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The eighth of August was a hot and heady day that began just like any other. Louis and I woke late and lingered in bed. We made love and then the servants brought us a midmorning meal of fruit and pastries. Then we dressed—I in a loose muslin gown and Louis in a light silk outfit. He took his parchment and charcoal with him and we went to the banks of the Clain to stay cool. There we were joined by Petronilla and Jaufre and other friends where we lounged and talked and dreamed.
In late afternoon, a messenger on horseback arrived with an urgent message for Louis. His father had died.
"Poor Louis. My darling Louis." I folded him into my arms as he wept. Our companions dispersed to give us privacy. "How can I help you to feel better?"
"Eleanor," he sneered at me. I was taken aback by the cruel tone with which he had uttered my name. The serious northern look returned to his eyes, after I had spent so long to rid him of it. "You can do nothing to make me feel better. I am king now. Do you understand that? I am king, and we must return north and get back to real life. No more of this ridiculous lazy Poitivin living. We leave for Paris tonight." He stood and took the horse from the messenger, leaving me alone.
Petronilla—God bless her—had not wandered far. She hid behind a tree and revealed herself once my husband departed. "Petra, I have to go to Paris tonight. Did you hear? Isn't it dreadful?"
She took my hand and clucked in sympathy. "It won't be terrible, my dear sister, because I'll be with you and we'll make it wonderful. We'll bring as many friends as we can! Let's go spread the word—everyone must hurry if we're leaving tonight!"
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