‘My lord, we should take to the boats and cross to Bordeaux. The Lady Eleonore will have heard that we are here. She will not expect delay.’

He braced himself. It was no use hanging back. What was not done today must be done tomorrow.

‘Let us go now,’ he said.

He was riding to the castle at the head of the small party he had taken with him. His standard bearer held proudly the banner of the golden lilies. He looked up at the turret and wondered whether she watched him.

She was there, exultantly gazing at the golden lilies, the emblem of power. Aquitaine might be rich but a king was necessarily of higher rank than a duke or duchess and even if the acknowledgement of suzerainty was merely a form yet it was there, and Aquitaine was in truth a vassal of France.

And I shall be Queen of France, Eleonore told herself.

She came to the courtyard. She had taken even greater care than usual with her appearance. Her natural elegance was enhanced by the light blue gown she was wearing; this was caught in at her tiny waist with a belt glittering with jewels. She was not wearing the fashionable wimple as she wanted to show off her luxuriant hair which she wore hanging over her shoulders with a jeweled band on her forehead.

She looked up at the boy on his horse as she held the cup of welcome to him.

Young, she thought, malleable. And her heart leaped in triumph.

He was looking at her as though bemused. He had never imagined such a beautiful creature; her serene eyes smiled into his calmly; the diadem on her broad high brow gave her dignity. He thought she was exquisite.

He leaped from his horse and, bowing, kissed her hand.

‘Welcome to Aquitaine,’ she said. ‘Pray come into the castle.’

Side by side they entered.

She told Petronelle when her sister came to her chamber that night: ‘My French Prince is not without charm. They have grace, these Franks. They make some of our knights seem gauche. His manners are perfect. At first though I sensed a reluctance.’

‘That passed when he saw you,’ said the ever-adoring Petronelle.

‘I think it did,’ replied Eleonore judiciously. ‘There is something gentle about him. They brought him up as a priest.’

‘I can’t imagine you with a priest for a husband.’

‘Nay, we shall soon leave the priest behind. I wish we need not wait for the ceremony. I would like to take him for my lover right away.’

‘You always wanted a lover, Eleonore. Father knew it and feared it.’

‘It is natural enough. You too, Petronelle.’

Petronelle sighed and raised her eyes to the ceiling.

‘Alas, I have longer to wait.’

Then they talked intimately about the men of the court, their virtues and their potentialities as lovers.

Eleonore remembered some of the exploits of their grandfather.

‘He was the greatest lover of his age.’

‘You will excel even him,’ Petronelle suggested.

‘That would be most shocking in a woman,’ laughed Eleonore.

‘But you will be equal to men in all things.’

‘I look forward to starting,’ said Eleonore with a laugh.

The Prince loved to listen to her singing and watch her long white fingers plucking the lute and the harp; she said, ‘I will sing you one of my own songs.’

And she sang of longing for love and that the only true happiness in love was through the satisfaction this could bring.

‘How can you know?’ he asked.

‘Some instinct tells me.’ Her brilliant eyes were full of promise; even he found a certain desire stirring in him. He no longer thought so constantly of the solemn atmosphere of the Church; he began to wonder what mysteries he and his bride would discover together.

She played chess with him and beat him. Perhaps she had had more practice. When he was learning to be a priest she had been brought up in court accomplishments. It was a lighthearted battle between them. When she had check-mated him she laughed and was delighted; it was like a symbol to her.

They walked in the gardens of the castle together. She showed him the flowers and the herbs which grew in the South. She told him how it was possible to make cures and ointments, lotions to beautify the skin and make the eyes shine, a draught to stir a reluctant lover.

‘Dost think that I shall need to make one for you –’

He caught her hand and looked into her face. ‘No,’ he said, vehemently. ‘That will not be necessary.’

‘Then you find my charms enough for you, my lord?’

‘Enough indeed.’

‘So that you long for our marriage?’

‘I yearn for the day,’ he told her.

She drew back, laughing at him.

Not bad for my monk, she confided afterwards to Petronelle.

The Abbe Suger, seeing how their relationship was ripening, believed there should be no delaying the marriage. It was true Eleonore was in mourning for her father’s recent death but this was a State marriage and the sooner it was solemnised the better for everyone concerned.

He mentioned this to the Prince and was amazed by the alacrity with which he – once so reluctant – agreed.

‘The Duchess of Aquitaine is an enchantress,’ said the Abbe.

It was July when the wedding took place.

Eleonore’s women dressed her in her glittering wedding gown and she wore her long hair flowing. She sat on her glitteringly caparisoned horse and rode through the streets of Bordeaux to Saint Andrew’s Church where the ceremony was to be performed by the Archbishop of Bordeaux. What a day of triumph for the bride! Only a year ago she had wondered whether she would be robbed of her inheritance by a half-brother. But Fate had intervened. No one could come between her and her ambition now.

She was exultant and only a little sad that she had had to come to her triumph through the death of a father who, in her way, she had loved well enough. But there was no doubt of her success.

Duchess of Aquitaine with none to dispute her claim and soon – she believed very soon and so did everyone else – Queen of France.

Eleonore blossomed. Sensual in the extreme she found marriage to her taste. Poor Louis was a little less ardent – although there was no doubt that he loved her with a deeper emotion than she could muster for him. Eleonore loved love; she had known she would when as a very young girl she had sung of it in the gardens. There, love had been glorified – romantic love. She wanted that, but she wanted physical love as well. She it was who led the way in passion. She might have been experienced in such arts; this was not the case; he was her first lover; but with her there was a natural knowledge and understanding.

They were glorious summer days, spent in watching the celebrations for their wedding and nights spent in making love.

There was music and singing and Eleonore was initiating him into an appreciation for the chansons and poems at which she excelled. It was a delightful existence but of course it could not continue. The contests and tournaments in the castle grounds must come to an end, for the Prince must return to Paris with his bride.

She had through him become the Princess of France; through her he must become the Duke of Aquitaine.

Everywhere they went they were met by rejoicing crowds.

Such an alliance all knew could bring nothing but good. The people of Aquitaine could shelter beneath the golden lilies of France and the kingdom of France had gathered a powerful neighbour into its eager embrace.

This could only mean more hopes of peace and as what was more dreaded than anything by the humble people were armies invading their homes and carrying off their goods and women, this was a desirable state of affairs.

They had reached Poitiers and were enjoying a great welcome there, when the Abbe Suger came to their apartment in the castle where they had been given hospitality, and it was clear from his expression that he was the bearer of ill news.