Alienor shuddered. His words were burying her in a deep dark hole. Her lips formed words of refusal even though she did not speak.

‘Daughter, did you not hear me? You will be a great queen.’

‘But no one has asked me. It has all been decided behind my back.’ Her throat tightened. ‘What if I do not choose to marry Louis of France? What if I … what if I want someone else?’

His gaze was compassionate but stern. ‘Such a thing cannot be. Put it from your mind. It is meet and fitting that a father decides with whom his daughter should match. Do you not trust his decision? Do you not trust me? This is right for you, and right for Aquitaine and Poitou. Louis is young, handsome and educated. It will be an illustrious marriage, and it is your duty.’

Alienor felt as if she was being forced into a box and the lid nailed down, shutting out light and life. No one had cared to tell her, as if she was no more than a valuable parcel to be passed from hand to hand. How was it going to benefit her to be lady of all she surveyed if it was going to be handed on a platter to the French? She felt hurt and betrayed that her tutor had known all this time and said nothing, and that her father had been harbouring this intent even as he bade her farewell forever. She might as well indeed spend her life eating sugared fruits and listening to foolish gossip.

Reining Ginnet around, she dug in her heels and for a moment lost herself in the mare’s furious burst of speed, but as the palfrey started to flag, she eased her down again, knowing that no matter how hard she raced, she could not outrun the fate sealed upon her by the deception of those she had trusted most of all.

Gofrid had not ridden after her, and she drew rein alone on the dusty road and stared into the distance like the anonymous Roman on his lichen-covered plinth. The Archbishop had spoken as if this match was the pinnacle of good fortune, but she could not see it in the same light. She had never envisaged being Queen of France; to be Duchess of Aquitaine was her sacred duty and all that mattered. When she had dreamed of marriage in her private moments, the man standing at her side had been Geoffrey de Rancon, lord of Taillebourg and Gençay, and she thought that Geoffrey had perhaps thought about her in a similar way, although he had never said so.

With an aching heart, she reined about again and returned to her tutor, and it seemed to her that as she rode the last spangles of childhood fell in the dust behind her, glittered, and were gone.

On returning to the palace, Alienor went directly to the chamber she and Petronella shared to change her gown and make herself presentable for the main meal of the day, although she was not hungry and her stomach felt as if it were clamped to her spine. She leaned over the brass wash bowl and splashed her face with cool, scented water, feeling it ease the tightness caused by the fierce heat of the sun.

Petronella sat on the bed, plucking the petals from a daisy and humming tunelessly under her breath. The death of their father had hit her hard. At first she had refused to accept he was not coming back and Alienor had borne the brunt of her anger and grief because there was no one else on whom Petronella could vent her misery. She was a little better now, but still prone to teary moments and dark moods more petulant than usual.

Alienor drew the bed curtains to shut out the chamber ladies. They would know soon enough – perhaps already did in the way of court gossip – but she wanted to tell Petronella in private. Sitting down beside her, she brushed away the scattered petals. ‘I have news for you,’ she said.

Immediately Petronella tensed; last time Alienor had brought her news, it had been calamitous.

Keeping her voice low, Alienor said, ‘The Archbishop says I am to marry Louis, heir to France. He said Papa arranged it before he … before he went away.’

Petronella gave her a blank stare and then flicked away the daisy stalk. ‘When?’ she asked stonily.

‘Soon.’ Alienor’s mouth twisted on the word. ‘He is on his way here now.’

Petronella said nothing and turned to one side, fussing with the knotted laces on her gown.

‘Here, let me …’ Alienor stretched out her hand, but Petronella struck her away.

‘I can do it myself!’ she spat. ‘I don’t need you!’

‘Petra—’

‘You’re only going to go away and leave me, like everyone else. You don’t care about me. No one does!’

Alienor felt as if Petronella had driven a knife into her body. ‘That’s not true! I love you dearly. Do you think I would have chosen this for myself?’ She met her sister’s furious, frightened stare with one of her own. ‘Do you think I am not heartsick and scared? The one thing we have in this is each other. I will always care for you.’

Petronella hesitated, and in one of her volatile changes of mood, flung herself into Alienor’s arms, hugging her with ferocity and weeping. ‘I don’t want you to go away.’

‘I won’t.’ Alienor stroked Petronella’s hair, tears spilling down her face.

‘Swear it.’

Alienor crossed herself. ‘I swear it on my soul. I won’t let anything part us. Come now.’ Sniffing, wet-faced, she helped Petronella unpick the knot.

‘What … what does Louis of France look like?’

Alienor shrugged and wiped her eyes. ‘I do not know. He was destined for the Church until his older brother died, so at least he will have some learning.’ She also knew that his father was called Louis the Fat and her vision kept filling with the sickening image of an overweight pasty youth. She heaved a pensive sigh. ‘It was Papa’s wish and he must have had his reasons. We must do our duty and obey his will. We have no other choice.’


5

Bordeaux, July 1137

In the stultifying heat of early July the arrangements for the arrival of the French bridegroom and his army continued apace. News came to Bordeaux that Louis had reached Limoges in time to celebrate the feast of Saint Martial on 30 June. He had taken the homage of the Count of Toulouse and those barons of the Limousin who had come to tender their fealty as news of the impending wedding spread across Alienor’s lands. Now, accompanied by Alienor’s vassals, the French cavalcade had set out on the final stage of its journey.

From cellar to turret, Bordeaux prepared for Louis’s arrival. Hostels were swept out and decorated with banners and garlands. Cartloads of supplies rolled into the city from the surrounding countryside, together with herds and flocks for the slaughter. Seamstresses toiled over yards of pale gold cloth of escarlet, sewing a wedding gown fit for their new duchess and a future queen of France. The train was hemmed with hundreds of pearls and the sleeves swept from wrist to ankle with decorative golden hooks to loop them back should they get in the way.

In the dawn of a baking July morning, Alienor attended church to confess and be shriven. On her return, her women robed her in a gown of ivory damask, the gold laces pulled tight to emphasise her slender waist. A jewelled cap covered the top of her head, but her burnished hair remained exposed, the thick strands woven with metallic ribbons. Her nails were pink with madder stain and had been buffed until they gleamed. Alienor felt as if she had been polished to a shine just like the silver-gilt cups intended for the marriage feast.

Through the open shutters the sky was a pure summer blue. Doves circled the red tiled roof of the palace cote and the river sparkled like a treasure chest in the morning heat. Alienor gazed at the French tents on the far bank, arrayed like clusters of exotic mushrooms. Louis and his army had arrived shortly before dusk yesterday, and had made camp as the sun sank over the limpid waters of the Garonne. The pale canvases of the ordinary troops marked the French periphery, while the centre blazed with the bright silks and golden finials of the high nobility and the Church. She fixed her eyes on the largest pavilion of them all: lapis blue and powdered gold with the red oriflamme banner fluttering in the hot breeze outside its open flaps. She could see men coming and going but had no idea if one of them was her prospective husband.

All along the riverbank, small boats and barges plied their trade, rowing supplies of food and drink to the host on the far bank. A deputation of vessels sculled out towards the French encampment, the oars making white dashes in the water. Banners decorated the lead barge, which was draped with a canvas awning to shade its occupants from the sun, and she could see the figure of Archbishop Gofrid standing near the prow. They were on their way to greet the French delegation and bring Louis and his courtiers to the city for a formal first meeting of bride and groom.

Louis wouldn’t be fat, she told herself, trying to be positive. This was all happening for the greater good. But her stomach was hollow because it did not feel as if it was for the greater good, and she was moving ever further away from familiar shores.

Petronella joined her, jostling at the window. She was dancing on her tiptoes and the liveliest Alienor had seen her since their father’s death. Her initial upset at the news of the wedding had been subsumed by the excitement of the preparations. She adored fine clothes, distractions and entertainments, and this was satisfying all those appetites.

The Archbishop and her uncle disembarked on the opposite bank of the river and a servant hurried to the great blue and gold tent. Moments later a gathering of brightly clad courtiers emerged.

‘Which one do you think is Louis? Which one?’ Petronella craned her neck.

Alienor shook her head. ‘I do not know.’

‘That one – there in the blue!’ Petronella stretched her arm and pointed.

Alienor could see various churchmen in glittering regalia, and many nobles, but several were wearing blue and they were too far away for her to make a guess.

The awning shaded the party as the crew began to pull back across the water, but unlike her sister, Alienor felt as if she was watching an invasion rather than the joyful approach of a bridegroom and his retinue.

Louis felt sick with apprehension as the barge moored beneath the great walls of the Ombrière Palace. Envoys kept telling him how beautiful, gracious and demure his bride-to-be was, but envoys often told lies. He was keeping a tight rein on himself and hoping his fear did not show on his face for others to see. His father had entrusted this responsibility to him and he had to deal with it like a man.

The intense heat made it difficult to breathe. He could almost taste the sun-warmed canvas of the awning and feel it sticking at the back of his throat. Archbishop Gofrid of Bordeaux looked as if he were melting, sweat dribbling down his red face from the soaked brow-band of his embroidery-crusted mitre. He had greeted Louis with gravity and deference, and had added a smile for Abbot Suger who was an old friend and ally.

Louis’s seneschal, Raoul of Vermandois, wiped the back of his neck with a chequered silk cloth. ‘I have never known a summer so hot,’ he said, mopping carefully around the leather patch over his left eye.

‘You will find the palace cool and pleasant, my lords,’ the Archbishop said. ‘It was built long ago as a refuge from the summer heat.’

Louis glanced at the towering walls. The palace of Shade; the palace of Shadows. There was more than one meaning here. ‘We will welcome it, Archbishop,’ he said. ‘We often travelled after dusk and by moonlight to avoid the heat on the way here.’

‘Indeed,’ Gofrid replied, ‘and we are glad for your haste in this matter.’

Louis inclined his head. ‘My father understood the necessity.’

‘The Duchess looks forward to welcoming you.’

‘As I look forward to greeting her,’ Louis answered woodenly.

Raoul of Vermandois tossed a flash of silver coins into the water and they watched as youths dived for them, brown bodies glistening. ‘Your father said we should treat these people with courtesy and largesse,’ he said, grinning at Louis’s raised brows.

Louis was not certain that his father had meant quite so low down the pecking order, but Raoul was a man of cheerful and spontaneous gestures, and it could do no harm to throw money for the city youths to dive after, even if it was frivolous and less dignified than giving alms at the church door.

Once disembarked, they were greeted by various clergy and nobles before being escorted in slow procession under a shaded palanquin to the cathedral of Saint-André where Louis was to wed his young bride on the following day.

He entered under the decorated arch of the portico and stood in the holy presence of God. The cathedral interior was a cool and blessed haven from the burn of the midsummer sun. Drawing in the mingled scents of incense and candle wax, Louis sighed with relief. This was familiar territory. He walked down the nave with its decorated pillars and when he reached the altar steps, he signed his breast and prostrated himself.