Devil's Consort

It would not suit me.

So we were returned to Paris, Louis’s reputation smeared, the weight of Abbot Suger’s disapproval heavy, and perversely I missed Adelaide, her acerbic wit and the sharp cut and thrust that had become the essence of all our dealings. Conversation with Louis was as dull as boiled mutton pudding.

At least the child grew and thrived in my belly. It was my only consolation.

Adelaide’s departure had its consequence. Returned to my rooms, I set my women to unpacking my travelling chests since Aelith, who would normally have supervised such a mundane matter, had expressed a desire to remain behind in Poitou. There was the faintest scratch at the doorpost. I turned to find the dark-clad figure of a woman, a servant from her garments, watching me.

‘Yes?’

‘You do not recognise me, lady.’

‘Should I?’ I was out of sorts and missed Aelith’s easy company. My nausea had settled but I had found the long journey in the lurch and sway of the litter more than exhausting. Louis had been no company.

‘I am Agnes,’ she replied with a quiet assurance surprising in one of her status. ‘I was tirewoman to Queen Adelaide.’

I recalled her, Adelaide’s shadow, silent and unobtrusive as she fetched and carried for her royal mistress. She was short and slight, fine boned, her hair covered by a wimple, her figure concealed in dark wool, a woman, I decided, who would pass unseen through life. I could not understand why she had come to me.

‘Why did you not accompany Queen Adelaide to Compiègne and her new life?’

‘I do not wish to retire, lady. I have no desire to disappear into the depths of the country.’

‘Did she allow you to stay?’ My interest was piqued.

‘I did not give her the choice, lady. It was not my wish to go and so I refused.’

I looked at her sharply, reconsidering. Behind the unassuming exterior of this woman of indeterminate age was a remarkable composure.

‘And so?’ I let my cloak slip from my shoulders. Agnes stepped neatly forward to retrieve it before it reached the floor. Impressive! ‘What is your wish?’

‘I wish to offer my services to you, lady.’

‘I have enough women to wait on me.’ I indicated the women from noble families who made up my household, their sole existence to meet my desires.

‘To wait on you, yes. But you need me, lady.’ She placed the fur on the bed, brushing down the soft pelt with her hand.

‘I don’t think I do.’ I yawned. Oh, I was tired.

‘You need me to help you survive at this court.’

What a strange thing to say. I did not think I had any such need. What could a servant offer me? I raised my brows in enquiry.

‘How many friends do you have, lady?’ the tirewoman asked.

‘Friends?’

‘I think you have none. Which of these women would tell you the truth?’

I considered. She had a point. They would tell me what I wished to know.

‘My sister would …’

‘Your sister is in Poitou, lady. I would be your friend,’ Agnes stated. ‘I would be your eyes and ears. And I would tell you the truth. To know the truth is strength.’

‘Why would you do this?’

She gave no reply. Her eyes were dark and direct as she allowed me to make my own judgement. Truth? Truth was a valuable commodity, not to be sneezed at. I walked across the room, singling out Florine, whose ear for gossip was keen.

‘Florine …’

‘Yes, lady?’ Looking up from her task of shaking out my robes from the chest, her face was bright.

‘What is the court saying about Toulouse?’

The change was imperceptible. A tightening of a muscle here, a flicker of eyelid there. Her hands stilled on the silk sleeves she had just lifted from a coffer.

‘That it was unfortunate that Count Alfonso was warned of His Majesty’s campaign.’

‘Is that all?’

Florine could not quite look at my face. ‘Yes, lady.’

‘Thank you.’ I beckoned to Agnes and we walked out of earshot in the deserted anteroom. ‘Tell me, then. What do they say about Toulouse?’

‘They put the blame at your door, lady. They say the advice that His Majesty acted on was not good.’ She looked me full in the eye.

‘And the lack of forces, the insufficiency of siege engines for such a campaign? The ignominious retreat without a blow being exchanged? Where is the blame for that apportioned?’

Agnes shook her head.

‘How can that be put at my feet?’ I demanded.

‘It can if the initial plan was not considered to be sound. And that plan was yours, lady.’

So I was at fault. My claim to Toulouse might be right and just, but blame for France’s defeat would not be levelled at Louis. The Aquitaine Queen must be the cause of France’s failure. I felt the bitterness of it, the unfairness of it. Perhaps it did not altogether surprise me—but I learned the lesson well. I must guard my vulnerability.

I kept her. Agnes came into my employ. A friend? How could a tirewoman be a friend to the Duchess of Aquitaine? But I kept her because she was right—truth was strength.

There were repercussions from Toulouse. Abbot Suger had his revenge for my interference where I’d had no authority to interfere, with the result that I found myself shut out of Louis’s meetings with his council. It was not right! The wife of the King of France had always been given access to decision-making, had always been consulted. Even Adelaide had scrawled her signature on any number of Fat Louis’s charters. I had made it my business to know that.

But after Toulouse there was a wily conspiracy, a change to the custom, quietly done. I was not to be allowed to sit in Louis’s consultations with his advisers. My role as Queen was to be ceremonial. I was to be a cipher, a lovely face and elegant body to stand silently at Louis’s side in royal robes and bear the royal children. All I had feared. Neither my consent nor advice would be sought or acted upon. I was barred. My presence at royal discussions was de trop.

Abbot Suger’s little victory.

I allowed it. Would I embarrass myself by being turned from the door of the Council Chamber? But in my heart I refused to accept defeat. I would say what I wished in the privacy of my bedchamber where the worthy Abbot had no power. But first Louis must make amends for cringing so weakly before his minister. I was carrying the heir to France, was I not? I had every right to punish him.

I withdrew from Louis. I distanced myself from him, made no attempt to seek him out, absenting myself from the formal meals with the excuse that I was unwell. When he came to my apartments, I had a dozen excuses to deny him entry. Indeed, one word of my possible ill health put him to flight like a rat into a sewer in the streets of Paris. I would bring my husband to his knees for his slighting of me. And I did, of course. It was a cunning woman’s ploy, to pretend disinterest. After no more than a se’ennight of the fictitious headache, the troublesome cough, the inexplicable rash, I brought him to me where I had closeted myself in my solar. Abjectly apologetic, Louis had a little coffer clasped to his chest like an offering.

‘My lord.’ My voice held the bitter cold of January, while I continued to give my attention to the troubadour who knelt at my feet, pouring out an impassioned love song. I would not be ignored and Louis would be left in no doubt of it.