‘Here is sweetness, for a lady who is sweeter than honey itself,’ a man’s voice whispered, and something syrupy and sticky touched her mouth. Petronella’s eyes flew open and she gave a soft gasp. Raoul was leaning over her and dripping honey on to her lips from a small pot in his hand.

Licking it off, she sat up and swatted at him playfully. ‘Do you always accost sleeping ladies in such a way?’

Raoul chuckled and raised one eyebrow. ‘Usually the ladies I accost are not asleep,’ he replied. ‘But if they are, they very soon wake up.’ He flicked the tip of her nose with his forefinger. ‘I was offering you this while there is still some left. Those greedy gorgers were prepared to devour the lot. Of course, if you would rather not, then all the more for them.’ He indicated the other members of the party, who were finishing off their repast with fruits dipped in honey.

Petronella took the pot from him, scooped up a fingerful and sucked the honey off it. Then she repeated the move but this time popped her finger in his mouth. Raoul made a sound of amusement in his throat, and proceeded to lick away the honey using his tongue with a delicate finesse that sent a shiver down Petronella’s spine and made her forget all about the young knights and the troubadour. No one could see what he was doing, because her finger was concealed inside his mouth.

‘All clean,’ he said, drawing her hand away from his lips.

Petronella looked at him coquettishly. ‘Do you want more?’ she asked.

‘Ah, now that is a leading question.’ He laughed softly. ‘You cannot keep playing with fire and not suffer the consequences, you know that.’ He gave her an assessing look. ‘It does not seem a moment since you were a wide-eyed little girl in Bordeaux, staring very suspiciously at all these strange Frenchmen – especially me.’ He pointed to his eye patch.

‘I am still suspicious of Frenchmen,’ Petronella retorted, ‘and I still think them strange.’

‘Why should you be suspicious of me? Have I not always had your wellbeing at heart?’

‘I do not know, sire. Perhaps you court your own benefit.’

‘Certainly that is true in your case. How could you not be beneficial for me?’ He ran his right forefinger lightly down her cheek. ‘You remind this old warhorse what it is like to be young and alive.’

The troubadour began another song. Petronella shifted position so that she was leaning against Raoul’s shoulder and chest rather than her cushions. ‘You are not old to me,’ she said. ‘The young knights and squires are like children, but you are a man … And I am not a little girl.’

He said nothing, and she twisted her head. ‘I’m not!’

‘Oh indeed,’ he said with rueful amusement. ‘You are a beautiful young woman, and I am as a bee drunk on nectar.’

‘How did you lose your eye?’ She reached up and lightly traced the outline of the leather patch.

He shrugged. ‘It was at a siege. I was struck in the face by a shard of flying stone, and that was that.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Sometimes. I was sick with a fever for a while after, and in great pain, but I coped because what other choice did I have? I was never a man for looking in mirrors. I know the value of fine clothes and appearance, but a battle scar like this is honourable and does not prevent me from doing my work, or taking part at court. And these days I am not a young hothead to charge into the thick of the fray at the first trumpet, so it matters not that I have less vision with which to fight.’

Petronella enjoyed the way he was talking to her as one adult to another, and she liked the feel of his strong body supporting hers. He lit her up inside. He had always been able to make her laugh and banish her cares. At first she had thought of him as a surrogate father, but now she was very aware of him as an attractive and powerful man. He had a wife, but she was far away and of no consequence; indeed, it only added spice to the mix.

She covered one eye with her hand and tried to imagine what he must be seeing. Raoul watched her with a smile, but added with a slight edge: ‘Now imagine that you cannot take your hand away, and that is what you will see forever.’

Petronella was immediately contrite. ‘I am sorry; I was not making little of it.’

‘I know, doucette, but some things in my life you cannot begin to imagine or understand.’

‘I could try if you taught me.’

‘Perhaps.’ He left her to go and mingle with others. Petronella watched him, a sinking feeling in her stomach as she wondered if her remark had caused him to walk away. He did not return to her, but socialised with various groups, speaking a word here, touching a shoulder there, laughing at a jest, making a quip of his own. He was thoroughly at ease and knew exactly how to talk to everyone. His face might be seamed and scarred with decades of experience, but he moved with grace and his body was lean and hard.

A young knight settled at her side, and she deliberately flirted with him while still watching Raoul from the corner of her eye. He glanced her way now and again, looking amused, but continued his rounds and was still not disposed to return to her.

When the court prepared to return to the castle, Petronella went to her mare, but as the groom prepared to boost her into the saddle, she stepped back, frowning. ‘She’s going lame on her front foreleg,’ she said, pointing. ‘I don’t think I ought to ride her.’

The groom ran his hand down the mare’s shoulder and leg. He picked up a hoof and examined the underside. ‘She seems sound enough to me, mistress.’

‘I am telling you, she is lame,’ Petronella said impatiently. ‘Do you argue with me?’

‘No, mistress.’ He clamped his jaw and looked down at his feet.

‘What is it?’ Already mounted, Alienor arrived, La Reina perched on her wrist.

‘Stella’s lame,’ Petronella said. ‘I’ll have to ride pillion with someone.’

Alienor raised her eyebrows. ‘I can see straight through your ruse,’ she said. ‘Even if it is not plain on your face, Aimery de Niort is giving the game away.’ She glanced towards the young knight who was holding his own horse at the ready, his expression expectant and smug.

‘The lady Petronella can share my saddle.’ Raoul shouldered forward. ‘Barbary has a good broad back; he will bear two of us with ease.’

Alienor gave him a grateful look. ‘Thank you.’ That would keep Petronella out of mischief. Crestfallen, de Niort turned away.

Petronella lowered her head but sent Raoul a coy upward glance, her hands clasped behind her back like a naughty child.

Raoul shook his head. ‘I hope Stella makes a swift recovery.’

‘I am sure it is not a serious injury, and I know I will be safe with you, because you’re such a good rider.’

Raoul’s mouth twitched. ‘I’ve had a lot of practice,’ he replied.

A groom held the iron-grey steady while Raoul cupped his hands to make a step for Petronella to launch herself on to Barbary’s wide rump. Raoul then mounted in front of her and shortened the reins. Petronella slipped her arms around his waist, enjoying the feel of his strong muscles under her hands. She imagined how his skin might feel without the barrier of clothes. As close as she was, she wanted to be even closer. To be inside him … and have him inside of her.


15

Talmont, Summer 1141

Alienor felt the familiar cramp low down in her belly, and the sudden hot trickle of blood between her thighs told her that yet again she had failed to conceive. She called Floreta to fetch the soft cloths she used for those times of the month, and pretended not to see the pity in the woman’s eyes.

She would have to tell Louis that yet again there was not going to be a child. But then his visits to her bed were so haphazard and dependent on whether or not it was a permitted time that the odds of her conceiving were poor. How could there be a baby if there was no seed to make one?

The cramps were painful, but Alienor was not one to linger in bed and instead took some sewing over to the window, where the best light would fall on the fabric. As she picked up her needle, Louis burst into the room. His face was flushed and his eyes glittering with tears of fury. ‘They have denied me,’ he snarled. ‘How dare they!’

‘Who has denied you?’ Alienor put her sewing down and looked at him in alarm.

‘The monks of the cathedral chapter of Bourges.’ He shook the letter clenched in his fist. ‘They have rejected Cadurc and elected their own archbishop. Some upstart called Pierre de la Châtre. How dare they meddle with the will and right of an anointed king – God’s chosen! Is this the gratitude I receive for being a loyal son of the Church?’ His breath sawed in and out of his lungs.

Alienor drew him to the embrasure and, making him sit, poured him a cup of wine. ‘Calm yourself,’ she said. ‘Their candidate is not yet consecrated.’

‘And neither shall he be!’ Louis snatched the wine and drank. ‘I will not have these vile ruffians contradicting me. There is no precedent for what they are doing. The right is mine. No matter what happens, I swear by Saint Denis that they shall not prevail.’

‘I knew this would happen,’ she said, and then tightened her lips. Done was done. She had told him to visit Bourges and make his intentions clear, but he had chosen to believe that his authority would be obeyed from a distance.

‘I shall write to the Pope telling him to forbid the election, and I shall deny de la Châtre entry into Bourges.’

‘Pope Innocent supports free elections of prelates,’ she said. ‘He may choose to uphold their candidate.’

‘I do not care what he does. I am not having this monk I do not know for my archbishop. I shall uphold my right to choose my own clergy in my own kingdom to the last breath in my body!’ Louis screwed the parchment into a ball and hurled it across the room.

‘You should write to the Pope in conciliatory terms,’ she warned.

‘I shall write to him as I see fit. I am not the one causing strife here.’ He jerked to his feet.

‘I have my flux,’ she said, choosing to deal with the bad news all at one blow.

‘Why is everything so difficult?’ He exhaled a sound filled with massive frustration. ‘What have I ever done wrong that everyone and everything conspires against me? I try to live my life as an exemplar and this is my reward: a disobedient clergy and a barren wife!’ He flung from the room, kicking over a stool on his way out.

Alienor leaned her aching head against the cool stone of the embrasure wall. The situation at Bourges need never have arisen had Louis cultivated the monks there as she had advised. Now there would be conflict and awkwardness, and Louis would stamp around in a temper, poisoning the atmosphere for everyone. Though supposedly a grown man and an anointed king, he was so childish and naive that she despaired of him.

It was late. Petronella was tipsy having drunk too much wine at the dinner feast. Next week the court was returning to Poitiers and then to Paris and the idyll was almost over. She had danced in her thin kidskin shoes until her feet were sore. Raoul claimed not to like dancing, but even so he was graceful on his feet and had been swift to step in and cut off the young bloods vying for her favours. She had laughed at the jesters until her sides ached, had joined in the songs, clapping her hands and raising her voice in harmony. Now all that was finished and people were retiring for the night, Alienor to her chamber and Louis to his prayers.

Raoul sat at the dais table with her amid the crumbs and the candles burning low. He poured more wine into his cup and just a splash into hers. Around them the servants were tidying away the trestles, stacking them against the side of the hall, but conspicuously leaving the high table alone.

‘So,’ said Raoul, ‘what shall we toast, you and I?’

‘I do not know, sire,’ she said with a flirtatious smile. ‘You are more experienced at raising toasts than I am.’

‘Then to fine wine and the beautiful women of Aquitaine.’ He raised his cup.

She frowned at him. ‘Beautiful women?’

‘To just one woman,’ he amended. ‘To the Queen’s most perfect sister.’

‘Say my name,’ she said.

‘Petronella.’

The timbre of his voice made her shiver. She raised her own cup. ‘To fine wine and strong men,’ she said. ‘And to the King’s most imperfect cousin.’ She swallowed with a long ripple of her throat.

‘Say my name,’ he responded.

‘I have said it time and again at night with only my pillow to hear.’ She ran her index finger around the rim of her cup. ‘But if your head were on my pillow, you could hear for yourself.’

He lowered his voice and glanced around at the servants. ‘That would be a very hazardous thing to do.’