Suger shook his head. ‘It is not a good idea to bring the Queen on such an undertaking,’ he said. ‘It will encourage other men to bring their wives, and perhaps even their families, and it will make the army unwieldy and slow, especially the whole train of servants and the amount of baggage required. The men will be distracted from their fight for Christ if there are women in the camp.’

‘They will cause immorality,’ Thierry agreed. ‘Women always do.’

Louis rubbed his chin. That was indeed a consideration. He was well aware that Suger did not want him to go, but his mind was set. The decisions now were those of policy: leave Alienor behind under close watch, or bring her with him where he could keep an eye on her. Perhaps the journey to Jerusalem and the pilgrimage would bring her back to God’s way again? ‘I need her with me in order to secure the full support of the Aquitaine contingent,’ he said. ‘If I do not, they will do as they please and either not come at all, or turn back midway, and who knows what havoc they will all wreak in my absence.’

Alienor was preparing for bed when Louis came to her chamber. She was so unaccustomed to his late-night visits these days that it took her a moment to gather herself and offer him a cup of wine. ‘This is an unaccustomed pleasure,’ she said, directing Gisela to pour Louis a drink.

He sat down on her bed. The curtains had been loosened from their loops and the sheets were turned down ready.

‘Are you intending to stay?’

He hesitated, and she was even more surprised when he nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘for a while.’

She dismissed her ladies, and sat down beside him.

‘I want to talk to you,’ he said.

‘About what?’ She tried to sound interested rather than wary.

‘The pilgrimage to rescue Edessa,’ he said. ‘I want you to come with me.’

Alienor’s expression froze. Louis took her hand and squeezed it hard enough to cause pain. ‘The men of Aquitaine will follow with greater commitment if you are present, and I know you will welcome the opportunity to speak with your uncle Raymond since he is your father’s only living brother.’

She was aware of him watching her narrowly, calculating her response. ‘What of France and Aquitaine? One of us should remain here to oversee matters.’

‘Suger is full capable of governing. There is the Count of Nevers too, and even if he takes the cowl as he says he intends to, my lord of Vermandois is well able to deal with the secular side of matters.’

Alienor’s stomach sank. ‘What of Marie? It is not right to leave her motherless for two years.’

Louis waved his hand. ‘She has nurses and women to care for her. A small child does not notice who its mother is. By the time she is capable of reason, we will be home.’ His expression hardened. ‘You shall accompany me. If we pray at the tomb of the Holy Sepulchre, you may yet bear me a son. I want you with me.’

She wondered how far Louis had seen through her intentions and set out to thwart her plans. He plainly was not doing this out of love. If she refused, he would find ways to either keep her restricted and powerless in France, or bring her along in far closer confinement than if she agreed. He had outflanked her.

‘As you wish,’ she said, lowering her eyes. The way he was squeezing her hand was agonising, but she refused to gasp or wince. ‘I will take the Cross with you at Vézelay.’

‘Good.’ He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her bloodless fingers before relaxing his grip. ‘We shall speak more tomorrow.’

When he had gone, Alienor got into bed, but she left the lamp burning and, rubbing her bruised hand, began to rethink her strategy.

Swords of sunlight cleft the clouds and illuminated the pilgrim church of the Madeleine crowning the hill of Vézelay. For those arriving on Easter Sunday 1146, it was as if the fingertips of God were reaching down to touch the abbey in benediction.

The town had long since burst at the seams and tents had sprung up in the surrounding fields. All of the hostels and houses were full. People slept at the roadside, their heads pillowed on their belongings. Cookstalls were doing a brisk trade. The bakers could not keep up with the demand for bread, and there was keen competition for the firewood to fuel their ovens. The thoroughfares to the abbey were choked with people, eager to be part of the Easter rites. Even with the new narthex, the abbey church could not contain the sheer numbers, and outdoor pulpits had been raised so that those outside could listen to the word of God in the same way that the crowds had first listened to Christ.

Alienor and Louis were shriven before the altar, which was surrounded by iron railings wrought from the fetters and chains of prisoners who had offered them on the occasion of being set free. Alienor prayed fervently to be rid of her own invisible fetters.

Following the service, they processed outside, the soldiers forcing a path through the pilgrims packing the nave and narthex, until they came to a pulpit standing upon open ground a little way from the church. Two thrones stood behind it adorned with silk drapes and cushions, the banners of France and Aquitaine planted either side. Louis and Alienor wore robes of plain undyed wool, although a large and elaborate gold cross set with numerous gemstones glimmered on Alienor’s breast.

Behind and around the thrones were gathered the nobility of France and Aquitaine. A cold wind ruffled the hilltop, but the sun continued to cut through the clouds and was even warm in the sheltered places.

A procession of white-clad monks approached the pulpit, led by the cadaverous Bernard of Clairvaux. His tonsure gleamed silver-grey in the light, and there was a translucent quality about him, as if he were not of this world. He fixed his burning gaze on Louis and Alienor, and then mounted the steps to the pulpit. Facing his audience of pilgrims and crusaders, he unrolled the parchment scroll in his hand and displayed the papal bull calling on all Christians to rescue the holy places of God from the infidel. His voice, despite his frail appearance, was powerful, and his emotive, moving oratory held the audience spellbound. A chill formed at the nape of Alienor’s neck and rippled down her spine. She glanced at Louis and saw tears glittering in his eyes.

Bernard struck the edge of the pulpit. ‘Let all who are prisoners this day go free! In the spirit of Saint Mary Magdalene at Vézelay, let all who wear fetters for their sins cast them off and take this cross of Christ and bear it to Jerusalem!’ Bernard spread his arms wide. ‘All shall be granted absolution. Only take up your swords for God and let your hearts be pure! Take the oath, take it now, take it for Christ who died on the Cross for your sins and rises again triumphant this very day!’

Louis prostrated himself at the foot of the pulpit, openly weeping. Bernard of Clairvaux presented him with a cross of white wool to stitch to his cloak and, lifting him to his feet, embraced him. Then Alienor knelt to receive her cross. She was trembling, a little with fear, but mostly with the emotion of the moment, which marked a new phase in her life.

Abbé Bernard presented her with the scrap of wool, ensuring that their fingers did not touch. His gaze fell on the magnificent cross on her breast and Alienor unfastened the chain and handed it to him. ‘A gift for the campaign,’ she said.

‘Thank you, my daughter,’ he replied and, as if it were burning his flesh, swiftly handed it to one of his attendants to place in an offerings chest. From inside her gown, Alienor hooked out the plain wooden cross that Bernard had given her at Saint-Denis.

People crowded forward to receive their crosses from the monks who had brought sackfuls to hand out, stitched in convents and monasteries the length and breadth of France, and for a while all was frantic activity. Louis and Alienor doled out crosses to eager, outstretched hands until there were none left. The crowd dispersed to tents and lodgings, or took the opportunity to pray in the church to seal their new vows. On her return to the guest house, Alienor saw many people sitting cross-legged on the grass, busy with needle and thread, sewing crosses on to cloaks and tunics. Someone was banging on a drum and singing a song in rousing tones.

‘Qui ore irat od Lovis

Ja mar d’enfern avrat paur

Cars s’arma en iert en pareis

Od les angles de nostre Segnor.’

Alienor suppressed the urge to mock the words. Whoever goes with Louis need not fear because his soul will go to Paradise and dwell with the angels and Our Lord. A worthy sentiment indeed, but if they went to Paradise, she suspected it might just be because Louis had gone and got them all killed. What she must do now was survive until she reached Antioch and the sanctuary and protection of her uncle Raymond.


25

Poitou, Autumn 1146

It was so good to be back in Poitiers, if only for a short time. Alienor felt as if her body had been bound in coils of rope, wound so tightly that she could barely breathe. Now, suddenly, the end had been pulled, twirling her round, unravelling her until she was dizzy with exhilaration.

Golden sunshine flickered through the trees, burnishing the leaves of chestnut and oak with the first tints of autumn. The sky was a clear, fierce blue, and the weather perfect for the progress she and Louis were making through her lands to muster support for the crusade. Louis concentrated his efforts on churches and abbeys. Alienor spoke to her vassals, urging them to provide support for the relief of Edessa and Raymond of Poitiers, the only surviving adult male in the direct line of the Dukes of Aquitaine.

Petronella travelled with her in her household, all trace of her darker moods banished by being home under the warm southern sun. Her laughter rang out and she romped like a child, captivating Raoul all over again. It was not uncommon to come across them kissing in corners like a pair of lustful adolescents. Going for a walk one night, unable to sleep, Alienor came across them making love in the moonlit garden. Petronella’s legs were clasped around Raoul’s waist as they urged each other on with words better suited to a dockside brothel. It had been a shock to witness: raw, powerful, yet strangely beautiful. Alienor had tiptoed away without being seen, feeling wistful, even sad. Raoul and Petronella’s relationship might be volatile and imperfect, but it was real.

They came to Taillebourg, and there she received the homage of the vassals of the Charente. Geoffrey de Rancon knelt at her feet to pledge his oath, and swore that he would lead the men of Aquitaine with honour and defend her with his life on the journey to Antioch.

She raised him up and gave him the kiss of peace, inhaling the warm scent of his skin. ‘Then I shall be protected indeed.’ To know she and Geoffrey were going to be in close proximity to each other for many months, gave her a frisson of pleasure mingled with apprehension.

Having travelled as far as Bordeaux on their progress to raise funds and recruit for the crusade, Alienor and Louis returned to Poitiers. Geoffrey of Anjou arrived to pay his respects and Alienor felt a gleam of interest when he requested an audience with her. The last time she had seen the Count of Anjou had been at her coronation when she was a bride and little more than a child. The way he had looked at her had filled her with frightened excitement. These days she no longer lacked knowledge or confidence. She had become one of his kind and knew exactly how to deal with him.

On the previous occasion, he had come to pay his homage as a vassal to the young King of France. The daring red fox of Anjou, circling the edges of the court, ready to snatch at any morsels of opportunity that came his way. Now his military doggedness and prowess had rewarded him with the rule of all Normandy, and his power and prestige had risen to a level that could not be nudged aside.

‘Do you think he is here to take the Cross?’ Petronella asked, eyeing him avidly.

‘I doubt it,’ Alienor said with hard amusement. ‘His wife is fighting for her right to England and he is part of that fight. He has only just won Normandy and he is far too shrewd a player to abandon his gains.’

Petronella’s smile dimpled out. ‘I’m sure he will have a diverting answer.’

‘I am sure too,’ Alienor said with a gleam of anticipation. She was keen to match wits with him and see the differences that time had wrought. Summoning her ladies, she began making preparations for the exchange.

‘You are setting yourself up to be eaten alive,’ Petronella warned her.

‘On the contrary, I am donning my armour,’ Alienor replied, watching her ladies cascade rose petals into a large bowl of warm water. ‘A thousand petals to take the place of a sword. These are a woman’s weapons.’