THAT EVENING, AT THE high table in the great hall of the palace, Eleanor presented Louis with a gift.
“This exquisite goblet belonged to my father,” she said in a little speech she had prepared. “He inherited it from his father, the Troubadour, who always claimed that it was the gift of a Moorish princess.”
She held out the goblet. Carved out of a single piece of rock crystal mounted in jewel-set gold, it was one of her most prized possessions. Before Louis could accept the gift, Abbé Suger snatched it from her grasp as if it were a red-hot coal.
“I will take this—for safekeeping.”
Before Eleanor could protest, her attention was diverted by the appearance of a huge pasty carried into the hall by the chief cook and two servitors. They laid it proudly on the table in front of Louis.
“Open it,” Eleanor said, handing Louis her own knife.
He looked at the abbé, who nodded. An expectant murmur ran around the hall as Louis rose and tentatively poked a small hole in the pasty. The guests snickered.
“Is that the best you can do?” someone called. “I hope you fare better with Lady Eleanor.”
There was a chorus of ribald laughter.
“Our Countess needs a man, remember,” someone else shouted.
“Aye, the lusty blood of the Troubador runs in her veins.”
The hall rocked with mirth. Louis, crimson with embarrassment, seemed unable to move. Taking pity on him, Eleanor took the knife from his hand and boldly slashed open the pasty. Scores of little birds fluttered out, flying wildly about the hall.
“That’s it, that’s the way. You’ll show the French prince a thing or two, Lady.” The entire hall applauded.
Eleanor smiled broadly and waved, then turned in expectation to the entrance doors where a handful of falconers waited, hawks on their wrists. At a nod from her they unhooded their birds. Within moments the feasters, shouting their delight and encouragement, scrambled from their seats, and tried to dodge the hawks who pounced upon their prey, bringing the little birds down in the middle of the trestle tables. The dogs began to bark and jumped up after the hawks. The hall was in an uproar what with mingled screams and laughter, blood and feathers scattered everywhere.
Louis grew so white, Eleanor feared he would be sick. Was the nobility of France so backward they did not have this form of entertainment? What did the Franks do except fight and pray?
Finally the wedding feast was over. Eleanor and Louis were solemnly led into the huge chamber that had been her father’s and grandfather’s before her, going all the way back three hundred years, she told him. The chamber was lit by fifty white candles in silver holders and hung with garlands of pink summer roses and pale blue forget-me-nots. The archbishop of Bordeaux blessed the nuptial bed and sprinkled holy water over the chamber to dispel any demons who might be lurking in the corners—for it was well known that such spawn of the devil were drawn to carnal acts.
After the traditional ceremony of putting the couple to bed had been completed, Eleanor’s attendants, with much giggling, departed. Petronilla flashed her a knowing look and took her leave. Repressing a smile, Eleanor slipped out of her ermine-trimmed robe and settled herself in the wide crimson-canopied bed. To her surprise, Louis, still dressed in his robe, suddenly hopped out of bed and knelt on the white-and-gold cushion at the prie-dieu in a corner of the chamber—a prie-dieu Eleanor had last seen used by her late mother.
Be patient, Eleanor reminded herself, trying to ignore the silken caress of lilac-scented sheets against her skin. Make allowances for his upbringing. Don’t rush matters.
But, like her forebears, the hot blood of Aquitaine ran in her veins, blood that could be traced in a direct line to Charlemagne, she thought with pride. Exposed from the cradle to the varied pleasures of earthly love, particularly in the example of her wanton grandparents, Eleanor had always looked forward to losing her maidenhead.
From the moment she had danced on the tabletop as a child and held everyone’s attention, she had learned a valuable lesson about the impact of feminine power. When she grew older there were friends of her father’s and others, like the troubadour Cercamon, drawn to her alluring beauty like moths to candle flame. She knew every male who saw her wanted to taste her ripe lips, hold her firm high breasts in their hands, and press themselves against her taut slender body. They reminded her of panting hounds, their tongues hanging out, crawling on their bellies for approval. From the time she discovered her power over men she enjoyed teasing them while keeping herself aloof. In truth, their whimpering eagerness filled her with scorn.
Only once had she herself come close to being scorched by Cupid’s fire.
Last winter a comely troubadour with bronzed skin from Moorish Spain had visited her father’s court at Bordeaux, where he created a sensation with his deep caressing voice and the pulsating rhythm of his castanets. His hot black eyes had raked her body with such intensity that Eleanor felt as if he had undressed her. After entertaining the guests in the hall he had taken Eleanor outside and, despite her struggles, masterfully kissed her on the lips in the moonlit gardens surrounding the palace. Claiming that she was the most beautiful creature he had ever set eyes on, he declared that he would fall mortally ill if he could not possess her. Eleanor knew that this was the very least compliment an accomplished troubadour would pay any reasonably attractive female if he did not wish to be accused of extreme discourtesy.
But, unlike the others, even Cercamon, he had been more persuasive, less reverent, and before she could stop him, he had forced her lips to open under his. By the time he had succeeded in sliding his hand up the silky skin of her thigh, his fingers just starting to explore the mysteries of her sex, Eleanor, entranced, had no will to stop him. She often wondered what might have happened if her sister had not discovered them—much to Eleanor’s vexation. For days afterward she would grow moist between her legs, remembering the delicate touch of his seductive fingers.
The candles had begun to sputter before Louis finally left his devotions and returned to bed, jolting her out of her tantalizing reveries. He looked pale and resigned, reminding her of a lamb going to slaughter; before disrobing, he blew out all the candles, then slipped into bed. Trembling, he curled up beside her. Her body, warm and aroused, instantly grew chill. Sensing his terror she tried to pity him but only succeeded in feeling repelled.
“I’m not fragile, Louis,” she whispered. “There is no need to be afraid.” She forced herself to open her arms, gathering him up as if he were a frightened puppy. “What ails you? Do you not find me desirable?” A foolish question, for already she could feel his member hardening against her thigh.
“You’re an angel of loveliness,” he said in a strangled voice, instantly withdrawing from her embrace. “But Holy Church teaches that for a man to desire his wife is as great a sin as adultery. I never thought to be married—and—and—”
“In your heart you regard our bedding as an act of fornication despite the fact we are married?”
Taking his silence for assent, Eleanor did not know what to say. That a man should be mortified by his own virility, the instinctive surge of his natural desires, was beyond her comprehension. This must be the Church’s doing, she thought bitterly. Such harsh and unnatural doctrine had never taken hold here in the sensuous south, and, in fact, was one of the many reasons why her forebears had so consistently resisted the influence of zealous churchmen who railed against sin.
When Louis still made no move to touch her, Eleanor finally took his hand and laid it gently on her breast. He snatched away his fingers as if they had been scalded. Instead he kissed her with shy reverence on the cheek. Like a brother. For Eleanor, who longed to be taken masterfully in passion, it was a gesture that made her flesh crawl. What could she do?
“Surely even the Church wants an heir for France,” she said. If nothing else he would at least have dynastic impulses.
“Yes. That is true.”
Thank the Holy Mother. Here, at last, was a chink in the armor of his resistance. “Well, then, let us provide one. It is our duty.”
Her words seemed to inspire him with courage. Screwing his eyes shut, Louis clumsily mounted her in a kind of worshipful awe, cautiously poking about in all the wrong places. It might have been amusing if it hadn’t been so utterly disappointing. That he was finally able to enter her at all was a tribute to her knowledge of carnal matters. Upon encountering her maidenhead, however, Louis grew terrified and would have withdrawn if she had not gently encouraged him, biting her lips to keep from crying out in pain as his tentative thrusts finally deflowered her. Thankfully it was soon over.
“You’re a Christian martyr to endure that ordeal. I pray the Holy Virgin make you fruitful.”
So that we do not have to do this very often, she added to herself. Louis had not said the words but she heard them as clearly as if he had shouted them from the battlements. If this night’s work was a foretaste of things to come, she could only agree.
Climbing out of bed, he pulled on his robe and again knelt at the prie-dieu. Her sense of disappointment deepened. Her father’s prize stud stallion was more adroit than the heir to the French throne. She tried to stifle her resentful thoughts as she shifted uncomfortably in the bed. Perhaps in some way she was at fault? Eleanor had never experienced such a sense of failure before. Her lower parts felt sore and she could feel a trickle of moisture between her legs that she assumed was blood. At least there would be visible proof on the sheets that she had been a virgin on her wedding night, which vicious minds like her Aunt Agnes’s had not expected to be the case. Not that Louis would have known the difference. With a sigh of regret she remembered the sensuous touch of the troubadour from Moorish Spain.
Bitterly disappointed, Eleanor cried herself to sleep, while Louis, oblivious, remained at the prie-dieu. When she woke in the morning he was still there, sound asleep on his knees.
In an effort to forget the dismal events of the previous night, Eleanor spent the next day planning a feverish round of merriment for the coming weeks: hawking and hunting parties, more feasting, dancing, and entertainment.
She was in the courtyard, showing Louis her prized white gyrfalcon, when a group of French nobles thundered into the courtyard of the palace. One of them jumped from his horse and knelt before Louis.
“My prince, it is with deep regret that I inform you that death has finally claimed the king of France.”
“My father, dead?” Stricken, uncomprehending, Louis looked first at Abbé Suger then at Eleanor.
“My poor Louis, what a calamity,” said the stunned prelate. Then, collecting himself, he carefully went down on one knee. “Your Majesty, may I express my condolences on our most grievous loss.”
At that moment Eleanor knew that the last vestige of her carefree childhood had gone forever. Was it only three months ago that she had been the thoughtless, indulged daughter of the duke of Aquitaine? And now—the realization was overwhelming—now she was Queen of France.