‘I do not regret that, only what came to pass afterwards.’ Raoul scooped up his winnings from the game.
‘Admit it, you seduced her because she was the Queen’s sister and you thought to gain influence through the back door of the bedchamber.’
Raoul shrugged. ‘If I did, I would not be the only man at court.’ He rose to his feet and trickled a handful of coins into the cleavage of the courtesan who had risen with him. He did not want to be alone tonight. Felice was buxom and good-natured and exactly what he needed. ‘I’m for my bed,’ he said.
Robert raised his brows. ‘I can see you are, and with a nice soft mattress.’
‘That’s where I store my treasures.’ Raoul dipped his fingers between the courtesan’s breasts making her squeal again. ‘In my mattress.’
He left the dice table and took her to his chamber, kissing and fondling her along the way. His sexual appetite was voracious, although not in the ways Petronella had been demanding of late. To her, the act affirmed her desirability and convinced her she was loved. But the effect was always fleeting and the more he gave, the more she wanted and was still not satisfied. If he refused her she grew angry and accused him of wasting himself on other women. Well, now he was, and it wasn’t a waste, it was a pleasure. Knowing that Petronella was leaving with Alienor gave him a feeling of having been sprung from a trap.
He swung open his chamber door and pulled Felice into the room with him. She laughed as he pressed her against the wall, kissing her neck, rubbing between her legs. Suddenly she screamed and began pushing him away, her eyes wide in horror. Raoul turned and saw Petronella advancing on them, his hunting knife raised in her hand, poised to strike.
The sharp instincts of a fighting man saved Raoul from being ripped open. He ducked sideways and seized Petronella’s wrist, wrenching it until she was forced to drop the dagger and he was able to kick it away.
‘You son of a whore!’ she shrieked. ‘You son of a whore! I knew it was true. Everyone told me it was my imagination, but I knew it wasn’t!’ She struggled in his grip, trying to claw him. ‘You spurn me in favour of a whore! You disparage me with a slut!’
‘Fetch my chamberlain,’ Raoul shouted at Felice as he struggled to hold Petronella. ‘Rouse my squires and send Jean to summon the Queen.’
Felice fled.
‘I hate you, I hate you!’ Petronella sobbed, kicking and flailing.
‘That is why we must part,’ he panted, his face contorted with effort and shock. ‘There is naught left in you but destruction. You would have murdered me.’
She bared her teeth. ‘Yes, and I would have danced in your blood!’
For an instant he felt a horrible dark thread of arousal, but knew that to act on it would be vile, mutual assault and he was sickened by his own response. ‘You are not well.’ He gripped her hard, holding her away from him. ‘I will have no part in this. You must be looked after by those more able to deal with you.’
The chamberlain and squires arrived with Alienor close behind. For an instant Petronella became a wild thing, redoubling her efforts to get at Raoul, but then suddenly, as if she had taken a mortal blow, the fight went out of her and she flopped like a slaughtered doe.
‘Bring her to my chamber,’ Alienor said brusquely. ‘Marchisa will tend to her.’
Raoul hefted her in his arms and followed Alienor, with the squires leading the way by torchlight up the winding stairs to Alienor’s rooms. Alienor directed him to place Petronella on her bed, and Marchisa hastened to her side.
‘She tried to kill me,’ Raoul said with a mingling of pity and revulsion. ‘She was waiting for me with a knife.’
Alienor sent him a contemptuous look. ‘You were with one of the courtesans, were you not?’
Raoul spread his hands. ‘What if I was? My union with Petronella has long been impossible. I dare not lie with her because I fear for my life – that she might have a blade under the pillow and stab me to the heart. She constantly accuses me of bedding other women even when I have been chaste.’ His lip curled. ‘I decided I might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb.’
‘You knew she was volatile from the first.’
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘I thought she was a lively handful, but, God’s eyes, not this.’
‘You also knew she was the sister of the Queen and thought her worth the risk. You plucked the fruit and enjoyed the taste, and now you say it is poisonous.’
‘Because it is! There is no reasoning with her.’ He made a wide gesture with his arm. ‘All that remains are these black moods and despair. She no longer knows what is imagined and what is real.’
‘I will deal with her. Just leave; I cannot bear your presence here.’
‘If I were you, I would make sure she does not have access to any kind of weapon.’
Alienor closed her eyes. ‘Just go, Raoul.’
‘I will pray for her, but it is finished.’ He left the chamber, his step heavy and his shoulders hunched.
Felice was waiting for him in his chamber, wrapped in his fur-lined cloak and nothing else, but he dismissed her. That appetite had become as cold as yesterday’s pottage.
Kneeling at the small prayer table in the corner of his chamber, he lit a candle and bowed his head. When he rose from his prayers, his knees were so stiff they felt as if they had turned to stone and the unscarred side of his face was slippery with tears.
Biting her lip, Alienor looked at Petronella, who had turned her face to the wall and closed her eyes.
Marchisa said softly, ‘I can do nothing for her. She is in God’s hands, madam.’
‘She is exposed to too much upheaval at court; yet if she retires to Raoul’s estates, she only broods and grows worse. I have been wondering whether to send her to my aunt Agnes at Saintes. She might not find comfort in a nunnery, but she would be supervised and better protected.’
‘Madam, I believe a routine of structure and prayer would help her greatly,’ Marchisa agreed.
Alienor sighed. ‘Then I shall consult with Raoul and write to my aunt and see if she will give her sanctuary. We used to go there often when we were children.’ Her expression grew sad as she remembered running with Petronella in the sun-filled cloisters when their father had visited Saintes. The giggles and laughter, weaving in and out between the pillars, stretching to tag each other, their dresses hoisted to their knees and their braids flying, blond and brown, adorned with coloured ribbons. And then in the church, kneeling to pray but still sending mischievous glances to each other. Perhaps at Saintes, God would remove this darkness from Petronella’s soul and cast out her demons.
‘Oh Petra,’ she said softly, and stroked her sister’s tangled cloud of hair with a loving, troubled hand.
Standing in the palace gardens, Alienor watched the children at play in the golden September morning. They were an assortment of ages, ranging from toddlers only just finding their feet to long-limbed youngsters on the verge of puberty. Among them were Petronella’s three, Isabelle, Raoul and little Alienor. Being without their mother would demand an adjustment but since of late Petronella had been unable to care for them, the parting was going to be less intense. They had been told their mother was unwell and was being taken to the convent at Saintes for rest and healing.
Busy with a piece of sewing, a golden-haired little girl sat beside her nurse. Fair wisps had escaped her braid and made a sunlit halo round her head. She was intent on her task, her soft lower lip caught between her teeth. Another woman held the hand of a toddler with the same blond hair, helping her to balance as she took determined but unsteady steps across the turf.
Alienor remained where she was, feeling marginalised, a part of the tableau yet removed from it like a border on a manuscript. She had bidden farewell to her daughters last night, feeling nothing beyond a regretful sadness as she kissed their cool, rose-petal cheeks. She did not know these children of her womb. The intimacy had been in their carrying, not their lives after the parting of the cord. In all likelihood she would never see them again.