Other letters had arrived too, from the Empress Irene, consort of Emperor Manuel Komnenos, asking Alienor what she could do to provide comfort for her when she arrived in Constantinople, and welcoming her as one royal lady to another. Alienor was looking forward to meeting the Empress of the Greeks, who was of a similar age to herself and of German birth. Her real name was Bertha, but she had changed it to Irene on her marriage to Komnenos. Alienor was also interested in seeing Constantinople. The immense wealth of gold, mosaics and holy relics contained within the city was the stuff of legend.

Louis was less sanguine because of the many constraints being piled upon them by the Greeks, who controlled the route through Bulgaria and had rigid ideas about what the French and German armies were here to do. Louis was infuriated by the demand that he and his barons must do homage to Emperor Manuel for any former imperial lands they took from the infidel. Why should he give allegiance for such gains when they were won by his hand?

The governor of the town of Sofia, a cousin of Emperor Manuel’s, had joined the French army and was helping to supply it along the way, but he had a difficult task. Fights broke out over the exchange rate of five French silver pennies to a single coin of Greek copper. Frequently the Greeks closed up their towns when they saw the French approaching, and would only provide food by lowering it over the walls in baskets. There was never enough to go round and as a result, tempers frayed and skirmishes were commonplace. People broke ranks to go on foraging raids. Some returned with heavy sacks over their shoulders and blood on their hands. Others never returned at all.

As the heat of the day increased Alienor began to feel unwell. She had broken her fast on cold grains mixed with raisins and spices and the taste lingered at the back of her throat. Her stomach somersaulted and cramping pain gripped her lower back. She forced herself forwards. Another ten strides of her cob and another ten. Just as far as that bush. Just as far as that clump of trees. Just as far as … ‘Stop!’ she cried and gestured frantically to her women. They helped her down from her horse and one of her women, Mamile, hastily had the necessary private canvas screen lifted off the packhorse and directed the other ladies to form it around her mistress.

Alienor heaved and retched. Her bowels cramped. Dear God, dear God. What if she had contracted the bloody flux? They still had days to go until they reached Constantinople and decent physicians, rest and care. She had seen people die along the way, one moment robust, the next expiring in stench and agony.

When it was over, she felt limp and drained, and still desperately nauseous.

‘Madam, shall I find a cart for you to ride in?’

Alienor shook her head at Mamile. ‘I will be all right by and by. Do not make a fuss. Bring my horse.’

By the time they made camp, Alienor had been forced to retire behind the screen three more times. She refused food and took to her bed, but the vomiting and purging continued intermittently through the night.

Towards dawn, Alienor fell into a fitful doze only to be woken by shouts and yells outside the tent, some in French, some in a harsh, foreign tongue. Then the clash of weapons and sounds of hard fighting. She struggled out of the bedclothes and grabbed her cloak. Mamile hastened over to her, a lantern shaking in her hand and her eyes wide. ‘Madam, we are under attack.’

‘Who …?’

‘I don’t know …’ The women stared towards the tent flaps as the noise of battle intensified. Alienor’s other ladies clustered round, skittish as horses hearing the howl of wolves.

‘Help me to dress,’ Alienor commanded. She swallowed a heave as the women did her bidding. When they were finished, she picked up the sheathed hunting knife she kept at her bedside. Gisela whimpered. Outside someone screamed and screamed again until the sound abruptly choked and cut off. The sound of battle diminished and the shouts reverted to French.

Alienor approached the tent flaps.

‘Madam, no!’ Mamile cried, but Alienor stepped outside, her knife at the ready.

Dawn was flushing the eastern horizon and in the strengthening light the camp resembled a kicked ants’ nest. Soldiers were out of their shelters, many still in their undergarments, spears in hands and faces puffy with sleep. Men were throwing jugs of water over a burning tent. Nearby a serjeant wrenched a lance out of a corpse’s chest. There was a dead horse and a dead infidel warrior trapped under it, his scarlet turban winding away from his body like a ribbon of blood. Geoffrey was striding about issuing brisk orders.

Seeing Alienor standing at her tent entrance, he hastened over to her, slotting his sword back into his scabbard.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked faintly.

‘Nomad Cusman raiders.’ Geoffrey was breathing hard. ‘They were trying to steal our horses and supplies. They killed two sentries and torched some of our tents. Three of ours are dead and another has an arrow through his leg, but we gave them the worst of it.’ He grimaced. ‘They’re the same ones who have been attacking the German lines, so our guides say, in retaliation for pillaging and raids on their herds and livelihoods.’

‘You are unharmed?’ She looked him over quickly.

He gave a short nod. ‘They didn’t get near. We’ll have to be ever more vigilant because the raids will only worsen the further we go. Once we cross the Arm of Saint George, we’ll be subject to far greater hostility than this. I will double the guard, but I do not think they will be back for the moment.’ His gaze sharpened as he took in the knife in her hand. ‘It would not have come to that. I would have defended you with my life.’

‘And then what?’ she said. ‘It is always best to be prepared.’

He looked wry. ‘Are you feeling better?’

‘A little,’ she said. It wasn’t true.

He studied her for a long moment. ‘Rest today if you can,’ he said; then he bowed and left, shouting orders to strike camp.

Alienor’s head was pounding and her mouth was dry. The thought of food made her feel sick and she made do with a few swallows of milk from one of the goats they had brought with them. She was dizzy when she mounted the cob, but the thought of bumping along in one of the carts was unbearable, and she felt more in control on a horse.

Following the Cusman attack, they travelled in anxiety, looking round with wide eyes, but the land shimmered in a late-summer heat haze and they saw no one for the twenty miles they covered that day. The local population had moved themselves and their herds away from the depredations of the advancing French. All they encountered were more unburied German corpses, their positions marked by the wild dogs and kites that temporarily abandoned their scavenging as the troops plodded past. No one was keen to go foraging today. Alienor managed to eat some dry bread at noon, but it lay in her stomach like lead and gave her no sustenance. They passed a small town that bartered them a few sacks of flour, crocks of lamb fat and eggs, again let down from ropes over the walls and only a spit in the ocean of what they needed.

Alienor clung to her saddle and thought of Aquitaine. The soft breezes in the palace garden at Poitiers; the sweeping rush of the ocean at Talmont. The spread wings of a white gyrfalcon. La Reina. Angel wings. Holy Mary, I am coming to you. Holy Mary, hear me now for the love of God and Christ Jesus your son.

Mercifully they found a good camping place by a small stream an hour before sunset and her servants pitched her tent. Alienor almost tumbled from the cob’s back, feeling weak and wretched. Perhaps she was going to die out here and become another set of bones bleaching under this burning foreign sun.

She lay down in her tent, but the bread she had eaten had only been biding its time, and she had to make another sudden dive for the brass ablution bowl.

‘Madam, the sire de Rancon is here,’ a squire announced from outside the tent.

‘Tell him to wait,’ she gasped.

When she had finished retching, she ordered Mamile to remove the bowl. The smell remained though and she had to clench her teeth and swallow hard. Outside, she heard Mamile speak to Geoffrey. Moments later, without her permission, he entered the tent followed by an olive-skinned young woman neatly dressed in a plain dark robe and white wimple, a large satchel carried on a strap between her shoulder and hip.

Dear God, he had brought her a nun, Alienor thought as the woman curtseyed.

‘This is Marchisa,’ Geoffrey said. ‘She is skilled in healing women’s complaints; she comes highly recommended and she will help you.’

Alienor felt too wretched to argue or concern herself with details. She limply waved the young woman to rise. She could have been anything between twenty and thirty with beautiful dark eyes set under well-defined black brows. Although her behaviour was demure, the curve of her lips revealed humour and spirit.

‘Madam, the lord tells me you are sick.’ Her voice musical and fluent. She pressed her hand to Alienor’s forehead. ‘Ah, you are burning,’ she said, and turned round to Geoffrey. ‘The Queen needs to be with her women.’

‘I will leave you then.’ He lingered until Marchisa gave him a stronger look. ‘Make her better,’ he said and ducked out of the tent flaps.

Marchisa returned her attention to Alienor. ‘Your blood must be cooled,’ she said. ‘Permit me.’ With delicate fingers she removed Alienor’s veil and gold net under-cap. She directed the other women to fill a large brass bowl with tepid water. Producing a pouch from her satchel, she sprinkled into it a powder smelling of rose and spices with a clean note of ginger. She gently combed Alienor’s hair, knotted it and pinned it up on her head, and then, dipping a cloth in the scented water, bathed Alienor’s hot face and throat.