I lifted my chin a little. ‘By what right do you take me to task, my lord?’
His reply was becoming tedious with repetition. ‘I am your husband.’
‘My husband? I think I’ve not seen you in my bed any time this week—this month, in fact. Even longer than that …’
‘Such comments don’t become you, madam. As for your paid songster. How typical of the louche south,’ he accused viciously, ‘to encourage such wantonness.’
We had been here before, of course. ‘Do you dare accuse me of lascivious behaviour, Louis? The woman who carries your child?’
‘How should I not? Look at your hair, your dress …’
‘I am at leisure here in my own rooms to dress as I please.’ Deliberately I drew my hand down the length of my hair, wrapped about in silk ribbons, the ends clasped in gold finials. Louis’s eyes followed the gesture. ‘I recall a time when you wound my hair around your wrist, my lord …’
‘I’ll not discuss that!’ His face was suffused with colour. ‘I’ll not have you looking like …’
He sought for a word. I supplied it. And not quietly. ‘A harlot?’ I suggested.
It silenced Louis. It drew all eyes in the chamber to us. With a furious look, Louis leaned to whisper, the syllables harsh in the quiet room. ‘You will dismiss your troubadour, Eleanor.’
‘I will not. I am his patron.’
Louis stalked out. The jewels—his peace offering but left behind with bad grace—were atrocious, solid enough to decorate a horse’s harness. I remained obdurate. I knew what I was about. Hardly had the week expired than Louis marched in with another box, small and carved out of wood. Without apology or explanation he thrust it into my hands.
‘A gift, Eleanor. To remind you of your home. I know you love the perfumes of the south so I’ve had this made for you.’
I opened the little box to release a sweet scent of orange blossom with a deeper note that tickled my nose. It was pleasant enough and I was touched that he should think of me with so personal a gift. Feeling magnanimous, I put aside my embroidery. Now was the time to welcome him back into my affections. I kissed his cheek.
‘I had the ingredients from a merchant here in the city,’ Louis explained, as he took the box from me, strode across the room to the open fire and.
‘Take care, Louis—only a little. The merest pinch. That’s too much!’
Louis cast a hearty handful of the contents onto the fire. His enthusiasm was a fine thing.
Smoke rose. There was the sweetness of the orange blossom, perhaps a little jasmine scenting the air, and beneath that. I sniffed. Sandalwood I expected, or even frankincense, as the base notes. That is what I would have ordered. We in the south had much experience of the skills of ancient Rome, now practised and polished by our alchemists. But that was not it. I sniffed again. One of my women sneezed. Louis coughed discreetly. Then not so discreetly as the smoke billowed and the pungency caught at the back of the throat.
There was no escape. The perfume burned, the smoke filled the room and we coughed, sneezed, eyes watering as we were all overwhelmed with the cloying, animal heaviness of it.
‘Open the windows,’ I ordered when I could breathe. ‘Douse the flames.’
To no avail. The perfume continued to give off its secrets and the mingled scents hung like a miasma in the air. By this time any sweetness was entirely obliterated, the draughts from the open windows merely stirring the fire into fresh life.
We fled to the antechamber where we continued to wheeze.
‘It was very expensive,’ gasped Louis, beating at his tunic, dragging his hands down over his face.
‘I can imagine.’ And I began to laugh.
Musk, of course. The most valuable, the most sought-after of base elements. To be used circumspectly, and totally overwhelming when applied with too liberal a hand. Laughter took hold and I could not stop. Everything was permeated with the scent of musk. The tapestries, the very stones of the walls. And ourselves.
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