Devil's Consort by Anne O'Brien Page A

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 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