His mother stood by the curtains at the right of the bedside, her hands clasped in front of her and her lips pursed in the habitual expression that said she knew best and he knew nothing. To her left stood several of his father’s closest advisers, including his mother’s brothers William and Amadée. Also Theobald, Count of Blois. Louis’s apprehension increased.
His father made a sound down his nose, like a horse-trader not entirely satisfied with the beast on offer but knowing it would have to do. ‘I have a task that will make a man of you,’ he said.
‘Sire?’ Louis’s throat was tight, and his voice emerged on a rising note that betrayed his tension.
‘A matter of marriage vows. Suger will tell you; he has the breath in his lungs to do so, and he is fond of the sound of his own voice.’ His father beckoned, and the small, squirrel-eyed Abbot of Saint-Denis stepped forward from among the group, a scroll held in his thin fingers, and a reproachful look on his face for the King’s jibe.
Louis blinked. Marriage vows?
‘Sire, we have great and important news for you.’ Suger’s voice was mellifluous and his expression was open and candid. As well as being one of his father’s closest confidants, Suger was Louis’s tutor and mentor. Louis loved him as he did not love his father because Suger helped him to make sense of the world and understood his needs. ‘William of Aquitaine has died during a pilgrimage to Compostela, may God assoil him.’ Suger signed his breast. ‘Before he left, he sent his will to France, asking your father to care for his daughters in the event of his death. The eldest is thirteen and of marriageable age, and the younger one eleven.’
Louis’s father heaved himself into an approximation of upright against the mass of pillows and bolsters supporting his distended torso. ‘We must seize the opportunity,’ he wheezed. ‘Aquitaine and Poitou will increase our lands and prestige a hundredfold. We cannot allow them to fall into the hands of others. Geoffrey of Anjou for one would gladly snatch the duchy with a marriage between his son and the eldest girl, and that must not happen.’ The effort expended on speech left him purple in the face and fighting for breath and he waved at Suger to continue.
Suger cleared his throat. ‘Your father wishes you to take an army down to Bordeaux to secure the region, and to marry the eldest girl. She is currently under guard at the Ombrière Palace and the Archbishop awaits your arrival.’
Louis reeled, feeling as if he had been punched in the stomach. He knew one day he would have to marry and beget heirs, but he had always viewed it as a vaguely unpleasant duty in the distant future. Now he was being told he must wed a girl he had never met who came from lands where the people were known to be pleasure-seekers, lax in their moral habits.
‘I will see to the girls’ education in our ways,’ his mother said, securing her own authority in the proceedings. ‘They have been without maternal care for many years, and they will benefit from proper guidance and instruction.’
His father’s constable, Raoul de Vermandois, stepped forward. ‘Sire, I will begin preparations to leave immediately.’ He was another close adviser, and Louis’s first cousin once removed into the bargain. A leather patch concealed the empty socket where he had lost an eye during a siege eight years ago. He was a reliable warhorse on the battlefield, and an elegant and charismatic courtier, much appreciated by the ladies. The eye patch only added to his cachet where women were concerned.
‘Make haste, Raoul,’ said the King. ‘Time is of the essence.’ He raised a warning forefinger. ‘It is to be an escort of honour and largesse; the Poitevans value such things and we must keep their goodwill at all costs. Fly banners from your spears and wear ribbons round your helms. Make sure that for now you go bearing gifts, not blades.’
‘Sire, leave it to me.’ De Vermandois bowed from the room, his magnificent cloak sweeping behind him like a sail.
Louis knelt to receive his father’s blessing again, and somehow managed to leave the fetid chamber before doubling over to be violently sick. He did not want to take a wife. He knew nothing of girls except that their soft curves, their giggles and twittery voices repulsed him. His mother was not like that; she was a rod of iron, but she had never given him love. The only affection in his world had come from God, but God now seemed to be saying he should be married. Perhaps it was a punishment for his sins that he should have to do this thing, and therefore he should accept it gladly and give praise.
As servants rushed to clear up the mess he had made, Suger emerged from the chamber and was swiftly at his side. ‘Ah, Louis, Louis.’ The Abbé put a comforting arm across the youth’s shoulders. ‘I know this is a shock, but it is God’s will and you must surrender to it. He offers you magnificent opportunities, and a girl near to your own age to be your wife and helpmate. This is truly a moment to rejoice.’
Louis composed himself under Suger’s calming influence. If this was truly the will of God, then he must submit and do his best. ‘I do not even know her name,’ he said.
‘I believe it is Alienor, sire.’
Louis silently formed the syllables on his lips. Her name was like a foreign fruit he had never tasted before. He still felt like heaving.
4
Bordeaux, June 1137
Alienor felt Ginnet pulling on the rein as she rode beside Archbishop Gofrid. Like her mare, she was eager to race the wind. It was several days since she had been out, and always under heavy guard because she was such a valuable prize. This morning the Archbishop had taken responsibility for her welfare. His knights, although vigilant, stayed slightly off the pace, so that he and Alienor had a private space in which to talk.
In the two months since her father’s death, the warm southern spring had turned to blazing summer and the cherries had ripened to glossy black on the trees in the palace garden. Her father lay severed from life in his tomb at Compostela, and she dwelt in limbo, an heiress with the power to change destinies because of who she was, yet wielding no authority of her own beyond the bower, because what influence did a girl-child of thirteen have over the men brokering her future?
They reached open ground and Alienor heeled Ginnet’s flanks, giving her free rein. Gofrid increased pace with her and dust rose like white smoke from the burn of hooves over the baked earth. She felt the warm wind in her face and inhaled the pungent scent of wild thyme as it was crushed under the mare’s speed. Harsh summer light dazzled her eyes and, for an instant, her cares dissipated in the euphoria of the race, of being alive, her blood singing in her veins. Everything within her that had felt tight and constricted opened wide and filled her with vigorous emotion as hot and strong as the sun.
At last she swirled to a halt before a weathered Roman statue standing by the wayside, and leaned over to pat Ginnet’s sweat-darkened neck. Her father had taught her about the Romans. A thousand years ago they had been conquerors and settlers in Aquitaine, speakers of the Latin tongue which scholars used now, and which she had learned together with the French spoken in Poitou and the north, so different from the lenga romana of Bordeaux.
The statue’s right arm was raised as if in oratory and his white open stare considered the horizon. Stars of golden lichen embroidered his breastplate and the fringes of his cingulum. ‘No one knows who he is,’ Gofrid said. ‘His inscription is lost. Many have left their mark on this land but in their turn have been marked. The people here do not take kindly to being harnessed and ridden.’