The Secret Eleanor (2 page)

Bernard of Clairvaux was as thin as the walking stick in his hand. His face hung from his skull like a sheet over scaffolding, the sunken cheeks stiffly pleated above his narrow jaw, his eyelids draping his eyes in their hollowed pits. His hands were bony claws. The heavy white habit of the Cistercian order covered him like a husk. Rumor said that he ate as seldom as most men fasted. He seemed worn down to his truest, most essential self, hard as adamantine, and pure as a flame. He made the rest of them seem like gross fleshmongers, and he loved to tell them so.

“My lord King,” Bernard said. His voice was cavernous. He leaned on his staff like a vine on an elm tree. His gaze flicked toward Eleanor and steadied on the King. “I am pleased to see you, since I had been told you were sick.” There was a faint scolding tone to his voice, as if being sick were Louis’s fault. He spoke to Louis as though the man were one of his monks, and not the King of France.

“I was,” Louis said, tremulous, reminded of his trials. “I burned with fever, like the pains of hell; when I woke from it, I was so glad to find myself alive that I wept.”

Petronilla felt a sudden stab of contempt for him, as much that he would admit it as that he would weep at all, and under her breath, Eleanor muttered something of the same sentiment. Tilted up against his staff before them, Bernard gave the Queen another sharp look. He paid no heed to Petronilla.

Turning back to the King, the saint made the sign of the cross and said, “God has spared you for a purpose, Sire.” His voice sounded like thunder out of the cavern of his chest. “Listen to God, Sire, and to His purpose for you, and no other.”

Eleanor said, “And what is your purpose, my lord Abbot?”

His head swiveled toward her, his deep-set eyes half hidden behind the curtains of his lids. “I have no purpose of my own, woman. I serve only God.”

She said, “And are you proud of that humility, my lord Abbot?”

Petronilla covered her mouth with her hand, alarmed; only Eleanor dared to provoke the saint. But Bernard was looking toward the King again and ignored her.

“Sire, I come here this day to make peace between France and Anjou, and I will have your word that you will take my peace as I have made it.”

At that Eleanor recoiled back on the stool, and Petronilla herself gave a startled little twitch. Not even Bernard, a mere abbot, should speak so to the King, however close he was to God. Eleanor clamped her lips together and shot Louis a hard look. But Louis said, “My lord Abbot, you have done great service to me and my kingdom, bringing the Count of Anjou to be reconciled to me. I will take your peace as you have made it, if he only do the same.”

Bernard said, “I have his word on it.”

“Bah,” Eleanor said, furious. Petronilla reached out and took hold of her hand again, afraid of what she might say next, of what she might draw down on them. Then suddenly there was a crash at the far end of the hall, and the main door slammed open.

A harsh roar of voices sprang up around the vast crowded hall. Through the open doors a gust of wind made all the hangings flutter up off the walls. Everybody turned to look as in through the open door a crowd of men tramped, mailed and helmed, their spurs jingling, as if they had just gotten off their horses. There were some ten or twelve of them, and in their midst they dragged someone all loaded down with chains. Shoving and pushing through the crowd, they marched straight through the hall up to the foot of the throne, and there stopped, and from their midst they cast the chained man forward to lie on the ground at the King’s feet.

The King hunched down onto his throne. Thierry Galeran rushed out before him, shrilling, “What is this? My lord Count, what do you, coming into the King’s hall like this?”

Count Geoffrey of Anjou stood forward, his face still masked behind the cheek pieces of his helmet. His men all shifted back, save for two who prowled after him like wolves in metal pelts. Before Louis’s throne, the Count pulled off his helmet and stood there, at his ease, one knee bent, the helmet in the crook of his arm.

As a boy he had been named Le Bel, the Handsome, and for good reason: He was a splendid beast, a manly lion, with bold, strong features in a high-colored face. When he was only fifteen, his father had gone to be King of Jerusalem and left Anjou itself to him; he had commanded men for twenty years and he knew the art. Stuck in the crest of his helmet he wore a sprig of green plant to ward off demons, from which it was rumored he was descended.

He stood there with his head thrown back and talked straight into the King’s face, with no grace and no respect.

“You sent for me, Abbot, so don’t bother to ask me what I’m doing here. Out of respect for Mother Church!” Anjou stuck his chest out, grinning. “Not anything I owe you, Louis Capet. I am lord of Anjou, and we were masters there since before your family ever heard of Paris.”

He swung his foot back and kicked the captive on the ground before him; the chains clicked, and the man in them groaned. “This dog dared hold a castle against me, and this is what happens to those who stand against me.”

So Bernard had not made the peace as firmly as he thought. Petronilla glanced up at Eleanor and saw her sitting rigid and fierce with her hands in her lap and her gaze intent as a hawk’s on Anjou, while her husband sat stoop-shouldered there on her far side and let all this happen, passive as a mere onlooker. Petronilla turned toward Anjou again, wondering what he would do next—what he meant to win by all this bluster. The two young wolves in mail who attended him were likely his sons; one was standing still, watchful, but the other paced restlessly back and forth, as if he could not wait to get this over, or to find some new victim to pounce on.

On Louis’s far side, Bernard in his long white cassock had remained completely still, his lanky shape craned slightly forward, his jaw set. Now abruptly he stepped in between the King and the Count, and his voice rang out.

“Anjou! Did I not command you to set this man free? What do you mean, coming in here like this, like a pack of dogs dragging along a lamb? Unchain him, now, or this goes no further, and the ban of excommunication stays on your head.”

Geoffrey d’Anjou took a strutting step toward him. Some of the effect of this was spoiled because Bernard was much the taller, but the Angevin Count produced a fine sneer anyway, jamming his fists against his hips.

“By God’s balls! I told you I would come; I told you I would bring him, although I should have hanged him when I got my castle back. And so I would have, except for the Pope’s immunity decree. But now that’s over.” His head swiveled around toward Louis, sharp, like a snake striking, and his lips curled contemptuously. “Now that you’re back from your glorious Crusade.”

Bernard’s face was taut; he moved a step to one side to put himself farther from the King, and in the rolling deep preacher’s voice that carried without shouting throughout the wide hall, he said, “I will not accept you back into the community of the faithful unless you free him, my lord Count.”

“By God’s cock!” Anjou wheeled toward him, so that he was almost backward to Louis. He pulled back his foot and kicked the groaning lump of chains again. “I don’t care if you absolve me of the ban or not, Abbot. Why do I need to go to church? I’ve got my own bread and wine. I’ll hang him. God listen to me, I’ll hang him today, and from this puling King’s own rooftree.”

Bernard jerked backward a step, as if the Count’s words had struck him like stones, and his hand rose to the breast of his shabby white robe. Tall and ungainly, he swayed, seeming for a moment about to fall over. Petronilla admired his ability to command every eye. Even Anjou was motionless, staring, and the man pacing back and forth behind him was the only movement in the fascinated stillness of the hall.

Then Bernard straightened to his full height, his arms thrown out as if he himself were on the cross and his head tipped back toward heaven.

His voice was soft, so they all had to strain their ears to hear him, and yet every word was clear. “Oh, God. To Whom alone belongs all glory and all praise. Hold back Your mighty hand, although they mock You, these creatures of Yours, who imagine themselves free, these scum, who dare take even Your holy name into their mouths and defile it thus worse even than their foul oaths and foul acts defile it.”

As the words rolled out, his voice rose, clear in the silence; he pressed his right arm wide, as if to summon up the divine wrath, and with his left hand pointed down at Anjou, who was for once quiet, for once listening to somebody else. Even the pacing man behind him had stopped, drawn into the transfixed hush, and pulled his helmet off.

Bernard lowered his head toward Anjou, and suddenly his eyes opened wide, his lids drawn back to uncover the startling crystalline blue blaze of his stare. Petronilla had seen this before, this stunning effect, as if God himself looked through Bernard’s eyes. Then Bernard’s voice cracked out like thunder in the silent hall.

“Hear this, Count of Anjou. You have gone too far. Within a month, you will be dead, gone to judgment. There will be no more time to change and to repent. Listen, and hear me, because God speaks through me. Repent. Repent now, before it is too late, and hell yawns for you!”

In the stillness the curse seemed to billow out like a poison fog. Every gaping face was aimed at Bernard and the Count. Then Petronilla felt her sister give a violent start, and she glanced at Eleanor beside her.

Surprised, she saw that her sister wasn’t even heeding Bernard. Her gaze was aimed past Bernard, her eyes wide and bright and hot. Petronilla turned her head to follow her line of sight, and at the end of it found one of Anjou’s sons.

The older one, the restless one, now stood stock-still, his helmet at his side. He was not heeding Bernard any more than Eleanor was. It was the sight of her that had stopped his pacing, and she who transfixed him now. He was staring back at her with such a look on his face that Petronilla caught her breath. Her gaze returned to Eleanor, who was still gazing into his eyes, and her sister smiled, as if in the whole world no one else existed save her and him.

Petronilla reached up and gripped Eleanor’s arm, trying to draw her out of this; she thought everybody there must see what she saw in her sister’s face. Eleanor abruptly twitched her gaze away from the young Angevin and glanced down at Petronilla, but with a vague look that meant she saw her not. Then her eyes sharpened, and she smiled at Petronilla, not the same way, and reached down and took her hand and squeezed it.

Anjou was now snarling some retort at Bernard. His voice was strident with sudden doubt. Behind him the son had begun to pace back and forth again, as if he could not bear to be still. He was not tall, but square-shouldered and barrel-chested, redheaded, with a short pale curly beard. Petronilla realized this was Henry FitzEmpress, the son who owed Louis homage for Normandy. Young in years, but not a boy. He roused a little tingle of interest in her, like a powerful animal close by. Then she thought of Ralph, and felt guilty.

She wondered why she still kept faith with Ralph, who had broken faith with her. She lowered her head, morose. On the stool beside her, Eleanor’s face was flushed, and she was smiling as if she could not stop.

“You can rant all you want to your milksop French,” Anjou said to Bernard. “I’m made of stronger mettle than that, you’ll find. God gave me Anjou, and He gave you only words.” But he nudged the pitiful chained man with his foot, rolling him over. “You can have this. I’m done with it.” Turning on his heel, he strode out toward the door, and his men fell in behind him, Henry was now only a broad back in a short red Angevin cloak, walking away.

Petronilla lifted her head, startled, and glanced at Eleanor again. Her sister had stopped smiling. She sat rigid on the chair, her gaze aimed furiously at the departing men. Beside her Louis was slumped on his throne, mute and passive. Bernard still stood before them, his eyes now closed, his head bowed, his lips moving. Nobody was doing anything about this. Then Eleanor shot straight up onto her feet.

Her voice pealed out as loud and sharp as a war trumpet, cutting across a rising hum of voices. “Count of Anjou, stop where you are! We did not give you leave to go.”

The murmuring crowd fell abruptly silent; everybody turned toward Eleanor. In the sudden, crackling stillness, the Count spun around, red-faced, and glared at her. “What is this? Who do you think you are to command me, you harlot?”

Around the hall people gasped, and feet shuffled and scraped on the floor, and everybody seemed to move forward a little, their eyes bright with attention. On the dais, Eleanor stood above them all, and she smiled coolly, gazing steadily at the Count. “Fine righteous piffle, indeed, from one with bastards in half the villages of Anjou. Guards, to the doors!”

On the far side of the hall, a few men moved quickly together across the yawning double doors; among them, Petronilla saw, was Joffre de Rançun, her sister’s captain, who now planted himself square in the way out, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Anjou turned to fix his blazing look on Eleanor.

“I have a safe conduct!”

Eleanor pealed out a scornful laugh. “If that was a safe conduct he just gave you, I shall teach a horse to climb trees. You do not turn your back on the King of France, my lord. You come here by his leave, and you do not depart his hall without it. Come here again and await his word.”

The packed audience stood open-mouthed, silent, rapt. Petronilla was warm with pride; she cast a quick glance up at Eleanor, and then turned to watch Anjou suffer. She heard Louis whisper, “Eleanor,” chiding, and again, querulous, “Eleanor.” Thierry Galeran leaped nimbly up onto the dais and pulled on his sleeve, drawing him away. Off to the side, Bernard stood rigid, his gaunt face like a terrible mask, his gaze moving back and forth from Eleanor to Anjou. The Count of Anjou set himself, as if he would never stir again.