To Be Queen (20 page)

I took her in my arms, and we knelt together for a moment on that cold Parisian floor. I drew her back onto her chair and began to smooth her braids, taking them down, reworking them with my own hands. She calmed under my touch, as a frightened foal quiets when she sidles up next to her mother.

“I thought you would be angry. Say something, Alienor.”

“I love you, Petra, no matter what you have done. Let me meet your husband. Then I will take you both in to see the king.”

When her husband stepped into my rooms, I realized that things were worse than I had thought. I knew the man on sight. Not only had the opportunity to make a good alliance been lost with my sister's marriage, but enemies had been made. She had chosen Raoul of Vermandois, a man thirty-five years her senior, a man already married to the Count of Champagne's sister. No doubt he wished to cast aside his first wife in order to align himself with the throne of France.

My sister, in all her sweetness, did not see this. Petra knew only that she wanted him, and that if she asked, I would arrange to set him free from another so that she could have her heart's desire. She had no mind for politics, nor for the lengths power-hungry men were driven to. She thought he loved her truly, just as she loved him.

I could only think what my husband would say when presented with this folly. Louis would call for my sister to be sent to a nunnery, and for Raoul to be sent back to his wife. For all the trouble this relationship would cause us, both with the Church and with our vassals and allies, I was tempted to let Louis prevail in this, and to let his scruples rule my sister's fate. She had made her bed; now let her lie in it.

But as I watched, Petra clung to Raoul of Vermandois' arm as if he were the bulwark of the world. Her frightened eyes did not leave his face from the moment he stepped into the room. She looked not to me for sanctuary but to him. The love she felt for him was written on the curves of her lovely face, as well as her longing for him. I saw then, and for the first time, all that our father's death had cost her.

Lost and alone, left behind by me, with only my uncle to guide her, she had found this hulk of a man. This one-eyed warrior, with wide shoulders and hard hands, promised her not just pleasure but a safe haven from the world. The kind of haven she and I once had when our father was still alive.

I would give her the safe haven of her choosing. I would arrange the annulment of Raoul's first marriage, though his wife was still living, though she had borne him children already. I would see those children disinherited by the order of Louis' bishops, for Petra's sake. And in return, Raoul of Vermandois would protect my sister, forsaking all others, or I would see him dead.

“You have dishonored my sister,” I said. “You have thrown her to the dogs, and now you come to beg my leave for having done it. Who do you think you are?”

Raoul of Vermandois knelt at once, and my sister knelt with him, tears rising in her eyes as she clung to his hand. He smoothed back her hair, and kissed her. It was a pretty gesture, and I saw from the tenderness in his touch that it was not an empty one. With my sister comforted, her would-be husband turned to me.

“I mean her no dishonor. I seek to make her my wife.”

“You have a wife already.” My voice was harsh, my face unreadable.

“She has given me no sons. She is the sister of the Count of Champagne, your enemy.”

I was silent for a moment, letting him sweat. The Count of Champagne was a disloyal vassal who had refused to send us troops in any military operation we had accomplished since Louis took the throne. This insolence had gone unpunished. Raoul was offering his marriage to my sister, and its insult to the Count of Champagne, as a bond between us.

If Louis ordered his bishops to annul the marriage of the sister of the Count of Champagne, he would show all his vassals the price of defying the crown. We had enough bishops loyal and obedient to us to follow through with this scheme. Some of our more unruly vassals might even take note of it.

Raoul saw that I was weakening. He had seen the closeness between my sister and me. He knew that I would not cast Petra into a nunnery. He knew that I would care for her always, no matter what it cost me.

“I will defend Petra with my life,” he said.

I did not speak but stared at him. He did not flinch or turn away under my gaze.

“Very well,” I said. “I will back you with Louis. And when the Count of Champagne comes calling, asking for his sister's husband, I will back you then, too.”

Vermandois came closer and knelt again, this time not as a suppliant but as one swearing me fealty. I offered him my hand, the one that bore my wedding ring, and my father's signet.

My sister's husband ignored Louis' ring as if it were not there. He pressed his lips instead to the ruby of Aquitaine, the ruby that was never off my hand since my father died.

“I will follow you, my lady queen, unto the ends of the earth. I swear it.”

“Rise,” I said. “I will not lead you so far. Just into the neighbor room. The king takes counsel from his ministers. He will see us there.”

 

 

“ELEANOR, YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS.”

Louis faced me from his place beside his prie-dieu. Newly risen from his prayers, he stood close by the bed of state, where I was certain our son would one day be conceived. I had gone in alone to see him, leaving my sister and her would-be suitor alone with Amaria.

I fought down my irritation as I looked at Louis. The sight of his piety, of his judgmental dismissal of my sister and her woes, made my heart burn with fire. But I kept my tone even, and a welcoming smile on my face. I needed Louis to support me with Petra almost as much as I needed him back in my bed.

Anger still burned beneath my breastbone at his abandonment of Toulouse. Though he had left the city that belonged to my family to languish in the hands of my enemies, Louis had made no headway in his conflict with the Church. Louis' will was still thwarted; the archbishop chosen by the Church still sat in state at Bourges. My husband's assertion of his right to appoint bishops across the land fell on deaf ears in Rome. As always, Louis seemed caught in the middle of things, between what he wanted and his inability to work his will against the Church.

I pressed all thoughts of Louis' weakness, all thoughts of Toulouse, from my mind, focusing all my energy on Petra's marriage to come.

“Louis, it is very little to ask. My sister wishes to marry this man; she considers herself married to him already in the sight of God. She needs only your blessing.”

“And an annulment for her lover from my bishops.”

The comment was so astute, so unlike Louis, that I could not at once find my voice.

Louis' thin lips pursed in distaste. “And you say your sister is pregnant, out of wedlock, with his child?”

“She hopes to bear Raoul a son.”

“That is for God to say.”

Louis stepped away from me, and fiddled with a piece of parchment on the mahogany table by his bed. “You ask that I support your sister as a favor to you?”

“Husband, I would ask this as a boon, yes. I know that in your generosity you will grant me this small thing. But it occurs to me, by granting this blessing to me and to my sister, you will also be striking at the Count of Champagne.”

Louis heard that name, and the parchment he held fell once more to the table, discarded. The name of his enemy made his eyes gleam. “Champagne's sister is married to Vermandois?” Louis asked.

I stepped toward him, so that he might catch the scent of my lilac perfume. “She was. Now my sister will marry him. As soon as your bishops call for the annulment.”

Satisfaction lit Louis' eyes. “So you say, Eleanor. We will support your sister. It is time the Count of Champagne learned not to defy the King of France.”

“You are wise, my lord king. You lead us all into the light.”

Being Louis, he did not catch the irony in my voice. He took my hand in his, and instead of kissing me, he pressed his lips to my fingertips. I hoped that something more might come of our accord, but he did not draw me back onto his bed. He gave me his support for Petra, but that was all I got from Louis that day.

I soon saw that Petra's marriage would not be as easy to procure as I once had hoped.

Though the French bishops granted Raoul of Vermandois an annulment at Louis' request, as soon as the rest of Christendom heard of it, the annulment was condemned by churchmen all over Europe. The pope himself stated the annulment was void, that Raoul's marriage to the sister of the Count of Champagne still was valid.

The month before, Petra had left Paris with Raoul. She and her errant husband had gone to his seat at Vermandois, while his first wife languished in her brother's protection in Champagne. Petra would be delivered of their child in midwinter. I hoped that by the time her baby was born, I would have purchased the annulment of her husband's first marriage.

I took the matter into my own hands and called Stefan of Gascony to me. Stefan had been my eyes and ears, both with the Church and with Louis' lords, since my uncle de Faye had brought him into my service.

Of course, I could not meet a man alone in my rooms, even with Amaria to attend me. So I made sure that our meeting looked like chance, as I stood in the simples garden, watching Amaria cut down the last of the lavender. The scent of those flowers was sweet, and soothed me, even in the midst of Paris, even in the middle of my husband's court. Though it was late October, the rains had ceased, and for that one day we had sunlight. I stood, my face to the sun, and drank in the warmth of it. I knew from all my years in Paris that it would not last, as nothing on earth does.

“My lady queen.”

Stefan did not draw attention to himself by kneeling, but he bowed low to me, and met my eyes.

“You are welcome, Stefan of Gascony.” I waved one hand, and the Lady Priscilla caught my eye. She saw the way my gaze was tending, and she curtsied, leading my other women back into the keep, so that I was left alone with Amaria and Stefan.

Amaria did not turn and acknowledge him, but simply stepped deeper into the plants, and cut another sprig of the purple flower.

I did not waste time, for I knew we had little. I must soon go inside. In a few hours, the evening meal would come, and I would have to sit at my husband's right hand and pretend that this meeting with Stefan had never taken place.

“You serve me, Stefan, do you not?”

“It is my honor to serve you, my lady queen.”

I met the maple brown of his eyes. “You no longer serve my uncle de Faye, though he sends you gold?”

This time, Stefan did kneel. “Your Majesty, I accept his gold, but I serve you.”

“Indeed,” I said. “I have an opportunity for you to prove it.”

“Command me, lady. I am yours.”

I hid my smile. He was an earnest young man, or at least could pretend to be one. Who truly knew how deep his loyalties lay? The task I was about to give him would prove his worth to me, better than anything else ever would.

“I need a man in Rome.”

“I will leave tomorrow.”

With a gesture, I gave him leave to rise.

“You will walk among the bishops of Rome. You will listen. You will keep watch in the halls of my enemies. And when the time comes, you will hand out the bribes that will secure my sister's marriage.”

I saw from the look on his face that even he had heard of Petra and her troubles. “My lady queen, I will do all you ask, and more.”

He bowed again, and I gave him my hand, which he kissed with fervent devotion. I saw that he fancied himself in love with me, and for the first time in months, I felt young again. I could still command men with my smiles. My time in Paris had almost made me forget.

Stefan backed out of my presence, leaving me alone in the simples garden with Amaria. Her calm blue eyes met mine over the waving lavender as she stooped down to retrieve the last cutting needed for my rooms.

“He will do as you ask,” she said. “He will fulfill your wishes, or die trying.”

I simply smiled, and led her back into the shadows of my husband's keep.

 

 

IN THE SPRING OF 1144, I WAS ALMOST TWENTY-TWO YEARS old. For a queen who had never borne a living son, I might as well have been fifty. Louis' courtiers looked at me and whispered behind their hands, not even troubling themselves to hide their contempt. The court knew that Louis did not stir himself to come to my bed, and as each month passed, the smirks of the Count of Valois were more and more like acid on my skin. All the courtiers in Paris were united in the idea that the fact that Louis behaved like a monk and not like a king was somehow my fault.