The Summer Queen

13

Paris, Spring 1141

‘Toulouse,’ Alienor said to Louis. ‘My paternal grandmother Philippa was heiress to Toulouse, but was usurped by those with less claim and greater strength. Had my father been alive, he would have fought to restore it to our family.’

It was late at night and she and Louis were sitting in bed drinking wine and talking by the light of a scented oil lamp. The signs were auspicious for making a child. It wasn’t a holy day, or a proscribed day; Alienor did not have her flux. Everyone was anxious for news of success but she knew that such expectation built fear of failure within Louis. He said that fornication was a sin, and that either he or Alienor must be doing something against God’s wishes that was preventing them from being successful in conceiving. She could sense his tension now.

‘My father was born in Toulouse,’ she said. ‘But I have never seen it.’

‘Why speak of this now?’

She set her wine to one side and leaned over him. ‘Because it is business that has already waited too long. I must visit Aquitaine also – that too has been neglected.’

‘Are you not content in Paris?’

Alienor did not give him the reply that came first to mind: that Paris was a cold exile from the warm southern lands of her childhood. Since Adelaide had left, she had been able to extend her chambers, refurbishing to her own taste as she went, and she liked them well enough. Paris with its crowded streets and vibrant intellectual life was always stimulating; but it was not home and did not belong to her. ‘France is the land of my marriage,’ she replied gracefully. ‘Aquitaine is that of my birth and entitlement and it is my duty to show myself in person.’ She painted the tip of her braid back and forth over his lips. ‘Think of riding out at the head of an army to conquer Toulouse. Think of the prestige such an undertaking would confer on you. You would be exerting your authority and righting a wrong.’

Louis felt a frisson of desire as he envisaged leading his troops: the jingle of harness; the smooth motion of a powerful horse under him. He imagined Alienor beside him with La Reina perched on her wrist. He thought of camping out under the stars with meadow scents blowing on the summer wind. He imagined adding Toulouse to his conquests and proving to everyone, not least his wife, what a great king and warrior he was.

She adorned his collar bone and throat with small nipping kisses and followed with the tip of her tongue. ‘Say yes, Louis,’ she whispered, her breath in his ear. ‘Say yes. For me. Do it for me … do it for France.’

He closed his eyes and savoured the erotic charge of her words and the butterfly touch of her mouth. He was achingly hard. With a groan, he rolled her over, pushed apart her legs and thrust forward. ‘Very well,’ he gasped. ‘I will do it. I will show you what France can do!’ He surged strongly within her, fired up by the notion of performing great and virile deeds at the behest of his wife even while he conquered her beneath him.

With the warm southern sun on her face, Alienor felt as if she had returned from exile. Apart from her brief visit to Le Puy, she had not seen Aquitaine in four years, and it was like standing in sweet rain after a long drought. Everything that had been wound up tight inside began unfurling and she felt replenished. She found her laugh again, and her bloom.

In Poitiers, she danced through the chambers of the palace, the skirts of her gown flying out in a circle. ‘Home!’ She grabbed Petronella and hugged her. ‘We’re home!’ And knew if she could have her way in all things, she would live here forever and only visit Paris out of duty.

Her vassals gathered to join Louis for the campaign against Toulouse, among them Geoffrey de Rancon, who brought the men of Taillebourg, Vivant and Gençay to the muster. Alienor’s heart quickened as he knelt before her and Louis. She still experienced that jolt in his presence; time and distance had altered nothing.

He was courteous towards Louis and full of the business of organising the army for the march on Toulouse. Their discussion was cordial and professional – there was even an element of friendship that some of the northern barons regarded with suspicious and hostile eyes.

When he had an opportunity to talk to Alienor, he treated her in the same courteous manner, but there was an underlying tension, as if they stood on the course of a vibrant underground river of which only they were aware.

‘The King has done me the honour of asking me to be his standard-bearer,’ Geoffrey told her with pride.

‘He knows it is good policy to involve my vassals,’ she replied. ‘And it is only fitting that a man of your ability should benefit and flourish.’

‘There are some who do not approve of a southern upstart being in so prominent a position,’ he said wryly, ‘but success always breeds envy. I am glad of the opportunity to serve you and the King.’

That first night in the hall, the company was entertained by the famed noble troubadour, Jaufre Rudel, son of the castellan of Blaye, and after he had sung the obligatory battle songs and ballads, he struck a minor chord on his citole and performed another piece of heartbreaking love and yearning.

Well I believe he is my true Lord,

Through whom I shall see that love

Far away. But for one piece of good

Fortune I have two misfortunes, for

She is so far away. Ah, would that I

Were a pilgrim there, so that my staff

And cloak could be mirrored by her

Beautiful eyes!

Alienor’s throat tightened. She cast a swift look at Geoffrey, and for the briefest instant he met her gaze and the river under their feet surged in spate.

Once she had played chase with him in the gardens here, laughing as she avoided his efforts to catch her. She had gone hunting in his company; they had sung songs and danced together. She had practised the delicious art of flirtation with him, knowing she was safe and he would do nothing to harm her. He had been the joy of her childhood and the object of her longing as her body became a woman’s. It was all in the past, but the attraction and the memories remained. She longed to use them to build a bridge across the chasm, but for both their sakes she could not. She would not flirt with him ever again, because it would have true meaning when all other flirtations were frippery.

Fired up and eager to take Toulouse, Louis left Poitiers the next morning with his own French contingent and those of Alienor’s vassals who had come to the muster. Others who had been summoned had been ordered to meet him en route. Wearing the coronet of Aquitaine on her brow, Alienor embraced him and, when he had mounted his horse, handed up his shield. ‘God be with you,’ she said. From the corner of her eye, she was aware of Geoffrey carrying Louis’s fleur-de-lis banner, and flying beside it the eagle of Aquitaine. He was looking straight ahead, his jaw set. ‘With all of you,’ she added.

‘I will return to you with the gift of Toulouse, should it please God,’ Louis replied.

Alienor stepped back and mounted her father’s great chair, which had been brought out from the hall and placed on a raised platform covered by a silk canopy. Taking a leather gauntlet from her falconer, she settled La Reina on her right wrist. In her left hand she held a jewelled rod surmounted with the image of a dove. Presiding in state as Duchess of Aquitaine, she watched the cavalcade ride out, brave and bold and glittering. Louis was in his element and Alienor thought he had never looked more handsome and assured than he did now. Her heart swelled with pride both for him and for the man who bowed to her from the saddle before leading out the banners.