Alienor filled her gaze with a final look at her children, fixing the scene in her mind because it was all she would have for the rest of her life, and then turned away to join the entourage preparing to leave Paris and take the road to Poitou.
On the third day of their journey, Alienor and Louis spent the night at the castle of Beaugency, 90 miles from Paris and 110 from Poitiers. Sitting side by side in formal state for the meal provided by its lord, Eudes de Sully, they presented a united front as King and Queen of France, yet a vast chasm yawned between them, and it was not a calm space. They were desperate to be rid of each other, yet still tied by the process of the law. Louis considered it Alienor’s fault that God had penalised them by denying them a son: she was responsible but he was paying the price. He chewed his food in dour silence and responded to comments in curt syllables.
Alienor was silent too as she concentrated on enduring the moment. Each day brought her closer to freedom from this travesty of a marriage, yet annulment would bring its own crowd of dilemmas. Raising her cup to drink, she noticed a messenger working his way up the hall towards the dais, and immediately she was concerned because only very important news would disturb a meal in this way. The messenger doffed his cap, knelt and held out a sealed parchment, which the usher took and handed to Louis.
‘From Anjou,’ Louis said, breaking the letter open. As he read the lines, his expression grew sombre. ‘Geoffrey le Bel is dead,’ he said. Handing the note to Alienor, he started to quiz the messenger.
Alienor read the parchment. It had been dictated by Henry and, although courteous, gave the barest details. The messenger was relaying the meat of the story: that Geoffrey had been taken ill on his way home after bathing in the Loire, and was to be buried in the cathedral at Le Mans.
‘I cannot believe it.’ Alienor shook her head. ‘I know he was not altogether well in Paris, but I did not think he was sick unto death.’ She felt a welling of deep sorrow, and tears filled her eyes. She and Geoffrey had been rivals, but allies at the same time. She had enjoyed matching wits with him and had basked in the glow of his admiration. Flirting with him had been one of her pleasures and he had been so beautiful to look upon. ‘The world will be less rich for his passing,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘God rest his soul.’
Louis dismissed the messenger and murmured the obligatory platitudes, but there was a glint in his eye. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we shall have to see about the new young Count of Anjou, and whether the boy has the mettle to cope with his responsibilities. I thought him an ordinary youth when he came to court with his sire.’
Alienor said nothing, partly because she was struggling to absorb the shocking news, and partly because this changed everything. She was also wondering how ordinary a youth Henry actually was.
‘It can only be good for France to have an inexperienced youngster to deal with.’
‘He loved his father dearly,’ Alienor said. ‘That much was clear when they came to Paris. He must be sorely grieving.’
‘As well he should.’ Louis turned away to talk to his nobles. Alienor made her excuses and retired to her allotted chamber. Calling for writing materials, she sat down to pen a letter to Henry, telling him how sorry she was and that she would pray for his father. She commended Henry’s fortitude and hoped to express her condolences to him in person on a future occasion. The tone of the letter was courteous and conveyed nothing that could be misconstrued as inappropriate, even by the likes of Thierry de Galeran, whom she had no doubt would read her correspondence if he got the chance. She sealed the letter and bade her chamberlain give it to the messenger from Anjou. Pouring herself a cup of wine, she sat down before the hearth and gazed into the red embers, thinking that if she did marry Henry, she would be facing Louis squarely across a political chessboard, and would need every iota of skill and good fortune to survive.
Alienor entered Poitiers riding a palfrey with a coat dappled like pale ring mail. La Reina perched on her gauntleted wrist, white feathers gleaming. The sky was as blue as an illumination and the sun, despite encroaching autumn, was strong enough to be hot. Alienor felt a wonderful sense of freedom, of coming home, as her vassals flocked to greet her. At first there was no sign of Geoffrey de Rancon, but she could see several Taillebourg and Gençay barons among the gathering. And then she glimpsed him in the throng, recognising immediately the dark wavy hair and tall, straight posture. He turned and her rising heart sank again as she saw it wasn’t Geoffrey at all, but a much younger man – a youth almost.
He approached her and knelt with bowed head. ‘Madam, my lord father sends his apologies for his absence and hopes to meet with you shortly. A slight illness has kept him from riding out to greet you, and I have come as his namesake and in his stead.’
Alienor knew Geoffrey would not have stayed away for a ‘slight’ illness. Nothing short of catastrophe would have prevented him from being here today and she felt a frisson of anxiety. There was nothing she could do here though, trapped in a public situation with a young man who had no notion of the depth of the bond between herself and his father. ‘Then I wish him a swift recovery and I hope to see him soon,’ she said and bade him rise.
He inclined his head but she saw the doubt in his eyes. They were both speaking in platitudes and knew it.
Once again Alienor held court in her great hall in Poitiers. A silk hanging powdered with gold stars canopied the thrones where she and Louis sat side by side. La Reina perched on a tall stand at Alienor’s side, symbolising her authority. Alienor had not been to Poitiers since before the long journey to Jerusalem, and although the decoration in the hall was rich, the entire place needed refurbishment. Some of the mortar had seen better days and after the wonders of Constantinople and Jerusalem, it seemed parochial and small. Once she was free of the marriage, she vowed to herself she would build a new one to better represent the standing of Aquitaine among the courts of the world.
Louis retired early to his prayers, his mood sour. Alienor suspected it was because her vassals had greeted her with cheers and snubbed him. The joy with which the talk of an annulment was being received was a blow to Louis’s pride. His jealousy filled Alienor with amused contempt and she held court with relish. The more Louis scowled, the more she flirted and exercised her wit and power. She knew her vassals were pondering what would happen once the marriage was annulled. Already men were vying to be castellans of the fortresses that Louis’s French garrisons were giving up. Alienor was entertained by the overtures made to her by barons eager for their share, but she neither hinted at nor promised anything she was unprepared to give and she remained cautious. If Geoffrey was as indisposed as the hints suggested, she could not rely on him as she had hoped. She decided to make a visit to Taillebourg her next priority.
Alienor and Louis arrived at Taillebourg on a wet morning in early October. The great fortress guarding the Charente crossing shone as if it were clad in mail, and the river was a sheet of beaten steel, reflecting the heavy sky. The rain was fine and felt like moist cobwebs on Alienor’s face as they rode under the entrance arch and into the courtyard. Geoffrey’s son had ridden ahead the day before to make all ready, and he hastened to welcome them and bid them enter out of the rain. His sisters Burgundia and Bertha were present too with their husbands. Burgundia was tall like their father with his dark hazel eyes. Bertha was plump and merry with dimples in her cheeks, although her customary sparkle was subdued as she knelt to Alienor.