‘God speed you, my husband,’ she said. ‘I will pray for your success and your early return.’

‘I will pray for that too,’ Henry said with a grin. ‘This is like being invited to a feast where one is only allowed to snatch a taste of the first course before being dragged away.’

Alienor raised her brows. ‘It will keep your hunger sharp,’ she said.

‘There are no doubts on that score.’ He embraced her, his touch possessive now. He had gained confidence even in two days, but she enjoyed this assertion of his masculinity. It felt so good to be thought of as desirable rather than reviled as a creature of temptation.

She watched him lithely mount his horse: a fresh one from her stables. His own hard-ridden bay was resting up. This one was an iron-grey dapple with a raven mane and tail. She had provided horses for the rest of his entourage too.

Henry reined the horse about and rode over to her. ‘Until I come back to you with a crown.’ He made the horse rear and paw the air in a final salute, and then dropped him to all fours and rode out at a gallop, raising a cloud of dust.

Alienor felt a sense of emptiness when he had gone. She returned to her chamber. The maids had not yet tidied it and the bedclothes were rumpled. Henry’s pillow still bore the indentation of his head. A strand of red-gold hair sparkled there and gave her a sudden catch of breath. More evidence of his arrival in her life lingered in the sight of yesterday’s shirt and braies crumpled on the floor at the bedside. Henry was certainly not tidy and pernickety like Louis. She stooped to pick up the garments, pressing them to her nose to inhale the acrid, masculine scent.

After a moment she told herself off for behaving like a daydreaming girl and put the clothes with the other linens to be washed by the laundry maid.


46

Paris, Summer 1152

Louis looked at his seven-year-old eldest daughter, kneeling to pray with her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Her braided hair was pale flaxen like his and, kneeling in her blue dress with her head bowed, she looked angelic. Noticing a hint of her mother in the line of her cheek and her posture, he was stirred by a pang of regret and unease.

He felt nothing as strong as love for her but he did possess a kind of tepid affection. She was a good girl who said her prayers, sewed accomplished seams and only spoke when addressed. However, she was rarely in his eyeline. His visits to the nursery reminded him of Alienor’s failure to give him a son, and his two daughters were tangible proof of God’s disfavour. But for now, they were the heirs of Aquitaine and he still had a claim through them.

‘Amen,’ Marie said. She crossed herself and stood up, her eyes downcast. At her side stood Henri, lord of Champagne, to whom she had just been betrothed. His brother Theobald, who had made an abortive attempt to abduct Alienor on her way to Poitiers, had been betrothed to little Alix. She was only just walking and beginning to talk in single word imperatives, and had been carried to church in the arms of her nurse.

From Notre-Dame, the royal company processed solemnly back to the palace where a formal feast had been arranged to celebrate the betrothals. Henri treated Marie kindly, kissing her cheek and bidding her be a good girl and grow up swiftly so he could welcome her into his household as Countess of Champagne, after which she was taken away to the nursery with her little sister. In the great hall, the future husbands relaxed and basked in the knowledge that they were betrothed to princesses of France, and that Aquitaine was now firmly in their sphere.

‘My daughters will leave for the convent of Aveney on the morrow,’ Louis told the future bridegrooms. ‘They will be raised properly, uncorrupted, to make them fitting consorts.’

Sage nods of agreement followed his pronouncement. Convents were safe and suitable places to raise gently bred girls and keep them pure in thought and body.

‘How is my lord de Vermandois?’ asked Henri. ‘I was sorry to hear of his illness.’

‘He is recovering,’ Louis said shortly. ‘I have no doubt he will return to court soon.’ Raoul had been suffering from a general malaise ever since the annulment of his union with Petronella last autumn and his swift remarriage to Lauretta, sister of the Count of Flanders. There had been numerous risqué comments about the new bride wearing out her elderly husband, all of which Louis was trying to ignore.

An usher sidled towards him, a scroll in his hand. Louis beckoned to him with a sinking heart. A message delivered at the table was always important news – usually not good. He took the letter, broke the seal and, as he read what was written, grew white around the mouth.

‘What is it?’ Robert of Dreux leaned towards him in concern.

Louis’s expression contorted. ‘My former wife has married Henry of Anjou.’

A taut silence gripped the dais table.

‘But he’s in Normandy!’ Robert spluttered. ‘He’s at Barfleur!’

‘Not according to this letter.’ Louis swallowed, feeling sick. ‘He is in Poitiers and my wife – my former wife – has married him.’

‘Good God.’

Louis could not believe what he had just read. He felt sick remembering how the young man had come to court. The lowered eyes, the wary but respectful deference and all a front for secret negotiations. The thought of Alienor and the red-haired whelp from Anjou in bed together curdled his stomach. How could she, only two months after their annulment and with a youth of nineteen? And behind his back. The bitch, the whore!

‘They cannot do this,’ Robert said furiously. ‘They are vassals-in-chief; they must have your permission to wed. Since neither of them has sought it, they must be brought to account.’

Henri of Champagne and his brother nodded vigorous agreement, for the development was a massive threat to what they stood to gain from betrothals to Louis’s daughters.

‘I shall summon them to answer,’ Louis ground out.

‘You think they will come?’ Robert gave a disbelieving snort. ‘You’ll have to go further than that. Their marriage is consanguineous. You must write to Rome and bring the full force of the law down upon them.’

Louis nodded, although he was still reeling. Why had she done this? Out of lust because she was a corrupt woman? Because she believed she could manipulate a youth of nineteen into doing what she wanted as she had once manipulated him? Henry himself clearly had delusions of grandeur. ‘If they do not answer the summons, I shall indeed take it further.’

‘Believe me, they won’t,’ Robert said. ‘Act sooner rather than later.’

‘I will act when I decide,’ Louis snapped. He stamped off to be alone with his anger and humiliation that Alienor had seen fit to cavort with Henry of Anjou. Louis’s only consolation was that if she could not give him sons, she was never going to bear them to Henry, because God would punish the couple and render them barren. His own situation with recourse to his heirs was all her fault.

He was kneeling at the portable altar by his bed when his chamberlain craved admittance.

‘What now?’ Louis demanded furiously. ‘Did I not say I wished to be left in peace?’

‘Sire, I am sorry to disturb you, indeed I would not do so, but news has arrived that my lord Raoul of Vermandois is dead.’ The man held out a letter.

It was not unexpected but it still hit Louis like another body blow. Raoul had been a constant in his life ever since Louis had emerged from the cloister as a frightened child to become the heir to the throne. At times they had been at odds, but mostly Raoul had served him well; he had been steadfast in policy even if a fool with women and unable to control his impulses. He left three children all under age who would now become wards of court. They could not possibly go to their mad mother and Louis would have to decide where to bestow them.

He dismissed his chamberlain and knelt once more to pray for the dead man. Tomorrow he would have masses said and bells rung for Raoul’s passing. He felt like a tree in the forest, where all the trees either side that had given him support, shelter and camouflage were being cut down one by one, leaving him to bear the brunt of the storms alone.

‘How did de Vermandois die?’ Alienor’s aunt Agnes, Abbess of Notre-Dame de Saintes, fixed her niece with a compassionate but inquisitive gaze. Her eyes were so light a brown as to be almost pale gold, and they missed nothing.

Alienor had been furnished with a cup of wine and a platter of the abbey’s delicious chestnuts candied in honey, which usually she loved, but for now was too preoccupied to enjoy. She was here to see Petronella, attend on her aunt and tell her about her new marriage. ‘He had been unwell for a while and retired from court, but suffered a seizure while in bed with his new wife, having been warned to abstain.’ Alienor grimaced. ‘He was ever ruled by that part of him, although Petronella’s jealousy always imagined it to be more than it was.’

Agnes shook her head. ‘May God have mercy on his soul.’

‘The manner of his death is not something my sister needs to know,’ Alienor said quietly.

‘Of course not,’ Agnes agreed. ‘Such news would do more harm than good.’

‘How is she?’

Agnes took a moment to ponder. ‘Much improved in her mind. The services and daily prayers have been of great benefit. I cannot say she is happy, but she is no longer distraught. I do not believe she is ready to leave us – may never be, but neither do I believe she will take vows. I shall take you to her in a moment.’

Alienor knew what was coming. Agnes would want to know everything about Alienor’s marriage to Henry as just exchange for looking after Petronella. She gave her aunt an edited but fair telling of the tale.

‘And are you content?’

Alienor smoothed her dress over her knees and looked at her wedding ring. ‘I have no complaint, but then I barely know him. He left for Normandy almost immediately.’

‘From what I hear he is intelligent and well educated.’

Alienor smiled. ‘He soaks up knowledge like moss soaks up water, and is thirsty for more. He is never still, except when he sleeps, and then he is so still that his breathing barely stirs the covers.’ Her face grew warm. When he slept he looked so young and vulnerable that she felt a great welling of tenderness towards him, some of it maternal, some of it the pangs of a lover for her mate.

‘You have much to deal with between you. It is a great gamble you have taken.’

‘But more attractive than the alternatives. He has the capacity to rule an empire.’ She raised her chin. ‘We both do.’

‘Yes, niece, you do. I have always thought that, ever since you were a small child. You ran rings around us all.’

The wine and chestnuts finished, Agnes took Alienor to a quiet, sunlit cloister where two women sat embroidering, one a nun, the other Petronella, robed in a dark blue gown, her head covered by a plain white wimple.

‘Petra?’ Alienor went to her with hands outstretched.

Petronella lifted her head from her sewing and looked at Alienor. Her face was fine-drawn, but her eyes were clear and knowing.

‘It is so good to see you!’ Alienor kissed her sister on both cheeks and embraced her warmly. ‘I hear you are faring well!’

Petronella returned the hug. ‘So they tell me.’ As they parted, she gestured around. ‘With all this light, there is little room for the darkness, and when it comes I pray to the Holy Virgin to help me – and she does.’

‘I am glad.’

Petronella picked up her sewing again and began to work steadily and neatly. ‘I did not want to come here,’ she said. ‘But I know now you were right. If I returned to court, everything would fall to pieces around me. Here I am safe.’

Agnes and the nun quietly departed, leaving the sisters alone. Alienor hesitated and then drew a deep breath. ‘I have so much to tell you that I hardly know where to start. Two weeks ago I married again, to Henry, Count of Anjou.’

Petronella stopped sewing and looked at her in her old, knowing way. ‘You were planning that, weren’t you? When they came to court in Paris. I knew it! I knew you were up to something!’

‘I had it in mind, but didn’t make the decision until the annulment was actually pronounced,’ Alienor said defensively. ‘It is a good political decision, and I had no choice but to remarry because the moment the marriage was dissolved I became a magnet for every unwed man of ambition.’

Petronella took up her needle again. ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘I do not suppose a nunnery would be a choice for you.’ A note that was almost accusation entered her voice.

‘I would not be safe even if I retired to one – some power-hungry fool would abduct me and force me into marriage, and then what would happen to Aquitaine? Perhaps one day I shall find peace in one, but not now.’ She bit her lip. ‘Petra … I have to tell you something about Raoul.’