He thought of Petronella instead. He truly did love her; and beyond the physical attraction, it did no harm that she was Alienor’s sister and, while Alienor remained childless, Petronella was heiress to Aquitaine. Should he make her pregnant, their offspring would stand in line to succeed to the duchy. In truth, despite the rough road he had recently been forced to travel and the difficulties still to come, things might just work out rather well.
Petronella and Raoul were married quietly at Christmastide in the chapel of Saint Nicholas in the royal palace, the nuptials absorbed into the general Nativity celebrations. Petronella wore a gown of deep red wool trimmed with ermine. Raoul was plainly besotted by his nubile young bride, as well he might be. What the bride saw in a one-eyed man beyond his fiftieth year was not quite as obvious to the court, but she seemed just as infatuated as he was.
Following the wedding, the couple retired to Raoul’s estates north of Paris to spend time alone as newlyweds and wait for the dust to settle on the scandal. However, trouble rapidly fermented. Theobald of Champagne was furious at the insult to his niece and called Raoul a fornicator, adulterer and debaucher of young girls. Bernard of Clairvaux allied with him and together they lobbied the Pope. Theobald slighted Louis by giving succour to Pierre de la Châtre, elected but spurned Archbishop of Bourges, providing him with a safe refuge at his court.
Louis promptly threatened to cut off de la Châtre’s head and stick it on a pole on the Petit-Pont in Paris, with Theobald’s rammed beside it for good measure. He made a public vow before the altar at Saint-Denis that while he was king, de la Châtre would never set foot over the threshold of Bourges Cathedral. Pope Innocent immediately retaliated and put all of France under an interdict. Louis replied with a furious letter declaring he had always supported the Church, that he revered the Pope, and that the rebellious clergy at Bourges in collusion with Theobald were the real malign influences at work.
The silence that followed was akin to the still before a storm. Louis existed in a state of strung tension, his temper to the fore, and the court jumped at every footfall.
Alienor was in her chamber sorting through her casket of rings. She had several she intended giving as gifts to people who had served her well. A particular one glinted at her from the bottom of the coffer and she slipped it on to her finger. It had once belonged to her grandmother Philippa and was set with several rubies resembling pomegranate seeds. The stones were supposed to represent the women of her bloodline and the ring had been passed down through each generation.
Alienor held out her hand to study the ring on her finger and wondered if she would ever pass it on to her own child. Louis continued to lie with her in his intermittent way, but without success. The red stones might equally stand for her wasted blood as each month the result of his infrequent attentions failed to take root in her womb.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a frantic knocking on her chamber door. Gisela opened it to a flushed and panting squire. ‘Madam, you are summoned to the King’s presence immediately!’
She stood up. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘A letter has arrived from the Pope. The King is asking for you.’
Alienor could tell from the young man’s expression that the news was bad. Bidding Gisela accompany her, she followed him to Louis’s chamber.
Louis was sitting at his lectern, clutching a parchment scroll and looking grim. When Alienor entered the room, he fixed her with a furious glare. ‘Theobald of Champagne has hosted a council in Troyes, behind my back, with the Papal Legate in attendance. See what he has done now!’ He thrust the parchment towards her.
As Alienor read the scroll, her heart sank. The Pope had upheld Theobald of Champagne’s protest on behalf of his niece. He had declared Raoul and Petronella’s marriage invalid and suspended the bishops who had agreed to the annulment of Raoul’s first match. Furthermore, Innocent had ordered Raoul and Petronella to separate on pain of excommunication and had expressed astonishment that Louis should condone such a union.
‘I will not be dictated to by meddling prelates,’ Louis snarled. ‘Their words do not belong to God, and I will brook no more interference from Theobald of Champagne or the Pope!’
‘You must do something about it,’ Alienor said, wondering whom they could influence in Rome to lobby the Pope on their behalf.
‘I intend to. I shall root out this wasps’ nest in Champagne. If an insect stings you, then you squash it underfoot.’
Later, in their chamber, Louis took her with all the vigour his fury lent him, uncaring that he hurt her, expending his temper on her body as if it was all her fault. Alienor endured the pummelling because she knew once he was spent, his rage would dissipate and she would be able to deal with him. He was like a child having a tantrum. Finished, he adjusted his clothes and, without a word, strode from the room. She knew he was going to pray: to spend the night on his knees doing penance and exhorting God to strike down his enemies.
Sore from his aggression, glad he was gone, Alienor hugged her pillow and tried to think of solutions to the dilemma of the papal opposition, but there seemed no way out. Innocent was a stubborn old mule, and when he did listen, it was to pernicious troublemakers such as Bernard of Clairvaux, who was Theobald’s advocate. Eventually, she rose, lit a candle and knelt to pray, but while the ritual helped her to sleep, it delivered no answers.
18
Champagne, Summer 1142
Louis took a mouthful of wine, swilled it round his mouth and leaned over his destrier’s withers to spit it out. If he had swallowed it, he would have been sick. He had been unwell with belly gripes for several days, but not so much that he was unable to ride, and his invasion and destruction of Champagne had continued apace. He had crossed borders both geographical and moral. Ever since the monks of Bourges had elected their own archbishop against his wishes, his frustration and fury had been gathering inside him, adding to the morass already festering there. All the bewilderment of a small boy taken from his nurse and given to the Church to be raised with the rigid discipline of the rod. All the hurt caused by the disapproval of his cold and rigid mother, who thought him second-best and not good enough. All the rage at the perfidy and lies of people he trusted. His skull felt as if it were full of dark red fleece. He had frightening dreams of demons grasping his feet and pulling him down into the abyss while he scrabbled for purchase at the chasm’s smooth edge. Even sleeping with candles burning did not afford him enough light and he had taken to having a chaplain and a Templar knight keep vigil at his bedside all night.
Between the daily marches through Champagne, Louis spent his time on his knees praying to God, but his mind remained a fog and the only way God showed himself was by granting him victory after victory as he progressed along the valley of the Marne. His army encountered no resistance and they plundered and looted as they rode, trampling the vines, burning the fields, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. Each town Louis took and ravaged was a triumphant blow upon the backs of Count Theobald and the monks of Bourges. He felt as if he were striking back for the honour of his family and all the old slights visited on his house by the Counts of Champagne. He had ridden so far from the path that he had lost his bearings, his only compass that of knowing he was a king with a divine right to rule, and everyone must bow their heads to his yoke.