Read Online The Summer Queen by Elizabeth Chadwick - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Chadwick
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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gaze grew tender. He stroked her hair again as if it fascinated him. And then he cleared his throat and turned back to his prayers.
When eventually they returned to the bed, Alienor’s knees were on fire as well as the place between her thighs. She was shivering too. A small red blot had soaked into the centre of the sheet. Louis looked at it with an expression of mingled satisfaction and distaste. ‘You have given proof of your purity,’ he said. ‘Abbé Suger and the Archbishop will bear witness tomorrow.’ He gestured her back into bed. Alienor climbed in and started to close the curtains.
‘Leave them,’ he said swiftly. ‘I like to see the light; it helps me to sleep.’
Alienor raised her eyebrows, thinking that Louis was just like Petronella. He needed the comfort and security of a candle. She gently touched his shoulder. ‘As you wish, sire,’ she said. ‘I understand.’
He clasped her hand but said nothing.
Alienor closed her eyes. On her side of the bed the candlelight was so dim that it did not impinge. The blood spot was cold and damp under her thighs. She felt a little let down. The embracing, the kissing and twining had been delicious, but the strangeness and discomfort of the final act had left her feeling disappointed and more than a little sore.
Louis seemed to have found his pleasure. She wondered if God was pleased too, and if she had conceived a child. That notion frightened her and she put it from her mind and turned over to face away from him, seeking her own space. Louis’s breathing soon grew deep and slow as he fell asleep, but it was a long time before her own restless mind settled to slumber; there was too much to think about, not least how to deal with this stranger in the bed who had mingled his seed with hers so that they were now irrevocably bound as one flesh.
7
Palace of Poitiers, Summer 1137
Wearing a gown of red sarcenet, the coronet of Aquitaine held between her hands, Alienor sat alone by the pool in the palace gardens. A relentless sun had beaten down all day and now a bruised dusk was mantling the city.
No one had come looking for her yet, but they soon would. Not for her the freedom to do as she pleased. This last fortnight, she had either been immersed in public duties or travelling between them, constantly attended by servants, vassals and family. Her every moment was accounted for as if her time was being apportioned like beads on an abacus counted out by a keen-eyed merchant. Even when she was kneeling in church or at her needlework, she was aware of being scrutinised by members of Louis’s entourage and by Louis himself. He couldn’t take his eyes off her and wanted her with him all of the time, as if she were a precious jewel stitched to his tunic.
She had grown accustomed to the night duty and it hurt less now; indeed it was pleasurable on the occasions when Louis lingered over the foreplay. She just wished he did not have to kneel and ask God’s blessing every time, and then thank Him afterwards and expect her to do the same. He did not share her bed on Fridays or Sundays because he said they should be kept pure for God, but she used those occasions to cuddle up with Petronella in the old way – except it wasn’t the same any more. Her marriage and bedding had severed her from girlhood. Petronella had demanded to know what it was like, sleeping with a man, and Alienor had put her off with vague remarks about it being part of the duty of a wife.
Alienor was still unsure what to make of Louis. Sometimes he was the aloof French prince, looking down from his tall horse, but he was like a child too, having to be told what to think and do by his courtiers, who vied for influence over him. Also like a child, he could be petulant, stubborn and unreasonable. And then there was his stifling piety, born of his upbringing by the Church, coupled with his overweening need for structure and order. Unlike her, he was not good at adapting to suit his circumstances.
When eventually they returned to the bed, Alienor’s knees were on fire as well as the place between her thighs. She was shivering too. A small red blot had soaked into the centre of the sheet. Louis looked at it with an expression of mingled satisfaction and distaste. ‘You have given proof of your purity,’ he said. ‘Abbé Suger and the Archbishop will bear witness tomorrow.’ He gestured her back into bed. Alienor climbed in and started to close the curtains.
‘Leave them,’ he said swiftly. ‘I like to see the light; it helps me to sleep.’
Alienor raised her eyebrows, thinking that Louis was just like Petronella. He needed the comfort and security of a candle. She gently touched his shoulder. ‘As you wish, sire,’ she said. ‘I understand.’
He clasped her hand but said nothing.
Alienor closed her eyes. On her side of the bed the candlelight was so dim that it did not impinge. The blood spot was cold and damp under her thighs. She felt a little let down. The embracing, the kissing and twining had been delicious, but the strangeness and discomfort of the final act had left her feeling disappointed and more than a little sore.
Louis seemed to have found his pleasure. She wondered if God was pleased too, and if she had conceived a child. That notion frightened her and she put it from her mind and turned over to face away from him, seeking her own space. Louis’s breathing soon grew deep and slow as he fell asleep, but it was a long time before her own restless mind settled to slumber; there was too much to think about, not least how to deal with this stranger in the bed who had mingled his seed with hers so that they were now irrevocably bound as one flesh.
7
Palace of Poitiers, Summer 1137
Wearing a gown of red sarcenet, the coronet of Aquitaine held between her hands, Alienor sat alone by the pool in the palace gardens. A relentless sun had beaten down all day and now a bruised dusk was mantling the city.
No one had come looking for her yet, but they soon would. Not for her the freedom to do as she pleased. This last fortnight, she had either been immersed in public duties or travelling between them, constantly attended by servants, vassals and family. Her every moment was accounted for as if her time was being apportioned like beads on an abacus counted out by a keen-eyed merchant. Even when she was kneeling in church or at her needlework, she was aware of being scrutinised by members of Louis’s entourage and by Louis himself. He couldn’t take his eyes off her and wanted her with him all of the time, as if she were a precious jewel stitched to his tunic.
She had grown accustomed to the night duty and it hurt less now; indeed it was pleasurable on the occasions when Louis lingered over the foreplay. She just wished he did not have to kneel and ask God’s blessing every time, and then thank Him afterwards and expect her to do the same. He did not share her bed on Fridays or Sundays because he said they should be kept pure for God, but she used those occasions to cuddle up with Petronella in the old way – except it wasn’t the same any more. Her marriage and bedding had severed her from girlhood. Petronella had demanded to know what it was like, sleeping with a man, and Alienor had put her off with vague remarks about it being part of the duty of a wife.
Alienor was still unsure what to make of Louis. Sometimes he was the aloof French prince, looking down from his tall horse, but he was like a child too, having to be told what to think and do by his courtiers, who vied for influence over him. Also like a child, he could be petulant, stubborn and unreasonable. And then there was his stifling piety, born of his upbringing by the Church, coupled with his overweening need for structure and order. Unlike her, he was not good at adapting to suit his circumstances.
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