The Summer Queen

15

Talmont, Summer 1141

Alienor felt the familiar cramp low down in her belly, and the sudden hot trickle of blood between her thighs told her that yet again she had failed to conceive. She called Floreta to fetch the soft cloths she used for those times of the month, and pretended not to see the pity in the woman’s eyes.

She would have to tell Louis that yet again there was not going to be a child. But then his visits to her bed were so haphazard and dependent on whether or not it was a permitted time that the odds of her conceiving were poor. How could there be a baby if there was no seed to make one?

The cramps were painful, but Alienor was not one to linger in bed and instead took some sewing over to the window, where the best light would fall on the fabric. As she picked up her needle, Louis burst into the room. His face was flushed and his eyes glittering with tears of fury. ‘They have denied me,’ he snarled. ‘How dare they!’

‘Who has denied you?’ Alienor put her sewing down and looked at him in alarm.

‘The monks of the cathedral chapter of Bourges.’ He shook the letter clenched in his fist. ‘They have rejected Cadurc and elected their own archbishop. Some upstart called Pierre de la Châtre. How dare they meddle with the will and right of an anointed king – God’s chosen! Is this the gratitude I receive for being a loyal son of the Church?’ His breath sawed in and out of his lungs.

Alienor drew him to the embrasure and, making him sit, poured him a cup of wine. ‘Calm yourself,’ she said. ‘Their candidate is not yet consecrated.’

‘And neither shall he be!’ Louis snatched the wine and drank. ‘I will not have these vile ruffians contradicting me. There is no precedent for what they are doing. The right is mine. No matter what happens, I swear by Saint Denis that they shall not prevail.’

‘I knew this would happen,’ she said, and then tightened her lips. Done was done. She had told him to visit Bourges and make his intentions clear, but he had chosen to believe that his authority would be obeyed from a distance.

‘I shall write to the Pope telling him to forbid the election, and I shall deny de la Châtre entry into Bourges.’

‘Pope Innocent supports free elections of prelates,’ she said. ‘He may choose to uphold their candidate.’

‘I do not care what he does. I am not having this monk I do not know for my archbishop. I shall uphold my right to choose my own clergy in my own kingdom to the last breath in my body!’ Louis screwed the parchment into a ball and hurled it across the room.

‘You should write to the Pope in conciliatory terms,’ she warned.

‘I shall write to him as I see fit. I am not the one causing strife here.’ He jerked to his feet.

‘I have my flux,’ she said, choosing to deal with the bad news all at one blow.

‘Why is everything so difficult?’ He exhaled a sound filled with massive frustration. ‘What have I ever done wrong that everyone and everything conspires against me? I try to live my life as an exemplar and this is my reward: a disobedient clergy and a barren wife!’ He flung from the room, kicking over a stool on his way out.

Alienor leaned her aching head against the cool stone of the embrasure wall. The situation at Bourges need never have arisen had Louis cultivated the monks there as she had advised. Now there would be conflict and awkwardness, and Louis would stamp around in a temper, poisoning the atmosphere for everyone. Though supposedly a grown man and an anointed king, he was so childish and naive that she despaired of him.

It was late. Petronella was tipsy having drunk too much wine at the dinner feast. Next week the court was returning to Poitiers and then to Paris and the idyll was almost over. She had danced in her thin kidskin shoes until her feet were sore. Raoul claimed not to like dancing, but even so he was graceful on his feet and had been swift to step in and cut off the young bloods vying for her favours. She had laughed at the jesters until her sides ached, had joined in the songs, clapping her hands and raising her voice in harmony. Now all that was finished and people were retiring for the night, Alienor to her chamber and Louis to his prayers.

Raoul sat at the dais table with her amid the crumbs and the candles burning low. He poured more wine into his cup and just a splash into hers. Around them the servants were tidying away the trestles, stacking them against the side of the hall, but conspicuously leaving the high table alone.

‘So,’ said Raoul, ‘what shall we toast, you and I?’

‘I do not know, sire,’ she said with a flirtatious smile. ‘You are more experienced at raising toasts than I am.’

‘Then to fine wine and the beautiful women of Aquitaine.’ He raised his cup.

She frowned at him. ‘Beautiful women?’

‘To just one woman,’ he amended. ‘To the Queen’s most perfect sister.’

‘Say my name,’ she said.

‘Petronella.’

The timbre of his voice made her shiver. She raised her own cup. ‘To fine wine and strong men,’ she said. ‘And to the King’s most imperfect cousin.’ She swallowed with a long ripple of her throat.

‘Say my name,’ he responded.

‘I have said it time and again at night with only my pillow to hear.’ She ran her index finger around the rim of her cup. ‘But if your head were on my pillow, you could hear for yourself.’

He lowered his voice and glanced around at the servants. ‘That would be a very hazardous thing to do.’

She sent him a look filled with challenge. She desired this man and she would have him, just as her grandmother, the aptly named Dangereuse, had had her grandfather. The risk only added spice. They would be together under everyone’s nose, and no one would be the wiser, not even her sister, who thought she knew everything. ‘Yes, it would,’ she said. ‘It is very late and you should escort me to my chamber.’

A deliberate look passed between them, and Petronella’s loins liquefied. She was on fire with excitement and apprehension. A tiny part of her could not believe she was doing this. Another part wondered if Raoul would follow her lead, or draw back. If they crossed the line, they could not go back. When she stood up, her legs almost gave way.

Raoul moved to catch her. To the servants, it looked as if the King’s constable was assisting the Queen’s sister, who had been injudicious with the wine, and no one thought any more of it.

Instead of taking Petronella to her chamber, Raoul drew her to the gardens. Petronella leaned against him, bumping her hip against his and giggling. The night breeze was like warm, feathered fingers scented with roses and the salt tang of the ocean. Petronella thought she could hear the roar of the waves, or perhaps it was just the surge of blood in her veins. Above them the full moon was a swollen silver disc in a sky of luminous dark blue.

Raoul took her to an arbour seat half concealed by roses and columbine and drew her into his lap. Petronella curled her arms around his neck and angled her head, inviting Raoul to kiss her. He lowered his lips to hers, parted them, and showed her what to do.

Desire wound through her blood like strong wine. She pressed herself against him, giving herself up to the delicious sensations he was creating with his mouth and fingers. But then he stopped. His hand was under her skirts, against the soft skin of her bare thigh, where he had been lightly stroking her in a way she could hardly bear. ‘Go on,’ she gasped, pushing her hips forward, rocking on him. ‘Go on!’

‘If I do,’ he said, ‘you know there is no turning back. We are bound to whatever fate deals us from this.’

Petronella felt swollen with lust, but hollow too, desperate for his love and attention – for his hard male body. That was all that mattered. She would deal with the consequences later. ‘No one need know if we are careful!’ she gasped.

Raoul knew all about being careful. He had had decades of practice during the various affairs he had conducted. He had a slight conscience about Petronella, but it wasn’t enough to subjugate his lust or his drive as a sexual predator. She was beautiful, desirable, wild, but innocent and full of a hunger he well recognised, because it was a part of himself.

He lifted her to straddle him. ‘Gently,’ he said. ‘Go gently, my heart. A little, and then a little more.’

Petronella closed her eyes and bit her lip. There was pain, but it was bearable, and there was pleasure, which wasn’t because it was so exquisite that it was like pain. She knew Louis and Alienor would never experience anything like this. This was hers alone, and that made it all the more wonderful. It was very wrong, but how could it be wrong when it felt so right? And then she didn’t think at all and let the moment carry her, each of them inside the other as she had imagined. As she shuddered in her crisis, she bit the collar of his tunic to prevent herself from crying out. Raoul gripped her, gave three more strong thrusts and lifted her up on the next surge to spill himself outside her body.

As she collapsed on him, Raoul threw back his head, gasping. His heart slammed against his ribcage. He hadn’t felt this raw excitement since he was a green youth with his first woman.

Petronella giggled breathlessly. ‘I want to do it again,’ she said with shining eyes.

He looked dubious, but chuckled. ‘Not tonight, doucette. People will be wondering where we are. A stroll for some fresh air should not take until dawn, and we are probably already at the limit. Besides, I need time to recover even if you do not.’

‘But tomorrow …?’ She leaned forward and kissed him, proving how fast a learner she was.

He cupped his hand at the back of her head, and returned the kiss with slow thoroughness. ‘We’ll see what can be arranged.’

He had a napkin with him from the feast, and he used it to wipe away the evidence of their lovemaking from her thighs and between her legs.

‘Give it to me,’ Petronella said. ‘I will put it on the fire.’

He handed it to her and assisted her to her feet. She shook out her gown before turning to kiss him again, loving the feel of his stubble against her tender skin and the firmness of his hands at her waist.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘Time to be a demure young lady in the eyes of the court.’

Petronella gave a mock yawn. ‘The fresh air has done me good; I think I shall sleep well tonight, very well indeed.’

Raoul saw her as far as the stairs to her chamber door. Having glanced round to make sure no one was looking, he kissed her again and, with a final salute, melted away into the night.

Petronella sighed softly and, still marvelling, entered her chamber. Floreta was waiting for her in a state of high anxiety. ‘Where have you been?’ she cried. ‘I have been beside myself!’

Petronella twirled round in the centre of the room. ‘I went for a walk. There’s a lovely moon.’

‘Alone?’ Floreta looked horrified.

‘Don’t fuss,’ Petronella said. ‘This is Talmont. Everyone knows me. I’m not a prisoner.’

‘What’s that in your hand?’ Floreta pointed to the napkin, her eyes full of suspicion.

‘Nothing,’ Petronella said swiftly. ‘I felt sick and didn’t want to spoil my gown.’ She made a gesture of dismissal. ‘My head is spinning. Go to your bed and leave me to mine. I can see to myself.’

Floreta hesitated, but eventually gave in, curtseyed and left the chamber. Petronella cast the towel on to the foot of the bed. The fire wasn’t lit so she couldn’t burn the evidence tonight. Besides, in a strange way she did not want to, because it was proof of her wedding night and the same as any bridal sheet. Raoul might be married, but that didn’t matter. She would have him whatever it took. He was hers now.

Removing her gown and shoes, she climbed into bed and blew out the lamp; then she lay awake, reliving what had just happened and savouring the memory. Before she fell asleep, she retrieved the towel from the foot of the bed and tucked it under her pillow.

Having been to mass and broken her fast, Alienor went to talk to Petronella about the imminent return to Poitiers. As usual, her sister was still abed, although awake and sitting up; her hair was a tangled nest and her eyes were still hazy with sleep. Floreta had only just arrived with a bowl of warm water for morning ablutions, together with bread and a jug of buttermilk.

Alienor shook her head with exasperation. ‘You are like a night-blooming flower,’ she said. ‘All wilted in the morning, and not perking up until dusk approaches.’

Petronella gave her a strange, sly look. There was a hint of a smile on her lips. ‘My petals open when others’ close,’ she agreed, and stretched. A faint aroma filled the air between them that Alienor knew, but could not place. Petronella left the bed to wash her face and hands.

Alienor’s gaze lit upon what looked like a towel poking out from beneath Petronella’s pillow. It wouldn’t have caught her attention, except that it was bloodstained. Her stomach lurched with shock. ‘What’s this?’ she demanded.

Petronella turned round and lunged for the towel but Alienor snatched it away.

‘It’s nothing,’ Petronella said, her complexion scarlet. ‘I had a nosebleed last night, that’s all.’

Alienor opened up the cloth, and noticed there were other stains too, and the cloth itself was slightly damp. She raised it to her nose, and the smell of a man’s spilled seed was unmistakable. She turned to the wide-eyed Floreta. ‘Leave us,’ she commanded, ‘and not a word to anyone.’

Floreta draped Petronella’s clothes over the foot of the bed, and left the room with a worried look over her shoulder. Alienor waited until she heard the latch click, and then fixed her sister with a furious stare. ‘What do you think you are doing, you fool? This could ruin us both. Who is it? Tell me!’

Petronella folded her arms under her breasts. ‘No one,’ she said.

‘Do not lie to me! Tell me who it is!’

Petronella lifted her chin and stared back at Alienor, her brown eyes made almost golden by the pink flush on her skin. ‘I will tell you nothing, because there is nothing to tell.’ Turning her back, she tore a piece off the loaf Floreta had brought and popped it in her mouth.

Goaded by rage and hurt, Alienor seized Petronella’s arm and spun her round so they were face to face. ‘You silly child, I am trying to protect you! Do you know what danger you are courting?’

‘You are only trying to protect yourself. You know nothing! You don’t care about me!’ Petronella shook her off, her chest heaving.

‘I care about you more than you will ever realise. Someone has taken advantage of you. I will find out, and when I do, it will go hard for him.’

Petronella did not answer. She broke off another piece of bread and ate it, her stare filled with insolent challenge.

Feeling sick at heart, Alienor turned to the door, the cloth in her hand, but immediately stopped. She dared not make a fuss outside this chamber because it would bring Petronella into total disrepute with the court, and with her sister’s shame would come her own. She had been so careful with Geoffrey de Rancon, had avoided and abjured what could so easily have become a burning scandal, but now Petronella, by this foolish, giddy act, had endangered them both. She hurled the cloth at her. ‘Dispose of this foul thing,’ she spat. ‘You have disgraced and betrayed me, and our household. Think on that if you have any conscience outside your own selfish desire for pleasure and dalliance.’ Her voice developed a ragged tremble. ‘I trusted you … You do not know what you have done.’

Still Petronella did not speak. Alienor left the room and pulled the door closed with a hard hand on the latch. Floreta stood outside, wringing her hands and looking agitated.

‘What do you know of this matter?’ Alienor demanded. ‘Answer me!’

Floreta shook her head. ‘Nothing, madam, I swear! I prepared my lady’s chamber as usual. When she was late, I began to worry, but then she arrived with that towel in her hand and said she had it because she felt unwell and feared she might vomit. She told me she had gone to take some air.’

More than air, Alienor thought grimly. ‘She arrived alone? There was no one with her?’

‘No, madam.’

Alienor fixed Floreta with a hard stare. ‘Say nothing to anyone. If this gets out, there will be terrible repercussions, and they will fall on everyone.’

‘You have my word, madam, on my soul.’ Floreta crossed herself.

‘I will find out who is responsible for this. Make sure Petronella keeps to her room today. I do not want to see her out among the court. If anyone asks, she is sick. Report to me if she says anything you think I need to hear.’

Floreta returned to the chamber, and Alienor went to pray, not only to ask God for His help, but to ponder what to do. She wondered if she could escape this morass without telling Louis, because if he found out, it would trigger one of his rages. She gripped her prayer beads, feeling an enormous sense of guilt. She ought to have watched Petronella more closely. Her sister had always been needy and vulnerable, and had plainly sought in the wrong places for the attention she craved. Alienor had strong suspicions as to the culprit. Aimery de Niort had been making his intentions known for some time. But he was a mere hearth knight and totally unsuitable as a marriage partner for Petronella.

Dear God, what if there was a child from this? That was less easy to disguise than lost virginity. If Petronella was with child, she would have to enter a convent, at least for the duration of the pregnancy. It was of no consequence if a man sired bastards, but for a woman of their status it was a disgrace that reflected on her entire family. Their grandmother Dangereuse de Châtellerault had lived in open adultery with her lover, Alienor’s grandfather, but it had caused a huge scandal that she and Petronella carried like a stigma. As the granddaughters of a lecher and a whore they always had to be better than good, knowing that people were constantly watching for the evidence of their tainted blood to show.

She bowed her head against her clasped palms, feeling as if everything had shattered into little pieces around her; but if she was very clever, surely she could fashion the shards back into the delicate shell they had once been? No one but her need ever see the cracks.

Alienor regarded with disgust the shocked young man who had just been flung at her feet by two of her trusted knights. Seized when he returned from exercising his horse, Aimery de Niort was still clad in his riding gear, with spurs on his heels and a cloak at his shoulder clasped by a jewelled brooch.

‘Stay on your knees,’ she commanded. ‘You will not rise from them in my presence.’

‘Madam, what have I done to offend you?’ The young knight’s eyes were full of bewilderment.

‘You well know,’ Alienor replied, noting with anger how handsome he was. ‘Did you think I would not find out what you had done?’

‘Madam, I have done nothing!’ He shook his head. ‘I know not of what you speak.’

‘Do you not?’ Alienor considered having him flogged. She took the fear in his expression as guilt. ‘Then shall I mention my sister to you, the lady Petronella?’

He reddened and she saw him swallow.

‘I see you understand,’ she said. ‘I could have you whipped and strung up for what you have done.’

‘Madam, I have done nothing.’ His voice strained and cracked. ‘I but asked the lady Petronella for a keepsake. Whatever it is you accuse me of, I am innocent.’

‘I have heard such protestations before,’ she said icily.

‘If you wish, I shall swear my innocence on the bones of my ancestors. Whatever you have heard it is a lie!’

His expression was so dazed and disbelieving that for a moment Alienor’s conviction wavered. Perhaps he was a good liar too. The main thing was to be rid of him. ‘You are dismissed from my service. Take your horse and your life and go.’ She flicked her fingers and the knights manhandled him from the room, still protesting his innocence.

Alienor closed her eyes. If she thought about matters too hard she would weep.

Raoul de Vermandois put his head round the door. ‘You sent for me, madam?’

She beckoned him to enter. ‘Yes, I did. I want to ask your advice, and a favour of you.’

He looked at her warily, his shoulders tense. ‘Whatever it is, I shall be glad to help.’

She gestured him to the bench at her side. Although she had summoned him, she was not sure if she could tell him. ‘It’s about Petronella,’ she said.

Raoul’s face was expressionless. ‘Madam?’

Alienor bit her lip. ‘My sister looks upon you as she once looked upon our father,’ she said. ‘She likes you and you are kind to her.’

Raoul cleared his throat and folded his arms, but said nothing.

‘I am worried about her. She has been dallying with the squires and young knights – you must know because you have intervened at times. She does not think of the consequences – or if she does, she does not care. She must be reined in, but not so harshly that people talk. I would like you to keep watch on her as we journey back to Paris, and on any young suitors who step out of line.’

Raoul looked away. ‘I am not worthy of your trust,’ he muttered.

‘She will listen to you when she will certainly not listen to me or to Louis.’

‘Madam, I …’

She laid her hand on his sleeve. ‘I know she is difficult, but please, as a favour to me.’

He rumpled his thick silver hair and let out a resigned sigh. ‘As you wish, madam.’

‘Thank you.’ Alienor sighed with relief. ‘I do not want Louis to know about this. It would be to no good purpose – you know what he is like. I value your discretion in this matter, my lord.’

Raoul inclined his head. ‘He shall not find out from me, I promise you.’

As he bowed from the room, Alienor breathed the tension away and closed her eyes. She fervently hoped she had contained the situation.

Her next move was to have Petronella brought to her chamber where she could be watched. ‘We need to pack for the return to Poitiers and Paris,’ she said. ‘There is much to do. Aimery de Niort has left court and will not be returning. We shall not speak of the other matter again – understood?’

Petronella gave her a startled look; then without a word she went to sit in the window embrasure.

Alienor followed her. ‘Petra …’ She wanted to take her in her arms and at the same time she wanted to slap her. ‘I wish you would talk to me. We used to be so close.’

‘I wasn’t the one who went away,’ Petronella said. ‘All you care about is what people will think. You’re not bothered about me, you’re just afraid of the scandal and your position and what Louis will say.’

‘That is not true!’

‘Yes it is! I’m just the annoying little sister who gets in the way. You said you would look after me, but you haven’t.’ Petronella rounded on her, eyes flashing. ‘All you want to do is be the Queen. I don’t matter.’

‘You’re wrong. You’re so very wrong. Of course you matter to me.’ A wave of guilt washed over Alienor because she recognised both the truth in Petronella’s words and the injustice of them too.

‘No I don’t!’ Petronella jumped to her feet and pushed past Alienor. ‘And I don’t care, because you don’t matter to me any more! You don’t keep your word. I hate you!’ The last words rose to a shriek. Petronella stamped over to a baggage chest and began flinging the contents around. The chamber ladies lowered their eyes and went about their duties as if nothing was wrong.

Alienor swallowed nausea. Petronella was exactly like their grandmother Dangereuse, who had been so volatile that as children they had never known from one moment to the next how she was going to react. All ordinary emotion was intensified to passion and Petronella seemed to be developing the same worrying traits as she became a woman. She would just have to keep her occupied and try to diffuse some of that raw intensity before it did any more damage. But she loved her, and the rejection was pain.

For the next several days Alienor was on tenterhooks, but as the danger faded that Petronella’s indiscretion might become a larger scandal, she started to relax. The court was preoccupied with packing for long days on the road and Louis was too busy praying and fulminating over the matter of the Archbishop of Bourges to pay attention to other undercurrents.

Alienor was relieved that Petronella seemed to have taken the warning to heart. Having gone to church and been shriven, she had since been behaving in a subdued and demure fashion. However, she was still refusing to speak to Alienor, and the quarrel lay between the sisters like an open wound that had been bandaged but was still bleeding.

Raoul was as good as his word, and was attentive to Petronella in a formal, courteous way when she emerged from the bower to socialise. He partnered her in the dances, sat with her to eat, and rode at her side as the court made use of the final days to go hunting with the hawks and dogs.

Raoul’s polite reserve upset and angered Petronella. He bowed and smiled at her with the blandness of a courtier and pretended not to notice the way she looked at him. She could not bear to think that the one occasion in the garden had been all it was – another little conquest – and that the tawdry gossip about his affairs with women where he used them and moved on was all true. She set out to bait him in an effort to make him respond and to warn him that she would not be ignored. On passing him in a corridor with other people around them, she brushed against him intimately and flashed him a bold glance. She was successful: he responded with a look composed of desire and reprimand. He was not as indifferent as he pretended. Later, she sat beside him for the main meal of the day, and under cover of the tablecloth, curled her foot around his.

Raoul withdrew rapidly as if she had burned him and gave her a slight shake of his head, which she chose to ignore.

The servants brought food from the kitchens and began setting out the dishes at the high table, including tender venison and marinated fruits on skewers with piquant dipping sauces. There was a golden cameline sauce made with cinnamon, a purple one of blackberries, and another that was warm with the taste of ginger.

Raoul served Petronella with two skewers, one of meat, one of fruits.

‘They look like a row of courtiers,’ she giggled. ‘Here’s Thierry de Galeran, and next to him the fat one is William de Montferrat. And this one looks just like Louis. See, it’s the same colour as his gown. Shall I eat him up? Hold the skewer for me.’

Raoul held the length of whittled ash as Petronella closed her teeth around a chunk of golden marinated pear and pulled it off, her action sensual, almost provocative. She chewed and swallowed. ‘Wouldn’t it be good if we could be rid of all our enemies like that?’ she said.

‘I hope you do not mean that the King is your enemy?’

Petronella shrugged. ‘I meant all enemies in general. Come, I will hold yours for you now. Who are you going to eat? That one looks a bit like Theobald of Champagne, no?’

Raoul shook his head but he was chuckling. ‘You are a very naughty girl.’

Petronella gave him a measured look, smoky and dark. ‘No more naughty than you are,’ she said, and licked her lips.

‘Hush.’ He glanced round. ‘This is neither the time nor the place for such behaviour.’ He wanted to grab her and silence her, but his fear was all knotted up in desire, and he imagined that silencing as a hard kiss, her body drawn tightly against his. He glanced round to see if anyone had noticed their whispered discussion and saw one of Louis’s chaplains observing them with neutrality that might at any moment become censure.

‘Then tell me what is the time and place,’ she retorted, breathing swiftly. ‘You keep me company, but you ignore me, and I am left to wonder.’

‘Doucette, you do not know what you do.’

She tilted her head. ‘The other day you seemed to think I did know what I did.’

Raoul swallowed, feeling increasingly at a loss. ‘If you do not behave yourself, we shall be discovered here and now. Do you really want to face the consequences of that?’ He grimaced at her. ‘We have to find a way to manage this. Now, let me help you to a piece of this fine salmon, my lady.’ He reached to a silver dish in front of them, his courtier’s mask fixed firmly in place.

‘Perhaps, my lord de Vermandois, you are discovering you have bitten off more than you can chew,’ she said with a narrow smile.

He slowly shook his head, and knew that she was his nemesis.

‘Aimery de Niort,’ Louis said to Alienor.

Alienor ceased putting away her rings in her jewel coffer, and her heart leaped with fear. ‘What of him?’

‘His older brother has asked me for redress. He says you dismissed Aimery without cause and treated him dishonourably when he had never done a dishonour to you. Are you going to tell me what this is about?’

Alienor fiddled with a ring set with small red stones like pomegranate seeds. ‘He was showing too much interest in Petronella and I had to intervene.’

Louis arched his brows. ‘Dismissing him sounds like more than just intervention.’

‘It was necessary, trust me.’

He gave her a brooding look. ‘Petronella must have encouraged him.’

‘I have taken her to task and rebuked her for the folly of indiscretion, but even so it takes a spark to light kindling. I have dealt with the matter and there will be no more of it.’

Louis made an irritated sound. ‘It is past time she had a husband,’ he said. ‘I will look into it the moment we return to Paris.’

‘She is my heir until we have a child, and it is my prerogative to find her a suitable consort,’ Alienor replied to the point. ‘But you are right. She should be wed as soon as a fitting one can be found.’