Gofrid kissed her forehead. ‘God watches over you and protects you,’ he said.

‘Aided by an alert constable and men who are well paid to keep their ears and eyes open,’ she replied tartly. ‘God tends to help those who help themselves.’


43

Beaugency, April 1152

It was done and Alienor was free, whatever freedom meant in this new context. The annulment had been pronounced by Gofrid de Louroux, and she was at liberty to return to Poitiers. Standing by the open window in the chamber that had been hers for the duration of the conference, she fastened her cloak and looked out on the fresh April morning.

From where she stood, she could see people leaving: the entourages of various bishops accompanied by laden baggage trains. Bernard of Clairvaux rode a white mule, his belongings borne in a plain bundle strapped to his crupper. Alienor shuddered. At least she would not have to suffer involvement with him ever again. She strongly suspected he had been behind the Bishop of Langres’s attack. For a man who professed to love God, he was filled with the vinegar of hatred and self-righteousness.

She felt bereft rather than elated by her freedom because of all the wasted years with nothing to show but acrimony and loss. The best to be said was that the business was finished and cut off like a piece of fabric from a loom, and could be rolled up and stored away, never to be looked at again.

‘Madam, the horses are saddled,’ announced young Geoffrey de Rancon, looking round the door. ‘If we make haste now, we can bypass Blois by moonlight.’

Alienor turned from the window. ‘I am ready,’ she said. ‘Let us go home.’

She was waiting in the courtyard for her palfrey to be brought to her when Louis arrived, cloaked and booted for his return to Paris. On seeing her, he froze.

‘It is finished,’ Alienor said to bridge the awkwardness, her tone bereft of emotion. ‘I wish you Godspeed on your journey, sire.’

‘And I you,’ he replied stiffly.

‘We shall not meet again.’ She would make sure of it. There were moments in their marriage when she had loved Louis and many more when she had reviled and hated him, but just now she felt numb. It was as dust. She would ride away and not look back.

Thierry de Galeran emerged from the hall, his hand on his sword hilt. He stared at Alienor as if she were a stain on his tunic. She returned his look with equal revulsion. Without this man to poison Louis’s life and bed, without Bernard of Clairvaux and his noxious sermons, without all the petty, power-hungry men of Church and State fighting for influence over Louis, their marriage might have stood a chance of survival.

‘Madam.’ De Galeran gave her a bow that managed to be of the utmost courtesy while mocking her at the same time.

Saldebreuil arrived with her palfrey: a chestnut gelding with a gliding gait that would eat up the miles effortlessly. The horse was lightly laden and glossy with condition. Saldebreuil’s courtly flourish as he boosted her into the saddle wiped out de Galeran’s insult. Since the journey was a long one, Alienor was riding astride as she would do for the hunt rather than with a lady’s platform saddle. Her skirts were full to cover her dignity, and beneath them she wore leather hose tucked into strong boots. There was no impropriety as Saldebreuil helped her into the saddle, but still she was aware of Louis’s disapproval and her impatience flared. His next wife would have to be a nun to please him.

Young Geoffrey de Rancon unfurled her eagle banner. The morning breeze caught the silks and they rippled in a bold dance. She gave the gelding a dig with her heels, clicked her tongue, and swept out of Beaugency at a trot. A hundred and thirteen miles lay between here and Poitiers: more than three days of hard riding. On an ordinary progress that time might extend to almost a week, but Alienor wanted to be safe behind her own walls as swiftly as possible, because when this journey ended, a new one could begin.

The chestnut covered the miles at a steady pace. Alienor and her troop stopped at the roadside at noon, spreading a white cloth on the grass to eat a simple meal of bread and cured beef washed down with slightly sour red wine. Then they were on their way again, riding steadily until dusk fell and the Loire rippled like dark grey silk in the evening breeze. Clouds were encroaching from the north and it started to spit with rain. Alienor drew up her hood, but nevertheless enjoyed the fresh green scents awoken by the moisture. A blackbird was singing its heart out and others answered, claiming their territories in the dusk. The spatters grew heavier, dimpling the river.

‘Listen,’ said Saldebreuil suddenly.

Alienor tilted her head. The birdsong turned to chips of alarm as four men rode out of the dusk towards them. Their clothes were ordinary, but their mounts were strong and glossy.

Alienor’s escort reached for their swords, and she prepared to flee. The leading rider raised his hand and put down his hood, revealing a thatch of rumpled golden-brown hair. ‘Peace to all. I mean you no harm,’ he said. ‘I am here to help you. My name is Hamelin FitzCount, half-brother to Henry, Duke of Normandy and Count of Anjou. I have come to see you safely past Blois.’

Alienor stared at him, more than a little taken aback. He was handsome with a look of Henry, although his colouring was softer. The straight mouth was the same though, and the set of the shoulders. ‘That is most laudable,’ she replied, ‘but why should I trust you?’

He spread his hands. ‘There are but four of us. We are scarcely going to overpower you, and it is against our interests to lead you into a trap with Blois. I serve my brother and I am loyal to him.’ He dismounted and bowed deeply to her, although he did not go so far as to kneel. ‘There is a welcome party waiting for you at Blois, one I suspect you do not wish to attend. They have patrols out searching for you too, and you will not win past them. They intend taking you by force and wedding you to Count Theobald this very night.’

Alienor did not doubt his information, but was still wary of trusting him. ‘What are you going to do? Lead us by another road in the dark?’ She gestured to his men. ‘You are hardly equipped to fight.’

‘Not the road,’ Hamelin swiftly replied, ‘but the river as far as Tours. I have arranged with a pair of bargemen to take a party tonight, but they do not know your identity. You must disguise yourself, madam, or stay well in the background. It is best they do not associate you with the Queen of France.’ He glanced around. ‘We should make haste.’

‘What about the horses?’

‘A few chosen men can take them down to Tours by a different route and rendezvous there.’

‘You mean split the group?’ Saldebreuil shook his head.

Hamelin nodded. ‘It is the best way.’

Alienor looked at the four men. Her instinct was to trust Hamelin because he had nothing to gain and everything to lose if he betrayed her to Blois. Coming to a decision, she turned to Saldebreuil. ‘Lend me a tunic and your spare gambeson.’

Saldebreuil’s dark brows rose. ‘Suppose this is a trap?’ he muttered.

She shook her head. ‘It is not in the interests of Henry of Anjou’s half-brother to play false. He is bastard-born without the affinity or resources to fight the war he would cause. You take the majority of the troop and act as a decoy. If Theobald of Blois is after us, then let him chase you, not me.’

Still looking dubious, Saldebreuil nevertheless reached to his saddle pack and handed over the requested garments.

Alienor dismounted. With her escort forming a circle around her, facing outwards, she removed her dress and, with Marchisa’s help, donned the tunic and gambeson. The bulk of the latter concealed her curves. A leather belt with a sheathed knife, a short grey cloak and separate woollen hood, pulled up to conceal her hair and hide her face, completed the disguise. She removed her rings and put them in a pouch at her waist and crouched to rub dirt into her hands. Her gown was stuffed into a coarse woollen bundle tied to a spear haft. Alienor grimaced. ‘It will pass at a distance, but I doubt it will fool anyone who looks closely,’ she said.

‘A distance is all we need and it is dark,’ said Hamelin.

The bulk of her troop together with her maids prepared to go with Saldebreuil. The latter was still not happy, but held his tongue. He stayed with her as Hamelin led them down a muddy path to the riverbank where two barges were moored, the last of the light gleaming on their wet strakes and the barge masters awaiting their passengers. Since it would have seemed odd if she didn’t help, Alienor stowed some of the baggage on board, keeping her back to the barge master and hiding her face in her hood. She heard Hamelin speaking softly to the barge owners, hinting that this was a secret mission on the King’s behalf, and she heard the clink of coin as silver changed hands.

She settled herself in the first barge on a pile of fleeces, her knees drawn up to her chin and her cloak furled around her. The crew took up the oars, and manoeuvred the barges out into the channel. Saldebreuil and the bulk of the troop rode off in another direction with the spare horses and the maids to act as a decoy. Alienor bent her head into her knees and tried not to feel afraid. Hamelin FitzCount joined her, sitting down on a heap of sacks and exhaling hard. ‘I will see you safely to your borders, madam,’ he said, his voice pitched low and his face turned towards her so that only she could hear. ‘My brother sets great store by you.’

‘Your brother sets great store by Aquitaine,’ Alienor said sharply, but then relented. ‘He must also set great store by you to send you.’

Hamelin shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘There is little love lost between us, but we are practical men. He knows he can count on my skills and I know that of the three legitimate sons of my father, he is the only one worth following.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because he sees horizons when the others can barely see as far as the end of their own noses. I see horizons too, and if I keep faith with him, I will have a secure future.’

‘At least you are honest,’ Alienor said.

‘A bastard son has little else in his pocket to trade,’ Hamelin said with a pragmatic shrug and a wry smile.

The crew hauled up a large canvas sail to aid their efforts, and with the wind behind them, the barges, cumbersome though they were, left a silver ripple of speed.

Moments later they heard shouts, the thud of hooves and jingle of harness from the riverbank. Alienor shrank against the side of the barge and pulled her hood forward, her heart in her throat, but the riders paid no heed to the barges and trotted on past, lanterns swinging.

‘They’ll be on the trail of your troop,’ Hamelin warned. ‘They won’t think to look on the river. Even if they do realise what has happened, we shall be long gone.’

Alienor strained her ears for the sound of combat, but the hoofbeats faded and there was nothing. Saldebreuil would have had the good sense to keep everyone moving at a strong pace and they had a decent head start. She closed her eyes and shivered, but did not allow herself to be overwhelmed by her anxiety. Instead, she released it in laughter.

Hamelin gave her a look askance.

‘Less than half a day since I was sitting in the hall at Beaugency, still the Queen of France and gowned as befitted my station. Now I am sailing down the Loire in the middle of a rainy night, wearing my seneschal’s spare tunic, dirt on my face and being hunted like a felon.’

His mouth quirked. ‘In which position would you rather be, madam?’

‘I do not think the reply is in doubt,’ she said, but did not elaborate.

The rain continued and the drops were like cold daggers in her face because of the wind direction. She found another sheepskin to huddle beneath and dozed, her arms folded tightly across her body.

They reached Tours at dawn and were reunited with Saldebreuil and the rest of the troop. Alienor was stiff and cold from the boat journey, tired too because she had barely slept, but she felt exhilarated. She had decided to remain clad as a youth until she was over her own borders because it was easier to travel that way. Their story was that Marchisa and Mamile were being escorted to a convent where Marchisa was to retire in respectable widowhood with her maid.

‘Thank God you are safe, madam,’ Saldebreuil muttered as the company ate, drank and rested their horses at a pilgrim hostel before setting out again.

‘The journey was cold and wet, but no trouble,’ she replied. ‘But I was worried for your sake. We heard and saw a patrol riding after you.’