When the court prepared to return to the castle, Petronella went to her mare, but as the groom prepared to boost her into the saddle, she stepped back, frowning. ‘She’s going lame on her front foreleg,’ she said, pointing. ‘I don’t think I ought to ride her.’

The groom ran his hand down the mare’s shoulder and leg. He picked up a hoof and examined the underside. ‘She seems sound enough to me, mistress.’

‘I am telling you, she is lame,’ Petronella said impatiently. ‘Do you argue with me?’

‘No, mistress.’ He clamped his jaw and looked down at his feet.

‘What is it?’ Already mounted, Alienor arrived, La Reina perched on her wrist.

‘Stella’s lame,’ Petronella said. ‘I’ll have to ride pillion with someone.’

Alienor raised her eyebrows. ‘I can see straight through your ruse,’ she said. ‘Even if it is not plain on your face, Aimery de Niort is giving the game away.’ She glanced towards the young knight who was holding his own horse at the ready, his expression expectant and smug.

‘The lady Petronella can share my saddle.’ Raoul shouldered forward. ‘Barbary has a good broad back; he will bear two of us with ease.’

Alienor gave him a grateful look. ‘Thank you.’ That would keep Petronella out of mischief. Crestfallen, de Niort turned away.

Petronella lowered her head but sent Raoul a coy upward glance, her hands clasped behind her back like a naughty child.

Raoul shook his head. ‘I hope Stella makes a swift recovery.’

‘I am sure it is not a serious injury, and I know I will be safe with you, because you’re such a good rider.’

Raoul’s mouth twitched. ‘I’ve had a lot of practice,’ he replied.

A groom held the iron-grey steady while Raoul cupped his hands to make a step for Petronella to launch herself on to Barbary’s wide rump. Raoul then mounted in front of her and shortened the reins. Petronella slipped her arms around his waist, enjoying the feel of his strong muscles under her hands. She imagined how his skin might feel without the barrier of clothes. As close as she was, she wanted to be even closer. To be inside him … and have him inside of her.


15

Talmont, Summer 1141

Alienor felt the familiar cramp low down in her belly, and the sudden hot trickle of blood between her thighs told her that yet again she had failed to conceive. She called Floreta to fetch the soft cloths she used for those times of the month, and pretended not to see the pity in the woman’s eyes.

She would have to tell Louis that yet again there was not going to be a child. But then his visits to her bed were so haphazard and dependent on whether or not it was a permitted time that the odds of her conceiving were poor. How could there be a baby if there was no seed to make one?

The cramps were painful, but Alienor was not one to linger in bed and instead took some sewing over to the window, where the best light would fall on the fabric. As she picked up her needle, Louis burst into the room. His face was flushed and his eyes glittering with tears of fury. ‘They have denied me,’ he snarled. ‘How dare they!’

‘Who has denied you?’ Alienor put her sewing down and looked at him in alarm.

‘The monks of the cathedral chapter of Bourges.’ He shook the letter clenched in his fist. ‘They have rejected Cadurc and elected their own archbishop. Some upstart called Pierre de la Châtre. How dare they meddle with the will and right of an anointed king – God’s chosen! Is this the gratitude I receive for being a loyal son of the Church?’ His breath sawed in and out of his lungs.

Alienor drew him to the embrasure and, making him sit, poured him a cup of wine. ‘Calm yourself,’ she said. ‘Their candidate is not yet consecrated.’

‘And neither shall he be!’ Louis snatched the wine and drank. ‘I will not have these vile ruffians contradicting me. There is no precedent for what they are doing. The right is mine. No matter what happens, I swear by Saint Denis that they shall not prevail.’

‘I knew this would happen,’ she said, and then tightened her lips. Done was done. She had told him to visit Bourges and make his intentions clear, but he had chosen to believe that his authority would be obeyed from a distance.

‘I shall write to the Pope telling him to forbid the election, and I shall deny de la Châtre entry into Bourges.’

‘Pope Innocent supports free elections of prelates,’ she said. ‘He may choose to uphold their candidate.’

‘I do not care what he does. I am not having this monk I do not know for my archbishop. I shall uphold my right to choose my own clergy in my own kingdom to the last breath in my body!’ Louis screwed the parchment into a ball and hurled it across the room.

‘You should write to the Pope in conciliatory terms,’ she warned.

‘I shall write to him as I see fit. I am not the one causing strife here.’ He jerked to his feet.

‘I have my flux,’ she said, choosing to deal with the bad news all at one blow.

‘Why is everything so difficult?’ He exhaled a sound filled with massive frustration. ‘What have I ever done wrong that everyone and everything conspires against me? I try to live my life as an exemplar and this is my reward: a disobedient clergy and a barren wife!’ He flung from the room, kicking over a stool on his way out.

Alienor leaned her aching head against the cool stone of the embrasure wall. The situation at Bourges need never have arisen had Louis cultivated the monks there as she had advised. Now there would be conflict and awkwardness, and Louis would stamp around in a temper, poisoning the atmosphere for everyone. Though supposedly a grown man and an anointed king, he was so childish and naive that she despaired of him.

It was late. Petronella was tipsy having drunk too much wine at the dinner feast. Next week the court was returning to Poitiers and then to Paris and the idyll was almost over. She had danced in her thin kidskin shoes until her feet were sore. Raoul claimed not to like dancing, but even so he was graceful on his feet and had been swift to step in and cut off the young bloods vying for her favours. She had laughed at the jesters until her sides ached, had joined in the songs, clapping her hands and raising her voice in harmony. Now all that was finished and people were retiring for the night, Alienor to her chamber and Louis to his prayers.

Raoul sat at the dais table with her amid the crumbs and the candles burning low. He poured more wine into his cup and just a splash into hers. Around them the servants were tidying away the trestles, stacking them against the side of the hall, but conspicuously leaving the high table alone.

‘So,’ said Raoul, ‘what shall we toast, you and I?’

‘I do not know, sire,’ she said with a flirtatious smile. ‘You are more experienced at raising toasts than I am.’

‘Then to fine wine and the beautiful women of Aquitaine.’ He raised his cup.

She frowned at him. ‘Beautiful women?’

‘To just one woman,’ he amended. ‘To the Queen’s most perfect sister.’

‘Say my name,’ she said.

‘Petronella.’

The timbre of his voice made her shiver. She raised her own cup. ‘To fine wine and strong men,’ she said. ‘And to the King’s most imperfect cousin.’ She swallowed with a long ripple of her throat.

‘Say my name,’ he responded.

‘I have said it time and again at night with only my pillow to hear.’ She ran her index finger around the rim of her cup. ‘But if your head were on my pillow, you could hear for yourself.’

He lowered his voice and glanced around at the servants. ‘That would be a very hazardous thing to do.’

She sent him a look filled with challenge. She desired this man and she would have him, just as her grandmother, the aptly named Dangereuse, had had her grandfather. The risk only added spice. They would be together under everyone’s nose, and no one would be the wiser, not even her sister, who thought she knew everything. ‘Yes, it would,’ she said. ‘It is very late and you should escort me to my chamber.’

A deliberate look passed between them, and Petronella’s loins liquefied. She was on fire with excitement and apprehension. A tiny part of her could not believe she was doing this. Another part wondered if Raoul would follow her lead, or draw back. If they crossed the line, they could not go back. When she stood up, her legs almost gave way.

Raoul moved to catch her. To the servants, it looked as if the King’s constable was assisting the Queen’s sister, who had been injudicious with the wine, and no one thought any more of it.

Instead of taking Petronella to her chamber, Raoul drew her to the gardens. Petronella leaned against him, bumping her hip against his and giggling. The night breeze was like warm, feathered fingers scented with roses and the salt tang of the ocean. Petronella thought she could hear the roar of the waves, or perhaps it was just the surge of blood in her veins. Above them the full moon was a swollen silver disc in a sky of luminous dark blue.

Raoul took her to an arbour seat half concealed by roses and columbine and drew her into his lap. Petronella curled her arms around his neck and angled her head, inviting Raoul to kiss her. He lowered his lips to hers, parted them, and showed her what to do.

Desire wound through her blood like strong wine. She pressed herself against him, giving herself up to the delicious sensations he was creating with his mouth and fingers. But then he stopped. His hand was under her skirts, against the soft skin of her bare thigh, where he had been lightly stroking her in a way she could hardly bear. ‘Go on,’ she gasped, pushing her hips forward, rocking on him. ‘Go on!’

‘If I do,’ he said, ‘you know there is no turning back. We are bound to whatever fate deals us from this.’