Their second lovemaking was a more leisurely affair, and when they had both taken their pleasure, they lay curled together in each other’s arms. Petronella closed her eyes and savoured the feel of his hands gently running through her hair, drawing it back from her temples. He was all she wanted. Her father, her lover, a man of standing and prowess who shared her needs and her drives. It was impossible to think of herself as separate from him.

‘What is going to happen to us?’ she asked. ‘I want to be with you always. I don’t care about politics. I don’t care about being the sister of the Queen. If we have to go into exile, I will gladly follow you barefoot in my shift.’

‘I would not ask that of you,’ he said with graceful tact, while being unnerved at the thought of such a fate. Barefoot and impoverished was only romantic as a figure of speech, not in reality.

‘I would do it.’ Leaving the bed, she went to the trestle and took a bunch of sweet, dark grapes from the fruit bowl there. Her long dark hair hung down below her waist. Eyeing her figure with appreciation, he reached for his shirt.

She returned to him and leaned over, a grape between her teeth to feed him, mouth to mouth. ‘A papal legate once told my grandsire to give up my grandmother, who was his mistress, and my grandsire replied that luxurious curls would grow on the legate’s bald head before ever he did that. Would you do that for me? Would you face down Church and State just to have me at your side?’

Raoul’s chest tightened as he saw the vulnerability in her eyes and the way she trembled like a young deer. ‘Ah, darling,’ he said, cupping her cheek. ‘Don’t fret. We’ll think of something when we get to Paris.’

She fed him another grape. ‘You promise?’

‘I promise.’ He patted her buttocks. ‘Come, put on your clothes.’

‘Only if you dress me,’ she said with a wicked sparkle.

Raoul grinned and picked up one of her silk leg hose. ‘That, my love, will be a pleasure – mayhap not as keen a one as undressing you, but still pleasure enough.’ Taking her ankle in his hand, he rubbed his thumb over it, and then leaned over to kiss her toes and lick between them, making her squeal.

Their business finished, Alienor and Louis went to walk in the gardens as dusk encroached. A chill breeze had sprung up and both of them wore soft woollen cloaks trimmed with fur. Side by side, they paused at the pond to gaze into the twilight-coloured water. Alienor remembered a time when they had made love here, their bodies entwined like a pair of sleek fauns. It seemed so long ago now, so distant. In the space of a few short years they had become very different people from the girl and youth who had lain here, discovering and worshipping each other’s bodies. She dared not ask if he remembered that time, because she dreaded the answer he might give. There was a feeling of sadness in the gloaming, as if more than just the evening was drawing to a close. These were their last hours in Poitiers, and when they departed, she did not know when next they would return.

‘I should go to my prayers,’ Louis said with a glance at the sky and she felt him start to draw away from her.

‘You can as easily see God here as in a church,’ she said. ‘Do you not wonder at the marvels of His creation? What does man have to compare with this?’ She indicated the dark band of royal-purple cloud, scored with an under-ribbon of deepest red. ‘Even Abbé Suger would have to agree. This is better than any stained window he could ever devise.’

‘That is true,’ he acknowledged, taking her hand in his – a rare gesture these days, coming of its own accord. She moved into his touch and stroked his hair. It was his finest feature, thick and silver-blond, and she loved the way it swung against the column of his throat.

‘Louis …’ she said softly and thought that there might be a way back after all.

‘Sire?’ The moment vanished like the last vermilion streak of sunset as they broke apart and faced his chaplain, Odo of Deuil.

‘What is it?’ Louis snapped. ‘Why do you interrupt us?’

Looking uncomfortable, the priest cleared his throat. ‘Sire, madam, I am sorry to be the bearer of ill news, but once it becomes common knowledge, there will be no containing it.’

‘What ill news? No containing what?’ Louis demanded. ‘Don’t speak in riddles, man. Out with it!’

Father Odo said, with a glance at Alienor, ‘Sire, it is a matter that touches on the lady Petronella and her relationship to a man of the court.’

Louis threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Gossip again! I am sick of all the petty tittle tattle.’

Alienor’s heart froze. Dear God, what had Petronella done now? She had thought her sister safe with her women and the crisis averted. ‘Which man?’ she demanded.

‘Madam … it is the constable, the sire de Vermandois.’

Louis exhaled hard, his eyes steely with anger. ‘This is typical court gossip. The Queen and I are well aware of the matter concerning my sister and the lord of Vermandois.’

A look of utter shock crossed the clergyman’s face. ‘Sire, madam, with due respect, I do not believe you are.’

Alienor narrowed her eyes.

‘Very well,’ Louis said, rubbing his forehead, ‘but let this be an end to it. We have more important matters to deal with than this foolishness.’

‘Sire, Raoul de Vermandois is entertaining the Queen’s sister in his chamber in a licentious manner. My scribe overheard them planning their tryst earlier and watched to see where they went. It is all true, I swear it. De Vermandois’s squire is keeping watch in the stairwell even now.’

Alienor felt sick. De Deuil’s scribe would not just have happened to see Raoul and Petronella together. Plainly the court spies had been very busy.

Louis was white. ‘Show me,’ he said.

De Deuil gave a stiff bow and, folding his arms inside his habit, led them out of the garden. More clerics were waiting there in deputation, and Alienor began to feel very afraid as Louis summoned guards to accompany them. Something terrible was about to happen and she could do nothing to prevent it.

Odo de Deuil led the way into the palace and climbed the twisting stairs of the Maubergeonne Tower to the private chambers. They heard the footsteps of the squire in the stairwell dashing up to warn his lord. Louis’s guards pushed past the chaplain and ran up after the young man, seizing him and clubbing him to the ground outside a heavy wooden door as he yelled a warning. Panting from his climb, Father Odo gripped the wrought-iron latch ring, twisted it and pushed the door wide open.

A brazier burned in the hearth. An empty padded bench stood before it with a wine jug and cups on a table close by. Further into the room was a bed and Petronella was in it, clad in her shift with the laces untied and her breasts exposed. Raoul de Vermandois, wearing shirt and hose but no tunic, stood over her, preparing to defend her with his drawn sword.

Louis made a choking sound. Alienor stared in horrified shock, because there was no mistaking the evidence, and she was responsible for having allowed the fox into the chicken coop. Petronella had stifled a scream at the intrusion, but now gazed at everyone in brazen defiance, making no effort to cover herself.

‘Drop your sword,’ Louis snarled. ‘Would you show steel to your king?’

Raoul swallowed and, throwing the weapon aside, fell to his knees. ‘Sire, I can explain …’

A shudder ran through Louis. ‘You are very good at explaining,’ he said icily, ‘and I have always been foolish enough to listen to you and trust you, while all the time you have been betraying me and God. I do not want to hear what you have to say, because my eyes see very well what duplicity you have wrought. This is treason. What I must decide now is what to do with you.’ He turned to Alienor, his voice thick with rage. ‘Madam, deal with your sister.’ He pointed a finger at the soldiers. ‘Until further notice, my lord of Vermandois is under house arrest and will speak to no one but his confessor. See to it.’ Turning on his heel, he strode from the room.

Alienor glared at Raoul. ‘I trusted you,’ she said with loathing. ‘I asked you to protect Petronella, and instead you have desecrated her. May you rot in hell forever.’ She stepped to one side so that she could look at her sister who had still not covered herself. ‘I trusted you too.’

Petronella’s expression was hard with defiance. ‘I love him.’ Her voice was fierce. ‘You don’t know anything about love.’

‘Oh, but I do,’ Alienor replied bitterly. ‘Because I love you, and you have just broken my heart.’

Petronella’s chin wobbled and she made a small, desperate sound in her throat. Raoul turned to her and gently draped her cloak around her shoulders. ‘You cannot stay here, my love,’ he said. ‘They will not allow it, and, one way or another, this must be sorted out. Go with the Queen. All will be well, trust me.’ He looked at Alienor. ‘Do not blame her, madam. It is my fault.’

Alienor could not bring herself to answer him because she was choked with rage and shame, much of it on her own account. She should have seen this coming; she should have realised. ‘Come,’ she said brusquely to Petronella. ‘If you do not of your own will, the guards will force you.’

Petronella was trembling, but she drew courage around her like the cloak and, leaving the bed, walked from the room and past the assembled gathering of clergy with her head carried high. Alienor followed her, and she too ignored the clergy. They were vultures, who had only been awaiting the opportunity to feast at the kill.

‘Do you know what you have done?’ Alienor demanded of Petronella once her chamber door had closed behind them. ‘How are we ever going to mend this scandal? I could shake you until your teeth rattle!’

‘I love him.’ Petronella said again and folded her arms inside the cloak, hugging herself. Her voice cracked. ‘And he loves me.’

‘You only think you love him,’ Alienor said harshly. ‘You are a child, and he has seduced you.’

Petronella’s voice grew shrill. ‘It isn’t like that, it isn’t! And I’m not a child!’

‘Then stop acting like one! How long has this been going on under everyone’s nose? How long have you been practising this deceit? That night at Talmont – that cloth. You had been with him, hadn’t you?’

‘What if I had?’ Petronella lifted her chin. ‘It was the best night of my life. He cares about me. You don’t. You only care about your own reputation as Queen.’

Each statement of Petronella’s struck Alienor like a blow. ‘Irrespective of my reputation as Queen, Raoul of Vermandois was in a position of trust; he violated that trust and broke his honour and yours. He is old enough to be your grandsire, let alone your father. You allowed Aimery de Niort to be your scapegoat and to be punished for something he did not do.’ Alienor’s voice burned with disgust. ‘What do you think our father would have said if he knew about this? Do you think he would approve?’

‘He went away and left us! If you are talking of ancestors, then our grandparents did not stop to worry what anyone would think. They lived and made love as they chose!’

‘And others have paid for it ever since – including you for following their example.’

‘Better I should be like them than that my juices should dry up for want of use.’

Alienor’s hand cracking against Petronella’s cheek was a shocking punctuation to the exchange. The feel of the blow tingled through Alienor’s palm as the mark turned from white to red on Petronella’s face. Shaking, Petronella stared at her with eyes full of hatred, misery and furious bravado. In that moment, Alienor saw a wounded creature run to bay and doing its utmost to take its slaughterers down with it. ‘Have we come to this as sisters?’ Alienor whispered. ‘To be enemies? Surely we have enough of those already without ripping each other apart.’

The battle light died from Petronella’s eyes. She gave a wrenching sob, then another and another, as if small pieces were being torn from her body.

‘Petra …’ Alienor could not bear to see her sister in such pain. She drew her into her arms and held her tightly, tears running down her own face as Petronella sobbed. Her sister was so damaged, so vulnerable. Gelding was too merciful a punishment for Raoul de Vermandois.

Once the worst of the storm had passed, Alienor drew Petronella to the hearth, gave her a napkin to wipe her tears and poured them both wine. ‘What were you thinking?’ she asked. ‘It was bound to surface sooner or later. You could not keep something as great as this a secret.’

‘We were living in the moment,’ Petronella sniffed. ‘The future didn’t matter.’

‘The future always matters.’