Petronella had brought a ball out with her and the young women began tossing it to each other. Alienor hitched her dress through her belt. The suffocating feelings dissipated in the flurry of activity and she delighted in the vigour of the game and the feel of the cold, wet grass between her toes. The hem of her dress soaked up the dew and whipped around her bare ankles. She leaped, caught the ball against her midriff and, laughing, flung it to Gisela, who had been assigned to her household.
A shout of warning from Floreta, accompanied by a frantic hand flap, made Alienor stop and look round. Several men in clerical garb carrying stools and cushions were advancing on them along one of the paths. They were being led by an emaciated monk, who was addressing them in a raised voice as they walked. ‘For what is more against faith than to be unwilling to believe what reason cannot attain? You might consider the words of the wise man who said that he who is hasty to believe is light in mind …’ He ceased speaking and looked towards the women, an expression of surprised annoyance flitting across his face.
Alienor tensed. This was the great Bernard of Clairvaux, religious and spiritual crusader, intellectual, ascetic and tutor. He was esteemed for his holiness, but was also a man of rigid principles, unswerving in his opposition to anyone who disagreed with his views on God and the Church. Four years ago, he had disputed with her father over papal politics, and she knew just how tenacious Bernard could be. What he was doing in the garden, she did not know, and he seemed to be thinking the same of her. She was suddenly very aware that her shoes and stockings were draped over the side of the fountain and was annoyed to be caught at such a disadvantage.
She made a small curtsey to him and he responded with the slightest inclination of his head, his dark eyes full of censure.
‘Madam, the King told me that the gardens were available for me to discourse with my students this morning.’
‘The King made no mention to me, but by all means be welcome, Father,’ Alienor replied, adding with a spark of challenge: ‘Perhaps we could sit and listen for a while.’
His lips thinned. ‘If you truly wish to learn, daughter, I am willing to teach, although to hear the words of God, one must first unstopper one’s ears.’
He went to sit down on a turf seat, prim as a dowager, and his students gathered around him, pretending to ignore the women while stealing furtive, outraged glances at them.
The Abbot of Cîteaux arranged his robes, resting a skeletal hand on one knee and raising the other, holding his tutor’s rod in a light grip.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘I spoke to you earlier of faith, and we shall return to that question in a moment, but I am suddenly reminded of a letter of advice I have been writing to a most holy virgin concerning earthly pleasures.’ He cast his gaze towards Alienor and her ladies. ‘It is truly said that silk and purple and rouge and paint have their beauty. Everything of that kind that you apply to your body has its individual loveliness, but when the garment comes off, when the paint is removed, that beauty goes with it; it does not stay with the sinful flesh. I counsel you not to emulate those persons of evil disposition who seek external beauty when they have none of their own within their souls. They study to furnish themselves with the graces of fashion that they may appear beautiful in the eyes of fools. It is an unworthy thing to borrow attractiveness from the skins of animals and the work of worms. Can the jewellery of a queen compare to the flush of modesty on a true virgin’s cheek?’ His eyes bored into Alienor. ‘I see women of the world burdened – not adorned – with gold and silver. With gowns that have long trains that trail in the dust. But make no mistake, these mincing daughters of Belial will have nothing with which to clad their souls when they come to death, unless they repent of their ways!’
Anger and humiliation burned in Alienor’s breast. How dare this walking cadaver insult her? His references and his contempt were not even thinly veiled. She was already judged and condemned without him knowing her. Her father had been forced to back down under Bernard’s onslaught. She had wanted to stand proud for Aquitaine and show him her mettle, but realised how pointless it was, because whatever the discussion, he would have the last word. Gathering her ladies, she retreated from the garden.
‘Horrible old man!’ Petronella shuddered. ‘What’s a daughter of Belial?’
Alienor curled her lip. ‘A wicked woman, so the Bible says. But the good Abbot would see all women thus unless clad in coarse rags and begging on their knees for forgiveness for the sin of being born female. He sits in judgement of all, and yet he is not God, nor does he speak in place of God.’ Within her the core of rebellion hardened. She would dress as she chose, because clothes and appearance were part of a woman’s armour in this world whether Bernard of Clairvaux approved or not. The soul was no better or worse for what its fleshly vessel wore.
Returning to the keep, they were met by Adelaide, who plainly knew about Bernard’s presence in the gardens, for she was in the act of sending a chamberlain to order refreshments for the visitors. Her gaze widened with horror as she took in the state of the returnees. ‘Bare feet?’ she gasped. ‘What are you doing? You are not peasants! This is disgraceful!’
‘Oh no, my lady mother,’ Alienor replied innocently. ‘The good Abbé was very clear that we should all clothe ourselves as peasants and exercise humility.’
‘Abbé Bernard made you do this?’ Adelaide’s eyebrows disappeared into her wimple band.
‘He made it known what was expected of us,’ she said and, having made a deep curtsey, swept on up the tower stairs to her chamber, raising her skirts above her bare feet and ankles to show them off.
Behind her, she heard Adelaide clucking like an old hen. Petronella was making strange noises in her throat as she strove to stifle her giggles, and the sound was so infectious that the other ladies joined in, although Constance’s was a timid echo. By the time they reached their chamber, they were almost helpless, and holding on to each other. But in the midst of laughter, wiping her eyes, Alienor felt very close to tears.
Hearing the giggles in the stairwell, Adelaide’s throat tightened with anger and chagrin at the behaviour of the young women, even her own daughter. The insolence of those pale, bare feet! The impropriety mortified her and filled her with unease bordering on fear. Had she still been Queen of France such conduct would not have been tolerated. The standards being set by this upstart foolish child from Aquitaine were lax beyond decent measure. She did not for one moment believe that the good Abbot of Clairvaux had commanded Alienor and her ladies to go barefoot – she would have the truth of that from Constance or Gisela. Something would have to be done. Adelaide rubbed her temples, feeling old and tired and beset.
‘Madam?’
She straightened her spine and faced Matthew de Montmorency, one of the court stewards.
‘Madam, I have spoken to the chamberlain, and he has sent out bread and wine to Abbé Bernard and his pupils.’ He gave her a knowing look. ‘I bade him serve the refreshment in plain vessels and without a cloth for the trestle board.’
Adelaide gave a brusque nod. Bernard would appreciate the quality of the repast, and at the same time, be approving that it was humbly served. Matthew had judged it well, but then he always did. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said, exhaling on a sigh. ‘I am sorely tried these days and I appreciate your forethought.’
‘Whatever you need, you have only to ask, madam.’ De Montmorency bowed. Adelaide watched his firm stride and straight back as he walked away to attend to his duties, and felt a lifting of her spirit. If only others possessed his sense of courteous propriety.
9
Bourges, Christmas 1137
The court assembled at the city of Bourges to celebrate the Christmas feast and to crown Louis and Alienor before a great gathering of vassals and courtiers. The city was full to bursting with nobles and their retinues and as always there was a large overspill of tents and shelters to lodge those who could not be accommodated within the castle or at the inns and hostels in the city.
Alienor intended wearing her wedding dress for the coronation ceremony, but it had to be altered because she had grown taller since her marriage and her figure had developed the fuller curves of womanhood.
Set free from yet another fitting by the seamstresses, she went arm in arm with Petronella to the great hall where an informal meal had been arranged on trestles for the senior barons and vassals. Tomorrow the seating would be official, but today the still-arriving guests could mingle as they chose.
‘I wager you a gold ring that Louis’s mother will find excuses to spend time with Matthew de Montmorency,’ Petronella whispered to Alienor as they prepared to enter the hall.
‘I never wager when I’m certain to lose,’ Alienor replied. She too had noticed the flush in Adelaide’s cheeks whenever the steward was near, and had observed their frequent discussions – which always remained within the bounds of propriety. ‘I wish them well. Anything that distracts her attention from me is welcome.’
A striding nobleman crossed the sisters’ path and both parties had to stop abruptly to avoid a collision. He drew breath to remonstrate, but then his glance flicked over their rich garments and the attendant ladies, and he swept a bow instead.
‘Madam, forgive me. Let all make way for the matchless beauty of the Queen of France.’
Alienor had never seen a man so handsome. He was tall with thick, shining hair mid-way between red and gold. His skin was as pale as alabaster, and his eyes were a clear blue-green, made vivid by the contrasting darkness of the pupils. A closely trimmed auburn beard edged his jawline and gave emphasis to a firm masculine mouth. His nose was straight as an arrow and fine.
‘Sire, I do not know your name,’ she said, feeling flustered.
He bowed again. ‘I am Geoffrey, Count of Anjou. Your father rode on campaign with me in Normandy last year, God rest his soul. We had many mutual interests.’ His gaze was predatory and amused.
‘You are welcome at court, sire,’ she said, trying not to show how much his direct stare perturbed her.
‘That is good to know.’ His voice developed an edge. ‘There are times when such has not been the case, but I hope for harmony in keeping with the season.’ He bowed a final time and moved on, pausing once to dazzle a smile over his shoulder.
Petronella giggled behind her hand and nudged Alienor. ‘He’s handsome!’
Alienor felt as if Geoffrey of Anjou had stripped her to her chemise in front of everyone, even though their exchange had been one of social formality. She was intensely aware of him in the room now, and because of that was also aware of her own actions and how she might appear to others. ‘Behave, Petra,’ she hissed.
‘Is he married?’
‘Yes, to the Empress Matilda, daughter of old King Henry of England.’ Another memory came to her: of overhearing talk in her father’s hall when Count Geoffrey had written to her father proposing a marriage between herself and Geoffrey’s infant son. Her father had refused with a snort of derision at Angevin audacity. But given different circumstances, Geoffrey could have been her father-in-law, and her husband a boy not yet five years old.
Petronella gave her another dig in the side. ‘He’s still staring at us.’
‘Well, don’t look at him.’ Alienor grabbed Petronella by the hand and made her way through the gathering to join Archbishop Gofrid, knowing she would be safe with him while she recovered her composure. Even so, she could feel Geoffrey’s gaze on her, and dared not glance round to meet his knowing smile.
‘Geoffrey of Anjou …’ Louis paced the bedchamber like a restless dog. ‘I would not trust him as far as I could throw a lance, for all that he swears us his fealty and goodwill.’
The informal feasting had finished late, and some carousing was still going on in the lodgings and amid the army of tents outside the castle walls. Dressed in her chemise, Alienor sat braiding her hair before the fire. Even the thought of Geoffrey made her feel restless and hot. It was like seeing a beautiful, spirited stallion arching his crest and swishing his tail in the stable yard. All that charisma, virility and danger. What would it be like to master a beast like that – to ride it? ‘Why not?’ she asked.
‘Because he is fickle,’ Louis growled. ‘If it suits his purpose, he will renege on his oath of fidelity. He is hungry for influence and power. He wants Normandy every bit as much as that termagant wife of his wants England. Imagine if he did gain it? Where would he look next but to French territory?’ He reached the end of the room and turned. ‘I heard he approached your father about a match between you and his son.’
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