The two groups of ships closed on each other and spouts of flame roared from the brass tubes. Amid a chaos of bellowed orders, ships tacked frantically to avoid being hosed by deadly fountains of fire. Sails turned to blazing rags of red and gold, matching the sky. Men became living torches and leaped into the sea, where still they burned as the unquenchable Greek fire spread over the water like a fallen sunset.

Grapnel ropes clawed the wale of their ship and the crew sped to repel boarders with swords, clubs and axes. Saldebreuil delved to his boot, seized the knife and in a swift motion plunged it into the thigh of the soldier watching over them. As the man screamed and fell, Saldebreuil dragged him down, withdrew the knife and finished him. Then he used the man’s axe to strike through the fetter chain and stood in front of Alienor to defend her, although in the event it proved unnecessary. The battle between the Greeks and the Sicilians was bloody and brutal, but over swiftly.

Once more Alienor changed ships as the remnants of the Greek flotilla were either scuppered or taken into Sicilian hands. All that remained of the light was a dull red streak on the horizon, and numerous small fires on the water like fallen stars, illuminating bodies and flotsam.

The Sicilian captain, a solidly built olive-skinned man of middle years, escorted Alienor and her entourage to the deck shelter at the stern of the boat with deference. ‘We have been chasing these wolves for several days, madam,’ he said, ‘and looking out for your fleet.’

‘A pity you did not find us a few hours earlier,’ Alienor replied, ‘but I thank you nonetheless.’ She saw him looking expectantly at the items of baggage his men had transferred from the Greek ship. ‘Of course you must be rewarded.’ It was better to give them something than have her possessions rifled through yet again, and better too to keep the crew on good terms. But they were all pirates of one kind or another, and she still felt as if she had been captured all over again.

The captain bowed to her with a flourish. ‘Madam, to serve the Queen of France is enough, but I accept your generous offer.’

Alienor raised her brows. She had not said she was going to be generous.

It was full dark by now and the increasing wind caused the ship to buck like a frisky horse. She heard the sailors shouting to each other as they secured the vessel against the worsening weather and she swallowed a laugh. To have gone through all this only to succumb to a storm at sea would be the greatest irony.

Louis stood on the headland looking out to sea on a calm glittering day in late spring. The Sicilian sun was hot on the back of his neck, and the breeze was pungent with the smell of thyme and salt. ‘I do not know if she is alive or dead,’ he said to Thierry de Galeran. ‘No word comes, and it has been many weeks. If she had been captured by the Greeks, then I would have heard by now. They would have sent me gloating letters.’ He bit his thumbnail, which was already down to the quick.

‘Then that is obviously not her fate, sire,’ said de Galeran.

Louis grimaced. ‘I dreamed last night that she came to me in drowned robes, all glistening with weed, and she accused me of her murder.’

Thierry curled his lips. ‘It was but a nightmare, sire. You should pray to God for succour and peace.’

‘I should have turned back for her when the Greeks attacked.’

‘Would she have turned back for you?’ Thierry asked.

‘That is not the point,’ Louis said impatiently. ‘As we stand now, we do not know her fate. If I truly knew that dream was a portent and she is dead and drowned, I could mourn her and remarry the moment I return to France, and govern Aquitaine on behalf of our daughter. Instead there is silence, and what do I do about that? How much longer do I wait?’

The Templar laid his hand on Louis’s shoulder, his gesture sympathetic, intimate and controlling. ‘You should make arrangements to leave and if the Queen has not returned by the time you are prepared, then you must consider her lost.’

Louis pressed his lips together. Although at times he hated her, there were moments when his feelings from the early days broke through to trouble him. He needed to sever the ties, but when it came to the cut, he could not do it. And if that cut was to be her death at sea, he would bear the guilt to his own grave, no matter what Thierry said.

Alienor opened her eyes to a room glowing with rich and subtle colour. The bed was solid and firm. It didn’t sway with the waves; there was no roar of water against the hull, no flap of sail or rub of oars in their ports. Instead there was birdsong, the hushed murmur of servants and peace. Facing her bed was a mural of spotted leopards wearing superior expressions, their perambulations interspersed by date palms and bushy orange trees.

Slowly she remembered that she was safe in the Sicilian port of Palermo having finally made landfall last night. Severe weather had blown the bireme off course. Having survived two storms that had hurled them far to the south, they had repaired their damage at Malta and sailed for Sicily, only to be battered by another storm and involved in more skirmishing with the Greeks. By the time the ship dropped anchor in Palermo, Alienor had been at sea for more than a month.

The whisper of servants grew louder. The door opened and Marchisa tiptoed in, bearing a tray laden with bread, honey and wine. Alienor was not hungry. Indeed, she felt wretched. The period at sea had been a holding point, a time in limbo when she had not had to respond to anything but the simplest of needs. Now she had to take up the reins again, and it was an effort to do so.

She forced herself to eat and drink, and then donned the loose silk robe that was brought for her to wear. Palermo was the dominion of Roger of Sicily, one of the most powerful monarchs in the Christian world. Roger himself was elsewhere in his kingdom, but his son William welcomed her: a handsome, dark-eyed youth of eighteen, who showed her round the palaces and gardens with pride and courtesy.

The latter were drenched with the intense perfume of the roses that blossomed everywhere, deep crimson, their stamens tipped with powdered gold. Peacocks trailed the paths, their tails like iridescent brooms, their breasts sequinned with sea colours. Butterflies, dark and soft as purple shadows, lit among the blooms.

‘I will have our gardeners give you some roses to take back to France,’ William offered gallantly. ‘Have you seen these with cream stripes?’

Alienor found a smile for him, although it was difficult. While she appreciated the wonders, her feelings had become disconnected and she had seen so much that was similar, that it all seemed the same. ‘That is kind of you,’ she said. ‘They will look well in the garden at Poitiers.’

A servant was waiting for them as they reached the garden entrance and immediately knelt to her and the young Prince. ‘Sire, there is news from your father, difficult news.’ The servant’s gaze flickered to Alienor as he presented a scroll to his lord.

William broke the seal, read what was written, and turned to Alienor. ‘Madam, perhaps you should sit down,’ he said, gesturing to a carved bench near the wall.

She stared at him. Dear God, Louis was dead, she thought. She did as he suggested. Roses overhung the seat, heavy and red, their perfume filling each breath she took.

A frown clouded William’s smooth brow. ‘Madam,’ he said gently, ‘I grieve to tell you that Raymond, Prince of Antioch, has been killed in battle against the Saracens.’

Alienor continued to stare at him. The smell of the roses intensified and the air grew so thick that she could barely breathe, and what air she did inhale was drenched with the syrupy sweet scent of flowers on the edge of corruption.

‘Madam?’

She felt his hand on her shoulder, but it was a flimsy anchor. ‘How did he die?’ she asked in a constricted voice.

‘It was honourably, madam. His men were camping in the open; they were surrounded by Saracens and attacked. Your uncle could have fled and saved his life, but he chose to remain with his men.’

Alienor swallowed. There was bile in her throat. Her uncle was not a fool in matters of warfare; there was more to it than that: either he had been betrayed by his supposed allies – which was commonplace enough – or perhaps he no longer wanted to live as a wounded lion beset on all sides. Better a swift death than lingering in a net being drawn ever tighter. The latter thought was so painful that she doubled over, clutching her midriff.

Alarmed, the young man called for her women, but when they arrived Alienor fended them off. ‘I will never forgive him,’ she said vehemently to Marchisa, ‘never as long as I live.’

‘Forgive who, madam?’

‘Louis,’ Alienor said. ‘If he had agreed to march on Aleppo and aided my uncle as he should, this would not have happened. I hold him and his advisers accountable for my uncle’s … murder. There is no other word for it.’

Alienor rested in Palermo for three weeks before travelling by gradual stages to Potenza where Louis waited for her. She would rather not have seen or spoken to him ever again, but since they had to make a joint petition for annulment in Rome, she had no choice but to go to him. Doing so made her feel physically ill and when Louis embraced her, declaring how relieved he was to see her, it was all she could do not to push him away in public.

‘My only relief in all this is that we can go on together to Rome and have this marriage annulled,’ she said, her jaw clenched. ‘You shall force me no further.’

Louis looked hurt. ‘I barely slept for my worry over what had happened to you.’

Alienor raised a cynical eyebrow. She did not doubt his words, but she doubted his sleeplessness had been caused by concern for her. For himself perhaps … To one side of Louis, Thierry de Galeran was doing his best not to curl his top lip and not quite succeeding.