“IS THERE SOMETHING AMISS between you and your father? You seem distant with each other,” said Eleanor later that evening in the great hall.
To Henry’s amazement he had been seated at the high table next to the queen, while Geoffrey was placed next to Louis. A far greater honor but one undoubtedly less pleasing to the count.
“Are you surprised?” he asked.
“Should I be?”
“I would have thought very little surprises you, Lady.”
“If you think I’m responsible for any coolness between you and Geoffrey, why not come right out and say so?”
After a moment’s silence Henry, aware of his surging heartbeat, turned to look Eleanor directly in the face. “How well do you know my father?”
“Not nearly as well as he would have liked.” The words came readily to her tongue. Too readily? “Does that disturb you?” She met his gaze squarely. “It shouldn’t. After all, everyone knows the count and countess of Anjou have never gotten along.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that.” Henry stabbed a piece of roast venison with his knife. “In future, please refer to my mother as the empress. It is the title she prefers.”
“Yes, of course.” Eleanor paused. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to open old wounds.” She gave him a crooked smile. “I understand about old wounds. Sometimes it helps to share them.”
The new note of gentleness in her voice, the empathetic warmth in her eyes, brought an unexpected lump into his throat. Jesu, what was happening? Eleanor had somehow taken control of the conversation; its unforeseen turn was now making him feel acutely uncomfortable. He must get the reins back into his own hands. Henry swallowed, forced a smile, then flashed her a roguish look that usually reduced most females to simpering peahens.
“I would share more than confidences with you, Madam.”
There was a moment’s silence. “Would you indeed? How very unoriginal.” The warmth was gone, replaced by the voice of the queen teasing her courtiers. “I’ve always heard the Normans lacked subtlety, but I hardly expected their duke to behave like—well—” She gave an eloquent shrug.
“How else would you expect me to behave? I’m a man like any other—but not a silver-tongued gallant.”
“No! One would never have guessed.” She peered at him flirtatiously over the rim of her jeweled goblet.
The dangerous moment was over; Henry relaxed. Eleanor’s face, framed by a white muslin wimple and topped by the ducal coronet of Aquitaine, looked even more youthful and vibrant than it had earlier in the day. For a moment Henry’s gaze lingered on the gold emblem of her power before passing down the slender arch of her neck. He realized that her clothes were not those she had worn earlier and felt a sudden throb in his temples. Had she changed them for his benefit—or his father’s? Under a sleeveless crimson surcoat, she wore a tightly molded blue gown that revealed a slender waist and faintly outlined the nipples of her breasts. Was she wearing anything underneath? Her breasts were not large but high and firm, like a girl’s half her age. Henry wondered what they would feel like in his hands.
“Stop looking at my bosom,” she said in a low voice. “Everyone is watching you watching me. Particularly your father and Louis.”
“I would do more than look.” Henry did not shift his gaze. “Why should I make a secret of my admiration? Particularly when I know you enjoy it.”
Eleanor sharply drew in her breath. “What brazen cheek! I have not said so.”
“You do not need to say so.”
“I find you absolutely outrageous.” Her face was flushed.
“You do? From all I hear that is like the kettle calling the cauldron black.”
“Are you so gullible to believe everything you hear? You should know by now that royalty attracts gossip with or without cause. However this is neither the time nor the place for such talk.”
“Tell me the time and place and a herd of wild horses won’t keep me away.” Henry’s squire offered him a silver bowl of water, and he washed the grease off his fingers. “I should warn you, however, I have no gift for inconsequential chatter.”
“So you keep reminding me. I find repetition boring.”
“I’m a man of action; that is where my talents lie.”
“Tell me,” Eleanor said, picking up the wing of a roast guinea fowl, nibbling at it, then laying it down again. “Do you never tire of bellowing your prowess? How can one know if you truly live up to the high expectations you claim for yourself?”
Beneath her bantering tone Henry discerned a shiver of excitement in her voice. His heart hammered in his chest. The tension between them, increasing moment by moment, was as intense as forked lightning.
“We could bandy words from now ’til doomsday,” Henry said in a husky voice. “Accept the challenge and find out.”
Eleanor gave a low throaty laugh that seemed to promise a thousand delights. When she lifted her goblet, Henry saw that her jeweled fingers trembled slightly. After a quick glance at the French king she turned back to Henry.
“Put up your lance, my lord. Any moment now Louis will arise. I will send you word of the time and place.”
“Unlike your laggard husband, I have been rising for some time.” He grinned, hoping she would not see how he ached to touch her. “I eagerly await your summons.”
Eleanor turned pink and almost choked on her wine. She turned away and Henry, tingling from the encounter, played with the food on his trencher, too wrought up to eat.
After supper when Louis asked if he were now ready to discuss the terms of the treaty, Henry again pleaded fatigue. Eleanor had given no indication when she would send for him but he wanted to be available. Heady, as if he were flown with wine, he went into the courtyard to cool his blood. High above, a full moon paced across a sable sky, gilding the towers of the castle with a silvery light, casting dark shadows in the corners of the courtyard.
The bells of Notre Dame rang the hour of Compline. The window slits in the castle were dark, but high in the keep flickered a single flame. Eleanor’s solar? Henry stared at it intently. After an hour or so, he walked disconsolately back inside the keep, up a narrow staircase, and down a winding passage to the chamber he shared with Geoffrey and their squires. He had been strenuously hoping she might have summoned him tonight.
Geoffrey appeared to be asleep, but there was something about the rigid position of his body that made Henry wonder if the count were shamming. He knew the difficulty with his father would have to be cleared up before they met with Louis. If Normandy did not present a united front, the French king would be sure to take advantage of the situation. He might demand more than the Vexin in return for acknowledging Henry as duke of Normandy. Without removing his boots Henry lay down on the straw pallet, flung an arm across his face, and with a sigh thought of Eleanor.
The alluring body, taut and sinuous as a whip, the challenging sparkle in her eyes, the peach-bloom skin were as vivid in Henry’s mind as a clear-running stream in the Verte Forest outside Rouen. Was she truly getting an annulment? he wondered; had she really told him the truth about her relationship with Geoffrey?
That night he dreamed of the ducal coronet of Aquitaine, a golden circlet set with pearls and rubies. In the dream the rubies turned into drops of blood; the pearls became teardrops.
The next morning Henry woke late to find Geoffrey already gone.
“He woke at Prime and went to morning mass, my lord,” Geoffrey’s squire told him. “He has not yet returned here.”
Henry splashed cold water on his face from a silver basin, ran a hand through the bristles of his tawny-red hair, then searched through the litter of clothes for his best mantle. A present from his mother, it was made of scarlet cloth embroidered with gold lions. Fine enough to please the most exacting queen.
“My lord, you cannot appear in public with your boots covered in mud,” said the squire. “You must have dirtied them last night. Let me clean them for you.”
“No time now.”
The squire looked horrified. “Oh my lord, what will the count say—”
Henry grabbed the mantle, dashed out the door and through the long passage, down the staircase and into the great hall. The tables were empty but for a few knights and squires. Still standing, he downed a goblet of wine, tore the end off a wheaten loaf, and went in search of his father.
Outside in the courtyard, a servant approached and said in the soft accents of the langue d’oc that the queen wished to have converse with him. Henry hesitated then shrugged. If royalty beckoned he must obey. He was sure to find Geoffrey before they met with Louis. They passed a patch of summer lilies growing beside a stone bench. Henry stopped, remembering now for the first time in years that he had presented a bunch of lilies to the newly wedded French queen when she was—God’s eyes!—only a few years younger than he was now. He plucked a handful of the wilted blooms and followed the servant around the side of the castle.
Eleanor anxiously paced the small antechamber. Her head was spinning with a jumble of incoherent thoughts that touched on Raymond of Antioch, the impending annulment of her marriage, her future status in Aquitaine, and, most importantly, her headlong, inexplicable attraction to Henry of Anjou. A wild impulse had come into her mind last night and nothing would dislodge it. Was she raving mad to even consider such an option? If only her uncle were here to guide and reassure her. Eleanor felt as if she were about to plunge into unknown waters that might well sink her—unless she could navigate them with a skill she had never had to use before and was not even sure she possessed.
Once the incredible idea had seized her she had spent a sleepless night trying to decide what course to follow.
Ever since the fateful meeting with Raymond, when the idea of an annulment had first been presented to her, Eleanor had known that the time would come when she would be faced with having to acquire another husband. But she had put the matter out of her mind as there were far more pressing problems that required immediate attention. Once she was a free woman, secure in Aquitaine, reliable candidates would be carefully considered. She was no longer so innocent or so foolish to believe she could rule the duchy alone—much as she would prefer to do so—because of the great dangers involved. In truth, this was exactly the position she had been in when her father died—only now she understood the potential hazards far better. But at least she would be in control. She could choose her moment; choose her consort.
Now, when she had least expected—or wanted it—the moment of choice was at hand.
Eleanor opened the door and peered out. The passage was empty. Grateful for the reprieve, she picked up a purple fig from the table and resumed pacing the chamber, astonished, no, overwhelmed at her reactions.
With the exception of Raymond of Antioch, she had been drawn to Henry of Anjou more than she had ever been to any man. When the duke was in the same room she could not look at anyone else; when he was absent she counted the moments until she would see him again. Despite his youth, it was obvious that he was already a strong, intelligent figure, and as he matured his strength would increase. He was Geoffrey’s son, after all. In addition, Henry had wit, ambition, but overriding it all—Eleanor forced herself to admit it—she craved him so desperately that her body actually ached with longing. Putting aside her own needs—at least for the moment—Eleanor forced herself to look at the practical side of this choice.
Already ruler of a powerful duchy, Normandy, in time Henry would also inherit the counties of Anjou and Maine. Through his mother he was the rightful king of England. With her, Eleanor’s, help—Aquitaine, after all, had vast resources—the English crown became even more of a certainty. It was politic to wed such a man, Eleanor told herself; that she found him so appealing as well was an unexpected bonus.
But did he want her? Henry lusted after her, of course. Many men did. Not that Eleanor had ever blinded herself to the equally seductive lure of Aquitaine. But did he truly want her? She could not endure another loveless marriage. She had always longed for love, to be swept away on the tide of an emotion stronger than herself yet still remain inviolate, in control, a free spirit. A typical Aquitainian contradiction, countered the voice of an unseen Raymond in her head, like trying to ride horses of two different colors. She could almost hear the languid yawn. It’s in the blood, my dear. You’ll never resolve it.
Eleanor opened the door again. The passage was still deserted.
Impulsively, she had asked to see the young duke. Now that his arrival was imminent what should she say to him? She was a duchess and a queen, used to deference, respect, and mostly having her own way.
He was eleven years younger; she had never thought to wed a younger—Eleanor suddenly stifled a cry. Sweet St. Radegonde, what had that fortune-teller said so long ago? She calculated rapidly. Yes, yes, the times would fit! But what did it mean? Was Henry the one? Now, at this great turning point of her life, a moment that might never come again, Eleanor felt less in command of her fate than at any time in the past.
The servant led Henry through a narrow door, down a dimly lit passage, then showed him into a small antechamber. The door closed softly behind him. Eleanor, a serious expression on her face, was standing in the middle of the room. Henry gazed in astonishment at the walls, consisting entirely of glazed deep blue mosaic tile; at the floor of red-veined marble. A low ebony-inlaid table sat in front of a long divan heaped with silken cushions in vermillion, azure, and purple. On the table lay two silver goblets chased with precious stones, and silver dishes of plump blue-black and deep crimson fruits he had never seen before. Several gold-embroidered cushioned stools graced the chamber.
“I’ve patterned this room after one in my late uncle Raymond’s palace in Antioch,” said Eleanor, in answer to his wordless reaction to the chamber. She walked over to the divan, sat down, and patted a place beside her. “The figs and pomegranates I import from the East—at great expense, I might add.”
“What does Louis say about that?”
“Louis has nothing to say about it. I pay for such luxuries out of my revenues from Aquitaine and Poitou.”
Henry, trying not to appear as awestruck as he felt, sat down gingerly beside her. The elegance and sophistication of the queen, as well as of the chamber, made him wish that his boots had been cleaned, and an unmistakable whiff of stables less pronounced. In his own eyes he appeared clumsy and ill at ease, a ham-fisted bumpkin from the provinces. Thank God he had had the foresight to wear the scarlet mantle.
In what he felt was a graceless gesture, Henry thrust the flowers at her. He could think of nothing to say.
Eleanor gave him a questioning look then suddenly smiled.
“So you remember our second meeting. I wondered if you would. Thank you for these.” She laid them carefully on the table.
Under the ducal coronet, her face looked as lovely, her body as tantalizing as he remembered. She wore the blue gown of the previous night, not entirely suitable for morning wear, Henry thought, wondering if this were meant to convey some message. His blood stirred when he realized they were entirely alone.
Except Eleanor was not in the least flirtatious this morning. On the contrary, her face was grave, her eyes intent. She appeared softer, almost vulnerable. Whatever she had in mind it was not a lighthearted tryst. Henry felt a vague sense of disappointment.
“There is so much to explain and so little time in which to do it,” Eleanor began. “Forgive my boldness but I had to see you before your audience with Louis.” She took a deep breath. “You’ve no doubt heard rumors that Louis and I are in the process of having our marriage annulled?”
“From my father. They are not merely rumors then?”
“Far from it. The details of the annulment are still being worked out but that shouldn’t take too much longer. Perhaps only another six months.” She paused. “Then I will be free.”
Henry picked up a blue-black fig, of a kind he’d never seen before, turning it over in his fingers. Was the stem meant to be eaten? He finally popped the whole thing into his mouth, wondering why Eleanor was confiding in him. After chewing vigorously he decided that the stem was not meant to be eaten.
“Do I offer condolences or congratulations?” he asked. Where was all this leading?
“I think you already know the answer to that. The truth is I have always been miserable with Louis.”
“Surely he doesn’t mistreat you?” The question was ridiculous. Who would dare to mistreat this imperious beauty? Henry was growing so intensely aware of her physical presence he could hardly keep his wits about him.
“No. Unless being bored to death is considered mistreatment. It is in Aquitaine.”
Henry could hear the bitterness in her voice when she talked about the king. And no wonder. It was nothing less than a crime that this charming, desirable woman should have been married to a eunuch like Louis of France. How he wished he could help her.
“When my second daughter, Alix, was born, I knew Louis would be advised to cast me off.”
“I see.” Henry felt flattered at her confidences but still could not imagine where the conversation was heading. Certainly not toward the seduction he had initially looked forward to.
Eleanor’s hazel eyes, enormous under the dark arches of her brows, seemed to be making him some mute appeal. He wanted to respond but not knowing how shifted uncomfortably on his seat.
“My lord—Henry,” she said in a tentative voice. “You see before you a woman who is no longer a maid, yet neither spouse nor widow. A woman who will soon be without protection, for according to the terms of the marriage contract, Aquitaine remains mine. You know what that means? Once news of the annulment spreads, I will be at the mercy of every ravening beast who seeks my inheritance.”
Henry had heard—as who had not—of Eleanor’s tumultuous marital troubles. But he had never imagined the strong-minded queen as being alone and unprotected. His heart swelled and his breath almost suffocated him.
“Madam,” he began earnestly, “I had no idea you were in such straits. It would give me the greatest pleasure—that is to say—I will do all in my power to aid you.”
“Few know the extent of my plight,” she said with a sad smile, laying slim white fingers on his freckled hand, the palms hardened by his horse’s reins, the backs pitted from the sharp beaks of his falcons.
“How may I serve you?” he asked.
She was silent for a moment, her head bent, the tips of her fingers idly stroking the back of his hand, causing Henry the most acute sensations.
“When you see Louis, I want you to agree to the treaty he desires. Give France the Vexin and let Louis acknowledge you as duke of Normandy.”
Henry was astounded. Instantly suspicious, he withdrew his hand. What sort of double game was this minx playing at? Was Louis behind it? “I fail to see how this would serve you, Madam. I have no wish to lose the Vexin.”
Eleanor lifted her eyes to his. “Not even in exchange for Aquitaine?”
Dumbfounded, Henry felt as if all the breath had been knocked out of him. Had he heard her aright? “Aquitaine?” he echoed lamely. “I mean—I don’t understand.”
“I think you do,” she said in a soft voice. “I think you understand very well. I’m offering you the opportunity to marry me and become the next duke of Aquitaine—once the annulment is rendered final. If my situation were not so desperate, if haste were not paramount, I would never have approached you in this unseemly way.”
Henry’s first thought was what would his mother say; the enormity of the gift Eleanor offered was staggering. Duke of Aquitaine and count of Poitou—all the resources he would need to invade England. And she needed him. This legendary beauty, whose prestige and influence were famous throughout Europe, had asked for his protection! He gazed into her eyes, which, to his amazement were unnaturally bright, almost fearful. Her face had the bloomy sheen of a summer wildflower; her moist lips were parted.
Henry tried to speak but the words would not come. The blood pounded in his head as he found himself prey to an emotional upheaval he had not anticipated. Without warning, he had the sudden urge to devote himself to those luminous eyes, that beckoning mouth, to pledge his body and heart to this radiant queen who had stepped down from her pedestal and offered herself to him. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. How desperately he longed to express his feelings but could not. Inwardly he cursed himself, for the first time wishing he had the gift of gallantry, the golden tongue of a troubadour, the easy charm of his father.
“I have humbled myself before you,” Eleanor said with a catch in her voice. “Was it a mistake? Could I have so misjudged you?”
All Henry could do was vehemently shake his head. “But why me?” His voice sounded gruff and he wondered why he was unwilling to let her see how deeply her words had affected him.
“I need a knight of rank and power. A man of strength and judgment. The fact that we are neighbors—the borders of Anjou and Poitou march side by side—is significant. One day you will be king of England. You have all the necessary qualifications, my lord, to become my protector.”
“Your confidence is much appreciated but at the moment I’m merely duke of Normandy. My father is very much alive and I’m a long way from being king of England.”
“With my help—the resources I can put at your disposal—you will certainly be closer to your goal. Did that thought not occur to you?”
“It crossed my mind, yes,” Henry admitted slowly.
Eleanor smiled. “Thank you for your honesty.”
To Henry’s surprise she suddenly blushed. “And there are other reasons why I chose you. Reasons that I think you already know. My heart tells me we will suit one another.”
They gazed deeply into each other’s eyes. Slowly Henry bent his head and kissed her half-open mouth. He was overcome by a burning desire, a wild elation mingled with a rough urgency to take her here and now. This was his usual way with the serving girls, tavern wenches, and compliant wives he bedded. But he held back, reminding himself that he was kissing the queen of France, holding the duchy of Aquitaine in his arms. Then all thought was lost as the kiss grew deeper and deeper, plunging Henry into a whirlpool of excitement he had never before experienced.
Eleanor was the first to break away, pushing him back with trembling hands. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her body shivered as if assailed by a strong wind. He knew that she was fighting the desire to abandon herself to his ardor and this inspired him with great respect. Control in a woman was a unique quality. His mother’s cool head was one of the things he most admired about her.
“Can Louis be such a fool as to have denied you marital joys?” Henry barely recognized the thick, husky voice as his own. Unable to stop himself he ran his hand over one uptilted breast. The nipple jutted out hard against his palm. “I’ve wanted to do that since last night.” He dropped his hand.
With a shuddering sigh, Eleanor picked up her goblet of wine and curled both hands tightly round the stem. “Have we made a bargain then?” The unmistakable tremor in her voice was very satisfying. “You keep Aquitaine from the wolves and I will see to it you have the resources to take England.”
“Agreed. But why must I give Louis the Vexin?”
“Because he must not suspect what we have in mind. Let him think he has beaten you. Disarmed, he will honor you as his vassal, duke of Normandy, the annulment will proceed without hindrance, and none will guess our intention until it is too late. Later, when we are wed and England is won, we will find a way to get the Vexin back.”
Henry stared at her, impressed that she seemed to have thought the whole matter through. “But even when Louis is no longer your husband, the king of France is still your overlord in your capacity as duchess of Aquitaine. You may not marry without his consent.”
“Once the fact of our marriage is accomplished what can he do? Louis’s bark is loud but his teeth are weak. Trust me to know what I’m doing. This plan will work, but be discreet. Do not discuss the matter unless absolutely necessary.”
Henry nodded. He had a hundred questions but there was a brisk knock on the door and the same servant poked his head inside the chamber.
“The king is asking for Duke Henry, Madam.”
“He is just coming.” Eleanor rose.
The door closed. Henry got to his feet. It was the most momentous occasion of his eighteen years and he felt inept, in awe of this impetuous woman whom he had just agreed to wed. All he wanted to do was to take her in his arms, but she was looking at him expectantly now, obviously waiting for him to—to what?
He drew himself up, relieved that he was at least half a head taller than Eleanor. “Madam, I’m only a plain-spoken Norman but my sword will always be ready to defend you. Your honor I will guard with my life, and—and your foes will be mine.”
She smiled. “A brave speech, worthy of the most silver-tongued courtier. We will do very well together.”
Determined to present a chivalrous image, Henry awkwardly knelt before her. He intended to kiss her hand but somehow managed to brush his forehead against the gold filigree of her girdle instead. The next thing he knew he was outside the chamber, wiping the sweat from his brow.
His head reeling, Henry walked down the passage on the heels of the servant. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks, spun round on his toes and gave a great whoop of joy. The queen of France was to be his wife! And England—his birthright, his dream, his life’s goal—was virtually within his grasp!