Alienor gazed at the washed and swaddled baby girl lying in the crook of her arm. She was to be baptised with the Vermandois family name of Isabelle. Her skin was softer than petals, the hair on the tiny skull had the glint of a gold coin and she was utterly beautiful.
Petronella had had a swift and easy delivery and was already sitting up in her clean, fresh bed, drinking wine fortified with strengthening herbs and enjoying the attention following on from the drama.
‘Madam, your husband is asking to see you and the child,’ announced a chamber lady who had just taken a message at the door.
‘Give her to me,’ Petronella said to Alienor, setting her cup aside and gesturing for the baby. Alienor carefully transferred the small bundle into Petronella’s arms and, with a pang of envy, watched her sister arrange herself like a madonna. ‘Tell my lord that I am pleased to receive him,’ Petronella called to the maid.
Raoul entered the chamber and tiptoed to the bed, an incongruous sight for he was such a large man. He kissed his wife tenderly. His gaze then flicked to her engorged breasts with appreciation, and she laughed softly. ‘These aren’t for you just yet,’ she said.
‘I’ll look forward to the day when they are then.’ He folded aside the blanket to look at the new arrival. ‘Aaah, she is almost as beautiful as her clever mother.’
Alienor left Raoul and Petronella and went to look out of the window. She felt wistful and teary because she would never have such an intimate and tender bond with Louis. He would be horrified at the thought of coming anywhere near the birthing chamber, let alone taking her hand and sitting with her so soon after childbirth, especially of a girl, because it would sully his purity and he would view the baby’s sex as failure. The teasing, the frank sensuality, the genuine love shining between her sister and Raoul made her throat ache. Petronella, despite all the opposition she faced, was rich indeed, and standing here now in this chamber, a party to their joy in each other and their daughter, Alienor felt bereft and impoverished.
‘A baby girl,’ Alienor said to Louis. ‘They have named her Isabelle.’
Louis grunted. ‘That is all to the good since Raoul has a son from his first marriage. At least there won’t be a fight over inheritance.’
‘But she may yet bear a son. She quickened swiftly with the first.’
‘That bridge can be crossed later. We have a year’s grace at least.’
Alienor poured Louis a cup of wine and brought it to him. Today he was wearing a long tunic of plain wool, dyed a rich midnight blue, with a large gold and sapphire cross around his neck. Although he had kept his tonsure, his hair had grown back around the shaved area and was silvery bright. He had mercifully recovered some balance since his return from Champagne and the grubby hermit now resembled an aesthetic prince of the Church. The effect was not unattractive and, despite their difficulties, Alienor still felt affection for him. Besides, being with Petronella and Raoul had spurred her on to try and conceive. It was politically essential for herself, for France, and for her husband.
‘I missed you while I was gone,’ she said, putting her hand on his sleeve.
‘And I missed you,’ he replied with a wary note in his voice.
‘Will you come to me later?’
He hesitated, and she could see him working through all the possible excuses not to do so. She swallowed her anger and impatience. Petronella would not have to ask it of Raoul even once.
‘We have to beget an heir,’ she said. ‘We have been wed for more than six years. I cannot give a child to France unless you give me the means. Surely it cannot be so difficult a thing to contemplate.’
Louis stepped away from her and, drinking the wine, went to look out at the river. She allowed him to stand alone for a while before joining him. ‘Let me rub your shoulders,’ she said in a soothing voice. ‘I can see how tense you are, and we have not talked in a while.’
He sighed and allowed her to lead him to the bed. She fetched a small vial of scented oil from a wall niche and bade him remove his gown and shirt. His skin was pale and smooth, cool as marble. She set about the task with slow sweeps of her palm. ‘Will this new Pope sanction Raoul’s annulment, do you think?’
‘I do not know,’ he said into his folded arms. ‘He has lifted the interdict, but there are factions who continue to press him to hold firm. There is a meeting tomorrow at Saint-Denis with Suger and Bernard of Clairvaux to discuss matters.’
‘And what of de la Châtre and Bourges?’
She felt him tense under her hands. ‘There is no news on that. I swore my oath, and they know where I stand.’
She continued to knead and smooth and said casually, ‘If you accepted de la Châtre, it would take the wind out of their sails and we could go forward.’
‘You would have me go back on my sworn word?’ He twisted to look up at her, his eyes bright with anger. ‘You would have me glide through all this like a false serpent? I have so sworn and that is the end of it.’
Alienor thought he was being foolish and stubborn, but she was trying to gentle his mood. ‘Of course you must do what you think fit,’ she soothed. She kissed his ear and his neck and worked her way down his back, under his shirt.
He turned over and with a groan put his arms around her and began to kiss her. She kissed him back and loosened her braids, shaking them out in a tumble of golden twists. Her loins were heavy with a dull ache. She knew she would conceive from this. She could feel the seed within her body, ripe and waiting. Louis rubbed his face against hers, and she felt the prickle of his beard. He pressed himself against her and unfastened the laces at the sides of her dress to put his hands inside. They rolled on the bed, pulling clothing out of the way, gasping between kisses. Alienor tugged off her gown and swiftly followed it with her chemise so that she was naked except for her stockings, tied with blue silk garters. Louis, still in hose and braies, ran his eyes over her; he licked his lips. His pale complexion was flushed with lust. She lay back, parting her thighs for him.
‘Louis, come to me,’ she said. ‘Make us a child.’
He fell upon her, his hips bucking and thrusting. She reached down to free him and guide him home, felt him firm and hard as she stroked him. He groaned at her touch, but as she opened to him, he suddenly became flaccid and soft in her hand.
‘Louis?’
He pushed her aside and rolled away. When she reached for him, he struck at her. ‘Let me be with your whore’s tricks!’ He stuffed his failure back into his braies and, almost weeping, threw on his tunic and strode from the room.
Alienor sat up and covered her face with her hands. She could smell him on her fingers. What was she going to do? How could she reach him? If this state of affairs continued her position as queen would become untenable. And, as much as she loved Petronella, she wanted her own offspring to rule Aquitaine after her, not those sired by Raoul de Vermandois. Wearily she sought her chemise and gown. Perhaps Petronella’s jesting was right. Perhaps she ought to dress as a nun … or a Templar.
‘God does not love me, but I have ever striven to obey him,’ Louis said to Suger, his voice echoing between the carved pillars of the new ambulatory in the abbey church of Saint-Denis. Behind him the light from the magnificent stained-glass arches strewed the tiled floor with jewelled luminescence. He sat down on a bench and rubbed his hands over his tonsure.