Before he’d begun to yearn for the peace of the cloister, before those poor souls had died in the flames of a Vitry church, before the miscarriage and daughters instead of sons, before his hair shirt and her disgrace, before the crusade and Antioch and Raymond’s needless death, before Abbot Bernard. For a poignant moment, she could see that long-lost youth reflected in the depths of translucent blue eyes. And then the memory faded and she was looking at a man decent and ineffectual and despairing, a man she could pity but not respect and never love.
“I promise you,” he said earnestly, “that I will not speak ill of you to our daughters.”
She knew better. His intentions were good; they always were. But he would never be able to forgive her for Henry Fitz Empress, no more than she’d been able to forgive him for her uncle Raymond.
“I ought to have brought them,” he said, striving to be fair. “You can see them whenever you come to Paris, that I promise you, too. I would ask, though, that…you not come for a while, Eleanor.”
“No,” she agreed, “not for a while.” Knowing that she’d never be welcome in Paris. She had to believe she’d see her daughters again, for she would never give up what was hers. But as Louis leaned over and kissed her circumspectly on the cheek, she realized-as he did not-that it was not likely they’d ever meet again. A door was slamming shut, and there’d be no going back.
There was nothing more to be said. Louis seemed to grasp that, too, for he stepped aside and wished her “Godspeed,” which struck her as an odd epitaph for a marriage. “I wish you well, Louis,” she said, and discovered that she meant it. “I wish you happiness, a wife with no ‘misguided sense of levity,’ and the son you so crave.” And that, too, she meant-almost.
Raoul and Petronilla followed Eleanor from the hall, out into the bailey, where her armed escort waited. Uncomfortably aware of Abbot Bernard’s disapproving gaze, Louis did not. Instead, he retreated from the hall with what dignity he could. Once he’d reached the privacy of his bedchamber, he unlatched the shutters, leaned out in time to see Eleanor riding across the bailey, out of the castle and out of his life. He watched from the window, mourning what they’d lost and what they’d never had. He kept vigil until she’d disappeared into the distance, until even the dust had settled again onto the grooved, pitted road. But she’d never looked back.
AN early spring had begun to repair the damage done by winter. The trees were budding and the wild daffodils known as Lent lilies were gilding the river meadows with splashes of gold; the Loire shimmered like liquid silver, reflecting the sky and clouds and the soaring spirits of the Aquitanians. Most of the men in Eleanor’s escort detail were Southerners, never happy in the less hospitable domains of the French king. They were a different breed, these sons and daughters of Aquitaine, for theirs was a warmer, more indolent clime, a land of rich harvests and fertile vineyards and lush emerald valleys. They understood that life was short and unpredictable and therefore it behooved a prudent man to taste as many of its pleasures as he could. If their exuberant joie de vivre conflicted with the Church’s stringent teachings about the mortification of the flesh, that never seemed to trouble them much. They were glad to be escaping the rigors of northern winters, even gladder to be leaving behind the French king’s austere, staid court. The jokes flew by faster than the miles as they galloped south, so delighted were they to be bringing their beautiful duchess home.
Not all of the members of Eleanor’s household were born and bred in Aquitaine. One of her ladies-in-waiting came from a wilder region, the fog-drifted seacoast of Brittany. Yolande had been with Eleanor only a few months; it had been her misfortune to join the French queen’s retinue just as Eleanor’s queenship was breathing its last. But if she minded trading Paris for Poitiers, she showed no sign of it. Riding alongside the Lady Colette, Eleanor’s longtime attendant, she kept up a running commentary of cheerful observations and ingenuous questions.
They would be back at Poitiers for Easter, would they not? Was it true that the famed troubadour and poet Bernard de Ventadour would be joining the duchess’s court? Did Colette think the duchess was in true danger from would-be suitors? Would they still be stopping for the night at Blois? Why had the duchess been so loath to accept the invitation they’d gotten from its young count? He’d sounded quite charming, judging from his letter. And very highborn, for was he not the English king’s brother?
Yolande was almost as much in awe of the black-eyed, elegant Colette as she was of the duchess herself. Colette’s moods were as changeable as the weather; she could go from sun to frost and back to sun fast enough to set Yolande’s head to spinning. Today, though, the forecast seemed favorable. Colette listened to Yolande’s chatter with good-humored indulgence, answering her queries and making wry asides of her own.
They’d soon be back in Poitiers, she assured the Breton teenager, within four days if all went well. She’d not be at all surprised if Bernard de Ventadour sought the duchess’s patronage; poets and troubadours would be flocking to Aquitaine like migrating swallows in the spring. Indeed, there was a very real danger now that the duchess was free to wed again; why did Yolande think they had so large an escort?
One of Eleanor’s household knights dropped back beside them, presenting Colette with a fragrant sprig he’d just plucked from a flowering blackthorn bush. She thanked him with a coquettish flutter of her lashes, a hinted smile, but after he’d spurred his stallion on, she dropped the blossoms down into the dust, and the softhearted Yolande winced, hoping the knight hadn’t seen.
As if they’d not been interrupted, Colette resumed the conversation. Yes, she confirmed, they’d still be passing the night at Blois, but in St Lomer’s Abbey, not the castle. Count Theobald had been too importunate for the duchess’s liking. Lady Eleanor thought he’d seemed much too eager for her to accept his hospitality. As for his charm, that was no recommendation. Speaking from her own experience, she’d learned that most charming men were about as trustworthy as Barbary pirates. And no, Count Theobald was the English king’s nephew, not his brother. Yolande had confused the son with the father, Count Theobald of Champagne and Blois, King Stephen’s elder brother, who’d died in January. The eldest son, Henry, had inherited Champagne, and the second son, Theobald, got Blois. Surely Yolande had not forgotten about the plight troth?
Yolande blushed, for while she did have difficulty keeping track of the various barons and lords and peers of the realm, she ought never to have gotten so muddled about Theobald of Blois. It was less than two months since Theobald’s brother, Henry, the new Count of Champagne, had pledged to wed the little Princess Marie. The plight troth had provoked a sharp quarrel between the French king and Eleanor, for she had not been consulted, and was angry that she’d been given no say in a decision that would shape the entire course of her daughter’s life.
Yolande’s elder sisters had been married off in that same summary way; her father had conferred with neither her mother nor the prospective brides beforehand. Nor was it likely that she’d be consulted, in her turn. But that was the way of the only world she knew, and it had not occurred to Yolande to object.
It had occurred to Eleanor, although the French king and his counselors had gone ahead with the plight troth, nonetheless, and six-year-old Marie was now the Count of Champagne’s betrothed. How soon she would become his wife would depend upon her father and husband-to-be, for in that, too, her mother would not be consulted.
Just as Yolande knew Eleanor would not be heeded when the time came to choose another husband for her. The man would have to meet the French king’s approval, and mayhap the Abbot Bernard’s, too, to be judged as a loyal vassal, one worthy enough to be entrusted with Aquitaine. As to what Eleanor might want, that would not matter much in the councils of power. Yolande had been bedazzled from the first by her glamorous, audacious mistress, and she thought it would break her heart to see her lady snared and earthbound for the rest of her days, wings clipped so she could no longer fly.
Nudging her mare closer to Colette’s sleek white mule, she said diffidently, “Colette…what does the future hold for our lady?”
“You need not fret on her behalf, child. This I can tell you for true, that the duchess could teach a cat about landing on its feet.” Colette was frowning into the distance. The sun had set and they were losing the light; they’d soon have to bring out the lanterns. “Look,” she said, “something is afoot.”
Yolande peered into the gathering dusk, and saw that Colette was right. As a horseman emerged from a grove of trees beside the road, her pulse sped up. Colette was urging her mule forward and she followed hastily. But by now it was evident that the rider was alone and some of her alarm eased. Whatever this was about, at least it was not an ambush.
Eleanor had reined in her mare. Protectively flanked by Saldebreuil de Sanzay and Geoffrey de Rancon, she watched with wary curiosity as the stranger was led forward. He was young, not much more than twenty, dark as a Spaniard, with bold, admiring eyes and courtly manners that did not jibe with the plain homespun of his garb. His cap was off with a sweep, and the movement gave her a brief glimpse of a sword hilt as his mantle parted. “Madame,” he said, “I’ve been watching for your approach.”
Eleanor beckoned him closer. “Why?”
He did not mince words. “To warn you away from Blois,” he said bluntly.
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “Count Theobald?”
