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own. ‘Do you think I am not heartsick and scared? The one thing we have in this is each other. I will always care for you.’
    Petronella hesitated, and in one of her volatile changes of mood, flung herself into Alienor’s arms, hugging her with ferocity and weeping. ‘I don’t want you to go away.’
    ‘I won’t.’ Alienor stroked Petronella’s hair, tears spilling down her face.
    ‘Swear it.’
    Alienor crossed herself. ‘I swear it on my soul. I won’t let anything part us. Come now.’ Sniffing, wet-faced, she helped Petronella unpick the knot.
    ‘What … what does Louis of France look like?’
    Alienor shrugged and wiped her eyes. ‘I do not know. He was destined for the Church until his older brother died, so at least he will have some learning.’ She also knew that his father was called Louis the Fat and her vision kept filling with the sickening image of an overweight pasty youth. She heaved a pensive sigh. ‘It was Papa’s wish and he must have had his reasons. We must do our duty and obey his will. We have no other choice.’

5
Bordeaux, July 1137
    In the stultifying heat of early July the arrangements for the arrival of the French bridegroom and his army continued apace. News came to Bordeaux that Louis had reached Limoges in time to celebrate the feast of Saint Martial on 30 June. He had taken the homage of the Count of Toulouse and those barons of the Limousin who had come to tender their fealty as news of the impending wedding spread across Alienor’s lands. Now, accompanied by Alienor’s vassals, the French cavalcade had set out on the final stage of its journey.
    From cellar to turret, Bordeaux prepared for Louis’s arrival. Hostels were swept out and decorated with banners and garlands. Cartloads of supplies rolled into the city from the surrounding countryside, together with herds and flocks for the slaughter. Seamstresses toiled over yards of pale gold cloth of escarlet, sewing a wedding gown fit for their new duchess and a future queen of France. The train was hemmed with hundreds of pearls and the sleeves swept from wrist to ankle with decorative golden hooks to loop them back should they get in the way.
    In the dawn of a baking July morning, Alienor attended church to confess and be shriven. On her return, her women robed her in a gown of ivory damask, the gold laces pulled tight to emphasise her slender waist. A jewelled cap covered the top of her head, but her burnished hair remained exposed, the thick strands woven with metallic ribbons. Her nails were pink with madder stain and had been buffed until they gleamed. Alienor felt as if she had been polished to a shine just like the silver-gilt cups intended for the marriage feast.
    Through the open shutters the sky was a pure summer blue. Doves circled the red tiled roof of the palace cote and the river sparkled like a treasure chest in the morning heat. Alienor gazed at the French tents on the far bank, arrayed like clusters of exotic mushrooms. Louis and his army had arrived shortly before dusk yesterday, and had made camp as the sun sank over the limpid waters of the Garonne. The pale canvases of the ordinary troops marked the French periphery, while the centre blazed with the bright silks and golden finials of the high nobility and the Church. She fixed her eyes on the largest pavilion of them all: lapis blue and powdered gold with the red oriflamme banner fluttering in the hot breeze outside its open flaps. She could see men coming and going but had no idea if one of them was her prospective husband.
    All along the riverbank, small boats and barges plied their trade, rowing supplies of food and drink to the host on the far bank. A deputation of vessels sculled out towards the French encampment, the oars making white dashes in the water. Banners decorated the lead barge, which was draped with a canvas awning to shade its occupants from the sun, and she could see the figure of Archbishop Gofrid standing near the prow. They were on