Devil's Consort (95 page)

And stared. So did I as I followed his preoccupation, and saw what Henry saw.

The platters on the trestle were few, their contents spare. I counted the dishes: no more than a dozen and all of a humdrum nature. A stew of coney with onions. Fish that might have been salmon. A thick pottage of cabbage. Beside me, Henry’s stare turned to a glower.

I beckoned to a servant. ‘Are there no roasted meats? Send in the rest, if you will. This is no formal banquet …’

‘There is no more, lady,’ he croaked.

Henry skewered our steward with a glance. ‘Send in the cook, if you please.’ The soft accents did not correspond with the tightening of his lips, the white shade that settled around his mouth.

The cook, a portly man of rare reputation and skill in my kitchens, bowed low, and lost no time in the telling, hands raised in apology. ‘How can I show my skills when I don’t have the wherewithal, my lord? The burghers of Limoges have failed to provide me with the customary supplies due to their liege lord. This is all we have.’

Henry’s eyes travelled along the table to search out the Abbot of Saint-Martial, who sat in self-regarding splendor, the jewels on his fingers winking.

‘Explain, sir.’ Although unnervingly mild, the demand hung in the air.

‘We fulfilled the letter of the law, my lord.’ The Bishop had a terrible smugness. I trembled for him.

‘Whose law?’

‘Our feudal duty to our lord, the Lady Eleanor. Supplies are due from us for her comfort and sustenance.’ Unfortunately the abbatial lips curved into the smallest of smiles. ‘When the Lady is lodged within the city walls.’

‘What?’ Henry’s voice grew softer still. He leaned forward, the better to hear.

‘Since the Lady Eleanor is domiciled in a tent, not in the castle, and thus outside the walls, we are not duty bound …’

He was foolish enough to make no attempt to hide the calculated intransigence. I was taken aback by such defiance, such arrogance, such a calculated challenge to Henry as his new overlord. It was also no less a slap in my face. I opened my mouth to reply, to demand the feudal service due to me, but Henry stilled me with a hand on my arm. His other hand grasped a knife from the board as if he would consider burying it in the costly robes of the Abbot.

‘Would you care to repeat that?’ Henry invited.

‘We are not duty bound …’

The Abbot got no further. With an upward and downward stroke with his arm, as if he were a blacksmith beating out a horseshoe, Henry hammered the knife to the hilt in the top of the table, snarling an order, the steward leaping to obey.

‘You will not insult my wife. You will not neglect your feudal obligations. Summon my military commander!’

A brief conversation ensued—or rather a barrage of instructions to which the commander nodded brusquely. ‘Do it!’ Henry growled, got to his feet and set his hands to the white cloth that covered the table.

‘No!’ I managed in horror, gripping hard to anchor the cloth.

It would have been like stopping the encroachment of a military force in full attack. With white-lipped fury, Henry dragged the cloth and its burden toward him. The feast, such as it was, was swept to the floor.

‘Out!’ he ordered, only to seize a handful of the Abbot’s chasuble before he could make it to the door. ‘Oh, no, you don’t.
You’ll
come with me. You’ll witness this … And you’ll be afraid.’

And I stood in frozen shock as I watched the first assault on the impressive, newly-constructed walls of the city of Limoges that began as soon as Henry could buckle on his mail and snatch up his weapons.

The offending structures were razed to the ground, the arches of the new bridge over the river destroyed. No one dared stand in Henry’s path. Or not many, and they paid a high price. And when it was over?

‘There, my lord Abbot.’ Henry smiled at the trembling cleric, who had been hauled out of his lodgings to view the aftermath, and clearly feared that he might be the next on my lord’s list for revenge. ‘No abbot, no burgher, not even a beggar in the streets can use the city walls as an excuse to withhold from me or the Lady what is due to us.’

And as fast as it had descended, the storm was past. Henry abandoned his prey and flung his gauntlets down beside me where I sat in my pavilion, hooking his toe
around a stool and sitting in one smooth movement as if nothing were amiss.

‘I’m hungry.’

‘It’s your own fault. You threw what there was to eat on the floor. A very respectable salmon as I recall …’

‘In a good cause.’ His smile was rueful, charmingly apologetic, typically Henry. ‘I don’t suppose you could find me something to eat …?’

We all learned to treat Henry Plantagenet with discretion at Limoges. This blazing, immoderate exhibition of temper was yet another facet to the man who was my husband and who I loved beyond reason.

As for the rest, my recollections were sweet. Hunting and hawking in crisp autumn days. Nights enclosed in our own private domain in a haze of pleasure. A time when I had to hoard the bright memories against the coming of drought. For after those four months—nothing. Only endless weeks of vast distance between us and infrequent news. I clung to the memories, like beads on a gossamer thread that could be snapped at any moment if not handled with care. Or like a Book of Hours full of precious jewelled icons to be taken out, lingered over, treasured. Or wept over in private.

I might admit it to no one—but I did all of those.

Oh, I missed him. Through sixteen long months we were apart when Henry took an army to England. Sixteen months! It was unbearable. The news of battles, sieges, skirmishes, the terrible weight of ignorance. For much of the time I had no idea whether he was alive or
dead. The arrival of every courier might bring me news that I was widowed.

Was this to be my marriage?

I feared his features were growing dim in my mind as every night I struggled to piece together the stormy eyes and dominant nose. The lips that could snarl or smile or kiss into insensibility. Was this to be the rest of my life, loneliness interspersed with occasional breathtaking flashes of joy? Did I love him? If love was missing him, thinking of him, sleeping and waking with his presence beside me, then I was doomed. I would never be dependent on a man, but I missed him so, and when necessity kept me close within my palace the time hung heavily.

I sighed.

As if he sensed my melancholy, the troubadour, new to my court, sank to one knee, dark eyes fixed on my face as his fingers stirred the lute to life once more.

I smiled my pleasure at these verses written personally for me, expressing all the hopeless devotion of a man for a high-born lady. I smiled until Aelith nudged me back to reality.

‘If you smile at him like that, you’ll find him locked
in one of Henry’s dungeons faster than he can tune his lute.’

‘What?’

‘Eleanor … he has a reputation!’

I looked at the young man who still knelt, eyes shining on me in abject adoration. Bernat de Ventadorn had attached himself to my court when Henry and I had made our progress through the south, and I was not disappointed in his talents.

‘He’s in love with you,’ Aelith whispered.

‘But I am not in love with him.’

‘He thinks you are!’

‘He does not! It’s the role of the troubadour to worship his lady.’

‘That’s not worship. That’s lust. Romantic, perhaps, but lust nonetheless.’

I looked at him. Handsome, certainly, with fine features and a sweep of dark hair, a tall, lithe figure that carried the clothes of the troubadour with elegance. But I had not considered him as a lover. Is that what people might think? Is that what Henry would think?

Ridiculous! Talented he may be, but Bernat was the illegitimate by-blow of an archer, got on a willing kitchen maid. Yet others had found him attractive, for he had come to me with the reputation of seducing the wife of his previous patron.

I sighed again. What woman would not enjoy a handsome man singing her praises in such a manner?

The problem was that Bernat sang the words and sentiments I would have liked Henry to address to me. There was no romance in Henry. Yes, he wrote to me often, sending me news, keeping me abreast of the troubled politics across the sea. Surreptitiously I pulled the latest from within my sleeve and read the rapid script that was now so familiar.

It looked as if it had been written on horseback—as I presumed it had. There were blots and rough edges and the stains of travel.

He’s in the middle of a tense situation, the voice of reason chided. That he bothers to write to you at all is a miracle.

What’s more, he had drawn me rough maps on the parchment with routes and battles, understanding that the names of places would mean nothing to me. Except by now they did. Had not Henry promised that one day I would be Queen of this warlike island? I had made it
my business to learn more of this kingdom—and liked little of what I had learned other than the indisputable fact that the King held supreme power, answerable to none but God. The rest made me shudder. The drink of preference was ale, the wine of such poor quality to be drunk with closed eyes and clenched teeth. I must remember to take my own. And the food—nothing but pottage and onions and red meat. The royal court was itinerant, by God, moving ponderously, constantly from one draughty castle to the next. I would soon change that. I took in Henry’s final words, already knowing there was no comfort to be had there.

If I can clip the wings of Stephen’s son Eustace, a permanent peace may be possible. I may be with you soon.

Henry … Why could you not write to me as a lover? Where was the romance in that? Informative, reassuring but not what my heart cried out for. No yearning, lingering passion. No hopeless unrequited love. No word of affection, no endearment, while I suffered more than I cared for. I missed Henry Plantagenet. Moreover, I thought crossly, I could not see Henry being laid low by the temporary absence of his lover. He was more likely to take another—some pretty female who widened her
eyes at him—to fill the space! I folded the parchment into sharp creases, frowning at a startled Bernat, and stuffed it back into my sleeve.

Bernat smiled winningly.

I grimaced.

‘I suppose it would be sensible to banish him from court.’

‘Give him to me instead.’ Widowed now from her beloved Raoul, Aelith’s eyes shone. I forgot how lonely she must sometimes be.

‘I think I’ll save him from your clutches, sister,’ I smiled.

Bernat finished on a flourish and bowed, face flushed with the applause and my reward of a purse of gold coin. Perhaps I should exert some caution. Perhaps I should send him with Aelith when she left. Or perhaps not. Louis, I recalled, had once been insanely jealous of my troubadours, but Louis was a fool. Henry had far more sense.

Henry continued to keep me informed with unsentimental lack of detail.

That was good. Very good. Eustace’s death would leave Stephen without an heir, which could only be to Henry’s advantage. The crown of England crept closer by the day. With Eustace’s death there would be no more battles, no figurehead to lead the English rebels. Henry would be safe. He would come home. My heart leapt and optimism resurfaced. Until my eye travelled down.

Where was the affection, the undying love? The need to see me again? Instead, all I got were unfounded accusations. Were all men capable of such unwarranted spite? Were all men incapable of appreciating the simple
beauty of song and music to extol the value of a woman? Did they have to be quite so crude in their suspicions?

I will not obey, like some meek goodwife! My first thought. But my second? If Henry was clawed by green-taloned jealousy, I was not averse to it.
I consider your person to be mine.

Did he now? Then come here and prove it!

My loins were hot, but I would not take a lover. Henry filled my heart and my soul. Bernat de Ventadorn was pretty enough, but no rival to the Plantagenet.

As a meek and dutiful goodwife, I informed Bernat of his future.

He blenched. No, I could not see him composing military marches either, but we all had to make sacrifices. I might resent Henry’s peremptory demand but sometimes good sense argued for compliance.