To Be Queen by Christy English Page A

the mouths of our enemies, ready to consume us and the Aquitaine both.
    â€œI taught you not to fear the dark,” Papa said.
    My father waited for me to finish. It was part of our catechism, part of the truth he had begun to teach me when I was eight years old, the year my brother died.
    â€œIn the dark, I must keep my eyes open, so that I might see whatever comes out of it.”
    How my father would have answered me I never knew, for my sister, Petra, came outside to meet us then, her women hurrying to catch her. Though she was a sweet, biddable girl, she was often restless; no one ever could keep her close and settled for longer than an hour. Petra had finished her lessons and her afternoon embroidery, and now she ran to us, her soft hair coming loose from the veil she wore.
    â€œAlienor!”
    She hugged me as if we had been separated for months and not hours. She kissed my cheek, and I took in the sweet scent of her skin. Her soft hair was blond, where mine was bronze. Though I had been named for our mother, it was Petra who favored her in looks and temperament. Her blue eyes took me in as if she knew all there was to know of me, as if she loved me anyway.
    Petra was like a little bird in my arms; she did not linger long, but flew at once to our father. She was eleven years old; in a few years, she would be old enough for marriage, but to me she still seemed very young.
    My father held her close. He met my eyes over the top of her head. I understood him as if he had spoken the words aloud. We would say nothing of our fears to her. We would keep her safe, as we always had, as I always would.
    We went inside, Petra chattering between us. Our family feasted at my father’s high table, I on one side of him, and Petra on the other. We did not linger in the hall that night, but sat up late with Petra in the room that had once been her nursery. I sent her women away, and relaxed beside her fire, my father’s hand in mine, listening to Petra’s plans for a new altar cloth, as if Papa’s cathedral at Bordeaux needed yet another one.
    Finally, even my sister’s energy tapered off, and she lay down on her feather bed.
    â€œPapa, you are going away tomorrow,” Petra said. “But you must come back. Promise me.”
    My father never lied to us, not even to offer comfort. He did not turn away, but kept his eyes on hers. “I promise that I will be careful, and do all I can to come home to you,” he said.
    As I watched, Petra’s eyes filled with tears. I squeezed her hand. Lies fell from my lips easily, even then. I would have done more than lie to comfort and protect her. “He will be back, and with us in a month’s time,” I said.
    I thought at first that Papa would contradict me, but he said only, “God willing.”
    Petra heard our father’s words, but it was my eyes she sought as she lay against her bolster. Her blue gaze pierced mine.
    â€œGod willing,” I said.
    She heard the prayer I uttered to her god, and she was satisfied. Her eyes closed then; my father and I stayed beside her, until her breathing deepened.
    Papa leaned over and kissed her, murmuring into her hair something that I could not hear. Those words were lost, for she did not hear them either; she slept without stirring.
    My father moved with me toward my own rooms. We walked alone, though we were rarely alone in our keep. His men slept on the floor of the great hall, waiting to escort him to Spain on the morrow.
    â€œI will love you always, Alienor, until the day they put me in the ground. And if the Church is right, my soul will remember you, even beyond death.”
    There were tears in my eyes, but I laughed in spite of them. “I will see you then. We will recline in hell together.”
    Papa did not speak, nor did he laugh with me. He wiped my tears away, but they fell too fast, and were too many. He could not stop them, even with his linen kerchief. He left me the soft white