‘I am still suspicious of Frenchmen,’ Petronella retorted, ‘and I still think them strange.’
‘Why should you be suspicious of me? Have I not always had your wellbeing at heart?’
‘I do not know, sire. Perhaps you court your own benefit.’
‘Certainly that is true in your case. How could you not be beneficial for me?’ He ran his right forefinger lightly down her cheek. ‘You remind this old warhorse what it is like to be young and alive.’
The troubadour began another song. Petronella shifted position so that she was leaning against Raoul’s shoulder and chest rather than her cushions. ‘You are not old to me,’ she said. ‘The young knights and squires are like children, but you are a man … And I am not a little girl.’
He said nothing, and she twisted her head. ‘I’m not!’
‘Oh indeed,’ he said with rueful amusement. ‘You are a beautiful young woman, and I am as a bee drunk on nectar.’
‘How did you lose your eye?’ She reached up and lightly traced the outline of the leather patch.
He shrugged. ‘It was at a siege. I was struck in the face by a shard of flying stone, and that was that.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Sometimes. I was sick with a fever for a while after, and in great pain, but I coped because what other choice did I have? I was never a man for looking in mirrors. I know the value of fine clothes and appearance, but a battle scar like this is honourable and does not prevent me from doing my work, or taking part at court. And these days I am not a young hothead to charge into the thick of the fray at the first trumpet, so it matters not that I have less vision with which to fight.’
Petronella enjoyed the way he was talking to her as one adult to another, and she liked the feel of his strong body supporting hers. He lit her up inside. He had always been able to make her laugh and banish her cares. At first she had thought of him as a surrogate father, but now she was very aware of him as an attractive and powerful man. He had a wife, but she was far away and of no consequence; indeed, it only added spice to the mix.
She covered one eye with her hand and tried to imagine what he must be seeing. Raoul watched her with a smile, but added with a slight edge: ‘Now imagine that you cannot take your hand away, and that is what you will see forever.’
Petronella was immediately contrite. ‘I am sorry; I was not making little of it.’
‘I know, doucette, but some things in my life you cannot begin to imagine or understand.’
‘I could try if you taught me.’
‘Perhaps.’ He left her to go and mingle with others. Petronella watched him, a sinking feeling in her stomach as she wondered if her remark had caused him to walk away. He did not return to her, but socialised with various groups, speaking a word here, touching a shoulder there, laughing at a jest, making a quip of his own. He was thoroughly at ease and knew exactly how to talk to everyone. His face might be seamed and scarred with decades of experience, but he moved with grace and his body was lean and hard.
A young knight settled at her side, and she deliberately flirted with him while still watching Raoul from the corner of her eye. He glanced her way now and again, looking amused, but continued his rounds and was still not disposed to return to her.
When the court prepared to return to the castle, Petronella went to her mare, but as the groom prepared to boost her into the saddle, she stepped back, frowning. ‘She’s going lame on her front foreleg,’ she said, pointing. ‘I don’t think I ought to ride her.’
The groom ran his hand down the mare’s shoulder and leg. He picked up a hoof and examined the underside. ‘She seems sound enough to me, mistress.’
‘I am telling you, she is lame,’ Petronella said impatiently. ‘Do you argue with me?’
‘No, mistress.’ He clamped his jaw and looked down at his feet.
‘What is it?’ Already mounted, Alienor arrived, La Reina perched on her wrist.
‘Stella’s lame,’ Petronella said. ‘I’ll have to ride pillion with someone.’
Alienor raised her eyebrows. ‘I can see straight through your ruse,’ she said. ‘Even if it is not plain on your face, Aimery de Niort is giving the game away.’ She glanced towards the young knight who was holding his own horse at the ready, his expression expectant and smug.
‘The lady Petronella can share my saddle.’ Raoul shouldered forward. ‘Barbary has a good broad back; he will bear two of us with ease.’
Alienor gave him a grateful look. ‘Thank you.’ That would keep Petronella out of mischief. Crestfallen, de Niort turned away.
Petronella lowered her head but sent Raoul a coy upward glance, her hands clasped behind her back like a naughty child.
Raoul shook his head. ‘I hope Stella makes a swift recovery.’
‘I am sure it is not a serious injury, and I know I will be safe with you, because you’re such a good rider.’
Raoul’s mouth twitched. ‘I’ve had a lot of practice,’ he replied.
A groom held the iron-grey steady while Raoul cupped his hands to make a step for Petronella to launch herself on to Barbary’s wide rump. Raoul then mounted in front of her and shortened the reins. Petronella slipped her arms around his waist, enjoying the feel of his strong muscles under her hands. She imagined how his skin might feel without the barrier of clothes. As close as she was, she wanted to be even closer. To be inside him … and have him inside of her.
15
Talmont, Summer 1141
Alienor felt the familiar cramp low down in her belly, and the sudden hot trickle of blood between her thighs told her that yet again she had failed to conceive. She called Floreta to fetch the soft cloths she used for those times of the month, and pretended not to see the pity in the woman’s eyes.
She would have to tell Louis that yet again there was not going to be a child. But then his visits to her bed were so haphazard and dependent on whether or not it was a permitted time that the odds of her conceiving were poor. How could there be a baby if there was no seed to make one?
The cramps were painful, but Alienor was not one to linger in bed and instead took some sewing over to the window, where the best light would fall on the fabric. As she picked up her needle, Louis burst into the room. His face was flushed and his eyes glittering with tears of fury. ‘They have denied me,’ he snarled. ‘How dare they!’
‘Who has denied you?’ Alienor put her sewing down and looked at him in alarm.
‘The monks of the cathedral chapter of Bourges.’ He shook the letter clenched in his fist. ‘They have rejected Cadurc and elected their own archbishop. Some upstart called Pierre de la Châtre. How dare they meddle with the will and right of an anointed king – God’s chosen! Is this the gratitude I receive for being a loyal son of the Church?’ His breath sawed in and out of his lungs.
Alienor drew him to the embrasure and, making him sit, poured him a cup of wine. ‘Calm yourself,’ she said. ‘Their candidate is not yet consecrated.’
‘And neither shall he be!’ Louis snatched the wine and drank. ‘I will not have these vile ruffians contradicting me. There is no precedent for what they are doing. The right is mine. No matter what happens, I swear by Saint Denis that they shall not prevail.’
‘I knew this would happen,’ she said, and then tightened her lips. Done was done. She had told him to visit Bourges and make his intentions clear, but he had chosen to believe that his authority would be obeyed from a distance.
‘I shall write to the Pope telling him to forbid the election, and I shall deny de la Châtre entry into Bourges.’
‘Pope Innocent supports free elections of prelates,’ she said. ‘He may choose to uphold their candidate.’
‘I do not care what he does. I am not having this monk I do not know for my archbishop. I shall uphold my right to choose my own clergy in my own kingdom to the last breath in my body!’ Louis screwed the parchment into a ball and hurled it across the room.