sacrament of marriage had been undermined and the House of Blois insulted.”
“And what happened?” Henry asked.
“Raoul was ordered by the Pope to return to his wife. You should have seen Petronilla—she was beside herself with grief. But Raoul stood by her, and refused to leave her. For that, they were both excommunicated. Louis sprang to Raoul’s defense and went to war against Thibaut. He had many good reasons to, believe me. It was during that war that the massacre of Vitry took place.”
“I know about that,” Henry said.
“All Christendom does,” Eleanor sighed. “It was just awful. Louis was blamed, but he never meant for it to happen. When the townsfolk barred their gates against him, he had his men launch flaming arrows at the castle, which was made of wood. It caught fire, and the defenders perished, so Louis’s men were able to force an entry into the town. That was all planned. But the soldiers went berserk; their captains could not control them. They laid about them with swords and torches, and soon all the buildings were ablaze. In the streets, it was a bloodbath. Those people who managed to escape took refuge in the cathedral, thinking they would be safe there, poor fools.”
“Don’t tell me the saintly Louis ordered the cathedral to be fired,” Henry interrupted.
“No, he was some way off, watching in horror from a hill outside the town. It was the wind—it blew the flames toward the cathedral, and they engulfed it at terrifying speed. Fifteen hundred people died that day, women, children, the old, and the sick. It was terrible.” She turned haunted eyes to Henry.
“You saw it?” he asked, his face grim.
“No, I was in Paris, but I had to deal with Louis on his return. He was stricken. He had seen it all; he’d heard the screams of those poor trapped people, and smelled their burning flesh.” She winced. “He’d watched helplessly as the roof caved in and those wretched souls perished. He felt it was his fault, although he never intended for such a dreadful thing to happen.” She remembered him ashen-faced and shaking, unable to speak, lying sick and mute in his bed for two days. “After that, he was never the same. He was weighed down by guilt. He even cut off his long fair hair, which I had always liked, and took to wearing a monk’s robes.”
“I suppose sex was out of the question,” Henry said wryly, in an attempt to lighten the mood. Eleanor smiled at him.
“It was usually out of the question!”
“So did Louis ever forgive himself?”
“I think it was more a case of accepting that God had forgiven him,” Eleanor recalled, “and that only happened during the crusade, when we visited Jerusalem and he received absolution at the tomb of Our Savior.”
“And what of Petronilla?” Henry wanted to know.
“Well, after more fighting and arguing, Abbot Bernard brought about a peace between Louis and Thibaut, and eventually Petronilla’s marriage to Raoul was confirmed by the Pope. That was a relief! But her happiness lasted no more than ten years. When Louis and I divorced, Raoul decided that he no longer wanted to be married to the sister of the King’s ex-wife; there was no advantage in it for him. More to the point, he had fallen for another woman, much to Petronilla’s grief. Despite her tears and protests, he divorced her, and took custody of their three young children. Losing them has been dreadful for her. Her little boy suffers from a nasty skin disease, poor child, and she worries fearfully about him. Petronilla’s lot has not been a happy one.”
But Petronilla, when she arrived, looking like a paler, plumper replica of her sister, was cheerful at the prospect of being reunited with Eleanor, and excited to be going to England for the coronation. Putting on a brave face to mask the ever-present sorrow she felt at being parted from her children, she made much of young William, who gurgled with delight whenever his aunt approached. Petronilla threw herself with vigor into the preparations for the coming voyage, and she and Eleanor spent many a happy hour reminiscing on their childhood and making plans for the future. Before long, though, it dawned on Eleanor that Petronilla’s cheerfulness was largely the result of her increasing dependence on the fruit of the vine. But her sister had had such a difficult life, with her happiness cruelly snatched from her along with her little ones, that she could not bring herself to remonstrate with her.
In Petronilla’s wake, again at Henry’s behest, had come Eleanor’s two bastard half brothers, William and Joscelin, whom he had appointed to join her household knights. Eleanor thanked Henry appreciatively for his thoughtfulness and warmly embraced the two eager young men who so much resembled her.
At last the great retinues were gathered, and Henry and Eleanor formally bade farewell to the Empress Matilda and set off on the road to Barfleur, where their ships were waiting to transport them to England.
13
Normandy and England, 1154
“This should make a good impression on my new subjects!” Henry declared, waving an expansive hand at the long procession of magnates and bishops, each with their retinues and baggage carts, that trailed into the distance behind them. Inwardly, Eleanor thought that the English might see the King’s great train as a pack of scavengers come to bleed their country dry, but she was confident that Henry’s reputation was such that his followers would heed the honorable lead he intended to give them, and deal honestly with his new subjects.
She smiled up at him from her litter; she was too far advanced in pregnancy to ride beside him, and not relishing being jolted along the rutted tracks that passed for roads, but was making light of her discomfort and trying to relax on the piled cushions beneath her, pulling her fur-lined cloak closer about her to protect herself from the freezing wind. She would not complain, she had resolved, because she knew Henry wanted to get to England as quickly as possible, and she just wanted the long journey to be over.
It was when they were making an overnight stop in Caen that Henry espied Bernard de Ventadour skulking among the varlets of his household.
“What’s
“Sire?” he almost squeaked.
“I thought I told you not to leave England without my permission!” Henry said fiercely.
“I—I know, sire, but your whole retinue was returning with you, and your knights needed entertaining …”
“Blast my knights!” Henry roared. “You disobeyed me, you scum.” The troubadour quailed.
“Now hear this,” Henry went on, “and never disobey me again, or you will rue it painfully. You are to leave here now, without delay.”
“But sire, where shall I go?” asked Bernard.
“Anywhere but here!”
“But I cannot go back to Ventadour …”
“No, that you cannot, and my good lady has told me why.” Henry had the satisfaction of seeing the young man wince. “You’ll have to find somewhere else.”
Tears filled Bernard’s eyes. “This is a great grief to me, sire,” he wept. “I know not what to do or where to go.”
“Take my advice and go as far away as possible. You might try your talents with the Count of Toulouse.”
“Sire, may I speak frankly?” Bernard was frantic.
Henry folded his arms and looked at him. “I’m waiting,” he said brusquely.
“There is a lady, sire—”
“By God there is!” Henry erupted.
“Nay, sire, not Madame the Duchess—another lady.” Bernard hung his head.
“Hah!” Henry pointed at him. “Another lady! You don’t waste much time.” And he doubled up with laughter.
“Sire, I love her, and could never leave her …”
Henry stopped laughing.
