The Plantagenet Prelude

Chapter I DUCHESS AND QUEEN

From a window of the Chateau de l’Ombriere the Duke of Aquitaine looked down on the scene in the shaded rose garden. It was one to enchant him. His two daughters - charming creatures both of them though the elder of the two, Eleonore, surpassed in beauty her sister Petronelle - were surrounded by members of the court, young men and women, decorative and elegant, listening now to the minstrel who was singing his song of love.

The Duke’s eyes rested on Eleonore, for she was at the centre of the group. Some quality in her set her apart from the rest of the company. It was not only her beauty nor was it her rank. She was after all the heiress of Aquitaine until its Duke begot a son and, widowed as he was, he must bestir himself if he were to do so, for although he was but thirty-eight years of age, he had lost two wives and the only outcome of those marriages was his two girls Eleonore and Petronelle. Eleonore was tall and she was handsome; there was something commanding about her; she had the air of one born to rule. There was also a sensuality. He sighed, thinking of his father whose life had been dominated by his devotion to the opposite sex and wondering whether his attractive daughter would follow her grandfather in that respect.

She was fourteen years of age, Petronelle three years younger. Yet there was a ripeness about them both, even little Petronelle. As for Eleonore, she was ready for marriage. And if anything should happen to him before this event took place, who would protect her? He imagined her in her rose garden surrounded by her minstrels and the ladies of her court; and some suitor riding into the castle. There would not only be Eleonore’s vast lands and fortune to attract him but the fascinating Eleonore herself. And if she refused to marry? He knew the manners of the day. The lovely maiden would be abducted, held prisoner, deflowered if she would not yield willingly and placed in such a position that her family would be eager to marry her to her ravisher.

It was hard to imagine such a fate for Eleonore. Yet even she would be forced to submit.

He thanked God that it had not come to that. Here he was a man of thirty-eight with two attractive daughters. He must marry and beget a son. Yet what if he were to marry and there was no son? It was a logical assumption as so far there had been only daughters. How often were royal male heirs elusive. Why should he have been given only daughters? As was customary with men of his times he asked himself whether God was punishing him for his sins or perhaps the sins of his forbears.

His father had been one of the most renowned sinners of his age. Women had been his downfall. He had left his wife and set up his mistress in great state, even having an image of her engraved on his shield. William the ninth Duke of Aquitaine had cared nothing for convention, and although the greatest motive in his life had been the pursuit of women, this was a common enough quality - or failing depending on the way one looked upon it - and he was renowned rather for his love of poetry and song. This Duke’s ideal state had been to lie with his mistress of the moment and listen to the strumming of the harp, and the songs, which were often of his own composing, sung by his minstrels. He was called the Father of the Troubadours and Eleonore had inherited his talent in this; she could compose a poem, set it to music, play it, sing it and attracted to her the finest songsters in the Duchy. What else had she inherited from her grandfather? Having noted the expression in those big languorous eyes as they rested on various comely gentlemen, the Duke wondered.

What he should do was get a son quickly and find a husband for Eleonore. But neither of these projects could be achieved without a great deal of thought. A husband for Eleonore now when she was the heiress could easily be found but it would be remembered that she could be displaced if her father had a son. And to have a son he must first find a wife! Not that that presented any great difficulty. What he must have was a fruitful wife. And there was the gist of the matter. Who could say until a man was married whether his wife would give him a son? What if he married to find the lady barren or capable only of giving him daughters?

So this was his dilemma. Should he marry again and try for a son? Or should he accept Eleonore as the heiress of Aquitaine? What of her husband if she married? Quite clearly, if she were to remain heiress of Aquitaine there was only one husband who would be worthy of her and that was the son of the King of France. So he was torn by doubts as he looked down on the scene, in the garden.

He sent for Eleonore. Because she was clever and could read and write - a rare accomplishment - because she already seemed to regard herself as the potential ruler of Aquitaine, because her mind was agile and to be admired as much as her beauty, he had talked to her for some time as he would have talked with some of his ministers.

She came in from the warm sun into the comparative chill of the castle, wrinkling her nose a little for the smell of rushes after the rose garden was none too pleasant. She would order the serving-man to sweeten the place. It should have been done a week ago. Rushes quickly became unpleasantly odorous.

Her father would be in his apartment which was reached by a staircase at the end of the great hall. This hall itself was the main room of the castle. It stretched from one end to the other and it reached up to the rafters. The ducal apartments were small in comparison for it was in the hall with its thick stone walls and narrow slits of windows that the court spent most of its time. Here courtiers danced and played the harp and sang; here the ladies sat and embroidered as they told tales and sang their songs; and because the castle could not accommodate them all they lived in houses close by where they could be within reach of the court.

Eleonore mounted the stairs to her father’s apartment.

He stood up as she entered and, placing his hands on her shoulders, drew her to him and kissed her forehead.

‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘I would speak with you.’

‘I guessed it, Father, since you asked me to come to you.’

Some might have said commanded. Eleonore must be asked, never commanded, and graciously she granted the request.

Her father smiled at her. He would not have had her otherwise.

‘You know, Eleonore, my dear daughter, that I am deeply concerned.’

‘For what reason?’

‘I have no male heir.’

She lifted her head proudly. ‘And why should you need a male heir when you have a daughter?’

‘Aye, a fine daughter. Mistake me not. I am aware of your qualities. But men seem to follow men.’

‘They will be made to see that there are times when for their good they must follow a woman.’

He smiled at her. ‘I doubt not that you would make them understand that.’

‘Then, Father, you have no problem. Come to the gardens and you shall hear my minstrels sing my latest song.’

‘A treat I shall enjoy, my dear daughter. But it is suggested to me by my ministers that my duty lies in marriage.’

Eleonore’s eyes blazed in sudden anger. Another marriage! A half-brother to displace her! That was something she would do everything in her power to prevent. She loved this fair land of Aquitaine. The people adored her. When she rode out they came out of their cottages to see her, to give many a heartfelt cheer. She believed that they would never feel so warmly towards any but herself. Oh, she was a woman and it may be that her sex was against her; but her grandfather, Duke William IX, had loved women, idealised women; he had instituted the Courts of Love; he had composed poetry and songs in favour of love, and women had been the most important factor in his life. So why should not the next ruler of Aquitaine be a duchess instead of a duke? It was what the people wanted. She herself wanted it; and Eleonore had already made up her mind that what she wanted she would have.

‘And if you married,’ she cried, ‘how could you be sure that you would get this male heir by which you set such store?’

‘I am content with my daughters.’ He quailed before her fury, which was in itself ridiculous. He, a father and a duke, to be overawed by a girl, and his daughter at that! Why should he feel this need to placate her? ‘It is my ministers …’ he began feebly.

‘Then your ministers must needs mind their own affairs.’

‘Dear daughter, this is an affair of the Duchy.’

‘Very well then, marry, and I’ll swear you will soon be making a pilgrimage to some saint’s shrine asking for a fruitful marriage.’

‘A pilgrimage?’

”Tis the custom. But I wonder at you. You have sins to answer for, Father. You need redemption even as my grandfather did.’

‘I never lived the life he did.’

‘His sins were committed in the Courts of Love. There are others which have to be answered for. You have offended many, Father. It may be that the prayers of your enemies would be answered, prayers for retribution and not yours for forgiveness of your sins.’

‘Daughter, you turn all to your advantage.’

‘Mayhap I uphold the truth. I was ever one who liked plain speaking and always shall.’

‘So then let us have plain speaking. You are the heiress of Aquitaine and are determined to remain so.’

‘It is my wish and natural in me. A poor ruler I should be if I did not view the loss of my inheritance with abhorrence. If you marry and there is male issue I should be displaced. The people would regret it.’

‘Nay, they would not regret my giving them a duke.’

‘First you have to get your little duke, and God has shown you in two marriages that it is daughters for you.’

‘If you believe this you will not be disturbed at the prospect of my marrying.’

‘I shall be disturbed by your disappointment, Father.’

He laughed at her. ‘My dear Eleonore, you are a diplomatist already. And you but fourteen years of age!’

‘I have made full use of my fourteen years, sir, and something tells me that God will never give you a male child.’

‘Have you become a prophet then?’

‘Nay. So many royal lords marry for sons. There was the King of England, think how he strove for a son. And what happened? His marriage was barren. There was a man who had scattered his bastards throughout the realms of England and Normandy, but he had one legitimate son who was drowned at sea and never could beget another. God denied his dearest wish, as he may well deny you yours. I believe that Henry of England regretted his second marriage. Of what good was it? It did not bring him the very thing he married for. Sons.’

‘He was a man who had led a life of great immorality.’

‘He and your father were alike in that. Perhaps he did not repent enough and so Heaven turned a deaf ear on his entreaties.’

‘I am no Henry I of England.’

‘Nay, Father, you are not. But you stood out against the Pope. It may be that he is asking Heaven not to grant your wishes for that very reason.’

The Duke was silent. He had wondered the same himself. Was Heaven against him for supporting Anacletus II against Innocent II when almost the entire world agreed that Innocent was the true Pope? He had been forced to give in in time, but it would be remembered against him. When Henry of England had died and Stephen of Blois had proclaimed himself king, the Duke had joined forces with Geoffrey of Anjou and sought to subdue Normandy and bring that disturbed dukedom to Geoffrey, the husband of Matilda, Henry’s daughter who many said had more right to England - and Normandy - than the upstart Stephen. And what had followed? Bitter defeat!

He, like his father, had never been a man to indulge in warfare. Aquitaine had been secure for generations and its people enjoyed a peaceful life. The Duke had hated war. He could not forget the sight of men dying around him; the heart-rending wailing of women and children driven from their homes.

Could it be that he had offended God and that until he received absolution he could not hope for a son?

He wanted to explain to this vital girl of his why he wanted a male heir. He wanted her to understand the difficulties that could befall a woman. She never would because she saw no difficulties. Yet they were there.

He wanted to see a son growing to manhood, a son who would take the reins of government in his hands before his father died. That would give continued peace to Aquitaine.

Then the idea came to him which had come to so many before him. He must placate his God and the one way to do this was to go on a pilgrimage to offer homage to the shrines of the saints. The most ardent sinners gained absolution in this way. He, the tenth Duke William of Aquitaine, would follow their example.

‘What I must do,’ he said, ‘is go on a pilgrimage. I will visit the shrine of a saint and there I shall gain forgiveness of my sins. When I have done this I shall come back and marry, and God will grant me the blessing of a son.’

Eleonore narrowed her eyes.

The pilgrimage would not be achieved in a few weeks; then there would have to be the matter of selecting a suitable bride.

It was always best to put off evil for as long as possible. There was a good deal to be done before her father could marry and beget a son.

Something told Eleonore he never would.

There was the bustle of preparations. Having made his decision Duke William felt serene in his mind. He was to travel to the shrine of Saint James at Compostella and there he would pray for a fruitful marriage. His daughter watched his preparations with a certain cynical satisfaction as though she knew his prayers would remain unanswered.

He felt contrite in a way, for he loved her dearly. He admired her, as did most people who were aware of her dominant personality. If only she had been of the male sex he would have asked nothing more. He wanted her to understand that only in being female had she failed. And not for him; like his father, he had the utmost admiration for her sex, but it was others he must consider.

At the moment she was the heiress of vast possessions. Rich Aquitaine could be hers and thereby put her in command of as much territory as that possessed by the King of France. It was true that they were the vassals of the King of France but in name only. The kings of France knew that the dukes of Aquitaine wielded as much - perhaps more - power than they did. It was a matter of form that the dukes bowed to the king.

‘It is a hazardous journey to Compostella,’ said the Duke one day to his daughter. ‘It is that which makes it certain that any who reach it, by the very arduous nature of their journey, will have their prayers answered.’

‘You are a fool to undertake such hazards.’

‘I feel it to be a duty.’

‘Duty! Bah! But make the journey if you wish it. And see what comes of it.’

‘Would to God it were not necessary, Eleonore. I think of you constantly. I find it hard to leave you.’

”Tis of your choosing,’ she told him coldly.

‘Not mine, but those to whom I owe a duty. I shall take few men with me.’

”Twould not be fitting to travel in great state on such an errand,’ she agreed.

‘And I would leave my bravest behind to protect you.’

‘I can protect myself.’

‘There is no harm in having a stalwart guard. And I shall confer with the King of France for he will be eager to come to your aid if I should ask him.’

‘You would trust him?’

‘Yes, if his son were mine also and my daughter his.’

‘You mean a marriage!’

‘Yes. A marriage between you and the son of the King of France.’

She smiled quietly. Well, it was not a bad prospect. If she were going to give up Aquitaine she would be Queen of France.

Louis VI was so large that he was known as Louis the Fat. He could not possibly live much longer. Rumours filtered into Aquitaine that he was confined to his bed and because of his immense size no one could lift him from it. He had been over-fond of food and this was the result. His son was a boy a year or so older than Eleonore. She liked what she had heard of young Louis. He should be easily governed by a dominating wife. And she must marry soon. Only she knew how close she had come to submitting to the ardours of some of her admirers. There were members of her sex who were women at the age of fourteen. Eleonore of Aquftaine was one of them. It was a mercy that she was ambitious and proud; this saved her from being carried away by her intense physical desires.

She, more than any, knew that for her marriage should not be long delayed.

‘When I return,’ said her father, ‘I must marry; and then there must be a double wedding. When my bride comes to Aquitaine you must go to the court of France.’

‘But would the King of France wish his son to marry me if I were not your heiress?’

‘The King of France will rejoice in an alliance with rich Aquitaine. He is astute enough to know its worth. And there are no alliances to compare with those forged by marriage bonds.’

She nodded gravely.

It was a bright prospect, but she was unsure. If she could bring Aquitaine to her husband she would be warmly welcomed. But otherwise?

It was a cold January day when the Duke set out for Compostella.

His daughters were in the courtyard wrapped in their sable-lined cloaks, to wish him Godspeed.

‘Farewell,’ said the Duke embracing first Eleonore and then Petronelle. ‘God guard you.’

‘Rather let us ask Him to guard you, Father,’ said Eleonore.

‘He will smile on my mission, rest assured of that,’ replied the Duke, ‘and when I return I shall be free of my burden of siri.’

Eleonore was silent; she had suggested he postpone his journey for it was foolish to set off in winter. She had believed that it was always good to postpone that which one hoped would never take place. But the Duke was assured of the urgency of the undertaking and would not consider delay.

‘He will suffer for his foolishness,’ Eleonore confided to Petronelle, who agreed with her sister. For Petronelle, like many others, adored her dazzling elder sister.

When the cavalcade had clattered out of the courtyard Eleonore and her sister went up to the topmost turret there to watch its progress.

One would never have guessed that it was the Duke of Aquitaine who rode at its head. He was humbly dressed as a pilgrim should be, and he had taken so few of his followers with him.

The castle was well fortified and Eleonore was its mistress. If any dared come against her there would be stalwart knights to protect her. And none would dare for was she not half promised to the son of the King of France?

This was a waiting time, a time when the great fire in the centre of the hall sent its smoke up to the vaulted ceiling and the smell of roasting venison filled the castle. It was too cold to frolic in the beautiful gardens; they must perforce make do with the castle hall; and there they feasted and danced; they sang their ballads; they strummed their harps and the sweet notes of the lute were heard throughout the castle.

Over the entertainments reigned the bold and beautiful Eleonore. Many of the gallants sighed for her favours and she often thought of granting them; but they must for the time content themselves with singing of love.

So while Duke William traversed the icy roads on his way to Compostella, Eleonore reigned supreme surrounded by her troubadours. She might be destined to become the Queen of France but she was the first Queen of the Troubadours.

Duke William quickly realised how unwise he had been to set out in the winter. The rough roads were icy; the wind biting. Valiantly the horses endeavoured to make their way but the going was slow. Yet, said the Duke to his little band of pilgrims, the very fact that we suffer these hardships means that our sins will be the more readily forgiven. What object would there be in travelling in comfort? How could we hope for our sins to be forgiven if we did not suffer for our redemption?

When darkness fell they rested wherever they found themselves. Sometimes it would be in a castle, sometimes in a peasant’s humble home.

The Duke thought much of the castle of Ombriere and pictured Eleonore in the great hall, the firelight flickering on her proud handsome face; the young men at her feet watching her with yearning in their eyes. That power in her would attract men to her until she died. It was yet another inheritance of this richly endowed young woman. She could take care of herself. That was his great comfort. Eleonore would lead others; no one would force her to do what she did not wish. He thought of her - those large eyes which could be speculative when she considered her future and soulful when she listened to the songs of her troubadours, that thick hair which fell to her waist, the oval face and the strong line of the jaw. His great comfort was: Eleonore will take care of herself no matter what happens.

When he came back with the blessing of Saint James, when he married and his son was born, Eleonore would still be a desirable parti. Would the King of France consider her worthy of his son without the rich lands of Aquitaine?

That was a matter to be thought of when the time came. First he must get his son. Nay, he thought, first he must get to Compostella.

He had coughed a great deal through the night and the icy winds had affected his limbs; they felt stiff and unwieldy. It would pass when he returned to the comfort of his home. One did not expect a pilgrimage to be a comfortable holiday. The saint would be gratified that he had endured such hardship to pay homage at his shrine. And when the weather changed and he could live comfortably again, his cough would go and the stiffness leave his limbs.

The party had crossed into Spain, but here the going was rougher than ever. The countryside was sparsely populated and because it was so difficult to get along they often found no shelter when night fell. The Duke was now so weak that his followers decided that they must at the earliest opportunity construct a litter that he might be carried.

Wishing to endure the utmost hardship, the Duke protested at first. Only if he suffered would the saint intercede with such fervour for him that his sins be forgiven and he gain his goal. But it was useless; he had become too ill to sit his horse; he must submit.

There was no comfort in being carried over those rough roads. He was soon in great pain and it suddenly occurred to him that he might never reach the shrine, that there would never be the marriage which would give him the male heir for Aquitaine.

Morosely he contemplated the future as he was jolted along.

Eleonore the richest heiress in Europe and a girl of fourteen. He should have been content with what he had been given. Not a son but a girl who was as good as any boy, a girl who failed only in her sex. And because he had not been content with what God had given him, he had ventured on this pilgrimage from which he was beginning to wonder whether he would ever emerge.

Each day his dismal thoughts went back to Ombriere. What would happen if he died? As soon as that fact became known the fortune hunters would be unleashed. A young, desirable and, above all, rich girl was unprotected, and she was ripe for marriage. Adventurers would come from all directions; he could see some bold ambitious man storming the castle, capturing proud Eleonore and forcing her to submit. Could anyone force Eleonore? Yes, if he had henchmen to help him in his evil designs. The thought maddened him.

Who was there to protect her? His brother Raymond was far away in Antioch. If only Raymond was at hand. He was something of a hero and the Duke had often thought that his father would have preferred Raymond to have inherited Aquitaine. Very tall, fastidious in his appearance, possessed of a natural elegance, Raymond of Poitiers was born to command. He had been the ideal crusader and was now Prince of Antioch, for he had married Constance, the granddaughter of the great Bohemond of the first crusade. But it was no use thinking of Raymond in far-off Antioch as a protector.

Could it be that he was going to die? As each day passed his conviction became stronger. He was finding it more and more difficult to breathe; there were times when he was not sure whether he was on the road to Compostella or fighting for possession of Normandy with the Duke of Anjou.

In his moments of lucidity he knew that he must abandon hope of reaching Compostella. His sins would be forgiven but he must pay for forgiveness with his life. And his affairs must be in order. He must be sure that Eleonore was protected.

There was one way to do this. He must ask for help of the most powerful man in France: its king.

He would offer his Eleonore to the King’s son. He had no qualms about the offer being joyously accepted. Louis had long coveted the rich lands of Aquitaine and this marriage would bring them to the crown of France.

He called to his litter two of the men he most trusted.

‘Make with all speed to Paris,’ he said. ‘Let it be known that you come from the Duke of Aquitaine. Then the King himself will see you. Take this letter to him. If the letter should be lost before you reach him, tell him that I wish a marriage between his son and my daughter without delay, for I fear my days are numbered and if the marriage is not arranged others may step in before him.’

Having despatched the messengers the Duke felt easier in his mind. If he were to die, Eleonore would be in good hands, her future assured.

King Louis VI of France, known as the Fat, lay on his bed breathing with difficulty. He deplored his condition and it gave him no comfort to realise that he should never have allowed himself to reach such bulk. He had enjoyed good food and had never restrained his appetite for it was an age when men were admired for their size. If one was rich one could eat to one’s fill; it was only peasants who went hungry. It therefore behoved a king to show his subjects that he was in a position to consume as much food as his body could take. But what a toll it took of a man’s strength!

He longed for the days of his youth, when he had sat his horse effortlessly; now there was no horse strong enough to carry him.

It was too late to repine. The end was in sight in any case.

He often said to his ministers that if only he had had the knowledge in his youth and the strength in his old age he would have conquered many kingdoms and left France richer than when he had come to the throne.

But was it not a well-known maxim: If Youth but knew and Age could do.

Now he must plan for the future and he thanked God that he had a good heir to leave to his country.

God had been good to him when he had given him young Louis. He was known throughout the kingdom as Louis the Young, as he himself was known as Louis the Fat. He had not always been the Fat of course, any more than his son would always be the Young; suffice that those were the soubriquets by which they were known at this time.

Young Louis was sixteen years old - a serious boy, inclined to religion. Not a bad thing in a king, mused Louis. Young Louis had been destined for the Church and not to rule at all for he had had an elder brother. He had spent his early years at Notre-Dame and he had taken well to the life. But it was not to be. Fate had ordained otherwise.

Bernard, that rather uncomfortable Abbot of Clairvaux, who was inclined to fulminate against all those who did not fall into line with his beliefs - and none knew more than rulers how irritating such prelates could be, for had there not always been certain friction between Church and State? - had prophesied that the King’s eldest son would not take the crown but that it would fall to his brother Louis the Young.

The King had been uneasy, for Bernard had a reputation for making prophecies which came true; and sure enough this one had.

One day Philippe the heir, after hunting in the forest, came into Paris where a pig, running suddenly across the road, tripped his horse. Philippe fell and struck his head against a stone and died almost immediately.

By this time Bernard had become revered as a holy man who could see into the future, and young Louis much to his dismay was taken from Notre-Dame to study the craft of kingship.

The boy had always hankered after the religious life. Perhaps it was not a bad thing. A certain amount of religion was good for a king provided it did not interfere with duties. He would be called upon now and then to defend his kingdom and his father hoped that when such occasion arose he would not be squeamish about punishing those who rebelled against him. Young Louis was too gentle. Also he must get an heir. Louis had never frolicked with women. So many young men of his age had fathered a few bastards by this time. Not Louis.

Now the King sent for his son.

He sighed a little as the boy stood before him.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you see me prostrate. Never indulge your appetite as I have done. It is not worth it.’

‘I see that, Sire.’

‘Be seated, my son. I have news for you.’

Louis sat down.

‘My friend and ally, the Duke of Aquitaine, is in the same sad state as that in which I find myself. It would seem neither of us is long for this world.’

The King saw the lights of fear spring up in his son’s eyes. They did not mean so much that he could not endure to lose his father as that he feared the heavy responsibility which that death would place on his shoulders. A king should never be afraid of his crown, thought Louis the Fat. A pity indeed that he had brought him up in religion. But how could he have known that Heaven had already signed Philippe’s death-warrant and sent a paltry pig to be his executioner?

Louis would forget that he had loved the ceremonies of the Church when those of State were forced upon him. It was merely the contemplation of great power that frightened him.

‘Therefore,’ went on the King, ‘I think it well that you should marry and that without delay.’

Now the boy was really frightened. This would never do. A pity he had never dallied with a girl in some secluded part of the hunting forests. It was all very well to be as he was if he remained the second son. But he would change when he was married to a young and beautiful girl and by all accounts Eleonore was this.

‘You cannot get an heir too soon, my son. I have a bride for you. I could not have chosen one who pleased me more. The Duke of Aquitaine is dying, so his messengers tell me. He has suffered much hardship on the road to Compostella. His heiress is his eldest daughter. She is fourteen years of age and very desirable. There is to be a match between you two.’

‘Marriage,’ stammered young Louis, ‘so soon …’

‘Without delay. It is what the Duke wishes. He has placed his daughter under my protection. This is the finest thing that could happen to France. Eleonore is heiress to all the Duke’s dominions, Poitou, Saintonge, Gascony and the Basque country. I could not have chosen a more suitable bride for you.’

‘Father, I am as yet unprepared …’

‘Nonsense, my son. Little preparation is needed to get an heir. We shall put you to bed with this desirable and very rich girl and you will know what to do. Think of the good she can bring to France. The more lands under our protection the less likelihood of wars. The more powerful we are the more we can work for the good of France.’

‘The possession of lands often leads to strife. They must be protected.’

‘They must indeed be protected and good wise laws be made for them. It will be your duty to give a happy life to your people.’

Young Louis closed his eyes. Why had this had to happen to him? Why had that miserable pig ruined his life? Philippe would have been a good king; he had been trained for it. And he, Louis, would have spent his life in the rarefied atmosphere of the Church. He would have been the Prince of the Church; how he loved the sonorous chanting, the beautiful music, the hallowed atmosphere. And he had lost this because God had called on him to do his duty in a different sphere from that for which he had been trained.

‘I am sending word to the Duke of Aquitaine that I shall cherish his daughter and that I am losing no time in arranging a marriage between her and my son.’

‘Father, is there no help for it?’

‘No help, my son. This marriage must take place without delay.’

‘How far to the shrine?’ whispered the dying Duke.

‘But a mile or so now, my good lord.’

‘Thank God then, I shall reach Compostella.’

Just a little more pain to endure and salvation would be his. Who would have thought that he should come so far and endure so much to ask for a male heir and to find instead death?

‘There are messengers, my lord Duke,’ said one of his bearers. ‘They come from the King of France.’

‘Thank God then. Thank God again. What news?’

‘The King, my lord, sends his greetings. He will care for your daughter as he would his own for indeed he says ere you receive this message she will be almost that. For he is betrothing his son to her and the marriage of France and Aquitaine will take place without delay.’

‘I shall die happy,’ said the Duke.

So this was the answer. Eleonore would be safe. She would be Queen of France and what more could he ask for her than that? She was born to rule - not only because of her inheritance but because of her nature. She had the innate power to inspire respect and love.

It was said that the King’s son was a serious boy, destined for the Church as he had been. He had proved himself to be a great churchman in the making, and would have been such had not a wayward pig made him a future King of France and husband of Eleonore of Aquitaine.

‘Lift me,’ he said, ‘that I may see the shrine of St James.’

They did so and he was content.

Since her father’s absence Eleonore had been the undisputed mistress of the chateau. During the cold winter’s evenings she and her court would range themselves about the great fire in the centre of the hall; there would be singing and music and she would judge the merits of the literary compositions and perhaps sing one of her own.

This she enjoyed; to sit among them, more elegantly attired than any of the other ladies, more brilliantly witty, while at her feet sat the knights gazing at her with adoration. The first lesson in chivalry was the adoration of women. Romance was the greatest adventure of the day. It was not so much the culmination as the dalliance on the way, although Eleonore herself knew that that climax must inevitably be reached. She thrilled to the ardent glances; she allowed herself to dream of fulfilment, but in her heart she knew there must be some delay.

Sometimes she played a game of chess with an admirer, for it was part of the court education that any who aspired to gracious living must first master the game; she always found an element of excitement in the conflict over the board; because she was fighting a battle and from this she invariably emerged the victor.

In the privacy of her bedchamber she talked with her sister. Petronelle believed that everything Eleonore did was right. She imitated her elder sister in all things. Now their conversation centred round their father. They wondered constantly what was happening to him on the dangerous roads.

Petronelle turned to Eleonore and said: ‘Do you think he will come back?’

There was a faraway look in Eleonore’s eyes; she was gazing into the future. ‘It was foolish of him,’ she said, ‘to attempt such a journey at such a time of the year.’

‘Why did he not wait until the summer?’

‘It would have been too easy a journey. It had to be hazardous that he might earn forgiveness for his sins.’

‘Had he so many?’

Eleonore laughed. ‘He thought he had. He was obsessed by his sins, as our grandfather was.’

‘What about you, Eleonore? Have you committed any sins?’

She shrugged her elegant shoulders. ‘I am too young to be concerned with sins. It is only when you are of an age to fear death that repentance is necessary.’

‘So we need not concern ourselves with repentance yet, sister. We may sin to our heart’s content.’

‘What a pleasant prospect,’ cried Eleonore.

‘Everyone in the castle respects you,’ said Petronelle adoringly. ‘I think they love you more than they did our father. But if he marries again and we have a brother …’

Petronelle looked fearfully up at Eleonore who was scowling.

‘It won’t happen, sister,’ went on Petronelle quickly. ‘If he married he wouldn’t get a boy.’

‘It maddens me,’ cried Eleonore. ‘Why this reverence for the male sex? Are not women more beautiful, more subtle, often more clever than men?’

‘You are, Eleonore, cleverer than any man.’

‘Yet because they go into battle, because they have greater physical strength, they regard themselves so superior that a puny son would come before a fine daughter.’

‘No son our father got would ever equal you, Eleonore.’

‘Yet he must undertake this pilgrimage in the hope that Saint James will plead for him and he come safely back, marry and get a son.’

‘The saints will never listen to him. They will call him ungrateful. God has given him you, Eleonore, and he is not satisfied!’

Eleonore laughed and blew a kiss to her sister.

‘At least you appreciate me,’ she said with a smile.

She went to the narrow window and looked out on the bleak road.

‘One day,’ she said, ‘we shall see a party of horsemen on that road. It will either be my father coming back triumphant or …’

‘Or, what, Eleonore?’ asked Petronelle who had come to stand beside her.

But Eleonore shook her head. She would say no more.

It was but a few days later when a messenger did come to the castle.

Eleonore, who had been warned that he was sighted, was in the courtyard to greet him; she herself held the cup of hot wine for him.

‘I bring ill tidings, my lady,’ he said before he would take the cup. ‘The Duke is dead. The journey was too much for him. I have a sorry tale to tell.’

‘Drink,’ said Eleonore. ‘Then come into the castle.’

She took him into the hall and sat with him beside the fire. She ordered that food be brought to him, for he had ridden far and was exhausted. But first she must hear the news.

‘He suffered towards the end, my lady, but never wavered from his purpose. We carried him right to the shrine and that made him happy. He died there in his litter but not before he had received the blessing. It was his wish that he be buried before the main altar in the Church of Saint James.’

‘And this was done?’

‘It was done, my lady.’

‘Praise be to God that he died in peace.’

‘His one concern was for your welfare.’

‘Then he will be happy in Heaven for when he looks down on me he will know I can take care of myself.’

‘Before he died he received an assurance from the King of France, my lady.’

Eleonore lowered her eyes.

There would be a wedding. Her own. And to the son of the King of France. Louis the Fat would not have been so eager to ally his son with her had she not been the heiress of Aquitaine.

How could she grieve? How could she mourn? Her father, who had planned to get an heir who would displace her, was no more. His plans were as nothing.

There was one heir to Aquitaine. It was Duchess Eleonore.

Young Louis was very apprehensive. He was to travel to Aquitaine, there to present himself to his bride and ask her hand in marriage. That was a formality. His father and hers had already decided that there should be a match between them.

What would she be like - this girl they had chosen for him? At least she was a year younger than he was. Many royal princes were married to women older than themselves. That would have terrified him.

How he wished that he had remained in Notre-Dame. He longed for the ceremonies in which he had taken part, the sonorous chanting of priests, the smell of incense, the hypnotic murmur of voices in prayer. And instead there must be feasting and celebration and he must be initiated into the mysteries of marriage.

He wished that he were like so many youths; they lived for their dalliance with women; he had heard them boasting of their adventures, laughing together, comparing their brave deeds. He could never be like that. He was too serious; he longed for a life of meditation and prayer. He wanted to be good. It was not easy for rulers to shut themselves away from life; they had to be at the heart of it. They were said to govern, but often they were governed by ministers. They had to go to war. The thought of war terrified him even more than that of love.

The King lay at Bethizy and thither had come the most influential of his ministers, among them the Abbe Suger. The marriage between young Louis and Eleonore of Aquitaine had won their immediate approval. It could only be to the good of the country that the rich lands of the south should come to the crown of France. The King could be assured that his ministers would do all in their power to expedite the marriage.

The Abbe Suger would himself arrange the journey and remain beside the Prince as his chief adviser.

The King, who knew that death could not be far off, was anxious that the progress from Bethizy to Aquitaine should be absolutely peaceful. There must be no pillaging of towns and villages as the cavalcade passed through. The people of the kingdom of France and the dukedom of Aquitaine must know that this was a peaceful mission which could bring nothing but good to all concerned.

He could rest assured that his wishes would be carried out, the Abbe told him.

He sent for his son. Poor Louis! So obviously destined for the Church. And he had heard accounts of Eleonore. A voluptuous girl ripe for marriage, young as she was. She would know how to win Louis, he was sure of that. Perhaps, when he saw this girl who by all accounts was one of the most desirable in the country - and not only for her possessions - he would realise his good fortune.

He told him this when he came to his bedside. ‘Good fortune,’ he said, ‘not only for you, my son, but for your country, and a king’s first duty is to his country.’

‘I am not a king yet,’ said Louis in a trembling voice.

‘Nay, but the signs are, my son, that you will be ere long. Govern well. Make wise laws. Remember that you came to the crown through God’s will and serve him well. Oh, my dear son, may all-powerful God protect you. If I had the misfortune to lose you and those I send with you, I should care nothing whatever either for my person or my kingdom.’

Young Louis knelt by his father’s bed and received his blessing.

Then he left with his party and took the road to Bordeaux.

The town of Bordeaux glittered in the sunshine; the river Garonne was like a silver snake and the towers of the Chateau de l’Ombriere stretched up to a cloudless sky.

The Prince stood on the banks of the river gazing across. The moment when he was brought face to face with his bride could not long be delayed.

He was afraid. What should he say to her? She would despise him. If only he could turn and go back to Paris. Oh, the peace of Notre-Dame! The Abbe Suger had little sympathy for him. As a churchman, he might have been expected to, but all he could think of - all anyone could think of - was how good this marriage was for France.

‘My lord, we should take to the boats and cross to Bordeaux. The Lady Eleonore will have heard that we are here. She will not expect delay.’

He braced himself. It was no use hanging back. What was not done today must be done tomorrow.

‘Let us go now,’ he said.

He was riding to the castle at the head of the small party he had taken with him. His standard bearer held proudly the banner of the golden lilies. He looked up at the turret and wondered whether she watched him.

She was there, exultantly gazing at the golden lilies, the emblem of power. Aquitaine might be rich but a king was necessarily of higher rank than a duke or duchess and even if the acknowledgement of suzerainty was merely a form yet it was there, and Aquitaine was in truth a vassal of France.

And I shall be Queen of France, Eleonore told herself.

She came to the courtyard. She had taken even greater care than usual with her appearance. Her natural elegance was enhanced by the light blue gown she was wearing; this was caught in at her tiny waist with a belt glittering with jewels. She was not wearing the fashionable wimple as she wanted to show off her luxuriant hair which she wore hanging over her shoulders with a jewelled band on her forehead.

She looked up at the boy on his horse as she held the cup of welcome to him.

Young, she thought, malleable. And her heart leaped in triumph.

He was looking at her as though bemused. He had never imagined such a beautiful creature; her serene eyes smiled into his calmly; the diadem on her broad high brow gave her dignity. He thought she was exquisite.

He leaped from his horse and, bowing, kissed her hand.

‘Welcome to Aquitaine,’ she said. ‘Pray come into the castle.’

Side by side they entered.

She told Petronelle when her sister came to her chamber that night: ‘My French Prince is not without charm. They have grace, these Franks. They make some of our knights seem gauche. His manners are perfect. At first though I sensed a reluctance.’

‘That passed when he saw you,’ said the ever-adoring Petronelle.

‘I think it did,’ replied Eleonore judiciously. ‘There is something gentle about him. They brought him up as a priest.’

‘I can’t imagine you with a priest for a husband.’

‘Nay, we shall soon leave the priest behind. I wish we need not wait for the ceremony. I would like to take him for my lover right away.’

‘You always wanted a lover, Eleonore. Father knew it and feared it.’

‘It is natural enough. You too, Petronelle.’

Petronelle sighed and raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Alas, I have longer to wait.’

Then they talked intimately about the men of the court, their virtues and their potentialities as lovers.

Eleonore remembered some of the exploits of their grandfather.

‘He was the greatest lover of his age.’

‘You will excel even him,’ Petronelle suggested.

‘That would be most shocking in a woman,’ laughed Eleonore.

‘But you will be equal to men in all things.’

‘I look forward to starting,’ said Eleonore with a laugh.

The Prince loved to listen to her singing and watch her long white fingers plucking the lute and the harp; she said, ‘I will sing you one of my own songs.’

And she sang of longing for love and that the only true happiness in love was through the satisfaction this could bring.

‘How can you know?’ he asked.

‘Some instinct tells me.’ Her brilliant eyes were full of promise; even he found a certain desire stirring in him. He no longer thought so constantly of the solemn atmosphere of the Church; he began to wonder what mysteries he and his bride would discover together.

She played chess with him and beat him. Perhaps she had had more practice. When he was learning to be a priest she had been brought up in court accomplishments. It was a lighthearted battle between them. When she had check-mated him she laughed and was delighted; it was like a symbol to her.

They walked in the gardens of the castle together. She showed him the flowers and the herbs which grew in the South. She told him how it was possible to make cures and ointments, lotions to beautify the skin and make the eyes shine, a draught to stir a reluctant lover.

‘Dost think that I shall need to make one for you -‘

He caught her hand and looked into her face.

‘No,’ he said, vehemently. ‘That will not be necessary.’

‘Then you find my charms enough for you, my lord?’

‘Enough indeed.’

‘So that you long for our marriage?’

‘I yearn for the day,’ he told her.

She drew back, laughing at him.

Not bad for my monk, she confided afterwards to Petronelle.

The Abbe Suger, seeing how their relationship was ripening, believed there should be no delaying the marriage. It was true Eleonore was in mourning for her father’s recent death but this was a State marriage and the sooner it was solemnised the better for everyone concerned.

He mentioned this to the Prince and was amazed by the alacrity with which he - once so reluctant - agreed.

‘The Duchess of Aquitaine is an enchantress,’ said the Abbe.

It was July when the wedding took place.

Eleonore’s women dressed her in her glittering wedding gown and she wore her long hair flowing. She sat on her glitteringly caparisoned horse and rode through the streets of Bordeaux to Saint Andrew’s Church where the ceremony was to be performed by the Archbishop of Bordeaux. What a day of triumph for the bride! Only a year ago she had wondered whether she would be robbed of her inheritance by a half-brother. But Fate had intervened. No one could come between her and her ambition now.

She was exultant and only a little sad that she had had to come to her triumph through the death of a father who, in her way, she had loved well enough. But there was no doubt of her success.

Duchess of Aquitaine with none to dispute her claim and soon - she believed very soon and so did everyone else - Queen of France.

Eleonore blossomed. Sensual in the extreme she found marriage to her taste. Poor Louis was a little less ardent - although there was no doubt that he loved her with a deeper emotion than she could muster for him. Eleonore loved love; she had known she would when as a very young girl she had sung of it in the gardens. There, love had been glorified - romantic love. She wanted that, but she wanted physical love as well. She it was who led the way in passion. She might have been experienced in such arts; this was not the case; he was her first lover; but with her there was a natural knowledge and understanding.

They were glorious summer days, spent in watching the celebrations for their wedding and nights spent in making love.

There was music and singing and Eleonore was initiating him into an appreciation for the chansons and poems at which she excelled. It was a delightful existence but of course it could not continue. The contests and tournaments in the castle grounds must come to an end, for the Prince must return to Paris with his bride.

She had through him become the Princess of France; through her he must become the Duke of Aquitaine.

Everywhere they went they were met by rejoicing crowds. Such an alliance all knew could bring nothing but good. The people of Aquitaine could shelter beneath the golden lilies of France and the kingdom of France had gathered a powerful neighbour into its eager embrace.

This could only mean more hopes of peace and as what was more dreaded than anything by the humble people were armies invading their homes and carrying off their goods and women, this was a desirable state of affairs.

They had reached Poitiers and were enjoying a great welcome there, when the Abbe Suger came to their apartment in the castle where they had been given hospitality, and it was clear from his expression that he was the bearer of ill news.

He was not a man to break bad news gently.

He bowed low. ‘Long live the King!’ he said.

And Louis knew that his fears were realised and Eleonore that her ambition was achieved.

Her husband was now the King and she was the Queen of France.

‘So my father has gone,’ said Louis blankly.

‘He passed away in great discomfort of body,’ said the Abbe. ‘But his pains are past. If you would obey his wishes you will rule as he would have wished - that is wisely and well.’

‘That I shall endeavour to do with all my heart and mind,’ replied Louis fervently.

The carefree honeymoon was over though. There were too many warring elements in the country for the young Louis to be accepted without opposition.

It was not that the people of France wished to put up another king in Louis’s place. Louis the Fat had kept them in order but he had not always given them what they considered their due. Now that a young and inexperienced boy was on the throne was the time to demand those rights.

A few days after the news of Louis VI’s death reached the wedding party there was further news. This time of a rising in Orleans.

Abbe Suger told the new King that now was the time to assert his authority. How he acted now was of the utmost importance. He must show his people that while he would be a benevolent ruler he would be a firm one. He must say au revoir to his bride and go with all speed to Orleans and from there to Paris. Eleonore and her court should follow him at a more leisurely pace.

Louis, less disturbed by events than a short while before he would have believed possible, rode with his army to Orleans. He must act in a kingly fashion; he would not wish Eleonore to despise him for he knew that she, who was so strong and forceful herself, would indeed despise weakness. So he must not be weak.

He prayed earnestly for wisdom to make the right decision and the strength to put it into execution.

He would carry a flower Eleonore had given him - a rose from the gardens at Ombriere. She herself had plucked it and pressed it. He must carry it near his heart she had told him; he had been enchanted with the mixture of romanticism and sensuality which made up his wife’s character, and her insistence that the laws of chivalry should be obeyed. She fascinated him, she who was so determined to be treated as a tender woman and at the same time so eager to be obeyed. She would expect him to come through this new ordeal with honour.

So he rode at the head of his troops, and how delighted he was that the citizens of Orleans, seeing him come with his army, quailed before his might, and instead of insisting on their dues craved pardon for their insolence in making demands to their liege lord.

An easy conquest and he had no desire to be harsh; his advisers insisted that one or two leaders of the rebellion were executed but he would not allow others to be punished. He even granted some of the reforms for which they had originally asked.

The people of Orleans cheered him. In the very streets where they had banded together and sought a plot against him they now called: ‘Vive le Roi.’

That matter was settled. Louis rode on to Paris and there he was joined by Eleonore. The reunion was tender; they had missed each other sadly.

‘Now we must think of the coronation,’ declared Eleonore.

By December of that year the celebrations had been planned and the great event took place.

What a long way she had come in one short year! thought Eleonore with gratification.

Chapter II PETRONELLE AND THE COUNT

She was briefly content. She was Queen of France, the leader of the court, adored by the King, worshipped by those whom she gathered together that she might instruct them in the rules of chivalry. She surrounded herself with poets and troubadours. To win favour a man must be possessed of exquisite manners; he must know the rules of the Courts of Love; he must be able to express himself with grace and if he had a good singing voice so much the better.

She was the judge of the literary efforts; she applauded or derided. During the summer days she would sit in the grounds of the castle surrounded by young men and women, and she would impart to them her philosophy of life.

The girls must obey her, admire her and emulate her as best they could so that they were pale shadows of herself, and she might shine the more because of this. The young men must all be in love with her, yearn for her favours and be ready to die for them, and she would be gracious or remote; and never must their passion waver. They must write their verses, sing their songs to her; they must mingle talent with desire. She was determined that the court of France must be the most elegant in the world.

There was Petronelle growing up very quickly like a forced flower in this over-heated atmosphere. Men made verses and sang their songs to her for after all she was almost as beautiful as Eleonore, and was her sister.

How much more exciting it was to live at the court of France than that of Aquitaine, to be a Queen instead of the heiress of a Duke, providing he did not get himself a son.

It had worked out very well.

Petronelle, following Eleonore in all things, was growing more and more impatient of her youth.

‘We should find a husband for Petronelle,’ said Eleonore to the King.

‘Why, she is a child yet,’ said Louis. Poor blind Louis, thought Eleonore, the King who knew so little!

‘Some reach maturity earlier than others. Methinks Petronelle has reached hers.’

‘Think you so then? Mayhap you should talk to her, prepare her. She should be awakened gradually to what taking a husband would mean. It could be a shock for an innocent girl.’

Eleonore smiled but she did not tell him of the conversations she and Petronelle had together, and had had for many years. Petronelle was no innocent. A virgin perhaps but how long would she remain so if they did not get her married?

Louis judged others by himself. His innocence was attractive to her … at this time … though she had begun to wonder whether it would pall. Sometimes her gaze would stray to older men, men experienced, with many an amorous adventure behind them, and she was just a little impatient with the naivety of her husband. But it still amused her to be the leader in their relationship, to lure him to passion of which he would never have believed himself capable.

So she did not enlighten him about Petronelle. At the same time she believed it was time to find a husband for her sister.

Petronelle was not of a nature to wait for others to arrange her affairs.

Like her sister she loved the sensuous strumming of the musical instruments and the languorous words hinting at love.

To be young was frustrating. It always had been. And having a fascinating sister such as Eleonore did not help her to bear her lot more easily.

Eleonore had promised her that she would find a husband for her, but the King thought she was too young as yet.

‘Too young,’ groaned Petronelle. ‘The King believes everyone to be as cold-blooded as himself.’

‘Have patience, little sister,’ cautioned Eleonore. ‘I am not of that opinion. I know that if we do not give you a husband soon you will take a lover. But have a care. It is always wiser to have a husband first. That would seem to entitle you to lovers. But a lover first … I believe that might be a little shocking.’

‘You are always singing of love,’ cried Petronelle. ‘What is the use of that?’

Eleonore could only repeat her caution, adding: ‘Have patience.’

She herself had little of that useful virtue. She wanted excitement. Was she growing tired of holding court, of spending her nights with her serious young husband?

While she was pondering on how soon she could find a suitable husband for Petronelle and get the girl safely married, there were signs of unrest in the country. She had always been interested in increasing her power and the elevation from Duchess to Queen had enthralled her. It had been the dream of many a King of France to extend his territory throughout the entire country. Normandy, of course, was firmly in the hands of the King of England - well, perhaps not firmly, for the Count of Anjou would never accept the fact that it did not belong to his wife, Matilda, and as they had a son, naturally they would wish to restore it to him.

At this time Stephen of Blois had taken the crown of England, and it seemed very likely that he would hold it although England was not in a very happy state. Matilda, whom many believed was the true heiress, for she was the daughter of the late King Henry I, whereas Stephen was merely his nephew, would never cease to urge her husband and son to bestir themselves to get back their dues.

Suffice it then that Eleonore and Louis leave Normandy out of their calculations. But what of Toulouse? The fact that the Counts of Toulouse asserted that they were the true rulers of that province had always rankled with Eleonore. Her grandfather had married Philippa of Toulouse, and Eleonore maintained that through this marriage Toulouse had passed to Aquitaine.

Eleonore discussed this with Louis. He saw the point.

‘Mind you,’ he temporised, ‘I doubt whether the Count would agree with us.’

‘It is not a matter for him to agree or disagree about. The fact is I have a right to Toulouse through my grandfather’s marriage and I see no reason why I should waive it.’

‘Why did your grandfather and father never take it?’ asked Louis.

Eleonore shrugged impatiently. She did not wish to recall that neither her father nor her grandfather had been noted for their success in battle. Her father had been somewhat inept politically and her grandfather had been more interested in the conquest of women than territory.

She however was more ambitious. Within her there still burned the resentment engendered by her father’s desire to displace a forceful young woman, possessed of all the attributes a ruler should have, for the sake of an unborn child merely because he might be a boy.

‘The fact that they allowed others to take that which was theirs does not mean that we should.’

Louis was uneasy. She could have shaken him.

‘But Toulouse has been independent for many years.’

‘I know, I know! When my grandfather went crusading he put it into the care of Raymond Saint-Gilles. It was to be a temporary measure.’

‘But it has remained in his family ever since.’

How impatient he made her! She frowned and then allowed her smile to become tenderly exasperating. ‘My dear, dear Louis, you are so gentle, always ready to defend your enemies. I love you for it, of course, but it is no way to rule.’

He could not endure her disappointment in him. She had ensnared him completely. Sometimes he wondered whether she had given him one of those potions she had once mentioned. He could not bear that she should not admire him. It was true that he needed to be war-like. His father had warned him that he must be strong and that it might be doubly hard for him, brought up as he had been to be a priest.

‘What do you suggest we do, Eleonore?’

Her smile was radiant.

‘First you will summon all your vassals to court. There you will tell them that you intend to wage war on Toulouse for what belongs to the Crown through your marriage shall be brought to it. You will tell them that you expect - nay demand - their support. It is your due and their duty. Are they not your vassals?’

‘Eleonore, I confess the thought of going to war disturbs me.’

‘That is a feeling you will have to overcome, my King.’

‘Of course I have you always at my side.’

She took his hand and smiled dazzlingly.

‘Always,’ she assured him, ‘to help and comfort you.’

He certainly felt much comforted.

In the gardens were gathered about Eleonore the ladies and gentlemen of the court. There were young girls whose families had sent them to the Queen to be schooled in all the graces and accomplishments they could find nowhere else. Eleonore delighted in these young people. Her love of power was, even in this small way, satisfied. These young people regarded her as their teacher. Under her guidance they made their gowns; they sang, they composed music and songs; and they learned to play chess. Eleonore could not bear the illiterate near her. She herself had been taught to read and write and she believed it to be an important part of every girl’s education - as well as that of boys. She was determined that there should be no discrimination against her sex. Never would she forget that she could have been diverted from a very brilliant future merely because she was female.

These hours when she ruled over her own little court were her relaxation. Anyone who composed a poem or a song would submit it for her approval; she would then have it read aloud or sung as the case might be, and deliver judgement.

She was determined to uphold chivalry and this meant the adoration of the female. A man must be prepared to woo the lady of his choice; he must be grateful for her smiles; he must be prepared to wait for the fulfilment of love. He must fight for his lady and die for her if need be. This was the essence of romantic love.

Eleonore was sensuous in the extreme but her sensuality was tinged with romance. She was as deeply aware of the virile men of her little court as they were of her. Often she allowed herself to imagine taking them as lovers. That would have given her immense satisfaction. How sad that a queen could not indulge in such romantic attachments. The duty of a queen was to provide the heir to the throne and even she - law unto herself that she might be - was aware that there must be no doubt as to the paternity of the heir of France.

There was one man who attracted her very much and this was Louis’s cousin Raoul, the Count of Vermandois. He was not exactly young; but he had a powerful personality and a reputation for his conquests not only in war but in love.

Often he would sit at Eleonore’s feet and woo her with his eyes, his gestures and the longing in his voice. There was no doubt that Raoul was inviting her to throw aside her scruples. He did not actually say so; he was wise enough to know that in Eleonore’s courts of love there must be no crudity. Hints were far more exciting than bald words; and he had made his feelings clear through those.

Eleonore liked him to sit at her feet while his eyes glittered with passion. She liked to imagine herself indulging in love-making with such a partner; how different he would be from Louis! Poor Louis! He was not an imaginative lover; she must always be the leading spirit. All very well at times, but it would be amusing, intriguing and quite thrilling on some occasions to feel herself mastered.

Alas, she must remember that she had to bear the heir of France.

Raoul continued to adore her with his eyes; his low-pitched voice continued to lure her to indiscretion. She resisted. He was a little impatient. He enjoyed wooing the Queen but he was beginning to realise that he would never do so with success … not at least until she was pregnant by Louis and could safely take a lover. Such a matter could not of course be mentioned in the romantic atmosphere of Eleonore’s court; though it was in his mind and perhaps hers, but he could not be sure of that.

Poor Louis, thought Raoul. It may be that he is incapable of begetting children. Perhaps one day she would be willing to let him be supplanted for that reason. Eleonore was a shrewd woman; she had few scruples he was sure, or at least if she had some now they would be eliminated given the appropriate circumstances. But he was an impatient man. Although he continued to worship at Eleonore’s feet his eyes often strayed and thus it was that they alighted on Petronelle, Eleonore’s young sister. What an enchanting creature she was! thought Raoul. Almost as beautiful as Eleonore herself, and he’d swear as desirous. The more he thought of Petronelle the more enchanted he was.

Petronelle might be inexperienced but she was certainly not without knowledge; she knew the meaning of the ardent glances he sent in her direction. As she was not the Queen of France she need not entertain a queen’s scruples; she was very young; she was unmarried, possibly a virgin - he, the connoisseur, believed this might well be so, although it was a state from which the girl was longing to escape. A little dangerous in view of her relationship with the Queen, and the fact of course that she had no husband. He was a bold man; he had been frustrated too long by Petronelle’s sister. He would see how far he could go.

He waylaid Petronelle in the alleyways of the garden.

‘What a delightful surprise,’ he cried as he came towards her.

‘Is it such a surprise, my lord?’ asked Petronelle, her head on one side, gaily provocative.

‘Well I will admit to a little strategy.’

‘It is always wise to admit that which is already known.’

She had no doubt learned her repartee from her sister.

‘What joy to see you alone.’

‘Why? Do I appear different alone than when in the company of others?’

‘Yes. Do I to you?’

‘Naturally I must feel some alarm remembering your reputation.’

‘Ah, reputation! How cruel it can be! How false! How unfair!’

‘Have people been unfair to you, my lord ?’

‘So much would depend on what they said of me.’

‘They say you have known many conquests.’

‘I have committed myself with honour in battle, I believe.’

‘And in the battle of love?’

‘I do not regard love as a battle.’

‘Yet people talk of conquests.’

‘Perhaps I myself am in danger of being conquered?’

‘By your lady wife no doubt. And I believe my sister the Queen to have had some effect on you.’

‘Sometimes it is not as it appears.’

‘I understand you not.’

He took a step nearer to her and grasped her hand. ‘Sometimes one does not look in the direction of the sun. It is too dazzling. One averts the eyes.’

‘Are you looking at the sun now, my lord Count?’

‘Right in its face.’

‘I trust you are blinded by it.’

‘Blinded to indiscretion. Made mad by it.’ He seized her suddenly and kissed her.

Petronelle gave an exclamation of what she meant to sound like dismay, and breaking away from him ran through the alley to a more public place in the gardens.

This was a beginning.

Count Theobald of Champagne had arrived at the court of France. He was a man who had a reputation for governing his province with wisdom; he was a good soldier and Louis had counted on his help for carrying on the campaign against Toulouse.

Eleonore was with the King when he received the Count. She made a point of being present at such meetings for she wanted the world to know that France had a queen as well as a king.

‘Welcome to Paris,’ said Louis. ‘I trust you are in good health.’

‘Never better, Sire.’

‘And in good fettle for the fight.’

‘If you are referring to this matter of Toulouse, Sire, I could not aid you in this. I do not think it would have the blessing of God.’

Eleonore was frowning. ‘Perhaps you will explain,’ she said coldly.

The Count bowed. ‘Indeed, Madame. I would not ally myself with it because I would consider it unjust to the Count of Toulouse.’

‘Unjust to wrest from a man that to which he clings when he has no right to do so!’

‘It would seem that he has the rights of ownership, my lady.’

‘Do you know that Toulouse came to my grandfather through marriage and that he set up Saint-Gilles as a custodian during his absence on a crusade?’

‘If that were so I cannot understand why it was not reclaimed ere this, my lady.’

‘Because the matter has not been resolved until now, but that is no reason why it never should be.’

‘I see many reasons, my lady.’

‘You forget that you risk the displeasure of your King and Queen.’

The Count bowed and begged leave to retire.

When he had gone Eleonore burst out in fury: ‘The insolent dog! How dare he tell us what our duty is!’

‘He has a right to express an opinion,’ Louis mildly told her.

‘Are you a king? Am I a queen? Shall we be insulted in our own castle? I tell you, my lord Count of Champagne will be sorry for this.’

Louis tried to soothe her, but she would not be placated.

Theobald went to his sister’s apartments. She was the wife of Raoul, the Count of Vermandois, and he found her melancholy.

Theobald felt equally so. He had not liked the tone of the Queen’s voice when she had expressed her disappointment in his refusal to support the campaign against Toulouse.

‘Well, Eleonore,’ he said, for his sister bore the same name as the Queen, ‘you look a little sad. Is Raoul unfaithful again?’

His sister Eleonore shrugged her shoulders. ‘It is not an unusual occurrence.’

‘I regret that marriage,’ said the Count, ‘even though he is Louis’s cousin. Who is Raoul’s latest inamorata?’

‘I don’t know. I have not tried to find out. Sometimes I think it better to remain in ignorance.’

‘He should not treat you so.’

‘Of course he should not, but that does not prevent him. I know that he is indulging in a love affair which gives him great pleasure. It is conducted in secrecy of course. Some woman who is deceiving her husband I doubt not, as Raoul is deceiving me.’

‘You will never change his nature, Eleonore.’

‘I fear not. He will chase women as long as he has legs to carry him.’

‘I will have a word with him.’

She shook her head. ‘Better not. Perhaps it is the fate of people such as we are to have unfaithful husbands. Sometimes I think it would be better if we were more humbly born. Think how our family is scattered. Childhood seems so short and if one is the youngest of a big family the older ones have left home before one is aware of them. I often think of Stephen.’

‘Ah, the King of England,’ said Theobald. ‘Yes, think of him often and pray for him. As King of England he needs your prayers.’

‘I remember the rejoicing there was within the family when he took the crown.’

‘Yes,’ mused Theobald. ‘And the lamenting when it seemed that Matilda would snatch it from him.’

‘I would we could see more of him. It is only when he visits Normandy that I have that opportunity.’

‘Poor Stephen, perhaps a crown is a mixed blessing.’

‘You thought that, Theobald. You had more right to the crown of England than Stephen. You were the elder son of our mother and the Conqueror was your grandfather just as much as he was Stephen’s.’

‘Stephen had been brought up in England. There was clearly a time when King Henry thought of making him his heir.’

‘There would not have been those distressing wars in England if Matilda’s husband had not died and she had remained in Germany.’

‘Yet she was the King’s daughter and many would say the true heir. Stephen is our brother and I would support him with all I have, but Matilda was in fact the King’s daughter and in direct line of succession. One cannot get away from that.’

‘Poor Stephen. I hope he is happy. What burdens he has to bear!’

‘He has a good wife. No man could have a better.’

‘Yet he is not faithful to her. Are any men faithful?’

Theobald pressed her hand. ‘Do not take Raoul’s infidelity too much to heart. That is his way. Stephen’s queen must perforce accept this. Try to forget it.’

‘It is something which is always with me, Theobald, but I like not that you should have displeased the Queen.’

‘The King too, I fear.’

‘Oh, it is the Queen who counts. She rules the court; she wishes to enlarge the kingdom of France that she may become more and more powerful. I think she might be a revengeful woman.’

‘I shall know how to protect myself and my lands Eleonore. The King is young and inexperienced. It is a pity they married him to such a forceful woman. Abbe Suger is a wise man and Louis the Fat left his son in good hands … apart from those of his wife. But who would have expected a girl in her teens to take so much interest in affairs.’

‘The Queen is a woman who intends to rule. Shall you go back to Champagne now?’

‘Yes. I felt I must come and put my case before the King. It is always wise when one disagrees to state one’s reasons in person.’

‘Then I will wish you farewell, brother. It has done me good to see you. I would I could see Stephen.’

‘Do not wish that. It would mean trouble doubtless in Normandy if he were here.’

‘There is constant trouble in Normandy.’

‘And will be for years to come, I fear. Anjou is quiet at the moment, but his son is growing up. They say young Henry Plantagenet is quite a warrior already and that he will not only want Normandy, but England as well.’

‘More wars … more troubles!’

‘So must it be when there are too many claimants to a throne. Look at this trouble now … with Toulouse. But never fear, Eleonore. The King, I am convinced, has little stomach for war. Doubtless this affair of Toulouse will blow over. I do not think I shall be the only one who does not wish to follow him to war.’

The brother and sister took farewell of each other.

The Queen watched the Count of Champagne ride off at the head of his cavalcade.

‘Curse him,’ said Eleonore. ‘How dare he flout the Queen. He shall suffer for this.’

Darkness had fallen over the castle. Petronelle wrapped a cloak round her and slipped out into the fresh night air.

No one would recognise her if they saw her. They would think she was some lady of the house bent on an assignation, which would be the truth, but they would never suspect she was the Queen’s young sister.

Petronelle knew she was being bold and wayward; she was inviting dishonour. But what could she do? When Raoul embraced her she was weak and yielding; she had already half promised and drawn back. She had cried: ‘I cannot and I dare not.’

And he had tenderly bitten her ear and whispered into it: ‘But you can and you dare.’

She had known that there would be eventual surrender. Was that not what the songs were about? They were about wooing and romance and knights who died for their ladies, but it was so much more inviting to love than to die. Death was horrible with its blood and pain. Love was beautiful; there was desire and passion and the intense satisfaction of fulfilment which she had yet to experience.

And she would experience that before long. They would marry her soon. Suppose they married her to some impotent old man just because it would be good for State reasons. They had married Eleonore to Louis. True he was the King but he was not really very attractive. He was what they called a laggard in all that mattered. Eleonore had as much as said so. If they married her to someone she did not fancy she would have lovers. She would select someone like Raoul …

Raoul! She was going to meet him now, and this time there would be no holding back. He would not allow that. He had said half angrily last time: ‘I have waited too long.’ And she had thrilled to that angry note in his voice.

This time there would be no holding back.

He was waiting for her in the shrubbery.

His arms were round her, holding her firmly.

‘Raoul, I dare not

‘I know the place. Come.’

‘I must go back.’

But he was laughing at her.

She said: ‘My sister will be furious. Do you not care for the Queen’s anger?’

‘Tonight I care for nothing but this,’ he answered.

She pretended to pull back but she knew and he knew that it was mere pretence.

They found a secluded part of the shrubbery.

‘Others may come here,’ she protested.

‘Nay, we shall be undisturbed.’

‘I must go back.’

‘You must stay here.’

He was drawing her down to the earth.

She said: ‘I have no help but to submit.’

Eleonore was quickly aware of the change in her sister and guessed the cause.

She summoned her to her bedchamber, and making sure that they were alone she said, ‘You had better tell me.’

Petronelle opened her eyes very wide, assuming innocence.

Eleonore took her by the shoulders and shook her. ‘Do not feign innocence with me, my child. Who is the man?’

‘Eleonore, I …’

‘And I know,’ said Eleonore. ‘You could not hide it from me. It is clear. If you shouted from the turret, I have a lover, you could not say it more clearly.’

‘I don’t see why …’

‘No, you are a child. You are also foolish. You should have waited for marriage.’

‘As you did …’

‘As I did. You know I was a virgin when I married Louis. It was necessary that I should be. Now we shall have to find a husband for you. Who is your lover? Perhaps we can marry you to him without delay. I will speak to the King.’

Petronelle stammered: ‘That’s impossible.’

‘Why so?’

‘He … he is married already.’

‘You little fool!’

‘I couldn’t help it, Eleonore. I didn’t mean to. At first it was only a kind of play-acting … like singing the songs and talking of love … and then …’

‘I know. You cannot tell me anything I don’t know about such matters. You should have consulted me about it. You should have told me that he was making advances. Who is he?’

‘Raoul …’

‘The Count of Vermandois!’

Petronelle nodded.

Eleonore felt a wave of fury. Raoul who had pretended to admire her, who had implied that only she could satisfy him, that all other women were of no moment to him! And all the time he was making love to her sister!

‘I don’t believe it. Why, he is old …’

‘He is ten years older than you are. That is not much in a man.’

‘And you submitted to him.’

Petronelle held her head high. ‘I did and I don’t care. I’d do it again. So would you if you weren’t married to the King.’

Eleonore shook her sister angrily. ‘Don’t forget you are talking to the Queen. I am mindful of my duty. You have behaved like a slut of a serving-girl.’

‘Then many ladies of the court do the same. They sit with you and talk in a high-minded way about love, and then by night they are with their lovers. Poetry and songs are no substitute for love-making, and you know it.’

‘So you would instruct us! But let us not waste time in recriminations. You could not wait for marriage. That is what we must consider.’

‘I love Raoul,’ said Petronelle firmly.

‘And he loves you, I suppose you’ll tell me.’

‘Oh yes, oh yes.’

‘But not enough to save you from his lust.’

‘It was love,’ said Petronnelle ecstatically.

‘And he knew to what disaster he was leading you. He knew he was married and so did you. He is married …’ She stopped suddenly and a slow smile spread across her face.

‘… he is married,’ she went on slowly, ‘to that woman who shares my name. She is the sister of our haughty Theobald of Champagne.’

‘He does not love her,’ said Petronelle quickly. ‘Theirs has been a marriage which is no marriage. It is years since they were lovers. She does not understand him at all.’

‘So he told you, sister. A common complaint of the wayward husband. All she cannot understand is why she should be expected to be faithful while he philanders where he will. It is something I do not understand either. Suffice it you are no longer a virgin. And that is deplorable. I will speak to the King. We must get you married without delay.’

‘If you married me to someone else I would never give up Raoul.’

‘And what if it were possible to marry Raoul?’

Petronelle clasped her hands ecstatically.

‘Oh, if it but were!’

‘I will explore the matter.’

The Queen received Raoul, Count of Vermandois, very coldly. She did not give him permission to sit.

‘I am displeased,’ she said.

‘Not with me, I trust, my lady.’

‘With whom else! I know about you and my sister. She has confessed to me that you have seduced her. What have you to say?’

‘That a man dazzled by the sun turns for consolation to the moon.’

‘There have been too many metaphors concerning the sun and moon. I have had enough of them. Are you implying that finding me unobtainable you turned to my sister?’

He bowed his head.

‘My sister will not be pleased if I tell her that.’

‘Your magnanimity and discretion would not allow you to.’

‘I never allow anyone or anything to prevent my doing what I wish.’

‘You are the law and it is our will to obey you. What would you have me do, my Queen? Say it and I will do it or die in the attempt.’

‘It is not exactly one of the labours of Hercules.’

‘I would it were that I might show my devotion.’

‘You should take care. I might set you some impossible task one day.’

‘Nothing could strain me more than to be near you and not allowed to love you.’

‘You do not speak like the prospective bridegroom of another woman.’

‘Bridegroom!’ He was alert. ‘My lady, alas I am married.’

‘To a lady of whom I gather you are not desperately enamoured.’

‘She is my wife. When I am in the presence of the irresistible I must perforce succumb.’

‘Are you referring to me or to my sister?’

‘You know my feeling. I am not alone in my adoration.’

‘And Petronelle? You are in love with her?’

‘She resembles you. What more can I say?’

‘That if you were free you would agree to marry her?’

‘With all my heart.’

‘I do not ask if you would be a faithful husband to her. I know the futility of that. She has a fancy for you.’

‘I would I were free.’

‘You could be if there were a blood tie between you and your wife.’

‘I know not …’

‘You are obtuse, Count. There are always blood ties between families of our blood. So much inter-marrying through the centuries means that if we search back far enough we can find the connection.’

‘If this could be found …’

‘If ! It can be found. It must be found. You have seduced my sister. For all I know she may already be with child. You are responsible. Forget not that she is the sister of the Queen. Would you marry her?’

‘If just cause could be found that I am not already married.’

‘Then found it shall be,’ said the Queen firmly. She was smiling to herself. Certainly Petronelle must marry her seducer; and how amusing that Raoul’s wife was the sister of her enemy Theobald. This would teach that family to flout the King and Queen.

It was disconcerting. Count Theobald was not the only baron who ignored the King’s summons. It should have been clear that the country was in no mood to go to war over Toulouse. The only enthusiasm came from the Queen and that which she imparted to her docile husband. Eleonore rode out of Paris beside her husband ready for the siege which would bring Toulouse into their hands. Eleonore was busy with plans; she had already traced the relation between Raoul and his wife. If one went back far enough there were always blood ties. She had set the bishops working on it and they knew that if they did not find what she wished them to they would incur her displeasure.

Louis had really very little heart for war. He hated death, nor did he wish to punish his people. When he had been victorious at Orleans he had granted his rebellious subjects what they had asked for, and had stopped what he considered the cruel law of cutting off people’s fingers if they did not pay their debts. Of what use was that, he had demanded, when they need their hands intact to work to pay off their debts?

The thought of innocent people’s suffering worried him; but what could he do? Eleonore insisted that Toulouse was hers and therefore his, and she could not forget the insolence of Theobald of Champagne.

‘Are we going to allow our subjects to treat us thus?’ she had demanded. ‘If so we are no rulers.’

He had had to agree with her; he always had to agree with her. So here he was marching on Toulouse.

Into the rich country they went. Louis’s spirits were revived. Of course he would like to add these fertile provinces to his kingdom. Eleonore’s eyes glowed. He wondered whether it was the sight of the land which made them so bright and eager, or the fulfilment of revenge. She was so sure that ere long Toulouse would be theirs. She would have subdued not only the Count of Toulouse who had refused to hand back that to which he had no right, but also the insolent Theobald. And when he heard that his sister was to be divorced from the Count of Vermandois he would be doubly humiliated!

He would see what it meant to defy the Queen of France - and so would others. It would be a lesson.

Alas, for Louis and Eleonore. Toulouse was well defended, and it soon became clear to Louis that even those who had rallied to his banner had no heart for the fight.

As he encamped outside the castle occupied by Raymond Saint-Gilles, group after group of his followers reminded him that they had agreed to fight with him for only a specified time. Time was running out and they must return to their estates.

Louis was disturbed.

‘Command them to stay!’ cried Eleonore.

But Louis had given his word. He was not a man to break that. He must stand out against Eleonore for the sake of his honour.

Thus it was the King found himself before the castle with scarcely any supporters, and it was either a case of retreat or ignominious defeat. As it was he must retire in humiliation.

There was nothing for it but to return to Paris and shelve the conquest of Toulouse, until the King and Queen could find some means of bringing it to the Crown.

Such a situation was galling to the Queen. She imagined Saint-Gilles and Theobald of Champagne sneering at the royal ineptitude.

She must be revenged and the first blow should be struck through Theobald’s sister. Her bishops had found that there was a blood relationship between Raoul and his wife. Therefore the marriage was no true marriage and Raoul was free to marry again.

‘It is a good thing,’ said the Queen to the King, ‘that your cousin should marry with my sister.’

The Count of Champagne was amazed one day to see his sister with a few of her attendants ride into the courtyard of his castle. He hastened down to meet her.

‘Why Eleonore,’ he cried, ‘what brings you here?’

For a moment she could not answer him. She threw herself into his arms and clung to him.

‘I did not know where to go.’

‘Where is your husband?’

‘I have no husband.’

‘Come into the castle,’ said Theobald. ‘Tell me what this means. Raoul is dead?’

‘Nay,’ she answered. ‘It is simply that he is no longer my husband.’

‘But this makes nonsense. You were married to him. I myself attended the ceremony. Come, sister, you must calm yourself.’

He took her to his private chamber and she poured out her story. A blood tie had been discovered that meant her marriage to Raoul was not valid. She was not married to Raoul; had never been married and the ceremony she had gone through with Raoul was no true one at all. Moreover Raoul had married someone else. There had been a grand wedding and the King and Queen had attended.

‘Who was the bride?’ asked Theobald blankly.

‘The lady Petronelle.’

‘What! The Queen’s sister?’

‘Indeed yes, the Queen’s sister.’

‘This is monstrous. It is a plot.’

Eleonore nodded sadly.

Theobald was furious. It was not only the dishonour to his sister that he raged against; it was an insult to his family. The Queen had arranged this he knew. She had insisted that the bishops prove the marriage invalid and they had done so on pain of her displeasure. And why had she contrived this? To be revenged on him. Because he had refused to support her and the King over the annexation of Toulouse, she had arranged for his sister’s dishonour.

‘I will not endure this,’ he said. ‘This day I will send a messenger to Rome. I shall put my case before the Pope and it will be proved that this was a plot to discredit me through you, sister.’

‘And you think the Pope will not agree to the dissolution of the marriage?’

‘How can he? The reasons put forward are groundless. I will make Raoul take you back. I will prove that his marriage to Petronelle was no marriage. She will be the one to suffer dishonour, not you, my sister.’

‘Raoul was eager to go to his new wife, I know.’

‘He will be begging to come back to you when I have the Pope’s word.’ Theobald was not a man to delay when action was necessary.

He asked the advice of Bernard of Clairvaux who suggested that he take his case immediately to Rome with an account of the wrong done to his sister.

Petronelle was content with her marriage. She glowed with satisfaction. Watching her Eleonore felt a little discontented with her own. True it had brought her the crown of France and she would not have missed that for anything, but she did wish it had brought her a man like Raoul instead of a monk like Louis.

She must get an heir. The country needed an heir and so did she. The purpose of marriage for such as herself was the procreation of children. She could not endure that she should fail in anything.

She was in a mood of discontent when the messenger arrived from Rome.

He brought letters for the King and the Count of Vermandois.

Eleonore made a point of being with Louis when he read his. They were very much to the point. The Pope found that there had been a miscarriage of justice. The Count of Vermandois had put away his true wife on the instigation of the Queen and the bishops and married the Queen’s sister. The Pope could find no just cause why the marriage of the Count of Vermandois and the sister of the Count of Champagne was not legal. The Count of Vermandois was excommunicated and ordered to put away the woman with whom he was now living and return to his wife.

Eleonore was furious.

‘This is an insult to my sister,’ she cried. ‘Does His Holiness realise that? The sister of the Queen of France … !’

Louis said mildly, ‘My dearest, we should never have allowed Raoul to put away his wife.’

‘His wife! That was no true marriage. They are too closely related.’

The King looked at her sadly.

‘You have allowed your love for your sister to blind you,’ he said. ‘Petronelle should have looked elsewhere for a husband.’

‘He is her husband. She has lived openly with him. Do you realise what this means? Who will want to marry her now?’

‘Many I think would wish for an alliance with the sister of the Queen of France.’

‘I’ll not endure this insolence.’

‘This is the edict of the Pope, my love.’

‘You know who has done this. It is Theobald. He was determined to flout us. I’ll not rest until I have driven him from Champagne.’

‘Champagne is his, my dear. It is independent of France.’

The Queen narrowed her eyes. ‘Louis, sometimes I think you do not love me.’

‘You cannot doubt that I do.’

‘Yet you allow me to be insulted.’

‘Theobald has done only what any brother would have done. He has tried to preserve his sister’s honour.’

‘And what of my sister’s honour?’

‘It was unwise to marry her to my cousin.’

‘Unwise! He had no wife, his marriage to Theobald’s sister being invalid. Why shouldn’t they, who had been lovers, sanctify their union!’

‘Because he already had a wife.’

‘He had not, I tell you. The marriage was illegal. He is married to Petronella and we are going to teach Theobald a lesson.’

‘How so?’

‘We shall invade his lands. We shall raze his castles to the ground. I tell you we will be revenged on Theobald.’

‘We should have no support.’

‘Then we will do it without support. I have my loyal subjects of Aquitaine. They would follow me wherever I wished to go.’

‘Nay, Eleonore, let us not go rashly into war.’

Her eyes blazed at him. He was a weakling, a monk, and they had married him to her! He had little to give her but her crown.

And he was going to obey her.

She was determined they were going to war. They were going to ravage the lands of Champagne and teach its disobedient Count a lesson. She was frustrated, married to a man who could not satisfy her intense longings. She had her crown from him but had grown accustomed to that now, and she wanted a strong man whom she could find some pleasure in subduing. Louis was too easily managed although in this matter of war he was proving obstinate. It would not be for long; she would make him agree shortly and there was a certain stimulation in urging him. She enjoyed the battle with him while his repulsion to war infuriated her.

Petronelle and Raoul were smugly content with each other; and she was determined that they should remain together. She was not going to give way.

Meanwhile she badgered Louis. Was he a coward? Was he going to allow little rulers of small provinces to outwit him? Would he stand by and see the sister of his wife dishonoured? It was tantamount to dishonouring his wife.

Louis implored her to be patient, and then another matter arose which demanded his attention.

The Archbishopric of Bourges had fallen vacant and Eleonore and Louis had chosen the man who was to fill the post. He was ideal, being a friend of theirs. Then to their consternation a message came from the Pope that he had chosen Pierre de la Chatre for the office.

‘How dare he interfere in matters which concern us and us only!‘demanded the Queen.

Louis supported her. He was the King. It was for him to say who should be his Archbishop.

‘Not so,’ retorted the Pope. ‘I have appointed Pierre de la Chatre and none other shall have it.’

Louis, prompted by Eleonore, replied that as long as he lived de la Chatre should not enter Bourges.

Then the Pope made a remark which when reported to Louis raised his anger.

‘The King of France is a child,’ said the Pope. ‘He must get schooling and be kept from bad habits.’

‘You see,’ cried Eleonore when this was reported, ‘they have no respect for you. It is because you allow people to insult you. You have been over-lenient. Look at Theobald of Champagne. If you had marched into his country and laid it waste the Pope would not have spoken to you as though you were a schoolboy.’

Louis was silent for a few moments then he burst out: ‘It would have meant war. Killing brings such suffering to innocent people.’

‘A fine way for a king to talk,’ commented Eleonore scornfully.

Theobald played right into her hands by supporting the Pope’s choice and letting it be known.

Eleonore was furious. ‘What now?’ she cried. ‘Will you stand by and allow this?’

Louis knew that he could not, and when the Pope excommunicated him he knew that he had to take action.

He prepared to march on Champagne in order to subdue the Count who had dared take sides against his King.

Eleonore rode out of Paris beside her reluctant husband. There was to be war with Champagne and Louis knew that such conflicts enriched no one but the soldiers who plundered and pillaged while innocent people suffered.

The Queen however was adamant and he had after much persuasion agreed that Theobald must be taught a lesson.

It was not a very impressive army that marched into Champagne. Many wandering adventurers joined it, and because it was not very large the King was glad to welcome any who followed him, even though he knew they were out for the spoils which would come their way.

As they marched deeper into the terrain of the man the Queen detested, the rougher elements of the army plundered the villages against the King’s order. Louis heard the cries of protesting villagers who sought to protect their crops, their houses and their family. He saw his rough soldiery ordering the villagers from their houses, illtreating the women, raping, feasting, drinking and acting in a manner of which he had heard much and which had made him hate the thought of war.

He endeavoured to stop their cruelties; they did not heed him.

Eleonore regarded him with contempt. What sort of a king was he whom men would not obey and who shuddered at the prospect of war? She could only remember that this was the enemy’s country. She exulted over the burning land. This would teach Theobald what it meant to flout his King because if that King was weak his Queen was not.

They had reached the walled city of Vitry.

There was little defence offered and in a short time the King’s men were in the streets killing, pillaging, shedding the blood of its inhabitants. The old and the maimed and the women and the children ran screaming before the soldiers and barricaded themselves into the wooden church.

‘Enough, enough,’ cried Louis. But his command was not heeded.

His followers had come to pillage and murder and they could not be restrained. There then occurred a terrible incident which was to haunt the King for the rest of his days.

Inside the church the children clung to their mothers, and mothers begged for the safety of their little ones. The King’s men knew no pity. They did not attempt to break into the church. They merely set it on fire.

As the flames enveloped it and the thick black smoke filled the air the cries of the innocent could be heard calling curses on their murderers and screaming for mercy.

‘Have done. Have done,’ pleaded Louis but they would not listen to him. In any case it was too late. In that burning church were thirteen hundred innocent people and they were all burned to death.

In his tent Louis lay staring blankly before him. Eleonore lay beside him.

‘I can hear their screaming,’ he said.

She answered: ‘There is no sound now. They are all dead.’

‘All dead!’ he cried. ‘Those innocent people. Holy Mother of God help me! I shall never be able to escape from the sound of their cries.’

‘They should have denounced their lord. They should have sworn allegiance to you.’

‘They were innocent people. What did they know of our quarrel?’

‘You must try to sleep.’

‘To sleep. If I do, I dream. I can smell the smoke. I shall never be free of it. How the wood crackled!’

‘It was old and dry,’ she said.

‘And little children … They called curses on us. Imagine a mother … with her little ones.’

‘It is war,’ said Eleonore. ‘It is not wise to brood on these things.’

But Louis could not stop brooding.

He could not go on, he declared.

‘To give in now would be victory for Theobald,’ Eleonore reminded him.

‘I can’t help it,’ cried Louis. ‘I am sick of war and killing.’

‘You should never have been a king.’

‘You speak truth. My heart is in the Church.’

‘Which is no place for a king’s heart to be.’

‘Sometimes I think I should have refused to take the crown.’

‘How could you, the King’s son, have done that?’

‘Sometimes I think God is not pleased with me. We have been six years married and have no child.’

‘It is a long time to wait,’ agreed Eleonore.

‘Is there something we have done … or not done? Have I displeased God in some way?’ The King shivered. ‘I feel in my heart that whatever we did before the burning of Vitry was nothing compared with that great sin.’

‘Stop thinking of it.’

‘I can’t, I can’t,’ moaned the King.

She knew that he would be useless to command an army in his present state.

‘We should return to Paris,’ she said.

He was eager to agree. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Disband the army. Go back. Call off the war.’

‘That would be folly. The army will stay here. We shall return. State duties call you to Paris. There you will rest and forget Vitry. You will learn that it is what must be expected in war.’

The war continued. Louis was heartily sick of it but Eleonore would not allow Theobald to have the chance to say the King had been forced to retire from the field.

The King’s ministers begged him to consider what good there was in continuing. Louis would have agreed but he dared not face Eleonore’s wrath.

He could not understand his feeling for her. It was as though he were under a spell. Whatever he might promise to do, when she showed her contempt for his weakness he always gave way to her.

The Abbot of Clairvaux, who had prophesied the death of Louis’s brother Philippe, had become known as a worker of miracles. He had ranged himself against Louis and Eleonore, and came to the court to ask the King to agree to a peace.

Eleonore would not hear of this.

She faced the Abbot and explained to him that to agree to a peace would be to dishonour her own sister, and although this was but one of the causes which had made it necessary for Louis to make war, it was a very important one.

‘Such a war,’ the Abbot told her, ‘is displeasing to God. Has that not been made clear? God has turned his face from your endeavours. The King suffers deep remorse. He has done so since the burning of Vitry.’

‘And before that,’ said Eleonore bitterly. ‘He has rendered me childless. You, who are said to have the power to make miracles, could perhaps work this one for me if you would.’

The Abbot was thoughtful.

‘Whether you should have the blessing of a child is in the hands of God.’

‘So is all that happens. Yet you have worked miracles, they say. Why do you not work one now?’

‘I could do nothing in this matter.’

‘You mean you will not help me?’

‘If you had a child you would doubtless change your life. Perhaps you need a child.’

‘I need a child,’ said Eleonore. ‘Not only because my son will be the heir to France, but because I long for a child of my own.’

The Abbot nodded.

She caught his arm. ‘You will do this for me?’

‘My lady, I cannot. It is in the hands of God.’

‘If I persuaded the King to stop the war, to call a truce …’

‘If you did that it might be that God would be more ready to listen to your prayers.’

‘I would do anything to get a child.’

‘Then pray with me, but first humble yourself before God. You cannot do that with the sin of war upon you.’

‘If there was peace you would work the miracle?’

‘If there were peace I should be able to ask God to grant your request.’

‘I will speak to the King,’ she said.

She did and the result was that there was peace between Theobald and Louis.

To Eleonore’s great joy she was pregnant. She was sure that Bernard had worked the miracle. All these years and no sign of a child, and now the union would be fruitful.

She had softened a little. She was planning for the child as a humble mother might have done. The songs she sang were of a different nature.

The members of the court marvelled.

In due course the child was born. A girl.

She was not disappointed. Like all rulers Louis had hoped for a son; yet, she demanded of her ladies, why should there be this overwhelming adoration of the male? ‘I was my father’s heiress although I was a woman,’ she reminded them. ‘Why should the King and I be sad because we have a daughter?’

The Salic law prevailed in France. This meant that no woman could rule. The crown would go to the next male heir. This law was all against Eleonore’s principles and she promised herself that she would not allow it to persist. Her daughter was but a baby yet and there was time enough to think of her future.

She was christened Marie and for more than a year after her birth Eleonore was content to play the devoted mother.

Life had become monotonous. Little Marie was past two years old. Eleonore was devoted to her but naturally the child was often in the company of her nurses. Eleonore continued to hold court. The songs had become more voluptuous again; they stressed the sorrows of unrequited passion and the joys of shared love.

Petronelle was her constant companion; Eleonore watched with smouldering eyes her sister and her husband together. What a passionate affair that had been! Something, sighed Eleonore, which was denied me.

She had at first been fond of Louis. He had been so overcome at the sight of her and was so devoted to her that she had developed quite an affection for him. It was not in her passionate nature to be contented with that. Louis might be her slave and it pleased her that he should be, but his piety bored her, and what was hardest of all to endure was his remorse.

He took a great interest in the Church and was constantly taking part in some ritual. He would return from such occasions glowing with satisfaction but it would not be long before he was sunk in melancholy.

He could not forget the sound of crackling flames and the screams of the aged and innocent as they had burned to death. The town itself had now become known as Vitry-the-Burned.

He would pace up and down their bedchamber while Eleonore watched him from their bed.

She knew that he would not be seeing her, seductively inviting with her long hair loose about her naked shoulders as she might be. He would be seeing the pitiless faces of men intent on murder; and when she spoke to him he would hear instead those cries for mercy.

How many times had she told him: ‘It was an act of war and best forgotten.’

And he declared: ‘To my dying day I shall never forget. Remember, Eleonore, all that was done was done in my name.’

‘You did your best to stop it. They heeded you not.’ Her lips curled. What a weakling he was! His men intent on murder did not obey him! And he permitted this.

He should have been a monk.

She was weary of him. She wished they had married her to a man.

Yet he was the King of France and marriage to him made her a queen. But she was also Eleonore of Aquitaine. She was never going to forget that.

So she listened to him wandering on in his maudlin way and she knew that she would not go on for ever living as she was at this time. Her adventurous spirits were in revolt.

She had made a brilliant marriage; she was a mother. But for her that was not enough. She was reaching for adventure.

The opportunity came from an unexpected quarter.

For many years men had sought to expiate their sins by making pilgrimages to Jerusalem. They had believed that by undertaking an arduous journey, which often resulted in death, they showed their complete acceptance of the Christian faith and their desire for repentance. They believed that in this way they could be forgiven a life of wickedness. There had been many examples of men who had undertaken this pilgrimage. Robert the Magnificent, father of William the Conqueror, had been one. He had died during the journey leaving his son but a child, unprotected from his enemies, but it was believed that he had expiated a lifetime’s sins by this gesture.

But while it was considered a Christian act to make a pilgrimage, how much greater grace could be won by taking part in a Holy War to drive the infidel from Jerusalem.

Ever since the seventh century Jerusalem had been in the possession of the Mussulmans, khalifs of Egypt or Persia. There was conflict between Christianity and Islamism, and at the beginning of the eleventh century the persecution of Christians in the Holy Land was at its most intense. All Christians living in Jerusalem were commanded to wear a wooden cross about their necks. As these weighed five pounds they were a considerable encumbrance. Christians were not allowed to ride on horses; they might only travel on mules and asses. For the smallest disobedience they were put to death often in the cruellest manner. Their leader had suffered crucifixion; therefore that seemed a suitable punishment for those who followed him.

Pilgrims who made the journey to and from Jerusalem came back with stories of the terrible degradation that Christians were being made to suffer. Indignation came to a head when a certain French monk returned from a visit to Jerusalem. He became known as Peter the Hermit. Of small stature and almost fragile frame, his glowing spirit of determination was apparent to all who beheld him. It was his mission, he believed, to bring the Holy City into Christian hands. He travelled all over Europe, barefooted, clad in an old woollen tunic and serge cloak; living on what he could find by the wayside and what was given him; and he roused the indignation of the whole of Europe over the need to free Jerusalem from the infidel.

It happened that in the year 1095 Pope Urban II was at Clermont in Auvergne presiding over a gathering of archbishops, bishops, abbots and other members of the clergy. People from all over Europe had come to hear him speak; Urban had been very impressed by the mission which Peter the Hermit had been carrying out and asked him to come to him. On the steps of the church, in the presence of the Pope, Peter told the assembly of the fate meted out to Christians in the Holy Land by the ruthless infidels who were eager to eliminate Christianity.

Peter, his dedication burning fiercely for now he saw the fulfilment of his dream, talked of the insults heaped on Christians, of the hideous deaths they were made to suffer and that he believed God had inspired him with a mission which was to bring back Jerusalem to Christianity.

The crowd was silent for a few seconds after he had finished speaking and then broke into loud cries of ‘Save Jerusalem. Save the Holy Land.’

Then Pope Urban raised his hand to ask for silence.

‘That royal city,’ he said, ‘which the Redeemer of the human race honoured and made illustrious by his coming and hallowed by his passion, demands deliverance. It looks to you, men of France, men from beyond the mountains, nations chosen and beloved by God, you the heirs of Charlemagne, from you, above all, Jerusalem asks for help. God will give glory to your arms. Take then the road to Jerusalem for the remission of your sins, and depart assured of the imperishable glory which awaits you in the Kingdom of Heaven.’

Again that hushed silence; then from a thousand throats there had risen the cry: ‘God wills it.’

‘Aye,’ the Pope had cried, ‘God wills it. If God was not in your souls you would not have answered as one man thus. Let this be your battle cry as you go forth against the Infidel. “God wills it.”’

The air had been filled with people’s shouting as with one voice: ‘God wills it.’

The Pope had held up his hands for silence.

‘Whosoever has a wish to enter in this pilgrimage, must wear upon his crown or on his chest the cross of the Lord.’

Peter the Hermit watched with glowing eyes. His mission was accomplished. The crusades had begun.

Since that memorable occasion there had been many a battle between Christians and Mussulmans; and it was at this time, when Louis was so troubled by his conscience and could not get the cries from Vitry-the-Burned out of his mind, and the Queen had realised that her vitality was being frustrated, that there was a great revival of anger against the Mussulmans and a desire to win back Jerusalem to Christianity.

Bernard of Clairvaux was deeply concerned by what was happening in Jerusalem. He came to the King and talked with him.

‘Here is a sorry state of affairs,’ he said. ‘God will be both sorrowful and angry. It is many years since the first crusade and we are no nearer to our purpose. Atrocities are being committed on our pilgrims. It is time the Christian world revolted against its enemies.’

Louis was immediately interested. He was burdened with sin; he longed to expiate those sins and to have an opportunity to show his repentance.

Bernard nodded. ‘Vitry-the-Burned hangs heavy on your conscience, my lord. It should never have happened. There should never have been a campaign against Theobald of Champagne.’

‘I know it now.’

‘In the first place,’ said Bernard, who was determined not to let the King escape lightly, ‘you should not have opposed Pierre de la Chatre. You should have recognised the authority of the Pope.’

It was Eleonore who had been the prime mover in this affair as in all other matters. Bernard knew it but he did not mention it. The King was in a penitent mood. Let him take the blame.

‘It was wrong to insist on the Comte de Vermandois’s putting away his wife and marrying the Queen’s sister. It was wrong to take the war into Champagne. For these you have been punished, for you will never be able to forget the burning of the church of Vitry.’

‘It’s true,’ groaned the King.

‘You need to sue for mercy. You need to make one great gesture. Why should you not lead a campaign to the Holy City?’

‘I! What of my kingdom ?’

‘There are those who could care for it while you are away.’

‘Leave my kingdom! Lead a crusade!’

‘Others have done this before you. So they have appeased God and won forgiveness.’

The King stared before him. More war! He hated war. And yet his sins lay heavy on him.

Bernard raised his fanatical eyes to heaven. ‘I, my lord, will not turn my back on my duty. I would I were a young man and I would lead the crusade. God has declined to give me that honour. It is my duty to set before others where their duties lie. I want there to be three great assemblies, one at Bourges, another at Vezelai and another at Estampes. You will be there to give them your support. Think on this matter seriously. Only by pleasing God in this way will he forgive you for what happened at Vitry-the-Burned.’

He did not tell Eleonore immediately. He feared her derision.

He went to his good friend and adviser the Abbe Suger.

The Abbe was appalled. ‘To leave France, leave your kingdom. But your duty lies here!’

‘Not as I see it. I have sinned.’

‘You think of Vitry. You will not be blamed entirely for that. Your soldiers were undisciplined. You tried to make them desist.’

‘And failed in my duty. I was not strong enough to prevent them.’

‘Give your support to the crusade. Help those who wish to go to go. But your duty lies here in governing your kingdom.’

‘Bernard wishes me to go.’

‘Bernard is a fanatic. My lord, a king cannot be that. God would not wish you to fail in your duty.’

As usual Louis was torn between two courses. He knew that his duty lay in France; yet the thought of expiating his sins in this dramatic way appealed to him.

It was not long before Eleonore was aware of the conflict in his mind.

‘You are closeted for long periods with Bernard,’ she said, ‘and with Suger. What are they putting before you?’

He hesitated. Then he blurted out: ‘Bernard wants me to lead a crusade. Suger is against it.’

‘To lead a crusade. You! And what of France?’

‘That is what I tell Bernard. My duty lies here.’

‘Lead a crusade!’ murmured Eleonore. And she was thinking that she would be Regent of France. Or would she? They would set up Bernard or Suger or someone to govern with her. She would be expected to lead a cloistered life during the King’s absence.

But to go on a crusade! To ride to the Holy Land. What adventures she would have! Life would hardly be dull and monotonous then.

Then she knew that this was the answer. This was exactly what she had wanted.

‘You must go,’ she said firmly. ‘You will throw away your burden of guilt. It is the only way if we are ever to have any peace from Vitry. And, Louis, I shall come with you.’

He looked at her in amazement; but she did not see him; she saw herself riding at the head of the women she would select to accompany her.

She could not wait to start.

In the market square of Vezelai Bernard was rallying men to his banner. Beside him were the King and Queen.

‘If you were told,’ he thundered, ‘that an enemy had attacked your castles, your towns and your lands, had ravished your wives and your daughters, profaned your temples, would you not fly to arms? All these evils and evils still greater have come upon your brethren in the family of Christ. Why do you wait to avenge these wrongs, Christian warriors? He who gave His life for you now demands yours.’

Once again a cry rose up from the throats of thousands: ‘God wills it.’

And from none more fervently than that of the Queen of France.

The King then knelt and Bernard put the cross in his hands. Louis kissed it. Then the Queen knelt and did likewise.

She was exultant. The great adventure was about to begin.

Chapter III THE LOVERS OF ANTIOCH

Eleonore was afire with enthusiasm as she rode back to Paris. This was going to be the greatest adventure of her life. She would ride at the head of the ladies whom she would select to take with her. She would immediately set about designing what costumes they should wear. They would be more than an inspiration to the men; they would be crusaders in very truth.

How exhilarating to be setting out on an enterprise which had the blessing of the Church, and to plan exciting adventures in the knowledge that in carrying them out one would be gaining redemption for one’s past sins. This was the second occasion when she must be grateful to Bernard. He had wrought the miracle of childbirth for her and now he had presented her with this wonderful way of expiating her sins and having an exciting adventure at the same time.

She summoned her ladies to her. They should be mounted on gaily caparisoned horses, she told them; she was arranging that there should be countless pack mules to carry their baggage. Eleonore could not tolerate the idea of travelling without the beautiful gowns and all that which was necessary in order for a lady to lead a gracious life.

The minstrels now sang of war - holy war. Eleonore listened with outward attention but her thoughts were far away in the Holy Land where she saw herself riding at the head of her troupe of ladies. They should be dressed as Amazons for they were going into battle. She started an equestrian school where her ladies were taught to practise marching into war. Trumpets were sounded in their horses’ ears that they might grow accustomed to the noise of battle; they were forced to jump over high barriers.

Eleonore spent excited hours preparing the boxes of dresses, perfumes, unguents and all that was needed for ladies of elegance.

Petronelle joined her and gave way to loud lamentations when she heard she was not included in the plan. At first she had believed she would be with her sister; she had practised her skill on horseback; she had found great pleasure in planning the clothes she would need.

Then it was decided that Raoul, Comte de Vermandois, should act with Abbe Suger whom the Pope had chosen to be Regent of France during the King’s absence. Petronelle was overcome with grief. She wept and implored but was told she must either leave her husband or stay in France.

‘I should not advise you to leave Raoul,’ said Eleonore with a smile. ‘He is a husband who would find it very easy to be unfaithful as you discovered before you married him.’

So Petronelle decided she must stay behind.

‘Well,’ said Eleonore, ‘one cannot have everything. You have an attractive virile husband, sister, and you must needs be content with that.’

So Eleonore went on with her preparations and talked so glowingly of the crusade to all whom she met that many more were gathered to the banner.

With her usual singlemindedness Eleonore despised all those who did not wish to join in. She told her ladies that if any man did not wish to come with them he must be a coward. ‘Some of them are of the opinion that women are useless except for the domestic duties they perform and for submitting to their pleasure and their need to see themselves reproduced in their children, but I have never accepted this view,’ she cried. ‘I believe that my sex is in every sense equal to that of its opposite. And now that we are going into battle, now that we have shown France that women can and will help to carry on this holy war, why should not those men who stay at home weave and spin and look after the children of their households?’

How she laughed to scorn those who made excuses not to join in the crusade.

‘Come,’ she cried, ‘we will send them our distaffs and ask them if they will make good use of them as they do not wish to do what they call men’s work.’

Eleonore was amused when she learned how many of them who had received the distaffs changed their minds and joined the expedition.

The day of departure grew near. It had been arranged that all the French joining in the crusade should meet at Metz where King Louis would be ready to lead them; and the Germans should gather at Ratisbonne where the Emperor Conrad would be waiting to put himself at their head.

Both armies should then make their way to Constantinople where Manuel Comnenus, who was the grandson of Alexis Comnenus, would assist them.

Eleonore said an revoir to her little three-year-old daughter and set out at the head of a party of Amazons while Louis led the men. It was a brilliant cavalcade which crossed Europe, the golden lilies flying side by side with the red cross of Christianity.

As they made their way across Europe, men eager to join in the crusade fell in behind the King so that his army numbered one hundred thousand men. Eleonore was in her element. They rested at the castles of noblemen who delighted to receive them and, eager to help any engaged on such an enterprise, entertained the company lavishly. Eleonore and her ladies sang and played; and there were tournaments and entertainments to enliven the company.

Louis was uncertain whether they should have enjoyed so much luxury for, he pointed out, it was not a pleasure jaunt; but Eleonore laughed this to scorn and the more magnificent the spectacle the more delighted she was.

When they reached Constantinople which was ruled by Manuel Comnenus, they found that the Emperor Conrad had arrived before them. The Greeks gave them a great welcome and there was much rejoicing.

Manuel declared that he would give them guides to conduct them into Asia Minor and would do everything in his power to aid them in their campaign against the infidel. He was charmed by Eleonore and her party of ladies and she was in no hurry to leave such a pleasant haven.

At the beginning of October the Emperor Conrad was ready to leave Constantinople, and Manuel, true to his promise, provided guides who would conduct him through the hostile Turkish territory. The French army had not at that time completed its preparations, and as Conrad had been the first to arrive at Constantinople he was the first to leave.

It was an unpleasant shock when news reached Louis and his advisers that Conrad had been set upon by the Turks and completely routed at Iconium. Conrad himself had been wounded; his army was in disorder and it was by no means certain what further action he could take.

There was great consternation among Louis’s advisers, and the King was prevailed upon to hold a secret conference in his apartments. Several of the bishops who were accompanying the party begged the King not to include the Queen in this meeting. She was on great terms of friendship with Manuel and it would be difficult, they said, for them to voice their suspicions in her presence.

Louis, who had begun to feel that Eleonore was displaying a levity which was not always seemly, agreed, and in the quiet of his apartments the Bishop of Langres announced that he did not trust the Greeks.

‘It appears to me,’ went on the Bishop, ‘that Conrad could have been led into an ambush. Who were his guides? The answer is Greeks who had been supplied by Manuel. What if Manuel is in league with the Turks?’

‘They are infidels!’ cried Louis.

‘They are rich. Perhaps they offered Manuel a bribe to betray Conrad.’

‘I cannot believe it. They would have to answer for such a deed in Heaven.’

‘There are some, my lord, who allow treasures on Earth to blind them to those in Heaven.’

‘Yet Manuel has been so gracious to us.’

‘Too gracious!’ retorted the Bishop. ‘Too friendly. Fawning in fact at times. I don’t trust him and now that Conrad’s army has been routed I fear for ours.’

‘What must we do then?’ asked the King. ‘We are pledged to take the road to Jerusalem.’

‘But we should not trust the Greeks. How do we know that they may not be listening to our plans and warning the Turks of them?’

‘I cannot believe that of Christians.’

‘My lord, you judge others by yourself. Alas, they lack your piety and honour. I have every reason to believe that the Greeks, under Manuel, are traitors to our cause.’

‘Then we will regard their advice with suspicion.’

‘That is not enough, my lord. They may have their spies. They may send warning to the Turks. We should take Constantinople. Let the enemy know that we will not suffer traitors.’

‘I would never agree to that!’ cried the King. ‘We did not set out to punish the Greeks, but to expiate our own sins. When we took up the cross, God did not put into our hands the sword of his justice. We have come forth to fight the infidel to restore the Holy City to Christians. I shall not engage in any other war.’

The knights rallied to the King. They were eager to press forward. They wanted to continue with the march to the Holy Land and had no desire or intention to engage in a war against the Greeks.

‘Then beware,’ said the Bishop of Langres.

‘We shall take every care, fear not,’ said Louis. ‘And now we must proceed.’

When Louis and his army left Constantinople and landed in Asia Minor, they caught up with the remains of Conrad’s army. Louis was disturbed to find the German ruler wounded and despondent. The Turks were fierce fighters he told Louis and he was certain that they had been warned of his plans.

He was in no state to march with Louis and had decided he would return to Constantinople and perhaps go by sea to Palestine.

A mood of fierce determination swept over the French army. Each man assured himself that what had happened to the Germans should not happen to the French. They would be prepared and ready for the Turk if he should attempt to ambush them.

And so it happened that when at Phrygia on the River Maeander the armies met, the French achieved a brilliant victory over the Turks. Eleonore and her ladies watched the battle from some distance and when victory was certain they came forward, dressed the wounds of those who had suffered and celebrated the success with songs written for the occasion.

‘Such an army,’ said the Bishop of Langres, ‘could if it had the mind, have taken Constantinople.’

‘It would not have had the heart,’ said Louis. ‘It has been gathered together to fight a holy war and nothing else will satisfy it.’

Now there was high hope among the soldiers. They had succeeded where the Germans had failed. Full of optimism they planned the next march forward.

The Queen and her party were considerably encumbered by the pack-horses which carried their baggage; and it was decided that the army should be divided into two parts. The Queen and her ladies should set up their camp on the heights over the Valley of Laodicea. There they would be able to see the approach of any enemy forces. They would overlook the fertile valley and miles of surrounding country. The King would follow them and there should be a rendezvous on the heights.

The ladies must of course be well protected and Louis chose his best troops to accompany them, while he with the ladies’ baggage and the remains of his army followed behind to fight off any of the enemy who might be following.

Eleonore rode at the head of her troops and beside her was her constable, Saldebreuil of Sanzay, a man in whose conversation she delighted. He was elegant, handsome, cultured. Often she had wished that the King was a little more like him. But then more and more often she was beginning to compare poor Louis with other men, to his disadvantage.

They laughed and sang as they went along, and at length they came to the heights where the King and his commanders had decided they should rest. Eleonore looked up at the plateau. It appeared to be a grim spot and very different from the beautiful valley of Laodicea. There the grass was fresh green and clear waterfalls gushed from the hillside while wild flowers grew in profusion.

‘What an enchanting spot!’ cried Eleonore.

‘It is indeed,’ Saldebreuil agreed, ‘and sad that we must not tarry here.’

‘But we shall tarry here,’ said Eleonore. ‘It is too beautiful for us to ignore. It’s an enchanting spot. I want to rest here. Imagine it in moonlight.’

‘The King’s orders were that we were to encamp on the plateau,’ her constable reminded her.

‘Leave the King to me. He will understand that having discovered such a spot we cannot be so blind to the beauties of nature as to pass through it. We shall sing tonight of the glories of nature. We shall thank God for leading us to this beautiful spot.’

‘And the King …’

‘The King will understand that it was my wish,’ said Eleonore.

So they camped in the valley and darkness fell.

The King coming along behind with the loads of baggage was aware that the Arabs were swarming for the attack.

‘Thank God,’ he said, ‘that the Queen has gone on ahead and will be safe on the plateau.’

By this time there were Arabs on all sides of them.

‘On!’ cried the King. ‘We must reach the plateau. There our soldiers will be waiting for us. Once we are on it we shall be able to face the enemy in all our strength.’

Fiercely battling its way forward, harassed on all sides by the attacking Arabs, the French army approached the valley. To their consternation they saw that the heights above were not occupied by their troops as they had expected.

‘What of the Queen?’ cried Louis. ‘Where is she?’

It occurred to him that since she was not with his troops on the heights she must be in the valley and the horror of the situation alarmed him. He had to place himself between the Arabs and the advance troops among whom were the Queen and her ladies. He pictured what could happen to Eleonore and her women if they fell into those infidel hands. They could be sold into slavery; they could be submitted to a thousand indignities. At all costs he must reach Eleonore. But the Arabs were upon him. They had discovered the rich baggage and there were shouts of triumph as they dragged the bales from the pack-horses. Eleonore’s beautiful robes, her jewels, all that which had delighted her and made the journey so far such an exciting adventure would be lost. Worse still, what would become of her and the women? What would become of his men?

All about him his soldiers were falling and there were very few left between him and the enemy. Vitry and all its horror came into his mind, and with it the terrible knowledge of the danger the Queen would be in if he were killed.

It seemed as if by a miracle that he noticed a nearby tree and above it an enormous boulder. Acting on impulse he seized the branch of this tree and swung himself up to the top of the rock. He was then out of reach of those cruel scimitars.

There was another point in his favour for it had grown suddenly dark, and the Arabs who had been attacking those who surrounded him, fearing that others would take the best of the spoils from the pack-horses, shouting to each other, hurried off to make sure of their share of the plunder.

He caught at the branch of the tree on which he had swung to the rock and descended. Then he climbed the tree. He believed he had been saved by a miracle. The tree had been put there by God for it had undoubtedly saved his life.

There he was temporarily safe. The leaves completely hid him. Peering through them he could in the moonlight make out something of the horrible carnage and he knew that this was a defeat as certain as that which had befallen Conrad of Germany.

And Eleonore? What of her? Was she safe in the valley? He thought she must be and she was in any case protected by the best of men.

Had she gone to the heights as he had commanded this would not have happened. She should never have come on this crusade. Women did occasionally follow the men, but they had to obey orders strictly and they came rather as camp followers than crusader commanders. But Eleonore would never be anything but a ruler. She would always impose her will on those about her. He wondered what his life would have been like if he had married a less forceful woman.

And even now with this horror all about him he could not regret his marriage. There was about her a quality which no other woman would ever have for him. He would never forget the first time they had met when he had thought her more beautiful than any creature he had ever seen. And he who had thought he would never wish to live with a woman had wanted Eleonore with him day and night.

He was bound to her. Whatever she did he would love her; he would never regret his marriage. And he could think thus while overlooking this carnage for which to a great degree her headstrong ways were to blame; he could still feel love for her, still be anxious for her, still never regret the day he had seen her and known she was to be his wife.

The dawn showed that the enemy had retired. The pack-horses minus their burdens wandered aimlessly among the bodies of fallen men.

The King descended the tree. What was left of his army rallied round him. They could not bury the dead but they could succour the wounded.

Then sadly they made their way into the valley where the Queen and her protectors received them with great sorrow.

Seven thousand fine soldiers had been slain and the army was without means of continuing the fight. The brief success at Phrygia was as though it had never been.

Louis and the French army were in as unhappy a state as Conrad and his Germans had been.

By the cooling streams of the Orontes they made fresh plans.

‘We dare not stay here,’ said Louis. ‘The enemy will return. They know our weak state. They will finish us completely.’

Eleonore was despondent. All those handsome men lost and with them the beautiful gowns and jewels which were her delight. She had no desire for this kind of adventure if she must appear dishevelled in a dirty gown. The adventure had been spoilt.

‘And can we travel in our present state?’ asked the Bishop of Langres. ‘What of our wounded?’

‘We must somehow manage to take them with us,’ said the King. ‘And to delay here is dangerous. We must march on and hope for succour. If we can get to Pamphilia we might make our way to Antioch.’

‘My uncle Raymond is the Governor of Antioch as you know,’ said the Queen. ‘We must reach Antioch and there we can nurse the wounded back to health and re-form the army.’

‘There is a chance,’ said Louis, ‘if we can get there before we are overtaken by the Arabs who will certainly pursue us. If they did, in our present sorry state we should stand little chance of survival.’

‘We shall do it,’ said Eleonore.

‘And if we fail,’ said the King, ‘we shall have died in Christ, for in battle with the infidel we have done His work and we shall know that it is His will.’

It was the Queen’s example rather than the King’s expression of acceptance of any fate which awaited him which spurred the survivors of that disastrous campaign to continue their march.

On they went to be harassed continually by marauding bands of Arabs. On one of these skirmishes Saldebreuil de Sanzay was captured. The Queen was desolate. The thought of her handsome constable in the hands of the infidel was unbearable. What would they do to him! It would doubtless be better for him if he had been killed. She could not wish it otherwise if the infidel should submit him to torture. She was more than a little in love with him as she was with several of the gallant men who surrounded her and was constantly comparing them with the monk-like Louis.

But the situation was too desperate for her to brood too long on the fate of others. They must make their way to Antioch without delay. At length famished, wretched, denuded of most of their baggage they reached Pamphilia.

The Governor of that city gave them shelter.

‘We will not encroach on your goodness,’ said the King. ‘We shall stay only until we can find transport to Antioch.’

The Governor told the King that Antioch was forty days’ march from Satalia, the port close by, but by sea it would take only three days.

‘My army is in no fit state to march,’ said Louis. ‘If you can provide us with boats to take us to Antioch we will repay you well as soon as this can be arranged.’

The Governor said he would do what he could.

Impatiently Eleonore awaited the arrival of the vessels. She had heard her father talk of his brother Raymond who had become the Prince of Antioch through his marriage with the granddaughter of Bohemund. ‘Raymond,’ her father had said, ‘was the handsomest man I ever saw. Women always found him irresistible.’ So it seemed had Constance, Bohemund’s granddaughter, and so she had brought him Antioch. Eleonore was eager to see this man. As her uncle he would surely make them welcome. In Antioch she could acquire some beautiful clothes. She was deeply grieved at the loss of the baggage, for to appear romantic and beautiful was necessary to her enjoyment of life.

Each day she awaited the arrival of the vessels which would carry them to Antioch, and when at last they came there was bitter disappointment. Seaworthy they undoubtedly were, but there were so few of them that they could not carry the army and all its adherents.

Louis was nonplussed. This could only mean that some of them would have to do the hazardous land march which would take forty days.

‘I cannot subject any to that,’ he cried to his bishops. ‘We must try to carry everyone in the ships.’

‘They would sink,’ was the terse reply.

‘Yet I cannot leave them to march across the land. The Arabs will attack them. They would suffer hardship, hunger … No, I cannot do it.’

‘Yet we cannot stay here, Sire.’

He spent long hours on his knees begging Heaven to show him what he must do. Time was passing; he must act quickly. Finally he made his decision.

He embarked on the ships with the queen, her ladies, the best of his army and some of the bishops.

And so Louis and Eleonore left for Antioch. The King had lost more than three-quarters of his army.

The journey which was to have taken three days had stretched out to three weeks. The weather had been good however and it seemed as though fortune was smiling on them at last.

Ahead lay the green and fertile land, and Raymond, Prince of Antioch, uncle to Eleonore, having been advised of their coming had prepared special honours for them.

As soon as the ships were sighted he personally set out to greet them, and he had ordered his subjects of Antioch to gather and line the route the visitors would take that they might be given a welcome.

Thus it was that Eleonore and her uncle met.

She looked up at him for although she was by no means small he towered above her. Rumour had been true when it had said that he was the handsomest prince in Christendom. There was the faintest resemblance between them; they were both gay and adventurous; they were both ambitious; they were both eager to live their lives to the full and take the utmost advantage from it. They recognised each other as two of a kind and there was immediate rapport between them.

He took her hand and kissed it. ‘What pleasure this gives me,’ he said.

‘I am very happy to be here,’ replied Eleonore.

He had turned to Louis. The King of France! This poor creature! Noble-looking in a saintly kind of way, of course, but no husband for his fiery Queen. It was going to be an amusing and exciting situation.

‘Welcome to Antioch, Sire,’ said Raymond, bowing.

‘Our gratitude to you, kinsman. We have had an arduous journey.’

‘I heard with dismay of what had happened to your army. But let us not despair. Here you may rest among friends and make fresh plans. But come. Let me conduct you to the palace I have prepared for you, and there I hope you will be furnished with all you need.’

There were horses for them to ride - for Eleonore a beautiful white palfrey.

‘I somehow knew that this should be yours,’ said Raymond warmly, and he would allow no one but himself to help her into the saddle.

He rode between the King and Queen into Antioch. ‘What a beautiful city!’ cried Eleonore enchanted by the olive groves, the palms, and the people who shouted greetings and waved leaves as they passed.

From time to time Raymond glanced at her. His niece was not only spirited but beautiful. A worthy heiress of Aquitaine. The most interesting phase of this development would be his growing acquaintance with his niece, and the possibility, perhaps through her, of bringing to fruition plans which had long been in his mind.

‘If the palace I have had made ready is not to your liking,’ he told Eleonore, ‘you must tell me. Another shall be made ready for you.’

‘How good you are!’

He leaned towards her. ‘Are we not bound by kinship? And were we not I would wish to do everything in my power for you.’

His eyes glowed in a manner which was something more than avuncular. Eleonore was delighted by such conversation, it was the essence of that romance of which she sang. If he were attracted by her, so was she by him. Never before had Louis seemed so insignificant. As she rode into Antioch she asked herself how different her life would have been if the King of France had had the bearing, the manners and the vitality of the Prince of Antioch.

Into the courtyard of the palace they rode. There bloomed brilliant flowers and the spring sunshine glinted on the waters of the fountains and the feathery leaves of the cypress trees. From the balconies of her apartments Eleonore could look out on the olive groves and vineyards of the fertile land, and she was enchanted by it.

How Raymond understood her. He had heard of the loss of her baggage and sent to her beautiful cloths that she might choose from them, and with these came seamstresses that they might immediately provide her with the garments she needed. He gave her presents of costly jewels.

Eleonore exulted for she realised that Raymond was wooing her far more insistently than he was her husband.

There were entertainments for her pleasure. After a banquet Raymond would beg her to sing for him, and she sang some of her songs of love while he watched her with glowing eyes.

Raymond’s wife Constance, through whom he had inherited Antioch, was less pleased with the visitors. She was well aware of the disturbing presence of the Queen of France, and she rejoiced in the Queen’s close relationship to Raymond for a man could hardly make his niece his mistress. Raymond was the most handsome and charming man Constance had ever known and she was proud to be his wife, but she did realise that her opinions were shared by many and this of course meant that temptation was constantly offered to her attractive husband.

She preferred not to know of his infidelities. She was his wife. He could not put away the granddaughter of great Bohemund. She was safe enough. But she would be pleased when the French party left to get on with their crusade.

Eleonore had no wish to leave. Crusading had turned out to be not quite the joyous adventure she had dreamed of. There was more to it than riding at the head of her ladies, beguiling the crusaders with her songs and enchanting them with her presence. The recent debacle had taught her that. It had been utter misery in the boats which had brought them here, and when she thought of her baggage being rifled by those infidels, she grew so angry that in her rage, her ladies feared she might do herself some injury.

All that was behind her. Here she was in Antioch with the most adorable of hosts and between them a very exciting relationship was springing up.

‘You must completely recover from your ordeals before you think of departing,’ insisted Raymond.

‘You are good,’ replied Louis, ‘but I think we should not delay too long.’

‘You should be guided by my uncle,’ Eleonore warned him. ‘Remember how many men you have lost.’

Louis might have said, Yes, through your folly. If you had obeyed my orders and gone to the plateau we could have been defended as we made our way to you. But he said no such thing. He was glad that her good spirits were restored and that she so obviously revelled in the comforts Antioch had to offer.

He did remind her gently that they had after all come to fight the infidel and restore the Holy City to Christianity.

‘Nevertheless,’ said Eleonore sharply, ‘it would be folly to go on with the enterprise until we are equipped to do so. Our men have suffered greatly. They need time to regain their health.’

‘And where better than here,’ said Raymond, ‘where they can rest secure among friends?’

Eleonore and Raymond exchanged smiles, and Louis agreed that they must indeed rest for a while. He turned to Raymond. ‘Although I thank you for your hospitality and am indeed grateful for it, you will understand me, I know, when I tell you that I am impatient to conclude my mission.’

‘I understand, of course,’ replied Raymond, ‘but I think the Queen is right when she says you should tarry a while.’

‘God will bless you for your goodness to us,’ answered Louis.

There was a walled garden in the palace. In it was a beautiful fountain in the centre of which was a statue depicting lovers embracing. Eleonore often went to this garden. Raymond knew it and it had become a meeting place.

They walked in it together arm in arm. She liked to feel the pressure of his fingers on her arm.

‘I live in fear,’ he told her, ‘that you will leave us soon.’

‘I will do my utmost to stay.’

‘The King grows restive.’

‘The King!’ There was a note of impatient contempt in her voice which he was quick to notice. It merely confirmed the assessment he had made of their relationship.

‘You should have been the commander,’ he ventured.

‘A woman?’ she asked.

‘A goddess rather.’

‘You say delightful things, Prince Raymond. I wonder if you mean them.’

He turned to face her. ‘Do you really doubt that?’

‘I am not sure.’

‘I would I could convince you.’

‘Perhaps one day you will.’

‘I would that you could stay here … for ever.’

‘For ever? That is a long time.’

‘When two people are in such accord as I believe you and I are it does not seem long.’

‘Yes, we are in accord, are we not? I sensed it from the moment we met.’

‘You and I,’ he said. And he bent forward and laid his lips on her forehead. She trembled with a pleasure she had never before experienced.

‘That was a very pleasant uncle’s kiss,’ she said as though reminding him of their relationship.

‘Is it because of the nearness of our kinship that we understand each other so well?’

‘That may be so and we must not forget that kinship.’

‘Why should we remember it?’ he asked.

She was faintly embarrassed and said: ‘Perhaps I have misunderstood.’

‘Nay,’ he cried passionately. ‘You have misunderstood nothing. You know the state of my feelings for you. I lie awake at night wondering about yours for me.’

She said: ‘You are the Prince of Antioch married to Bohemund’s granddaughter. I am the heiress of Aquitaine married to the King of France.’

‘What of that?’

‘And you are my uncle.’

‘I never set much store by laws, did you?’

‘No,’ she admitted.

‘Shall we be frank?’

‘Let us be.’

‘There is nothing in my heart that I could not say to you.’

‘Nor is there in mine.’

‘I love you,’ said the Prince of Antioch. ‘You are the most exciting woman I ever met. I would that I had been the King of France. You and I would have been as one. What have you to say to that, my Queen? Will you be equally frank with me?’

‘You are the most exciting man I ever met. I would that you had been the King of France.’

‘Eleonore, then why should we deny ourselves what so clearly belongs to us?’

‘Because …’

‘Because of this close relationship.’

‘Raymond, you are in truth my uncle.’

‘Eleonore, you are in truth my love.’

He embraced her and her resistance fled. She laughed at him. Was she a woman to be bound by laws? She had sung of love, had written of love. Should she be afraid of it when she confronted it in its living form? This was the greatest adventure of her life. Raymond was the hero of romantic songs; Raymond was the lover she had always wanted. She despised the King of France. She loved the Prince of Antioch.

Neither was of a nature to hesitate. All barriers were swept away. That day Eleonore and the Prince of Antioch became lovers in truth.

He rode with her often; now and then they endeavoured to evade the party that they might repair to some secret place which he knew. They made of it a rendezvous. A bower - a small summer house in the grounds of one of his palaces. His servants knew better than to interrupt him when he was there. Perhaps he had used it many times before with other women. Eleonore did not care. She believed that there was something in their relationship which set it apart from anything else either of them had experienced.

She was twenty-six years of age and he was forty-nine; yet to her he seemed the perfect lover. His experience delighted her; his charm overwhelmed her; constantly she compared him with Louis and deplored a fate which had given her to him.

She was passionately in love, recklessly so. Perhaps one or two people were aware of their relationship, but she did not care.

What if his wife discovered? Eleonore shrugged her shoulders. She knew that this was not the first time Raymond had broken his marriage vows. How could he have known that Eleonore was the one woman in the world for him if he had not had experience with many others? And if Louis discovered what was happening? She snapped her fingers. Let him discover; let him learn that there were real men in the world.

So they met and Eleonore assured herself that everything she had suffered on the road to Antioch had been worthwhile.

He told her he adored her; he could not imagine what his life had been without her. Dull, uninspired, scarcely worth the effort of living.

As they lay in the arbour guarded by Raymond’s servants, the Prince talked to her of his plans to keep her beside him.

‘Louis must be persuaded to stay here,’ he said.

‘He will never do that. He is quite stubborn. He has a fixed idea that he must go to the Holy Land to redeem his sins. He still dreams about Vitry-the-Burned. He will never give up the idea.’

‘Let me tell you of my plans. You will understand readily, I know. I would rather talk to you before I attempt to put my ideas before the King. Perhaps you will be able to make him see reason. We are harassed here continually. We are surrounded by the infidel. The French settlement here is so small that although it consists of brave men it is not enough to hold the land. If we are not stronger, in time we will be overrun by the Saracens. Aleppo is but a short distance from Antioch and here the enemy has his headquarters. Only by strengthening our holdings here and taking these menacing cities can we assure the Christian influence on this territory, and if we were to lose the one way to the Holy Land it would be closed to Christians.’

‘And you suggest that Louis stays here, that you and he march on the Saracens in Aleppo?’

‘That would be wise. Louis should have taken Constantinople. He could have done it and I believe some of your bishops advised it.’

‘But that was in the hands of Manuel.’

‘The treacherous Greek! He is no friend to us.’

‘You think that he gave false information to Conrad?’

‘I am sure of it. Thus the Germans were almost destroyed.’

‘Then your enemy is as much Manuel the Greek Emperor as the Saracens.’

‘I would like to see him destroyed. You know that the rulers of Antioch are his vassals. I must accept him as my suzerain or he could bring forces superior to anything I could raise and take Antioch out of my hands. I want that man destroyed. I want to make this strip of Mediterranean coast safe for Christians, and free passage to the Holy Land assured for Christian pilgrims.’

‘And you think Louis could help you succeed in this?’

‘He has an army.’

‘Very much depleted.’

‘But fine soldiers. The fact that there is a French army on this soil has put heart into Christians throughout the territory and fear into the infidels. Louis was ambushed but he had before that won a great victory. If he had tried to take Constantinople he could have done so.’

‘And what can I do?’

‘Louis sets great store by you. Everyone talks of his devotion. If you could persuade him to join with me, to postpone his journey to the Holy City, to do the work which is at hand, he would be doing greater service to God than in any other way.’

‘And to us,’ said Eleonore, ‘for we should be together. I would ride with the army. I would be in camp with you.’

Raymond was not sure of that but he remained silent.

‘Speak to Louis,’ he said. ‘Sound him. But do not let him know that I have confided in you.’

She would do it, she promised. She was ready to do anything Raymond suggested; and since the project meant that they would not have to part, she could throw herself wholeheartedly into the project.

She could scarcely endure to have Louis near her. She was constantly comparing him with Raymond. There could not have been two men more unlike. Why did Louis the Fat, King of France, have such a son? Any of his brothers would have been more worthy to be King. One of his brothers, Robert, Count of Dreux, had great ambitions, she had heard. Henry, the next in age to Louis, was the Archbishop of Rheims so he would no doubt be content with his lot. There was another Philip to replace the one who had been killed by the pig, and Peter. Any of those would have made a better king than Louis. A king whose heart was in the Church was no man to rule a country. Louis had nothing but his piety to recommend him and what a bore that was!

She had held herself aloof from him and was glad that when he was occupied in State affairs he had little desire for physical contact. What a man to have married such a woman as she was! Although she had always known how unsuited they were, she had realised this more fully since her liaison with Raymond. There was a man who was indeed a man. Ruler, lover, everything that she could desire.

She was going to work for him with all her power.

Louis came to their apartment in the beautiful palace which Raymond had put at their disposal, his brow furrowed, clearly thoughtful.

What was disturbing him, she wondered? Some ritual in one of the church processions? He could be enthusiastic enough about them. He was becoming obsessed by religion.

‘Louis,’ she said, ‘how beautiful it is here! How peaceful! Yet at any moment this lovely country could be overrun by infidels.’

He was silent and she went on: ‘It is a pity that such a spot cannot be made safe for Christians.’

‘There is no safety on the road to Jerusalem. That is why a crusade such as ours is fraught with danger.’

‘Then we should make that road safe, Louis.’

‘No,’ said Louis, ‘we should go on to Jerusalem.’

‘But what if this coast were to fall into the hands of the infidel?’

‘The glory would be great for those who tried to wrest it from his hands.’

‘Should not a Christian do the work that is at hand?’

‘He should indeed and our duty is to march on to Jerusalem.’ Louis’s eyes were fanatical. ‘I see us driving the Saracen from the Holy City and making it a stronghold for Christianity for evermore.’

‘That would come later,’ said Eleonore. ‘First should you not make it possible for armies and pilgrims to come this way?’

‘We were brought here by the grace of God.’

‘And given refuge by the grace of the Prince of Antioch.’

‘Whatever has happened, whatever will happen in the future, our duty lies clear before us. We must march on to Jerusalem.’

Having gleaned through Eleonore that Louis was disinclined to accept his schemes, Raymond had no alternative but to call together an assembly to which he invited Louis and his chief advisers.

He laid his schemes before them and spoke passionately of the need to establish a firmer stronghold on the road to the Holy City. He pointed out the proximity of Aleppo, of the numerous infidels who lurked on the route. The way must be made safe and the Holy City must be restored to Christianity, and until that could be done war must be made on the Saracen. Christians must band together.

The very thought of aggressive war roused a passionate revulsion in Louis. Never as long as he lived would he forget the screams of those dying in the burning church of Vitry.

He would not, he declared, make war until war was made on him.

In vain did Raymond put his case. He could see that he was swaying the priests and the nobles; but Louis remained adamant and the King’s consent was essential to the plan.

In the summer house Raymond discussed the position with Eleonore. ‘Louis is no soldier,’ he said. ‘It is disastrous that he should command an army. He does not understand that it is far more important to make this land Christian, to strengthen our hold on it, than to make a futile pilgrimage to the Holy City.’

‘He is concerned only with obtaining forgiveness of his sins.’

‘What sins could such a man have committed?’

Eleonore laughed. ‘He is a monk in his outlook. He should never have been taken from the Church. And to think that they gave me to such a man.’

‘I wonder he wished to marry.’

‘I think he did not, but when he saw me he was reconciled.’

‘I can understand how you charmed even him. But reconciled! What shame! And you … the Queen of love and song.’

‘As I say he should have been a monk. Reluctantly he went to war and there was this unfortunate incident at Vitry. As if such things do not occur in every war. I would I were free of him. Since you and I became lovers I have realised more and more how distasteful he is to me.’

Raymond embraced her, but his mind was busy.

Louis had married her because even he had seen that union with Aquitaine was desirable for France. Eleonore must have been the richest heiress in Europe. And although Louis had been given the title of Duke of Aquitaine, Eleonore was still the ruler of that rich land.

Suppose she were free of Louis? Suppose she remained in Antioch? What if he could arrange another marriage for her? Whom could she marry? It was impossible. But why not a divorce from Louis? Some excuse could be found. A close blood tie! That was the usual grounds and so easy to find because the families of most people in their position had been connected with each other at some time if one went back far enough.

His mind was busy as he made love with Eleonore.

It was essential for Raymond to fight this war. He must subdue the infidel; he must escape from the intolerable position of remaining a vassal of the Greek Emperor. Here was his great hope and Louis … ineffectual, monk-like Louis stood in his way. How delighted he was that Louis’s wife was unfaithful to him and with himself - her uncle. How easy it was to understand the simple fellow. A man who hated war and thought little of the profit it could bring his crown! A man who could reproach himself because his soldiers had killed a few women and children! A man who found little pleasure in the act of love and who had only been induced to indulge in it because he hoped to get children and because he had a voluptuous temptress of a wife!

Raymond laughed and set about planning how he could get the better of this king whose refusal to fall in with his plans made it impossible for him to carry them out.

They talked earnestly together … he and Eleonore. They must find a means of keeping her in Antioch.

He understood her far better than she understood him. He knew that her passion for him was as superficial as his for her. She did not know this. Eleonore, the romantic Queen of the Troubadours, was enamoured of love itself and she saw it as supreme. He did not tell her that since he had been the means of freeing her from irksome convention, she would break away from an accepted mode of behaviour, and nothing would restrain her. But he knew this to be so.

It would not be long before she took another lover.

They parted tenderly. They would not emerge from the arbour together. She should go first.

As she did so she saw a figure detach itself from the bushes. She pretended not to notice but walked on. The man who had emerged from the shadow followed her.

Before she reached the palace she turned and came face to face with him. She laughed derisively.

‘You!’ It was a man she had always despised, Thierry Galeran, a eunuch of immense stature. He was clever and had made his name at the court of Louis the Fat, who had singled him out and made use of his statecraft. It was this King who had recommended Thierry Galeran to his son and Louis had as deep a respect for him as his father had had.

‘For one moment,’ said Eleonore, ‘I had thought you might have planned to seize me for a certain purpose. What a joke! That would have been quite outside your range.’

Galeran bowed. He said: ‘I saw you in the gardens and recognised you, my lady. I thought to offer my service should you need protection.’

‘I need nothing from you,’ she answered shortly.

She hurried into the palace and briefly wondered whether he had seen her enter the arbour. If so would he guess what she had been doing there?

She laughed to herself. ‘Something, my poor eunuch, which you could not understand,’ she murmured.

Galeran retraced his steps to the arbour; it was thus that he came face to face with the Prince of Antioch and he knew at once that the Prince had been the companion of the Queen of France.

Smarting under the Queen’s insult, he debated with himself whether he should inform the King of France of what he had seen. Perhaps it was a little premature. No, he would do nothing as yet, but he would keep a close watch on the Queen.

Since she had broken her marriage vows with Raymond, Eleonore thought often of some of the handsome men who had made advances to her and whom she had rejected. There was Raoul, Count of Vermandois who had turned in desperation to Petronelle, and was now with the Abbe Suger helping to govern France. She had had a great fancy for him; there was Saldebreuil who was in the hands of the infidel. She thought of him a good deal.

She mentioned to Raymond the fact that many of the best soldiers in Louis’s army had fallen captive to the enemy and how she often wondered what had befallen them.

Obsessed by his great scheme Raymond constantly sought methods of bringing it to fruition. And an idea had occurred to him which on immediate consideration seemed hopeless but on closer consideration less so.

‘There is a Saracen named Saladin who is a prince of some power,’ he told her. ‘He is a man of good looks and a certain culture. I think he might even become a Christian one day.’

‘A Saracen become a Christian! It is unheard of.’

‘Not so, my love. Saracens have become Christians and Christians Saracens for certain considerations. It is not unheard of. But this Saladin is an interesting man. Do you know, I believe if you sent a message to him to the effect that you wished to make a request he would at least listen.’

‘This is what I wish more than anything. I could then make an offer of a ransom and see if I can bring about the return of my good Saldebreuil. Will you help me?’

‘With all my heart. Leave the matter to me.’

The result was that in a very short time there was a message from Saladin. He had heard a great deal about the beauty and charm of the Queen of Troubadours. She wished to make a request to him. He would grant this and ask only one favour in return which she might feel it in her heart to grant him. Would she receive him that he might have the great pleasure of hearing her request from her own lips and of seeing for himself the lady who was so renowned for her grace and beauty.

Such a reply delighted Eleonore. The incident was worthy of one of her own ballads.

If he could come to her she would be delighted to receive him, was her reply.

She told Raymond of the matter.

‘He will have to make his way through a hostile army. How can he do this?’ asked Raymond.

‘He says it is what he will do.’

‘He will risk his life for a glimpse of you and the pleasure of saying a few words to you!’

Yes indeed. This was the kind of romance of which her troubadours sang. She was delighted to find that it existed in real life.

‘He will never reach here,’ said Raymond sadly.

‘He will. I know he will.’

‘I will do all I can to help him. I will send out an escort, and he shall be disguised in such a fashion that no one will recognise him.’

Eleonore was delighted. ‘My dearest Raymond, how good you are to me!’

‘Why should I not be to the one I love ?’

Life was exciting, thought Eleonore. This was how it should be lived. Alas, from one day to the next she did not know how long she would stay here. Louis was restive. Never had she seen him so determined as he was now to go on with his plan. He would not listen to reason. Every day she grew more incensed with him and passionately wished she could end their marriage.

But she would not think of Louis. She would think of this romantic infidel who was going to risk his life to come and see her.

How his dark eyes flashed as he contemplated her! How tall he was! What a warrior!

He spoke a little French, not much, but enough to convey his admiration of her and the effect she had on him.

She was no less impressed by him. He was different from any man she had ever known and the alien quality was irresistible.

She wished to ask a favour of him, he believed. She told him that a man for whom she had some regard was a prisoner in his hands. His name was Saldebreuil de Sanzay. She was ready to offer a substantial ransom for his return. Saladin declared that he would accept no ransom. It was enough that she had made a request. His greatest pleasure would be to grant what she wished.

A messenger should be disguised and sent to the castle where the Frenchman was incarcerated. He should be immediately released and given safe conduct.

‘What a charming gesture,’ cried the Queen. ‘How can I thank you enough.’

She set out to please him. She sang songs of her own composition, songs of love. He listened entranced.

Raymond joined them and seemed delighted that they found such pleasure in each other’s company. How very cultivated her uncle was, thought Eleonore. How different from poor gauche Louis! She and Raymond were lovers, but he saw at once that there could not fail to be a strong physical attraction between herself and the fascinating infidel.

The very fact that he was an infidel added to his attraction. She could not help feeling completely excited in his presence.

Raymond said that he must not attempt to leave the palace for a while. He had travelled far and risked much. He and Eleonore should have more delightful interviews before he returned to his armies. Raymond would make sure that he was well guarded and that his identity was kept secret. They could rely on Raymond.

When he was alone with Eleonore - Prince Saladin having returned to the secret apartments Raymond had found for him - Raymond said to Eleonore: ‘I have a plan. You may think that it is impossible. If so, do not hesitate to say so. You know I think of nothing but your good.’

‘I know it,’ said Eleonore.

‘You are weary of Louis.’

‘Utterly so.’

‘You would be glad to be free of him.’

‘Nothing could please me more.’

‘Why should you not be free of him? There must be a blood connection between you two. It would not be difficult to trace it. A divorce - and you would be free from Louis.’

‘And then?’

‘Why you could marry someone else.’

’You are married, my dearest Raymond.’

‘Oh, I had not hoped for that ultimate bliss. What if you found another bridegroom?’

‘Are you suggesting one?’

‘You are greatly taken with our handsome Saladin.’

‘Raymond! You know a marriage between us would be impossible.’

‘I see no reason why.’

‘Saladin … a Saracen!’

‘A remarkably handsome one. A man of power and great wealth. There is no reason why he should not become a Christian.’

Eleonore stared at her uncle. She was thinking of the attractive Saladin and a wild excitement possessed her. He would be so different, so alien and therefore fascinating.

‘If it were possible …’ began Raymond. ‘Imagine if it were possible …’

‘Yes, Raymond.’

‘You would stay here … for a while. You would be ruler with him of great lands.’

‘An infidel!’

‘He would have to become a Christian.’

‘Would he?’

‘For you … I know he would. What great glory would come to you. With your incomparable charms you would achieve what armies cannot do. You can bring Christianity to these infidels. For if Saladin became a Christian so would his people.’

‘And Aquitaine?’

‘My dearest Eleonore, you and he could travel to your dominions now and then. You could spend your lives travelling from place to place which is always a more entertaining way than to stay in one place.’

‘It does not seem impossible.’

‘You do not find him repulsive?’

‘Not entirely so.’

Raymond hid a smile. His voluptuous niece desired the man, and their own relationship had lost the first flush of novelty. He was visualising the outcome of this daring scheme. If she married Saladin who would look after her estates in Aquitaine? Who better than her uncle who after all might have inherited them if he had been the elder brother. Eleonore could enjoy her Saracen and he would go to Aquitaine, for his position in Antioch was very insecure. And in time Aquitaine would be his. It would suit him very well, for if he were not going to get French help to subdue the Greek Emperor he would need to make other plans.

‘Think about it,’ he said, ‘and you will see it is not as impossible as you at first believed.’

She did think about it. Her mind was full of images. The Saracen was such a handsome man - so tall, dark-skinned with enormous expressive eyes.

Saldebreuil de Sanzay arrived back. She was delighted to see him not because he was a man whom she found charming so much as because his return was a symbol of Saladin’s desire to please her.

Comparing the Saracen with Louis she despised her husband more than ever. So much meditation, so many prayers irritated her and she had no doubt whatsoever that she wished to escape from him.

She loved her uncle but he was after all her uncle and he was getting old. Saladin was young.

The prospect of having a new husband excited her. She would not wish to make the same mistake again. She would not want a half man as she was beginning to think Louis was. What had Louis but his dominions? Strip Louis of his crown and there was not a man at his court whom she would not have preferred.

But Saladin! A Saracen!

Why not? There had been marriages between Christians and Saracens before this.

She would test herself. She would see how she felt about marriage with a Saracen. She must be sure that there should be a perfect union between them.

Her manner had changed towards him. She was warmer, more inviting.

Saladin was not the man to be blind to her veiled suggestions.

At their next meeting they became lovers.

A most exhilarating experience for Eleonore.

They lay together afterwards and talked of the possibilities of a marriage. First of course she must rid herself of that tiresome encumbrance, the King of France.

Saladin was dubious of this possibility, but he did not say so. He was eager to please his new and exciting mistress and was ready to indulge in any fantasy she suggested.

Louis was becoming restive. He had tarried long enough in Antioch; he had profited from the respite; he had refitted his army and he was now ready to march on to the Holy City.

This was something Eleonore would not tolerate. She was how deeply absorbed in her love affair with Saladin. She believed that she could happily marry him and remain in this area not far from her beloved uncle.

Louis paced up and down in their bedchamber. Eleonore lay in bed watching him, noting his lack of physical charm, comparing him with Saladin and Raymond.

‘Within a week I intend to move on,’ Louis was saying. ‘I have delayed here long enough.’

‘You were glad enough to get here.’

‘Indeed I was after all our troubles, but we have tarried long enough and must move on now.’

‘You are wrong. You should stay here.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘My uncle has explained the need to fight the infidel here.’

Louis looked weary. ‘It is something I have decided against.’

‘Why? Because you are afraid to fight? Because you are only half a man?’

He looked at her sadly. She had shown so often - and particularly of late - that she despised him.

‘You know the reason,’ he said. ‘I have come on a crusade. I do not intend to use my armies in other wars.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘Are you a king in truth?’

‘You know I am the King of France and you the Queen. It would become you to behave as such.’

Was this an implication that he knew of her adventures? She would rather boldly confess to her indiscretions than that he should discover and think she had sought to hide them.

‘It is clear to me,’ she said, ‘that you and I should never have married.’

‘Never have married! Ours was a marriage which was highly approved both in France and Aquitaine.’

‘I have much to bring you. You had something to give me. That in itself was not displeasing. But as man and woman, Louis, you must know that we are quite unsuited.’

‘As King and Queen we must agree to suit each other.’

‘Why so?’

He looked astonished. ‘How could it be otherwise?’

‘There is such a thing as divorce.’

‘Divorce! You cannot be serious. The King and Queen of France divorced!’

‘I see no reason why a marriage which is unsuitable and distasteful should be continued.’

‘Distasteful?’

‘To me … yes! I want a man for a husband not a monk. Let us have a divorce. I will marry again and you can go back to the Church. That is an admirable solution for us both.’

‘I do not think you can be speaking seriously.’

‘I am deadly serious. I have had enough of this, Louis. I want my freedom.’

‘You would give up the crown of France?’

‘It does not mean so much to me, and you, Louis, will have to give up Aquitaine.’

‘I would not have believed this possible.’

‘No, you would not. You are only half alive. Your heart is in the Church. Go back to the Church and give me my freedom.’

He was silent. He sat on a stool and stared blankly ahead of him.

‘Well?’ said Eleonore impatiently.

‘This is a matter of State,’ replied Louis. ‘I must talk of it with my ministers.’

‘Talk with whom you will, but give me my freedom. I repeat, Louis, I have had enough. It is time you and I parted.’

She lay down and closed her eyes.

Louis continued to sit staring into space.

The next day Louis summoned his counsellors and confronted them with the Queen’s proposal.

It was impossible, he was told by some. There could not possibly be a divorce.

Others thought that the Queen’s behaviour was not that expected of a Queen. It had never been. The Queen came from the South and all knew that morals in the South were less strict than those in the North. The Queen’s grandfather had been a notorious roue, and the Queen continued his practice of keeping a court of songsters and some of the songs they sang were not in the best taste.

Aquitaine was to be considered. There would be trouble there. If the King could retain the Queen’s territory then divorce might be an admirable solution. The King could then marry a docile princess, get a son and there would be no more trouble in the royal domestic circle.

Louis was distraught. She despised him but he loved her. Strange that he who had never been interested in women should have felt so strongly about one, and she his wife. When he had first seen her, young, vital, beautiful and clever, her quick mind putting his to shame, he had adored her. She had reconciled him to marriage and kingship. But he knew that lately she had despised him. She had refused to make love with him. Not that he wished to indulge in this occupation with any great frequency. But there was the need to get an heir for so far they only had little Marie. Yet she had repulsed him, and that was strange, for Eleonore in the past had revelled in the act and had often lured him to perform it more often than he would have thought of doing.

She really did despise him. There was no doubt of it and he was uncertain how to act.

Thierry Galeran, the eunuch, asked for a private interview with him, and when Louis granted it Galeran said he had come to talk of a delicate matter, and before he began, he craved the King’s indulgence if he should say anything to offend him.

Louis, who was the most tolerant of men, was surprised and asked Galeran to say what he had to without fear of giving offence.

‘It concerns the Queen, Sire.’

Louis looked distressed and Galeran hurried on. ‘It is with great grief that I must tell you this, but the Queen has not been faithful to you.’

Louis shook his head but in his heart he had known.

‘You must not make such accusations, Galeran, unless you have proof of what you say.’

‘I have proof, Sire. The Queen has behaved criminally with two men. Her uncle Raymond and the Prince Saladin.’

‘That is impossible. The Queen’s own uncle and an infidel!’

‘It has happened,’ said Galeran. ‘I can bring witnesses to support my story.’

Louis was stunned. That the Queen should have been unfaithful perhaps did not surprise him so much, but that she should have chosen to play him false with two such people was unthinkable. Her uncle and a Saracen! Had she no feeling for the proprieties of life! Her own uncle. That was incest. A Saracen - a man not of her own creed and colour!

He knew that Galeran would not have made the accusation if he could not support it. He knew too that his father had been right when he had said that Galeran was a man whom he could trust to serve him. It was true that Eleonore hated Galeran. She had made caustic comments about him. She despised eunuchs, and being headstrong and impulsive had made no effort to hide her contempt. Galeran would have no warm feelings towards her, yet there must be some truth in his accusations.

‘It would seem, Sire, that there is only one course open to you. To rid yourself of such a Queen.’

‘You heard the findings of the Council.’

‘If some means could be found to keep her lands under the Crown of France …’

The King shook his head. ‘Imagine the wars, Galeran. The people of Aquitaine would take up arms against us. They are loyal to Eleonore. They would accept no other ruler.’

Galeran was thoughtful.

‘You will not continue to stay here and allow the Queen to deceive you. It would put you into a position which must be unacceptable to any man and doubly so to the King of France.’

‘You are right, Galeran. We must leave here without delay. But the Queen will not agree to go.’

Galeran said: ‘The Queen must be made to go.’

‘Short of carrying her by force I see no way of getting her to leave.’

‘Then, Sire, we must needs carry her by force, for you will see and so will your counsellors, that the present state of affairs is one not to be tolerated by the King of France.’

Louis bowed his head. He was deeply wounded and bitterly humiliated. He kept thinking of the first time he had seen her and been so enchanted by her beauty and intelligence.

What had gone wrong that they should come to this?

She was going to meet her lover. How courteous Raymond was! How gallantly he stood aside for Saladin! This was how life should be lived. She had always known it. Love was supreme, that of which they sang in their ballads was truth. Nothing else was of any importance. She was going to rid herself of Louis. She was going to marry Saladin. He would become a Christian and their marriage would be the first step towards bringing Christianity to Islam.

What a joyful manner in which to bring about that desired conclusion! She would be almost a saint for what she had done for Christendom - and at the same time bringing great joy to herself!

The summer house in the garden was their meeting place. It had proved so good for her and Raymond, and Raymond now stepped aside and left it to her and Saladin.

As she passed the bushes she heard the snap of a twig. She looked over her shoulder and as she did so was seized in a pair of strong arms.

She expected to see her lover’s face, and smiling she turned. She was looking into the hated eyes of Thierry Galeran.

‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.

‘I have come to tell you that the King is about to leave Antioch and wishes you to go to him without delay.’

She was furious. How dared this man lay hands on her! She was about to demand her release when two soldiers appeared beside him.

‘This is treason,’ she said. ‘I shall have you punished … severely. You shall be …’

‘My lady,’ said Galeran, ‘we obey the orders of the King.’

‘The orders of the King! What of them! I tell you …’

‘We are the King’s men,’ said Galeran. ‘I beg you come quietly or we shall be obliged to use force.’

‘How dare you …’

But she was seized by the shoulders. The indignity was more than she could bear. Where was Saladin? Where was Raymond?

Filled with rage by her own powerlessness, she had no alternative but to allow herself to be hustled out of the gardens.

More soldiers appeared. She was wrapped in a concealing cloak and forced to go with them through the city and out of its walls.

There the French army was camped ready for immediate departure.

Furious, frustrated but powerless, Eleonore had no alternative but to go with them.

Chapter IV THE ROYAL DIVORCE

She was a prisoner - a prisoner with her husband’s army.

They were on their way to Jerusalem and although Louis was distressed by the rift with his wife he felt happier in his mind to contemplate the proximity of the Holy City.

Eleonore was furious. She would never forgive him, she declared. He had abducted her. He had treated her to the utmost indignity. He had sent her old enemy, Galeran, to arrest her as though she were a common felon; and she had been forced to leave without saying farewell to her friends.

What would they think of her? What would they think of Louis? She was humiliated and she hated the source of her humiliation.

Those were unhappy months for Louis. She never ceased railing against him; she liked to taunt him with his performance both as lover and soldier.

‘Go back to the Church,’ she would cry. ‘Go to a monk’s cell. But first free me so that I may marry a man who is a man.’

She hoped that Raymond or Saladin would come against Louis and rescue her. But perhaps that was asking too much. It would make a beautiful ballad, but real life was not exactly like that. Raymond had his great plan to think of: making war on the Greeks. As for Saladin he would doubtless remain an infidel and the great opportunity to bring Islam peacefully to Christianity would be lost.

She railed and stormed, but it was of no avail. They marched on, and in due course came to Jerusalem where King Baldwin warmly received them. This was Louis’s destination. Now he could say his prayers and receive absolution. The sin of Vitry could drop from his shoulders. He should have felt exultant. But he did not. Constantly Eleonore made friction between them. Baldwin wished him to join in with plans for aggression against the infidel, and the peace he craved was as far off as ever.

He would stay in Jerusalem for a while, he declared. Eleonore was restive.

‘What good do you do here?’ she demanded.

‘Don’t you feel the peace of the place? This is the Holy City. Here you and I will pray together for the strength and courage to make a new start.’

‘The new start I wish to make does not include you,’ retorted Eleonore.

She was furious. She could not get the perfections of Saladin out of her mind. She had given up hope now that he would bring an army to take her from her husband.

Of one thing she was certain. There was going to be a divorce from Louis. She would not rest until she had achieved that. And if she did not marry Saladin - which on more careful consideration seemed perhaps a reckless thing to do - there were other men in the world, young, virile rulers who would be delighted to get their hands on Eleonore … and Aquitaine.

She would find somone. But first she must put into effect her escape from Louis.

The days dragged on. Louis found great solace in the Holy City. Here, he was fond of pointing out, had trod those sacred feet. Here he was at peace. He wished that he could spend the rest of his days in the holy spot.

How he wished there need not be this continual talk of war, though he recognised the need to repel the infidel.

His ministers pointed out to him that it was unwise to leave his kingdom too long. His brother Robert was notoriously ambitious. The people had been loyal to Louis but memories were short and he had been away so long.

Eleonore was agitating to leave. She knew that there could be no satisfactory conclusion to their affairs while they were away. They must return to France and have the matter sorted out.

Still the months passed and when they had been in Jerusalem an entire year, Louis realised that he could delay no longer. He must return to his kingdom. Vessels were procured at Saint-Jean d’Acre and as the King of Sicily was at war with Greece his country seemed a good place for them to make for, on the way back to France.

Eleonore declared that she would not travel in the King’s ship but would have a ship of her own and travel with those who were her friends. The King could go with his entourage, she pointed out bitterly. Men such as the eunuch Galeran who seemed to please him so much.

Feeling it would be good to escape from her bitter tongue for a while, Louis agreed and they set sail in the month of July in their separate vessels. After the year in Jerusalem memories of Saladin were beginning to fade, but those of Raymond remained.

Perhaps, thought Eleonore, in a way she had really loved Raymond.

That journey by sea from Saint-Jean d’Acre was one Eleonore would never forget. She had not believed there could have been such misery; as she lay in her bunk she wished that she could die. This was utter degradation and discomfort. Occasionally she thought cynically of the days in Paris when she had planned this trip; of the beautiful garments she had accumulated and the dreams that had come to her. How different was the reality! Yet she tried to remind herself there had been the wonderful experiences with Raymond and Saladin. Alas they seemed as remote as her childhood now.

She cursed Louis. He was the one who had had the idea that they should set out for the Holy Land. He was the one who had forced her to leave Antioch. But for him she would be there now in blissful comfort and exhilarating company. Of one thing she was determined. She was going to divorce Louis.

On and on went the ship. Would the journey never end? Often she believed that the vessel would sink and they would all be drowned. Sometimes she thought they might be taken by pirates and half hoped they would. Anything would be better than these days when there was nothing around them but the eternal sea.

She became ill and for days was delirious. At least, she thought afterwards, at those times I did not know where I was.

Her attendants despaired of her life, and when miraculously they finally reached Naples in safety she had to be carried ashore, so weak was she.

Louis had already arrived. He had passed through several adventures.

He sat by her couch in the palace which had been put at their disposal, and she could see that he was hoping she had changed her mind.

‘I feared you were lost at sea,’ he told her.

She smiled wanly and thought: I hoped you were. But she was too weak to indulge in vituperation.

‘I thought my end had come,’ he said, ‘when one of Manuel’s ships overtook us, boarded us, and I became a prisoner of the Greek Emperor.’

‘If you had joined with my uncle against him that would not have happened,’ she reminded him.

‘God was with me,’ went on Louis. ‘He made that clear when he sent the Sicilians to capture the Greek ship which was carrying me.’

‘So you became the prisoner of the Sicilians instead of the Greeks,’ she said coldly.

‘Indeed I was not. The King of Sicily treated me as an honoured guest.’

‘He had attacked the Greeks. He had seen that this was the wise thing to do … as Raymond did.’

‘Oh wars!’ said Louis. ‘Little good ever came of them.’

‘Except that kings gained their crowns through them and prevented others from taking them.’

‘The King of Sicily gave me ships that I might come to Naples and meet you here as we had arranged. It was God’s will that he should rescue me from the Greeks. Eleonore, we have suffered much, both of us. God has been good to us. Let us forget our differences.’

She turned her face to the wall.

‘We have a daughter,’ continued Louis. ‘We will have more children … sons. Eleonore, we must try to be good parents to our daughter. We must get a male heir. Let us start again.’

‘I am determined to be free,’ said Eleonore. ‘And while we are here we must go to Rome and see the Pope.’

Louis shook his head.

‘I had hoped,’ he said, ‘that in view of everything that has happened we might forget our differences.’

‘It is because of what has happened that I remember them,’ said Eleonore.

And Louis knew she was adamant.

Louis was bewildered. He was torn between two emotions. His love for Eleonore was one and the other his desire for a peaceful life.

His feelings astonished him. He could not understand the power Eleonore had over him. She with her sensuous demanding body might have been repulsive to a man of his aesthetic tastes. Not so. In her presence he felt stimulated and he had come to the conclusion that unhappy as she made him he was more so without her. He knew that if she had her way and there was a divorce, duty would demand that he married elsewhere. He did not want that. What he prayed for was a reconciliation with his wife. Yet he knew that if he could have escaped from this strange power she exerted, if he could have given himself up to a life of meditation and prayer he would have been a contented man. How ironical that there were men of ambition who longed above all things for a crown, while one such as himself who had had that crown thrust on him would have given a great deal to be able to pass it on to someone else.

Suger was writing urgent letters from Paris. He had heard of the scandals surrounding the Queen and the talk that a divorce had been suggested.

Did Louis understand the full implications of this? What of his daughter? If he were wise he would seek a reconciliation with the Queen and at least do nothing until he returned to Paris and discussed the situation with Suger himself.

To shelve the matter suited Louis. He hated to make big decisions. Let it wait. There was always hope that the difficulties could be smoothed out. Eleonore was too weak now to indulge in sensational love affairs such as those she was said to have enjoyed with her uncle and Saladin. She had suffered more than he had by the sea voyage in spite of his capture and release.

‘We must do nothing rash,’ said Louis. ‘We must get back to Paris and there we will see if a solution can be reached which will be satisfactory to us both.’

Eleonore, her energy drained by her recent ordeals, agreed with unusual meekness.

Pope Eugenius III, being in exile from Rome, was in residence at Tusculum where he gave separate audiences to both Louis and Eleonore.

He had problems of his own but he was prepared to give great consideration to the dilemma of a man as powerful and as devoted to the Church as the King of France.

It was his opinion that a divorce would be disastrous, and he told Louis this. Louis was in complete agreement with him.

It was not so easy to convince Eleonore.

The Pope received her with a show of affection and told her that he deplored the nature of her problem. The Queen of France had duties to her country. She could not indulge in light and frivolous conduct, and this was what she would do if she asked for a divorce.

Why did she need a divorce? Because she no longer loved her husband? She must then pray for the return of that love. She must remember that her husband was the King of France. Could she not see that the fortune of France was bound up in the life of its King and Queen? It was her duty to love her husband; to give heirs to the country.

Eleonore pointed out that she and Louis were closely related. Louis was her fourth cousin. It was small wonder that in such circumstances there should have been only one child of the marriage.

The Pope stressed her duty. It would be sinful for her to seek a divorce from Louis. It would displease God, and in view of her recent conduct - if rumour did not lie - she was in urgent need of his clemency.

There was no doubt that Eugenius was a powerful persuader. Moreover he was the Pope and his very office put an aura about him of which even Eleonore could not be unaware.

He talked eloquently of the need to do one’s duty, of the eternal damnation which was awaiting those who failed in this, of the heavenly bliss which was the lot of those who succeeded. It was true that she felt ill, drained of her usual abundant energy. She found herself kneeling in prayer and promising to give her marriage another chance.

That night in the Pope’s palace at Tusculum she shared Louis’s bed once more; and it seemed like the blessing of Heaven when, being by this time on the way back to Paris, she discovered that she had conceived.

Pregnancy brought a certain contentment. She found reunion with little Marie a pleasure. She was surprised that she should have these strong maternal feelings. They compensated her for so much.

Her feelings towards Louis had not changed and she felt angry because she had been lured back to him. She often thought of what might have happened if she had not been persuaded by the Pope. There could have been another marriage. She had much to bring a bridegroom. Beauty, experience, sensuality and rich lands. What more could any woman offer?

Often she thought of Raymond, and wondered what would have happened if she had divorced Louis and married Saladin. He had been an exciting lover, perhaps that was due to the strangeness of him, the fact that he was an infidel. But in her heart it was Raymond whom she had preferred - her own uncle. Well, perhaps that was why they understood each other so well. He was certainly the handsomest man she had ever seen or was ever likely to.

She had heard news of him, how disappointed he was that Louis would not help him in his fight to drive the Saracens from the land about Antioch, which was the road to Jerusalem, and that he had decided to go into battle without the allies he had hoped for. She wished him well. He had convinced her how necessary it was to make the land safe for Christians, necessary not only for pilgrims of the future but for Raymond himself if he were to hold Antioch.

For the time though she could enjoy a calm serenity while she awaited the birth of her child.

And the day came when this child was born. It was another girl! Louis was bitterly disappointed. If he had been given a son he believed that this would have been a sign of his reconciliation with God. His crusade had been a bitter disappointment both costly and purposeless. Little good had come out of it - so little that he need never have done it. The cries of those condemned to the flame at Vitry still rang in his ears; he had come near to losing his wife and had discovered an unbridled sensuality in her nature which did not stop her from acting criminally. That had been a bitter voyage of discovery. Yet he had suffered, and he hoped found favour in the sight of God, and some forgiveness of his sins. If he had been given a son he could have convinced himself that God was smiling on him.

But a daughter!

Eleonore suffered no such disappointment. As heiress of Aquitaine she would not accept the general belief that boys were superior to girls. She was content with her little girl.

The child was christened Alix.

For a short while she could give herself up to the pleasures of motherhood. She could have little Marie at her bedside and show her the baby, delighting in her children in a manner which astonished those about her.

It would not last of course. She was weak from her confinement, and fascinated by the role of motherhood. She must make a song about it. It was as beautiful as the emotions one felt for a lover.

She hoped she would have many children - boys as well as girls.

But not with Louis.

Somewhere in her mind she knew that the idea of divorce had only been set aside by her. She would return to it.

One of her women brought her the terrible news. It came through Galeran, the eunuch. He had told the woman that he thought the Queen would wish to know.

In the fighting round Antioch, Raymond had been killed and the Saracens had sent his head to the Caliph of Baghdad.

When she heard this news she listened, her eyes dilated. Raymond dead. She pictured the head she had so often caressed, held high and mocked - that beautiful head!

She had loved Raymond. He was her own flesh and blood. He had been more than a lover.

And if Louis had been a man, if he had done his duty and fought side by side with Raymond, this might never have happened.

Then she fell to thinking of the humiliating manner in which she had been taken from Antioch, abducted one might say. How could she ever have believed she could live in amity with a man who had treated her so.

She was aroused from the lethargy which had possessed her since that fearful journey by sea to Naples, where she had suffered so that all her strength was sapped from her.

‘Who gave you this news?’ she asked.

‘It was Thierry Galeran, my lady. He thought you would wish to know.’

Galeran! That despised eunuch! That half man! A fit companion for Louis! He thought she ought to know. He was exulting in her wretchedness. He it was who had spied on her and Raymond, and carried tales to Louis.

‘I will not stay here,’ she promised herself. ‘I will divorce Louis.’

The more she considered the matter the more determined she became. She should never have allowed the Pope to persuade her to continue with her marriage. It had been against her judgement and she would never have agreed had she not been sick. That terrible sea voyage had upset her more than she had realised; and now here she was with two daughters and a husband whom she despised.

She was determined to bring up once more the matter of the divorce.

She did not realise that she could scarcely do this while Louis was beset by conflict on all sides. In the first place his brother Robert, a very ambitious young man who had never stopped railing against fate for bringing him into the world after his brother Louis when he would have made a much more suitable king, was roaming the country calling people to his banner. He would be able to rule France, he assured them; he was strong; his brother was a weakling who was never meant to be king. Nor had Robert for that matter. But who could have guessed that Philippe their brother should have been robbed of his crown and earthly glory by a common pig? The fact was that France must have a king and Louis was at heart a monk. Robert believed that for the good of the country Louis should be deposed, sent back to the Church and he, Robert, set up as king.

Louis was deeply distressed. Not another war, he prayed. And brother fighting against brother was distressing. He wanted no more Vitrys.

That matter was quickly settled by the people of France. They did not want ambitious Robert; they preferred Louis. Louis was a good man. Hadn’t he just returned from the Holy Land? God would surely be on his side, and to wage war on him would be tantamount to waging war against God.

They would remain loyal to Louis; they would pray that he would give them a male heir soon, and then they would be sure that they were doing God’s will.

So while Louis was engaged in this conflict it was not possible to talk to him of a divorce. But she was determined to.

Then there was another conflict.

Normandy had always been a source of anxiety to the Crown of France. The Dukes were too powerful, mainly because since William the Conqueror had become the King of England, while remaining Duke of Normandy, there was the might of England to contend with. Now Geoffrey Plantagenet laid claim to the dukedom.

Geoffrey at a very early age had been married to Matilda, the daughter of King Henry I of England. The marriage had been a disaster, for husband and wife had had no regard for each other from the beginning. Matilda, a stormy, passionate, arrogant woman, who believed she had a right to the throne of England - and indeed she had for she was the only legitimate issue of King Henry - was ten years older than Geoffrey and at the time of their marriage he had been only fifteen. Matilda had at first refused to live with him and had spent scarcely any time in his company. However she had later been prevailed upon to stay long enough with him to produce three sons.

The eldest of these was a youth - christened Henry - who was already making a name for himself as a soldier and one with the necessary qualities to rule. Matilda, who would never have any regard for her husband, doted on this son and had made up her mind that he would one day become King of England. This was her only consolation. She had failed to wrest the crown from Stephen but her son should inherit what was his by right.

Louis, as King of France, was outside the quarrel between Matilda and Stephen, but ever since the burning of the church at Vitry, Louis had shown great friendship for Theobald of Champagne and his family. Theobald’s son, Henry, had joined the crusade and during that adventurous period Louis had kept the young man at his side.

Theobald was the elder brother of Stephen, King of England, and Stephen had a son Eustace. Knowing of the terrible remorse Louis had suffered through the burning of Vitry, Stephen thought it a good idea to get his brother Theobald and his nephew Henry to persuade Louis to help him secure Normandy for his son Eustace.

Thus it was that Henry of Champagne gradually began to persuade the King of France that he should favour the cause of Eustace against that of Geoffrey of Anjou and his wife Matilda.

Louis was perturbed. ‘I would not wish to see a war between France and Normandy,’ he said.

Theobald, who had come to court to add his persuasion to his son’s, began to enumerate the points against Geoffrey of Anjou and his wife.

Matilda was an arrogant woman. She had a way of antagonising everyone who came near her. If the King of France showed the people that he was against her and her husband they would stand behind Louis and King Stephen to a man.

‘There must be some who would be faithful to Henry of Anjou,’ said the King. ‘I can see conflict. I don’t want it. I want peace.’

At the same time Louis believed that if he joined forces, with Stephen he would be doing a service to Stephen’s family and Stephen’s brother was Theobald to whom the town of Vitry had belonged.

He must expiate his sin, for the cries of people being burned to death by his soldiers still rang in his ears.

Finally Louis decided that because of Vitry he would join forces with Stephen’s brother and try to wrest Normandy from Matilda and her husband.

The Abbe Suger arrived in Paris. He wished to see the King on urgent business.

When they were alone together he asked Louis if he realised that by going into battle against Geoffrey and Matilda he was fighting the King of England’s battle.

‘Nay,’ said Louis. ‘I do this for Theobald of Champagne. I wronged him. By this I will right that wrong.’

‘My lord,’ said Suger, ‘you are deluded by Vitry. This town was sacked by your soldiers, but it was not on your orders. You have helped wage war on the infidel. You have expiated any sin you may have incurred on that score. You owe nothing to the Count of Champagne. But you do owe something to your subjects. You should consider well before you plunge them into a war which will only be to the advantage of the King of England.’

Louis wavered and Suger went on: ‘Yes, you will be helping King Stephen. And I ask you to consider: Is he the true heir to his throne? You know he is the nephew of the late King Henry. Matilda is his daughter. She would be Queen of England if her nature had not been so overbearing that the people repudiated her. Stephen rules not by right but because he is the lesser of two evils. The crown of England by right belongs to Matilda and her son is the true heir to the throne as he is to Normandy. You should consider this well before you side with a usurper.’

Louis was thoughtful. It was true he did not wish to go to war and he knew very well that that was what it would mean. Yet on the other hand he wished very much to please Theobald.

‘It is too late to hold back,’ said Louis.

‘Too late! Why should it be? I doubt Geoffrey Plantagenet wants this war. All you have to do is to withdraw your support from Prince Eustace and the matter will be settled.’

‘So Normandy will remain in the hands of Matilda and her husband.’

‘Who have more right to it than Theobald’s brother Stephen. There will be a bloody war in England when Stephen dies if he does not recognise Henry Plantagenet as his heir.’

‘Then what can I do?’ asked Louis.

‘You can invite Geoffrey Plantagenet to court. You can discuss the matter with him.’

‘You think he will come?’

‘There is no doubt that he will. He did not take up arms against you in support of Robert. That is something to remember.’

‘Then I will send for him,’ said Louis, relieved in his heart that war might be avoided.

So Geoffrey Plantagenet came to the court of France.

Geoffrey was at this time in his late thirties. He was noted for his handsome looks and his habit of wearing a sprig in his hat of the planta genista which had earned for him the name of Plantagenet.

He was pleased to be invited to court. He could only believe that Louis had no heart for the fight. Geoffrey was determined to hold on to Normandy for the sake of his son Henry, who was now about seventeen.

There was one thing about which Geoffrey and his virago of a wife agreed and that was that their son Henry was not only going to keep his hold on Normandy but was going to take the crown of England on the death of Stephen.

Eustace, Stephen’s son, was not worthy of such honours - nor had he any right to them. He, Geoffrey, had no intention of going to England to settle that difference. Matilda had tried it and failed. It was not difficult to understand why. Their, son Henry would succeed he was sure when the time came. The boy must win his own spurs. And he would.

Still, if he were the heir to Normandy he would be in a better position to fight for the crown of England and it was all to the good that Louis had decided against going into battle on behalf of Stephen and his relations.

So with great confidence Geoffrey of Anjou, sporting a planta genista in his hat, came to Paris.

Eleonore watching from a window saw his arrival. A fine-looking man, she decided; it was long since she had seen one who reminded her, although faintly, of Raymond Prince of Antioch.

She would admit that he had not Raymond’s good looks, fine bearing and charm of manners. But he was not lacking in these qualities. And there was one important virtue so sadly lacking in her husband. Geoffrey Plantagenet was a man!

There was a friendly atmosphere at court. Louis, now that he had been persuaded by Suger, was delighted that there was to be no war. Theobald and his son were disappointed. He would try to make up to them in some other way.

He had explained to young Henry of Champagne that it would be wrong to indulge in a war against the Plantagenets on such an issue.

‘We must remember, my dear friend,’ said Louis, ‘that Geoffrey Plantagenet’s wife is the daughter of the late King of England, Henry I, and he was the son of William, Duke of Normandy who conquered England. Matilda has a claim to the Duchy which could never rightly be that of Eustace while Matilda has sons.’

Theobald and his son were angry. Louis was like a piece of thistledown, they said to each other, blown this way and that by the wind. They would have to try to persuade him later when the Plantagenet had left court.

But Geoffrey had no intention of leaving court just yet. He was finding it all so diverting and more than anything was he delighted by the interest of the Queen.

Eleonore had shown from the first that he interested her. She invited him to one of her musical occasions when she herself sang songs of her own composing. They were concerned with the joy of loving and being loved.

Geoffrey was not one to ignore such gentle innuendoes. Cursed with a wife for whom he had no affection or desire, for years he had been seeking consolation elsewhere.

Matilda was now an old woman of fifty. Eleonore was some twenty years younger. She seemed very young to him, and she was one of the most beautiful and attractive women he had ever seen.

That the Queen of France was light in her morals he knew full well. There had been rumours about her adventures during the crusade. Geoffrey of Anjou was not one to refuse what was offered.

Within a few weeks of his arrival at court he and Eleonore were lovers.

She liked to talk to him. He was a man of charm and easy manners. He reminded her very much of her uncle Raymond. Not that he could equal him - no one could do that, but the resemblance was there and very agreeable to her.

Not only did she enjoy their love-making but their conversation was amusing.

He told her of the wild conflicts that had ensued between himself and his wife.

‘She still calls herself the Empress because before she was married to me she was married to the Emperor of Germany.’

‘We have all heard tales of that virago,’ said Eleonore. ‘What a time you must have had with her!’

‘Think of the most difficult woman in the world and that is Matilda.’

‘And is she beautiful?’

‘She was handsome enough in her youth. But I was a boy of fifteen at the time of our marriage. She was twenty-five. She seemed an old woman to me. I never took to her. And her temper … it is beyond description.’

‘But you got three sons by her.’

‘We were at length prevailed upon to do our duty.’

‘And she loves these sons?’

‘Even Matilda is a mother. Our eldest is a fine boy. He’s going to rule England one day.’

That would be … Henry.’

‘Ah, young Henry. What a fellow!’

‘Is he as handsome as his father?’

‘He is the least handsome of my sons. Not tall, but stocky and he cares not for his looks. He refuses to wear gloves in the coldest weather and his hands are chapped and red. He despises the graces of living. He will be a man, he says. He is never still. He must be here, there and everywhere! He tires out all about him. He is a boy to be proud of.’

‘Tell me more of him. He is very young, is he not?’

‘Seventeen winters or so.’

‘And he is religious?’

‘His religion is to live every minute of his life to the full.’

‘I should like to see this son of yours,’ she said. ‘What does he feel for women?’

‘He likes them … he likes them very well.’

‘Like his father mayhap?’

‘Well, he has already sired two bastards, I hear.’

‘And he but seventeen! He is not a man to waste his time. I shall see him then?’

‘He will come to Paris to swear fealty to the King.’

‘He might have been my son-in-law. We did once think of a match between him and my daughter Marie.’

‘That was a match I greatly wished to see take place.’

‘It was old Bernard of Clairvaux who opposed it … on grounds of the strong blood tie between the two.’

‘That was what he said. I’ll dare swear he thought that such an alliance would give too much to our house. He was never a friend of ours.’

‘We talk much of your son.’

‘Yes, let us now consider ourselves.’

They did, and when in due course Geoffrey’s son Henry Plantagenet arrived at court, Eleonore was completely overwhelmed by the personality of the youth. He had a vitality which she found intriguing; a virility which was undeniable.

Geoffrey was a good lover but once she saw his son, Eleonore desired no other man.

She could not understand it. This youth was by no means handsome. That he was clever there was no doubt; he had an appreciation of literature which she found exciting. But it was his overwhelming manliness which attracted her.

She thought a good deal about him. Duke of Normandy and King of England, for there was no doubt in her mind as soon as she saw him that he would succeed in his undertakings.

Stephen would die and he would claim the crown of England and get it. Ineffectual Eustace would have no chance against him.

She wanted Henry. Not as she had wanted his father and others. This was different.

Henry was going to be a King. She wanted to marry him.

Alas, he was nearly twelve years younger than she was. As if she would allow such a trifle to stand in her way. A greater obstacle was the fact that she was married. She had asked for a divorce before, and failed to get it. She would renew her endeavours. It had been different then. Before she had been eager only to escape from Louis. Now she had the added incentive. She wanted a new husband. That husband must be Henry Plantagenet. And she made a vow that nothing was going to stand in the way of her getting him.

It did not take her long to lure him to her bed. He was sensuous in the extreme and already expert in such matters. It had been said that he took after his grandfather, that other Henry, who used to dandle him on his knee when he was a baby and had set such store by him.

That he was cuckolding the King of France meant nothing to young Henry, except that it was something of a joke; and that the beautiful elegant Queen should be so eager for him - with his careless mode of dressing and his lack of fastidiousness - amused him even more.

He was always ready to enjoy himself.

When she hinted at marriage, he was alert.

Marriage for Henry Plantagenet with the heiress of Aquitaine! Not bad! Eleonore was a rich heiress. No one could turn aside from fruitful Aquitaine without a good deal of consideration.

It was a dazzling prospect. Eleonore and Aquitaine!

‘First of course I must divorce Louis,’ said Eleonore.

Henry agreed. He could not believe that that would be allowed. In the meantime there was no reason why he should not enjoy the hospitality of the Queen.

But Eleonore continued to think of marriage. She was determined to divorce the King of France and marry this young Henry Plantagenet for she believed there was little doubt that he would become King of England. Moreover she was passionately in love with him.

Louis paced up and down the chamber. The Abbe Suger watched him sorrowfully. His father had always feared that Louis had not the strength to make a king. He had made the Abbe Suger swear that he would stand beside him and guide him. He would need guidance. And indeed he did with such a wife. If only he had married a simple docile woman how different everything would have been! Instead of that this brilliant match had been made for him, and what had it brought him? Two girls and a wanton wife, a woman who was openly unfaithful.

And now she was demanding a divorce.

There were tears in Louis’s eyes as he faced Suger.

‘What can I do?’ he pleaded. ‘What can I do?’

‘You can tell the Queen that what she is asking is impossible.’

‘She will not let it rest there.’

‘The Queen must be made to do her duty.’

‘You do not know Eleonore.’

‘Not know the Queen! I know her well. She is without decency, without care that she should do her duty.’

‘I have never been the right husband for her. I have never been able to give her what she wanted.’

‘You gave her the crown of France, Sire. Was that not enough for any woman?’

‘Not for Eleonore. She wanted a lusty man.’

‘For shame! You gave her two children. A pity it is that they were not sons. But doubtless if you go on trying …’

Louis shook his head impatiently.

‘She has asked me to talk to you. She is determined to get a divorce.’

‘On the grounds of consanguinity?’

Louis nodded. ‘It is true that we are fourth cousins.’

‘You could divorce her on the grounds of infidelity.’

‘Nay, I would not do that. Suffice it that the blood relationship is there.’

‘I was saying that you could divorce her for her criminal conduct but you would be unwise to do so. If you divorce her the lands of Aquitaine are lost to the French Crown. Sire, there must be no divorce.’

‘She wants it. She will not rest until our marriage is broken.’

‘Think, Sire. What if she married again? Her husband would rule with her and if he was the owner of vast possessions what a powerful neighbour you would have in Aquitaine. Nay, Sire, I could never agree to a divorce for if the Queen married a powerful nobleman, there would be too much strength in the neighbourhood which would be uncomfortably close to France.’

‘She will give me no peace.’

Suger shook his head.

‘I shall oppose a divorce while there is life in me,’ said Suger, Louis sighed. He knew that Suger would never allow the divorce to go through and that Eleonore would fret and fume and make life intolerable for them both.

Riding back to Normandy the young Duke Henry was thinking about Eleonore.

What a woman! He had never had a mistress such as she was before. She excited him; there was a passion about her which overwhelmed him. He was glad that she was older than he was - eleven years was it? She was so experienced. He had never denied himself his pleasures, and strangely enough, although he was far from handsome, women found him irresistible. At least many had; but they were not of the calibre of Eleonore of Aquitaine. That she - Queen of France, and a woman of great experience who had been to the Holy Land and it was said had had her adventures there - should have found her need of him so great that she had lain with him in her husband’s palace, was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him.

She was heartily sick of her monk-like husband. ‘He is no man,’ she had complained bitterly. ‘I would be rid of him. He shall go back to his Church and I will go to the bed of a husband who will know how to treat me there.’

And that husband was to be himself - he, not yet twenty years of age, a mere Duke of Normandy, had been chosen by the Queen of France. Of course he had prospects … oh, very great prospects; and many believed that he would fulfil their prophecies. Duke of Normandy, yes, but King of England too? Why not? His mother should be the sovereign of that country now, not that upstart Stephen.

And his Queen - Eleonore! He had to admit that it was an alluring prospect. She was beautiful; she had character; she was different from any other woman he had known; she was clever; she wrote songs and sang them charmingly. He could appreciate that.

He was glad now that his uncle Robert - his mother’s half-brother who was the bastard of King Henry I - had taken charge of his education. Uncle Robert was a man who set great store by education. He had said: ‘One day you will be a king and you cannot be an ignorant king.’ He had taken him to his castle in Bristol and there, as well as teaching him horsemanship and chivalry and how to wield a sword, he had made him study - and among his study was literature - under a man known as Master Matthew.

He had taken to learning as he took to anything that interested him. Now their knowledge of literature was a further bond between him and Eleonore, and when they were satiated with love-making they could chat idly of these matters. She said she had never known a young man so learned; he had certainly never known a woman as clever as she was.

And she could bring him Aquitaine.

The only thing that stood in the way of their marriage was that she was married already - married to the King of France.

‘He shall divorce me,’ Eleonore had cried. ‘He shall. He shall!’

And in the presence of such determination he could believe that she was right.

He was sure his father would be pleased. Geoffrey was an ambitious man. He had fought hard to secure Normandy for his wife, which meant for his son, Henry himself. The thought of allying Aquitaine with Normandy, Maine and Anjou would delight him. It meant that the Duke of Normandy would be more powerful than the King of France. As for his mother she was obsessed by England and she would rejoice in any move which made the family strong enough to take it.

It was full of confidence that Henry rode into the castle of Anjou to see his father. He knew that his mother would not be there and he must pay a separate visit to her. His parents were rarely together and although in their mature years there had grown up a kind of tolerance towards each other there was no affection between them.

His father was delighted to see Henry, who thought that he looked worn and unlike his usual rather jaunty self. He was handsome as Henry would never be. Yet there was something far more striking about the younger man’s vitality and he had a certain charm which his father lacked.

Henry sought an early moment of being alone with his father, but before he could tell him his news Geoffrey talked to him very seriously of other matters.

He seated himself on a stool, his long legs stretched out before him, looking at his son. ‘Be seated, Henry,’ he said. ‘I have much to say to you.’

‘And I to you, Father.’

Geoffrey nodded. ‘I have much on my mind,’ he said. ‘Have you heard what Bernard of Clairvaux has prophesied? Nay, you could not or you would not look so unconcerned. He has said that I shall be dead within the year.’

‘Did you offend him then?’ asked Henry cynically.

‘A difference of opinion. He wished me to release that trouble-maker, de Bellay. I refused and in doing so he tells me I have displeased God who will be avenged.’

‘Is old Bernard in God’s confidence then?’

‘He is a holy man, Henry.’

‘A plague on these holy men! They work for themselves and deceive us … or perhaps themselves into thinking that their will is God’s. You are not disturbed by this prophecy, Father?’

‘I am, Henry.’

‘Then cease to be. I tell you that you are as hearty as you ever were. You have not yet seen forty winters. There are many more left to you.’

Geoffrey took the plant from his hat and studied it - the little planta genista which had given him his soubriquet. He held it out to Henry who took it wonderingly. ‘I shall invest you with lands and possessions without delay, Henry. You are my eldest son. You have brothers. We are surrounded by ambitious men. You are young yet … oh, but a man I grant you. From your mother you will have Normandy and England - from me, Anjou and Maine. To your brother Geoffrey I shall leave three castles in Anjou, but when you have become King of England you must give him Maine and Anjou.’

‘I care not to hear you talk of death,’ said Henry.

‘Bernard prophesied the death of the heir to the King of France and you know full well that almost immediately a wild pig entangled itself with his horse’s legs and threw him, and there on the ground was a sharp flint that broke open his head and entered his brain.’

‘I would not allow a man to prophesy my death, Father. If he dared do so I should call it treason.’

‘He is not my subject, Henry.’ His face lightened. ‘It may be you are right. But at the same time I am going to make a gesture. You and I are going to Paris and there I wish you to be formally acknowledged as Duke of Normandy. You know that Stephen of England has his eyes on Normandy for his son, so I wish there to be a formal ceremony during which Louis receives you as the rightful Duke, and you swear allegiance to him as your suzerain. I fear what would happen if I were to die suddenly.’

‘You are not going to die, Father. I’ll prophesy that, and why should you not believe your son instead of that old ghoul Bernard?’

Geoffrey smiled and taking the sprig from his son replaced it in his hat.

‘All the same, Henry, I wish us to go to Paris, and we shall make preparations to depart without delay.’

‘Nothing would please me more although I have just left the French court. Now listen to my news which will make you smile. The French King and Queen are not on good terms.’

‘I know it well. The whole world knows it.’ Geoffrey smiled, remembering passionate moments with Eleonore.

‘There is talk of a divorce.’

‘Suger will never allow it. It would mean the loss of Aquitaine to the French Crown.’

‘The Queen is a very forceful woman.’

‘I know it well!’

‘And she has set her heart on divorce. In fact she has decided to marry again and has chosen her husband.’

‘She should get her divorce first before she goes as far as that.’

‘I have no doubt that she will succeed. Whom do you think she has chosen for her bridegroom?’

Henry was smiling so complacently that his father looked at him with astonishment.

‘Yes, Father. She has chosen me.’

‘You!’ spluttered Geoffrey. ‘That is quite out of the question.’

‘I thought you would be delighted.’

‘Never!’ cried Geoffrey vehemently.

‘Have you forgotten that she would bring us Aquitaine?’

‘You cannot marry that woman.’

‘And why indeed not?’

‘She … she is married to the King.’

‘But Father, there is to be a divorce.’

‘There never will be.’

‘There will be. And if there is and she is free, you and my mother will rejoice. You must. Think of Aquitaine.’

‘You cannot marry Eleonore,’ cried Geoffrey.

‘I can when she is free.’

Geoffrey was silent for a few moments. ‘Nay,’ he said. ‘You could not … not if she were free and even though she brought you Aquitaine. I would never give my consent.’

Henry’s temper, which could be terrible, was beginning to rise.

‘Should I need your consent?’

‘You would need it if you would be my heir.’ Geoffrey looked steadily at his son. ‘In view of what happened between myself and the Queen of France I would never consent to the marriage.’

‘What mean you by that?’

‘I have known her well … intimately. You understand?’

Henry stared at his father.

Geoffrey had risen to his feet. He strode to the door.

He looked back at his son. ‘For that reason,’ he said, ‘I would never give my consent to the marriage, never … never …’

They were on their way to Paris. Henry had raged and fumed. He had cursed his father, the old Abbe Suger and everyone who was putting an obstacle between him and his marriage with Eleonore.

So she was a woman of strong passions. He had known that. So she had adventured during the crusade she had made to the Holy Land. There were rumours about her relationship with her uncle and a Saracen, and his own father had admitted to committing adultery with her. Well, she was Eleonore and unique. The fact that she had passed through these adventures made her all the more desirable to him. Drama encircled her. Many a prince had his bride found for him and he was given a simpering virgin for whom he could have little fancy. He was not like other princes. He had always known he was unique. A great future lay before him and that future was going to be shared with Eleonore. The obstacles which people were putting in his way were going to be thrust aside. He would arrange that.

And now to Paris. He would see her there. She would watch the ceremony when he swore fealty to her erstwhile husband, and at night he would creep into her bedchamber where they would make love and plans.

So although he had raged against his father and all those who stood in his way, he was now content. He was certain of success. In the end and when it came it would be all the more enjoyable because it had not been easy to attain.

What a joy it was to embrace her, to indulge in that violent and compulsive love-making. There was no one like her. Eleonore was different - a tigress compared with whom all other women were tame lambs. Moreover she could bring him Aquitaine. His father was being foolish to stand out against a marriage which could bring so much to Anjou and Normandy - and in due course England, and all because Eleonore had shared his bed. Poor Eleonore! A passionate woman married to a monk. What could be expected but that she should try out men now and then? It made her all the more appreciative of him, Henry, just as his amorous adventures made him certain that there was no woman in the world to compare with her.

She was equally delighted with him. His love-making lacked the grace of that of Raymond of Antioch, but Henry’s was as much to her taste. His youth was so appealing. She was sure that Henry was the man she wished to be her husband.

On the day of the ceremony she sat beside Louis on the dais and with glowing eyes watched the approach of her lover.

Henry knelt before the King of France and asked that his title of Duke of Normandy might be confirmed by him. If the King would grant his permission he would swear fealty to him and remember as long as he held that title that he was the vassal of the King of France.

He unbuckled his sword and took off his spurs. He laid them at the feet of the King of France and in return the King took a handful of earth which had been brought to him for this purpose as a symbol that he accepted Henry Plantagenet as Duke of Normandy.

Then there was feasting and celebration with Geoffrey seated on one side of the King and Henry on the other, and the comforting knowledge that the powerful Count of Anjou and the King of France were allies.

The lovers found opportunities to be together. They made love and talked of the future.

His father was against a marriage; the Abbe Suger was against it; but they would find a way.

‘My father must be won over,’ said Henry. ‘As for the old Abbe he can’t last for ever. He looks more feeble every day.’

‘It must be soon,’ said Eleonore, ‘for I have sworn to be your wife and Louis is not and never has been what I want in a husband.’

The fact that they were so often together was noticed of course. Courtiers smiled behind their hands. ‘First she tried out the father and now the son. No one can say that our Queen wastes time.’

Geoffrey was powerless to prevent their meetings and in due course the King’s advisers told him that the Queen and the young Duke of Normandy were causing scandal at court.

Louis sent for Geoffrey.

‘I think,’ he said, ‘that it would be advisable for you and your son to leave my court.’

Geoffrey was of the same opinion. He was angry that Eleonore and Henry should be lovers. He would have liked to resume that role with her himself. But when they met she behaved as though they had never been anything but acquaintances, and she certainly found the son preferable to his father.

‘They shall never marry while I live to prevent them,’ he vowed.

It would have been pleasant riding through the countryside if he had not had to leave Eleonore behind. There were however other matters to occupy Henry’s mind.

He was now undisputed Duke of Normandy and that was pleasant to contemplate. If only Eleonore could have forced Louis to divorce her he would be quite content … at the moment.

Geoffrey was determined not to discuss the matter of the proposed divorce. He had said it would never be granted and that put an end to the affair. He would attempt to arrange a suitable match for his son and that should not be difficult for the Duke of Normandy and his prospects would make young Henry a very desirable parti.

The day had grown very hot and they were travel-stained and weary. They were approaching Chateau du Loir when Geoffrey said, ‘Here is a pleasant spot to rest awhile. Let us stay here. Look, there is the river. I should like to bathe in it. That would be most refreshing.’

Henry was willing. They called a halt and the party settled down under the trees while Geoffrey and his son and a few of their attendants took off their clothes and went for a swim in the river.

They shivered delightedly in the cold water which was so refreshing after the heat of the day. They were loath to come out and when they did they lay on the bank talking.

‘Now that you are Duke of Normandy you will be ready to claim your other inheritance,’ said Geoffrey.

‘You mean … England.’

‘I do. The people would welcome you. They rejected your mother it is true and accepted Stephen, but they only did this because she made herself objectionable to them and Stephen was there and, weak as he is, he lacked your mother’s arrogance. They will be ready for you, Henry.’

‘Yes, soon I must go to England.’

‘You must make Stephen understand that you are the heir. He will try of course to give everything to his son Eustace.’

‘Never fear, Father. He shall not do that.’

‘You understand what a campaign like this means?’

‘There have been other campaigns, Father. You may trust me.’

As they talked of England and how Eustace was a weakling, heavy clouds arose and obscured the sun. Before they could dress there was a downpour. Wet through they returned to their camp.

That night Geoffrey rambled in his sleep. He was in a high fever.

When the news was brought to Henry he went at once to his father.

‘What ails you?’ he asked but Geoffrey looked at him with hopeless eyes.

‘It has come, Henry,’ he said. ‘As he said it would.’

‘You’re thinking of that man’s prophecy. He should be hanged for treason. ‘Tis nothing, Father. A chill, that’s all. You stayed overlong by the river.’

‘I am shivering with fever,’ said Geoffrey, ‘and more than that there is knowledge within me that this is the last time you shall see me in the flesh.’

‘I refuse to listen to such talk.’

‘Your concern does you credit, my son. If I am not to depart with my sins on me, you had better send me a priest.’

‘Stop talking so. Have you not had enough of priests?’

‘Methinks I need one to help me to heaven, son.’

Henry sent for a priest. The certainty that he was going to die was strong with Geoffrey. He wanted to talk to his son, explain to him the pitfalls which could entrap a young man. He himself had not enjoyed a happy married life. He did not want the same thing to befall Henry.

‘It should be a blessing, Henry, and it is often a curse. You should marry a good docile woman, one who will bear you many sons. At least Matilda gave me three. But my life with her, Henry, has been one continual battle. There was never love between us. I was ten years her junior. Never marry a woman older than yourself. She will dominate you.’

‘I would never allow any woman to dominate me, Father.’

‘That is what you may think, but there is a danger. I hated Matilda and she despised me. I was a child. Fifteen and married to a virago of twenty-five who had already been the wife of the Emperor of Germany. Imagine it. My life … our life together was a hell.’

‘My mother is a very difficult woman.’

‘She lost England by her temper. Think of it, Henry. Had she acted differently you would not have had to fight for England. It would have been yours.’

‘Never fear. It shall be mine.’

‘I doubt it not. But your mother has led us a fine dance. Her father grew to understand her. But he was determined that you should inherit the throne. He used to call you Henry the Second of England.’

‘That is what I shall become.’

‘It must be so.’

‘Doubt it not. No man shall put his will in the way of mine. No one.’ And he thought: That means you, too, Father. For I shall be King of England and Eleonore shall be my Queen.

‘Beware of priests, Henry. They will seek to govern you. You stand for the State, and the State and Church are struggling for supremacy now as they ever did.’

‘I know it well and will have no masters. None,’ declared Henry.

‘I say goodbye now, my son. Bernard’s prophecy is coming true. A pig killed the son of the King of France and a dip in a river killed the son of Fulk of Anjou; and both prophesied by Bernard.’

‘Heed not such prophecies, Father. You invite death by believing them.’

‘Nay, my son. Death is in this room. Can you not sense his presence? Farewell. You will rule wisely. Marry well and soon, and get fine sons. A man needs sons.’

Geoffrey Plantagenet lay still and by the morning he was dead.

Bernard’s prophecy had come true. Riding to his mother, Henry thought of what this would mean to him. He was master of great possessions and one obstacle to his marriage had been removed by death. He was only eighteen years of age. He could be patient a little longer.

That indomitable priest, the Abbe Suger, whom Louis the Fat had instructed to guide his son, was no longer there.

His passing was deeply mourned by the people for all knew him to have been a good man, and he was buried with great pomp at Saint-Denis.

After the funeral Eleonore knew that now nothing could stand in the way of her divorce. It was only a matter of getting agreement from Louis. He was weary of the argument. Perhaps he too was beginning to be reconciled to a parting. Perhaps he realised that he would be happier married to another woman, for marry he must, since he still had to get a male heir.

Eleonore was not the woman for him. Although he might divorce her on grounds of consanguinity everyone knew that he could have done so for adultery. Her reputation was well known. There had been many to witness her light behaviour during the crusade and the names of the Plantagenets, father and son, were mentioned in connection with her.

Eleonore cared nothing for this. She was still beautiful; nor was she old; she would have many childbearing days ahead; moreover she was the richest heiress in Europe.

With the opposition removed by the hand of Death, Louis’s resistance did indeed crumble. It was no longer a question of whether there should be a divorce but on what grounds.

Louis’s feelings for Eleonore were so mixed that he could not entirely understand them himself. He knew in his heart that had she been contrite, had she given him her word that she would abandon her immoral way of life, willingly he would have taken her back. She had fascinated him; she still did; he could easily have forgiven her lapses from virtue if she had become a loving wife. He did not care for women generally, only Eleonore. He had loved her for herself, and the rich lands of Aquitaine had not influenced his feelings. But he did want a quiet, peaceful life and he knew he would never have that with Eleonore. He must divorce her, but if only she had given one little sign of contrition how happy he would have been to meet her halfway!

Again and again he would think of her with her lovers. Her own uncle! That was even more criminal than the others. Then a rare anger would arise in him. I will divorce her for adultery, he thought, and it was in such a mood that he approached his ministers.

But he was the King of France. He should not think of revenge, or his own personal feelings. He must only think of what was best for France.

If he divorced her for adultery he could not re-marry, for according to the laws of the Church, once married its members were always married. It was his duty as King to marry again. He had only two daughters and the Salic laws of France would prevent their inheriting the throne.

On the other hand if the marriage was ended because of consanguinity there would be no hindrance to remarriage because, since their close blood ties prevented their marriage being legal in the first place, they had never really been married, and either was free to marry again.

As for the little girls Marie and Alix, they could be legitimised easily enough.

It was the answer. The marriage would cease to exist because of the close blood ties of Louis and Eleonore.

It was the solution most satisfactory to all.

Eleonore was eagerly awaiting the outcome of the meeting of the council under the direction of the Archbishop of Bordeaux. She had taken up residence in the chateau close to the church of Notre-Dame de Beaugency where the decision was being made. She sat at the window, her eyes on the road. At any moment a messenger would come riding to the chateau and then she would know whether or not she was free.

Once she had the news she would lose no time in meeting Henry and they would be married without delay.

She would have to say goodbye to her daughters Marie and Alix. That had been her only regret. She had surprised herself by the depth of her feelings for her children; but she knew that even they could not compensate her for the loss of Henry, and she shuddered at the thought of spending the rest of her days with Louis for the sake of girls who would in a few years’ time marry and leave her.

No, she was too full of vigour, too sensuous, too egotistical to devote her life to others.

Henry was the man for her. She had known it in the first few weeks of their acquaintance. Strong, egotistical himself, and a sensualist, his nature matched hers. She had known from the first that even though she had a husband and Henry was eleven years younger than she was, he was the man she would marry.

Now, in a fever of impatience, she waited for the messengers. At last she saw them. Two bishops attended by two gentlemen were riding into the castle courtyard.

She ran down to meet them.

‘My lords,’ she said, ‘your answer.’

‘May we enter the castle?’ asked the Bishop of Langres reprovingly.

‘Nay,’ she cried imperiously. ‘I will wait no longer to hear the verdict. I command you tell me instantly without delay.’

The bishop hesitated; then he looked resigned.

He said: ‘It is the Council’s decision that on account of the close blood relationship between yourself and the King they declare the nullity of the marriage.’

Eleonore waited for no more. A great joy had come to her.

‘Come into the chateau, my friends,’ she said. ‘I would refresh you.’

Free! she was thinking. At least free of Louis. No more would she have to endure the boring company of the King, no more would she fret against a restriction on her freedom. She could go to her lover now.

There should be no delay. As soon as she had listened to this tiresome deputation, she would make preparations for her journey. Her first task must be to let Henry know that she was coming to him.

‘Ride with all speed,’ she told her messenger. ‘Tell the Duke of Normandy that Eleonore of Aquitaine sends greetings. Tell him she is on the way to her own town of Bordeaux, that she will look for him there, and that she is eager to waste no more time.’

Oh, the joy of riding in the fresh spring air! It was Easter time, the most beautiful time of the year, and how rich and fertile were the lands of the South!

As she rode south the country people came out to greet her. They cheered her. There had been stories of the immoral life she had led while married to the King of France but to the people of the South these seemed like romantic adventures. Seated on her palfrey with her hair flowing and in her gown with the long sleeves which fell to the hem of her skirts, she was a beautiful sight. A queen in very truth and she was back among them. She had brought colour to her father’s court. Songs had been written about her; she herself wrote songs and sang them, and they were about love and chivalry. It was small wonder in their eyes that she was not appreciated in the cold land of the North. Now she was coming back and it was an occasion for rejoicing.

One day when she was riding through the domain of the Count of Blois, a party of horsemen came riding towards them. As they approached, Eleonore saw that they were led by a young man of pleasing appearance.

He pulled up before the Queen, doffing his hat and waving it in a gesture of gallantry as he bowed before her.

‘It is indeed the Queen of Queens,’ he said.

She inclined her head, pleased to be so addressed.

‘Journeying from the court of France to Bordeaux,’ he went on. ‘You will need to rest for the night at some worthy castle. Yet knowing mine to be unworthy I offer it to you. My castle of Blois is close at hand. It is the finest shelter you could find in these parts. I should be honoured indeed if you would allow me to entertain you there.’

‘We should be delighted,’ replied the Queen; and added, ‘You are Theobald, Count of Champagne.’

‘I am honoured that you should know me.’

‘I knew your father well,’ said Eleonore and thought grimly: He had a great influence on our lives. It was our conflict with him over Petronelle’s marriage that led to the burning of Vitry and our crusade.

That elder Theobald had been dead for some two years. This was his son, and he was clearly not only young and good-looking but ambitious.

As they rode side by side towards the castle of Blois he was congratulating himself on the prospect of having such a notorious lady under his roof. She was a beauty too.

Eleonore was aware of his admiration but it pleased her only mildly. She longed for one man and one man only - Henry, Duke of Normandy.

When they reached the courtyard of his castle Theobald leaped from his horse and commanded that a goblet of wine be brought. He stood by her horse while the goblet was brought; then sipped it and passed it to her.

Their eyes met over the cup; his were bold, and he could not hide from her the speculative gleam in them.

Foolish man! she thought. Did he think that she was ready to accept any man, and that the only qualifications he needed to accept her favours were those of his manhood? Did he think he could compare with Raymond of Antioch, Saladin, and chief of all, Henry of Normandy? She would be delighted to teach him a lesson.

‘How honoured I am that you should come to my castle,’ he said as he helped her to alight. ‘I warn you I shall do everything in my power to make your stay here a long one.’

‘My lord is gracious,’ she said. ‘But we are but passing on our way to my town of Bordeaux and I am in some haste to reach it.’

‘You will at least rest here the night.’

‘Indeed I will and it is good of you to play the host so kindly.’

‘I would give all the kindness of which I am capable to such a gracious lady.’

He himself conducted her to her bedchamber.

‘The finest in the castle,’ he said. ‘It is my own.’ She looked startled and he added: ‘I shall occupy one close by to make sure that you are well guarded through the night.’

I must be careful of my lord of Champagne, thought Eleonore. He is too ambitious.

It was easy to see what was in the young braggart’s mind. He would indeed need to be taught a lesson.

She ordered that her baggage be brought to the chamber and there her women dressed her in a gown of velvet with long hanging sleeves lined with miniver; she wore her beautiful hair loose about her shoulders and thus she sat almost in state in the hall of the castle of Blois.

Theobald had ordered that the choicest meats be prepared for the banquet; he had instructed his troubadours to make songs to celebrate the Queen’s stay at his castle. Nothing that could be done to make her stay memorable was forgotten.

She sat in the great hall of the castle, enthroned as a queen, and beside her was Theobald his eyes growing more and more caressing, and more bold, as the night wore on.

She was amused and a little cynical.

Can it be that he wishes to marry me? she asked herself. She was free now. Men, had courted her when she was Louis’s wife because of her reputation. Now they would court her because of her fortune.

She decided to amuse herself a little with Theobald.

‘This,’ he told her passionately, ‘is the finest hour my castle has ever known.’

‘Let us hope,’ she answered, ‘that it will know many more.’

His eyes lit with pleasure. Could she really mean that she would stay here?

He answered: ‘That could only be if you consented to stay here.’

‘How could I do that, my lord, when I have my own castles beyond Blois?’

”Tis true you have many fine castles. I would like this castle of Blois to be one of yours.’

‘You are over-generous with your castles, my young lord. Is it because they have been such a short time in your possession? What would your noble father say if he looked down from heaven and heard you giving away what he has left you.’

‘He would be happy indeed for he would know what went with the castle.’

‘And what is that?’

‘My heart, my hand, all that I possess.’

‘Is this a proposal of marriage ?’

‘It is.’

‘Ah, I doubt not you are one of many. When a woman is possessed of many rich lands it is amazing how ready men are to fall in love with her.’

‘You know you are the most beautiful woman in the world. The fact that you own Aquitaine is of no importance.’

‘I could never marry a man who was not sensible of the power of lands and riches. It seems he would be a poor helpmeet to me in the governing of my possessions.’

‘Nay, I am well aware of them. What I tell you is that were you the humblest serving-maid I would be willing to sacrifice all for your sake.’

‘What you mean is you would be ready to take me to your bed for a night, perhaps two, if I proved worthy. I could never marry a man who thought me such a fool that he must tell me blatant lies.’

‘I see you are too clever for me.’

‘You realise that then. A man should never marry a woman who is too clever for him. It is not the key to happy marriage.’

‘Oh, Eleonore, you are known throughout the land of France as the Queen of Love. Have done with banter. I would marry you. I beg of you consider my proposal.’

‘I do not need to consider it. I could not marry you. You must look elsewhere for your wife.’

‘I shall not give up hope.’

‘It is always comforting to hope,’ she said. ‘Now I would listen to your excellent minstrels.’

She was amused by the young man. His wooing was almost abrupt. She had been in his castle not more than a few hours and he had asked her to marry him. Nay, my little man, she thought, you must do better than that. Do you think you could compare with my Henry?

She would tell Henry about the brash young fellow. How they would laugh together. Perhaps she would make a song about it. Oh, she could not wait to be with Henry!

She was thoughtful as her women undressed her, combed her hair and helped her to the bed which had been made ready for her.

‘Four of you will sleep in this room tonight,’ she said, ‘and one of my esquires will sleep across my door. It has occurred to me that we may have a visitor.’

Her women laughed. ‘Surely the Count would not be so bold.’

‘I am here in his castle. He has hinted and I have seen some purpose in his eyes. I think I should take these precautions.’

How right she was. As she expected the young Count attempted to come to her bedchamber. Her trusted esquire who lay across her door sprang to his feet, his sword unsheathed. When commanded to stand aside he said that he acted on the orders of the Queen and any who crossed the threshold would do so only over his dead body.

‘A fuss about nothing,’ grumbled the Count and went fuming back to his bed.

How Eleonore laughed in the morning when she heard the account of this.

She decided that she would not spend another night in the castle of Blois and secretly ordered that preparations be made to leave.

Theobald came to her. He was very suave. He begged her to stay another night for he had heard that there was a band of robbers in the neighbourhood, and by the next day he could get together an escort to accompany her and her party.

A twinge of alarm came to Eleonore then. She knew what means ambitious young men adopted with heiresses. He could make her a prisoner in his castle, force her to submit to his attentions and keep her there until she agreed to marry him. She had no doubt that plans along this line were formulating in the Count’s mind.

She was not really afraid and half amused. How dared he! He had been in possession of his estates only two years and he was behaving like a brigand.

She would teach him a lesson.

She pretended to believe him.

There was more feasting that night, more songs were sung. She noticed how he endeavoured to fill her goblet. Did he think she was an innocent? It was she who contrived to make him drink as much as to fuddle his mind. She knew that he spoke truth when he said he was sending for guards. They would not be to conduct her on her way but to guard her in the castle.

She had planned what she would do. She had ordered that every member of her party be prepared to leave that night in secret. As soon as the castle was quiet they would creep down to the stables where everything would be in readiness. They would slip away and when the Count awoke in the morning he would find his guests had gone.

She was an intrigant by nature.

She amused herself by giving a little encouragement to the Count, implying that she might consider him, providing he behaved in a manner which she considered due to her dignity. She would be hurried into nothing and an attempt to effect this would meet with her disapproval.

She managed to instil into his somewhat fuddled mind that he must give her time and that she would be rather amused by his methods to coerce her.

Thus he decided to leave her in peace for that night and her plans were successful. Very quietly she and her party left Blois, and in the morning when the ambitious young Count awoke he cursed himself and all who served him because they had allowed this prize to slip between his fingers.

How she laughed as she looked back at the far distant castle of Blois in the early morning light. If he sent the fleetest riders after her he would never catch her now.

‘We will make for Anjou,’ she said. ‘There we shall be safe for that is the Count of Anjou’s land, and the Count of Anjou is the Duke of Normandy and were I to fall into his hands it would be with the greatest of pleasure for he is the man I am going to marry.’

So they made for Anjou and as they crossed into it she was exultant.

Her complacency was short-lived. As they crossed the meadows they saw a rider in the distance, a young man who begged to speak to the Queen.

He told her he had been in the employ of Henry Plantagenet, now Duke of Normandy, and had been passed into the service of Henry’s young brother, Geoffrey Plantagenet.

‘My lady,’ he said, ‘I still serve the Duke of Normandy and so I come to tell you that four miles ahead lies an ambush. Geoffrey Plantagenet plans to abduct you, to take you to his castle, and to keep you there until you promise to marry him. He hates his brother because he has inherited much while he has but three castles in Anjou.’

Eleonore laughed aloud.

‘Take this young man,’ she said, ‘give him food and from henceforth he shall serve me. I promise you, my good fellow, that ere long you shall find yourself in the service of the Duke of Normandy for any who serves me will serve him also. We will now change course. We will leave Anjou and go south to Aquitaine. We will ride to Poitiers and I promise you it will not be long before we have reached my city.’

Warily they rode. There had been two indications of what ambitious men would attempt to win the hand of an heiress.

‘None shall take by force what is mine to give,’ said Eleonore.

They came to her city of Poitiers and she took up her lodging in the chateau; there she sent a messenger to Henry to tell him that she would await him there and when he came they would be married without delay.

How long the waiting seemed and yet she knew he came with all speed! It was necessary for them to marry quickly and that no hint of who her bridegroom was to be should reach Louis’s ears. As Duchess of Aquitaine she was his vassal and he had the right to forbid her to marry a man of whom he did not approve, and it would not be only Louis who disapproved of a match between Normandy and Aquitaine.

At length he came. She was in the courtyard waiting to greet him. With great joy they embraced and eagerly discussed the arrangements for the wedding which must take place without delay. They would not wait for the ceremony of course, although each realised the importance of it. They had been lovers before and were impatient for each other.

The wedding was to take place on Whit Sunday and it would not be celebrated with the pomp which had accompanied that of Eleonore to the King of France for it was most important for it to take place before anyone could stop it.

However spies had already conveyed to Louis that Henry of Normandy had joined Eleonore in Poitiers and that arrangements were going on to celebrate their marriage.

Louis was furious. Not only was he jealous of Eleonore’s obsession with young Henry, but if Aquitaine and Normandy were joined by the marriage of these two, then Henry of Normandy would be the most powerful man in the country.

He demanded that his vassal, Henry of Normandy, come to Paris immediately.

That was a summons which Henry could only ignore. Instead of obeying the King he went to the cathedral with Eleonore and there, on that warm Whit Sunday, Eleonore of Aquitaine became the bride of Henry of Normandy.

Chapter V QUEEN OF ENGLAND

Rarely had Louis’s passions been so strongly aroused as when he heard of the marriage of Eleonore and Henry. In the first place he could not endure to think of her with that young virile man. Henry of Normandy was uncouth; he might be learned, but he was rough in manners and Eleonore had always been so fastidious. What was the attraction? He knew. It was that overwhelming sensuality in her which had both fascinated and yet appalled him.

There was more to it than mere jealousy. There was the political implication.

Henry of Normandy had now become the most powerful man in France. Apart from Normandy he would now be in control of Aquitaine, Maine and Anjou; which meant that he possessed more land than anyone in France, not excluding the King.

Louis’s ministers deplored the divorce and its consequences. They implied that they had told him so and he should never have agreed to let Eleonore go. Only a few weeks after the separation and she had changed the face of France, geographically and politically! Henry had a touch of his great-grandfather in him which was recognised by many. He was undoubtedly a chip off the old conquering block. It was as though William the Conqueror was reborn.

If he got control of England, which seemed likely, and was in possession of so large a slice of France, what power would be his? And there could be no doubt that he would know how to exploit it.

Louis discussed the matter at length with his counsellors. Men such as Henry of Normandy had many enemies. There was his brother for one. Geoffrey of Anjou was incensed because his father had left him only three castles. It was true that there had been a proviso in his father’s will that if and when Henry became King of England, Anjou was to be passed over to Geoffrey, but knowing Henry, Geoffrey rather doubted this would come to pass. Henry had always been too fond of his possessions to give anything up. If Geoffrey was ever going to gain possession of Anjou he felt he must do it now before Henry had the might of England behind him to help him hold it.

There was one other who feared Henry and that was Eustace, the son of Stephen. Because his father was the King, Eustace rather naturally believed that on his death he should take the crown. Matilda had found it impossible to wrest that desirable object from Stephen so why should her son become King on Stephen’s death? That Matilda had the first right to the throne mattered not to Eustace. He was determined to fight for it.

As Louis’s ministers pointed out, here were two stalwart allies, both with grievances against Henry and much to gain.

Let there be an alliance between them and surely if they stood together against Henry they would have a fair chance of victory.

Louis called a meeting and plans were discussed. Both Eustace and Geoffrey were exultant at the thought of having their revenge on Henry. They hated him fiercely for Henry, with his careless ways, his rather crude manners and his innate knowledge that he was going to make a mark on the world, aroused their bitter envy.

In the family circle Geoffrey had always been obliged to take second place to his elder brother. It had been clear that Henry was his father’s favourite, and his mother, whose tongue and tempers they all tried to escape, had a devotion for Henry which seemed alien to her fierce headstrong egotistical nature. It seemed as though she had transferred all her hopes and ambitions - and they had been monumental - to her eldest son. Geoffrey had always lived in Henry’s shadow and he hated him for it.

Eustace hated Henry of Normandy with an equal fervour. If Geoffrey was a weak man, Eustace was not. He had fierce passions; he longed for power and often he despised his father for his weakness. Eustace was such that he would have stopped at nothing to reach his goal. He was violent and his desire for power was much greater than any qualities he possessed to attain and hold it.

These were the chief allies whom Louis drew to him. As a further gesture he offered his sister Constance to Eustace as a bride.

‘It is fitting,’ said Louis, ‘that the sister of the King of France should in time be the Queen of England.’

The strongest bonds to hold together an alliance were those of marriage and Louis could not have told the world more clearly that he was supporting Eustace’s claim to the throne of England.

‘There is one other matter,’ his ministers reminded him, ‘you are now free to marry and you should do so without delay. You must marry and produce a son. It is what the people are waiting for.’

Somewhat reluctantly, but understanding the need for him to take this step, Louis was married to Constance, the daughter of Alfonso of Castile.

Both Henry and Eleonore believed their marriage to be an ideal one. They were two of a kind. Sensual in the extreme they had known themselves to be; that was what had first attracted them; but there was more than that. She delighted in his vigour and ambition. He was charmed by her ability to follow his quick mind as he explained his schemes to her.

When he talked of going to England, much as she would hate to lose him she would put no obstacle in the way of his going. Indeed, she was eager for him to go. It was his destiny to become the King of England.

What a woman she was! She could be beautiful and more seductive than any woman he had known; yet her mind was alert; she had grown in political stature because of her need to keep pace with him. The fact that she was some twelve years older than he was meant nothing to them as yet. Her body was perfect and her mind was mature.

Theirs, as they had known it would be, was the perfect union.

Therefore when he talked to her of his plans for going to England, for making an understanding with Stephen, fighting him for the crown if need be, she was with him. The parting would be agonising for her but she knew he must go. They were destined to be King and Queen of England, and if they must suffer to gain the prize then so be it.

She was as completely confident of his final victory as he was himself.

How pleasant to lie together in their bed which had lost none of its charm now that it was no longer illicit and when they were temporarily satiated with the force of their passion to talk of the future.

‘Stephen is a strange man,’ mused Henry. ‘It is difficult for me to think of him as an enemy. My mother declared that she hated him and yet sometimes a strange look comes into her eyes when she speaks of him.’

‘It is natural that she should hate the usurper who took her throne.’

‘It seems he is a man it is difficult to hate. He has shown a kindliness to me which is strange. When I went to Scotland in order to march against him and was deceived as to the support I could count on, he gave me money and the means to return to Normandy. What do you think of such a man?’

‘That he is a fool,’ said Eleonore.

‘Yes, in a measure. But I am not sure. I cannot find it easy to think of him as my enemy.’

‘Oh come, my love, he has taken your mother’s crown. He would set up his son Eustace in your place. Rest assured he is your enemy.’

‘Aye, so it would seem. Men and women have strange passions, Eleonore. I would like to know more of Stephen’s.’

‘Do not concern yourself with his nature but his crown. The crown that is yours.’

”Tis true, and ere long I must go to England to claim it.’

And so they made plans during those idyllic weeks, but they knew that the honeymoon must soon be over and the arduous task of gaining a crown must begin.

They travelled to Falaise where Eleonore met the redoubtable Matilda - Countess of Anjou, daughter of Henry I of England who was still known as the Empress because of her first marriage to the Emperor of Germany.

The two women took each other’s measure.

Matilda was naturally delighted with Henry’s marriage to the greatest heiress in Europe. Moreover she recognised a strong woman.

She decided that she approved of the match.

Eleonore, knowing something of the history of her mother-in-law, could not help thinking that she had mismanaged her life. There she was, still handsome, a woman who had found it difficult to control her passion. She had passed on her temper to her son, Henry. Because of the amity between them Eleonore had so far seen little of that temper; she had heard rumours though that it was formidable.

It should never be aroused against her, she assured herself. And if it were? Well, was Eleonore of Aquitaine of the nature to be alarmed by a man’s tantrums?

Often she wondered why Matilda had been content to give up the fight for her crown. She had fought for it and had come near to gaining it, but her unfortunate nature had been her downfall and in due course although the people of England recognised her prior claim they preferred the mild and charming Stephen to the virago Matilda.

And so Stephen reigned in England and Henry must cross the seas and challenge his right to the crown.

Matilda talked with them. She wished that she was younger so that she could accompany her son to England. Now and then she mentioned the past. The English were a people it was not easy to understand. They had acclaimed her in Canterbury and had been ready to do so in London, but suddenly they had turned against her and just as she and her company were going into the hall to dine, the mob had stormed the palace and she had been forced to flee.

Henry knew what had happened. He told Eleonore when they were alone. Matilda had offended the English so much that they would never accept her.

‘Make sure,’ Matilda confided in Eleonore, ‘that Henry never offends the English - at least not until the crown is safe on his head.’

Eleonore certainly would, although she believed that Henry would be wiser in that respect than his mother had been.

He was eager now to leave for England, he wanted to get that matter settled. If he could bring Stephen to such a pass that he swore his heir should be Henry Plantagenet, he would be content. He was going to try.

Both Matilda, his mother, and Eleonore, his wife, agreed that he should lose no time and he prepared to leave for England.

Before he was ready there was news for him. Forces were mustering against him. Eustace was determined to take Normandy, and Henry’s own brother wanted Anjou.

Henry cursed them loudly, and then he was glad that he had knowledge of his brother’s treachery and Eustace’s designs before he had left for England.

Naturally he could not leave for England. He must remain where he was and deal with Eustace and Geoffrey who came against him with the help and blessing of Eleonore’s one-time husband, the King of France.

Henry never showed his genius for generalship so well as when he was faced with seemingly overwhelming difficulties. He immediately abandoned his plans to go after the English crown in order to consolidate his position in Normandy. Because he was the possessor of much land he had a great deal to protect and hold, but he was full of vigour and by no means disturbed to pit his skill against that of the Queen’s previous husband.

‘Let Louis come against me,’ he declared. ‘I’ll show him and you who is the better man.’

‘I at least do not need to be shown,’ answered Eleonore. ‘You will fight and win. I was never more sure of it. As for that blustering Eustace, you will soon let him know what it means to come against the true heir to England. And your brother Geoffrey is a fool. Look how he tried to trick me and failed.’

The Empress Matilda also declared her faith in him. He need have no fear. With two determined women to look after his interests he would succeed.

They were right, and although several months were spent in fighting off these enemies, Henry defeated his foolish brother Geoffrey, and Eustace returned from the fight dispirited while Louis made overtures for peace.

Yet victorious as he was he did not wish to waste time. The lust for conquest was on him. He knew that now was the time to strike for England.

Like the good general he was he set about reviewing his resources.

He could safely leave his wife and mother to rule in his stead. They were both experienced women. How glad he was that he had not married a silly simpering girl. How foolish were those who shook their heads over a marriage in which the wife was twelve years the senior of her husband. Eleonore had lived longer than he had, and during those years had gleaned much wisdom. It was a great comfort to know that the interests of this amazing woman were his.

His mother’s temper had not improved with the years and she would never be loved, but Eleonore managed to win people to her, proud and often overbearing as she was. None but these two could better look after his affairs in his absence, for one thing they both had in common was their devotion to him.

He could turn his thoughts to England and Stephen, that strange man who was so gentle and yet such a great fighter. He had never understood Stephen. There had been long years of civil war in England - with Stephen on one side and Matilda, Henry’s mother, on the other, and yet when his mother spoke of Stephen a strangely soft look would come into her eyes; and even when he had gone to England to make an attempt to take the crown Stephen had been kind to him.

There was some mystery about Stephen and his mother. So be it. Stephen held the crown and when he died - if not before - that crown must pass to Henry.

If Stephen had not had sons there might have been no war to fight, for it would be better to wait and take the crown peacefully on Stephen’s death than to fight for it now. But there was ambitious Eustace who had dared to try to take Normandy, and another son William who did not by all accounts seem to be much of a fighter.

He must therefore go to England without delay, and as soon as he had gathered together a fleet to carry him there and the men-at-arms to fight for him he would set out.

To his great joy while he was making his preparations he received a message from Robert of Beaumont, the Earl of Leicester, to the effect that if he came to England he, Leicester, would be ready to support him.

This was a triumph, for Robert’s father had served William the Conqueror well and prospered under him, and his son, Henry I, had allowed Robert to be among those favoured young men who were brought up at his court, and in due course he had married a rich wife. The Earl was a cautious man; he did not wish to lose anything that he had gained but he saw clearly that there could be very little prosperity under the rule of Eustace if he ever came to the throne. He had been saddened to see the country torn by civil war while Matilda and Stephen battled for the crown and although he believed that Stephen was the better choice he was looking forward to the time when England was once more ruled by a strong king such as Henry I and his father had been. He had known Robert of Gloucester, Henry I’s illegitimate son, who had supported Matilda and through him had learned of the good qualities of young Henry of Normandy. Leicester believed that the best hope of prosperity for England on Stephen’s death would be the accession to the crown of Henry Plantagenet. He knew that this was a time when he could no longer remain neutral. Stephen was a sick man; he had never recovered from the death of his wife, the gentle Matilda, who had stood firmly beside him through his many vicissitudes and had been a far greater prop to him than even he realised. Stephen had always been subject to mysterious illnesses; he was a lovable man but a weak one; he liked to be on good terms with everyone, and that was no way for a king to be. No, in Robert of Leicester’s opinion England’s hopes lay in Henry Plantagenet, and he wrote to the young man telling him that he was prepared to put his wealth and his experience behind his cause.

‘There is not a more powerful man in England,’ cried Henry, his eyes gleaming. ‘Victory is assured.’

But he was too clever to let that change his preparations which were going to be as thorough as though he were facing the most formidable army in the world.

It was a January day when he sailed for England with his fleet of thirty-six ships and landed at Bristol. There he found men of the West Country ready to rally to his cause.

Sadly Eleonore missed him. He had absorbed her life to such an extent that she asked for no other lover. She threw herself into the task of looking after his affairs and her friendship with her mother-in-law the Empress ripened. The two women admired each other and although their strong temperaments often clashed, for neither would give way in the slightest degree in her opinions to please the other, they never forgot that discord between them would be detrimental to Henry, and for both of them he was the centre of their lives.

Eleonore had her little court about her. Gallant men sang her songs and composed verses of their own. Many of them were addressed to her, and because of her reputation, which would always be with her, many of them were hopeful. But Eleonore was devoted to her Duke. They all knew that, but could such a woman be expected to keep her sensuality smouldering, not allowing it to burst into fire before the return of her lord which might be who knew when?

But Eleonore was so enamoured of her husband that none of those about her pleased her. Moreover he had not been gone for more than a month when she knew for certain that she was pregnant and she began to think exclusively of the child.

Matilda was delighted. ‘You’ll have sons,’ she declared. ‘You are like me. All my children were sons and there were three of them. I might have had twenty sons if I’d had a fancy for my husband, but I never did, though many women found him attractive …’

She looked obliquely at Eleonore who nodded gravely, remembering the charm of him who had earned for himself the name of Geoffrey the Fair.

‘Yes,’ went on Matilda, ‘he had many a mistress. It never bothered me. He was my husband when he was but fifteen. I thought him a foolish boy and I never took to him. I bore a grudge against him because they’d given him to me. First they gave me an old man and then a young boy. It wasn’t fair. You know they might have married me to Stephen.’

‘English history would have been different if they had.’

‘All those wretched civil wars would never have taken place.’ Matilda’s eyes grew dreamy. ‘Yes, if my father had known his only legitimate son was going to be drowned at sea, he would have married me to Stephen. I’m certain of it. I would have been better for him than that meek wife of his and he would have been better for me. He was one of the handsomest men you ever saw. I think the biggest blow in my life was when I heard that he had taken the crown. I’d always believed he would stand by me. Crowns, my daughter, what blood has been shed because of them - and more will most certainly be!’

‘Not Henry’s,’ said Eleonore firmly.

‘Nay, not Henry’s. But what if it should be Stephen’s?’

She was silent for a while. Then she went on: ‘Stephen must know that that wild boy of his cannot inherit the crown. The people would never accept Eustace. And then he has William. That woman’s children. It always infuriated me that she had the same name as mine. If only Stephen could be made to see reason.’

‘Would he call it reason to give up the crown to Henry?’

‘He cannot live long. What if there was a truce? What if they made an agreement? Stephen to rule as long as he lives and then Henry to be the King of England.’

‘Would a man pass over his own son for another?’ ‘If it were justice perhaps.

If it would stop war. If it would give England what she always needs, what she had in the times of my father Henry I and my grandfather William the Conqueror. Those are the strong men England needs and my son, your husband, is one of them.’

‘Stephen would never agree,’ said Eleonore. ‘I cannot believe any man would pass over his own son.’

Matilda narrowed her eyes.

‘You do not know Stephen,’ she said. ‘There is much that is not known of Stephen.’

News came of Henry’s progress. It was good news. All over England people were rallying to his banner. Eustace had made himself unpopular and people were weary of continual civil war. They recalled the good old days under King Henry, whose stern laws had brought order and prosperity to the land. He had not been called the Lion of Justice for nothing. There was something about young Henry Plantagenet that inspired their confidence. He was of the same calibre as his grandfather and great-grandfather.

There was no doubt in Eleonore’s mind that he would succeed. The question was when, and how long would it be before they were united?

She had left Matilda and travelled to Rouen as she wished the birth to take place in that city and there she prepared for her confinement.

She was exultant on that hot August day to learn that she had borne a son. How delighted Henry would be. She immediately despatched messengers to him. The news would cheer him wherever he was.

She decided that his name should be William. He was after all the son of the Duchess of Aquitaine and William was the name so many of the Dukes of that country had borne. Moreover Henry’s renowed great-grandfather, the mighty Conqueror, had been so called.

As she lay with her child in her arms her women marvelled at the manner in which childbirth had softened her. They had not seen her with her daughters. Now and then she thought of them - little Marie and Alix - and wondered whether they ever missed their mother. She had loved them dearly for a while after their birth. There had been occasions when she would have liked to devote herself to them. She thought of the infants in her arms, tightly bound in their swaddling clothes that their limbs might grow straight. The poor little things had offended her fastidiousness. Bound thus how could it be otherwise for they were not allowed to emerge from their cocoons for days on end, disregarding the fact that the poor little things must perform their natural functions.

It should be different with her son. She would watch over him, assure herself that his limbs would grow straight without the swaddling clothes.

She loved him dearly - a living reminder of her passion for Henry - and she knew that the best news she could send him was the birth of a boy. Perhaps she should have called him Henry. Nay, she was implying that she had brought him Aquitaine and until he could offer her the crown of England she was bringing more to the marriage than he was. It was well to remind him that they stood equal.

‘The next son must be Henry,’ she wrote to him. ‘But our firstborn is named after my father and grandfather and the most illustrious member of your family, your great-grandfather whom it is said few men rivalled in his day or ever will after.’

While she was lying-in the most amazing news was brought to her. She wished to rise from her bed and make a great feast not only of roast meats but of song and story to celebrate the event, for nothing could have more clearly showed that God was on the side of the Duke of Normandy.

Stephen and Henry had faced each other at Wallingford and were about to do battle when Stephen decided that instead of fighting he would like to talk to Henry. It had been difficult to persuade Henry to do this for he was certain of victory and believed that the battle might well decide the issue. However, he finally agreed and as the result of their meeting, to the astonishment of all, the battle did not take place.

Eustace, who was burning with the desire to cut off the head of the man he called the upstart Henry and send it to his wife, was so angry at what he thought was the cowardice of his father that he gave way to violent rage. He had never been very stable but even his most intimate followers had never seen his control desert him to such an extent.

He would raise money, he declared, and he would fight the battles which his father was afraid to face. Did Stephen not understand that it was his heritage which Henry was trying to take from him? He, Eustace, was the heir to the throne of England and he was not going to allow his father’s weakness to bestow it on Henry.

In vain did his friends try to restrain him; he reminded them that he was the commander of his armies and marched to Bury St Edmunds, where he rested at the Abbey, and when he had refreshed himself he demanded that the Abbot supply him with money that he might go into battle without his father’s help against Henry of Normandy. The Abbot declared that he had nothing to give him whereupon Eustace demanded to know why the treasures of the Abbey should not be sold to provide him with what he needed.

The Abbot took the opportunity, while he pretended to consider, of locking away the treasure. Then he refused.

Calling curses on the Abbot and his Abbey, Eustace rode away, but not far. He ordered his men to take what they wanted from the countryside and every granary was plundered, every dwelling robbed, but the main object of his pillage was to be the Abbey. His soldiers returned to it and forced the monks to tell them where the treasure was hidden. When they had plundered the place, Eustace led them back to the nearest castle to make merry.

He sat at table to eat of the roasting meats which his servants had prepared, his anger still within him. He was going to make war on Henry of Normandy, he declared; he was going to drive him from the shores of England and very soon they would see him, Eustace; crowned king.

As he stood up to drink to that day, he fell to the floor in agony. He writhed for a moment and then was still, and when they bent over him they saw that he was dead.

This was the news that was brought to Eleonore while she lay awaiting the return of her strength.

She wanted to shout in triumph: This is a glorious day. Eustace is dead. How can Stephen make his son William his heir? William has already declared he has no talent for ruling and no wish to either.

It must be Henry now. God, by striking down Eustace, has shown England who is worthy to be her king.

Henry was sure of his destiny. The news that Eleonore had borne him a son following so soon on that of Eustace’s death seemed to be an omen. He was of a nature to regard anything that was to his benefit as an omen while he disregarded any sign that could be to his detriment. In this he resembled his great-grandfather William the Conqueror. In his heart he knew it was one of the qualities needed to succeed.

But the death of Eustace did seem like an act of God. The people of Suffolk who had suffered from his ill-temper declared that God had struck him down in anger and if they had had any doubts before that Henry Plantagenet should be the next king they no longer had.

Victory was in sight.

He was longing for the day when he could return to Eleonore. He missed her. No other woman would do for him, he had discovered. Not that he had been faithful to her. That was too much to expect. He was too lusty a man for that. Eleonore would understand. While he was with her he would be faithful; but during long campaigns away from her she must allow him a little licence. He fell to musing about women. The best since he had arrived in England had been a woman of some experience, since making love was her living. Her name he believed was Hikenai. She was amusing; there was very little she had not experienced. He laughed to recall her. She had followed the camp and had made herself exclusively his for that time. Strangely enough he had been contented with her as she had been with him. He was a man who needed women, but if he had a good one he did not wish to be promiscuous. One satisfied him providing she was always there when he needed her.

He had watched Hikenai’s figure thicken and noticed the obvious signs of pregnancy. She had been pleased.

‘This one,’ she had said, ‘will be a king’s son.’

‘You go too fast,’ he told her.

‘Come, my lord Duke, you’ll be a king before this little one has known two summers.’

‘It’s a good and loyal statement,’ he told her, and expressed the hope that it would be a boy.

While he had been in England he had seen his other, two boys.

‘By God,’ he had cried, ‘I am a begetter of boys.’

He had wondered whether their mother would still appeal to him. He had been devoted to Avice some few years before when he was in England, and the two boys she had borne him were fine little fellows. He remembered her saying she would call her firstborn Geoffrey after their grandfather, and William after their illustrious ancestor, he who was known as the Conqueror. Yes, he had been deeply enamoured of Avice. How old could he have been when Geoffrey was born? He was only twenty now. Fifteen! Oh, he had been a lusty young fellow even then.

Avice was living at Stamford. It had delighted him to see the boys again. He had spent a night with Avice but the attraction was gone. After Eleonore perhaps, only such a practised harlot as Hikenai could satisfy him.

So he had taken his quick farewell of Avice and promised her that when he was king he would not forget her boys.

And now Stephen and he had called a truce. He would never understand Stephen. He liked his kinsman but Stephen was not of the stuff kings were made. There was something kind, sentimental, too emotional about him. He reminded him of Louis of France who had never been able to get out of his mind that his soldiers had pillaged a town in the church of which men, women and children had been burned to death.

Cruelty was not a kingly, quality but perforce it must be committed now and then, and when this happened it was best done quickly and forgotten.

When he was King of England he would follow the lines laid down first by William the Conqueror and then by his grandfather Henry I for they were ruthless men, but never cruel for the sake of cruelty. Justice came first with them. That was the way to rule.

And now what next? What was Stephen implying?

There came a message for a meeting at Winchester. He would listen eagerly to Stephen’s proposal.

It was clear what Stephen’s intentions were. He was not so much an old man as a sick and tired one. He had lost his wife and his elder son. He was in no mood to continue the fight.

If he were allowed to rule in peace for the rest of his life he would name his successor Henry, Duke of Normandy, who unlike himself was in the direct line of succession. He was sure that the people would accept Henry. He was the son of the daughter of Henry I, himself son of the great Conqueror, whereas Stephen was the son of the Conqueror’s daughter Adela. There could be no one to raise a voice against Henry’s claim.

Henry was wise. He looked intently at Stephen. How long could he live? One year. Two years. Three at most.

Let the war be called off. He was content. He would go back to Normandy but he would first have the King’s assurance that it was his wish that he should follow him to the throne.

It should be done so that there was no doubt that it was Stephen’s wish, and the two travelled to London where a conclave of archbishops, bishops, abbots, earls, justiciars, sheriffs and barons should be called.

And to these people the declaration should be made and set out in a treaty after the signing of which, fealty should be sworn to Henry.

A triumph. He had achieved what he had come for and without much bloodshed. This was the kind of victory all wise rulers hoped for.

Before the gathering Stephen made his declaration:

‘I, the King of England, Stephen, have made Henry, Duke of Normandy, the successor to the kingdom of England after me, and my heir by hereditary right and thus I have given and confirmed to him and his heirs the kingdom of England. The Duke, because of this honour and grant and confirmation made to him by me, has done homage to me and sworn by oath that he will be faithful to me …’

Indeed he would, for he was wise enough to know that if he waited until the death of Stephen, which could not be long, all men would honour him.

This declaration was of the greatest value. How much more important it was for Stephen to have made him his heir than for him to have won the crown in battle. Now all men must accept him.

He wanted now to get back to Eleonore. He wanted to tell her in detail of his triumph.

First though he must go to Oxford to receive the homage of the men who would be his subjects.

Before he left for that town he heard that Hikenai had been brought to bed, and went to see her.

She smiled at him from her bed and held up her child.

‘Our son, my lord,’ she said.

‘Another boy! So I am father of another boy.’

‘I shall call him Geoffrey after your father,’ she told him, ‘so that you will never forget that he is a member of the family.’

‘I am going to be King of England, Hikenai,’ he said. ‘And that day soon. I swear to you that when I am I shall not forget our son Geoffrey.’

‘I’ll keep you to that promise, my lord,’ she answered.

Then he went on to Oxford to receive the homage of those who would in time be his subjects.

Now he was torn between the desire to go back to Normandy to be with Eleonore and see their baby son, and to stay in England and consolidate his position. The important men of England had sworn fealty to him, Stephen had given him his word that he should follow him to the throne, even so, a man should be close at hand to watch his interests.

He could not make up his mind but it was not long before it was made up for him. His enemies in Normandy were attempting to take advantage of his absence. His mother wrote to him that she thought it wise for him to return. It was April when he arrived in Normandy. What joy there was in his reunion with Eleonore. This was a little tempered by a certain anxiety which the baby was arousing. He was not as lusty as they had at first hoped he would be.

There was plenty to occupy him while Eleonore cared for the little boy and it was not long before he had settled the uprisings. He took a troop of soldiers around his entire dominions and made it clear that he expected and would have obedience.

Matilda wanted to know what had happened during the parley with Stephen, and she listened intently while he told her how friendly Stephen had been to him and so anxious for peace was he that he had been ready to pass over his son William for the sake of it.

Matilda nodded. ‘He is an old man, I believe, now.’

‘He carries himself well and has a pleasant countenance,’ answered Henry.

‘He always had,’ said Matilda. ‘He knew how to charm people. I used to mock him for it. When he was young he would go out of his way to please people who could never bring any good to him. I used to say he was practising so that it would seem natural to those who could bring him good.’

‘One could not help but like him,’ said Henry, ‘and he was very eager to be pleasant to me.’

Matilda nodded, and was quite lost in memories of the days when she and Stephen had been more than mere cousins.

They talked of the troubles in the country.

‘There is Geoffrey,’ said Matilda. ‘He will not be content.’

‘I know it, Mother.’

‘He was furious when your father left almost everything to you and nothing but three castles to him. True, your father’s wish was that when you gained England you should give Anjou and Maine to him.’

‘I doubt he would be worthy of them,’ said Henry.

Matilda laughed. ‘You like not to part with any of your possessions. You are like my father. They say my grandfather was the same. You remind me of them, Henry.’

‘There are no two rulers whom it would please me to resemble more.’

With Eleonore there had been a return to their passion. She had missed him sorely she told him. ‘I devoted myself to our child and awaited your return.’

‘I longed for you as you longed for me,’ answered Henry, and thought briefly of Avice of whom he had tired and of Hikenai who had amused him. When they went to England he would have to bring her boy to court. He wondered what Eleonore would say to that. Would she calculate the date of his birth and know that he had been unfaithful during this early stage of their marriage? Oh, but she would understand. Had she been there it would never have happened.

Eleonore was pregnant again. This delighted them both. Little William was so delicate, they both feared that they might lose him. If they could get another son - a healthy one - they could better bear losing their first-born. When Henry thought of his lusty little bastards he asked himself, as many kings had before, why it was that the illegitimate offspring were so healthy and the legitimate ones so frail.

It was fortunate that they were enjoying a period of comparative peace when the messenger arrived from England.

One of Eleonore’s women had seen the approach of a rider from a turret window and hastened to inform her mistress, who looking out saw that the man was riding fast even though his horse seemed exhausted.

‘It is important news,’ she cried. ‘Go and tell the Duke.’

She was in the courtyard when Henry joined her there and they were both waiting when the messenger rode into the courtyard.

‘I come from the Archbishop of Canterbury, my lord,’ he said. ‘He begs the Duke of Normandy ride with all speed to England. King Stephen is dead. Long live King Henry.’

It was fortunate, said Matilda, that she was in the castle.

‘My hopes have been realised,’ she said. ‘And to think it had to come about through Stephen’s death. My son, we must talk at once … the three of us. It is very important that you take the right action now.’

In the private chamber of Henry and Eleonore they sat with the Empress. Henry listened intently to what she had to say. The fact that she had once had the crown within her grasp and lost it made Henry regard her advice with great respect. She was experienced; she knew the English; she had offended them in a manner he must never do. If she could live her life again she would not make the same mistakes. Therefore he must profit from her experience. It was wonderful to have these two people with him. Caught up as he was in the midst of family jealousies yet there were two whom he could trust absolutely … his wife and his mother.

He took their hands and kissed them fervently. He wanted them to know how much he relied on them. They both knew it and loved him the more because of it.

‘There should be no delay,’ said Eleonore. ‘Stephen is dead. There may be some who would want to set up his young son William on the throne.’

‘I thank God Leicester is my man,’ said Henry. ‘And you are right. I am determined to leave for England without delay.’

‘When you go,’ said Matilda, ‘you must take a company with you. It would be folly to go with too small a following.’

‘I have already summoned my leading nobles to assemble at Barfleur preparatory to sailing for England. They are eager to come, seeing rich lands and titles awaiting them. There must be no delay.’

‘No more than can be helped,’ said Matilda. ‘Eleonore must go with you.’

‘I intend to,’ said Eleonore.

‘And you should be crowned, the pair of you, as soon as it can be arranged. A king is not a King of England until he has been crowned. I was the Queen … the true Queen but my enemies in London drove me out. If I had been crowned first … It is all over. But remember it.’

‘I shall see that the coronation takes place immediately.’

‘And your brothers. What of Geoffrey and William? What do you think they will be at while you are in England?’

‘Mischief,’ said Henry grimly.

‘And it will be necessary for you to stay there. You cannot accept the crown and run away. You will have to show the English that England is of more moment to you than Normandy. And meanwhile Geoffrey will remember his father’s will. Was he not to have Anjou and Maine when you had England?’

‘He would lose it to Louis … or someone. You know Geoffrey could never hold anything.’

”Tis true. And you are loath to take your hands off it. You must keep it, my son. And the only way to do this is to take your brothers with you. Make them work for you. Promise them lands … over there. But take them with you so that they cannot brew michief here.’

‘By God, you are right,’ said Henry. ‘I shall send for them and as soon as the wind is favourable we sail.’

‘It is a good thing that he did not wait a month or two before dying,’ said Eleonore lightly. ‘Or I might have been too advanced in my pregnancy to enjoy a sea trip.’

Henry was impatient to go. He hated delays. In a short time all who were to make the journey - including his brothers - were assembled at Barfleur. But if he could command his subjects Henry could not command the winds.

How tiresome was the weather! Stormy day followed stormy day. It was impossible to set sail in such weather.

Four weeks passed and then one day the seas were calm, the weather perfect.

And so Henry set sail for England.

However, the crossing was rough and it was impossible for the convoy to keep together. The ship in which Henry and Eleonore travelled landed near Southampton with a few others, but in a short time, to Henry’s relief, it was discovered that all had landed safely and it would only be a matter of a few hours before everyone was accounted for.

They were not far from Winchester, and as that was the home of the country’s treasure Henry decided to make for that city.

As he approached it, news of his arrival had spread, and the chief nobles of the neighbourhood came forward to greet him and give him their allegiance.

It was a triumphant entry into the city of Winchester. Remembering the oft-told account of his mother’s brief successes Henry realised that he must have the recognition of the people of London, that city which because of its trade and riches had become the chief of England.

He therefore determined to leave for London without delay.

The bleak December weather was not to Eleonore’s liking as she and Henry set out with their retinue for the great city. She had, it was true, grown a little accustomed to it in Paris which she had always felt so cold after her own Languedoc; but this was equally chilly and she reminded herself that it was winter and not the best time to see the place. Of course there were compensations. A crown, a country which was bigger and richer and held more prospects of power and riches than that of France. It ill-behoved her at such a prospect to object to the weather.

News of their arrival had spread over the South of England and people came from their homes to cheer the new King. They promised themselves that gone were the times when people lived in terror of robbers and murderers on the highway because of the weak rule of King Stephen. Their grandparents remembered the days of King Henry I when such stern punishment was meted out that offenders were deterred from their crimes for fear of losing their hands, feet, ears, noses, or even having their eyes put out. That had made life safe for law-abiding people. During Stephen’s reign many wicked barons had built castles with the sole purpose of using them as strongholds from which they might conduct their wicked plans to rob travellers and often take them to their castles to torture for their sport. That was a return of an old evil which those strong kings William the Conqueror and Henry I had put down. With the return of amiable Stephen they had begun to come back. Stephen had hated to punish offenders. If they were brought to him he would say: ‘Let it pass this time. Don’t do it again.’

So in this young man they saw new hope. He was the grandson of just Henry I and in direct line of succession. As long as he did not take after his mother Matilda but after his grandfather Henry they would welcome him wherever he went.

They had heard that he did and that when he was in England he had been admired and respected by those who had met him; everywhere there was great hope that he would bring back to England that law and order which had been instituted by the Conqueror.

He rode with his wife, one of the most beautiful women they had ever seen. A special cheer for her then. And how graciously she responded! They had never seen such grace and poise. She wore a wimple over which was a circlet of sparkling diamonds, rubies and sapphires. Her gown was fastened at the throat by a collar of jewels similar to those in the circlet. The sleeves of this were long and tight to her wrists and over this she wore a cloak which was lined with ermine, long and wide so that the tight sleeves of her gown were visible. The English had never seen such elegance and they applauded it.

Now there would be an end to senseless civil war. They would have a just king and a beautiful queen; there would be royal children, for there was already a son and the Queen was noticeably pregnant. They knew that this Queen had been the Queen of France and had divorced the king of that country to marry their Henry.

They liked her for it. It was always pleasant to score over the French. They had already adopted Henry as an Englishman. Was he not the grandson of their own Henry I, son of the Conqueror, born in England, educated there, and who never failed to proclaim himself an Englishman?

There had been rumours about the life the Queen had led on a holy crusade. It amused them that she had played false the King of France.

So the people of England were very ready to welcome their new King and Queen.

Into London they rode, there to be met by Theobald, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the chief nobles. There was no doubt of the people’s enthusiasm. Henry made himself affable, as did Eleonore. Never for one moment did he forget the disastrous impression his mother had made on the Londoners and how this had cost her the crown.

The Archbishop was of the opinion that the coronation should take place without delay. Henry agreed with him. Until a king was crowned he was not the acknowledged ruler, his mother had warned him time and time again. Here again he had learned from her. She had never achieved the all-important coronation.

With a foresight characteristic of her, long before Stephen’s death Eleonore had sent to Constantinople for the finest material known, so that on the day of her coronation in Westminster Abbey she would be looking her most brilliant best. The materials had arrived before she left Barfleur and she had them with her.

She was therefore ready for whatever date was suggested and as Archbishop Theobald had said ‘No delay’, it was to be the 19th December.

The great day arrived. Eleonore was dressed in robes of silk and brocade of such magnificence as the people of England had never seen before. She was like a goddess. As for Henry, he was never very eager to dress himself up. He was a man of action and he asked that his garments should not impede him but be comfortable. However on his coronation day he made special concessions and because of this he was able to stand beside his elegant and luxurious queen without making too great a contrast. His short hair, his shaven chin and moustachios appealed to the people. His dress was a doublet and short cloak of the kind which was not usual in England although it was a common feature of Angevin fashion. His dalmatica, made of fine brocade, was embroidered in gold. The pair looked startlingly majestic and the spectators were enchanted.

‘Long live the King and his Queen,’ they cried wholeheartedly for they believed that a new era was beginning. There would be a colourful court, such as they loved and they could take a new interest in the lives of their royal family.

Stephen’s queen had been a good woman but the good were never so interesting as the naughty ones. Stephen himself though one of the handsomest men of his times was too mild.

They liked this pair.

The Queen would cease to be known as Eleonore and would become Eleanor in the English fashion, and their King was affectionately nicknamed Courtmantle on account of the shortness of his cloak.

They were accepted.

The weather was bleak; the castle of Westminster was draughty, and the Queen missed the warmth of her southern home, but the glow of satisfaction she knew from this rich acquisition, this land of mystery, the possession and holding of which had been the greatest ambition of the greatest of all Conquerors, made up for any lack of comfort.

King Henry and Queen Eleanor were the rightful rulers of England. With what pride they rode through the streets; with what joy they listened to the loyal shouts of the people. And so to Westminster Palace, there to spend their first Christmas in their new land.