Daughters of Babylon (21 page)

“Better slow down,” Bill said. “Signal.”

“I’m on it,” Karin said.

There was a cluster of oncoming traffic less than a quarter mile away, with plenty of time for her to shift into second gear and turn left. She wasn’t driving fast when the boy and his donkey, laden with baskets of cochineal pupae, stepped out from behind the gatehouse, but they were only four or five feet in front of the van. Karin slammed on the brakes and swerved hard to the right into a drainage ditch that caught the front wheel and catapulted the vehicle like a swimmer off a diving board. They rolled three times over rows of prickly pear with little reed nests, and the passengers flew around inside, and the terrified
burro
hee-hawed, and the boy ran toward the van yelling for help; and it may have been the mechanics that Serafina “Tita” learned from her father that saved the Volkswagen camper from blowing up like a fireball.

The Prince’s Palace
Antioch, Asia Minor
MAY, A.D. 1148

Stone urns lined the edge of the rooftop terrace, spilling over with white, night-blooming jasmine and thrusting spikes of orange lily with deep brown leopard spots. The round marble table and two chairs had claw feet made of solid gold. Oil lamps and torches from the streets of Antioch lent a flickering shimmer to the night air, while the slash of Milky Way, an unblinking cat’s eye, observed them all.

Eleanor sat at the table, spine erect, hands folded. In front of her was a bowl, still untouched, of iced cucumber soup garnished with sprigs of mint and lavender, and a platter of flatbread and olives. The plain linen headdress that she’d worn for the walk from her chamber to her uncle’s private terrace lay folded on a bench. An enormous black eunuch, their server for the evening, stood in the shadow of the stairwell.

Louis paced an arc back and forth behind her, never quite entering Eleanor’s field of vision. “Interesting elaboration of braids and coils,” he said. “Not French, certainly. A touch of Arabesque, perhaps? I dare not presume you would deign to styles Byzantine.”

“I confess to ignorance,” Eleanor said, “of the coiffeur’s origins and hope Your Majesty will forgive the inclusion of gold thread. They are only the broken pieces, and we kept count. I was most impressed with Jocelyne’s skill at creating an illusion of wholeness.”

“No need to address me, my sweet, even amidst this troubled patch, as anything but husband. On the matter of Jocelyne’s talents, I agree. Her artful placement calls to mind the net of the fisherman, our first Holy Father, the Apostle Peter. On the other hand, I admit perplexity at your choosing a majority of dark pearls over light. Do they represent blots upon the soul? Hinting, perhaps, at a desperation to confess?”

“A smattering of pearls,” she said, “could hardly represent the blots upon my soul, which I am sure outnumber the stars. Sit down, husband, and let us begin this meal. The broth looks refreshing, and I am famished from a day of—”
Riding dirge
is what she nearly said. On another night, she wouldn’t have bothered to hold her tongue. “—riding.”

Louis sat across from her. He’d clearly taken extra pains with his appearance, the first time in months, looking elegant in a doublet of cobalt blue, quilted with silver thread. His dark hair, freshly washed, curled behind his ears, and his beard was trimmed. He offered the plate of flatbreads and asked about the knights who’d accompanied Eleanor and her pony. They behaved as
chevaliers
of the highest degree, she assured him. Tearing the bread, she inquired, guileless, about the closing sessions of Council.

“On all major points,” Louis said, “His Royal Highness has been persuaded to see reason.”

Her husband’s pupils shone black as olives, with only a thin blue rim of iris, but it was night. Her eyes probably looked the same. She sipped the aromatic broth, relieved to note that her hand holding the spoon was steady. “That is good to hear. On what major points, if I may ask?”

Louis dipped his bread into olive oil and talked while chewing. “Plans to invade Aleppo have been postponed, which will prevent much needless loss of life.”

“That is hardly news. The invasion has been postponed almost weekly since our arrival.”

“True, but now the prince’s sights have turned to the greater prize of maintaining and defending the City of Our Lord. His Royal Highness has entrusted me to deliver relics of St. Jacques to King Baldwin himself and the Queen Mother when we arrive in Jerusalem.” He rolled his tongue around the inside of his cheek, looking square at Eleanor before adding, “He has also made full confession.”

He was waiting for her to flinch, but her uncle and the bishop were best friends. His Excellency was a native son of Aquitaine, loyal to the memory of the old Duke, her grandfather. If Raymond did agree to visit the bishop, they probably enjoyed a round of piquet with their feet up.

Poorly concealing his disappointment, Louis continued. “So, now for the best news. Our departure date for resumption of the Crusade is confirmed. You and I will be leading a modest contingent to the Holy City five days hence on the Feast of St. Matthias. A most auspicious day, we are assured by palace astrologers, to begin a pilgrimage.”

Eleanor, once again, was obliged to rein in the sharp tongue she had, against her better nature, cultivated. Matthias was the Apostle who replaced Judas Iscariot who hanged himself after betraying Christ. As Abbot Suger liked to quip over jellied pork and beetroot every 14th of May, Our Lord Saviour may have died and gone to Heaven, but the Church still needs a treasurer. She took several quick swallows of claret to calm herself and keep listening.

“Raymond and I took pleasure in negotiating which knights would be best suited to safeguard our pilgrims, given that we have no plans for warfare on this leg of the Crusade. Your safety, of course, is also paramount,
ma femme
.”

“You are too kind.” Eleanor glanced toward the skyline of the terrace where the Milky Way seemed to be pouring white curds over Antioch. “I also have tidings to share.”

“Oh, yes?” His eyelids were already drooping with disinterest.

She began with the usual sycophantic preludes, expected in the French court, of offering deep thanks to the King for his benevolence and generosity, and to God for the protection of their royal selves and their daughter, and to His Royal Highness, Raymond of Poitiers, for his hospitality, and finally she came to the crux. “I hope you will forgive my speaking plainly on two matters. I am not accompanying you to Jerusalem, and I have made petition for annulment of our marriage.”

The spoon, halfway to Louis’s mouth, froze. “Have you lost your wits?”

“My wits are not at issue. Appropriate authorities have confirmed that you and I, as fourth cousins, should not have wed, consanguination being prohibited by the Church. On the matter of Jerusalem, then, travel is impossible for we would be living in a state of greater sin, holding knowledge of these facts and disregarding them.” She signaled to the eunuch in the shadows. “We are finished with this course, thank you.”

The muscled Nubian disappeared behind a curtain, reappeared, and brought a tray to the table. In sleeveless gauze and crimson silk, he walked with a wide-straddled gait that would have been manly were it not for his hairless arms and tints of rouge.

Louis’s jaw pulsed while they waited for the slave to remove the soup accoutrements and set down silver covered platters, which he presented with a flourish, of lamb, stewed figs, and rice. Salaaming, he backed away and returned to the place where he would pretend to hear nothing.

Seething, Louis leaned across the table. “He put you up to this, didn’t he?”

“He?” Eleanor sprinkled salt across her meal. “Are you speaking of my uncle? If so, you are mistaken. Raymond is of the opinion that rumours of our indiscretion would best be laid to rest by my accompanying you to the Holy City. And while my intentions to dissolve this marriage distress him, he would prefer that I tend to the matter of annulment after we’ve returned to France. He does not like the idea of his niece being deprived of sovereign protection while in these troubled lands.”

Louis fell silent for a long while. He stabbed morsels of lamb and lifted them to his face on knife tip, inspecting this way and that, but he did not eat. Finally, he spoke in flat, low tones. “You are my wife. You are queen of the Franks. Joined to me in holy wedlock, by the authority of the Holy Church of Rome, and the Church does not err. You will accompany me to Jerusalem because that is my desire and my command. We will not speak more about it.”

And they didn’t. Speak at all.

With each course that was whisked away and replaced by another, Louis complained to the slave. “The fish is underdone…goat too bony.” But he did not address Eleanor again. When the eunuch brought sweet wine and honey pastries, Louis refused both and ordered him to bring a hookah and balls of gummed poppy. “Enough to fill this,” he said, bringing his palms together and curling his fingers into a bowl shape.

The slave glanced at Eleanor who had determined to enjoy the meal and the night sky, regardless of the company. She shrugged: whatever the King desires. After he’d backed away with flourishes to carry out the order, Eleanor removed the napkin from her lap and laid it on the table. “Smoke yourself into a stupor, Louis. See where it takes you. Perhaps tomorrow, we can discuss our respective futures in an amicable manner.”

She took up her headdress, threw it over her arm, and returned to her chambers, heavy of heart that there had been no glimmers of reconciliation, only glum retreat. Jocelyne and Marie-Thèrese did not have to ask while loosing the elaborate braids and removing layers of gown and underskirt how the evening had gone. Their queen did not protest a warm infusion of valerian to help her sleep, and once she’d nodded off, the ladies-in-waiting promised each other to watch over Eleanor through the night.

In the darkest hours, there came a quiet rap on the door. Marie Thèrese, who’d been dreaming of cassoulet with fat chunks of sausage, rose to answer. It was Sir Isidore, knight and distant cousin to the king. A dashing man, court-cultured, though not as tall as Louis, he held a tray with three goblets and a plate of pastries.

“Sir Isidore,” said Marie-Thèrese, surprised.

“By order of His Majesty, I bring refreshment for the dedicated ladies.”

She eyed the food and drink and her mouth watered. Jocelyne came up beside her, put a finger to her lips, and said, “Our Lady is sleeping.”

“I promise not to make a sound,” he mouthed, and with a movement of his shoulder and a smile that undid them both, he sidled into the room.

The ladies-in-waiting, whose instincts in their way were as formidable as his, formed a side-by-side barrier between Isidore and their charge. He caught a glimpse of the figure in the bed and bowed without spilling a drop. “How is Her Majesty? The king worries. She fell ill at dinner. He’s not been able to sleep a wink.”

“She tossed and turned for hours,” Marie-Thèrese exaggerated.

Jocelyne relieved Sir Isidore of the tray and carried it to the table near the hearth. King Louis’s robe of gold
fleurs de lis
in miniature was three-quarters complete, the scraps of gold thread she’d removed from Her Majesty’s coiffeur returned to the dish, all accounted for.

Isidore refused an invitation to sit, insisting that the two women make themselves comfortable. “I can watch over Her Majesty from here,” he said, his back to the fire. “The wine is lightly chilled. You will find it most invigorating.”

“But you’ve brought three goblets,” said Marie-Thèrese. “Surely you will join us in a toast to Her Majesty’s health.”

“Oh, I could not. The third goblet was intended for our Queen, should she be awake.”

Jocelyne, who’d never really cared for Isidore, thought it possible that Louis might have felt remorse. She picked up the wine glass closest to her and held it out. “I agree with Marie. You must join us. Her Majesty would insist.”

“Well, since you put it that way.” The knight accepted the proffered drink, made a toast in Occitan that brought a tear to Marie-Thèrese’s eye, and swallowed the contents of the sole, unpoisoned glass.

The tasteless, odorless poison, though not fatal, was fast-acting. Both women slumped into their chairs in under a minute, and they would remain unconscious for the duration of their cartage by enemies of Raymond to a pair of camel drivers outside the servants’ entrance. They would be well on their way to the slave auctions of Constantinople before they woke, and rumour-mongers, generously compensated, would, by then, have spread the tale of their defection, so appalled were the ladies of Her Majesty’s behaviour with her uncle, the Prince of Antioch.

The queen was a trickier business. Isidore couldn’t be certain that the assistants he’d engaged were loyal to King Louis—or rather sufficiently disloyal to the queen. Eleanor was the kind of monarch people loved for no reason, and he’d had to descend quite far down the pecking order of
mécontents
to find someone willing to taint the oats of her Anadolu pony. “You may use her carcass to feed your family,” he told the progeny of a German knight and murdered Seljuk concubine. “Her meat will be sweet. The poison has no effect on humans.” Fussy eater that she was, La Pistache, whom the King decided was too swift and too loyal to accompany their caravan, had taken nearly eight minutes to die.

Isidore gagged and bound Eleanor and with the help of two aides, wrapped her in coarse linen, stained to resemble the suppurations and bleedings of a leper. They carried her through the same servants’ entrance at the rear of the palace to a plain wheeled litter, harnessed to two horses.

The entourage that passed through the gates of Antioch an hour before dawn numbered less than twenty. Among them was a king disguised as a mendicant monk, a handful of his most loyal knights and their squires, and a few pilgrims who, for modest sums, were willing to insist, should anyone ask on their way to Jerusalem, that there wasn’t a drop of royal blood among them.

The Court of Love