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 they can find to say?’
‘They say you’re talkative, boastful, lustful, greedy, incapable of …’
The words dried on his tongue, his cheeks flew red flags, as he suddenly realised to whom he spoke. ‘Forgive me.’ He looked down at his dish with its uneaten mess of meat and sauce. ‘I did not think …’
I felt resentment stiffen my spine. How dared he slander me and my people on so short an acquaintance? I might see their shortcomings but it was not this Frankish prince’s place to denigrate them. By what right did he measure them and find them wanting? ‘Do you not feast and sing in Paris, then? Do the Franks not find time from government for pleasure and entertainment?’
‘I did not sing and feast. Not at Saint-Denis.’
‘What is that? A palace?’
‘A monastery.’
‘Did you visit there?’
‘I was brought up there.’
The words sank in, but with them not much understanding. ‘You were brought up in a monastery?’
‘Did you not know?’
‘No. As a priest?’
‘More or less.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’ I could not imagine it. My quick anger was replaced by interest.
‘Yes.’ A smile softened the tension in his jaw and the feverish light in his eye faded. ‘Yes, I did. The order of the day, each one like the last. The serenity in the House of God. Can you understand?’ His voice took on an enthusiasm I had not heard before, his pale eyes shone. ‘The perpetual prayers for God’s forgiveness, the voices of the monks rising up with the incense. I liked nothing better than to keep vigil through the night—’
‘But did you not learn the art of government?’ I interrupted. ‘Did you not sit with your father and hear good advice and counsel?’ Surely that would have been of far greater use than the rule of Saint Benedict.
‘I was never intended to rule, you see,’ Louis explained. ‘My elder brother—Philip—was killed by a scavenging sow at loose on the quay. Philip fell from his horse when it reared.’ Louis’s voice was suddenly hoarsewith suppressed grief. ‘There was no hope for him—his neck broke in the filth of the gutter.’
‘Oh!’
‘He was an accomplished warrior. He would have been a great king.’
‘My son.’ A soft voice from Louis’s other side broke in. The ever-present Abbot Suger, sent by Fat Louis to keep his eye on the son and heir. He leaned forward, a slight, elderly man with deceptively mild demeanour, to look at me as much as at Louis. ‘My son, the lady does not wish to hear of your life at Saint-Denis. Or of Philip. You are heir to the throne now.’
‘But the Lady Eleanor asked if I had enjoyed my life there.’
‘You must look to your future together now.’
The Abbot had the thin, lined face of an aesthete. His hair was as glossily white as an ermine, his small dark eyes just as inquisitive. They summed me up in that instant and I suspected they found me wanting.
‘Of course. Forgive me.’ Louis nodded obediently. ‘That life is all in the past.’
‘But I think you miss it.’ I was reluctant to allow the Abbot to dictate the direction of our conversation.
‘Sometimes.’ The
‘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 they can find to say?’
‘They say you’re talkative, boastful, lustful, greedy, incapable of …’
The words dried on his tongue, his cheeks flew red flags, as he suddenly realised to whom he spoke. ‘Forgive me.’ He looked down at his dish with its uneaten mess of meat and sauce. ‘I did not think …’
I felt resentment stiffen my spine. How dared he slander me and my people on so short an acquaintance? I might see their shortcomings but it was not this Frankish prince’s place to denigrate them. By what right did he measure them and find them wanting? ‘Do you not feast and sing in Paris, then? Do the Franks not find time from government for pleasure and entertainment?’
‘I did not sing and feast. Not at Saint-Denis.’
‘What is that? A palace?’
‘A monastery.’
‘Did you visit there?’
‘I was brought up there.’
The words sank in, but with them not much understanding. ‘You were brought up in a monastery?’
‘Did you not know?’
‘No. As a priest?’
‘More or less.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’ I could not imagine it. My quick anger was replaced by interest.
‘Yes.’ A smile softened the tension in his jaw and the feverish light in his eye faded. ‘Yes, I did. The order of the day, each one like the last. The serenity in the House of God. Can you understand?’ His voice took on an enthusiasm I had not heard before, his pale eyes shone. ‘The perpetual prayers for God’s forgiveness, the voices of the monks rising up with the incense. I liked nothing better than to keep vigil through the night—’
‘But did you not learn the art of government?’ I interrupted. ‘Did you not sit with your father and hear good advice and counsel?’ Surely that would have been of far greater use than the rule of Saint Benedict.
‘I was never intended to rule, you see,’ Louis explained. ‘My elder brother—Philip—was killed by a scavenging sow at loose on the quay. Philip fell from his horse when it reared.’ Louis’s voice was suddenly hoarsewith suppressed grief. ‘There was no hope for him—his neck broke in the filth of the gutter.’
‘Oh!’
‘He was an accomplished warrior. He would have been a great king.’
‘My son.’ A soft voice from Louis’s other side broke in. The ever-present Abbot Suger, sent by Fat Louis to keep his eye on the son and heir. He leaned forward, a slight, elderly man with deceptively mild demeanour, to look at me as much as at Louis. ‘My son, the lady does not wish to hear of your life at Saint-Denis. Or of Philip. You are heir to the throne now.’
‘But the Lady Eleanor asked if I had enjoyed my life there.’
‘You must look to your future together now.’
The Abbot had the thin, lined face of an aesthete. His hair was as glossily white as an ermine, his small dark eyes just as inquisitive. They summed me up in that instant and I suspected they found me wanting.
‘Of course. Forgive me.’ Louis nodded obediently. ‘That life is all in the past.’
‘But I think you miss it.’ I was reluctant to allow the Abbot to dictate the direction of our conversation.
‘Sometimes.’ The
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