‘There are always those who dip their quills in venom,’ Gofrid replied. ‘Rest assured, the Bishop of Langres shall not prevail. He has an unsavoury reputation himself – he only holds his position because Bernard of Clairvaux is his cousin and was persuaded to discredit the rival candidate. The grounds for annulment of this marriage stand or fall on the matter of consanguinity, nothing else.’

‘Let us hope they do.’ Alienor shuddered. ‘If I have to remain wed to Louis, I swear that instead of accusing me of adultery, I will be hauled to trial for his murder.’

Gofrid gave a sour smile. ‘I do not think that will be necessary. This has come too far to fall down now. Louis desires this annulment as much as you do.’ Finished eating, he dipped his hands in the rose water and washed them again.

Alienor replenished their cups. ‘I want to talk to you about the future – about a decision I have to make.’

Gofrid wiped his hands on a napkin and fixed her with a steady blue gaze that made her feel as if she were his pupil again, under his strict but benevolent scrutiny.

‘I know I cannot remain unwed.’ She toyed with the base of her goblet. ‘I have a duty to Aquitaine to rule and beget heirs of my body to follow in my stead.’

‘Indeed, daughter, you do,’ Gofrid replied cautiously.

‘You should know that I have received an offer of marriage – from Henry, Duke of Normandy.’

His brows rose. ‘When was this?’

‘In Paris, when he and his father came to negotiate a truce. It has its merits, I think.’

‘Duke Henry mentioned this to you himself?’

She shook her head. ‘I believe it was at his father’s prompting. I barely spoke with the young Duke and he was being very careful because of the situation. Aquitaine would be an enormous prize for him, but is he worth the prize to me? You can understand my wariness.’

Gofrid took a drink of wine to give himself a moment to think. It would be unwise for Alienor to take a husband from among her own barons. Better she should wed a man outside of Aquitaine. Henry FitzEmpress would certainly fulfil that criterion. Fifteen years ago Gofrid had told her she must marry Louis of France. He could still see that frightened girl superimposed on the accomplished young woman in front of him now and it pained his heart. She trusted him and he wanted to do his best for her, and for Aquitaine. ‘I do not know the young man in question, but his reputation is growing daily and his breeding is illustrious. It is fitting you should marry someone who has the potential to become a king.’

‘I thought that too,’ Alienor said, ‘but I hesitate to make the leap. He is young, and perhaps I can influence him, but if so, then like Louis he will be open to the influence of others too. I had to fight Louis’s mother when I wed him. By all accounts the Empress Matilda is a formidable woman who has her son’s ear. How shall I fare on that battleground?’

Gofrid stroked his beard. ‘You are wise to be cautious, but I do not believe you will have the same difficulties. You are a grown woman in your full bloom. Empress Matilda is ageing and dwells at the abbey of Bec. She may rule Normandy, but she will not stir her finger in other stews. Henry did not spend his childhood training to be a monk, although he is well educated, so that path may be easier for you also.’

‘You speak as I think.’ Alienor’s tension eased at the Archbishop’s approval. A pensive, almost sad look crossed her face. ‘But if I accept the offer it seems in many ways like a choice borne out of no choice.’

Their discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Saldebreuil de Sanzay. ‘Madam.’ He approached the table, breathing hard from his run up the stairs, and bent his knee.

Alienor gestured him to rise. ‘What news?’

He grimaced, dark curls bouncing against his jaw. ‘I have heard there are moves afoot to have you seized once you leave here with the annulment granted.’

‘Seized?’ She felt cold. ‘By whom?’

‘My informants tell me you should beware of Theobald of Blois. You should be on your guard when you travel through his territory, and avoid all invitations to spend the night at any of his castles.’

Alienor’s breath shortened. So it had begun already, the scramble to seize her and force her into marriage by imprisonment and rape, so that the man concerned could appropriate her land for himself, impregnate her, and have his offspring, should they be male, claim Aquitaine. Theobald, Count of Blois and Châtres was older than Henry of Normandy and Anjou, but by so little that it made no difference. He was just another ambitious young hunter chasing down his doe by whatever means lay to hand.

‘Then we must take appropriate precautions,’ she said. ‘Saldebreuil, I trust you to see me safe and I give you leave to do whatever you must. If there is one “suitor” there will be others. See that our horses are well shod and swift and that all the weapons are honed … and pay your informant well.’

‘Madam.’ He bowed and left. The Archbishop also rose to leave.

‘You see what a prize I am,’ she said grimly. ‘Even before the annulment is sealed and lodged with the Church, ambitious men are already planning my future.’

Gofrid kissed her forehead. ‘God watches over you and protects you,’ he said.

‘Aided by an alert constable and men who are well paid to keep their ears and eyes open,’ she replied tartly. ‘God tends to help those who help themselves.’


43

Beaugency, April 1152

It was done and Alienor was free, whatever freedom meant in this new context. The annulment had been pronounced by Gofrid de Louroux, and she was at liberty to return to Poitiers. Standing by the open window in the chamber that had been hers for the duration of the conference, she fastened her cloak and looked out on the fresh April morning.

From where she stood, she could see people leaving: the entourages of various bishops accompanied by laden baggage trains. Bernard of Clairvaux rode a white mule, his belongings borne in a plain bundle strapped to his crupper. Alienor shuddered. At least she would not have to suffer involvement with him ever again. She strongly suspected he had been behind the Bishop of Langres’s attack. For a man who professed to love God, he was filled with the vinegar of hatred and self-righteousness.

She felt bereft rather than elated by her freedom because of all the wasted years with nothing to show but acrimony and loss. The best to be said was that the business was finished and cut off like a piece of fabric from a loom, and could be rolled up and stored away, never to be looked at again.

‘Madam, the horses are saddled,’ announced young Geoffrey de Rancon, looking round the door. ‘If we make haste now, we can bypass Blois by moonlight.’

Alienor turned from the window. ‘I am ready,’ she said. ‘Let us go home.’

She was waiting in the courtyard for her palfrey to be brought to her when Louis arrived, cloaked and booted for his return to Paris. On seeing her, he froze.

‘It is finished,’ Alienor said to bridge the awkwardness, her tone bereft of emotion. ‘I wish you Godspeed on your journey, sire.’

‘And I you,’ he replied stiffly.

‘We shall not meet again.’ She would make sure of it. There were moments in their marriage when she had loved Louis and many more when she had reviled and hated him, but just now she felt numb. It was as dust. She would ride away and not look back.

Thierry de Galeran emerged from the hall, his hand on his sword hilt. He stared at Alienor as if she were a stain on his tunic. She returned his look with equal revulsion. Without this man to poison Louis’s life and bed, without Bernard of Clairvaux and his noxious sermons, without all the petty, power-hungry men of Church and State fighting for influence over Louis, their marriage might have stood a chance of survival.

‘Madam.’ De Galeran gave her a bow that managed to be of the utmost courtesy while mocking her at the same time.

Saldebreuil arrived with her palfrey: a chestnut gelding with a gliding gait that would eat up the miles effortlessly. The horse was lightly laden and glossy with condition. Saldebreuil’s courtly flourish as he boosted her into the saddle wiped out de Galeran’s insult. Since the journey was a long one, Alienor was riding astride as she would do for the hunt rather than with a lady’s platform saddle. Her skirts were full to cover her dignity, and beneath them she wore leather hose tucked into strong boots. There was no impropriety as Saldebreuil helped her into the saddle, but still she was aware of Louis’s disapproval and her impatience flared. His next wife would have to be a nun to please him.

Young Geoffrey de Rancon unfurled her eagle banner. The morning breeze caught the silks and they rippled in a bold dance. She gave the gelding a dig with her heels, clicked her tongue, and swept out of Beaugency at a trot. A hundred and thirteen miles lay between here and Poitiers: more than three days of hard riding. On an ordinary progress that time might extend to almost a week, but Alienor wanted to be safe behind her own walls as swiftly as possible, because when this journey ended, a new one could begin.

The chestnut covered the miles at a steady pace. Alienor and her troop stopped at the roadside at noon, spreading a white cloth on the grass to eat a simple meal of bread and cured beef washed down with slightly sour red wine. Then they were on their way again, riding steadily until dusk fell and the Loire rippled like dark grey silk in the evening breeze. Clouds were encroaching from the north and it started to spit with rain. Alienor drew up her hood, but nevertheless enjoyed the fresh green scents awoken by the moisture. A blackbird was singing its heart out and others answered, claiming their territories in the dusk. The spatters grew heavier, dimpling the river.