Devil's Consort Page 23

  ‘I heard the screams of the dying, Eleanor. Smelt their burning flesh. I could not stop it. I am responsible. The destruction of God’s house. All those innocents, women and children. How can I ever atone for that?’

  And he wept into his hands, harsh, rasping sobs that I could not soothe. For a time I absorbed the extent of the massacre done, in Louis’s name and mine. It was an abomination and I could make no excuse for it. I too would have wept for the loss, but I forced my mind back to my weeping husband.

  ‘It was not your fault,’ I tried. ‘You did not order the sacking of the town.’

  I don’t think he heard me. ‘God will blame me. And how can I ask for his forgiveness? I am forbidden God’s presence.’

  That was the crux of the problem. Excommunicate as he was, Louis counted himself forever damned, without hope of spiritual ease. No confession, no absolution, no comfort of the Blessed Sacrament. The fear of the Last Judgment hung over him and would until the day he died, a death without the hope of salvation. All his life had been spent in the arms of Holy Mother Church, and now when he needed its care and compassion and forgiveness most it was closed to him. Throughout that day, Louis wailed as a soul in torment. I could not comfort him as he lay in my bed staring up into the canopy, or curled onto his side like a child.

  He had my compassion, of course. At first. But as the days passed and I saw no signs of recovery my tolerance spun out to its allotted length. I could not understand his refusal to take hold of his life again.

  ‘What are they saying?’ I asked Agnes, as I frequently did in those troubled days.

  ‘That the King is mad and incapable from grief.’ Her bluntness was a relief.

  Even Abbot Suger was helpless, turning to me in open appeal when Louis refused to speak to him. ‘You have to get him up, lady. If his barons see him in public, wearing the crown, well, the damage is not so great. If not, I fear insurrection. Get him up and dressed, for the love of God …’

  Easier said than done.

  ‘You must get up, Louis.’ I gripped his shoulder, aware of the press of bone against my palm from his fasting. Still I shook him. ‘You are King of France.’

  ‘I am damned.’

  ‘Lying here will not change that. Your people need to see you.’

  ‘I cannot.’ His eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow.

  ‘You can. You must.’

  ‘How can I face my people when I’m guilty of the slaughter of so many?’

  ‘How can you not face them? You are the King. You can’t stay here for ever.’

  ‘I need God’s forgiveness.’

  ‘And I’m sure you’ll get it. But for now you have to face your people. You have to be seen or discontent and rumour will spread.’

  ‘I’m damned, Eleanor. I’ll never be forgiven. I don’t deserve to be King.’ Pushing my hand away, Louis turned his head on the pillow. Weak tears collected in the harsh runnels beside his mouth.

  How many tears could the man weep?

  I had to leave the room or I would have slapped him. I had done what I could for him but this was too much. Short of dragging him from the bed I could do nothing more. I could neither understand nor cure him, so intent was he in wallowing in misery. In those days it seemed that the crown of France rolled in the gutter, its owner sinking under a glut of misery and self-pity, incapable of rescuing it.

  I prayed to the Virgin to stiffen Louis’s backbone—and suddenly there was hope when I had all but lost faith in Louis’s recovery.

  ‘His Holiness Pope Innocent is dead, Your Majesty.’

  I hid my joy from the Papal emissary who, suitably sonorous, had ridden hard to bring us the news. The Pope had been summoned by his Holy Father. God had come to my rescue. The new Pope, Celestine the Second, I was informed, in a spirit of compromise to get his papacy off to a good start, was pleased to welcome his errant son the King of France back into the fold and remove the ban of excommunication.

  Thank God! My thoughts skittered over what this would mean, and the news was good. All would now be well, with Louis free to renew his relationship with God. He would confess the sins of Vitry and would be absolved. Good, good. I could barely take it in when despair had been so strong in me. Louis’s spirits would be restored, he would resume his authority in the eyes of his barons. Surely he would also rediscover his need for me and I would conceive that much-desired son. I dispatched the news immediately to Louis whilst I assured the Papal emissary that relations between France and Champagne would be put to rights. As soon as I had seen to the man’s hospitality—it all seemed to take an age—I allowed myself to celebrate this miraculous reversal of our fortunes.

  First to find Louis. I went to my solar where I had left him but he was not there, neither was he in his own apartments. Of course—how foolish—I knew where he would be. He would have rushed to Notre Dame to give thanks and confess his sins before a priest.

  I followed him with light steps and a heady sense that all had been made well.

  There he was, just as I had expected, before the High Altar, prostrated on the floor, arms spread as Christ had spread his arms for the sins of the world on the Cross. In my new-found optimism, I hung back. I would give him this time alone, to put himself right with God, before I rejoiced with him at Pope Celestine’s mercy and celebrated his taking back the mantle and Majesty of the King of France.

  An hour passed—or was it longer? Louis lay unmoving, prostrate as a corpse, while I waited, my feet and heart growing colder. Then, at last, Louis stood and bowed to the altar. And turned to face me as I walked forward, hands held out in greeting.

  ‘You’ve heard the good news, Louis.’ Of course he had. ‘You are forgiven …’ The smile on my face froze. I halted abruptly. I let my hands fall to my sides.

  ‘Yes. I am forgiven.’ He kept his distance.

  I formed the words carefully, my voice little above a whisper. ‘In God’s name, Louis. What have you done?’

  ‘I have made my penance to God.’

  ‘But this?’

  ‘This is what He desired of me.’

  The anger in me could not be borne. I shook with it. My fingers clenched into fists with it. I could barely temper my words.

  ‘What have you done?’ I repeated.

  The man who stood before me was not Louis, King of France. This was not a soldier, a law-giver, an administrator. This was not the young handsome prince who had come to Bordeaux to claim me. If nothing else, he had destroyed all his beauty.

  He had cut his hair. Those beautiful fair waves of silk that I had admired when we had first met, hacked off now to a rough crop and the crown of his head shaved into a tonsure. No tunic, not even a plain undecorated one, hung on his spare frame but a monk’s habit and rope girdle. He was barefoot, wearing coarse sandals. Even his stance was monkish, his hands clasped and hidden within his sleeves, shoulders curved inward. And his face—how frighteningly austere and harshly carved it was, cheeks gaunt from his recent lack of sustenance, his eyes deeply sunken—was the face of a man in extremis. ‘Oh, Louis!’

  Here was Louis, my husband, truly transformed into the monk he had always wished to be.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this!’ I heard my voice rise and echo in the vast space.

  ‘Hush!’ He addressed me as if I were a fool, not capable of seeing the truth as he saw it. ‘I have to make amends for all the blood I’ve shed.’

  ‘But you can,’ I urged, struggling to push aside the barrier he had erected between us. ‘The Interdict is removed. You are no longer excommunicate. You can pray again, receive absolution …’ Did he not understand?

  ‘It is not enough. I must make penance. Fasts, observances … night vigils. We must all do penance for the blood that stains our souls …’ His words trailing off, he would have turned away, back to the altar, if I’d allowed it. I strode forward and grabbed his sleeve with considerable force, my voice harsh enough to destroy the sanctity of the place.

  ‘Did God tell you to
do this?’

  ‘Yes. God must see my sorrow. How can He know my repentance if it is invisible?’

  ‘God is omnipotent. Can He not see what is in your heart?’

  Louis smiled with utter conviction for himself and pity for me. ‘Of course He can. You must not mock, Eleanor. But it seems to me that I must show Him in the way I live my life. I must grow closer to Him. I can only do that if I give up the trappings of my earthly existence.’

  ‘You will give up your crown? Surely you’ll not do something so …’ Stupid! I bit down on the word. There was a holy fanaticism in his face that frightened me.

  ‘No, no. Am I not anointed with holy oil? I am King, but even a king must make amends for vicious sins committed in his name.’ His eyes became stern. ‘Even a queen must repent.’

  The quiet words were like a sword between the ribs. My breath caught. ‘Do you blame me too, Louis?’’

  But his smile softened into kindness; he touched my cheek with gentle fingers. ‘No. It was not your doing. It was my orders that took us into Champagne. I was the one guilty of the bloody horror at Vitry.’ Now he did turn away from me but not before I had seen that his fingernails were bitten to the quick, their ends bloodied, skin torn. ‘I will stay here tonight.’

  The future for me suddenly loomed, terrifying in what was not spoken. It must be spoken! ‘What do you mean?’ I demanded.

  ‘I need to be here,’ he murmured, his gaze on the altar, its silver crucifix shining with the reflection of the candles. ‘I need God’s presence. I need his forgiveness. I must dedicate my life to him. I must listen to Abbot Suger and Abbot Bernard in future. They will lead me in God’s path. I must lead a holy life, pleasing in God’s eyes.’

  How I controlled my fear and anger I did not know. ‘But you are forgiven, Louis. There is no barrier between you and God’s forgiveness. Come back with me to the palace.’

  He shook his head as if I were still that fool who could not encompass so grave a matter. ‘Try to understand, Eleanor. I cannot return with you. I must not listen to you. Your advice leads me into dangerous waters …’

  I needed to hear it in plain words, although I already understood with terrible clarity. ‘Will you not come to me tonight?’

  ‘No, Eleanor. I will not.’ Louis’s lips softened in compassion.

  I snarled, a show of teeth. If he smiled at me once more in that tolerant manner, I would surely strike him! I deliberately uncurled my fingers and took a breath. I must not give in to the fury that raced through my blood, that darkened my vision, threatening to blot out everything but the stupidity of Louis’s rejection.

  ‘You still do not have an heir, Louis,’ I choked out in an amazingly level voice.

  ‘I know.’ He sighed. ‘But I must stay here.’

  ‘And what of me?’ He almost shrugged. He certainly did not look at me. ‘Is this what you want for me? To be old before my time, to live as a nun? To turn my back on the world? I won’t do it. I’m young, alive. You won’t imprison me as you imprison yourself.’

  ‘You will do as you wish, Eleanor. It is no longer my concern.’

  ‘Yes. I will live as I wish. I’ll not be bound by your constraints.’

  I had hoped to provoke him—and failed. Covering his face, Louis’s shoulders shook as he walked once more to the altar and knelt before it.

  What now?

  I sank into one of the empty choir stalls, my knees suddenly too weak to bear me as my husband once more prostrated himself and wept in an agony of repentance. No! For a moment I resisted what was impossible to resist. I would not allow this! I would shriek, cry out, destroy the silence, rend the air with my tangled emotions. I would demand that God return my husband to me. But with my nails scouring my palms I bent my head and kept silent. Nothing I could say or do would change Louis’s decision. He had finally withdrawn, choosing God over me. The humiliation of it was biting.

  How long I remained there in frozen wretchedness I had no idea, until a sound brought me back to the present, then soft footfalls of monastic sandals caused me to lift my head. Louis had gone. He had left me, to retire to his cell rather than stay and comfort me. He had said all he needed to say, and I would have to live with the choice he had made.

  ‘How could You do this to me?’ I raged against God, not caring who heard the outrage. ‘How could You condemn me to this empty existence?’

  Only when the echo of my harsh cry startled me was I driven to plaster my hands over my mouth to cut off the agony, until I felt my anger drain away to leave me astonishingly calm. And at the still cold centre of my heart a new emotion unfurled. I felt it creep in, encroaching slowly, until it filled every space in my body. Contempt. Hard, cold contempt. That was all I could feel, contempt for an excuse of the man who wept and snivelled and made excuses. For the man who could not come close to the warrior prince of my dreams and had now chosen the life of a monk. Respect? Understanding? Affection? There was room for none of those in my icy heart. Louis had effectively murdered any soft emotion when had had faced me and informed me that I could live as I wished because he had no interest in me and my concerns.

  As I drew my cloak around me to walk back to the palace I saw my life for what it was and what it would be. Lonely, isolated, empty. I was only twenty years old, in full vigour and beauty. As I had told Louis, I was young and alive. But my bed was cold, I was as virginal as it was possible for a wife to be, and my body burned with empty longing. I was like to become as dried up a husk as Louis. Must I live like him for the rest of my life, a shadow in a shadowy court where my friends were few and my enemies keen to grasp any weapon they could use against me? My vulnerability had never been clearer. I would never bear that child that would silence my enemies. Aquitaine would never have a ruler of my blood.

  For a moment I stood beneath the cold arches and made my own choice to mirror his.

  ‘Yes, Louis, I will live as I wish.’ I repeated my earlier affirmation so that my voice echoed in the empty reaches of Notre Dame. ‘I will live as I wish, and to hell with you!’

  Later I was not so sanguine. I dismissed my women, even sensible Sybille of Flanders, and flung myself on my bed, regretful that I did not have Aelith to comfort me, although I could not have told even her of the misery that engulfed me.

  ‘What shall I do?’ I asked in despair when Agnes came to help me dress for supper.

  ‘To what purpose, lady? If it’s His Majesty’s strange preferences, I don’t see there’s much you can do.’ Agnes was always brisk, and well informed.

  I turned my face away from her. ‘I have no husband.’

  ‘Take a lover,’ Agnes whispered.

  My head whipped round. A lover? ‘I cannot.’

  ‘Why not? Do you love His Majesty?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So there is no obstacle. Will you burn with desire for ever? His Majesty will not be the man to ignite that flame.’ Her lip curled with the same contempt that had swept through me.

  ‘I have never burned with desire,’ I sighed.

  ‘I say you lie, lady.’ Her smile was caustic. ‘I warrant he’s as much use as a eunuch between the sheets—but those southern singers of yours could ignite the blood of any woman with their sighs and soft eyes and sensual words.’

  I plucked uncertainly at the edge of the sheet.

  ‘Will you live out the rest of your life without that experience, that knowledge?’

  I was honest. ‘No.’

  ‘So do it,’ Agnes said, as if the decision was made.

  I balked. ‘How do I know it will be any different with another man, Agnes? Perhaps the problem is mine.’

  She snorted. ‘And you a beautiful, passionate woman!’

  ‘I have never felt passion.’

  ‘You have never known the right man. Will you go to your grave never knowing the pleasure to be found in a man’s arms and loins? Take a puissant lover, my lady, that’s my advice.’

  I turned my face into my pillow, much as Louis had done
.

  ‘Go away!’

  We were not finished with Vitry. Bernard of Clairvaux descended on us without warning. Despite the ill health that had reduced him in recent months to little more than skin and bone, he demanded an audience with Louis on the instant that he set his holy foot inside the palace. Fragile he might be but he wasted no time, haranguing Louis before whole court. I think he hoped to shock him out of his sorry existence as a penitent. For once I was not the object of his wrath, and the Abbot had my sympathy.

  With me at his side, Louis sat, pale and set-faced, clad in an ankle-length tunic in honour of the saint’s visit, although I detected the edge of a hair shirt peeking above the neck opening. He listened to the diatribe in bleak-faced silence.

  There was nothing new in it but the Abbot was shockingly forthright. What was Louis thinking, to wage a war—unwarranted at that—against Theobald of Champagne? What sort of behaviour was it for a Christian king—slaying, burning, destroying churches, consorting with bandits and robbers? It was time he put Vitry-sur-Marne aside and turned his mind to ruling his country. A king’s place was with his hands on the reins of government, not clasped in prayer every hour of the day. Even Abbot Suger was raked from head to foot for failing to give Louis good advice, before the barbs were turned once more on the King.

  ‘What persuaded you to support this matter of Vermandois’s marriage? You allowed yourself to be led down the path of evil by your wife.’ Disgust dripped from every one of Bernard’s accusations. ‘You let yourself be led by the nose by Raoul of Vermandois. You should be ashamed, Majesty! You should—’

  ‘Stop!’

  The whole court shuddered on an intake of breath. So did I. I could not recall hearing Louis raise his voice before in so commanding a tone.

  ‘You would silence me?’ Bernard demanded.

  ‘I would! I will! Led by the nose? You overstep yourself, my lord Abbot!’ Louis leaned forward, hands planted on his knees. ‘You are not my conscience.’

  ‘Before God, you have need of one!’ Abbot Bernard gave not one inch.

  ‘You’ll not speak to me like that.’ Louis surged to his feet, striding forward as if he would strike the Abbot. ‘I will act as I see fit. I am King here!’