Free Devil's Consort by Anne O'Brien Page B

gathered in the antechamber of the Ombrière Palace, to lead the procession through the Great Hall and up to the High Table. Louis looked weary, as if he would gladly cancel the whole affair and make a run for it. It could not be. Today, the day of our marriage, we were on show, and I was alert for even one disparaging expression, one whispered aside.
    ‘As long as it takes to impress your new vassals!’ I smiled at him with clenched teeth, my new husband of less than an hour, and closed my hand over his arm to shackle him to the spot. Words hot enough to scorch sprang into my mouth. Did this Frankish prince not understand what he was getting from this marriage, how much land was now his? Surely it was worth anhour or two of feasting, of building bridges. I almost lost my struggle not to lecture him on the value of diplomacy over a cup of wine and a platter of succulent meats—until Aelith attached herself to my side. She pulled me a little away.
    ‘We’ve no time for gossip,’ I remarked, seeing Louis almost physically retreat from the crush without my restraining grip.
    Had I said that all was done in a hurry? Two weeks was all it took to get us to the altar. Two weeks that gave my vassals ample time to respond to the summons to attend the wedding and pay homage to their new overlord. Most did, with ill grace, but at least they put in a stiff-necked, close-lipped appearance. Some were conspicuous by their absence—the Count of Angoulême being the one to cause tongues to wag—but enough were present to raise their voices in acclaim of Louis, who, in joining his hand with mine, was now Duke of Aquitaine and Gascony, Count of Poitou. Walking through streets afterwards to cheering crowds, music, leaves cast before our feet, Louis’s guards had pressed close about us, but still it was an auspicious beginning. The cries were not hostile, although, in truth, the roasting carcasses of beef and the hogsheads of ale craftily provided by my Archbishop for the populace would have sweetened the voices.
    Now the deed was done.
    In those two weeks I never set eyes on the Princeunless he came as a reluctant guest to a celebratory event, and never alone, always hedged about by soldiers and under the watchful eye of the man I learned directed his every step. Abbot Suger, right-hand man of Fat Louis. I knew no more about the Prince than on that first day. Rumour had it that he spent the hours in his pavilion on his knees, thanking God for the success of this venture and praying equally for a safe return to Paris. For certain he had no stomach for outstaying his welcome in Bordeaux, just as he had no stomach for the feasting so beloved by the Aquitanians.
    Now back in the Ombrière Palace for our marriage feast, I fixed Louis with a stern regard, willing him not to move, ignoring Aelith’s whisperings as I renewed my own silent vow. Louis le Jeune might now be my sovereign lord, my husband and able to command my obedience. I might have moved seamlessly from the dominance of a father to the authority of a husband, but I would not be an impotent wife, destined to sit in a solar and stitch altar cloths.
    ‘Eleanor! Who is that?’ Aelith persisted.
    ‘Who?’
    ‘The lord in the blue silk and grey fur—the man who’s looking at me.’
    Her eye gleamed and I followed its direction.
    It was worth the looking. Tall and impressively built, the Frankish lord was well on in years but his hair retained its dense hue and his face was striking,with hawklike nose and heavy brows. At this moment his mouth was taut in consideration of something that had taken his attention—perhaps my sister. His dark eyes were fixed firmly and with appreciation on her. And why not? I thought. Aelith’s burgeoning shape was revealed by the clinging deep green silk and silver embroidery. Obviously the lord was one of Louis’s entourage but I did not know him. Perhaps he was newly arrived.
    ‘Find out for me,’ Aelith demanded, not so
sotto voce.
    ‘Aelith!