‘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.
‘By all means let us hear what the Pope has to say,’ Louis said. ‘We must be ruled by God’s holy law.’ He took her arm to lead her to a couch and commanded a servant to pour wine into a rock-crystal cup.
Thierry remained standing behind Louis. ‘We were all deeply sorry and shocked to learn of the death of the Prince of Antioch,’ he said in his smooth, cold voice. ‘We heard he fought bravely, even if he brought death upon himself by his folly.’
Alienor felt as if Thierry was twisting the knife. She could sense the hatred emanating from beneath his cool, urbane exterior, but hers was a match for it. ‘Had we kept our promise to help him, he would not have been put in that position,’ she said. ‘I hold you responsible.’
‘Me? Ah, come now, madam.’ Thierry bowed and gave a supercilious half-smile. ‘I did not send him out into the desert to make camp in the open; that was entirely his own choice and a poor commander’s decision.’
‘As were your own at Damascus. Had you marched on Aleppo, my uncle would be alive now.’
‘Alienor, you know nothing of the business of war,’ Louis warned.
‘And you do? All I have ever seen of you and warfare is one disaster after another as you are led by the nose by your so-called advisers. I do not have to be a man to know strategy. You left my uncle no choice. His blood is on your hands.’
Louis flushed under her scathing assault. Thierry recoiled as if he had been struck by a snake. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Your uncle did have a choice and he made the wrong one and it cost him his head. I understand the emir Shukira struck it from his shoulders and had it embalmed and borne in a silver casket to the Caliph of Baghdad as a trophy.’