The Summer Queen
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UNNING
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EOPARD
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NLEASHED
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NIGHT
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AUGHTERS OF THE
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HIELDS OF
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RIDE
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ONQUEST
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HAMPION
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OVE
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INTER
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ALCONS OF
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HADOWS AND
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TRONGHOLDS
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LACE
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EYOND
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OURAGE
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REATEST
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CARLET
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ION
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IME OF
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ADY OF THE
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NGLISH
COPYRIGHT
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 9780748133833
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 Elizabeth Chadwick
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
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Little, Brown Book Group
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London, EC4Y 0DY
Table of Contents
The family of Louis VII of France
The Norman and Angevin kings of England
The Counts of Poitou, dukes of Aquitaine
1. Palace of Poitiers, January 1137
3. Castle of Béthizy, France, May 1137
7. Palace of Poitiers, Summer 1137
16. Poitiers, late Summer 1141
20. Castle of Arras, October 1143
28. Constantinople, September 1147
33. The Mediterranean Sea, May 1149
34. Papal Palace at Tusculum, August 1149
36. Abbey Church of Saint-Denis, February 1151
37. Castle of Taillebourg, March 1151
48. Rouen, Normandy, Christmas 1152
51. Fontevraud Abbey, May 1154
I have called Eleanor ‘Alienor’ in the body of the novel, rather than Eleanor, because Alienor is what she would have called herself and it is how her name appears in her charters and in the Anglo-Norman texts where she is mentioned. I felt it was fitting to give her that recognition.
Palace of Poitiers, January 1137
Alienor woke at dawn. The tall candle that had been left to burn all night was almost a stub, and even through the closed shutters she could hear the cockerels on roosts, walls and dung heaps, crowing the city of Poitiers awake. Mounded under the bedclothes, Petronella slumbered, dark hair spread on the pillow. Alienor crept from the bed, careful not to wake her little sister who was always grumpy when disturbed too early. Besides, Alienor wanted these moments to herself. This was no ordinary day, and once the noise and bustle began, it would not cease.
She donned the gown folded over her coffer, pushed her feet into soft kidskin shoes and unlatched a small door in the shutters to lean out and inhale the new morning. A mild, moist breeze carried up to her the familiar scents of smoke, musty stone and freshly baked bread. Braiding her hair with nimble fingers, she admired the alternating ribbons of charcoal, oyster and gold striating the eastern skyline before drawing back with a pensive sigh.
Stealthily she lifted her cloak from its peg and tiptoed from the chamber. In the adjoining room, yawning, bleary-eyed maids were stirring from sleep. Alienor slipped past them like a sleek young vixen and, on light and silent feet, wound her way down the stairs of the great Maubergeonne Tower that housed the domestic quarters of the ducal palace.
A drowsy youth was setting out baskets of bread and jugs of wine on a trestle in the great hall. Alienor purloined a small loaf, warm from the oven, and went outside. Lanterns still shone in some huts and outbuildings. She heard the clatter of pots from the kitchens and a cook berating someone for spilling the milk. Familiar sounds that said all was well with the world, even on the cusp of change.
At the stables the grooms were preparing the horses for the journey. Ginnet, her dappled palfrey, and Morello, her sister’s glossy black pony, still waited in their stalls, but the packhorses were harnessed and carts stood ready in the yard to carry the baggage the 150 miles south from Poitiers to Bordeaux where she and Petronella were to spend the spring and summer at the Ombrière Palace overlooking the River Garonne.
Alienor offered Ginnet a piece of new bread on the flat of her hand, and rubbed the mare’s warm grey neck. ‘Papa doesn’t have to go all the way to Compostela,’ she told the horse. ‘Why can’t he stay at home with us and pray? I hate it when he goes away.’
‘Alienor.’
She jumped and, hot with guilt, faced her father, seeing immediately from his expression that he had overheard her.
He was tall and long-limbed, his brown hair patched with grey at ears and temples. Deep creases fanned from his eye corners and gaunt hollows shadowed his well-defined cheekbones. ‘A pilgrimage is a serious commitment to God,’ he said gravely. ‘This is no foolish jaunt made on a whim.’
‘Yes, Papa.’ She knew the pilgrimage was important to him, indeed necessary for the good of his soul, but she still did not want him to go. He had been different of late; reserved and more obviously burdened, and she did not understand why.
He tilted her chin on his forefinger. ‘You are my heir, Alienor; you must behave as befits the daughter of the Duke of Aquitaine, not a sulky child.’
Feeling indignant, she pulled away. She was thirteen, a year past the age of consent, and considered herself grown up, even while she still craved the security of her father’s love and presence.
‘I see you understand me.’ His brow creased. ‘While I am gone, you are the ruler of Aquitaine. Our vassals have sworn to uphold you as my successor and you must honour their faith.’