Devil's Consort Read Free Page A

tall, as tall as I, for which I was grateful. His hair was long and fair, waving to his shoulders. Blue eyes, the blue of a summer sky, were direct and almost childlike in their openness. Fine features, a straight nose and austere cheeks. His mouth was well moulded, curved into a sweet, disarming smile. He had taken a razor to his cheeks and chin, his skin soft and smooth. Without doubt, as any woman would see, an attractive man.
    Will he be attractive in bed?
    The thought that leapt into my mind, as silkily as my rosary beads slipped through my fingers at Mass, did not surprise me. After all, what was the purpose of this union if not to safeguard the future of my domains through the begetting of a child? Would he be pleasing? I thought he would. His shoulders were broad, his figure elegant. His hands were beautiful and slender. I would not object to intimacy with this man.
    ‘My lady.’ His voice was soft, pleasant to the ear as he bowed again with exquisite grace.
    ‘My lord, you are right welcome,’ I replied in similar Latin, the formal diplomatic language of the court.
    As he bent his head to press his lips to my fingers, I assessed his clothing with some surprise. His garments were of fine wool, the best I had seen, and in the most magnificent red that I did not wear but coveted—ared-haired woman would not choose to wear such a hue unless she was totally witless—but the garment was in what I would have called an outdated fashion. The overgown reached Louis’s ankles, rather than his knees, over a plain linen under-tunic that showed at neck and hem. No bands of braiding or embroidery to enhance the collar or sleeves, only minimal stitching around the neck and that without style. He wore no jewels. His belt was of good quality but plain leather, as were his boots. He had dressed well but completely without show to draw attention to his rank.
    He wore no sword at his belt. The Dukes of Aquitaine wore a sword unless in the bedchamber. And even then, until persuaded to remove it by the lady who shared their sheets.
    How could the heir of France not wear a sword, the ultimate symbol of power?
    I pursed my lips faintly through my smile, trying not to be over-critical. So he did not like display and ostentation. That did not make him less of a man. Perhaps as a Prince of France he saw no need to emphasise his status with sword and poignard on the day he met his intended bride. But his hands and face were pale, un-weathered. The fingers that held mine bore no calluses from sword or shield or even horse harness. He was no warrior, no fighter for sure. He bore no trace of hard campaigning through rain and sun.
    Neither was he finding it easy to choose what to saynext to me. An awkward little silence fell between us. Which I broke.
    ‘I have looked forward to this moment when we would meet, my lord,’ I said.
    Louis flushed, his fair skin pink as an early rose. I saw his throat convulse as he swallowed.
    ‘Lady. I have heard much of your beauty. The rumours were not false. Your eyes are as fine and rare as … as emeralds.’
    His flush deepened. I saw myself reflected in his eyes and knew that he was much taken with me. But that was not the reason for the ripple of surprised pleasure that stirred the fine hairs at my nape. Oh …
    His flattering words were not in Latin!
    How this man had courted me. And I had not at first noticed. He had gone to the considerable trouble to learn at least some words in my own language, the
langue d’oc
of the south, the official language of Aquitaine, rather than the
langue d’oeil
that Louis would speak in his Frankish kingdom.
    ‘You honour me,’ I murmured, failing to hide my astonishment.
    ‘I have tried. I learned the phrases on my journey here,’ he admitted with a soft laugh. ‘But my conversation would be limited. Perhaps we should revert to Latin. God give you good health, my lady.’
    And so we slid smoothly into Latin again because we must, but the gesture to me was a