“It seems,” I said, “that it is all arranged.”

He nodded. “We will make preparations to leave for Bordeaux without delay. I am eager to begin my pilgrimage and return to you.”

So we left for Bordeaux.

None would have believed that the man at the head of the little group of pilgrims was Duke William of Aquitaine. Dressed in sackcloth, a pilgrim’s hat on his head, he resembled the humblest of his subjects. I thought that he must indeed be a worried man to contemplate such hardships as he would have to face.

But that was the object of the pilgrimage; it was a penance: if it were a pleasant journey, there would be no merit in it.

Petronilla and I stood in the Courtyard to say our farewells. There was a chill wind, and although we were wrapped in our fur-lined cloaks we shivered.

He embraced us with great emotion. “I shall pray to God and all the saints to guard you,” he said.

“And we shall pray to them for you, Father,” I replied. “You will need their help more than we shall.”

“I shall be returned to you ... refreshed.”

But, I could not help thinking ruefully, as a prospective bridegroom.

“We shall eagerly await your return,” I told him.

We watched him leave and afterward Petronilla and I went to the highest point of the ramparts and strained our eyes looking into the distance until we could see him no more.

“I wonder how long it will be before he returns,” said Petronilla.

“I wonder what sort of man he will be when he comes back,” I replied.

She looked at me expectantly but I ignored her. I did not want to explain my thoughts to Petronilla.

“Now,” she said, “you are the ruler of Aquitaine.”

“Yes,” I answered slowly.

“You must be pleased about that. It is what you always wanted.”

I laughed and taking her by the shoulders kissed her.

“Yes,” I agreed, “it is what I always wanted. And it is mine ... for a while. Come. We’ll make the most of it.”

“What shall we do?”

“You’ll see. The Court at Ombrire will be as it was in our grandfather’s day. Do you remember how we used to sit in the hall in the evenings watching the jugglers and listening to the singers? You were too young. But our grandfather used to take me on his knee and sing to me.”

“Tell me about it,” said Petronilla, for she could remember little.

So I told her of the songs they sang glorifying love and telling of the exploits of our grandfather and his knights.

“I remember some of it,” I said, “but I did not understand it all at the time. They were a little risqu. Men were very daring in those days and they have changed little. They will sing songs of love and devotion and how they adore you and set you on a pedestal so that they can worship you, and all the time it is merely to lull your feelings into a sense of security, and when you are sufficiently lulled they will take advantage of you. And once that has happened they will tire of you.”

“Is that really true? Our grandfather did not tire of Dangerosa.”

“That was because she was clever. We have to be clever ... more clever than they are, Petronilla. That is what I learned in the Courts of Love.”

And during those months while we awaited my father’s return I set up my own Court. In the evenings I would have the minstrels play for us; there were the story-tellers and the itinerant troubadours who were constantly arriving. It was becoming more and more like the Court of my grandfather’s day.

I was the Queen of it all. It was in praise of me that they wrote their songs. They would sit at my feet, those handsome knights, and in their songs and in their looks they would proclaim their love for me.

I believe there were some who thought I would succumb. It was not that I should not have liked, on occasion, to do so. I was susceptible to their handsome looks and charming manners. I would pretend to waver. It was exciting to see the hope in their eyes. But I never gave way. I had learned my lessons. Whatever happened, I must be aloof. I must be the one they dreamed about, the one about whom they wove their fancies.

The Archbishop was dismayed. This was not seemly in his eyes. There was too much levity. There should be more time spent in devotions. I pretended to be contrite, but I did not change my ways. This was my Court and because my power might be transient, I was determined to enjoy it while I could.

I feared that, if my father came back a rejuvenated man with his sins washed away, he would marry, and if he had a son, that would be the end of my hopes. I threw myself into the enjoyment of those days when I was in truth Queen of my Court, the ruler of Aquitaine, and the days passed all too quickly.

There was no news.

Sometimes I went to the topmost tower and looked around. One day I must see the returning party. Surely he must come home soon, and this pleasant existence at Court must end.

Petronilla would stand beside me. “He must soon come back,” she said. “He has been gone so long.”

“It is a long way to go.”

“Then when he comes back he will take a wife, our stepmother, Eleanor. I think we shall hate her. She will have children, and if they are boys they will be more important than we are.”

“She may be barren.”

“I hope she is. No one but you should be ruler of Aquitaine.”

“If I marry the son of the King of France I shall have to go away.”

“I shall come with you.” I was silent and she went on: “Please say I may. I should hate to be parted from you. I wouldn’t. I should run away to where you were.”

I smiled, pleased by her devotion. “You are always impulsive, Petronilla,” I said. “You are a little like our father. You act without thinking what effect your actions will have.”

“Some say that of you.”

“Then we are a pair.”

“Promise I shall come with you when you marry and go away.”

“I promise.”

As we stood there one day, we saw a lonely figure riding along the road.

“He brings news,” I said. “Let us go down and see what he has to tell us. It may be that he comes from our father.”

We were not the only ones who had noticed the arrival and when we went down a little crowd had gathered there.

A groom took the rider’s horse. He was clearly exhausted and must have ridden a long way. He came to me and kneeling before me lifted woeful eyes to my face.

“I bring sad news, my lady.”

“You come from my father?”

“The Duke is dead, my lady.”

“Dead! No, that cannot be.”

“Alas, it is so, my lady. There were many hardships on the journey. The Duke developed a cough. It settled on his lungs. His legs became stiff. There were nights when there was no shelter. We could not travel fast.”

“He should never have gone,” I said. “He should have stayed with us. There are other ways of expiating sins.”

“He became too ill to ride, my lady. We had to make a litter for him. It impeded our progress. It became clear to us all that he could not make the journey to Compostela.”

“Why did you not bring him back?”

“He would never have made that journey either; and he wished to go on.”

“And he did not reach the shrine.”

“He passed away when we were within a mile or so of it. We could see it in the distance. But he died contented. He knew that, although God had denied him the satisfaction of reaching the shrine, his sins would be forgiven and he would be received into Heaven. He talked of Moses, who did not reach the Promised Land. He wished to be buried at the shrine, my lady; and this was done.”

I felt dazed. I said: “You are exhausted. You must rest. You should take some food. Come into the palace.”

This was a possibility which had not occurred to me. I had thought my father might return debilitated, for I knew his health was not such that he could endure hardship, but I had not thought of death. Never to see him again. Then one thought overwhelmed all others: Aquitaine was mine. No one could replace me now.

The Court was still in mourning for its Duke. Attitudes had changed. I had been admired by the courtiers as a beautiful girl; now I was their Duchess. They regarded me with a new respect.

I missed my father. When people have gone forever, one remembers so much that one wished one had done. I wished that I had let him know how much I had cared for him, that I had known, even when he planned to displace me, that his great concern had been for me. He did not want me to have to face difficulties such as those which had confronted him and given him great anxiety. I could have told him that I was different from him. I believed I would not have made the mistakes that he did. This was not so much conceit as conviction. I know now how wrong I was when I look back over a lifetime of mistakes; perhaps as great as any he made. But I wanted him back; I wanted to talk to him; I comforted myself with the thought that God had accepted his final sacrifice and given him absolution in return for his life, that he would be in Heaven and from there perhaps be able to look down on me and know that his fears for me were groundless.

I learned more from the messenger, of the hardships they had endured, and how when he became so ill he had sent a messenger to the King of France offering him my hand in marriage with the King’s eldest living son. He had received assurances from Louis before he died, and I was told that because of this he died content.

That Louis intended to keep his promise was evident. Almost immediately emissaries from the Court of France arrived at Bordeaux.

The King’s son, Louis, was on his way to visit Aquitaine, and I knew that he was coming to ask my hand in marriage. It was a courtly gesture—and typical of the French—for it was a foregone conclusion that I should accept him, since the marriage had been a possibility for some time. There was no fear now that any son of my father could claim Aquitaine from me. I was the best match in France for him; and as he would one day be King of France, he was the best for me.