Devil's Consort. Anne O'Brien

possessions were strewn about the room. Neither brazier nor means of lighting. The room was cold and unoccupied with dust on coffer and floor. When I punched the bed curtains with my fist, I sneezed on the resulting cloud. I doubted he had been there since his return to Paris.

      So where was he?

      In an antechamber I came across a servant—a young boy, probably a page—who looked startled to see me but bowed.

      ‘Where is His Majesty?’ I asked in careful langue d’oeil.

      ‘At his devotions, lady.’

      Of course. Why had I not thought of that? ‘Does His Majesty have a private chapel in the palace?’

      ‘Yes, lady. The chapel of Saint Nicholas.’

      ‘Will you take me there?’

      ‘Yes, lady … But it’ll do no good …’

      ‘Why not?’ Had I misunderstood his reply? I thought not.

      ‘I would take you, lady—but His Majesty is not in the palace’ I thought the page looked pityingly at my ignorance. ‘His Majesty is at the Cathedral of Notre Dame.’ The vast edifice that shared the Ile de la Cité with the palace.

      ‘He rose early?’ I asked.

      ‘He stayed there, lady. Through the night. His Majesty often stays there, rather than here in the palace. The Prince—His Majesty—has rooms set aside for his use there.’

      ‘And when will he return here?’

      The lad shrugged. ‘His Majesty spends all day at Notre Dame. He observes the offices and …’

      I raised a hand to stop him as truth dawned. So Louis had returned to the monks almost as soon as he had set foot back in Paris. Better a hard bed in a monkish cell than mine. The thought resurrected a moment in the previous day. Now I understood the Dowager Queen’s insistence that her son put in an appearance at the banquet. Clearly she knew him well, fearing he would run hotfoot to the monks as soon as he left her rooms. She knew him better than I! I would remedy that soon enough. A little heat thrummed through my blood.

      ‘I need you to take me to the cathedral,’ I ordered briskly.

      Notre Dame crouched in the grey dawn, dark and looming like a sleeping dragon painted in one of the old books in my grandfather’s library in Poitiers. My young guide—Guillaume, he informed me—was for the most part silent, overawed by his royal companion and unsure of why I should wish to go to Notre Dame at this early hour. He led me along the vast arched nave towards the chancel, where I could hear the monks’ voices uplifted in singing the order of Prime.

      Where was Louis? Impatient as I was, I could not interrupt the holy brothers. I looked enquiringly at the page, who shrugged his shoulders and ushered me to a seat in the chancel, then bowed and left me as if he considered his task done.

      I looked around. It was difficult to see anything in the cool shadows, the early morning light barely illuminating the vast building, but I could certainly not see Louis, neither in the choir stalls nor kneeling before the High Altar, where I might have expected the King to pay his respects to the Almighty. So I set myself to wait until the service was over. And because it seemed appropriate I knelt and bent my head in prayer. For my strange marriage with Louis. For strength to make my new life here.

      The blessing was administered, the service ended, the monks filed out towards the refectory for bread and beer before taking up their appointed tasks for the day. With an eye to accosting the Abbot, I rose to my feet. And looked. And looked again at Louis, my husband, his pale hair curling to his shoulders beneath the cowled hood. Now I knew why I had not picked him out. Clad in a rough monkish robe, girded with the knotted rope of the monks, Louis walked silently amongst them as if he were one of their number, under vows of obedience and poverty. His hands were clasped in prayer, his eyes downcast. He had no sense of my being there at all.

      But, then, why should he? His mind was not centred on me. I played no significant part in his life at all. And seemed hardly likely to do so, a caustic voice whispered irreverently in my head, if this was where he chose to spend his time.

      I stepped out, almost into his path.

      ‘My lord …’

      Startled from his inner prayers, Louis glanced up. It seemed for just a moment that there was irritation in his face at being disturbed by an impudent petitioner, until he recognised me and the lines around his mouth softened, although I thought he was still not altogether reconciled to my sudden appearance.

      ‘Eleanor. What are you doing here?’

      ‘I came to find you.’ I would be patient. Louis looked so young, so unassuming, that the hard words I had practised during the night hours drained away completely.

      Taking my hand, Louis manoeuvred me adroitly out of the path of the monks. ‘Did you wish to speak with me?’

      ‘Yes. Why would I be here if I did not?’ More sharply than I had intended.

      ‘Come, then.’ And with a genuflection towards the altar, he led me to his room, closing the door to give us some privacy. ‘What is it?’

      At first I could do nothing but look around me. It was a cell. Nothing better than a monk’s cell with bare stone floor and bare walls, except for a small crucifix over the bed. And the bed, on which I sat as there was barely room for the two of us to stand, was a narrow cot with a single thin covering. Nothing else.

      This for the King of France.

      ‘Well?’ Louis asked, sitting beside me.

      ‘Do you stay here?’ I asked.

      ‘When I can.’

      ‘But why? You are the King of France!’

      Louis tilted his head. ‘I was brought up with this,’ he reminded me simply. ‘I think it was what my life was meant to be. I should not have been King.’

      The admission, the rejection, startled me. He did not wish to be King. He would rather return to his old life of worship and service. I had not appreciated how deep it ran still: his past, the childhood influences on him.

      ‘Do you never stay in your own rooms in the palace?’ A dark fear, a fear with claws, began to squeeze my heart.

      Louis stared at the crucifix as if he realised that he had been indiscreet. ‘Of course.’ He linked his fingers with mine, although his eyes remained on the crucified Christ. ‘I know that I can’t stay here as I would wish. I am King and now I have other duties that demand my time.’

      And I am one of them! ‘Why did you not come to me last night?’ I asked, although before God I knew the answer.

      ‘Because I was here.’ How simple a statement.

      ‘A husband has a duty towards his wife.’

      ‘And I will fulfil it. I have fulfilled it. For the past weeks I have put my father’s demands before my own, neglecting my path to God’s grace. My father did not understand. But now I am King and returned home. And yesterday was a Holy Saint’s day, so I kept a night vigil as we are instructed to do. I could not stay with you, Eleanor.’ Now he looked at me, leaned and pressed the lightest of kisses against my brow. ‘You are so very beautiful—but it is not permitted that I share your bed on a Saint’s Day.’

      The claws sank deeper, the fear intensified.

      ‘And tonight? Will you come to me tonight?’

      ‘No. You must understand, Eleanor. It is no reflection of my deep affection and respect for you, but today is Friday.’ He was very serious, as if explaining to a child.

      ‘And you are not permitted to enjoy intimate relations on a Friday.’ My tolerance was fraying rapidly at the edges, like an old, much-worn girdle.

      ‘No.’

      ‘But … you need an heir.’

      ‘As