‘What now?’ Louis demanded furiously. ‘Did I not say I wished to be left in peace?’
‘Sire, I am sorry to disturb you, indeed I would not do so, but news has arrived that my lord Raoul of Vermandois is dead.’ The man held out a letter.
It was not unexpected but it still hit Louis like another body blow. Raoul had been a constant in his life ever since Louis had emerged from the cloister as a frightened child to become the heir to the throne. At times they had been at odds, but mostly Raoul had served him well; he had been steadfast in policy even if a fool with women and unable to control his impulses. He left three children all under age who would now become wards of court. They could not possibly go to their mad mother and Louis would have to decide where to bestow them.
He dismissed his chamberlain and knelt once more to pray for the dead man. Tomorrow he would have masses said and bells rung for Raoul’s passing. He felt like a tree in the forest, where all the trees either side that had given him support, shelter and camouflage were being cut down one by one, leaving him to bear the brunt of the storms alone.
‘How did de Vermandois die?’ Alienor’s aunt Agnes, Abbess of Notre-Dame de Saintes, fixed her niece with a compassionate but inquisitive gaze. Her eyes were so light a brown as to be almost pale gold, and they missed nothing.
Alienor had been furnished with a cup of wine and a platter of the abbey’s delicious chestnuts candied in honey, which usually she loved, but for now was too preoccupied to enjoy. She was here to see Petronella, attend on her aunt and tell her about her new marriage. ‘He had been unwell for a while and retired from court, but suffered a seizure while in bed with his new wife, having been warned to abstain.’ Alienor grimaced. ‘He was ever ruled by that part of him, although Petronella’s jealousy always imagined it to be more than it was.’
Agnes shook her head. ‘May God have mercy on his soul.’
‘The manner of his death is not something my sister needs to know,’ Alienor said quietly.
‘Of course not,’ Agnes agreed. ‘Such news would do more harm than good.’
‘How is she?’
Agnes took a moment to ponder. ‘Much improved in her mind. The services and daily prayers have been of great benefit. I cannot say she is happy, but she is no longer distraught. I do not believe she is ready to leave us – may never be, but neither do I believe she will take vows. I shall take you to her in a moment.’
Alienor knew what was coming. Agnes would want to know everything about Alienor’s marriage to Henry as just exchange for looking after Petronella. She gave her aunt an edited but fair telling of the tale.
‘And are you content?’
Alienor smoothed her dress over her knees and looked at her wedding ring. ‘I have no complaint, but then I barely know him. He left for Normandy almost immediately.’
‘From what I hear he is intelligent and well educated.’
Alienor smiled. ‘He soaks up knowledge like moss soaks up water, and is thirsty for more. He is never still, except when he sleeps, and then he is so still that his breathing barely stirs the covers.’ Her face grew warm. When he slept he looked so young and vulnerable that she felt a great welling of tenderness towards him, some of it maternal, some of it the pangs of a lover for her mate.
‘You have much to deal with between you. It is a great gamble you have taken.’
‘But more attractive than the alternatives. He has the capacity to rule an empire.’ She raised her chin. ‘We both do.’
‘Yes, niece, you do. I have always thought that, ever since you were a small child. You ran rings around us all.’
The wine and chestnuts finished, Agnes took Alienor to a quiet, sunlit cloister where two women sat embroidering, one a nun, the other Petronella, robed in a dark blue gown, her head covered by a plain white wimple.
‘Petra?’ Alienor went to her with hands outstretched.
Petronella lifted her head from her sewing and looked at Alienor. Her face was fine-drawn, but her eyes were clear and knowing.
‘It is so good to see you!’ Alienor kissed her sister on both cheeks and embraced her warmly. ‘I hear you are faring well!’
Petronella returned the hug. ‘So they tell me.’ As they parted, she gestured around. ‘With all this light, there is little room for the darkness, and when it comes I pray to the Holy Virgin to help me – and she does.’
‘I am glad.’
Petronella picked up her sewing again and began to work steadily and neatly. ‘I did not want to come here,’ she said. ‘But I know now you were right. If I returned to court, everything would fall to pieces around me. Here I am safe.’
Agnes and the nun quietly departed, leaving the sisters alone. Alienor hesitated and then drew a deep breath. ‘I have so much to tell you that I hardly know where to start. Two weeks ago I married again, to Henry, Count of Anjou.’
Petronella stopped sewing and looked at her in her old, knowing way. ‘You were planning that, weren’t you? When they came to court in Paris. I knew it! I knew you were up to something!’
‘I had it in mind, but didn’t make the decision until the annulment was actually pronounced,’ Alienor said defensively. ‘It is a good political decision, and I had no choice but to remarry because the moment the marriage was dissolved I became a magnet for every unwed man of ambition.’
Petronella took up her needle again. ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘I do not suppose a nunnery would be a choice for you.’ A note that was almost accusation entered her voice.
‘I would not be safe even if I retired to one – some power-hungry fool would abduct me and force me into marriage, and then what would happen to Aquitaine? Perhaps one day I shall find peace in one, but not now.’ She bit her lip. ‘Petra … I have to tell you something about Raoul.’
Petronella set her jaw. ‘I do not want to hear it,’ she said. ‘I have cast him out from me like a devil. He was the cause of my sickness. I loved him beyond bearing and then I hated him. Now he is nothing.’
‘Petra, he … I … he is dead. He had been unwell for a little while.’ She looked at her sister with trepidation.
Petronella pricked herself and a bright drop of blood welled on to the delicate white linen. She watched it soak in. ‘You always come to tell me people are dead,’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘First our father, and now my husband. I should run away when I see you coming.’
Alienor felt grief-stricken for her sister. ‘I wish I was not the bearer of these tidings, but someone had to tell you, and the responsibility falls to me. I could have sent you a letter and asked Aunt Agnes to read it, but it would have been the coward’s way.’
Petronella looked away down the cloister. ‘I do not care,’ she said. ‘I will not care.’ She looked at her pricked finger. ‘He has made me bleed for the last time.’ Leaving her sewing on the bench, she rose to her feet and walked a few paces before suddenly crumpling to the ground and beating her fists in the dust and howling. Alienor rushed to pick her up and their aunt and the nun came running from the other side of the cloister.
‘Yes,’ Alienor said as she held and rocked Petronella. ‘He has hurt you for the last time. Hush now, sister, hush. You can be at peace now.’
A week later, Alienor arrived at the abbey of Fontevraud to visit Henry’s aunt this time, and collect her new chamber lady.
Fontevraud lay within Angevin territory, close to the Poitevan border. It had been founded on land donated by her maternal grandfather William the ninth duke of Aquitaine. His two cast-off wives had retired to the secular house and Alienor’s grandmother Philippa had died here well before Alienor was born. The abbey was Benedictine, the complex housing both monks and nuns in separate buildings, and was ruled overall by an abbess, currently Henry’s aunt Mathilde.
Mathilde was a handsome woman of middle years with clear, youthful skin and keen grey eyes like Henry’s. Her brows and eyelashes were sandy-gold, hinting that beneath her wimple, her hair, if allowed to grow instead of being shaven three times a year, would be Angevin-gold. She had been a nun at Fontevraud ever since the death of her young husband on the White Ship more than thirty years ago.