Read Online The Secret Eleanor by Cecelia Holland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cecelia Holland
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and several others joined in a single voice, “God love King Louis!” Market wives in black gowns with their aprons stained and creased, dirty-faced children, and burly half-naked porters pressed up against the side of the street to watch the King pass and stretched their hands out, as if they could draw off some of his royalty.
On impulse Eleanor reached her hand out toward them, to give them something back. They clutched at her, and their voices rose in a chorus of her name. She laughed, holding out her arm, brushing her fingers over the steady succession of outflung longing hands.
The square fell away, and she straightened in her saddle, aware suddenly that the people riding with her were annoyed. Louis was saying her name, over and over, chiding. On his far side, Thierry Galeran glared at her. She bit her tongue; no use getting in a fight now. But her eyes turned nonetheless to look all around, to see everything.
They went on down through the huts of the poor, where women carrying buckets of water stopped and stepped aside to let them pass, their sun-browned faces uptilted to watch. In their fists they held their skirts out of the muck of the street, showing their bare legs and bare muddy feet. Ahead, the bridge swarmed with wagons coming in from the country, heaped with onions and cabbages, and the street stank of crushed rotted fruit and trampled dung. The knights pushed on ahead to clear a space on the bridge. As they approached the stone rise of the bridge, the thunder of the mill wheel under the first arch drowned out every other sound, an invisible wall of noise.
Either side of the long Old Bridge was packed with shops no bigger than cupboards: small treasuries, goldsmiths and jewel shops, arrays of spices that spiked the air with their scents; Jews in gabardine, standing with their hands idle, their money waiting. The bridge humped up and over to the far bank of the river, where women in white coifs hawked flowers and caged birds, and the streets of the city gave way to lanes between houses farther and farther apart, past strips of garden, to the fields and orchards of the monastery.
They rode through the monastery gate and left their horses under the trees on the far side of the great courtyard. The Abbot came to greet them and went along with them toward the broad porch, flanked on either side by figures of the saints. Behind her and Louis came Anjou and his sons, and she wanted to turn and watch, to see his face change, when he saw.
The new church from the outside probably seemed little different from any other, in spite of the statues, although the front doors were magnificent, and she knew of no other church that had a big round window filling the high front wall. The Angevins would not know from this what to expect. It was when they passed through the door, as if through a veil, that they would know. Henry would see. She wanted to watch him see. But she walked along ahead of him, her eyes forward. They entered through the massive doors, like walking into the side of a mountain.
Inside, as always, she had the sudden feeling of tremendous height, of a space that rushed on up toward heaven. She heard, behind her, even through the clump of so many feet, a sharp, harsh intake of breath, a gasp of amazement.
She walked steadily forward into the center of the light-filled space, where the sunlight seemed more substantial than the stone of the walls. Ahead lay the main altar, while on either side, high as clouds, one by one the great windows shone forth like visions, streaming color into the dim vault. She felt the now-familiar rising of her spirit, lifted up, called to glory; for all the strutting of priests and the high words of abbots, she knew the real church was this space, this light, the stonework serving only to shape it.
As she walked, she felt herself reaching out across the empty stillness, struggling toward the center, the place of peace. The high altar climbed up like a ladder to heaven; hung
On impulse Eleanor reached her hand out toward them, to give them something back. They clutched at her, and their voices rose in a chorus of her name. She laughed, holding out her arm, brushing her fingers over the steady succession of outflung longing hands.
The square fell away, and she straightened in her saddle, aware suddenly that the people riding with her were annoyed. Louis was saying her name, over and over, chiding. On his far side, Thierry Galeran glared at her. She bit her tongue; no use getting in a fight now. But her eyes turned nonetheless to look all around, to see everything.
They went on down through the huts of the poor, where women carrying buckets of water stopped and stepped aside to let them pass, their sun-browned faces uptilted to watch. In their fists they held their skirts out of the muck of the street, showing their bare legs and bare muddy feet. Ahead, the bridge swarmed with wagons coming in from the country, heaped with onions and cabbages, and the street stank of crushed rotted fruit and trampled dung. The knights pushed on ahead to clear a space on the bridge. As they approached the stone rise of the bridge, the thunder of the mill wheel under the first arch drowned out every other sound, an invisible wall of noise.
Either side of the long Old Bridge was packed with shops no bigger than cupboards: small treasuries, goldsmiths and jewel shops, arrays of spices that spiked the air with their scents; Jews in gabardine, standing with their hands idle, their money waiting. The bridge humped up and over to the far bank of the river, where women in white coifs hawked flowers and caged birds, and the streets of the city gave way to lanes between houses farther and farther apart, past strips of garden, to the fields and orchards of the monastery.
They rode through the monastery gate and left their horses under the trees on the far side of the great courtyard. The Abbot came to greet them and went along with them toward the broad porch, flanked on either side by figures of the saints. Behind her and Louis came Anjou and his sons, and she wanted to turn and watch, to see his face change, when he saw.
The new church from the outside probably seemed little different from any other, in spite of the statues, although the front doors were magnificent, and she knew of no other church that had a big round window filling the high front wall. The Angevins would not know from this what to expect. It was when they passed through the door, as if through a veil, that they would know. Henry would see. She wanted to watch him see. But she walked along ahead of him, her eyes forward. They entered through the massive doors, like walking into the side of a mountain.
Inside, as always, she had the sudden feeling of tremendous height, of a space that rushed on up toward heaven. She heard, behind her, even through the clump of so many feet, a sharp, harsh intake of breath, a gasp of amazement.
She walked steadily forward into the center of the light-filled space, where the sunlight seemed more substantial than the stone of the walls. Ahead lay the main altar, while on either side, high as clouds, one by one the great windows shone forth like visions, streaming color into the dim vault. She felt the now-familiar rising of her spirit, lifted up, called to glory; for all the strutting of priests and the high words of abbots, she knew the real church was this space, this light, the stonework serving only to shape it.
As she walked, she felt herself reaching out across the empty stillness, struggling toward the center, the place of peace. The high altar climbed up like a ladder to heaven; hung
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