The Summer Queen Read Free

Gofrid wished the girls were older and more tempered by experience. He did not want to see their bright natures become corrupted and tarnished by the grime of the world, but knew it was bound to happen.
    Alienor removed her cloak and draped it over her father’s chair. His scent and presence lingered in his chamber because he had left everything behind when he set out from the cathedral, clad in his penitent’s robe of undyed wool, plain sandals on his feet and coarse bread in his satchel. She and Petronella had walked a few miles with him in procession, before returning to Bordeaux with the Archbishop. Petronella had chattered all the way, filling the void with her animated voice and swift gestures, but Alienor had ridden in silence and on arriving home had slipped away to be alone.
    She moved around the room, touching this and that. The eagle motif carved into the back of his chair, the ivory box containing strips of parchment, and the little horn and silver pot holding his quill pens and styli. She paused beside his soft blue cloak with the squirrel lining. A single strand of hair glinted on the shoulder. She lifted a fold of the garment and pressed it to her face, taking it into herself as she had not taken in his final, scratchy embrace on the road because she had been so angry with him. She had ridden away on Ginnet and not looked back. Petronella had hugged him hard in her stead, and departed with bright farewells enough for them both.
    Alienor’s eyes grew sore and hot and she blotted her tears on the cloak. It was only until Easter and then he would be home. He had been away many times before – only last year on battle campaign in Normandy with Geoffrey le Bel, Count of Anjou, and there had been far more danger in that than walking a pilgrim road.
    She sat on the chair and, resting her hands on the arms, put herself in the position of lady of Aquitaine, dispensing judgement and wisdom. From early childhood she had been educated to think and to rule. The spinning and weaving lessons, the gentler feminine pursuits, had only been the background to the serious matter of learning and ideas. Her father loved to see her dressed in fine clothes and jewels, he approved of womanly pursuits, and femininity; but he had also treated her as his surrogate son. She had ridden with him on progress through the wide lands of Aquitaine, from the foothills of the Pyrenees to the flat coastlands in the west, with their lucrative salt pans between Bordeaux and the bustling port of Niort. From the vines of Cognac and the forests of Poitou, to the hills, lush river valleys and fine riding country of the Limousin. She had been at his side when he took the homage of his vassals, many of whom were turbulent, quarrelsome men, eager for their own gain, but acknowledging her father’s suzerainty. She had absorbed her lessons by watching how he dealt with them. 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.
    The door opened and the Archbishop walked into the room. He had exchanged his elaborate mitre for a plain felt cap and his magnificent outer garments for an ordinary brown habit girded with a simple knotted belt. Tucked under his arm was a carved ivory box. ‘I thought I would find you here, daughter,’ he said.
    Alienor felt a little resentful, but said nothing. She could hardly tell the Archbishop of Bordeaux to go away, and a small, forlorn part of her wanted to cling to him, even as she had wanted to cling to her father.
    He set the box down on a table beside her chair and lifted the lid. ‘Your father asked me to give you this,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you remember it from when you were small.’ From a lining of soft white fleece, he produced a pear-shaped vase fashioned of clear rock crystal, the surface intricately worked in a