Stephen was affable and pleasant of manner but, it turned out, a weak king. Not that Matilda would have been much better. She was a formidable woman, strong-minded, very arrogant and over-bearing—characteristics which made her unpopular while the easy-going Stephen, ineffectual as he was, won the people’s affection.

Strife had continued on and off in England over the years. At one time Matilda was in the ascendant, at another Stephen.

It was at this time, while I was wondering how I could obtain release from my intolerable marriage, and just as I was beginning to think that Louis might agree that it was best for us both, that trouble with Geoffrey of Anjou arose.

It was always a matter for concern when one of France’s vassals began to gain too much power. The people of England might reject Matilda for their monarch, and Matilda had a promising son. He had joined his mother’s forces in England and had already shown himself to be a good soldier. If this boy was ever King of England—and he could be and, incidentally, Duke of Normandy as well—he would be far too powerful for Louis’s comfort. Stephen was the younger brother of Louis’s one-time enemy Thibault of Champagne but those old grievances had been forgotten now. Petronilla and Raoul were no longer at Court. The ban of excommunication had never been lifted, but as it did not seem to worry them, no one thought of it now. They had three children, a son and two daughters, and were quite resigned to the quiet life. Poor Raoul was very ill and not expected to live. I saw very little of them now. The affair had made a rift between us.

Louis was growing more and more worried about Geoffrey of Anjou. The man with his aggressive son seemed to have little respect for anyone; and Matilda, though she despised her husband, doted on her eldest son—she had two others—for it was on young Henry that she pinned her hopes. If she could not have the throne of England for herself, she was determined that it should be bestowed on her son.

Trouble was brewing and matters came to a head when Geoffrey of Anjou captured a castle on the borders of Poitou and Anjou which belonged to Gerald Berlai, whose duty it was to guard the frontier. Not only did Geoffrey take the castle but he made Gerald and his family his prisoners, treating them with some severity.

It was sufficient provocation for Louis to take up arms. He was ranging himself beside the Count of Champagne, who naturally supported his brother Stephen and wished to see Stephen’s son, Eustace, inherit the crown after his father. And that was something which Geoffrey of Anjou and his son Henry were determined should not happen.

I was surprised that Louis allowed himself to be drawn into war. Suger was against it, and although Suger was getting old, he still influenced Louis more than anyone. But Louis could not, even now, forget Vitry. The planting of cedars, the building of a new church on the site of the old ... none of these things could expunge that terrible memory from his mind. He still thought of it. The crusade which had been meant to lay the ghost to rest forever had not entirely done so—probably because it had been such an outstanding failure.

I talked to him about the proposed campaign. The situation between us was growing more and more embarrassing. He knew I desperately wanted that divorce and was ready to face anything to get it. He was wavering, but the subject was unpleasant to him. But I did discuss this conflict with him.

I asked him why he, who so hated war, was now ready to undertake it again.

“It is my duty,” he said, with that stubborn look which I knew so well. “The Plantagenet has ill-treated Berlai. I cannot allow that. Moreover, these Angevins have to be taught a lesson. They are the Devil’s breed. That is a well-known fact. The Devil came to them in the shape of a beautiful woman who bore them sons and who would never go into church until she was forced to. Then, when confronted with the Host, she turned back into the spirit she had always been—and was never seen again.”

“Louis, you don’t believe such a tale!”

“I believe it,” he said.

I would have laughed him to scorn but I remembered what had happened when my father had been confronted by Bernard carrying the Host.

“Vitry belonged to Thibault of Champagne,” he said. “I want to help him now.”

“Will you never forget Vitry?”

“Sometimes I fear not.”

“So you are going to war. Is this a further penance?” Louis was silent.

“Suger thinks it unwise,” I went on. “He says you are fighting King Stephen’s battles for him.”

“Suger does not understand.”

What a fool he was! How I longed to be rid of him.

He had another grievance. Young Henry Plantagenet had not, as his vassal, sworn fealty to him for Normandy. It was almost as though he were saying: I owe no fealty to France. I am the heir to the throne of England.

Such arrogance, Louis had decided, must be curbed.

Thus it was that he found himself marching to the borders of Normandy.

Louis’s war-like efforts were almost certain to come to nothing. He had not even made camp when he was overcome by a fever, and it was necessary for him to return to Paris. He did not come alone. He brought his army with him. I thought the fever might have been brought on by his extreme distaste for the action he was about to take. But he was certainly ill when he returned and the doctors said he must rest in bed.

Suger was quite pleased. He visited the palace and told Louis that this was God’s way of preventing a war which should never have been contemplated. What had he hoped to do? Wrest Normandy from Matilda’s son? He would never have done it. The English would never have allowed it, and even though that country was busy with its own problems the thought of losing Normandy would have aroused them to action.

Suger said he would ask Bernard to come and they would summon Geoffrey of Anjou and his son to Paris, where a truce could be arranged.

Louis was quite pleased about this. It was a great relief to him when his doctors said he must keep to his bed. So the conference had to be conducted by Suger and Bernard.

Bernard arrived. His antipathy to me was obvious. He would know about my desire for a divorce. I had a sneaking feeling that it would not displease him. He was different from Suger. For all Bernard’s saintliness he lacked Suger’s single-minded devotion to France. Suger thought a divorce would not serve the country well. For one thing France would lose Aquitaine. Suger believed that, if Louis and I would continue together, God would relent in time and give us a son.

Bernard felt differently. Bernard was a man of the Church. I wondered if scandal concerning myself and Raymond had reached his ears. If it had, he would feel I was unworthy to bear the heir of France. He would, I was sure, like the King to have a more amenable wife. Bernard believed I had put a spell on Louis and that spells came from the Devil. Bernard might well help me in achieving my ends. As the days passed, my desire for release from this intolerable marriage grew greater.

Geoffrey of Anjou arrived in Paris with his son. I was mildly interested to see these two about whom there had been so much talk.

Geoffrey I had seen before and I remembered him vaguely. The son I had never seen. He was very young—seventeen, I had heard. I wondered what it was about him that made him so often the object of people’s attention.

I was told that they had brought Gerald Berlai with them—in chains.

“It is a most ignoble way of treating a noble lord,” said one of my ladies.

“They want us to know that he is their prisoner,” said another.

“What has he done ... but defend his castle?”

“They say he sent forays into their land and made a nuisance of himself. They would tolerate it no more and have taken his castle and made him their prisoner.”

I had been feeling so bored and listless that I was quite looking forward to the confrontation.

I was seated beside Louis who had left his bed briefly to be present. He looked pale and wan. There was no doubt that he had been genuinely ill, but I was sure the illness had been brought on through his hatred of war. In any case, it had stopped that, so doubtless it was a blessing in disguise ... certainly to those men who would have been killed in a foolish cause.

It was an amazing scene. The man in chains before them and, on either side of him, his captors. Geoffrey of Anjou stood there, legs apart, defiant. He was still a very attractive man, though he was reaching for forty. But it was the son who caught my attention. So this was Henry Plantagenet ... the young man who was astonishing everyone with his military gifts. He was by no means handsome—quite the reverse, in fact—but one was aware of an intense vitality. He was not tall—stocky rather; he had reddish hair and a very high color; he looked excessively healthy. He did not seem to be able to stand still; he looked as though he found that irksome; his legs were slightly bowed as though he had lived most of his life in the saddle. I noticed his hands were red and chapped.

I could not stop looking at him. It was his overwhelming vitality which attracted me. There was an air of restlessness about him, as though he was straining his patience to the limits in order to stand there.

Now he was aware of me. He stared at me somewhat audaciously. I returned his gaze and for some moments he appeared to be assessing me. Insolent! I thought—and, oddly enough, I liked his insolence. I saw admiration in his eyes. They were warm, almost suggestive. I felt a pleasant excitement. I had heard he was a lusty young fellow and had, at the age of seventeen, already fathered two bastards.