Free Beloved Enemy by Ellen Jones Page A

comfort she had once known—and might never know again.
    The archbishop was frowning at her, she could delay no longer. In a faltering voice edged with misgivings Eleanor exchanged her vows with Louis who, taut with anxiety, fumbled his marriage lines and dropped the ring.
    After the main part of the ceremony ended, the archbishop intoned the Te Deum and, when the choir had finished the prayer of thanksgiving, pronounced a special blessing over them.
    “Let this woman be amiable as Rachel, wise as Rebecca, faithful as Sarah. Let her be sober through truth, venerable through modesty, and wise through the teaching of Heaven.”
    The ceremony dragged on. Finally the Agnus Dei was sung. Louis advanced to the altar and received the kiss of peace from the archbishop. Now he was supposed to turn and at the foot of the great crucifix embrace her, then transmit the kiss of peace. He gingerly put his arms around Eleanor’s waist but forgot the kiss. There was a moment of stunned silence, but he had already released her before she could remind him.
    After the ceremony they bent their heads to receive the golden diadems that gave them official status as duke and duchess of Aquitaine. When Eleanor looked at the timid Louis—his resemblance to a rabbit was even more pronounced today—and compared him to the handsome, impetuous giants that had been her father and grandfather, she knew she could never think of him as the real duke. In her mind she was both duke and duchess, the heroic savior of her duchy. After all, by marrying Louis, hadn’t she saved her beloved Aquitaine from falling into the hands of her own unscrupulous vassals or greedy foreign nobles? The thought cheered her. It was done; she was now a princess of France and must make the best of it.
    The wedding festivities were held at the Ombrière Palace. At Eleanor’s order, the walls had been hung with red and green silks, and the floor strewn with roses and lilies picked fresh that morning. In the center of the high table a roast swan, dressed as if it were still alive, with gilt beak and silvered body, rested on a bed of green pastry marked with little banners.
    According to custom Louis was handed a great silver goblet. His hands trembled as he drank, and in passing the goblet to Eleanor he spilled some. She looked down. The ruby-colored drops of wine looked like blood against the dazzling white of her gown. Like the omitted kiss of peace, it was a sinister omen.
    They were only two hours into the feast when Abbé Suger, who had been absent, hurriedly approached the high table.
    “I’ve just received word that there is unrest and fighting in the Limousin which could easily spread to Bordeaux,” he said. “As I told you when we arrived, Madam, the barons there are displeased by this alliance with France, and the moment our troops left, trouble began. Although it means ending the festivities and postponing the wedding night celebrations, it would be best if we headed north to Poitou at once. I’ve already ordered our camp to be struck and the packhorses loaded.”
    “But there is no need to leave,” Eleanor said, surprised at his sense of urgency. “The barons of the Limousin are always causing unrest.”
    In truth, there were uprisings, troublesome vassals, and skirmishes in the duchy almost all the time. It was a way of life in Aquitaine and no one took it very seriously. Besides, she looked forward to the wedding night. Despite all the indications to the contrary, should Louis somehow miraculously prove himself a satisfying lover there was some hope for their happiness. She clung to that remote possibility like a talisman.
    “That’s as may be,” Abbé Suger said, “but I cannot take the chance of running into difficulties with your vassals. Suppose a major battle were to ensue in the middle of the wedding night ceremony?”
    “Perhaps you’re right,” Eleanor said slowly. “If we can avoid bloodshed we should do so.”
    “Benedicamus Dominum! I’m