Captive Queen by Alison Weir Read Free Book Online

them of their mother?” Eleanor persisted.
    “They will have a stepmother before long. You said that I must remarry, remember? And I will be expected to, for the sake of the succession.”
    “I realize that, but they are my children too!” Eleanor cried. “Do not deprive me of them, I beg of you.”
    “Eleanor, you know, as do I, that this is not about consanguinity,” Louis replied sadly. “You want your freedom, I have long been aware of that. Who is doing the depriving here?”
    “I never intended that, God knows,” she sobbed, sinking to her knees. “I know you love our girls.” They were both weeping now.
    “As usual, you never think things through, Eleanor,” Louis said, resisting the urge to kneel down and comfort her. “You just act impetuously, causing a lot of grief. I loved you—God help me, I love you still—and I feel for you. But on this issue I will not—nay, I cannot—bend. Princesses of France must be reared in France. The people would expect it. Besides, you left Marie for more than two years to go on the crusade. You insisted on coming with me, as I recall.”
    “It grieved me to leave her, you must believe that. But I
had
to accompany you, Louis. My vassals would not accept you as their leader. Besides, I rarely saw Marie anyway. She did not need me. Neither of my daughters needs me. It is I who need time to get to know them, to make up to them for what I have not been.”
    “Alas, I cannot grant you that,” Louis said. “Be realistic, and understand my position.” There was a pause, a heartbeat as his gaze held hers. “You could always reconsider.”
    “You know that I cannot,” Eleanor told him. She was trembling. The prospects of her freedom, her return to Aquitaine, and a life with Henry of Anjou, not to mention the manifold benefits their marriage would bring, were too precious to her to give them up, but she had now been made devastatingly aware of just how high a price she was to pay for them. Desperately, she conjured up Henry’s leonine face in her mind, trying to blot out the plaintive image of those two sweet, fair-haired little girls.
    Louis shook his head. “What a mess. We made our marriage with such high hopes.”
    “We did our best,” Eleanor consoled, her mind still fixed fervently on Henry. “But God’s law must prevail.”
    “I will speak to my bishops,” Louis said wearily. “Then we must attend to the practicalities.”
    “You mean the transfer of Aquitaine to me?” Eleanor snapped.
    “Yes. There will be a peaceful withdrawal of my royal officials and French garrisons. We will go there together and oversee it. Your vassals shall attend you.”
    “All those defenses you built must be dismantled,” Eleanor insisted. “My people resent them.”
    “It shall be done,” Louis agreed.
    Eleanor rose and went to look out of the narrow window—barely more than an arrow slit—across the broad Seine and the huddled rooftops of Paris. Above them, the inky sky was studded with stars—those same stars under which Henry of Anjou was living, breathing, waiting … She caught her breath suddenly, certain she had made the right decision. She must suppress her sadness, for there was no other way for her. Her daughters were well cared for and would barely miss her; she must love them from a distance, as she always had—except the distance would be farther. Her own future was mapped out by destiny, and there was no escaping it, even if she wanted to. She had only to contain herself in patience for some while longer, and in the meantime she would be returning to Aquitaine, to reclaim her great inheritance. She was going home, home to the sweet, lush lands of the South, the lands of mighty rivers and verdant hills, of rich wines and fields of sunflowers; where people spoke her native tongue, the
langue d’oc
, which would sound as music after the clumsy, outlandish dialect they spoke in the North. She could not wait to be once more among her own people,