The intense heat made it difficult to breathe. He could almost taste the sun-warmed canvas of the awning and feel it sticking at the back of his throat. Archbishop Gofrid of Bordeaux looked as if he were melting, sweat dribbling down his red face from the soaked brow-band of his embroidery-crusted mitre. He had greeted Louis with gravity and deference, and had added a smile for Abbot Suger who was an old friend and ally.

Louis’s seneschal, Raoul of Vermandois, wiped the back of his neck with a chequered silk cloth. ‘I have never known a summer so hot,’ he said, mopping carefully around the leather patch over his left eye.

‘You will find the palace cool and pleasant, my lords,’ the Archbishop said. ‘It was built long ago as a refuge from the summer heat.’

Louis glanced at the towering walls. The palace of Shade; the palace of Shadows. There was more than one meaning here. ‘We will welcome it, Archbishop,’ he said. ‘We often travelled after dusk and by moonlight to avoid the heat on the way here.’

‘Indeed,’ Gofrid replied, ‘and we are glad for your haste in this matter.’

Louis inclined his head. ‘My father understood the necessity.’

‘The Duchess looks forward to welcoming you.’

‘As I look forward to greeting her,’ Louis answered woodenly.

Raoul of Vermandois tossed a flash of silver coins into the water and they watched as youths dived for them, brown bodies glistening. ‘Your father said we should treat these people with courtesy and largesse,’ he said, grinning at Louis’s raised brows.

Louis was not certain that his father had meant quite so low down the pecking order, but Raoul was a man of cheerful and spontaneous gestures, and it could do no harm to throw money for the city youths to dive after, even if it was frivolous and less dignified than giving alms at the church door.

Once disembarked, they were greeted by various clergy and nobles before being escorted in slow procession under a shaded palanquin to the cathedral of Saint-André where Louis was to wed his young bride on the following day.

He entered under the decorated arch of the portico and stood in the holy presence of God. The cathedral interior was a cool and blessed haven from the burn of the midsummer sun. Drawing in the mingled scents of incense and candle wax, Louis sighed with relief. This was familiar territory. He walked down the nave with its decorated pillars and when he reached the altar steps, he signed his breast and prostrated himself.

‘Dear God, I am your servant. Grant me the strength to do Your will and not fail. Grant me Your grace and lead me along the paths of righteousness.’

This was where he and Alienor would celebrate their wedding. He still found it difficult to say her name, much less imagine her person. They said she was beautiful, but beauty was in the eye of the beholder. He wished he was home in Paris and safe behind the solid walls of Notre-Dame or Saint-Denis.

At the sound of a fanfare, he turned his gaze down the nave. The columns made a tunnel of golden arches, leading his eye to the brightness of the open doorway. A girl came walking through the light towards him, accompanied by attendants, and for an instant his eyes were so dazzled that the entire group seemed to have a radiance not of this world. She was tall and slender; her deep-golden hair shimmered to her waist but the top of her head was decently covered by a virgin’s jewelled cap. Her face was a pale, pure oval, not overtly feminine, but wrought with a blend of precise strength and delicacy that made Louis think of an angel.

She knelt to kiss the Archbishop’s ring, and once he had raised her to her feet, she set her hand upon his arm and continued down the nave to Louis. ‘Sire,’ she said, kneeling again, and from that position lifted her eyes to his. They were the mutable colour of the ocean, full of truth and intelligence, and Louis felt as if his heart had been set upon an anvil and struck into a different shape with a single blow.

‘Demoiselle,’ he said. ‘I am pleased to meet you and to offer you the honour of marriage so that our great lands may be united.’ The words emerged by rote, because he had been rehearsing them with Suger in his tent for most of the previous evening, sweating in the canvas-intensified heat, the whine of mosquitoes in his ears. Saying them now, he regained a little of his equilibrium, although his heart was still bounding like a deer at full leap.

‘As I am honoured to meet you, sire,’ she replied, lowering her lashes, and then added with a little catch in her voice, ‘and to accept your offer of marriage as my father desired.’

Louis realised she must have been practising too and like him was anxious. He felt relieved, then protective and superior. She was more perfect than he had dared hope. God had answered his doubts and shown him that this was truly meant to be. Having a wife was a natural progression of manhood and kingship, because a king needed a consort. He raised her to her feet and kissed her lightly and swiftly on both cheeks, and then drew back, his chest tight.

She demurely introduced the girl beside her as her sister Petronella. This one was still a child, smaller and brown-haired with a heart-shaped face and a sensuous rosebud mouth. She curtseyed to Louis and, after a single sharp look from bright brown eyes, lowered her gaze. Other than to think that she would make a fine reward for one of his French nobles, Louis dismissed her from his mind to attend to the matter in hand. Turning with Alienor to the altar, he pledged himself in formal betrothal, his hands trembling as he slipped a gold ring on to her right middle finger. And at that moment, he was certain that God had favoured him with such bounty that he was overwhelmed.

A celebration feast had been prepared at the Ombrière Palace. Tables spread with white napery had been arranged in the garden cloister so that guests could sit in the open air, well shaded from the sun, and listen to musicians while they dined.

Alienor smiled and answered when addressed, but she was preoccupied and finding conversation difficult. A huge weight had landed on her with Louis’s arrival and the knowledge that the changes in her life were now irrevocable. There were too many new people to weigh up, all so different in their speech and mannerisms to her own courtiers. They spoke the dialect of northern France, which she understood because it was the common language of Poitou, but the Parisian cadence was harsher on the ear. Their garments were of thicker, more sombre cloth, and they seemed to lack the vibrancy of her people. But then they had been travelling hard in the blistering summer heat, so perhaps she should give them the benefit of the doubt.

Her fears that Louis would be fat and loutish were ungrounded. He was tall and narrow through the hips like a good gazehound. He had glorious, shoulder-length, silver-blond hair and wide blue eyes. His mouth was thin but well formed. She found his manner stilted and rule-bound, but that could be caused by the pressures of the day. He did not smile much – unlike his seneschal, Raoul de Vermandois, who never seemed to stop. De Vermandois was showing Petronella his sleight of hand by hiding a small glass ball under one of three cups and getting her to guess where the ball was. She was giggling at his antics, her eyes shining. The rest of the French party were more watchful and reserved, as if they all had planks stuck down the backs of their tunics. Theobald, Count of Blois Champagne, was eyeing de Vermandois with irritation, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Alienor wondered at the tension between the men. There was so much she did not know, so much she had to take in and assimilate.

At least, even if he was reserved, Louis did not appear to be an ogre, and she could probably find ways of influencing him. It might be more difficult to circumvent the older men, especially Suger and Louis’s uncles Amadée de Maurienne and William de Montferrat, but she had been accustomed to getting her own way with her father, and there would be occasions when she would have Louis to herself with no one to interfere. She was of a similar age to him and that meant they had some common ground.

When everyone had eaten and drunk their fill, Louis formally presented Alienor with the wedding gifts he had brought from France. There were books with ivory cover panels, reliquaries, boxes of precious stones, silver chalices, glass cups from the workshops of Tyre, tapis rugs, bolts of fine fabric. Boxes and chests and sacks. Alienor’s eyes ached at the largesse. Louis presented her with a pectoral cross studded with rubies as red as small drops of blood. ‘This belonged to my grandmother,’ he said as he fastened it around her neck and then stepped back, breathing swiftly.

‘It is magnificent,’ Alienor replied, which was the truth, even if she did not particularly like the piece.

His expression had been anxious, but now he stood tall and proud. ‘You have given me the coronet of Aquitaine,’ he said. ‘It would be a poor thing indeed if I could not gift my bride with the wealth of France in return.’

Alienor felt a frisson of resentment. Although she owed him homage as a vassal of France, Aquitaine belonged to her and always would no matter that he was to be invested with the ducal coronet after their wedding. At least the marriage contract stipulated that her lands were not to be absorbed into France but were to remain a separate duchy. ‘I have something for you also.’ She beckoned, and a chamberlain stepped forward with a carved ivory box. Alienor carefully lifted her vase from its fleece lining. The dimpled rock crystal was cool against her fingers as she turned and presented it formally to Louis.

‘My grandfather brought this back with him from a holy war in Spain,’ she said. ‘It is of great antiquity.’