The Summer Queen (Eleanor of Aquitaine, #1)

by Elizabeth Chadwick

She heard the clatter of pots from the kitchens and a cook berating someone for spilling the milk. Familiar sounds that said all was well with the world, even on the cusp of change.

A jongleur started to sing to the accompaniment of a small harp and Alienor recognized the words of her grandfather, William, the ninth Duke of Aquitaine, who had reveled in a notorious reputation. Many of his songs were sexual in content, unsettling in their rawness and unfit for the bower, but this particular one was plangent and haunting and sent a shiver down Alienor’s spine. “I know not when I am asleep or awake Unless someone tells me. My heart is nearly bursting with a deep sorrow, But I care not a fig about it, By Saint Martial!”

The language of power was exercised in more than just words. It was presence and thought; it was gesture and timing. He had illuminated her way and taught her to stand in her own light, but today she felt as if she had entered a land of shadows.

They reached open ground and Alienor heeled Ginnet’s flanks, giving her free rein. Gofrid increased pace with her and dust rose like white smoke from the burn of hooves over the baked earth. She felt the warm wind in her face and inhaled the pungent scent of wild thyme as it was crushed under the mare’s speed. Harsh summer light dazzled her eyes and, for an instant, her cares dissipated in the euphoria of the race, of being alive, her blood singing in her veins. Everything within her that had felt tight and constricted opened wide and filled her with vigorous emotion as hot and strong as the sun.

The awning shaded the party as the crew began to pull back across the water, but unlike her sister, Alienor felt as if she were watching an invasion rather than the joyful approach of a bridegroom and his retinue.

“Sire,” she said, kneeling again, and from that position lifted her eyes to his. They were the mutable color of the ocean, full of truth and intelligence, and Louis felt as if his heart had been set upon an anvil and struck into a different shape with a single blow.

She drew Petronella to sit on the old stone bench by the pond where they had so often sat in childhood, and together they watched the fireflies twinkle in and out like hopes in the darkness.

Occasionally she felt the soft pressure of a crushed rose underfoot, and it seemed almost like a portent.

cantankerous harridan.

Anger and humiliation burned in Alienor’s breast. How dare this walking cadaver insult her?

Her father had a hunting preserve at Talmont where he kept his precious white gyrfalcons, virile symbol of the Dukes of Aquitaine, and the fiercest birds of prey in Christendom. She could remember standing in the soft darkness of the mews, her wrist weighted down by one of them, its scimitar talons gripping the leather glove, its eyes like obsidian jewels. And then carrying the bird into the open and casting her aloft to fly in a jingle of silver bells and sharp white wings. That had been a delicious moment of power.

Petronella thought she could hear the roar of the waves, or perhaps it was just the surge of blood in her veins. Above them the full moon was a swollen silver disc in a sky of luminous dark blue.

Alienor’s smile did not reach her eyes because having something that meant everything was a double-edged sword. It meant you had so much more to lose.

Alienor let the words flow over her, imagining she was protected inside an impervious glass bubble where nothing could do her harm.

Alienor watched with trepidation as her groom took her dappled gelding. The current was not particularly swift, but the river was muddy and turbid and her mind filled with images of an aquatic monster dragging horse and rider under. She had read stories in bestiaries about such creatures. Crocodiles for certain. Were there crocodiles in Hungary?

Dawn was flushing the eastern horizon and in the strengthening light the camp resembled a kicked ants’ nest.

Alienor closed her eyes and felt the healer woman’s hand at her brow, cool-palmed and soothing. She dreamed again of Aquitaine, of Bordeaux and Belin, of the roar of the ocean at Talmont. Of Poitiers and the deep green forests of the Limousin uplands. She flew above them on outspread wings like a white gyrfalcon, and her feathers were as cold as snow. The bird’s hunting cry pierced the frozen blue air, and she woke with a sudden gasp. For a moment she lay blinking, uncertain where she was, for the pure, cold blue had vanished and the air she breathed now was dark and scented with spices. She could see the young woman grinding herbs by the soft glow of an oil lamp. As Alienor strove to sit up, she put down the pestle and mortar and came to her side.

For three more nights, as she recovered, Alienor had the eagle dream. It was always a jolt to awaken and find herself in the dark confines of her tent rather than soaring above the world, but each time the dream came, she felt stronger and more sure of herself.

You may wrap a turd in gold, but it remains a turd nevertheless.”

“Why is Greek wine not to your palate?” “Because it goes down so smoothly and only kicks you later,” Gisela said. Alienor had to nod at her sagacity.

The cloud on this side of the mountain was sparse, and the stars shone like chips of rock crystal in the bitter night.

Alienor gazed at the sun sparkle on the sea as the Sicilian galley plowed white furrows through the deep sapphire water. A stiff breeze filled the sails and they were making swift headway toward their intended destination of Calabria. The cook was frying freshly caught sardines on deck and preparing to serve them with hot flat bread flavored with garlic and thyme.

The imprinted wax bore the image of a slender woman in a dress with hanging sleeves. A falcon perched on her left wrist and she held a lily in her right hand.

“Forewarned is forearmed.