‘Why is that?’
‘Because he sees horizons when the others can barely see as far as the end of their own noses. I see horizons too, and if I keep faith with him, I will have a secure future.’
‘At least you are honest,’ Alienor said.
‘A bastard son has little else in his pocket to trade,’ Hamelin said with a pragmatic shrug and a wry smile.
The crew hauled up a large canvas sail to aid their efforts, and with the wind behind them, the barges, cumbersome though they were, left a silver ripple of speed.
Moments later they heard shouts, the thud of hooves and jingle of harness from the riverbank. Alienor shrank against the side of the barge and pulled her hood forward, her heart in her throat, but the riders paid no heed to the barges and trotted on past, lanterns swinging.
‘They’ll be on the trail of your troop,’ Hamelin warned. ‘They won’t think to look on the river. Even if they do realise what has happened, we shall be long gone.’
Alienor strained her ears for the sound of combat, but the hoofbeats faded and there was nothing. Saldebreuil would have had the good sense to keep everyone moving at a strong pace and they had a decent head start. She closed her eyes and shivered, but did not allow herself to be overwhelmed by her anxiety. Instead, she released it in laughter.
Hamelin gave her a look askance.
‘Less than half a day since I was sitting in the hall at Beaugency, still the Queen of France and gowned as befitted my station. Now I am sailing down the Loire in the middle of a rainy night, wearing my seneschal’s spare tunic, dirt on my face and being hunted like a felon.’
His mouth quirked. ‘In which position would you rather be, madam?’
‘I do not think the reply is in doubt,’ she said, but did not elaborate.
The rain continued and the drops were like cold daggers in her face because of the wind direction. She found another sheepskin to huddle beneath and dozed, her arms folded tightly across her body.
They reached Tours at dawn and were reunited with Saldebreuil and the rest of the troop. Alienor was stiff and cold from the boat journey, tired too because she had barely slept, but she felt exhilarated. She had decided to remain clad as a youth until she was over her own borders because it was easier to travel that way. Their story was that Marchisa and Mamile were being escorted to a convent where Marchisa was to retire in respectable widowhood with her maid.
‘Thank God you are safe, madam,’ Saldebreuil muttered as the company ate, drank and rested their horses at a pilgrim hostel before setting out again.
‘The journey was cold and wet, but no trouble,’ she replied. ‘But I was worried for your sake. We heard and saw a patrol riding after you.’
Saldebreuil smiled darkly. ‘It would take more than those fools from Blois to outwit my experience, madam. They chased us half the night, but gave up eventually.’
‘I shall be glad when we reach Poitiers,’ she said with a shiver. ‘All I want to do is sleep secure in my own bed and do as I please.’
They approached the crossing of the River Creuse at Port-de-Piles shortly after noon. Alienor was wary because this ford was an obvious spot to ambush anyone heading south into Poitou. A scouting party, including Hamelin FitzCount, had ridden ahead to reconnoitre the ford while the main party stopped a little off the roadside to snatch a swift meal of bread and cheese.
The party soon returned at a swift trot. ‘We were right to be wary, madam,’ young Geoffrey de Rancon said grimly. ‘There are armed men waiting at the ford. The moment we arrive they will be upon us.’
One of her escort shouted, pointing down the road. Their own troop had not been alone in sending scouts, and she saw two horsemen wheeling round and galloping back towards the ford to raise the pursuit. Saldebreuil swore. ‘Go back, madam. Take the left fork in the road!’ He slapped her horse’s rump.
Alienor clung on as the gelding broke into a canter. Dear God, was there no end to this? She was almost within her own territory and still she was not safe.
Alienor and her troop rode hard for the next several hours, alternating between trot and canter. She kept looking over her shoulder but even when she saw an empty road, her imagination filled it with spear-brandishing pursuers, mounted upon tireless horses twice as fast as her gelding.
‘Who were they?’ she asked during a moment when they slowed their horses to a brisk walk to give them respite. The space between her shoulder blades tingled.
Saldebreuil shook his head. ‘I do not know, madam.’
‘I will tell you,’ Hamelin said grimly. ‘They were led by my half-brother Geoffrey. We are less than a day’s ride from Chinon, which is his by the terms of our father’s will. Henry knew he would try something like this.’
Alienor’s mouth twisted. ‘Younger sons may see me as fair game for their ambition,’ she said with contempt, ‘but I put a far greater value on myself than a stepping stone to raise their place in the world. It is a vile disgrace that I cannot ride in safety to and from business with my overlord.’
These attempted abductions made her realise that she could not remain unwed. Every time she ventured forth from one of her strongholds, determined suitors would be lying in wait to seize her and bring her before a priest. In truth she had no choice.
44
Poitiers, April 1152
Alienor gripped the sealed packet in her hand, knowing this was her last moment to change her mind. Waiting for the messenger to come to her, she stood by the window, looking out on the beautiful spring day. Everything was in leaf and bud and glorious blossom. It was a few days past the anniversary of her father’s death and he had been in her thoughts. Geoffrey de Rancon too, although his grave had been made in bleak autumn. All that remained were poignant memories, and she must face reality, not live on dreams. Truly it was time to make a new beginning – and what could be better than wedding a young man in the April time of his life?
Her chamberlain announced the messenger and, with a sigh, she turned from the window. The man, whose name was Sancho, doffed his cap and knelt to her. She had selected him to bear this message because he was reliable, discreet and intelligent. The letter itself was worded in such a way that if he was apprehended, the news he carried would not be obvious to the casual reader, although Henry would understand. After a final hesitation, she bade him stand, and gave him the packet.
‘Deliver this to Henry, Count of Anjou, and make sure he and no other receives it,’ she said.
‘Madam.’ Sancho bowed his head.
‘And give him this.’ She handed him a soft suede hawking gauntlet. ‘Tell him I hope he will find it useful in the future. Here is silver for your expenses during your journey. Ride swiftly, but do not take risks. Go now.’
From her window she watched him leave, swinging into the saddle of a fiery bay courser, its hooves already in motion. He would change horses along the way and only stop to sleep when he had to. Depending on Henry’s whereabouts, she estimated he should receive the letter within ten days at most, which meant she had a little less than three weeks to prepare her wedding feast.
Henry was at Lisieux overseeing preparations to invade England. The sound of axes chipping wood and the pungent scent of hot pine pitch filled the spring morning. Ships, soldiers and supplies were all being stockpiled ready for a full summer campaign across the Narrow Sea.
Henry had been just two years old when his grandfather King Henry I had died and Stephen of Blois had stolen the throne. He was nineteen now, Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou, and ready to remedy the situation. He knew his supporters in England were desperate after seventeen exhausting years of unrest, but he also knew Stephen was ageing and his barons were looking to the future. Several had already made cautious approaches to Henry, eyeing him up as a potential leader instead of Stephen’s son Eustace, who was unpopular. Henry was prepared to do everything in his power to bring these men over to his side.