Henry said. They stood in the dark on the sloping pavement of the tower; off over the wall he could see down onto the river valley, the water gleaming in the moonlight, and the faint fire of a hall in the distance beyond. Out there, somewhere, the edge of Aquitaine. He thought again of Bernard’s curse. The saint had brought this on, or somehow at least foreseen it. He shook that off. The old man had caught some luck. It was just fate. Chance. It didn’t seem to matter much. If Bernard was right, then they were all doomed. They were all doomed in the end anyway. He wondered, briefly, if his brother had done something.
“My lord.” A page came trotting down the slope. “My lord, the Count wants you there again.”
“Jesus,” Henry said. He walked up the uneven pavement, and the Bishop went along beside him.
“My lord, he must be buried when he dies. It’s an affront to God to leave him above the ground. We’ll take him to Le Mans, it’s closest.”
“Le Mans,” he said. He was not ready for this: his father young and strong, who had always been there, who would be there forever. He had hated his father, but he had relied on him. This was traditional in his family. His father had hated him, also traditionally. Out of spite he could have given half the domain to his brother. Even if the will did name Henry the Count, on the news many of his vassals would rebel; he would have to call up whoever stayed faithful, go from stronghold to stronghold, forcing them open, demand that each baron in his turn submit. And in Normandy, too, they would turn on him. The whole of his realm could go up like a pile of tinder. He had enemies all around, and in spite of the peace, the French would meddle and England might attack him.
First he had to find out what was in the will, and the only way to do that was to agree to it. Grimly he marched up to the door and into the room with the rotting, dying Count, and biting his sleeve in his rage he accepted the will as it was.
Ten
PARIS
AUGUST 1151
“David played the lute,” Eleanor said. “The beloved of God. The ancestor of Jesus.”
Louis hardly looked at her; he laid his hands on his knees and pressed his gaze down on them. He said, “If they played but psalms, I would welcome them.” His hands moved, pushing together palm against palm. “I must do right, Eleanor. For this I am King.” He glanced toward her, his eyes bright, almost wistful. “You should not come to court, as Thierry says. This is man’s work here, and you only disturb matters. It is unfit for your delicacy. Yet I am glad of it, just to see you. Is this not suffering? Why have you no care for me?”
She turned away from him and looked out over the noisy, busy hall. The quiver in his voice repulsed her; she thought, You have too much care for yourself, sir, to need any from me, but she did not say it. Instead she fed her senses on the color and bustle of the court. If she could not have a lute player here, and jongleurs, and merriment, she could at least enjoy the raw steamy rush of real life.
Beneath the cobwebs and old banners festooning the high ceiling, the cave of the hall thronged with people, all talking in little knots and swirls around the room, some moving here and there from group to group. She thought she could detect the news traveling among them, the currents of gossip, jokes, threats, and offers. Thierry Galeran sat on the King’s left hand and said nothing, but people came up to him and spoke into his ear and went to other people in the hall and spoke to them, in widening ripples of influence and interest. Eleanor wanted to bring Louis to talk of their marriage but could find no subtle entrance to it. She sat idly twining her fingers together, considering how to get her way.
In through the crowd came a flock of blackbirds: four men in long black gowns like Benedictines, hooded and capped, carrying rolls of paper in their wide capacious sleeves. She recognized them at once for
“My lord.” A page came trotting down the slope. “My lord, the Count wants you there again.”
“Jesus,” Henry said. He walked up the uneven pavement, and the Bishop went along beside him.
“My lord, he must be buried when he dies. It’s an affront to God to leave him above the ground. We’ll take him to Le Mans, it’s closest.”
“Le Mans,” he said. He was not ready for this: his father young and strong, who had always been there, who would be there forever. He had hated his father, but he had relied on him. This was traditional in his family. His father had hated him, also traditionally. Out of spite he could have given half the domain to his brother. Even if the will did name Henry the Count, on the news many of his vassals would rebel; he would have to call up whoever stayed faithful, go from stronghold to stronghold, forcing them open, demand that each baron in his turn submit. And in Normandy, too, they would turn on him. The whole of his realm could go up like a pile of tinder. He had enemies all around, and in spite of the peace, the French would meddle and England might attack him.
First he had to find out what was in the will, and the only way to do that was to agree to it. Grimly he marched up to the door and into the room with the rotting, dying Count, and biting his sleeve in his rage he accepted the will as it was.
Ten
PARIS
AUGUST 1151
“David played the lute,” Eleanor said. “The beloved of God. The ancestor of Jesus.”
Louis hardly looked at her; he laid his hands on his knees and pressed his gaze down on them. He said, “If they played but psalms, I would welcome them.” His hands moved, pushing together palm against palm. “I must do right, Eleanor. For this I am King.” He glanced toward her, his eyes bright, almost wistful. “You should not come to court, as Thierry says. This is man’s work here, and you only disturb matters. It is unfit for your delicacy. Yet I am glad of it, just to see you. Is this not suffering? Why have you no care for me?”
She turned away from him and looked out over the noisy, busy hall. The quiver in his voice repulsed her; she thought, You have too much care for yourself, sir, to need any from me, but she did not say it. Instead she fed her senses on the color and bustle of the court. If she could not have a lute player here, and jongleurs, and merriment, she could at least enjoy the raw steamy rush of real life.
Beneath the cobwebs and old banners festooning the high ceiling, the cave of the hall thronged with people, all talking in little knots and swirls around the room, some moving here and there from group to group. She thought she could detect the news traveling among them, the currents of gossip, jokes, threats, and offers. Thierry Galeran sat on the King’s left hand and said nothing, but people came up to him and spoke into his ear and went to other people in the hall and spoke to them, in widening ripples of influence and interest. Eleanor wanted to bring Louis to talk of their marriage but could find no subtle entrance to it. She sat idly twining her fingers together, considering how to get her way.
In through the crowd came a flock of blackbirds: four men in long black gowns like Benedictines, hooded and capped, carrying rolls of paper in their wide capacious sleeves. She recognized them at once for
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