‘You should write to the Pope in conciliatory terms,’ she warned.
‘I shall write to him as I see fit. I am not the one causing strife here.’ He jerked to his feet.
‘I have my flux,’ she said, choosing to deal with the bad news all at one blow.
‘Why is everything so difficult?’ He exhaled a sound filled with massive frustration. ‘What have I ever done wrong that everyone and everything conspires against me? I try to live my life as an exemplar and this is my reward: a disobedient clergy and a barren wife!’ He flung from the room, kicking over a stool on his way out.
Alienor leaned her aching head against the cool stone of the embrasure wall. The situation at Bourges need never have arisen had Louis cultivated the monks there as she had advised. Now there would be conflict and awkwardness, and Louis would stamp around in a temper, poisoning the atmosphere for everyone. Though supposedly a grown man and an anointed king, he was so childish and naive that she despaired of him.
It was late. Petronella was tipsy having drunk too much wine at the dinner feast. Next week the court was returning to Poitiers and then to Paris and the idyll was almost over. She had danced in her thin kidskin shoes until her feet were sore. Raoul claimed not to like dancing, but even so he was graceful on his feet and had been swift to step in and cut off the young bloods vying for her favours. She had laughed at the jesters until her sides ached, had joined in the songs, clapping her hands and raising her voice in harmony. Now all that was finished and people were retiring for the night, Alienor to her chamber and Louis to his prayers.
Raoul sat at the dais table with her amid the crumbs and the candles burning low. He poured more wine into his cup and just a splash into hers. Around them the servants were tidying away the trestles, stacking them against the side of the hall, but conspicuously leaving the high table alone.
‘So,’ said Raoul, ‘what shall we toast, you and I?’
‘I do not know, sire,’ she said with a flirtatious smile. ‘You are more experienced at raising toasts than I am.’
‘Then to fine wine and the beautiful women of Aquitaine.’ He raised his cup.
She frowned at him. ‘Beautiful women?’
‘To just one woman,’ he amended. ‘To the Queen’s most perfect sister.’
‘Say my name,’ she said.
‘Petronella.’
The timbre of his voice made her shiver. She raised her own cup. ‘To fine wine and strong men,’ she said. ‘And to the King’s most imperfect cousin.’ She swallowed with a long ripple of her throat.
‘Say my name,’ he responded.
‘I have said it time and again at night with only my pillow to hear.’ She ran her index finger around the rim of her cup. ‘But if your head were on my pillow, you could hear for yourself.’
He lowered his voice and glanced around at the servants. ‘That would be a very hazardous thing to do.’
She sent him a look filled with challenge. She desired this man and she would have him, just as her grandmother, the aptly named Dangereuse, had had her grandfather. The risk only added spice. They would be together under everyone’s nose, and no one would be the wiser, not even her sister, who thought she knew everything. ‘Yes, it would,’ she said. ‘It is very late and you should escort me to my chamber.’
A deliberate look passed between them, and Petronella’s loins liquefied. She was on fire with excitement and apprehension. A tiny part of her could not believe she was doing this. Another part wondered if Raoul would follow her lead, or draw back. If they crossed the line, they could not go back. When she stood up, her legs almost gave way.
Raoul moved to catch her. To the servants, it looked as if the King’s constable was assisting the Queen’s sister, who had been injudicious with the wine, and no one thought any more of it.
Instead of taking Petronella to her chamber, Raoul drew her to the gardens. Petronella leaned against him, bumping her hip against his and giggling. The night breeze was like warm, feathered fingers scented with roses and the salt tang of the ocean. 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.
Raoul took her to an arbour seat half concealed by roses and columbine and drew her into his lap. Petronella curled her arms around his neck and angled her head, inviting Raoul to kiss her. He lowered his lips to hers, parted them, and showed her what to do.
Desire wound through her blood like strong wine. She pressed herself against him, giving herself up to the delicious sensations he was creating with his mouth and fingers. But then he stopped. His hand was under her skirts, against the soft skin of her bare thigh, where he had been lightly stroking her in a way she could hardly bear. ‘Go on,’ she gasped, pushing her hips forward, rocking on him. ‘Go on!’
‘If I do,’ he said, ‘you know there is no turning back. We are bound to whatever fate deals us from this.’
Petronella felt swollen with lust, but hollow too, desperate for his love and attention – for his hard male body. That was all that mattered. She would deal with the consequences later. ‘No one need know if we are careful!’ she gasped.
Raoul knew all about being careful. He had had decades of practice during the various affairs he had conducted. He had a slight conscience about Petronella, but it wasn’t enough to subjugate his lust or his drive as a sexual predator. She was beautiful, desirable, wild, but innocent and full of a hunger he well recognised, because it was a part of himself.
He lifted her to straddle him. ‘Gently,’ he said. ‘Go gently, my heart. A little, and then a little more.’
Petronella closed her eyes and bit her lip. There was pain, but it was bearable, and there was pleasure, which wasn’t because it was so exquisite that it was like pain. She knew Louis and Alienor would never experience anything like this. This was hers alone, and that made it all the more wonderful. It was very wrong, but how could it be wrong when it felt so right? And then she didn’t think at all and let the moment carry her, each of them inside the other as she had imagined. As she shuddered in her crisis, she bit the collar of his tunic to prevent herself from crying out. Raoul gripped her, gave three more strong thrusts and lifted her up on the next surge to spill himself outside her body.
As she collapsed on him, Raoul threw back his head, gasping. His heart slammed against his ribcage. He hadn’t felt this raw excitement since he was a green youth with his first woman.
Petronella giggled breathlessly. ‘I want to do it again,’ she said with shining eyes.
He looked dubious, but chuckled. ‘Not tonight, doucette. People will be wondering where we are. A stroll for some fresh air should not take until dawn, and we are probably already at the limit. Besides, I need time to recover even if you do not.’
‘But tomorrow …?’ She leaned forward and kissed him, proving how fast a learner she was.
He cupped his hand at the back of her head, and returned the kiss with slow thoroughness. ‘We’ll see what can be arranged.’
He had a napkin with him from the feast, and he used it to wipe away the evidence of their lovemaking from her thighs and between her legs.
‘Give it to me,’ Petronella said. ‘I will put it on the fire.’
He handed it to her and assisted her to her feet. She shook out her gown before turning to kiss him again, loving the feel of his stubble against her tender skin and the firmness of his hands at her waist.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘Time to be a demure young lady in the eyes of the court.’
Petronella gave a mock yawn. ‘The fresh air has done me good; I think I shall sleep well tonight, very well indeed.’