Impatiently I left Louis. He would waver constantly. Suger on one side, Bernard on the other. He would never come to a conclusion.

The Plantagenets had left, and life was inexpressibly dreary without Henry.

Not long after their departure there came startling news.

They were riding with their party when, overheated after hours in the saddle, they decided to halt for a rest near the river. They sat for a while watching the cool river flow by. Geoffrey announced his intention to have a dip in the river. It would cool him down, he said. So he and Henry divested themselves of their clothes and went in.

They swam and sported together for a while, then came out and dressed. After that they made their way to the spot where they would encamp for the night. There was a cloudburst and they were drenched to the skin, but it was a warm day and they were not bothered by this, hardy warriors as they were.

I heard in detail what had happened later.

That night Geoffrey developed a fever. He was fearful, remembering Bernard’s prophecy: “You will be dead within the month.” There was still time for that to come true. He called his son to him and spoke to him as a man does on his deathbed. Henry laughed the idea to scorn.

“Do you attach importance to the words of an old man spoken in anger?” he demanded.

It seemed that Geoffrey did, and as the night wore on, Henry began to believe that he might be right. He tried to convince his father that he was frightening himself to death just because a so-called prophet had made a pronouncement. But at length it was necessary to send for a priest, and by the morning Geoffrey was indeed dead.

There was a great deal of talk about Bernard’s spiritual power. People remembered that he had prophesied the death of Louis’s brother. Bernard it seemed could lay a curse on a man and that was what he had done to Geoffrey.

There would be new responsibilities for Henry now, but I had no doubt that he would be able to deal with them.

And then ... Suger died. Louis was desolate. He had loved the old man, and I doubt a king ever had a better servant. He was buried with great ceremony at St. Denis. When I attended the funeral, all I could think of as they laid him to rest was that the great obstacle to my freedom was removed.

There was Bernard now, and although he was my great enemy—and Suger had never been that—I believed he would help to get me what I wanted.

Suger had had a kingdom to hold together; Bernard had a soul to save. I was sure he thought I was descended from the Devil when he considered my grandfather and father; and I really did believe that he wanted to see me separated from Louis.

I went to work on Louis once more. I pointed out the need for divorce, for him to marry a woman who could give him sons, as I clearly could not. Why not start afresh with someone of whom God—and Bernard—could approve?

Bernard arrived in Paris, and Louis discussed the matter with him.

There was a degree of consanguinity, said Bernard, and it might well be that that did not find favor in God’s eyes. Moreover my reputation would no doubt have offended the Almighty. When Bernard came down in favor of the divorce, I knew the battle was won.

Bernard worked his will. Very soon he had the barons believing that the best thing that could happen to France was that its King and Queen should be divorced.

At length it was decided that the case should be heard at the church of Notre Dame de Beaugency under the jurisdiction of the Archbishop of Bordeaux.

I took up residence at the nearby chteau after having given instructions that when a decision was reached it should be brought to me immediately. As soon as I had it and it was favorable—which it must be—I would make my way to my own dominions and there wait for Henry to join me.

There was only one matter which saddened me. I should have to part with my daughters. They must be declared legitimate. I had no fear on that point. Bernard was on excellent terms with the Pope, and they both favored Louis; but of course as Daughters of France they would have to stay with their father, and I should lose them. I did love them, but my life had never been entirely dedicated to them. At that time I was not a woman to live only for my children; and the sexual hold which Henry Plantagenet had on me was greater than anything else. So I should have to reconcile myself to losing my daughters; but I had always known that if there was a divorce that would be an inevitable outcome.

I sat in the tower watching the church for the first sign of a messenger.

At last I saw the two bishops—one of them the Bishop of Langres—accompanied by two gentlemen, coming into the courtyard and I hurried down to meet them. The bishops were getting ready to make a long pronouncement but I said impatiently: “I can wait no longer. Tell me, what was the verdict?”

“May we come inside?” one of them asked.

“No,” I said vehemently. “No more delay.”

Seeing that I was determined the Bishop of Langres said: “My lady, the Court has declared that the marriage is null and void on account of the close relationship between you and the King.”

I was overjoyed as I took them into the chteau.

Louis was near to tears when he said goodbye to me, and so was I when I took my farewell of my children. I promised them we should meet again and I hoped not before too long.

I told Louis he should marry again and this time he would get a son. It was his duty to do so, and it was what Bernard and the people wanted. He would have to do his duty toward them.

He shook his head miserably. The last thing he wanted to do was marry again.

Poor Louis! What a pity they would not allow him to go into a monastery.

But it was all over. There was no need for me to stay. I was free.

Now I could return to Poitiers. First I must send a message to Henry to tell him the news, and that I would wait in my capital city for him to come to me.

And so I set off.

It was springtime, it was Easter, and the weather was perfect. I wondered how my people would receive me. They had always had an affection for me, but they might have heard of the somewhat scandalous life I had led. But what would they expect from my grandfather’s granddaughter? They had not been very pleased about the union with France. Perhaps they would be glad to welcome me back, but should I stay with them? How could I know what my future life would be with the man whom I had chosen to be my new husband? It was gloriously obscure, which was perhaps what made it so attractive.

I was all impatience to reach my destination and I urged my little party to move with speed. We spent the nights at various chteaux where we were given hospitality. Many of our hosts were as yet unaware that I was divorced from the King of France. I doubt whether it would have made any difference if they had known, but I felt it was a good idea not to mention it. They would know in due course. Such news travels fast, as I was to discover.

We were passing through the territory of the Count of Blois when we saw a party of horsemen approaching, led by a very good-looking young man. He leaped from his horse and almost prostrated himself before me.

“This is the greatest good fortune, my lady,” he said. “I heard that you might be passing through my land and I prayed that I might discover you and your friends before you left. My castle of Blois is close by. The afternoon is drawing on. I shall deem it the greatest honor if you will rest under my roof.”

This was charming and I bade him rise. I thanked him for his offer and said we would be delighted to accept it. He was soon riding beside me, and his excited glances were an obvious indication of his admiration. I was accustomed to this of course and not greatly surprised to receive it; but I was no innocent, and it occurred to me that the young man might have some ulterior motive.

“I knew your father,” I said.

Memories came back, for this young man was the son of Thibault who had caused so much trouble at the time of Petronilla’s marriage to Raoul of Vermandois.

We talked a little of the past and he told me he thought I should have more protection. I should have a bodyguard. “Such an illustrious lady,” he said, “should not ride with so few to care for her.”

“I am guarded enough,” I assured him. “I am near my own home, and one feels safe among one’s own people.”

He shook his head. “I am glad I came upon you, for it gives me this chance to be your protector.”

I smiled and replied that I had always believed I was a woman who could look after herself.

“In so many ways, yes, but a strong arm and a loyal heart are good to have beside even the bravest of us.”

By the time we reached the castle I realized that he was aware of the divorce, and I imagined there would be one thought in his avaricious mind: Aquitaine. This was a lesson to be learned. There would be suitors—not so much for me but for Aquitaine. I must not forget that once more I was the richest heiress in France. I had emerged from my marriage with my lands intact. His talk of protection made me pensive. I thought of all the women who had been carried off by certain bold men. Dangerosa had gone willingly, others might not have done so.

What was in the mind of this young man? Would he take me to his castle? Would he attempt to seduce me? That I fully expected, but he was going to be disappointed there. But what if he held me prisoner? What if he forced me? Was that possible? I should be in his castle, surrounded by his minions. He would have an advantage over me, for in his own terrain he would have the means of keeping me captive.