They stayed for five days and nights at the castle and during that time she found an opportunity of asking him.

It was growing late; the logs burning in the centre of the great hall glowed red; many of the guests were nodding drowsily, sitting on stone seats which here and there formed part of the wall, or on the oak chests which contained some of the Count’s treasures but which served as seats on occasions such as this.

Eleanor said to the Count: ‘You sing of one lady always do you not? Or perhaps there are several. But you sing always of her fair looks and her purity and remoteness. Is there just one, or do you sing to an ideal?’

‘To one and to an ideal,’ he answered.

‘So she does indeed exist.’

‘Yes she does.’

‘And she does not love you?’

‘She does not love me.’

‘Perhaps one day she will.’

‘She will never glance my way. She is a great lady. She is far from me … and always will be.’

‘Who is she? Is it a secret?’

He looked at her quizzically. ‘You believe that you could lure a man to betray himself, do you not?’

‘I had not thought of it,’ she denied.

‘Ah, you have charm enough, my lady. Look at me. I am not a romantic figure, am I? Do you know what one poet wrote of me? I’ll tell you. You see I was sighing for my love, yearning to clasp her in my arms and this is the song that was written:

‘“Sir, you have done well.

To gaze on your beloved;

Your fat and puffy belly

Would prevent your reaching her.”’

Eleanor began to laugh.

‘There, you see,’ he murmured. ‘You, too, mock me.’

‘Nay,’ she cried. ‘That is not so. I think your lady might love you for the words you write of her. You give her immortal life for she will be known for ever through your songs.’

‘She is one who does not need my songs for that. She will live through her deeds.’

‘So she is a lady of high rank.’

‘The highest.’

‘You mean the Queen.’

‘God help me, yes. The Queen.’

Eleanor blushed scarlet. Marguerite! she thought.

He read her thoughts at once and cried: ‘No. No. It is not the young Queen. She is but a child. It is Blanche … the incomparable Blanche … the White Queen with her gleaming fair hair and her white skin and her purity.’

‘She must be very old. She is the mother of the King of France.’

‘Beauty such as hers is ageless,’ murmured the Count.

Then he strummed on his lute and once again began to sing softly of his lady.

Eager as she was for her marriage, Eleanor was sorry to leave Champagne. Thibaud insisted on joining the party and accompanying it to the French frontier. So with much pomp and extravagance they set out. The people from the villages came out of their cottages to gape at the magnificence which they would remember ever after. In due course they were at the French frontier and there Thibaud took his leave of them.

Eleanor regretted his going but the excitement of meeting her sister made her soon forget him. For there was Marguerite – changed since her childhood in Provence, the Queen of France and beside her King Louis.

The Count and Countess were overcome with emotion at the sight of their beautiful daughter and her husband. They were indeed a handsome pair. Marguerite, no longer the very young girl who had left her home, had grown into a queen. There was an air of regality about her which deeply touched her parents and made them very proud.

Eleanor noticed it and rejoiced that life was giving her a role as exalted as her sister’s.

As all must be she was deeply impressed by Louis and could not help wondering if Henry would be like him. He towered above his companions and as he was also very slender he appeared to be even taller than he actually was. His very fair hair made him conspicuous; and although he did not dress as magnificently as Thibaud had done, he yet seemed to be every inch the King.

The Count thanked him for all the happiness he had given his daughter to which Louis replied in most gracious terms that his thanks were due to the Count for having given him Marguerite.

It was thrilling to ride alone with the King and Queen of France – the golden lilies carried before them.

Louis quickly realised that Eleanor had a bright alert mind as her sister had, and he enjoyed talking to her. He talked about England, admitting that he had never been there, but his father had, and he had on one or two occasions talked to him of that country.

‘So often,’ said Louis, ‘our countries have been at war, but with two sisters as their Queens that should make us friends.’

Eleanor said she could never be an enemy of her dear brother and sister, to which Louis answered gravely: ‘We will remember it.’

Eleanor was inclined to think that Louis was rather solemn. She intended to find out whether Marguerite thought this and if she would have preferred someone more fond of the gaiety of life.

On their way to Paris they were entertained in a similar manner to that they had enjoyed with the Count of Champagne. Marguerite hinted that she was a little tired of all the jousting and tilting which was put before them. Eleanor, however, had had less of it and as it was done in honour of her, it had a special appeal.

As they approached the capital they were met by a cavalcade at the head of which rode the Queen Mother of France. This, thought Eleanor, was the heroine of all those songs the fat troubadour had sung.

She was indeed beautiful – like an exquisitely carved statue, Eleanor thought her. Her features were perfectly chiselled; she looked too young and slender to be the mother of the King – and several others also. Her hair, which Eleanor later discovered was abundant and very fair, was hidden by her silken wimple. It was clear that she was a very forceful woman and owing to the devotion she had inspired in Thibaud, Eleanor was particularly interested in her. Then she realised that her coming brought about a subtle change in the manners of the young King and Queen. Louis paid a great deal of attention to his mother – which she clearly demanded – and less to his Queen.

Eleanor thought indignantly: If I were in Marguerite’s place, I would never allow that.

Everyone deferred to the Queen Mother. The ice-blue eyes surveyed Eleanor with approval. She was glad that her daughter-in-law’s sister was going to marry the King of England because, as Marguerite had mentioned, in France it was considered the marriages of the two sisters would be helpful in maintaining peace between the two countries.

So they rode into Paris where they admired the improvements which had been set in motion by the young King’s grandfather Philip Augustus. It no longer deserved the epithet ‘Mud Town’ which the Romans had bestowed on it, for Philip Augustus had supplied it with hard, solid stone which was washed by the rain and, if that failed, by the people who were proud of their city.

They admired Les Halles, the shut-in market place which he had built, the great Cathedral of Notre Dame and the improvements to the old palace of the Louvre.

And so they came to Paris on the last stage of their journey through France. There they would rest awhile before continuing their journey to the coast.

Marguerite was anxious to be as much with her family as possible and she prevailed on them to spend a few days with her at Pontoise which, she confessed to Eleanor, she and Louis liked better than any other of their residences.

So the party set out, taking with them the necessary furnishings including tapestries to hang on the walls, for most of the royal castles were almost empty when not inhabited. Serving men and women went on ahead to prepare for their comfort.

The King did not accompany them. His mother had said that it was necessary for him to stay in Paris.