Devil's Consort. Anne O'Brien

I did not fear Adelaide. I doubted that she had ever commanded Louis’s full attention. And now Louis would listen to me and to no one else. Who would hinder me?

      ‘You are a daughter of Satan, madam! You should be ashamed!’

      Who would hinder me indeed?

      Ashamed? I froze, my mind alive to this threat.

      We were in the city of Sens, Louis having moved his whole court to the royal palace there so that we might make an appearance at the formidable Council of Bishops. And the man who had emerged from monkish seclusion to participate in this Council, the man who now addressed me in such vulgar terms, was Abbot Bernard of Clairvaux.

      ‘Look at you, woman! All airs and graces and mincing steps, laden with ornament.’

      I smoothed my hands down my silk-damask skirts, aware of the shimmer-rich tawny cloth. Had I not taken utmost care with my appearance to honour my husband before this important delegation? Would a visitor to our court address me, the Queen of France, in such a manner?

      He would if he were Bernard, Abbot of the Cistercian order of monks at Clairvaux. There he stood in the Great Hall, spittle flying with his words of condemnation, his flowing white hair giving him an air of prophetic sanctity as if he were a figure come alive from the Old Testament.

      ‘Your hair—revealed for all men to see! Have you no understanding of what God demands from the fallen daughters of Eve? In recompense for her seduction of Adam into sin?’

      Neither was he finished.

      ‘Daughter of Belial! Your appearance is an affront to God! If your husband will not take you to task, it is my duty to do so, in God’s name!’

      I held the pale gaze, marvelling at the passion in this man, skeletally thin as he was from fasting and the rigours of his holy life. So frail he looked as if a buffet of storm wind would lay him low, but he still claimed the authority to rebuke me.

      ‘I recall your execrable grandfather, madam’ He was quivering with holy fire. ‘I recall his flouting of God’s teachings.’

      True enough. The ninth Duke had preserved an ambiguous relationship with both the Almighty and His Church, upholding the motto ‘I will do as I please’. The Duke would honour God, as long as God’s will did not conflict with the Duke’s. My grandfather had spent much of his life excommunicate from one cause or another, chiefly his unholy liaison with Dangerosa.

      ‘My grandfather respected God well enough,’ I remarked frostily, looking towards Louis for help and getting none. Louis looked predictably tongue-tied. I decided it would not be politic to recall Dangerosa to Abbot Bernard’s vicious judgement. It would not help this situation.

      ‘You must learn to curb your tongue, daughter,’ Abbot Bernard challenged, his hostility unabated. ‘How can it be seemly in a woman to voice her opinions? It is not your place.’

      ‘It is my place, my lord Abbot.’ I would not be silent before this crude attack. ‘I was raised to have opinions and not fear to express them. I shall continue to do so. My lord the King does not object. Why should you?’

      Which predictably failed to silence my vicious-tongued adversary. ‘I will preach to this misbegotten court what is acceptable in the eyes of God!’

      And he did, every point sharpened like the tip of a poignard to rip my outrageous appearance to shreds.

      The skirts of my gown—’… a virtuous man might think such a woman to be a viperous snake by the tail she drags after her in the dirt …’—the embroidered and furred decoration on my hem and cuff—’ … skins of squirrels and the labour of silkworms, all to clothe a woman who should be content with plain cloth …’—cosmetics to enhance, as any woman worth her salt would wish to do—’ … a thrice-damned superficial beauty, put on in the morning and laid aside at night …’

      Such was Holy Bernard’s condemnation, his voice trembling with ire, his fist hammering against the lectern, whilst I sat, backbone straight, unmoved by the vitriol. How dared he condemn a daughter of Aquitaine? I would never bow my head before the Abbot of Clairvaux—but I was aware that beside me Louis sat transfixed, concentrating on every word. Louis’s face glowed as if Bernard’s delivery came straight from the mouth of God.

      This was dangerous. In that moment I knew I had an implacable enemy. Abbot Suger would undermine me in a subtle, subterranean manner. Adelaide was as vicious as a vixen, snapping at my heels with sharp teeth, but without real influence. Now Bernard of Clairvaux—he was the wolf at my door. Here was Louis hanging on his every word. I could not afford to underestimate Bernard of Clairvaux. He was no friend to me. With Louis’s ear, he might cause me harm.

      But then Bernard was forgotten in the excitement of my first escape from the Isle de la Cité. I was crowned Queen of France on Christmas Day at Bourges. In the great cathedral, in a sumptuous ceremony under the astute hand of Abbot Suger, Louis and I were acknowledged as King and Queen of France. Although already crowned in his father’s lifetime, the Abbot considered it no bad thing to remind the cynical and battle-hardened vassals of the Frankish king that Louis was their new monarch. I watched as the crown was placed on his head.

      Louis twitched with apprehension, as if he expected the crown to fall at his feet.

      I sighed.

      Why could he not have been better matched to the position he held? Why could he not have resembled the men of my own family—proud, confident in his demeanour, power at his fingertips? Even with the weight of gold and jewels on his fair hair he looked more boy than man. Why did he have to fidget so? Why could he not stare down these lords who had an eye to every weakness? Louis had the crown and God’s blessing. Why did his hand have to clench nervously on the hilt of the sword of state?

      God’s bones! I could play the role with more conviction than Louis ever could.

      I was crowned too. I felt the thrill of it run through my blood. I was still young and inexperienced enough to believe that the mystical symbols of crown and oil and holy water would mean something. How could they not bring me happiness and contentment? In those days my heart was full of hope, and Louis did his best to make my experience of Bourges memorable.

      By the Virgin, it was!

      Louis ordered the creation of a masterpiece to impress me and his vassals. At the climax of the coronation feast, four men staggered from the kitchens under the weight of a giant platter bearing a subtlety worthy of one of my own master cooks.

      ‘I had it made for you.’ Louis beamed, beckoning the men forward.

      It was manhandled onto the table before me, a vast pastry crust on a pottery base, the whole fashioned and gilded into a castle with towers and crenellations, just like the Maubergeonne tower. With its moat of green leaves and ribboned banners imprinted with fleurs de lys floating from its towers, it was a tour de force indeed. With an ingenuous smile of delight, Louis indicated for the lid to be raised.

      ‘What’s inside?’ Sweetmeats? Flowers? Some impressive creation of precious sugar? Or perhaps even a jewelled coronal to match the official one of my crowning?

      ‘Wait and see …’

      A knife was run around the circumference. I leaned forward. A hush fell as all waited. The lid was raised in a piece …

      A gasp.

      A murmur of agitation arose from the women as, with a frantic flutter of wings, a flurry of small songbirds escaped from their prison up into the rafters and roof spaces or flew with swooping panic over the tables. The women shrieked, hands to their veils, the men shouted with ale-fuelled appreciation. In mounting terror the birds flew more madly with loud cheepings, their droppings splattering down indiscriminately on tables, food and clothing.

      I think I gawped. I certainly hiccupped on an entirely inappropriate laugh. I might have ducked below the level of the table to escape a darting flock of finches.

      ‘Shit!’ Raoul of Vermandois guffawed crudely.

      ‘Your