as Philippa, my paternal grandmother. High minded and unbending, she lived by the principles of duty and obedience to God, and the respect due to her as the heiress to the county of Toulouse. A formidable woman, although I found it difficult to condone her retiring to spend her final days with the nuns at the Abbey of Fontevrault, assaulting the ears of God with her prayers for revenge, when the ninth Duke, her husband and my grandfather, lived openly with his lover under Philippa’s very nose, in Philippa’s own favourite palace. I would not have left the field. I would have waged war against my neglectful husband who dared humiliate me, and against the upstart whore who had usurped my bed.
Or perhaps I would not.
Because that whore—Dangerosa—was my maternal grandmother. Originally wife to the Viscount of Chatellerault, she saw my grandfather William in full glory of mail and weaponry, and fell into love, like a gannet diving head first into the waves off Bordeaux. So too did William fall, so heavily that he must abduct Dangerosa from her bedchamber—with no obvious protest on Dangerosa’s part—and carry her off to his palace at Poitiers, where he established her in the newly constructed Maubergeonne Tower. They were besotted with each other, making no secret of their sinful union. Dangerosa raised her chin at the world’s condemnation, whilst Duke William had the lady’s portrait painted on the face of his shield. It was, he boasted, his desire to bear her likeness into battle, as she had borne the weight of his body so willingly and frequently in bed.
A tasteless jest. My grandfather had a strong streak of coarse humour.
Dangerosa never regretted her choice. She was his whore until his death, keeping her unpredictable lover more or less faithful with a will of steel, and with fearful cunning. Since she could not get Duke William legally into her bed, then her daughter would get William’s son. Thus Dangerosa’s daughter Aenor was wed to my father. Dangerosa keeping it in the family, if you will.
What would Dangerosa think of me now?
‘Am I so ugly? So undesirable?’ I asked Aelith. But I knew I was not. What I did know was it would be common knowledge that my husband had chosen not to share my bed, that he would find more fulfilment on his knees before a crucifix than with me. ‘Do you think he dislikes me?’
‘I think he finds you too beautiful,’ Aelith crooned to comfort me as she combed out my hair.
‘But not in chamois drawers.’
‘He is a man. What does he know?’
‘I thought he would erupt in a storm of temper when I refused …’
‘I doubt he has a temper in him,’ Aelith disagreed.
‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Yet there had been just that one moment when I thought I had seen a dark flare of barely controlled rage. ‘But why does he not want me?’
‘He does not know women. He does not know how to please them. Now, his cousin Lord Raoul would not hold back, I swear.’
I slapped her hand away when she tugged on a painful tangle, but she only laughed.
‘I don’t even know that he wants to please me.’ I frowned at my knees emerging from the water.
‘You didn’t make life easy for him, Eleanor,’ Aelith pointed out, fairly enough, I suppose. ‘You challenged him over how you would and would not travel—and what you would and would not wear.’
‘And that wasn’t the first. I’d already been more than forthright over the court position of my troubadour Bernart,’ I admitted with a twinge of guilt.
‘What’s wrong with Bernart?’
‘Nothing—that’s the point. Never mind—we just didn’t agree.’
‘And you haven’t been wed a full day …’
‘I suppose I’ve not been a dutiful wife, have I?’
‘There you have it. He’s a prince. He’s not used to a woman taking him to task.’
My thoughts circled round to the main issue. ‘He seeks the company of God before mine.’ For the first time in my life I was touched with true uncertainty.
‘Then you’ll just have to show him the error of his ways, won’t you?’
I was not much comforted. Aelith shared my pillows. I rose next morning from my marriage bed as much a virgin as I had entered it.
CHAPTER THREE
WHAT a welcome we received as we rode into the city of Poitiers, making our way towards the Maubergeonne Tower, grandmother Philippa’s tower, the home I loved the most. There was not the slightest hint of the rebellion that troubled the Abbot’s mind. The streets echoed to the cries of joy of my people so that even Louis was forced to smile and wave at their overt approval. And the crowds responded, urged on by Abbot Suger’s largesse. I saw the coin passed from the bound chests in the baggage-wains to the hands of the greedy populace, even if Louis did not. Louis accepted the acclamation as his right. And why should he not? When his face was filled with happiness and he was clad in mail astride a high-blooded destrier as had been arranged for this entry, he was superbly striking, a prince that they could take to their hearts.
Hope surged within me. This night would see the fulfilment of my marriage.
I was bathed and stripped by my women and took to the soft canopied bed in my own bedchamber. Nervously, expectantly, I waited. A soft knocking at the door. It was pushed open and there, at last, was Louis, under escort from Abbot Suger but otherwise alone. Well, this would be no riotous bedding ceremony with coarse jokes and bold innuendo, and I was not sorry. But it seemed to me that Louis looked as if he was under guard to prevent a precipitate flight. His expression was mutinous.
‘It is time, my lord,’ the Abbot murmured. ‘It is your duty to the lady. This marriage must be consummated.’
‘Yes.’ Louis, wrapped about in a furred brocade chamber robe, stood, hands fisted at his sides, face sullen like a child caught out in some misdemeanour.
‘Perhaps if you joined your bride in the bed, my lord …? Now, my lord!’
It might have been a request but Suger’s face was implacable.
Allowing the robe to fall to the floor, Louis stalked across the room. I was impressed. He stripped well, as I had thought he would, revealing broad shoulders and slender hips. The ascetic life had suited him. Lean, smooth, good to look at, he was well made—but obviously not aroused.
That could surely be rectified. My nurse, left behind in Bordeaux, had been explicit in what was expected of me. I had not been raised to be timid with thoughts of the flesh.
At a further impatient gesture from the Abbot, Louis slid between the sheets and leaned back against the pillows beside me, his arms folded across his chest. Making every effort not to brush against me, leaving a chilly space between us from shoulder to foot, he sighed loudly. Was it resignation? Distaste? I think he sensed the sudden leap of trepidation in my blood because he turned his head to look at me. With another little sigh, more a controlled exhalation, I saw his body relax. His smile was warm, reassuring. No, I had no need to be anxious after all.
‘My lord,’ the Abbot intoned, wasting no time. ‘My
