By the time Simon de Montfort returned to Brindisi, they feared for her life. Her beautiful eyes were purple-shadowed and in spite of her large belly, everywhere else she was thin as a rail and weighed almost nothing.
The war lord had never known terror in his life, but he became intimately acquainted with it when he crept into Eleanor’s chamber and knelt beside the bed. When he gently took her hand he knew she was burning with fever.
Eleanor opened heavy lids. “Sim? Sim, is it truly you? I’ve seen you for days but it was only a vision.”
His lips brushed her brow. He swallowed three times before his deep voice could get past the lump in his throat. “I’m here, love. I should never have sent you from me.”
“I have made myself ill, hating you.” She clung so tightly to his hand he wondered where her strength was coming from.
“Hush, love, don’t try to talk, just rest. I will stay with you.”
“Simon, I know now I don’t hate you; I hate myself,” she whispered fiercely.
He wondered if it was the ramblings of fever.
“Isabella wanted me to make my confession, but it isn’t a damned priest I need, it’s you. Will you hear me?” she begged.
Simon could not bear to see his beautiful, proud, passionate princess brought so low. He closed his eyes and prayed. She must have picked up some disease in the East, or perhaps her illness was due to complications of the child he had given her. Either way it was all his fault.
“Sim, guilt is eating me alive. Will you forgive me?” she whispered.
“Forgive you? My love, it is you who must forgive me.” How basely he had treated her over the business of the Sultan of Egypt. As if it mattered what a wife did as long as you loved her.
“You were right. I never should have gone to the summer palace. He thought I had come to offer my body in exchange for Amauri. He was so ignorant and lacking in knowledge he thought a woman had nothing else to offer … had no other value.”
“You are priceless,” murmured Simon, his cheeks wet with tears.
“You must believe me when I tell you he did not defile me!”
“I believe you, Kathe,” Simon said firmly. He lay down beside her and gathered her to him tenderly. Her eyes closed and she gave herself up to the total enveloping protection that was Simon de Montfort. He stiffened, his fear for her making him think she had drawn her last breath. Then he went weak with relief when he saw she was only sleeping. He watched over her as if he was a guardian angel, watching every breath, every flicker of an eyelash upon her shadowed cheek, every heartbeat of this woman who was everything to him.
After two hours of rest, Eleanor rose up screaming; she was in full, hard labor. The Earl of Leicester would rather have faced ten battlefields than watch his beloved precious jewel give birth. He knew it was the bravest thing he had ever seen. How humble it made him to see the courage and suffering a woman must endure to give her husband a son. When at last Eleanor smiled down upon the dark little head and murmured, “We’ll call him Simon,” the war lord was undone. His sobbing could be heard by all, and the women in the room exchanged glances that such a giant of a man should cry.
Over the course of the next few days as Eleanor regained her health, Simon spent much time at her bedside. Her eyes followed his tall figure about the room as if they were hungry for the very sight of him. The sun had bronzed him to a dark mahogany, and she knew by the reaction of the maids that he set every female heart aflutter. While he was far away Eleanor had not acknowledged the existence of the girl from the sultan’s palace, she had not even asked her name. Now that he was here under the same roof, however, her presence rose up very real for Eleanor. Each time she tried to ask him, the words died in her throat.
He was bending over the cradle when she said, “I have not even asked what brought you back.”
He straightened and adjusted the gauzy curtains about the cradle. He shrugged slightly as if he was talking to himself. “The truce was being upheld. It seemed a good time to return and settle a few things with Frederick.” He looked at her and came to the bed. Then he sat down and took hold of her hand. “In truth, Eleanor, you and you alone brought me back. Things were not right between us when you left. I could settle to nothing. I knew your time was upon you and suddenly I knew that being governor of Palestine was less than nothing to me.”
Eleanor closed her eyes and gave thanks. She had not realized until this moment how much she had resented her husband for even considering the lucrative post that had been offered him. She felt his fingertips trace across her cheekbones. Simon was relieved to see that the purple shadows had left her beautiful eyes. Even in that tender moment she could not gather her courage to ask him about the woman. She decided it was better not to know.
He gathered her in his arms and touched his lips to hers. Instantly a flame leapt between them and before he withdrew their tongues had mated over and over. She lay back against her pillows satisfied that he loved and adored her more than all the golden-haired women in the world. A tiny sigh escaped her. He still hadn’t accepted her as an equal. Perhaps he never would. She decided to settle for what she had, at least for the present. Their time together would probably be short. She didn’t have the courage to ask when he was returning to Palestine. She closed her eyes to rest, content for the moment.
As Simon walked quietly from the chamber, their thoughts were as one. Each wondered if they could spend the night in the other’s arms.
In the late afternoon Eleanor came up out of a most restful sleep with a start. She knew something was wrong. Her eyes flew to the cradle, but a maid watched over her son attentively. Then she heard the shouting and knew that’s what had awakened her. Though she could make out no words, she knew it was her husband’s voice. It had such a deep, rich timber she could never mistake it for another. He thundered on, shouting curses, and she heard the unmistakable crash of splintering furniture as it was booted across a room.
She grabbed a thin robe to cover her silk nightrail and on bare feet ran from her chamber to learn what terrible calamity had befallen. Like most large men, Simon de Montfort had a very even temper and it took a great deal to rouse him to a towering rage. Eleanor ran down the stone staircase to the front reception hall and found none other than her dear friend Sir Rickard de Burgh quaffing a great stirrup cup of cooled wine while Simon waved a parchment in the air as if it was a dreaded decree from hell.
“Rickard, whatever is amiss?” she cried.
Simon whirled about ready to transfer his anger upon any target. “What in the name of God are you doing out of bed?” he stormed. He stuffed the paper into his doublet and in two strides swept her up in his arms to carry her back to her chamber. He threw at de Burgh, “Not a word of this to Eleanor!”
“Simon, you must tell me,” she insisted as he took the stairs two at a time.
He shoved her back into bed most ungently. “I won’t have that feebleminded, useless imbecile upset you.”
She knew he was not speaking of the gentle parfait knight below. It could only be the king who had riled his temper.
“Rickard has brought a message from Henry.”
He looked amazed. “However did you know?”
“Hocus-pocus, fish bones choke us,” she whispered.
“There is nothing whatsoever amusing in this, Eleanor,” he said sternly. “You once told me insanity galloped in your family and Splendor of God, truer words were never uttered. The man has the unmitigated gall, the bare-faced temerity to appeal to me for help.” He pulled out the letter and threw it across the bed. “He writes as if we parted the best of friends. We went into exile on threat of imprisonment. The charges against me were seduction and treason, and even if my pride allowed me to swallow those insults, I will never, ever forgive him for charging you with adultery and besmirching you forever. If he thinks he can sweep all that away with the stroke of a pen, his brain has addled like a rotten egg.”
Eleanor became still; she almost stopped breathing. Her
e was their chance to go home, if only she could make Simon amenable. She looked at him askance. God’s bones, there was scant chance of making Simon de Montfort amenable to anything. If she had learned one lesson since she had been married, it was that this man made his own decisions and ruled his own destiny. She’d not get round him with women’s wiles either. He was wise to the ways of women, having had a vast experience of them, damn him to hellfire, she thought.
He was in a dangerous mood and if she questioned him on the whys and wherefores, he would accuse her of meddling in men’s affairs. She opened her mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. She would not manipulate him. He was too fine a man for that.
He looked down at her in the bed. “Well? Have you nothing to say? It’s damned odd you are not telling me what to do.”
“I have every faith in your ability to handle the King of England, my lord,” she said quietly.
“Well, it’s about time!” he replied, but she could see that some of the sting had gone from his tail.
The next day she spent the afternoon on the portico that overlooked the azure sea. She knew Simon and Rickard were discussing England’s affairs openly, exchanging frank ideas, and she wished with all her heart she could overhear them. Every now and then one or the other would come out to see how she was feeling. If only they would ask her opinion of what they discussed. With Simon she kept a wise silence, but with Rickard she knew she could speak what was in her mind and her heart without offending. As he crinkled his eyes to look out over the glittering sea, he said, “The climate is so favorable here, I don’t suppose you would ever willingly trade it for England’s damp and drizzle.”
“Rickard, I would do almost anything to return to Kenilworth,” she said passionately.
“Anything?” he questioned.
“I said almost anything. The only thing I wouldn’t do is ask Simon to swallow past insults and bend his knee to Henry. That would be intolerable to a man with Simon’s fiery pride.”
Rickard de Burgh, ever faithful to Eleanor, did not repeat all that she said to de Montfort, even though he knew that her feelings lent a great deal of weight to the war lord’s decisions. King Henry’s was not the only letter he had brought to the Earl of Leicester. He had one from his uncle, Hubert de Burgh, who was still exiled in Wales. It pledged the support of all the men of the Cinque Ports if Simon was instrumental in obtaining the king’s pardon for Hubert and restoring his vast holdings. Rickard also gave Simon a verbal pledge from his father in Ireland, Falcon de Burgh. He ruled a paletinate that stretched across Connaught from the River Shannon and was reputed to be able to muster five hundred men in a single night.
The last communication he brought was a surprise. It came from Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk and nephew of the late William Marshal. It stated bluntly that he knew William Marshal’s brothers who had succeeded him as Marshal of England had each been murdered. Incriminating letters had been sent to Ireland urging Marshal opponents to accomplish their deaths. Though the letters bore the king’s seal, he suspected the Winchester party. If Simon returned, Bigod would add his voice to bring about the downfall of Peter des Roches and his son, Peter des Rivaux. Bigod had ambitions to become England’s next marshal and made no bones about it.
Eleanor was surprised to receive a letter from her mother, of all people, the first communication she had received since she was a child. She was not surprised, however, to learn that she corresponded because she wanted something. Suddenly all became clear. The questions she’d wished to ask Simon were answered.
Hugh de Lusignan, Count of La Marche, whom her mother had married before King John was cold in his grave, was in open conflict with Louis of France. Her mother had asked for her son Henry’s support in an all-out war against France. Hugh de Lusignan was the highest Poitevin noble, and when Louis conferred the country of Poitou on his brother Alphonse, Isabella and Hugh had been outraged. She considered Poitou hers and often wore a crown. She had practically ordered her son, the King of England, to come to her aid. She pointed out that it was his duty to uphold their cause and gain back land for her sons, who were Henry’s half brothers. In her letter to Eleanor she urged her to persuade Henry to help his brothers, who were, after all, Eleanor’s brothers also.
It was now Eleanor’s turn to fly into a rage, waving the crackling parchment in the air while she blistered her husband’s ears with her fine opinion of her mother. “The thing that baffles and perplexes me is her great love for those three piss-poor excuses of sons she bore de Lusignan. She sure as hell never loved any of her Plantagenet children! Now she is trying to manipulate and exploit us to further the ambitions of her favorites. The mere thought that William de Lusignan is my half brother makes me want to puke!”
Simon frowned as he listened to her tirade. It was obvious she did not want him to return to England to aid Henry. “If only Henry had your common sense. Alas, his mother still dominates him to the point where he runs to do her bidding. He even extends the hand of friendship to me, whom he injured irrevocably.”
“Well, you can tell him to go to hellfire and I shall tell my mother the same!”
“Softly, darling, softly.” Simon took the letter from her and pulled her into his arms. “Don’t waste all your passion and fire on them, give it to me.”
“Oh, I wish I had a fireplace. I’d burn their damned letters.”
He tipped up her chin and his eyes kindled with desire as he looked down into her lovely flushed face. “I fantasize about a fire. The first thing I’m going to do if we are ever again in a cold climate is light a blazing fire in our chamber. Then I’m going to pull you down on the rug and make love to you. I long to see the fireshine splashed across your body. I crave to nuzzle you in places the fire has heated. Nothing compares to making love to a woman before a fireplace.”
He could feel the heat snaking through his loins, and he slipped his hands over her bottom cheeks to press her close so she could feel his hard desire for her.
“Mmmm, Simon, it sounds like heaven, but we aren’t going home to Kenilworth,” she swore.
To himself he said, Yes we are, sweeting. It is what you want most in the world. To her he said, “Come to bed, I intend to make love to you for a couple of hours.”
“First, Simon, tell me what you replied to Henry?”
“Not a chance,” he teased as his fingers unfastened her gown and slipped it from her shoulders. He decided to keep her in ignorance of his plans. She would misinterpret his intentions and now that the chasm between them had narrowed, he had no interest in widening it again.
“I won’t yield to you until you tell me,” she swore.
“Ha! Won’t yield to me?” he said, sweeping his hands down her bare back until they came to rest beneath her bottom, then he lifted her up to him so that her face was on a level with his. “I wager it will take about three kisses to wear down your defenses.”
In fact it took only one.
44
Keeping all secret from his wife, the Earl of Leicester agreed to return and recruit an army for Henry on condition that he be allowed to attend the king’s council meetings and have a voice in government.
A phrase from Henry’s letter had jumped from the pages. It repeated over and over again in Simon’s mind and had probably been the deciding factor in his decision to return. Henry had begged him “for England’s sake.” Simon shook his head regretfully. England was being ruined by injustice. He knew he should have taken a stand long ago against what was happening “for England’s sake.” What had prevented him? He knew the answer in his heart as well as his head. Eleanor had prevented him.
Before he took action he was able to think things through to their conclusion. You could not topple a king from a throne without a civil war. Where would her loyalties lie? He knew if Henry was killed as a result of any action on Simon’s part, Eleanor would hate him forever. Henry was weak. Eleanor had always been stronger; so strong that she had always taken Henry’s part.
De M
ontfort knew himself well. He did nothing by halves. The step he was about to take was irrevocable. Once he set his feet on the path of restoring justice to England there would be no stopping, no turning back until it was accomplished, whether it took a year or a lifetime. He did not doubt his own ability for a moment; he would do or die, but he did have doubts about Eleanor’s priorities—Plantagenet or de Montfort? Which was she?
He had a deep, yearning need for her to trust him implicitly. He would decide their future, and she should love him enough to accept his decision whatever it was. Either one trusted totally or one did not. Either one loved totally or one did not! He took his resolve, knowing full well that if it so ended that he should rule England, it would prove to her beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had married her for ambition.
Only when he had readied his ships and his men did he even hint to her that the morrow would part them. She was taking a cool, leisurely sponge bath when he walked in on her and dismissed her women impatiently. It was obvious he was in a hurry, and she assumed he had something private to discuss.
“Simon, whatever is it that couldn’t have waited until I finished?”
He came to the bath and towered over her. His eyes devoured her, leaving no doubt of what he wanted. The naked lust upon his face brought a blush to her cheeks. He undressed rapidly, flinging off his clothes with such purpose she thought he intended to join her in the water, but when he was naked he reached down two powerful arms and lifted her up to him. “I want you now, this minute,” he demanded.
“My lord, your haste is unseemly,” she protested as he crushed her wet breasts against the dark pelt of his chest.
“I like unseemly, it is so improper and indecent.” His mouth was hot and demanding as it took hers savagely. Between burning kisses he said, “I also like unreserved, unresisting, unrestrained, unruly, and unthinkable.”