Emerging from the dark and candle glow of the old Merovingian church, Louis and Alienor found a messenger waiting for them. His clothes were dusty and he stank of hard-ridden horse and unwashed man. ‘Sire. Madam.’ He dropped to his knees and bent his head. ‘There is grave news from Poitiers.’

‘What is it?’ Alienor demanded before Louis could speak. ‘Get up. Tell me.’

The man stumbled to his feet. ‘Madam, the people have risen up and declared themselves a commune. They say they will throw off the rule of the Dukes of Aquitaine, and of France. They have occupied the palace and even now are strengthening the defences.’ He reached into his travel-battered leather satchel and produced a creased letter.

Alienor grabbed it from him and broke the seal; as she read the contents, her hand went to her mouth. It was like looking over her shoulder and seeing her lands falling into a dark chasm. This deed could crack her inheritance apart and undermine all she had and all that she was; she would be nothing – unable to maintain her position and dignity at court. As Duchess of Aquitaine she could stand up to others, including Adelaide, with integrity. Without her lands she was prey for the wolves.

Louis took the note and as he read it, his lips tightened.

‘We have to do something,’ she said. ‘If this should spread …’ It was too terrible to think about. ‘We must quash it now; there can be no prevarication. I’ll order my baggage packed.’

Louis looked at her in surprise and alarm. ‘You cannot do that; you are with child. You know what the physician said.’ He took her arm. ‘I will deal with this. They are my subjects too, and an affront to you is also an affront to me.’

‘But you do not know them as I do.’ She struggled to free herself, but Louis tightened his grip until his fingers pinched.

‘I know enough to deal with them.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘Do not trouble yourself. I will see to this. Your first duty is to our child.’

It was easy for him to say, Alienor thought, but to her it brought back all the grief, fear and anxiety she had felt after her father’s death. First her family was stripped away, then she had to leave her home, and now revolt threatened the very notion of her own identity.

‘Go and rest in your chamber, and I will set things in motion.’ Louis turned her with him towards the Great Tower.

She managed to shake free from his grip. ‘Today. You must make preparations immediately.’

He heaved an exasperated sigh. ‘Yes, today, if you insist.’

She wanted to be on a horse, galloping to Poitiers, and was frustrated that she could not do so. Had she not been with child … ‘I shall write letters to my vassals in Poitou and to the bishops.’ She rubbed her sore arm. ‘They will bring influence to bear.’ At least she could do that. And for the rest, she would have to trust Louis.

A month later, feeling dizzy and sick, Alienor stood in the abbey church of Saint-Denis, attending a mass to honour the saint’s day. Courtiers packed the nave and everyone was wearing their finest clothes and had brought gifts to present at the altar step. Presiding over the service, Abbé Suger held aloft the vase that Alienor had given to Louis on their wedding day. The womb-like base was opaque with wine as dark as blood. Suger had asked permission to use the vase as part of the service to honour the church’s patron and also the King, who was Saint Denis’s especial devotee. Even now, Louis was riding into Aquitaine under the protection of the abbey’s sacred banner, the oriflamme.

Not every French noble had ridden with him. Theobald of Blois-Champagne had announced stiffly that he was not feudally obliged to go to Poitiers and had declined the muster, treating Louis and Alienor as if he was putting a pair of silly young pups in their places, and Louis had left for Poitiers in a sullen mood, bringing with him two hundred knights, a contingent of archers and a train of carts piled with siege weapons, determined to make his mark as a king and commander. Alienor had noted Theobald’s refusal. He would bear watching because, with his connections, he was capable of causing great disruption, and his family had rebelled before.

She began to wish she had not given Suger permission to use the vase as a receptacle, for the sight of the wine was turning her stomach. She felt stifled, as if people were stealing the air from her lungs. The walls were pressing in on her, and she had a fancy that the decomposing former Kings of France were all staring at her through their stone tombs with disapproving eyes.

At her side, Petronella touched her arm with concern. ‘Sister?’

Alienor gripped her prayer beads and shook her head. She dared not open her mouth, lest she retch, and she could not leave the service, because then rumours would spread that she was impious and disrespectful, or even a heretic. She was the Queen of France, and she must do her duty whatever the cost. Closing her eyes, breathing slowly and deeply, she set herself to endure as time passed like the hot, slow drip of wax from a melting candle.

When the service eventually ended, the congregation left the church in solemn procession, following the great bejewelled cross held high on its gilded staff by Suger, who was clad in robes of scintillating white and silver. Alienor concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Just a little longer, just another step.

Outside the church, a man lunged from the crowd and hurled himself at her feet, kissing the hem of her gown. ‘Madam! Of your mercy, the people of Poitiers beg your intercession. I bear grave news!’

Guards seized him and, as he struggled in their hard, mail grip, Alienor recognised him as a groom from the palace of Poitiers: a man who had sometimes carried letters for her father. ‘I know this man. Release him,’ she commanded. ‘What news? Tell me!’

The guards flung the groom back at her feet and their spears remained poised.

‘Madam, the King has taken Poitiers and punished the people with fines and imprisonments. He has ordered all the burghers and nobles in the city to give up their children. He says he will bring them back to France with him and scatter them throughout his castles as surety for their parents’ good behaviour.’ One eye on the looming guards, the man withdrew a handful of documents from his satchel, seals dangling from a multitude of coloured cords. ‘The people invoke your mercy, and beg you to intervene. They fear they will never see their sons and daughters again. Jesu Madam, some are but babes in arms.’

Alienor swallowed bile. ‘They try to cast me off, and now they seek my mercy?’ Her lips twisted. ‘What did they think would happen?’

‘Madam?’ Suger arrived at her side in his glittering robes.

‘The King has taken hostages in Poitiers.’ She showed him the letters, her stomach churning like a hot cauldron. ‘They deserve punishment for rebelling, but this will only fan the flames. I must go there; these people belong to me.’

Suger took the letters and gave her a shrewd look. ‘Indeed, I share your apprehension, but it is not possible for you to go to Poitiers. If I may suggest …’ He stopped speaking and looked at her in concern.

Cold sweat clammed Alienor’s body. Petronella grasped her arm, her voice high-pitched with alarm. People crowded around, making it almost impossible to draw breath, and Alienor’s knees buckled. She was vaguely aware of being carried back into the church, and placed on a pile of cloaks. She could smell incense and hear the chanting of monks, and her vision filled with an image of the crystal vase raised on high, containing all that bleeding red.

They bore her back to Paris in a padded litter, and sent for physicians, but by that time, her womb had started to cramp and soon afterwards she lost the baby in a welter of blood and congealed matter. Adelaide tried to put Petronella from the room, but Petronella refused to leave, staying at Alienor’s side and squeezing her hand, as the midwives dealt with the clotted mass and the corpse of a boy baby no bigger than the length of the midwife’s hand. Adelaide was efficient but purse-lipped, making it clear by her body language that she blamed Alienor.

‘Suger is going to Poitiers to speak with Louis,’ she said brusquely. ‘Louis will be so disappointed to receive this news as well as having to deal with your troublesome vassals.’

‘Then perhaps he should not have married me,’ Alienor replied, turning her face to the wall because she didn’t want to speak to Adelaide, and she was so wretched and weak with blood loss that she lacked the strength to argue.

Raoul of Vermandois looked at Petronella as she emerged trembling and tear-streaked from Alienor’s chamber. He had come in person to find out how the young Queen was faring rather than send a servant, who might be too easily put off or dismissed. ‘Child,’ he said softly, ‘whatever is the matter?’

Petronella shook her head. ‘Alienor has lost the baby,’ she said in a breaking voice. ‘It was horrible, and that old witch is so cruel to her.’

‘Queen Adelaide, you mean?’

Petronella looked up at him through glistening lashes. ‘I hate her.’

He wagged his forefinger. ‘That is not a wise thing to say,’ he cautioned while absorbing the news that Alienor had miscarried. ‘She had your sister’s welfare at heart.’

‘She has no heart,’ Petronella retorted, sniffing.

‘Even if Queen Adelaide disagrees with your sister on some matters, she will do everything she can to help her recover because it is in her interests to do so.’ Raoul set his arm around Petronella’s narrow shoulders. ‘You should be more careful. You can tell me anything, and I shall not repeat it, but others are not so trustworthy and could cause trouble. Come, doucette, dry your tears.’ He gently wiped her face with the soft linen sleeve of his shirt and chucked her under the chin until she gave him a watery smile.