To Be Queen

by Christy English

  I did not let her finish her thought, but threw myself at her, clinging to her as I would have clung to my own mother had she been there. Amaria was only a year older than I, but she knew how to play the mother’s part. She held me close, and stroked my hair.

  She dressed me and we rode out into the morning sunshine, our horses set on the road to Poitiers. The sheets had been displayed and applauded over. The Parisians congratulated Louis on his prowess, as if he were a conquering hero.

  If Geoffrey of Rancon was there, I did not see him. I kept my eyes unfocused, except when I looked up at the sky, a shade of blue darker than my father’s eyes.

  My heart was bleeding, but no one but Amaria knew it. This was the path I had chosen.

  When Louis reached for my hand, and kissed my fingertips encased in my leather glove, I managed to smile at him.

  It was easier after that first night. Sometimes I even began to feel a quickening in my womb, though the heat never rose to its completion. It was as if there were a distant country hidden deep within my body that I saw only glimpses of.

  But I had my husband. My people were safe from war, as was my sister, as was I.

  We were greeted throughout my lands with cheers and late-blooming flowers. We paced through my lands for a week, and all along our way to Poitiers, the people called to me. My people loved me, as they had loved my father and grandfather before me. They loved me for my beauty and my strength, and for the largesse they received from my hands. Always, I had sat at my father’s side and listened to their petitions. We judged them fairly, giving justice to those who asked for it. No great lord could buy my favor, for I was rich already, and so the townspeople and peasants of my lands might come to me, and be heard, if they ever had need. In times of famine, we saw to it that all the grain held in my own walls was given out to the people, so that their children would not starve. This was how my father had ruled, and in the few months since I had been duchess, I went on as he had begun.

  Once we reached my capital at Poitiers, Louis and I were crowned with the coronets of Poitou, and feasted in my father’s great hall. The burghers of my capital looked at Louis with loathing, for Parisian overlords were not welcome. I smoothed the way for Louis and for his men as much as I could, but my people were loyal only to me.

  We were in Poitiers when the news came to us, after only a week of marriage. A fast messenger brought it from Paris, his horse half-dead from his frantic ride. The elder king was dead of dysentery after a weeklong illness. Louis was the young king no longer.

  I heard this news as from a far distance. All around me, my people made a show of sorrow, though no doubt they rejoiced to see their duchess brought so high, so quickly. I ordered masses sung for the king’s soul at once, knowing that Louis would like it.

  I sat surrounded by my own people as the Parisians began their maneuvers. Some left at once for Paris, though what they hoped to gain from a corpse I did not comprehend. Other, younger lords stayed by Louis’ side, and fawned over him as if he were Christ come back to earth. Some of them even fawned over me.

  My man Bardonne met my eyes across the hall at Poitiers. He had come in my retinue, though he was of low birth and was considered slow in the head. After he had guarded me unasked as I went to seek Louis that night in the chapel at Bordeaux, I had spoken with Bardonne, and found his mind quite sound. I had welcomed him into the ranks of my spies, people I had begun to gather into my service, as my father once had done. All would speak easily in front of Bardonne, thinking him too stupid to understand what they were about.

  The day we heard of Louis the Elder’s death, I nodded to Bardonne across my father’s hall. He needed little prompting to do what must be done. He would make his way among the French who stayed in my court, not the lords, but their men-at-arms, who no doubt would know all their lords’ doings. Bardonne would listen well, never speaking a word, so that they all might think him mute as well as stupid. And later, he would come to me alone, and report all he had seen and heard.

  As for the French lords who stayed by Louis, I watched each of them to learn their ways. I sent word to my spy in the Church, the bishop of Limoges; no doubt he would report back to me what I already knew. We were in a new world. It was one thing for my father to be murdered when he was away on pilgrimage. For the King of France to fall dead in his own hall was quite another.

  Though no one said it, I saw from their faces that others thought as I did. “Dysentery” was an ailment that came after drinking bad water. “Bad water,” like the water that had killed my father, meant poison.

  My hatred for Louis burned away in the fire of that new world. He wept openly, and I saw that he had loved his father, as he now claimed to love me.

  Each morning, he went to his priests and begged absolution for what went on in our marriage bed. I wondered what he would say if I told him that those same churchmen, or men just like them, had killed my father, and very likely had killed his.

  With the old king dead, the Church would reach a height of power in Paris that it had never before seen. My husband was weak, and had been Church-raised. Now that the elder king was dead, my young husband would no doubt fall into line with whatever the Church might want. He would do as he was told, for he was easily led, and the priests knew it.

  I saw Louis and myself as those priests would see us: two weak-minded children, one of us Church-raised and biddable, and the other a woman. Louis now held both the Aquitaine and the throne of France; with his father dead, the Church was sure that it held them, too.

  I sat in my father’s hall and listened to the uneasy talk among the people, while Louis wept beside me. Darkness had risen to engulf us. Evil had raised its hand to press against the clean daylight world I had been raised in. I knew that politics was built on blood, but that day drove that truth home better even than my own father’s death. Papa’s enemies in the Church had been open in their hatred for him, but no one could have suspected that the elder king was in danger until he lay dead.

  The Church thought that they had won, but I would prove otherwise. When lifting their knives in the dark to murder, they had not reckoned on me. Louis was weak, but I was not. I would take the reins into my own hands. Through Louis, I would rule France, and my son would rule after me.

  Chapter 9

  Palace of the City

  Paris

  August 1137

  WE RODE INTO PARIS ON A DAY OF RAIN AND FOG. THE DAMP rose from the ground, just as it fell from the sky in a steady drizzle. I rode my new white mare, which I had christened Melusina after the fabled sorceress, much to Louis’ and Amaria’s annoyance.

  Today was a day for witches and water, I thought as I looked at the gray walls of Paris. My father had spoken of Paris as if it were a new Rome, full of learning and culture, where men came from all over the world to study Greek and Latin, so that the old Greek and Roman ways might not perish from the earth. But the enlightened Paris of my dreams and my father’s stories had little to do with the dirty city I found, crouched low under rain clouds.

  The streets that led up to the city gates were narrow and crowded by wooden shanties and lean-tos built against the stone walls of the buildings. Soot coated the wood as well as the stone; buildings rose four or five stories above the street, choking what little light made it through the clouds overhead. At the sight of the dirt of Paris, Melusina tossed her head. If not for my elaborate headdress, I might have done the same.

  But I wore a heavy veil, as Louis had asked me to, covered by both diadems of Aquitaine and Poitou, as well as the crown of France. It seemed the Parisians wanted me to wear all my finery at once, for he had also called on me to deck myself in jewels. I wore somber blue in honor of Louis’ father. Though all this finery was covered by a canopy, my gown still got ruined. Our covering was made of silk, which was charming in the sunlight of Poitiers, but in the rain of Paris, it did us little good.

  During the three weeks of our journey to Paris, Louis and I had fallen into an easier way with
each other. He had not come to my bed since his father died, so we did not have that constant irritant between us. Louis left the making of an heir for another day and instead spent his days and nights praying for the soul of his father.

  The Parisians met us at the gates of the city, looking dispirited and cold in the rain. No doubt some official had meant to welcome us with fanfare, but the blooms of late summer had lost all their petals, and the garlands looped over the gate had begun to fall.

  I nodded and waved to my new people, who stood and stared back at me as if seeing an apparition. Not one of them had taken a bath in a year, if ever, and here and there a peasant squinted at me. I was tempted to reach up and make certain that my diadems were straight, but I kept my hand on Melusina’s reins. A murmur crossed over the crowd, like the wind over a field of barley. My beauty did not seem to impress them, or my many diadems. When Louis rode up behind me, the Parisians gave a small, halfhearted cheer. I could see that they had been paid for it.

  Then we were through the gates, and over the bridge. The Seine’s dark brown waters stank, though the day was cool. Louis’ priest Francis put it about that the constant rains meant that all the world wept for the passing of their king. I had never known Louis the Fat. I would have to take their word for his goodness and largesse.

  It was a short ride to the palace, which was good, for by that time I was wet through to the skin. Amaria came to me, and the lords and ladies of Paris greeted us in the courtyard.

  The French nobility were well dressed in silks and satins, bright spots of color against the drab gray of the palace bailey. Rain dripped down even there, but each nobleman had a servant to cover him with a well-oiled canopy which seemed to keep the rain off. Now that we were here, no doubt Louis’ chamberlain would do a better job of keeping the royal persons dry as well.

  The Parisian lords and ladies seemed accustomed to the damp, so much so that they ignored it completely. I took my cue from them and smiled as if the sun were shining, as if I were not cold and dressed from head to toe in wet silk.

  Louis’ Parisian nobles knelt to us there in the bailey. I saw that they were a practical people even when first greeting their new king. They had taken care to have oiled cloths placed beneath their feet, that they might not kneel in mud.

  Louis raised his hand over them, as if he were a priest and not a king at all. They did not seem surprised or look askance at this. They simply rose to their feet when he bade them, each smiling on him as if he were Christ come down to earth.

  My own people helped me down from my horse. Bardonne stood to one side, his hand near his sword, as if ready to do battle in my name. I made a small, subtle gesture, and he stepped back, lowering his hand. Only one or two of the Parisian lords were quick enough to see the exchange between us.

  The Count of Valois stepped forward and bowed low, first to Louis, and then to me. He was a tall man with fair blond hair and cold gray eyes. I saw his loathing for me, though he masked it quickly with a smile something like a crocodile’s. No doubt he could shed false tears, too, when called upon to do so. Though this was the first time I had seen him, I had heard of the Count of Valois and his faction already.

  The bishop of Limoges had warned me before I left Bordeaux that there were many in Paris who did not approve of my marriage to Louis. The details of the marriage contract were known everywhere, and many Parisian lords were insulted that my lands fell not to Louis’ control, but remained in my hands until the crowning of our son. No woman was allowed to hold such power in Paris.

  As I looked around me, the ladies of the royal court seemed like flowers that bloomed behind damp stone walls. I wondered how many of those pretty faces hid fine minds. A few of them might be tired of serving their lords and masters. Perhaps one or two among them might be willing to throw in their lot with me.

  I would look into the matter before nightfall. My spy system was growing from the network my father had built, but I wanted more people of my own, who owed loyalty to no one but me.

  Louis led me solemnly into the castle by the hand. The great hall held large sprays of flowers, but the rushes underfoot smelled of the meal that had been served the night before. I would give instructions that new rushes be laid out before the feast that night, and I would see to it that such things would not be neglected again.

  Louis did not stop to break his fast, though food and drink were laid out, and a smoking fire warmed the chair of state. He led me deeper into the keep, where torches were lit, casting light and smoke onto the gray walls. Soot rose against the stone like thick black tar. Amaria, who met my eyes as Louis led me into his private rooms, took note of the soot as well as the dirty rushes. She nodded to me, and I put the matter of the keep from my thoughts. She would give orders to care for it all; the hall would be put right long before the evening meal.

  Inside Louis’ antechamber, only one gentleman stood by, one lady, and a priest. The rest of his lords and ladies had been left in the great hall behind us. My husband, shy as he was, was clearly relieved to be away from the prying eyes of the court.

  The gentleman and the lady who waited on him in his antechamber bowed low. Louis greeted them, looking weary and heartsick; his face was drawn still with grief for his father. The gentleman, Louis’ chamberlain, rose when my husband spoke, but the woman held her curtsy.

  The priest, dressed in simple robes, did not bow at all, but came to Louis without prompting, and took him in his arms. I drew back, taking Amaria with me, looking around at once for the king’s guard. My first thought was assassin, and I cursed in silence, that my marriage was to end so early, with me and mine so far from Poitiers. But the priest drew no dagger. Louis went into his arms without hesitation, as if such a display were seemly, as if a simple priest had the right to embrace the King of France.

  “My lord,” the priest said. “Your Majesty. Welcome home.”

  My husband wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his gown as if he were a boy of eight and not a man of sixteen. Louis turned to me then, and held out one hand. After a moment’s hesitation, I went to him, for I was his obedient wife.

  “My lord abbot, let me present my wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine and Poitou.”

  I stood dumbfounded in the silence that followed. The woman and Louis’ chamberlain both stared as if their eyes might fly from their heads. I was not the only one horrified that a mere abbot was not presented to me, but I, to him. The priest seemed to understand, but he took Louis’ faux pas in stride, and worked at once to set it right. He knelt to me, there in those dirty rushes. Straw clung to his cassock where his knees touched the ground, but he seemed not to notice or to care. His bright blue eyes met mine, and he smiled.

  “My lady queen. The tales of your beauty are far reaching, and well deserved. Welcome to Paris. May your days among us be bountiful, and full of joy.”

  This speech was almost worthy of one of my own lords. I extended my hand and let the abbot kiss my ring. I still wore my father’s signet. I had the ring cut down to size before I went away. I would never give it over to my husband, but only, someday, to my son. My father’s signet ring was mine, as Aquitaine was.

  Louis still wept, and the abbot still knelt. I would do well to end this scene as quickly as I might.

  “I thank you, Father,” I said, careful not to give him any title save for the one any priest might bear. “Your kind greeting warms my heart, and the hearts of all the people of Aquitaine. I look forward to many years as France’s queen.”

  “Indeed, my lady. God willing.”

  I looked at him sharply, but saw no sign of mockery or threat in his clear blue eyes. It seemed he was a true priest, if I could trust my instincts about something so far beyond my ken. Still, I would set my spies on him, and see what I might find, as soon as I knew his name.

  He rose from his obeisance, and the woman stepped forward as if called to lead me to my rooms.

  “Until tonight, my lord,” I said to Louis.

  I thought at first he did not hear me
, so focused was he on the abbot. But at the last moment, just before I turned to go, Louis caught my hand. “Yes, Eleanor. Tonight in the great hall. I will send your women to you, that they might help you settle in.”

  “Thank you, my lord king.”

  I brushed his cheek with my lips, not to be outdone by the kneeling and grasping abbot. Louis had not come to my bed in more than three weeks, but there was a hint of warmth between us that shocked me. It seemed that it shocked him more. He did not blush as he used to do, but met my eyes steadily. Perhaps his father’s death had made him cherish me more.

  “You are welcome, Eleanor. I will always have a care for you. I hope you know it.”

  I kissed him again, this time on his lips. Louis’ chamberlain shifted on his feet, and the abbot rose, displeased. But I gave no care for what stewards and prelates thought of me. I followed Louis’ woman deeper into the palace with Amaria beside me.

  “My dear,” I said to the Parisian lady before we had walked far down the smoky, damp corridor. “What is your name?”

  She was not much older than I, less than seventeen summers old if I made a guess. Her blue gaze was clear and sweet, like clean water from a well. There was no depth to her, but I saw that she was a good girl, and kind. I wondered if she was married yet, or if I would make her marriage for her. Perhaps she might join the ranks of my spies, for married yet or not, she looked biddable, a woman who might become obedient to me.

  “I am the Lady Priscilla, Your Majesty.” She was shy, but she spoke clearly. I smiled at her, and she seemed more at ease.

  “Well, Lady Priscilla, welcome to my service. May I ask, who was that churchman who greeted us so kindly?”

  She seemed shocked that I had to ask. I wondered what else I might have missed, and what it would cost me.

  “He is the Abbot Suger, madam.” She spoke his name as one might speak the name of God, with reverence, and with a casual assumption that all under heaven must know of him already. I did not show my ignorance, but continued to smile.