Devil's Consort. Anne O'Brien

      ‘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! In the middle of my wedding feast?’ But I humoured her. ‘Who is the lord with the fiery eye?’ I moved to murmur to Louis.

      He looked across, face open in welcome. ‘My cousin, Raoul. Count Raoul of Vermandois. Why?’

      ‘No reason. He looks very proud.’

      Louis raised his hand to draw the lord’s attention. ‘And rightly. He’s Seneschal of France. His wife’s sister to Count Theobald of Champagne. Powerful connections.’

      The Count approached, bowed and was introduced.

      ‘Lady. A happy occasion.’

      His voice was as smooth as the silk I wore. When he had retired back into the crowd, to the side of an austere lady with a calculating slant to her eye—his extremely well-connected, powerful wife from Champagne, I presumed—I relayed the information to Aelith as the procession formed behind us.

      ‘He’s married. He’s also old enough to be your father.’

      She looked at me solemnly. ‘He’s handsome. A man of authority. A man—not a boy.’

      ‘And of no interest to you!’

      As ever, Aelith was an open book and I saw her intent: a frivolous flirtation at the feast to pass the time between one extravagant course and the next. I paid it no heed other than to consider that sometimes my sister, for all her high breeding and lack of years, had the heart and inclination of a camp whore.

      ‘Don’t demean yourself,’ I warned.

      ‘I would not!’

      So now we processed down the length of the hall, took our seats and looked out over the no-expense-spared glory of our celebration. Louis and I acknowledged the good wishes and sipped the marriage cup. I tried not to notice the juxtaposition of my braided hair as it lay on my breast, with my gown and the flash of rubies in the sunlight, but I found time to regret that on the day that I was a bride, at Louis’s insistence I wore red silk damask and Fat Louis’s rubies. Louis would not be gainsaid. Red was a royal colour, he said. I should be clad as the future Queen of France. I humoured him—by the Virgin, the gold was heavy!—but not in the style of my gown. The cut of it was opulent and pure Aquitaine so that Louis’s pale brows rose at my trailing skirts and oversleeves that had to be tied in elegant knots to prevent them dragging in the dust. I was right—he did not approve of ostentation.

      At least for once Louis looked the part, fair and comely beneath the Aquitaine gold of the ducal coronet, despite the compressed lips. His servants had got to grips with him and turned him out as a prince, as if he had more than two silver pennies to rub together. In fact, he dazzled the eye. Perhaps his father and the omnipresent Abbot Suger had insisted on the red and gold tunic, heavy with embroidery, giving bulk to his figure and an unquestionable air of majesty.

      The feast began, the troubadours sang. The great names of the lords of Gascony and Aquitaine were spread as a mosaic before us. Lusignan and Auvergne, Périgord and Armagnac. Châteauroux. Parthenay. My father had kept them tightly controlled by a clever show of force coupled with an open hand of generosity, but I knew that as soon as I was in Paris they’d be gnawing at the edges of my land, like rats on a decaying carcass. The image made me shiver. I sent platters of food and flagons of ale in their direction and bent a beaming smile on them. Nothing like a feast to soften hostilities. Along the table to my right I tried not to watch as Aelith cast inappropriate glances towards the forbidden Count Raoul, who was not slow in returning them, despite his wife’s obvious displeasure, her hand fastening like a claw on his wrist to keep his attention. On my left Louis was toying with a meagre plate of roast suckling pig whilst all around tucked in with hearty appetite.

      ‘Does it not please you, sir?’ I asked.

      Before us on the white cloth was spread a beribboned swan, proud and upright, its neck skewered with iron to keep it erect, the whole resting on a lake of green leaves. Accompanying this masterpiece of creation was a peppered peacock, a spit-roast piglet, a haunch of venison, while servants carried in an endless procession of ducks and geese and sauced cranes.

      Louis frowned at the display. ‘I am not used to such opulence.’

      ‘But this is a celebration.’

      ‘And it would be wrong of me not to enjoy it.’ He speared a piece of the meat on his knife and ate it. But only one piece, unlike my vassals who stuffed piece after piece into their mouths until they were sated. Perhaps, I made the excuse, it was a reaction against his father’s gluttony. I could not fault him in that.

      Bernart, my favourite of all my troubadours, sank to his knee before me.

      ‘I ask permission to sing of your beauty, lady.’ And not waiting for assent, because no Aquitanian ever refused a song, he broke into the familiar verses.

       For beauty there’s no equal

       Of the Queen of Joy.

      I threw a pouch of gold to land at his feet in acknowledgement of his compliment, as he slid into a verse I did not know.

      ‘From afar the King has come, come to interrupt the dance.

      ‘For he fears another man may boldly seize the chance to wed the April Queen.’

      So the gifted Bernart had written this verse for the occasion—and my heart fluttered a little at the compliment. My troubadour knew my value to the King of France and would broadcast it to the winds. April Queen. I liked it almost as much as Queen of Joy—and I certainly approved the idea that I was much sought after. What woman would not? And so I turned to Louis, laughing in surprised delight.

      ‘Well, sir? Do you like the sentiment?’

      ‘No. I do not.’

      ‘Why not?’ The flat denial astonished me. ‘Any woman would be delighted with the idea of rivals for her hand. It is the essence of love.’

      The muscles in Louis’s jaw tightened. ‘I don’t like the sentiment of having to snatch you up before another man forestalled me.’ I saw his nostrils narrow as he inhaled. The corners of his mouth were tightly tucked in as if the scents of the spiced meats were suddenly distasteful. ‘And I have feasted enough.’ Casting down his knife, he signalled for a finger bowl.

      ‘Do you not find it pleasing?’ I asked, suddenly uneasy, uncertain of his intentions. It seemed to me petulant beyond words. Did he want the feast to end? Did he intend to leave? It would be far too discourteous. To end my wedding feast now would be the height of bad manners. Did Louis not see that?

      ‘Not inordinately. Not as much as you, it seems.’ His soft voice had acquired an edge as he turned to stare directly into my eyes. ‘Do you know what they say of you? The lords at my father’s court?’

      ‘Of me? No. What do they say of me?’

      ‘Not of you,’ he amended, ‘but of your people. They say that men from Aquitaine and Poitou value gluttony rather than military skill.’

      How patently untrue! Was he being deliberately gauche? Surely he would not be so coarse in his criticism on this day of all days. ‘Is that all