Captive Queen by Alison Weir Page B

brother.”
    “That young idiot? He’s still wet behind the ears, surely. Well, my good angel, for that you certainly are, we will disappoint him of his quarry. My lords!” Eleanor turned to the two counts, who were waiting grim-faced in their saddles. “What do you suggest?”
    “We should swing south, madame, to where we can ford the Vienne, and then make a dash across country for Poitiers.”
    “That makes sense,” Eleanor agreed, as the others voiced their approval of the plan, and the weary Archbishop craved leave to make his own way to Bordeaux. Having bidden the old man a quick, affectionate farewell, she wheeled around her horse and spurred it on, smiling to herself as she imagined young Geoffrey’s fury when he discovered that she had eluded him. How enraged Henry would be when he learned that his little brother had plotted to supplant him!
     
     
     

6
     
Poitiers, 1152
     
     
       As the flat swaths of the Loire Valley had given way to the great plain of Poitou with its lush countryside, scattered castles, solid Romanesque churches, and stone longhouses with red-tiled roofs, Eleanor’s sense of elation burgeoned. It was the sight of those red tiles that had first moved her. You never saw such things in the dreary North. Soon, she would be home!
    She had loosed her hair, as a gesture to her newly unwed status, and luxuriated in it streaming behind her in the warm wind that blew across from the Atlantic sea, which lay some miles to the west. Straight-backed she rode, her eager eyes on the road ahead, the road that led to her city of Poitiers. It could not be far now. She had donned her crimson
bliaut
with its fitted bodice and sweeping, gold-embroidered skirts and topped it off with a splendid blue mantle for her homecoming. And yes, there it was ahead, majestic on its promontory above the River Clain, her fair city! Here, the Romans had come in ancient times; here, Charles Martel had vanquished the Saracens long centuries before; here, in a fine church within the walls, lay the blessed relics of St. Radegonde, the queenly patron saint of Poitiers. And there were her people, bursting through the gates, clamoring to greet her, their duchess come back to her own.
    How they cheered as she trotted at the head of her escort through the packed streets, her standard going before her! They called down blessings on her for her beauty, because she was one of them, and because she had booted out the hated French. As she was carried into the great cathedral of St. Pierre, there to give thanks for her safe homecoming, Eleanor vowed to herself that, with God’s help, she would henceforth dedicate her life to her people, and never again subject them to the hateful rule of a foreigner.
     
     
       After mass on Easter Sunday, the duchess made her way in procession to the spacious ducal apartments in the Maubergeonne Tower of the palace of Poitiers, and took her place in the high chair of her ancestors in the circular council chamber. Colorful banners hung high on the sandy stone walls, which had been crudely painted with scenes of long-past battles. The chief vassals of Aquitaine, who had gathered for the festival at the duchess’s summons, seated themselves at the long table before her.
    Their eyes were on her, their newly returned duchess; they were waiting to find out what she would be like as their liege lady, and—more importantly—whom she would marry. None of them had even considered the possibility of her ruling alone: she was a woman, and women were weak creatures, not fit to wield dominion over men. Yet she was her father’s daughter and they were loyal to her, most of them after their fashion, and would remain so provided she did not take a husband who would subvert their autonomy and interfere too much in the affairs of the duchy. Having just gotten rid of the hated French, they were unwilling to stomach another foreign interloper. But the duchess must marry and bear heirs, of course, and she must