Devil's Consort (41 page)

I would never trust him completely. I would be a fool to do so … but for now …

‘Then show me.’

Did those around us know? Did they suspect? No, I think not. We were discreet. No word of scandal hung in the air. We both knew the value of discretion and we were not so foolish as to be alone together in public. My women were present, often Aelith, often Henry. I was simply the Countess of Poitou enjoying the hospitality of her home and the experience of her Seneschal. Rumour of a liaison between us would bring disaster down on our heads. An affair between those of high birth could be survived, but not for the Queen of France and the Count of Anjou.

It had to end. Aelith had already gone back to Raoul, with a wealth of gossip for his ears only. I must
continue south to Aquitaine, and then back to my other life as Queen of France in Paris; Geoffrey to Anjou, where trouble was brooding and likely to break out in rebellion.

We knew it must end, had always known, and we would not part in sorrow. No tears, no sighs, no longings. The troubadours would find no meat for their laments of unrequited love in my farewell to my Seneschal. Our final parting was quite public. Our words of farewell, perfectly proper, could be queried by no one around us. The Count kissed my hand briefly before helping me into my travelling litter and placing cushions for my comfort. He handed me a package of documents; charters and decrees appertaining to the government of Poitou.

‘God be with you, lady.’ He stepped back and bowed, the sun gilding his russet hair. ‘I’ll be in Paris by the end of the year, to discuss the matter of policy we spoke of.’

‘Excellent. It will be good policy, I think. I will advise the King of it.’

Then he gave the office to start and I closed the leather curtains of the litter, almost allowing the package to slip from my lap, except that my eye was caught. The package contained a jewel. Not a ruby—Geoffrey had far better taste than Louis—and the scrawl with it was as incriminating as his public manner towards me had not been.

I studied the words and considered what I had done. I did not love the Count of Anjou. I had wanted him and had welcomed him without conscience, but I had not loved him. I had enjoyed him, relished his attention, gloried in the dominance of his body over mine, yes, all of those. But he did not own my heart. I think we were two of a kind, both selfish, both self-seeking. Aelith had given up everything for love. I would not give up everything for the Angevin. I had enjoyed what he could give me and I would miss him, but his absence would not ruin my life.

Unexpectedly a sob rose in my throat. I closed my fingers over the emerald, a magical stone to preserve the wearer from sickness and ailments of the mind. Perhaps I did love him a little. My heart was not totally free from anguish. I tucked the jewel into a little travelling coffer, resisting the urge to wear it on a chain against my breast That would be foolishness. Nothing to be gained from dwelling on what could not be.

And in a sudden little vignette I recalled my parting from Geoffrey’s son, the expression on his face.

He had been solemn, making his farewells with his customary good manners. In the business of packing all my possessions I had left a case of documents in my room. Forestalling Agnes, he bounded off to recover
them, presenting them to me with grace, despite his laboured breathing, and a neat little bow so that I smiled my thanks to him. He did not smile back.

‘Adieu,
Henry,’ I said, holding out my hand.

He saluted my fingers. ‘God go with you, lady.’

What was it I saw there? An unsettling acknowledgement, perhaps. Speculation. Did he suspect my liaison with his father? I did not think it and yet … I felt he was appraising me, and I could not read his conclusion. His lips were thinly closed, unsmiling, his eyes cool and even judgmental. It spoke to me of strong emotion under careful restraint. Whatever his thoughts, he was concealing them from me Did he dislike me, perhaps?

I gave a little shrug. It was hardly a matter for my consideration. ‘I wish you well, Henry, if our paths never cross again,’ I said.

‘They will cross, lady.’

‘You are very sure. How can you tell?’

‘I know it. It is meant to be.’ His confidence startled me.

On a thought, I gave Henry a present of one of the white gerfalcons since he had admired them more than he had admired me. His solemn face split in a grin and he could barely thank me in his delight. How could I have thought him enigmatic? Henry was merely a boy with all the hopes and fears that youth suspended over our heads, like of bucket of cold water, to douse us when we least expect it.

I
WENT
to Poitiers. In the autumn of 1145, when the days were still long enough and mellow with the lingering heart of the summer, the warmth of the south, of my own lands, beckoned. I left Marie with her nurses and travelled alone, with Louis’s blessing. I doubt he noticed my absence. I set my course for Poitou, conscious of nothing but the years passing. I was twenty-three years old and had abandoned any hope of so basic and thrilling an emotion as lust. How would I recognise it? How could I know the blast of desire when I had never experienced it? I would go to my grave without my body being stirred by a man. Take a lover, Agnes still advised, but I would not. Love, I decided, was all a deceit, a crafty trick of the troubadours to warm a woman’s heart and loins with longing for the unattainable, and so win valuable patronage for themselves.

‘Love does not exist,’ I bleakly informed Aelith,
who met me on my journey and continued with me to Poitiers. ‘Physical desire is not worthy of a woman of intellect.’

She was a grown woman now, confident, fine drawn with the exigencies of the past months but gleaming with contentment. Dismounting in the road, I hugged her, joyful at being reunited with her. I think my emotions were decidedly unsteady, although that may have been a poor excuse for what I did. The choice I made that was far from good sense.

‘Ridiculous!’ Aelith laughed.

‘How so?’ I remounted. My emptiness was not the subject for laughter.

‘Did I give up everything, even my immortal soul, for a warm friendship with Raoul?’ The curl of her lip said it all.

‘I don’t deny the strength of your feelings,’ I admitted grudgingly.

‘Yes, you do. Just because you’ve no experience of it, it does not mean it doesn’t exist. If you had even the slightest affection for Louis—which you haven’t, and neither would any woman in your position—you would not say anything quite so stupid!’

Agnes, a willing eavesdropper, smirked. ‘I’ve said the same, lady.’

Rattled, not altogether pleased, I touched my heel to my mare, encouraging her into a canter with Aelith following, to draw us out of earshot of interested listeners and smart retainers.

‘I am not stupid,’ I said through my teeth.

‘No. But you’ve never been in love, have you?’

I hunched my shoulders. ‘How will I know it?’

‘You will. When a man touches you and your body responds. When even the caress of his eyes stirs fire in your blood. And I’ll say this, Eleanor—anyone would think you were jealous of my good fortune.’

Well, I was.

‘Eleanor …’

I looked across at her to see the concern in her face and forced a smile. It was wrong of me to burden Aelith with my ill humour. I begged forgiveness and we were at one once more, but my heart was as heavy in my chest as a lump of over-kneaded dough, my mood as sour as an Aquitaine lemon.

‘Welcome, lady.’ My steward relieved me of my mantle as he escorted me to my rooms in the Maubergeonne Tower. ‘We have missed you here in Poitiers. Do you stay long with us? I will make your chambers ready to your requirements.’

‘I’m not certain …’ I unwound the veil that had kept the dust from my hair. I was surprisingly undecided, lacking any need or motivation other than to get out of Paris. I supposed I would travel on south, sounding out the loyalty of my barons, simply making my presence known, but Poitiers was so welcoming and familiar. The tower closed around me like a soft glove and I sighed with pleasure.

‘The Seneschal is here in residence, lady.’

‘Oh?’ Now in my private chambers, I dropped the veil, handed my gloves to Agnes.

‘He has been here some days, to hold a court of justice.’ The steward placed the mantle over a coffer before moving to open the shutters to let sunlight into the unused rooms. ‘There has been some noise of rebellion in the Limousin. My lord has stamped on it most effectively, I understand.’

‘Has he? That’s good.’ Louis had appointed a seneschal to rule in my name—and his—in our absence, a sensible decision all in all, yet I felt a quick brush of irritation that I should not have the palace to myself and Aelith, but must play the role of hostess to the man. I did not want to converse and dispense hospitality. Rather to brood alone.

The steward waited, bright eyed, accommodating. ‘Do you wish to speak with Count Geoffrey, lady, when he rides in? He’ll be anxious to give his report.’

Count Geoffrey, Lord of Anjou. I knew his name well enough. I had never met him, had no particular desire to do so. He had a reputation for military prowess but to my mind was little more than a robber baron, much as Louis’s ancestors, descended from a long line of enterprising thieves, striving to make his mark in Europe by snapping up states that were not well protected. A pretentious upstart, so it was said, a dangerous man with an eye to every opportunity to consolidate his power.

I frowned. Normandy sprang to my mind, one of those opportunities snatched up by the Count. When Louis had been too busy dealing with Theobald of Champagne to watch his back, this Geoffrey had marched his troops into Normandy and overrun it. Since then, the Count of Anjou and Louis had come to terms and Louis had confirmed him vassal status as Duke of Normandy, but I had seen no reason to encourage the man by making him Seneschal of Poitou as well, and had said as much to Louis—who ignored me and did as he pleased.

No, I did not have much of an opinion of Geoffrey of Anjou.

‘Ask the Count to come,’ I requested as I washed my hands in a bowl of cool water, considering whether I really needed to see him. Annoyed that I must. The Seneschal was too important to law and order and the smooth running of Poitou to be cast off lightly. ‘Bring wine, if you will. And food.’

Less than an hour later, a firm thump of boots on the stair heralded my Seneschal. An oblique shadow on the curve, then a glint of metal and jewels as a figure moved through a sunbeam angling through a window and came to stand in the centre of the room.

I turned to face him.

God’s blood!

He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Before I could string two thoughts together desire ripped through me—oh, yes, I recognised this longing,
this need, as sharp as a blade, for what it was. Here was no product of a dream to leave me dry-mouthed and unfulfilled on waking, no romantic but nebulous image to sigh over from a troubadour’s song. Here was a man: he lived and breathed and stood here in my solar. When he smiled at me, and bowed with such fluid grace my heart leapt to thud against my ribs. In that moment I forgot Louis, I forgot my failure to entice, my loneliness and the restless emptiness of my life. I forgot everything but the starvation in my body, in my soul, everything but my wish to touch this man and for him to touch me. He filled me to the brim, just by being there and looking at me as if I was the woman he coveted above all things.

Well! I hid every one of those thoughts, of course. I forced myself to breathe evenly and hold his gaze.

Lord, but Count Geoffrey was a bold man. He looked at me, not as if I was his sovereign lady but as if he would strip the silk from my body and ravish me on the floor. And, by the Virgin, I wished for it too. There he stood, suffusing my solar with as much brilliance as the sun itself. Geoffrey le Bel. The Fair, the handsome. At his heels an equally handsome wolfhound. It was as if all the air had fled from the chamber, and I had to struggle to breathe at all.

Had I lost my wits?

It was his presence that forced itself on me first. He was tall, taller than I with the broad shoulders and lean athletic build of a trained soldier. He strode across the
solar with such elegant ease, muscles fluid and shown to advantage in hose and knee-length boots of soft leather. And what a pleasure it was to see a man in a tunic of wool and silk, deep blue, trimmed and braided, showily impressive. Jewels glowed on his breast, on his fingers, clipped to the brim of his felt cap. Over all was cast a cloak of fine wool against the autumn chill, now flung back over one shoulder for ease of movement.

His face drew my attention.

Oh, he was good to look at. I had not known he was so striking a man, despite his common sobriquet. Pleasingly clean-shaven, my gaze lingered on his mouth. Firm, with perhaps a hint of temper in its straight lines. And then a high-bridged nose and masterful chin that did nothing to hide the strength of his will. Confidence oozed from him as curds from a muslin bag.

Count Geoffrey halted, stripped off his cap with the tell-tale sprig of broom flowers clipped in the jewel—planta genista—that bestowed on him a second label, and bowed in a flamboyant manner. His hair was deep and glowing russet, trimmed short and mussed into disarray round his face, his complexion light, as so often matched such colouring.

I grabbed for composure, calling on the high blood of Aquitaine.

‘Lady of Poitou.’ His voice was soft and deep.

‘Plantagenet!’ I lifted my chin at the yellow flowers, now drooping.

‘As you say.’ His stern mouth relaxed in a smile. ‘You are right welcome.’

‘My thanks, Lord Geoffrey.’

Suddenly incongruously, ridiculously shy before this man, I could think of nothing more to say. ‘A fine animal,’ I managed as the hound sank to the floor with a sigh, chin on paws.

‘She is. And not yet grown to her full strength.’