Alienor put her hand up to her face. She had bitten her tongue and there was blood in her mouth. She hated him, how she hated him. Antioch could not come soon enough.

That evening she held court lavishly with musicians, entertainment, food and copious amounts of wine. It was an act of defiance both to the Greeks and to Louis, who did not put in an appearance. Alienor had not expected him to do so, and even while she felt like crying inside, she raised her head in defiance and set out to dazzle all who came within her orbit.

Geoffrey and Saldebreuil arrived from arranging matters for the march to Nicomedia and found their lady at the centre of the dance, a shield of laughter brightening her face. She wore a dress of dark green silk embroidered with stars, the long sleeves and skirt flowing around her as she swept and turned.

‘Something has upset our lady,’ Saldebreuil said wryly. ‘Best beware on the morrow.’

Geoffrey said nothing, because the sight of her had stunned the words out of him. He had always loved her, first when she was a bright, precocious child and the daughter of his seigneur, Duke William. He had been a very young man then, with a wife and a growing family, and Alienor had been a general part of that group. But then Burgondie had died bearing their fourth child and Alienor had begun to grow up and, as his grieving eased, he had started to dream of a future with her. Duke William was a widower himself and considering a new marriage in order to beget a son. Had such a thing come to pass, Geoffrey knew he would have stood a chance of wedding Alienor. Fate had decreed otherwise when William had died untimely. Geoffrey was sufficiently pragmatic to accept what had happened, but still romantic enough to remember the dream. Alienor had matured and changed, but she remained his Alienor, shining with all her different facets, and the wanting never went away.

Geoffrey followed Saldebreuil and joined a group of knights in conversation, but he was still intensely aware of Alienor. She turned this way and that and he saw the pale skin of her wrist and the gold silk of her sleeve lining, the suppleness of her body and the grace of her movements. And then he saw the bruise on her cheek and he felt sick. There was only one person who had the right to strike her, which was no right at all when he should have valued her above all things; yet he was Geoffrey’s liege lord and entitled to all that Geoffrey was not.

He turned on his heel and left the chamber. To join in the merriment and dancing was impossible. That was Alienor’s way of coping, not his. Leaning against a pillar, he closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, seeking calm to settle his anger, but it would not come. Had Louis been present, Geoffrey would have throttled him.

He heard Alienor’s bright laughter and her voice telling whoever was with her that she would not be long. And then her footsteps, shadow-soft; the rustle of her gown; and the subtle scent of her perfume.

‘Alienor …’ He stepped out from behind the pillar. She gave a gasp of surprise and after a hasty glance over her shoulder, hurried towards him.

‘Why did you leave?’ she demanded in a low voice. ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

‘I left because I could not trust myself to pretend any more.’ He drew her further into the shadows where no one could see them. ‘What has he done to you?’ He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.

‘It does not matter,’ she said impatiently. ‘He is furious that Robert has gone and taken Gisela. He needed a scapegoat, and as usual it was me. This will all end once we reach Antioch.’

‘So you keep saying.’ His voice was grim.

‘Because it is true.’ She stroked the side of his face, reciprocating his action. ‘Geoffrey …’

He pulled her against him. ‘It does matter.’ His face contorted. ‘You do not realise how much. I cannot bear it.’

‘But you will bear it, even as I do – because we must. There is no choice for now.’

He made a sound of despair and kissed her, his grip tightening on her waist. She put her hands in his hair and parted her lips and he came undone because the kiss was such a blend of sweetness and pain. They had been so careful for so long, keeping their distance, behaving as vassal and lady, but it was as if the underground river had risen in full spate and, bursting its banks, had overwhelmed them and swept them to a place where all that existed was this moment and themselves. He leaned against the pillar, lifted her and entered her with all his pent-up love and frustration. She wrapped her legs around him and buried her face against his throat with a sob. And in those moments they lived a lifetime, knowing it was all they might ever have of each other.


29

Anatolia, January 1148

Alienor turned over and, pulling the furs up around her ears, snuggled against Gisela for warmth.

‘Rain,’ said Marchisa who had stuck her nose outside the tent flaps to sniff the dawn air. ‘It might even turn to snow.’

Alienor groaned and burrowed further under the covers. Everyone spoke of the burning heat of Outremer, but the cold on the high ground was bone-biting.

Today they were due to make the gruelling climb and crossing of Mount Cadmos on their journey to the coast at Antalya. The notion of riding up a mountain in the face of a sleety wind made Alienor reluctant to stir. If only she could wake up at home in Poitiers or Antioch without having to travel in either direction.

Outside Alienor could hear the camp stirring to life: men hacking and coughing; snatches of conversation round the campfire; the stamp and nicker of horses as they received their rations of fodder. The ominous rasp of a sword on a whetstone.

Marchisa was building up the brazier in their tent and setting out portions of cold lamb and flat bread with which to break their fast. With great reluctance, Alienor sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She could smell smoke and grease on her hands from the previous night. The urge to observe the niceties of staying clean and fresh had dwindled to nothing when set against the need to keep dry and warm. She had not bothered to unpack her mirror for the last five nights, and the silk gowns she had worn in Constantinople had been relegated to the bottom of her baggage pack.

Alienor braced herself and left the bed. She had slept in thick socks, her chemise and a woollen gown. Now she donned a pair of soft linen braies and attached men’s leather riding hose to them. She and her women had adopted such clothing since leaving Constantinople because of its comfort and practicality in the advancing winter season and hostile terrain. A highly amused Geoffrey de Rancon had called them ‘the Amazons’ on first discovering the apparel while helping Alienor into the saddle. The nickname had quickly become common parlance among the men. Louis had not been best pleased. He said it was beneath the dignity of the Queen of France and therefore reflected poorly on himself, but since Alienor and her ladies wore perfectly respectable gowns over their hose, and since it helped them to keep up the pace, he let it pass with no more than scowls.

Alienor covered her hair and went to look outside. Pungent woodsmoke drifted from the cooking fires set up under tent awnings. She noticed dashes of white in the rain and knew it would be snowing higher up the mountain. As she stood considering the dismal prospect of riding into the bad weather, a guard detail returned from overnight picket duty.

‘The Turks are out there,’ she heard one soldier telling the men round the fire. ‘They’ll be circling like vultures, just waiting their moment, the devils. We found two more German corpses butchered and stripped, poor bastards. Skulls stove in like smashed apples.’

Alienor’s stomach contracted. Glancing round, she saw that Marchisa had heard. Gisela and the others were fortunately too busy dressing. Marchisa was by far the most pragmatic and practical of her ladies. Nothing discommoded her as they toiled through the inhospitable wastes of Anatolia: neither weather, nor sickness, nor scant supplies. Becoming lost for half a day when their Greek guides deserted them had scarcely disturbed her equilibrium, and she had been a steadying influence on Alienor’s entire household, including Alienor herself, when they discovered that Emperor Manuel had fed them a pack of lies. Contrary to what they had been told in Constantinople, the Turks had in fact decimated the German army. The latter had turned back, leaving the road littered with their dead. With no one to bury the corpses, they were slowly rotting where they had fallen. Day upon day the French army passed the grim waymarkers: testimony to what had really happened to their allies and to the web of deceit in which Manuel Komnenos had snared them. The promised guides had slipped away within days and the supplies had also dried up. The French had no choice but to forage, antagonising the local populace and making themselves vulnerable to Turkish attack. Every day brought fresh casualties and growing anxiety. They should have been in Antioch to celebrate Christmas, yet here they were, still weeks from their destination with the long and treacherous track over Mount Cadmos to negotiate.

Geoffrey was leading the vanguard with Louis’s uncle Amadée de Maurienne. Alienor worried for Geoffrey’s safety but showed nothing outwardly. They had become even more careful around each other since that brief loss of control in the camp at Constantinople, for they both knew the danger and how vulnerable they were.

She turned back into the tent. Gisela was shivering as she donned a fur-lined pelisse. The hem was dusty and the pelts, once a warm squirrel-red, were matted and draggled. ‘I don’t want to ride across that mountain,’ she said querulously.