Be jubilant, O Poitou!

For the scepter of the King of the North Wind

Is drawing away from you!

Deeply moved, Eleanor turned to Raoul de Faye.

“We cannot ignore the voice of our people,” she murmured. “It further strengthens my conviction that opposing Henry is the right thing to do.”

“I think many of us have been waiting a long time for you to come to that conclusion, Eleanor,” Raoul said with a gentle smile. She gripped his hand.

“Will you go to Paris for me?” she asked. “Will you be my envoy, and convey a personal message from me to Louis, thanking him for his support for my sons, and begging him to have a care for their safety? He will appreciate such a personal gesture, and while you are there, you can send me word of my young lords’ welfare, and perhaps contrive to have some say in making decisions.”

“I will go with pleasure,” Raoul agreed. “I will be the voice of the Duchess of Aquitaine. You may depend on me.”

Raoul had gone, but now there came a letter, bearing the seal of Archbishop Rotrou of Rouen. What business had he, the Primate of Normandy, to be writing to her, Eleanor? Then fear gripped her. Could the Archbishop have written to tell her that something terrible had befallen one of her sons? With trembling fingers she cracked open the seal and read, her jaw dropping in horror.

Rotrou had begun courteously enough: “Pious Queen, most illustrious Queen …” But then he had gone on immediately to deplore that she, hitherto a prudent wife, had parted from her husband. That was not what appalled her—she could deal with sanctimonous platitudes any day! It was the Archbishop’s accusation that she had made the fruits of her union with the King rise up against their father. It was terrible, such conduct, he fulminated, before going on to warn her that unless she returned to her husband at once, she would be the cause of the general ruin of Christendom.

He knew! Henry knew of her betrayal. He had made Rotrou, his Archbishop, write this letter, there could be no doubt of it. But how had he found out? Everything had been planned in secret. Had her letter to Louis been intercepted? Worse still, had Raoul been taken on the road and forced to confess what he knew? Worst of all, had Henry planted spies at her court? She tried to recall the names and appearances of those who had recently joined her household, and remembered that before he left, the King had appointed four of her Poitevin countrymen to her chancery. She could not think there had been anything sinister about that, but one never knew with Henry. He was a suspicious man. Of course, it might not be the Poitevins at all, but one familiar to her, who could have been suborned into turning his coat. That was a chilling thought. Yet maybe her imagination was running away with her—Louis could well have implicated her in a letter to Henry.

Shaking, she read on, casting her eyes over pious exhortations to return with her sons to the husband whom she was bound to obey and with whom it was her duty to live. “Return, lest he mistrust you or your sons!” the Archbishop cried. Well, clearly, Henry did already mistrust her and their sons. She did not believe Rotrou’s assurance that her lord would in every possible way show her his love and grant her the assurance of perfect safety. This was the man who had sworn to kill her if she betrayed him! If she did as she was bid, she might be walking straight into a trap.

The letter continued: “Bid your sons be obedient and devoted to their father, who for their sakes has undergone so many difficulties, run so many dangers, undertaken so many labors.” Might she infer, from this, that Henry did not yet know that she had sent the boys to the court of his enemy, Louis? It seemed to assume that they were still with her in Poitiers. If so, the King could not realize the full extent of her perfidy, as he would see it.

Then came the threat. If she did not return to her lord, Rotrou warned, he himself would be forced to resort to canon law and bring the censure of the Church to bear on her. He wrote this, he protested, with great reluctance, and would do it only with grief and tears—unless, of course, she returned to her senses.

With what exactly was he threatening her? she wondered, feeling a little faint. Divorce? That had once held no terrors for her, but then she had been the one to happily instigate the process. It was bound to be a less happy experience when one was the person being divorced, especially as she knew she had much to lose, including her children. And the consequences for the Angevin empire would be dire indeed.

But the “censure of the Church” sounded worse than divorce, although it might imply that too.

Excommunication. The terrible, dreaded anathema. To be cut off from God Himself, from the Church and all its consolations and fellowship, from all Christians, cast out friendless from the community, and condemned to eternal damnation. Surely Henry would never go so far? It was the thing he himself had most dreaded throughout the long quarrel with Becket.

She couldnot go back to Henry. Very soon, he would find out that she had sent their sons, and Raoul de Faye, to his enemy, Louis—if he had not learned that already. Even if she set out now, she would probably not reach the King ahead of that intelligence. And with proof of her treachery, Henry might very well carry out his threat to kill her. For her children’s sake, and her own, she dared not return to him, not even at the risk of excommunication.

It dawned on her suddenly that she was not safe here, even in her own Aquitaine. Henry might have his hands full with his sons’ rebellion, and war on all sides, but he would surely send men after her—and then what?

She must leave. She must get to Paris as soon as she could. She had never thought that one day she would be eager to seek refuge from Henry with her former husband, but now realized that Louis was the only one who could offer her protection.

She summoned the captain of her guard and ordered him to have a small escort party made ready. The fewer they were in number, the faster they could travel. Then she gathered together her ladies, Torqueri, Florine, and Mamille, the three of her women whom she loved the best, who had been with her for years, and whom she would have trusted with her life; and she told them of her predicament.

“It is your choice entirely, whether or not you come with me. If you choose not to, I am not so handless that I cannot shift for myself, so do not trouble yourselves about that. I should welcome your company, of course, but this is flight, not a pleasure jaunt, and I cannot guarantee your safety, or when you will be able to return.”

“I’m coming,” said Mamille without hesitation.

“You may depend on me,” Torqueri added.

“Did you need to ask?” Florine smiled. Eleanor hugged them all gratefully.

There was no time to lose. They packed hurriedly, taking only what was essential and could fit into saddlebags. Then they hastened downstairs and emerged into the May sunlight. Eleanor could not help looking around her at the dear, familiar surroundings of her palace and its beautiful gardens, just then bursting into bloom, and wondering when she would see it all again. But there was no time for sentiment. The horses and men-at-arms were waiting, and they had to make haste. Their departure went almost unnoticed, for they looked to all appearances as if they were off to visit a religious house or the castle of a local lord. Four men alone, watching from a tower window, registered that the duchess was leaving and that this might be a matter worth reporting to their masters.

Once clear of Poitiers, Eleanor and her party broke into a gallop and rode hard in a northeasterly direction, as if the hounds of Hell were at their heels—as well they might be, Eleanor thought grimly. She and her ladies were all expert horsewomen, and in other circumstances the ride would have been exhilarating fun, but Eleanor was in fear that they would at any moment be intercepted or ambushed. She had been so hell-bent on fleeing that there was no time to send word of their coming ahead to Louis, and anyway, no fast messenger could have covered the long distance as rapidly as they were doing now. They were bound for the Loire crossing at Tours, then for Orléans, whence it was seventy miles to Paris.