To Be Queen Read Online Free PDF Page A

Christendom. With the royal armies of Paris and the cultural heritage of my father’s house, my son could become a second Charlemagne.
    My father raised me into the saddle. I had just learned to ride the summer before, and my horse was a lady’s mount, a filly with delicate bones and a light step. Someday, I would be tall enough to ride a stallion. Papa had promised me that once I could control a warhorse, he would give one to me.
    â€œIn lieu of the throne of France, today I will take you on a hunt.”
    My father gestured, and a groom stepped forward with a beautiful young falcon. Triumph rose in my breast, that Papa would trust me to hunt with such a bird. My falcon’s feathers were brown and gold, her claws sharp. I wanted to reach out and touch that beauty, but I knew that such familiarity would earn me a bite worse than the one I had given myself. I held back, and waited.
    â€œVery good, Alienor. Caution is a necessity, even for the very brave.”
    Papa mounted his own stallion and led our party out of the keep into the clean, bright air of the morning. We rode for hours over our lands, and over the field where I had seen Madeline lie down with our troubadour. My father laughed as we passed it. Whatever pain he was feeling, he would never let even me know of it again.
    My falcon brought back a sparrow fresh in her claws the first time she flew for me. She landed on my arm, as smooth and as disciplined as I was, dropping her catch deftly into my open palm. I fed her a piece of that sparrow, its hot flesh disappearing into my falcon’s beak.
    My bird turned her head to one side and looked at me. I saw myself, reflected in her eyes. I, too, would become a bird of prey. One must, to be queen.

Chapter 3
    Palace of Poitiers
    County of Poitou
Easter 1136
    Â 
    Â 
    THE PEOPLE WERE CHEERING. MY FATHER AND I STOOD JUST inside the door of the palace, listening to them. The procession to the cathedral had already begun, as it did every Easter. Only this time, the people waited to see not just the statue of the Virgin in her gold and blue paint, nor the flower-decked cross and the cloth-of-gold tympanum that sheltered it. They had come to witness the ceremony that would make me my father’s official heir.
    My younger sister, Petra, ten years old, stood with us. She was no coward, but she hid behind my shoulder, as if the people were shouting for blood and not for joy. I was fourteen now, and a woman. The cries of the people did not frighten me.
    I squeezed Petra’s hand before stepping out into the sunshine. She returned my smile, but kept close to me.
    We walked among the people, down the winding road that led to my father’s cathedral. The creamy stone of the church shone in the morning light. The old Roman basilica reminded me of the time that had come before, when the Church had been in the service of the duke. We had followed the old Roman ways during the days of Charlemagne, when the king’s law reigned supreme. Now the Church vied with my father, with all kings and lords, for power. But the basilica of my father’s cathedral reminded me of the power of the dukes of Aquitaine under Charlemagne, when the Church had known its place.
    Flowers were strewn in the path of the Virgin and before the cross, but a bounty of spring garlands was held back for me, for Petra, and for my father.
    Papa spoke close to my ear, so that only I would hear him. “Let them love God,” my father said. “But let them love you first.”
    As I moved, I saw a dark-haired man standing among the barons who walked with us. His deep brown eyes met mine, and heat rose in my cheeks. My breath came short as if I had run upstairs too quickly. I searched my memory for his name. He was the Baron Rancon, a vassal of my father’s.
    We reached the church, and I tore my eyes from his. When Papa and I stepped into the cathedral, it was as if a great hand had closed over us, blocking out the sun. I stood