‘So many suffer on the road,’ she said as she worked. ‘You eat and drink things you should not; you wear the wrong clothes; you breathe bad humours.’ She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. ‘You must take off your gown.’ She set aside the bowl to unfasten the lacing on Alienor’s dress and help her remove it. ‘Come now, come now.’

Alienor obeyed listlessly. It was almost too much effort to raise and lower her limbs. The coolness was a relief but it also accentuated the discomfort in her stomach, which felt worse in contrast. Marchisa continued to wipe her down, and helped her through another bout of shuddering sickness. When it was over she made Alienor rinse her mouth with a decoction of liquorice and ginger in boiled spring water. She had Alienor’s sour bedclothes stripped and her pallet remade with clean linen.

‘The sire de Rancon is a good man,’ Marchisa said. ‘He is deeply concerned for you.’

Alienor made a small sound of acknowledgement. All she wanted to do was sleep. Marchisa helped her into a clean chemise and saw her tucked into the newly made bed. She anointed her temples with a fresh-smelling unguent. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘You will sleep for a while, and then drink a little and sleep again, and then we shall see.’ Alienor closed her eyes and felt the healer woman’s hand at her brow, cool-palmed and soothing. She dreamed again of Aquitaine, of Bordeaux and Belin, of the roar of the ocean at Talmont. Of Poitiers and the deep green forests of the Limousin uplands. She flew above them on outspread wings like a white gyrfalcon, and her feathers were as cold as snow. The bird’s hunting cry pierced the frozen blue air, and she woke with a sudden gasp. For a moment she lay blinking, uncertain where she was, for the pure, cold blue had vanished and the air she breathed now was dark and scented with spices. She could see the young woman grinding herbs by the soft glow of an oil lamp. As Alienor strove to sit up, she put down the pestle and mortar and came to her side.

‘You have slept well, madam, and the fever is diminished,’ she said, having felt Alienor’s cheek and neck with cool hands. ‘Will you take a drink now?’

Alienor felt light and dizzy, as if all the marrow had been drawn from her bones, leaving them hollow like a bird’s. ‘I dreamed of flying,’ she said and took the cup the young woman handed her, once again tasting the ginger and liquorice mixture. ‘Marchisa,’ she said. ‘I remember your name.’

‘That is so, madam.’ She curtseyed.

‘And how do you come to be in my tent, other than by the grace of the sire de Rancon. Where did he find you? What is your story?’

‘My name is Marchisa de Gençay. I am travelling with my brother to Jerusalem to pray for the souls of our parents.’

Marchisa folded her hands in her lap. ‘As a young man my grandsire went on a pilgrimage and settled on land in the principality of Antioch, where he married my grandmother, a native Christian. She bore him a daughter, and in her turn that daughter married my father, who was on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He brought her home to Gençay with him and they lived out their lives there. Now they are both dead and my brother and I are travelling to pray at the tomb of the Holy Sepulchre.’

Alienor sipped the ginger and liquorice tisane. ‘And how are you known to my lord de Rancon?’

‘My brother Elias is a serjeant in his service; the seigneur de Rancon heard that I had some skill with nursing the sick and he thought I might be able to help you.’

‘You have no husband then? I thought perhaps you were a nun.’

Marchisa looked down. ‘I am a widow, madam, and content to remain so. My husband died several years ago. We had no children and I returned home to care for my parents until they too died.’

Alienor absorbed the tale with sympathy but without pity, because she could tell from the set of Marchisa’s jaw that pity was the last thing her pride would accept. She was tired again and she needed to sleep, but a notion was forming in her mind.

By dawn, Alienor was much improved. She drank more of Marchisa’s soothing tisane and ate some bread and honey without bringing it back up.

‘I am in your debt for Marchisa, thank you for sending her,’ she said to Geoffrey when he visited while the army made preparations to set out on the road.

‘She speaks Greek and Arabic too.’ His tone was enthusiastic, like an eager suitor presenting his lady love with a courtship gift. ‘You look much better.’

‘I am on the mend,’ she agreed. ‘Thank you.’

‘I am pleased to be of service, madam.’

There had been no word from Louis, no concern for her wellbeing, although he must know how sick she had been, but Geoffrey had been there immediately. She turned to Marchisa, who had been silent throughout the exchange. ‘I am in your debt,’ she said. ‘I would take you into my household.’

‘I shall be glad to serve you, madam,’ Marchisa replied with a graceful dip of her head that reminded Alienor of a self-contained small cat. ‘But first I must fulfil my duty to my parents and pray at the tomb of the Sepulchre.’

‘Since I will be praying there too, it is settled,’ Alienor replied. ‘Go and fetch your things to my tent.’

Marchisa curtseyed and left. Geoffrey took Alienor’s hands and his lips touched her knuckles. They exchanged a wordless glance, and then he bowed and followed Marchisa outside.

For three more nights, as she recovered, Alienor had the eagle dream. It was always a jolt to awaken and find herself in the dark confines of her tent rather than soaring above the world, but each time the dream came, she felt stronger and more sure of herself. Louis had still not visited to see how she fared, although he sent messages via Geoffrey, who visited Louis’s daily councils and reported back to her.

‘The King is delighted you are recovering and glad that his daily prayers for your wellbeing have been successful,’ Geoffrey said with the neutrality of a polished courtier.

Alienor raised her brows. ‘How gracious of him. What else?’

He gave her a questioning look. ‘About you?’

She shook her head. ‘I doubt there is anything I want to hear on that score from his lips. I meant what news of Constantinople?’

Geoffrey’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘The King has still heard nothing from the lords he sent as heralds. The Emperor’s envoys say all is well and our men are preparing for our arrival, but we have no news of our own. They could be dead for all we know.’

‘We should consider this carefully.’ Alienor paced the tent. ‘If we are to deal with the Greeks successfully, we must be as cunning as they are, and know their ways. We must learn from them everything we can.’

Geoffrey rubbed his hands over his face. ‘I dream of Gençay and Taillebourg. The harvest will recently be in and the woods full of mushrooms. My son will have grown again, and Burgundia will have made me a grandfather by now.’

‘You are not old enough to have grandchildren!’ she scoffed.

Wry humour deepened the lines at his eye corners. ‘Sometimes I feel that I surely am,’ he replied.

She put her hand lightly on his sleeve and he clasped it briefly in his own before releasing her and going to the tent flaps. Outside, one of Louis’s senior squires was dismounting from his palfrey. He bowed to Geoffrey, knelt to Alienor and said, ‘The King sends word that Everard of Breteuil has returned.’

Alienor exchanged looks with Geoffrey. De Breteuil was one of the barons Louis had sent into Constantinople. His return meant news.

Geoffrey called for his horse.

‘I shall attend,’ Alienor said.

He eyed her dubiously. ‘Are you well enough? If you prefer to remain here, I can report to you later.’

Alienor’s eyes flashed. ‘I shall appear in my own capacity and hear matters as they are discussed here and now.’ She swept her shoulders into the cloak Marchisa was holding up behind her and fastened the clasp with decisive fingers. ‘Do not seek to put me off.’

‘Madam, I would not dare.’ He delayed mounting his horse to help her into the saddle of her grey cob, and plucked her eagle banner from the ground in front of her tent to bear as her herald. ‘It is always an honour.’

She firmed her lips. Her anger continued to simmer. She was a match for all of them but had to fight every inch of the way to be recognised and accorded her due, sometimes even with Geoffrey, who was one of the best.

The army had spread out over a mile: an assemblage of ragged tents, flimsy shelters, horse pickets and cooking fires. In the pilgrim camp, women stirred grains and vegetables in cooking pots, or ate meagre portions of flat bread and goat’s cheese. One sat suckling a newborn baby, conceived when its parents had had a roof over their heads and the security of mundane daily labour. If it survived the journey, which was unlikely, it would be forever a blessed child, born on the road to the Sepulchre. Some women were showing pregnancies that had been conceived along the road. Many pilgrims had sworn oaths of celibacy but had given in to temptation, while others had preferred to remain unsworn and sow their wild oats in the face of death. Alienor was glad Louis had taken such a vow, for she could not bear the thought of lying with him.

Riding into Louis’s camp, she saw the looks of consternation from his knights and felt a glimmer of satisfaction. The falcon of her dream was flying over her and she felt strong and lucid.

Louis was stamping about the tent, hands clasped behind his back, jaw tight with irritation. His commanders and advisers stood in a huddle, their expressions grim. At their centre stood the newly returned baron Everard de Breteuil, a cup in his hand. An angry graze branded his left temple and grey hollows shadowed his cheekbones. Louis’s chaplain Odo of Deuil sat at a lectern, writing furiously between the lines pricked out on a sheet of parchment.