‘I would never allow any woman to dominate me, Father.’

‘That is what you may think, but there is a danger. I hated Matilda and she despised me. I was a child. Fifteen and married to a virago of twenty-five who had already been the wife of the Emperor of Germany. Imagine it. My life … our life together was a hell.’

‘My mother is a very difficult woman.’

‘She lost England by her temper. Think of it, Henry. Had she acted differently you would not have had to fight for England. It would have been yours.’

‘Never fear. It shall be mine.’

‘I doubt it not. But your mother has led us a fine dance. Her father grew to understand her. But he was determined that you should inherit the throne. He used to call you Henry the Second of England.’

‘That is what I shall become.’

‘It must be so.’

‘Doubt it not. No man shall put his will in the way of mine. No one.’ And he thought: That means you, too, Father. For I shall be King of England and Eleonore shall be my Queen.

‘Beware of priests, Henry. They will seek to govern you. You stand for the State, and the State and Church are struggling for supremacy now as they ever did.’

‘I know it well and will have no masters. None,’ declared Henry.

‘I say goodbye now, my son. Bernard’s prophecy is coming true. A pig killed the son of the King of France and a dip in a river killed the son of Fulk of Anjou; and both prophesied by Bernard.’

‘Heed not such prophecies, Father. You invite death by believing them.’

‘Nay, my son. Death is in this room. Can you not sense his presence? Farewell. You will rule wisely. Marry well and soon, and get fine sons. A man needs sons.’

Geoffrey Plantagenet lay still and by the morning he was dead.

Bernard’s prophecy had come true. Riding to his mother, Henry thought of what this would mean to him. He was master of great possessions and one obstacle to his marriage had been removed by death. He was only eighteen years of age. He could be patient a little longer.


That indomitable priest, the Abbe Suger, whom Louis the Fat had instructed to guide his son, was no longer there.

His passing was deeply mourned by the people for all knew him to have been a good man, and he was buried with great pomp at Saint-Denis.

After the funeral Eleonore knew that now nothing could stand in the way of her divorce. It was only a matter of getting agreement from Louis. He was weary of the argument. Perhaps he too was beginning to be reconciled to a parting. Perhaps he realised that he would be happier married to another woman, for marry he must, since he still had to get a male heir.

Eleonore was not the woman for him. Although he might divorce her on grounds of consanguinity everyone knew that he could have done so for adultery. Her reputation was well known. There had been many to witness her light behaviour during the crusade and the names of the Plantagenets, father and son, were mentioned in connection with her.

Eleonore cared nothing for this. She was still beautiful; nor was she old; she would have many childbearing days ahead; moreover she was the richest heiress in Europe.

With the opposition removed by the hand of Death, Louis’s resistance did indeed crumble. It was no longer a question of whether there should be a divorce but on what grounds.

Louis’s feelings for Eleonore were so mixed that he could not entirely understand them himself. He knew in his heart that had she been contrite, had she given him her word that she would abandon her immoral way of life, willingly he would have taken her back. She had fascinated him; she still did; he could easily have forgiven her lapses from virtue if she had become a loving wife. He did not care for women generally, only Eleonore. He had loved her for herself, and the rich lands of Aquitaine had not influenced his feelings. But he did want a quiet, peaceful life and he knew he would never have that with Eleonore. He must divorce her, but if only she had given one little sign of contrition how happy he would have been to meet her halfway!

Again and again he would think of her with her lovers. Her own uncle! That was even more criminal than the others. Then a rare anger would arise in him. I will divorce her for adultery, he thought, and it was in such a mood that he approached his ministers.

But he was the King of France. He should not think of revenge, or his own personal feelings. He must only think of what was best for France.

If he divorced her for adultery he could not re-marry, for according to the laws of the Church, once married its members were always married. It was his duty as King to marry again. He had only two daughters and the Salic laws of France would prevent their inheriting the throne.

On the other hand if the marriage was ended because of consanguinity there would be no hindrance to remarriage because, since their close blood ties prevented their marriage being legal in the first place, they had never really been married, and either was free to marry again.

As for the little girls Marie and Alix, they could be legitimised easily enough.

It was the answer. The marriage would cease to exist because of the close blood ties of Louis and Eleonore.

It was the solution most satisfactory to all.


Eleonore was eagerly awaiting the outcome of the meeting of the council under the direction of the Archbishop of Bordeaux. She had taken up residence in the chateau close to the church of Notre-Dame de Beaugency where the decision was being made. She sat at the window, her eyes on the road. At any moment a messenger would come riding to the chateau and then she would know whether or not she was free.

Once she had the news she would lose no time in meeting Henry and they would be married without delay.

She would have to say goodbye to her daughters Marie and Alix. That had been her only regret. She had surprised herself by the depth of her feelings for her children; but she knew that even they could not compensate her for the loss of Henry, and she shuddered at the thought of spending the rest of her days with Louis for the sake of girls who would in a few years’ time marry and leave her.

No, she was too full of vigour, too sensuous, too egotistical to devote her life to others.

Henry was the man for her. She had known it in the first few weeks of their acquaintance. Strong, egotistical himself, and a sensualist, his nature matched hers. She had known from the first that even though she had a husband and Henry was eleven years younger than she was, he was the man she would marry.

Now, in a fever of impatience, she waited for the messengers. At last she saw them. Two bishops attended by two gentlemen were riding into the castle courtyard.

She ran down to meet them.

‘My lords,’ she said, ‘your answer.’

‘May we enter the castle?’ asked the Bishop of Langres reprovingly.

‘Nay,’ she cried imperiously. ‘I will wait no longer to hear the verdict. I command you tell me instantly without delay.’

The bishop hesitated; then he looked resigned.

He said: ‘It is the Council’s decision that on account of the close blood relationship between yourself and the King they declare the nullity of the marriage.’

Eleonore waited for no more. A great joy had come to her.

‘Come into the chateau, my friends,’ she said. ‘I would refresh you.’

Free! she was thinking. At least free of Louis. No more would she have to endure the boring company of the King, no more would she fret against a restriction on her freedom. She could go to her lover now.

There should be no delay. As soon as she had listened to this tiresome deputation, she would make preparations for her journey. Her first task must be to let Henry know that she was coming to him.

‘Ride with all speed,’ she told her messenger. ‘Tell the Duke of Normandy that Eleonore of Aquitaine sends greetings. Tell him she is on the way to her own town of Bordeaux, that she will look for him there, and that she is eager to waste no more time.’


Oh, the joy of riding in the fresh spring air! It was Easter time, the most beautiful time of the year, and how rich and fertile were the lands of the South!

As she rode south the country people came out to greet her. They cheered her. There had been stories of the immoral life she had led while married to the King of France but to the people of the South these seemed like romantic adventures. Seated on her palfrey with her hair flowing and in her gown with the long sleeves which fell to the hem of her skirts, she was a beautiful sight. A queen in very truth and she was back among them. She had brought colour to her father’s court. Songs had been written about her; she herself wrote songs and sang them, and they were about love and chivalry. It was small wonder in their eyes that she was not appreciated in the cold land of the North. Now she was coming back and it was an occasion for rejoicing.

One day when she was riding through the domain of the Count of Blois, a party of horsemen came riding towards them. As they approached, Eleonore saw that they were led by a young man of pleasing appearance.

He pulled up before the Queen, doffing his hat and waving it in a gesture of gallantry as he bowed before her.

‘It is indeed the Queen of Queens,’ he said.

She inclined her head, pleased to be so addressed.

‘Journeying from the court of France to Bordeaux,’ he went on. ‘You will need to rest for the night at some worthy castle. Yet knowing mine to be unworthy I offer it to you. My castle of Blois is close at hand. It is the finest shelter you could find in these parts. I should be honoured indeed if you would allow me to entertain you there.’