The Summer Queen

14

Poitiers, Summer 1141

Louis returned to Poitiers from his campaign much as he had left it, with banners flying, harness flashing in the sun, and the news that he had made a truce with Alfonso Jordan, Lord of Toulouse, whereby the latter retained the city in exchange for his oath of allegiance to the French Crown. Louis’s attempts to storm the city had failed, as had his efforts to successfully besiege it. The most he had been able to salvage was the oath and the truce. ‘I needed more men,’ he told Alienor in their chamber as a servant knelt to remove his shoes and wash his feet. ‘I had neither sufficient troops nor equipment.’

‘The Count of Champagne must bear much of the blame,’ said Raoul of Vermandois, who was present in his capacity of adviser and senior family member. ‘Twice now he has denied you service. If we had had his contingent with us, we could have taken Toulouse, I am certain of it.’ He took a drink from the cup of wine Petronella handed to him.

Alienor looked from him to Louis. ‘Theobald of Champagne refused your summons?’ He had been one of those expected to join Louis at Toulouse but plainly he had not done so.

Louis curled his lip. ‘He sent a messenger saying he would not come because making war on Toulouse was outside of his obligations to me and he had no quarrel with its Count.’

Alienor dismissed the servant and took over the foot-washing herself, the better to listen with her head bowed, and the fewer ears to hear what was being said. Theobald of Champagne certainly seemed bent on going his own way. He had undermined Louis’s authority while bolstering his own, and since he was wealthy, influential and had royal blood in his veins, he was dangerous. Partly because of him, Toulouse remained untaken. All they had was a truce and an oath that in effect meant nothing.

‘I will not forgive his perfidy,’ Louis growled. ‘When we return to France I shall deal with him.’

‘But you will not forget Toulouse?’

Louis gave her an impatient look. ‘No,’ he said curtly.

His tone was not encouraging and Alienor dropped the subject because there would be a better time and she wanted to persuade Louis to stay in Aquitaine for a little while. She could not bear the thought of returning to Paris just yet. ‘There is still much we can do while we are here, to our better profit concerning the people and the Church,’ she said.

Louis gave a non-committal grunt.

Raoul cleared his throat. ‘I have business to attend to, if you will give me your leave, sire.’

Louis waved his hand in dismissal. Alienor looked meaningfully at Petronella, who raised her eyebrows and, for a lingering moment, acted as if she did not understand, but then curtseyed and left the chamber in Raoul’s wake, taking the serving women with her.

Alienor gently dried Louis’s feet on a soft linen towel. ‘I have been planning a progress during your absence, just in case you did not summon me to a victory feast in Toulouse.’

Louis tensed. ‘You expected me to fail?’

‘My father said it was always wise to have another plan lest the first one did not succeed – like having a change of clothes in case it rains.’ She set the towel aside and sat in his lap.

‘And what exactly have you mapped out?’ He slipped his arm around her waist.

‘I thought we could go first to Saint-Jean-d’Angély and pray at the relics of the Baptist. And then to Niort to hold court. I would also like to give royal status to the church where my mother is buried at Nieuil, and then we could ride to Talmont for some hunting.’ She stroked his face. ‘What do you think?’

He frowned with distaste. ‘Talmont?’

‘We should reinforce our rule there in peace after what happened before.’

‘I suppose you are right,’ he agreed, although he was still frowning, ‘but we should not linger.’

She did not reply for she had learned when to push Louis and when to leave alone. She had his agreement. That was all she needed for now.

Throughout her vast lands Alienor held court with Louis at her side. They received the homage of petitioners and vassals, witnessed and signed charters together, always with the caveat that anything to which Louis put his name was with the ‘assent and petition of Queen Alienor’.

Most poignant for Alienor was visiting the tombs of her mother Aenor and little brother Aigret at Saint-Vincent. Alienor and Petronella laid chaplets of flowers on the simple slabs carved with crosses, and took part in a solemn mass to honour them. The church, as Alienor desired, was granted the status of a royal abbey.

Alienor returned to their graves in the early evening and took a moment to contemplate in solitude. Her ladies stood well back, heads bowed, giving her space to pray. Her memories of her mother had softened and faded with time. She had only been six years old when Aenor died, and all she remembered was a faint lavender scent and her mother’s brown hair, so long that Alienor scarcely had to reach up to touch the thick braids. That and the quiet air of sadness, as if she had fixed that mood upon herself before the world could do it for her. Her brother she recalled even less; she had barely more than the impression of a small boy running round the bower with a toy sword in his hand, yelling and causing mayhem and being encouraged because he was the male heir. Quick with life, burning bright, burning with fever. Dead before he had barely lived. Now they both had a fitting memorial to house their mortal remains, and constant tending for their immortal souls. She had done her duty by them. Amen. She signed her breast and turned to leave.

‘Madam?’

Geoffrey de Rancon had arrived on silent feet and stood between her and her ladies.

Her heart skipped. ‘Is there something wrong?’

‘No, madam, but I saw you come this way while I was checking the guards. If you want me to leave …’

She shook her head and then gestured at the tombs. ‘I barely remember them, yet their loss is always inside me. What would my future have been had they lived?’

His cloak brushed her sleeve. ‘I learned not to think that way after I lost Burgondie and the child in her womb,’ he said. ‘It does no good. All you can do is live each day in their honour.’

Her throat tightened and ached. He had missed the point, perhaps deliberately so. Had her brother not died, she would not have had to marry Louis, and had her mother lived, she might have borne more sons. It made all the difference.

‘Your mother was a gracious lady, may she rest here in peace, and your brother with her. It is fitting that she should have her own place of honour.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I wanted to do this for them.’

This was the closest moment they had shared since his return from the abortive campaign to Toulouse. She saw him on most days, but always in the company of others and connected with his official position. They were careful to avoid being alone together, and their conversation was never over-familiar. That was for the sake of observers, but the underground river still flowed. She did not believe for one moment that he had just happened to see her come this way.

Geoffrey cleared his throat. ‘Madam, I want to ask your permission to return to Taillebourg. My lands need attention and I have not seen my children in three months.’

Alienor felt his words like a cut on her heart. ‘Would you stay if I bid you to?’

‘I will do whatever you wish, madam, but I know what I would consider wisdom.’

‘Wisdom,’ she said with a bitter smile. The dusk was encroaching, filling the abbey with shadows beyond the light. ‘Indeed, without wisdom where would we be? You have my leave.’

‘Madam,’ he said. Under cover of the cloak, he briefly squeezed her hand, and then he was gone, walking briskly towards the door. Her fingers tingling from his grip, Alienor joined her ladies.

The court had been at Talmont for three days and was preparing to ride out on a hunting picnic when news arrived that the life of Alberic, Archbishop of Bourges, had finally guttered out.

‘God rest his soul.’ Alienor crossed herself and looked at Louis. ‘I assume you will put Cadurc forward as his successor.’

‘Of course,’ Louis said. ‘Cadurc has served me diligently and deserves promotion. He is the best man for the task.’

‘And useful to have someone beholden to the Crown,’ she said, and put it from her mind as a routine matter to be dealt with later in council. For now the day was waiting to be enjoyed.

Petronella reclined on a silk cushion in the shade of a sweet-chestnut tree. Dappled sunlight shone through the heavy leaves and branches, weighted with clusters of green spiky cases that in another month would split open upon bright brown nuts to be roasted on the fire, or made into delicious sweetmeats. Petronella loved the chestnut season, and hoped the court would still be in Poitou by then.

The company had been hunting all morning in the forests of Talmont and had paused to eat and socialise at a prearranged spot where servants had set up charcoal cooking fires and put out blankets and cushions in the shade. Everyone was taking their ease, drinking wine that had been cooled in a nearby stream, and eating delicacies: fresh fish caught in the bay beyond the castle walls, spicy tarts, fine cheeses and dates stuffed with almond paste. The hawks, including Alienor’s gyrfalcon La Reina, perched on stands in the shade, resting with heads tucked under their wings.

Musicians played in the background, picking out tunes on lute and harp, singing songs that alternated between rousing military affairs, robust hunting sagas and plangent love songs filled with unrequited longing. One such entertainer, a young troubadour with golden ringlets and dazzling blue eyes, had been casting looks at Petronella, and she had been flirting back at him, playing the thoroughly interested but unattainable high-born lady. It was bold behaviour, but Petronella did not care; she was enjoying herself. Alienor was too wrapped up in her own concerns to give her the attention she craved. The young knights of the household were not immune to her flirting, and the musician’s eyes were deeply appreciative. Perhaps she would sneak him a token later – a small piece of embroidery, or a gold bead from her dress. If she felt particularly bold, she would let Raoul de Vermandois catch her at it, because it would secure his attention too, and that would be exciting. She dozed, lulled by the breeze swishing through the leaves, and the whisper of the troubadour’s fingers over the lute strings.

‘Here is sweetness, for a lady who is sweeter than honey itself,’ a man’s voice whispered, and something syrupy and sticky touched her mouth. Petronella’s eyes flew open and she gave a soft gasp. Raoul was leaning over her and dripping honey on to her lips from a small pot in his hand.

Licking it off, she sat up and swatted at him playfully. ‘Do you always accost sleeping ladies in such a way?’

Raoul chuckled and raised one eyebrow. ‘Usually the ladies I accost are not asleep,’ he replied. ‘But if they are, they very soon wake up.’ He flicked the tip of her nose with his forefinger. ‘I was offering you this while there is still some left. Those greedy gorgers were prepared to devour the lot. Of course, if you would rather not, then all the more for them.’ He indicated the other members of the party, who were finishing off their repast with fruits dipped in honey.

Petronella took the pot from him, scooped up a fingerful and sucked the honey off it. Then she repeated the move but this time popped her finger in his mouth. Raoul made a sound of amusement in his throat, and proceeded to lick away the honey using his tongue with a delicate finesse that sent a shiver down Petronella’s spine and made her forget all about the young knights and the troubadour. No one could see what he was doing, because her finger was concealed inside his mouth.

‘All clean,’ he said, drawing her hand away from his lips.

Petronella looked at him coquettishly. ‘Do you want more?’ she asked.

‘Ah, now that is a leading question.’ He laughed softly. ‘You cannot keep playing with fire and not suffer the consequences, you know that.’ He gave her an assessing look. ‘It does not seem a moment since you were a wide-eyed little girl in Bordeaux, staring very suspiciously at all these strange Frenchmen – especially me.’ He pointed to his eye patch.

‘I am still suspicious of Frenchmen,’ Petronella retorted, ‘and I still think them strange.’

‘Why should you be suspicious of me? Have I not always had your wellbeing at heart?’

‘I do not know, sire. Perhaps you court your own benefit.’

‘Certainly that is true in your case. How could you not be beneficial for me?’ He ran his right forefinger lightly down her cheek. ‘You remind this old warhorse what it is like to be young and alive.’

The troubadour began another song. Petronella shifted position so that she was leaning against Raoul’s shoulder and chest rather than her cushions. ‘You are not old to me,’ she said. ‘The young knights and squires are like children, but you are a man … And I am not a little girl.’

He said nothing, and she twisted her head. ‘I’m not!’

‘Oh indeed,’ he said with rueful amusement. ‘You are a beautiful young woman, and I am as a bee drunk on nectar.’

‘How did you lose your eye?’ She reached up and lightly traced the outline of the leather patch.

He shrugged. ‘It was at a siege. I was struck in the face by a shard of flying stone, and that was that.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Sometimes. I was sick with a fever for a while after, and in great pain, but I coped because what other choice did I have? I was never a man for looking in mirrors. I know the value of fine clothes and appearance, but a battle scar like this is honourable and does not prevent me from doing my work, or taking part at court. And these days I am not a young hothead to charge into the thick of the fray at the first trumpet, so it matters not that I have less vision with which to fight.’

Petronella enjoyed the way he was talking to her as one adult to another, and she liked the feel of his strong body supporting hers. He lit her up inside. He had always been able to make her laugh and banish her cares. At first she had thought of him as a surrogate father, but now she was very aware of him as an attractive and powerful man. He had a wife, but she was far away and of no consequence; indeed, it only added spice to the mix.

She covered one eye with her hand and tried to imagine what he must be seeing. Raoul watched her with a smile, but added with a slight edge: ‘Now imagine that you cannot take your hand away, and that is what you will see forever.’

Petronella was immediately contrite. ‘I am sorry; I was not making little of it.’

‘I know, doucette, but some things in my life you cannot begin to imagine or understand.’

‘I could try if you taught me.’

‘Perhaps.’ He left her to go and mingle with others. Petronella watched him, a sinking feeling in her stomach as she wondered if her remark had caused him to walk away. He did not return to her, but socialised with various groups, speaking a word here, touching a shoulder there, laughing at a jest, making a quip of his own. He was thoroughly at ease and knew exactly how to talk to everyone. His face might be seamed and scarred with decades of experience, but he moved with grace and his body was lean and hard.

A young knight settled at her side, and she deliberately flirted with him while still watching Raoul from the corner of her eye. He glanced her way now and again, looking amused, but continued his rounds and was still not disposed to return to her.

When the court prepared to return to the castle, Petronella went to her mare, but as the groom prepared to boost her into the saddle, she stepped back, frowning. ‘She’s going lame on her front foreleg,’ she said, pointing. ‘I don’t think I ought to ride her.’

The groom ran his hand down the mare’s shoulder and leg. He picked up a hoof and examined the underside. ‘She seems sound enough to me, mistress.’

‘I am telling you, she is lame,’ Petronella said impatiently. ‘Do you argue with me?’

‘No, mistress.’ He clamped his jaw and looked down at his feet.

‘What is it?’ Already mounted, Alienor arrived, La Reina perched on her wrist.

‘Stella’s lame,’ Petronella said. ‘I’ll have to ride pillion with someone.’

Alienor raised her eyebrows. ‘I can see straight through your ruse,’ she said. ‘Even if it is not plain on your face, Aimery de Niort is giving the game away.’ She glanced towards the young knight who was holding his own horse at the ready, his expression expectant and smug.

‘The lady Petronella can share my saddle.’ Raoul shouldered forward. ‘Barbary has a good broad back; he will bear two of us with ease.’

Alienor gave him a grateful look. ‘Thank you.’ That would keep Petronella out of mischief. Crestfallen, de Niort turned away.

Petronella lowered her head but sent Raoul a coy upward glance, her hands clasped behind her back like a naughty child.

Raoul shook his head. ‘I hope Stella makes a swift recovery.’

‘I am sure it is not a serious injury, and I know I will be safe with you, because you’re such a good rider.’

Raoul’s mouth twitched. ‘I’ve had a lot of practice,’ he replied.

A groom held the iron-grey steady while Raoul cupped his hands to make a step for Petronella to launch herself on to Barbary’s wide rump. Raoul then mounted in front of her and shortened the reins. Petronella slipped her arms around his waist, enjoying the feel of his strong muscles under her hands. She imagined how his skin might feel without the barrier of clothes. As close as she was, she wanted to be even closer. To be inside him … and have him inside of her.