Beloved Enemy (5 page)

He snapped his fingers and ordered a servant to bring some bread and cold meat for the equerries.

He pointed a finger at Eleanor. “Go now and do as I bid you.”

Ever since the demise of both her brother and mother seven years earlier, Eleanor had known that with her father’s death she would one day become duchess of Aquitaine and countess of Poitou—unless he married again, which he had not done. While she had wanted, one day in the far distant future, to become duchess of Aquitaine, she had never imagined that day would come so soon. Not when she was still so young, so—so untried. The thought of shouldering all her father’s burdens filled her with terror.

When her mother had died Eleanor had mourned her loss, inconsolable without that gentle, self-effacing presence, admonishing but always loving. But then she still had her father, her grandfather, and grandmother to share her misery. Now she had no one but her younger sister, who always looked to Eleanor to nurture and comfort her.

For a moment she was robbed of all breath. How could she sustain this second loss? She felt so alone, so small, so unfit to bear the yoke of Aquitaine.

“… what kind of husband will the king provide, I wonder,” the archbishop was saying now. “It is such a risk.”

Husband? The word and its implications cut through the engulfing fog of despair. A stranger in her bed? In her duchy? It was impossible that her father, in his rightful wits, would ever have placed her fate in the hands of a man he despised as much as the French king. Her family had never trusted their overlords any more than they trusted Holy Church. No. Despite all the warnings about vultures descending on her beloved Aquitaine, she did not want or need a husband. The thought was so hateful that Eleanor felt her whole body tremble. Outrage warred with grief.

“It must be a mistake, Conon,” she said. “As His Grace pointed out, my father was desperate at the end, so concerned for my safety that this blinded him to what he was doing. I beg you, please do not carry this message to Louis of France.”

The archbishop clucked like an old hen. “Not carry the message to France? My child, what can you be thinking of? The word of a dying man is sacred. Whatever our personal feelings, Conon must do as the duke ordered.”

“His Grace is right, my lady. The duke was fully alert and quite clear on this point. It was an agonizing decision but he did it to protect Aquitaine—and you.”

A servant refilled her goblet. She held it in both hands, clinging to it like a spar, then downed the wine again, almost choking on the bitter dregs. She had to do something. What could she say that would make them listen?

“I—” She took a deep breath. “I am—I am the duchess of Aquitaine now. Well, you said so yourself, didn’t you?” She paused, desperately hunting for the right words. “I—yes, I—hereby order you not to go to France with this message. We will find another way to protect both the duchy and myself.”

The two equerries and the archbishop stared at her as if she had two heads. Suppose they ignored her words? Refused to do her bidding? How had her father and grandfather before him summoned the power to make themselves obeyed?

“The child is young yet headstrong and frivolous, spoiled, as we all know. At this moment she is undone by grief,” said the archbishop in a severe voice. “How can you heed her words? Do as the duke bade you, my good fellow.”

“Conon, Roland—” Holy Mother, what could she say? What magic incantation could she call upon to sway their hearts? Body shaking, palms damp with her own sweat, Eleanor hesitated.

“For three hundred years my family, whose roots go back to Charlemagne and beyond, have ruled in Aquitaine. When I speak, it is not just my voice you hear, but the voice of all the dukes that have ever ruled this land.”

She saw the equerries look at each other then at the archbishop. Eleanor felt herself sway with relief when she saw Conon and Roland drop down on one knee and bow their heads.

“As you will, my lady. I am your man,” Conon said.

“And I,” echoed Roland.

“By the Mass, I hope your vanity is satisfied, you foolish, selfish child,” said the archbishop in an icy voice. “You have just abandoned Aquitaine and yourself to the first brigand who comes along with a show of force. This is your father’s headstrong behavior all over again.”

Her relief was short-lived. The prelate’s words filled her with dread. Could he be right? Was Louis of France the wiser solution? A ray of dawn sunlight streamed through the open doors of the keep and into the hall accompanied by a brisk morning breeze. She shivered, aware now of her light gown, and how unsuitable she must look.

“Please wait,” she said in a faint voice. “I will be right back.”

She walked out of the hall with all the dignity she could muster. Before she dashed up the staircase she heard the archbishop’s voice echo across the threshold.

“… every inch her grandfather and father’s child. Willful and concerned only with her own desires. I fear it is bred in the bone. The worm in the fair apple.”

Inside the chamber her sister and the women were still sound asleep. Despite her need to seek solace in her younger sister’s arms, Eleanor could not bring herself to wake her: soon enough Petronilla would hear about their tragic loss.

She tip-toed across the Syrian rug to where a pole protruded from the wall next to an ornately carved chest. From the pole hung several tunics and gowns. Atop the chest rested an inlaid wooden box. Its lid gaped open revealing a tumble of gold and silver necklaces, jewel-studded brooches, and ornate rings. A flash of rust caught Eleanor’s eye. Digging into the box, her fingers curled around the rust-colored stone her father had given her so long ago at the fishing village of Talmont, and which she had saved. She lifted it out, her father’s words ringing in her ears “… this priceless jewel become yours. Guard our heritage well.”

Eleanor passed a shaking hand over her forehead. Against all the odds, what she had always wanted had come to pass: Aquitaine was now hers. But for how long? Would King Louis, a greedy overlord and her father’s enemy, try to swallow up the duchy himself if she defied him? If she followed her father’s wishes, what kind of husband would the French king provide for her? Eleanor was wise enough to know she would have absolutely no say in the matter.

It might be a man old enough to be her grandfather, or a child of eight. The dreadful possibilities made her flesh crawl. Which was the greater evil? The devil one knew about or the devil one didn’t know; the king of France or Aquitaine overrun by—what had the archbishop said?—brigands, unscrupulous vassals. Where could she turn? God? He would only tell her to follow the archbishop’s advice. Stifling a sob, Eleanor sank to her knees beside the chest, closed her eyes, and asked her blood for guidance.

When she finally opened her eyes again, she knew what she had to do.

L
OUIS THE FAT, KING
of France, lay half-dozing as he attempted to fight off the virulent effects of a persistent flux of the bowels, his third such attack in less than a year. As Paris lay sweltering under an unseasonably hot June, he had been taken to a hunting lodge on the outskirts of the city where it was somewhat cooler. Here, in a crowded chamber, servitors vainly tried to swat away the dark swarm of flies clustered thickly on the oaken table and bed, on pewter pitchers of fetid wine, even on Louis’s bloated body.

Through slitted eyes he could see one black-robed physician taking his pulse with the aid of a sand-glass, while another examined his urine, swirling it round and round in a silver basin. The stench of excrement and unwashed flesh hung over the chamber like a shroud.

His eyes closed and he was about to drift off into sleep when a voice startled him awake.

“Sire, I have important news. Couriers from Bordeaux have just now arrived to tell us that Duke William of Aquitaine has died in Santiago, Spain.”

The voice belonged to Abbé Suger, his chief advisor. Louis forced his eyes open and tried to speak. Although his debilitating illness had not impaired his wits, sometimes he could not force his weakened body to obey the dictates of his reason.

“Give thanks to God and all His Saints,” he finally croaked, even as his heart burned with a fierce joy. The most unruly, rebellious, and stubborn of his vassals was dead. “It is nothing less than a miracle.”

A palsied hand made the sign of the cross while his mind leapt to embrace the full significance of the abbé’s news. “If Duke William is dead then who—let me think—didn’t the son die some years ago? So there is only the young daughter?”

“Eleanor. She inherits all of Aquitaine and Poitou. And that’s not all,” Abbé Suger said. “These couriers say that with his last breath the duke begged you, as overlord of Aquitaine, to find the daughter a suitable husband.”

The King tried to raise himself then groaned, shaken by a spasm of pain. The physicians hurried forward.

“Sire, let us bleed you again—”

“Imbeciles, there’s hardly any blood left in my body now.”

One of the physicians held out a goblet. “Wine mixed with juice of poppy—”

“Will put me to sleep when I most urgently need to stay awake. Bring more servants to help me sit. I feel stronger. This news has done more for me than all your accursed potions and bleeding.” He waved them away. “Go on.”

“Naturally Duke William would have been concerned,” Abbé Suger said. “As always, his lands seethe with unrest. And when his death becomes known—”

“I am not an idiot, Father,” Louis interjected. “Why else would Duke William have entrusted the girl to my care? There was no love lost between us. He gave her to his overlord for one reason only: to protect the duchy from his own vassals and other lords hoping to make themselves wealthy by marrying the heiress of Aquitaine.”

He licked bloodless lips. “So rich a prize must not be allowed to slip through our fingers.” The king’s eyes met the rheumy blue gaze of his advisor. “We must get there first.” A sly chuckle escaped through rotting teeth. “A suitable husband, you say? Who could be more suitable than my son, Louis, heir to the throne?”

He managed to lift a swollen arm. Bloated fingers resembling thick white sausages grasped Abbé Suger’s shoulder. “Think on it! Since time out of mind the rebellious dukes of Aquitaine have flouted the authority of king and Church. Now their troublesome reign has come to an end. Only a maid stands between the French crown and the most affluent fief in all Europe. A miracle!” He lay back, panting heavily; the speech had exhausted him.

A score of servitors arrived to hoist his massive bulk into a sitting position against the pillows. After he sipped some wine, Louis’s color improved and his voice became stronger.

“My son and a huge force of knights should leave at once for Aquitaine. The wedding must be celebrated at Bordeaux as soon as he arrives. We dare not wait for the mourning period to be over. Where is the boy now?”

The abbé coughed. “In the cathedral, Sire.”

“God’s wounds, I need not have asked. The boy is still more oblate than future king.” He pointed an accusing finger at Suger. “This is your doing, Father, now you must undo it. Accompany him to Bordeaux. Prepare him for marriage. Make a man of Louis.”

The king knew the accusation was unfair. If the boy was not ready to become a husband—or a monarch for that matter—it was hardly the abbé’s fault. Bred for the cloister not the crown, only the accidental death of his eldest brother had catapulted Louis from the monastery to heir to the kingdom of France.

Abbé Suger rose slowly to his feet, a frown creasing his forehead. After a moment’s hesitation he spoke:

“There is the matter of consanguinity, Sire. You are aware Louis and Eleanor are related in the third degree? The marriage will need a dispensation from the pope himself, which may take—”

“I don’t care if they are related in the first! I want Aquitaine and I want it now! Before someone else gets it. Haste is the main issue here. Stop putting obstacles in the way; you can supply the necessary dispensations. The primary thing is to get Louis wed.” His eyes narrowed. “If you are fool enough to mention this—this unimportant fact of consanguinity, then it will become the scandal of Europe. Let sleeping hounds lie.”

Abbe Suger, looking extremely uncomfortable, cleared his throat.

The King glared at his advisor. “May God give me patience, I can see by your face there is more to come. All right, what now? Get it out. Get it out.”

“It concerns the young duchess.”

Louis raised his brows. “The maid is deformed? Addled in her wits? Resembles a toad? Cursed with a harelip?”

“On the contrary, the maid is rumored to be too beautiful for her own good, unusually intelligent for one of her sex, and lettered as well.” The abbé’s disapproval was evident in every word he uttered. “It is also said that she is hot-headed, frivolous, and mettlesome, not amenable to control. You may recall that her mother died when she was a child. There was only that adulterous grandmother as a womanly influence, God save us.” He signed himself.

“Worse than no influence at all.”

“Exactly, Sire. The father and all his court have indulged her, allowing the child to run wild. She has been taught that Aquitaine is her trough and she may swill from it as she pleases.” There was a meaningful pause. “Nor is she a dutiful daughter of Holy Church.”

Louis shrugged impatiently. “Have you ever known an Aquitainian who was? The duchy is a hotbed of heresies—” His black brows suddenly came together in a single hirsute line. “By God’s wounds, do you say she is unchaste?”

The abbé pursed his lips. “I have not
heard
that she is, only that the creature has stirred more than one heart to folly. However, with these southern women—” He shrugged. “What concerns me, Sire, is her moral character, the problems she may present in the future. Such an undisciplined influence might well have an evil effect upon our innocent Louis and, subsequently, on France itself.”

Louis’s eyes became hard black slits in his puffy face. “Are you suddenly grown deaf? How many times must I say it? With this marriage Aquitaine falls effortlessly into the royal power of France. So long as she is still virgin, nothing else matters. Do you understand that? Nothing, nothing, nothing!”