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that they were pale shadows of herself, and she might shine the more because of this. The young men must all be in love with her, yearn for her favours and be ready to die for them, and she would be gracious or remote; and never must their passion waver. They must write their verses, sing their songs to her; they must mingle talent with desire. She was determined that the court of France must be the most elegant in the world.
    There was Petronelle growing up very quickly like a forced flower in this over-heated atmosphere. Men made verses and sang their songs to her for after all she was almost as beautiful as Eleonore, and was her sister.
    How much more exciting it was to live at the court of France than that of Aquitaine, to be a Queen instead of the heiress of a Duke, providing he did not get himself a son.
    It had worked out very well.
    Petronelle, following Eleonore in all things, was growing more and more impatient of her youth.
    ‘We should find a husband for Petronelle,’ said Eleonore to the King.
    ‘Why, she is a child yet,’ said Louis. Poor blind Louis, thought Eleonore, the King who knew so little!
    ‘Some reach maturity earlier than others. Methinks Petronelle has reached hers.’
    ‘Think you so then? Mayhap you should talk to her, prepare her. She should be awakened gradually to what taking a husband would mean. It could be a shock for an innocent girl.’
    Eleonore smiled but she did not tell him of the conversations she and Petronelle had together, and had had for many years. Petronelle was no innocent. A virgin perhaps but how long would she remain so if they did not get her married?
    Louis judged others by himself. His innocence was attractive to her … at this time … though she had begun to wonder whether it would pall. Sometimes her gaze would stray to older men, men experienced, with many an amorous adventure behind them, and she was just a little impatient with the naivety of her husband. But it still amused her to be the leader in their relationship, to lure him to passion of which he would never have believed himself capable.
    So she did not enlighten him about Petronelle. At the same time she believed it was time to find a husband for her sister.

    Petronelle was not of a nature to wait for others to arrange her affairs.
    Like her sister she loved the sensuous strumming of the musical instruments and the languorous words hinting at love.
    To be young was frustrating. It always had been. And having a fascinating sister such as Eleonore did not help her to bear her lot more easily.
    Eleonore had promised her that she would find a husband for her, but the King thought she was too young as yet.
    ‘Too young,’ groaned Petronelle. ‘The King believes everyone to be as cold-blooded as himself.’
    ‘Have patience, little sister,’ cautioned Eleonore. ‘I am not of that opinion. I know that if we do not give you a husband soon you will take a lover. But have a care. It is always wiser to have a husband first. That would seem to entitle you to lovers. But a lover first … I believe that might be a little shocking.’
    ‘You are always singing of love,’ cried Petronelle. ‘What is the use of that?’
    Eleonore could only repeat her caution, adding: ‘Have patience.’
    She herself had little of that useful virtue. She wanted excitement. Was she growing tired of holding court, of spending her nights with her serious young husband?
    While she was pondering on how soon she could find a suitable husband for Petronelle and get the girl safely married, there were signs of unrest in the country. She had always been interested in increasing her power and the elevation from Duchess to Queen had enthralled her. It had been the dream of many a King of France to extend his territory throughout the entire country. Normandy, of course, was firmly in the hands of the King of England - well, perhaps not firmly, for the Count of Anjou would never accept the fact that it did not belong to his wife,