It was the most tranquil of settings, a private Eden tucked away in the very heart of Paris, but the French king was deriving no solace from his island haven, pacing nervously along the walkways, heedlessly trampling the acanthus borders underfoot. He was trailed by two bishops, his brother Philippe and Maurice de Sully, the new Bishop of Paris, while his chancellor, Hugh de Champfleury, was slouched in a trellised bower, an unread book open upon his lap. Even Louis’s dogs seemed affected by his anxiety, subdued and lethargic, not bothering to bark as Theobald and Henry of Blois entered the garden.
As distracted as he was, Louis still summoned up a wan smile at the sight of the young men; although they’d not yet wed his daughters, he’d already come to think of them as kinsmen. “I could not concentrate upon matters of state,” he confessed. “Even during Mass, my thoughts wandered from God’s Word to my wife’s lying-in chamber. Her pains began last night, and the midwives say the babe ought to be delivered by sun-down.”
Theobald and Henry already knew this; most of Paris knew by now that the queen was in labor. They hastened to assure Louis that Constance would soon present him with a fine, healthy son, telling him what he desperately needed to hear. Louis never thought to question their sincerity and was heartened by their apparent certitude. He had to believe that all would go well, for the alternative was too terrible to contemplate. What would befall France if he could not provide a male heir? And if he could not, what did that say about God’s Will? He had convinced himself that his marriage to Eleanor was cursed in the Almighty’s Eyes, as proven by her failure to give him any sons. But what if Constance failed, too, in a queen’s primary duty? What if the fault lay, not with his queens, but with him? The fear that God might be judging him so harshly, as a Christian, a man, and a monarch, was almost more than Louis could bear. How could the Lord have blessed Eleanor with four sons and still deny him an heir for France?
The afternoon trickled away with excruciating slowness. Twice the midwives sent word that all was progressing as it ought. Louis wandered back into the great hall, almost at once bolted outside to the gardens again. He let his brother talk him into a game of chess, but more often than not, he found himself staring blankly at the chessboard while Philippe fidgeted impatiently. As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, the River Seine turned from blue to amber, and the last of summer’s warmth faded into memory for another year. But Louis seemed oblivious to the dropping temperature. He was leaning against the stone wall, gazing out at the orchards and open fields of the left bank, when he heard a throat being cleared behind him. “My liege…”
He was suddenly, irrationally, afraid to turn around. For a moment, his hands clenched on the wall, his palms digging into the rough stone surface. And then he pivoted to face his confessor. The priest was haggard, his gaze downcast. “My lord king,” he said, very low, “God has given you a daughter.”
Louis closed his eyes, feeling a sorrow so intense it was akin to physical pain. How had he sinned, that the Almighty had forsaken him like this? Four daughters. He was in his fortieth year, and two wives had failed to give him sons. Two daughters he’d gotten from Eleanor in fifteen years of marriage, and then she’d borne the Angevin one son after another. Where was God’s Justice in that? Making a great effort, he said dully, “Thy Will be done.” Remembering, then, to ask, “And Constance?”
The priest flinched as if he’d taken a blow. “You must be strong, my liege,” he entreated. “You must remember the Almighty tests us in ways we cannot always comprehend. The queen is dead. The midwives.. they say she began to bleed profusely when the afterbirth was expelled. They could not save her…”
“Constance is dead?” For a merciful moment, Louis was uncomprehending, and then he sagged against the wall as if his bones no longer had the strength to bear his weight. His confessor hovered helplessly at his side, and his brother Philippe halted several feet away, shocked speechless for once. It was the Bishop of Paris who took charge.
“Was she shriven?”
The priest flushed, shamed that he’d not thought to assure the king of that straightaway. “Oh, indeed! I cleansed her of her earthly sins and placed the Body and Blood of Our Lord upon her tongue. You need not fear for her salvation, my lord king. She died in God’s Grace.”
Louis said nothing, but tears had begun to spill silently down his face. When the Bishop of Paris suggested that they go to the royal chapel and pray for the queen’s soul, he nodded numbly, clutching at the familiar comfort of prayer as a drowning man would grasp at anything that might keep him afloat. “Then… then I would see her,” he mumbled, and none of them could be sure if he meant his dead queen or his newborn daughter.
Theobald and his brother watched as the other men ushered their grieving king from the gardens. They had been vastly relieved to hear that Constance had given Louis another girl, for if Louis did not beget a son, any man wed to one of his daughters might be able to assert a claim on her behalf. But the French queen’s unexpected death changed the equation dramatically. As their eyes met, Theobald said softly, “Are you thinking what I am?”
“Adela?”
Theobald nodded. “Adela,” he said, and they both smiled.
Torrents of rain had turned Rouen’s narrow streets into impassable quagmires, and those who lived close to the river were becoming increasingly fearful of flooding. The beleaguered citizens had begun to feel as if they were under siege and they could only hope that the storm would die away as the day did. As night fell, though, the winds intensified, rattling shutters and tearing thatch and shingles from roofs, chasing sleep from all but the boldest households.
Torches and rushlights flared in the castle, keeping the dark at bay. Entering the nursery to bid her children good night, Eleanor was puzzled to find it still brightly lit. But as soon as she crossed the threshold, she understood. What nurse would dare argue with an empress?
Maude was seated on a bench by the hearth, manipulating a puppet at her eldest grandson’s urging. She looked so uncomfortable that Eleanor had to conceal a smile. Her duties as queen often severely restricted her role as mother, but when she could find time for her children, she was quite willing to play with them, to her mother-in-law’s bafflement. She still remembered Maude’s startled expression the day she’d come upon them in the gardens, chasing dragonflies. Games like hoodman blind and hot cockles and hunt-the-fox were alien activities to the dignified, aloof empress. Even with her own sons, she’d always maintained a certain reserve, and it was a great tribute to both Hal’s charm and his persistence that he’d been able to coax Maude into this impromptu puppet show.
Eleanor wasn’t surprised by her son’s success, for Hal had a sunny nature, an impish smile, and a cheerful determination to get his own way at all costs. It was a pity, though, that he was the only one of Maude’s grandchildren to warm toward her. Even if she’d found it easier to unbend with them, the fact that she saw them so seldom made it difficult to establish any true intimacy. Both little Tilda, Maude’s namesake, and Geoffrey were intimidated by this somber, austere stranger, and were sullen and shy in her presence. Three-year-old Richard did not share their unease; his utter fearlessness was a source of both alarm and pride for his parents. But he had no liking for Maude’s lectures on decorum and discipline and, to judge by the mutinous pout on his face now, he and his grandmother had clashed again.
As Eleanor entered the chamber, Maude hastily put the puppet aside. The children swarmed around their mother with joyful squeals. Because they were infrequent, her visits to the nursery were always occasions of excitement. Her embraces were scented with perfume, and a perch upon her silk-clad lap was a jealously guarded privilege. Without even being aware of their knowledge, her children knew that she was beautiful and glamorous and not like other mothers. They knew that their father was someone of importance, too. He had a booming laugh, a hoarse voice, and was always surrounded by noise and confusion and fawning attention. Like a great gusting wind, he swept all before him, and his children were usually left wide-eyed and awed in his wake.