had her thrown out into the night. As it was, I raised my thumb to my mouth and bit down, so that I would not speak.

  Hot blood rose and caressed my tongue. The sharp pain of my teeth in my own flesh kept me quiet and still, reminding me where I was, and who. If I was to be the next Duchess of Aquitaine, I would have to learn to listen to worse lies than this. I wrapped my thumb in the linen of my discarded veil, stanching the flow of blood before it dripped onto my fur-trimmed sleeve.

  My father soothed Madeline, smoothing her hair with the palms of his hands, stroking her back.

  “I betrayed you, William, and with a servant!”

  Papa drew her close, so that she could not see his face.

  “It happened only once, Madeline. You will not do it again.”

  She wept on, babbling this time, relieved and amazed at her good fortune. She thought, as I had, that he would cast her away. But I knew that though he did not, he would never forgive her, or love her again. I learned in that moment that a man’s love, once lost, is lost forever.

  The next day I realized something else, too, something Papa had not sought to teach me. The next day, I saw the sly glances exchanged by the men-at-arms in the bailey and the great hall, looks that I had never noticed before, and that my father did not notice at all.

  Madeline had weakened us among my father’s barons. Because of her treachery, because he would not cast her aside, Papa would lose face among his men, and his barons would lose respect for him. I remembered his lessons well: the respect of one’s fighting men was all; it was the foundation of a duke’s power.

  I saw for the first time that my father was not perfect. He was not the perfect knight, nor the perfect duke. He did not see his own weakness, though he had taught me to master mine.

  The next morning Papa called for me to meet him in the bailey just a few hours after sunrise. I stood before him in the courtyard, the stones wet beneath our feet where the servants had washed away the muck from the day before. His large hand, gloved in rough leather, reached down and took hold of my chin, so that I might look him in the eye.

  “Is this wound got in my service?” he asked me.

  He raised my bandaged thumb. I stood still as he untied the dressing. The bite was deep, but it would heal. I watched him swallow hard at the sight of my punctured flesh as he rewrapped my wound.

  “Perhaps in future you will carry a strap of leather to bite on to help you keep your temper.”

  “I did not cry out,” I said. “I did not speak.”

  “No, Alienor, you did not.” Papa stared down at me, and I could not read the expression behind his eyes.

  “I would give you a treat, to reward your faithful service. My vassals have land from me, and gold. What would you ask of me?”

  I had thought long and hard about this question, though I had never expected him to ask it. At the age of ten, I knew what I wanted, above all things in the world.

  “I would be Queen of France,” I said.

  My father did not smile at me indulgently, or laugh, as any other man might have done. He did not treat me as a child or a fool. He stared down at me for a long moment, and the wheels of his mind began to turn in this new direction I had set them in.

  “You will have it, Alienor. Leave it to me.”

  The king had a son of an age with me. And no girl in five hundred miles had a dowry to match mine. The Aquitaine and Poitou were lands that rivaled and surpassed even the kingdom of France for beauty and wealth. I knew all this, for it was my duty to know it. I would be duchess one day.

  And now, Papa would make me queen.

  My joy and hope spilled over each other like pebbles in a rushing stream. My son would be King of France, as well as Duke of Aquitaine. My marriage would begin a new golden age, creating a united France that could rival any other power in Christendom. With the royal armies of Paris and the cultural heritage of my father’s house, my son could become a second Charlemagne.

  My father raised me into the saddle. I had just learned to ride the summer before, and my horse was a lady’s mount, a filly with delicate bones and a light step. Someday, I would be tall enough to ride a stallion. Papa had promised me that once I could control a warhorse, he would give one to me.

  “In lieu of the throne of France, today I will take you on a hunt.”

  My father gestured, and a groom stepped forward with a beautiful young falcon. Triumph rose in my breast, that Papa would trust me to hunt with such a bird. My falcon’s feathers were brown and gold, her claws sharp. I wanted to reach out and touch that beauty, but I knew that such familiarity would earn me a bite worse than the one I had given myself. I held back, and waited.

  “Very good, Alienor. Caution is a necessity, even for the very brave.”

  Papa mounted his own stallion and led our party out of the keep into the clean, bright air of the morning. We rode for hours over our lands, and over the field where I had seen Madeline lie down with our troubadour. My father laughed as we passed it. Whatever pain he was feeling, he would never let even me know of it again.

  My falcon brought back a sparrow fresh in her claws the first time she flew for me. She landed on my arm, as smooth and as disciplined as I was, dropping her catch deftly into my open palm. I fed her a piece of that sparrow, its hot flesh disappearing into my falcon’s beak.

  My bird turned her head to one side and looked at me. I saw myself, reflected in her eyes. I, too, would become a bird of prey. One must, to be queen.

  Chapter 3

  Palace of Poitiers

  County of Poitou

  Easter 1136

  THE PEOPLE WERE CHEERING. MY FATHER AND I STOOD JUST inside the door of the palace, listening to them. The procession to the cathedral had already begun, as it did every Easter. Only this time, the people waited to see not just the statue of the Virgin in her gold and blue paint, nor the flower-decked cross and the cloth-of-gold tympanum that sheltered it. They had come to witness the ceremony that would make me my father’s official heir.

  My younger sister, Petra, ten years old, stood with us. She was no coward, but she hid behind my shoulder, as if the people were shouting for blood and not for joy. I was fourteen now, and a woman. The cries of the people did not frighten me.

  I squeezed Petra’s hand before stepping out into the sunshine. She returned my smile, but kept close to me.

  We walked among the people, down the winding road that led to my father’s cathedral. The creamy stone of the church shone in the morning light. The old Roman basilica reminded me of the time that had come before, when the Church had been in the service of the duke. We had followed the old Roman ways during the days of Charlemagne, when the king’s law reigned supreme. Now the Church vied with my father, with all kings and lords, for power. But the basilica of my father’s cathedral reminded me of the power of the dukes of Aquitaine under Charlemagne, when the Church had known its place.

  Flowers were strewn in th
e path of the Virgin and before the cross, but a bounty of spring garlands was held back for me, for Petra, and for my father.

  Papa spoke close to my ear, so that only I would hear him. “Let them love God,” my father said. “But let them love you first.”

  As I moved, I saw a dark-haired man standing among the barons who walked with us. His deep brown eyes met mine, and heat rose in my cheeks. My breath came short as if I had run upstairs too quickly. I searched my memory for his name. He was the Baron Rancon, a vassal of my father’s.

  We reached the church, and I tore my eyes from his. When Papa and I stepped into the cathedral, it was as if a great hand had closed over us, blocking out the sun. I stood in that darkness, letting my eyes adjust to it. My father’s barons filed in behind us.

  Our throne sat midway into the church, with the altar and the bishop at our backs. Though in Paris the Church held sway over all things, religious and otherwise, my father kept to the old Roman ways. The business of the state was a separate thing from the business of the Church. It was a concession to hold this ceremony in a church at all.

  I took our throne, and Papa stood at my right hand. He was dressed in cloth of gold as I was. His blue eyes gleamed bright, even in the darkness of the basilica. This day was a beginning, but it was also a triumph, the end of an arduous path to make me his heir. My father and I had walked that long road, together.

  My sister, Petra, dressed in blue silk to match her eyes, stood behind us to remind the barons that if I died, there was another to follow me. Her gaze sought mine, her skin pale, her soft blond hair coming loose from its braids, making a halo about her face, as if she were an angel. I winked, and she lost her frightened look.

  One by one, my father’s barons knelt, swearing me fealty, as they had once sworn fealty to my father. The ceremony gave every man his lands again, this time from me. These men would stand with me in time of war. When they entered that cathedral, they thought to serve me only out of duty to my father, but I took each baron’s hand before he stood, and caught his eyes with mine. Each man rose, ready to serve the woman I would become.

  The lords dressed well that day, in leather leggings and tunics of woven silk that reached past their knees, bound about their waists with leather belts studded with bronze and silver. But Baron Rancon stood out even in that handsome company, his gaze dark where so many of my vassals had eyes of blue and green, his hair chestnut brown where other men’s gleamed fair in the darkness of the church. Baron Rancon’s hand lingered over mine as he swore to serve me every day for the rest of his life. My breath came short, but my father had taught me well. I smiled at him, serene, as if he were any other man.

  Baron Rancon stepped down from the dais and took his place among my lords. The mass went on after the ceremony was through, but I heard not a word of it. The words of the priests and their incense spilled over me without touching me, as my father stood beside me.

  The people were waiting for us when we emerged from the darkness of the cathedral, and they had more flowers to spread in our path as we walked to my father’s castle against the old Roman wall. I turned back only once, at a curve in the road, and met the Baron Rancon’s eyes. Heat flamed from my throat to my cheeks; I knew I blushed with it. He smiled to see my color rise as I turned away from him.

  My father’s palace was a short walk from the church. Built from the same cream-colored stone, the palace was not cut off from light and air as so many keeps were. Safe on a hill, high in the center of the city, the palace had long windows, all sealed with expensive glass. The light came in from those windows to the north and the west, brightening our hall even in winter, when the light was at its lowest ebb. Now, in spring, sunlight shone into my father’s hall, casting shadows where the columns raised the wooden ceiling high above our heads.

  When I stepped into the great hall, I found the stone walls decked in flowers. My chief lady-in-waiting, Amaria, had been at work all week to make the hall perfect for this one feast. I had excused her from her duties in my rooms. She watched over my women and the tapestries sewn in my chamber, altar cloths that served to keep my ladies busy and out of mischief, at least for part of the day. Alix, my old nurse, loved to work on such embroidery, for she was a religious woman, devoted to God. She no longer ruled my rooms, but she stayed close by, for love of me.

  Petra had risen to the position of chief woman in my rooms in Amaria’s absence. Only ten years old, she was too young for such work, but my sister had done well, better than I had expected. I always thought of her as too young and sweet to be of any real use except in the marriage she would make. That week I saw that there was a mind behind her pretty smile, if I could only teach her to use it.

  My father’s hall was hung in sweet-smelling flowers, and fresh rushes scented with thyme and rosemary covered the floor. I took my place at the high table, with Papa on one side of me and Petra on the other. The highest barons sat with us, and the rest of the company kept to the lower tables, where the feast was just as grand.

  Course after course was brought out. We had borrowed from all our estates for this one day, to show my father’s largesse. Roasted peacocks with their feathers still attached gleamed in the light of the lamps; dishes of eel and comfrey were brought, one after another, feeding everyone, from the barons to the servants, until the remains of the dishes were carried out to the poor. Our duchy was rich, and that day we shared our riches with our people.

  When the fruit was brought, my father rose to his feet beside me. His voice filled the hall without effort. He had trained himself to be heard a long way off without strain. Papa had taught me to do the same, down by the river’s edge. He had stood with me by the old Roman wall of our castle keep, until I could hear my voice bounce back to me from a hundred feet away.

  Though I would never need to cast my voice over a battlefield as my father had done, there were other fields on which I would fight all my life, and my father knew it. A woman in the world of men is always at war; a strong, melodious voice was only one weapon in my arsenal.

  “My daughter sits before you this day, the flower of Aquitaine. Serve her well, as you have sworn to do. Follow her, as you have followed me. She is worthy of you.”

  Papa turned back to me, and took my hand; his eyes were full of tears. The years we had worked together to make this day come to pass had been hard on him. He had no way of knowing whether his men would accept me, if his barons would indeed swear fealty to me, as he called on them to do. He had gambled on me, and won.

  Papa gave me the kiss of peace, then sat beside me. His barons raised a cheer, their wine lifted high. I squeezed my father’s hand, and stood to speak in the strong voice he had given me. “I will serve you in my marriage, and all the days of my life. I will put you and our lands first always, whatever comes. This is my oath to you, as you have given your oaths to me this day.”

  The barons cheered again. As I took my place beside my father, I caught the eye of the Baron Rancon. His dark hair gleamed in the firelight, and his brown eyes met mine. He was a young man, not yet married. His arms were thick from wielding a sword; they strained the silk of his tunic. His was a body made to wear chain mail, not silk. For half a moment, I almost wished myself free, that I might choose such a man for myself.

  The negotiations for my marriage had already begun between our duchy and the King of France. Though it took years for such an alliance to be forged, one day I would marry the heir to the French throne. The politics between Aquitaine and the kingdom of France were delicate, made more so by the interference of the Church, which wanted a hand in everything. But I knew whether the Church supported us or not, my father would see my marriage made.

  Papa’s troubadour, Bertrand, bowed low to me. As Bertrand stood to sing, I found Baron Rancon still watching me. His eyes cradled mine, and warmth began to pool in the center of my belly. I sipped from that pool of languid pleasure, but did not drink deep. That pool could drown me, and I knew it.

  I drew my mind from Baron Ra
ncon, and focused my attention on the troubadour who sang in my honor. Bertrand’s poetry told of my beauty and its power, of how it would rise from the Aquitaine to hold all men in its sway.

  As the song ended, I sent my voice, melodious and light, into every corner of the great hall. “I thank you, Bertrand. You have outdone us all in honor.”

  I took a ring of silver and gold from my finger, cast in my father’s crest. I raised it for the company to see, then pressed it into his palm. For once, Bertrand was struck dumb. For all his practiced poetry, he had no words to speak. He bowed low, drawing my ring onto the little finger of his right hand. He touched it reverently. I had never shown him such favor before.

  “Who else might sing for me?” I asked. “Who among my barons would stand and honor me?”

  My barons murmured among themselves, like wind through a field of barley.

  “I will choose from among the men who sing for me a song of their own devising. The man I choose will be the first tonight to dance with me.”

  The men laughed, delighted at this challenge. All my people, men and women both, loved poetry and music, and they loved a contest more. Ever since my grandfather’s time, men had written their own songs and sung them in company to win the favor of their ladies. They hoped only to draw a woman into their beds for an hour, or a week. That night, I would challenge that tradition. I would remake it into a tradition of my own.

  One baron after another rose to sing for me, as if to woo me for his own. But I was to be their duchess. They could not so much as touch my hand, much less have me in the dark, and they knew this as well as I.

  As I listened to their songs, my father caught my eye and smiled. He knew that by setting myself above them as a prize to be won, as a woman to love but not to touch, I hoped to bind every man in my court closer to me. Each man in that hall must love me at least a little, for barons who loved me would not rise up in arms against me. Or so I hoped.

  Time would tell.