Captive Queen by Alison Weir Page A

darkness, and realized that they must be flares on the château ramparts. There was a bridge across the Loire at Blois, and that was the place they were making for.
    “God grant we may cross the bridge unobserved,” Eleanor muttered.
    “Madame,” Torqueri said fearfully, her soft voice barely audible on the night wind, “none of us will rest easy until you are safely back in Poitiers.”
    Poitiers! Eleanor thrilled again at the name. Home. To be home at last would be bliss indeed. And when Henry kept his promise … She shuddered, seized with another tremor of unbidden desire. She did not fear the dangers of the journey. She would get home safely, she
must
get home … She felt herself invincible.
    They had brought food to eat on the road. Some hours ago she had feasted by the wayside on cold capon, white bread, and the rich, sweet wine of the region. A simple meal, but delicious fare, appreciated all the more because she was in such a good mood. She was hungry at this moment, but willing to ignore the emptiness in her belly. Food was not her priority just now; they could buy more on the morrow. For the present, they must make all speed.
    They were nearing Blois. Above them loomed the dark outline of the Tour de Foix, standing sentinel above the River Loire. There was a horseman galloping toward them in the dim light. It was one of the scouts who had been sent ahead to spy out the land. His mount was lathered with sweat.
    “Lady,” he said breathlessly, bowing low in the saddle. “Go no farther! There is a band of armed men riding this way. They bear the device of Count Thibaut of Blois.”
    “Perchance my Lord Count wishes to pay his respects and offer us hospitality,” Eleanor replied, a mischievous smile playing about her lips, since she knew that to be most unlikely, for there was bad blood between their families. But that was in the past, and supposedly forgiven and forgotten. They were all meant to be friends now.
    “Nay, lady, by their words, which I overheard, they are planning to lie in wait for us. They were saying something about Count Thibaut having plans for you.”
    “Does he indeed?” she replied grimly. “Of course, he is a widower, so I can well imagine what they are. You have done gallantly to warn me.”
    The lords and the captains were eager to be gone; their taut faces betrayed their alarm. This was what they had feared. “Madame, we cannot risk the bridge. We must go by another way,” the Count of Angoulême urged.
    “À moi!”
Eleanor cried, as her forebears had done many times in the field of battle, and spurred her horse, knowing they must hurry and get away from this place if they wished to avoid disaster. She had no mind to end her days as the Countess of Blois.
     
     
       Moving by stealth along the river banks, one of Eleanor’s captains came upon a barge tethered to a jetty, which he gleefully appropriated. Huddled together in the sanctuary it offered, and almost crushed by such baggage as they could squeeze into the remaining space, Eleanor and her companions uttered not a word as the craft glided swiftly along the river, making its silent way toward Tours. Only when dawn broke did they relax enough to begin a debate as to which way they should now take.
    “Let us make south for the Vienne, and cross the Creuse at Port-de-Piles,” Eleanor decided. On the other bank, the men-at-arms were waiting with the Archbishop, having been permitted to cross the bridge at Blois after convincing the guards they were merely escorting His Grace back to his diocese.
    The further south they rode from the Loire, the safer Eleanor felt. But as they neared Port-de-Piles, another scout came hastening toward them.
    “Go no farther, lady!” he cried. “There is an ambush lying in wait for you ahead.”
    “God’s teeth!” Eleanor swore, as the Archbishop winced. “Another fortune hunter! Who is it this time?”
    “I fear it is young Geoffrey of Anjou, lady, Duke Henry’s