“You think so?”
“Not just his hair. He has your eyes, too.” The resemblance seemed so obvious to Henry that he did not understand how Eleanor could have missed it. Yet there had been an unmistakably skeptical tone to her voice. Unless their time apart had completely skewed his instincts where she was concerned. When he’d glanced down into his son’s shining hazel eyes, they’d told him nothing about the workings of that small brain, nor had he expected them to; an infant’s world was an alien abode. But as Eleanor’s eyes met his over the cradle, they were no more revealing than John’s.
He’d almost forgotten how well she could mask her thoughts when she chose. He’d been in Paris nigh on a week, and until she’d lured him into the privacy of the rain-screened royal gardens, he’d had no idea whatsoever of her intent. Now, their eyes held, and suddenly he had no more patience for these womanly games. This was his wife and he wanted her back in his bed, in his life, wanted the ease and familiarity and erotic intimacy that he’d once taken for granted.
Her hand was resting upon their daughter’s shoulder and he covered it with his own, both a caress and a claim. Lowering his voice to foil the eavesdropping wet-nurses, he murmured, “Where? Your chamber or mine?”
She regarded him unsmilingly, the candlelight giving her eyes a golden tint. “Mine,” she said. “Let it be mine.”
WHEN HENRY WAS ADMITTED to his wife’s bedchamber, she was seated on a coffer by the hearth, having her hair brushed out. The young woman wielding the brush was one of Eleanor’s attendants from Aquitaine, a blithe spirit who had a penchant for practical jokes, flirtations, and games of chance. Taking the brush from her hand, Henry said with a smile, “It is early yet, Renée. Why don’t you go down to the great hall and break a few hearts?”
Renée’s dark eyes sought out Eleanor’s in the polished reflection of her hand mirror. When Eleanor nodded, almost imperceptibly, Renée dropped a graceful curtsy and did as Henry bade, without even a trace of her usual élan. Henry would have liked to believe her uncharacteristic reserve was due to travel fatigue, but he knew better. The members of Eleanor’s household were utterly and fiercely loyal to her. Glancing at Felice, his wife’s favorite greyhound, he almost made a dubious jest about the dog lunging for his private parts, caught himself just in time.
Eleanor’s hair flowed through his fingers like a sunless river, as dark and sensuous against his skin as a summer midnight. After he’d seen her head bared for the first time, he no longer understood why men were so taken with hair that was curly and golden. Her perfume was beguiling, an evocative, subtle fragrance that seduced with its very unfamiliarity.
“You changed your perfume?” He leaned closer, breathing in the aroma. “Abbot Bernard, God rot his sanctimonious soul, could have preached a fire and brimstone sermon after just one whiff. I think he truly believed that women were all damned as daughters of Eve, and as for you, love . . . well, he never doubted that you were the Devil’s handmaiden, put upon this earth for the sole purpose of tempting men into mortal sin.”
Her lip twitched at the mention of that old enemy from her past life as Queen of France. “Is that what you think I’m doing, Harry . . . tempting you into sin?”
He smiled into her hair. “Well, a man can always hope . . .” He’d liked to joke that she could kindle a flame hotter than Greek fire, predicting the day would come when there’d be nothing left of him but a pile of ashes in their marriage bed. Unfortunately, she was still able to work the same magic. His intention had been to get the worst over with as soon as possible, do whatever he must to mend the marriage, and hope she did not mean to prolong their estrangement through the Christmas festivities. But his body was balking at that battle strategy.
He had never been a man to let lust command his brain. This surge of sudden desire was distracting enough, though, for him to reconsider his tactics. She’d never been shy about speaking her mind in the past. Would she have permitted him to brush her hair like this if she was not amenable to reconciliation tonight? Sooner rather than later? Mayhap she wanted an ugly, embittering quarrel no more than he did.
Setting the brush down, he reached over and took the mirror from her hand, tossing it carelessly into the floor rushes. “You cannot possibly know,” he said huskily, “how desirable you look. I came in here with my head crammed full of contrary, confusing thoughts, and all I can think now is how much I want you.”
She did not resist as he drew her to her feet, but rested a hand against his chest before he could take her into his arms. Her eyes were inscrutable, intent upon his face. “You sound,” she said, “as if you truly mean that.”
“You need proof?” He gave a hoarse laugh, for his mouth had gone dry. “I ache with it, Eleanor, that’s how much I want you . . .” And this time when he reached for her, she did not pull away.
Her golden gown was a casualty of his urgency, its lacings snapped by his impatient fingers. He had a blurred memory of rending silk on their wedding night, too, and half-expected her to tease him about that. But she said nothing, wrapping her arms around his neck as he backed her toward the bed. He recalled suddenly that he’d not bolted the door after Renée’s departure, but by then, they were sinking down into the softness of the feather mattress and he was not about to stop, not even if the chamber caught fire.
Afterward, there was a reassuring familiarity about it all: the covers thrown off, their bodies glistening with sweat and tangled in the sheets, the floor littered with their discarded clothing. So often had they resolved quarrels in bed like this, more than he could even begin to count. He lay still for a time, waiting for his heart and pulse to slow their erratic racing. Mayhap that old fool Bernard was right after all and sex could indeed kill a man . . . if done right. Turning his head toward his wife, he traced the line of her cheek with a finger, not yet having enough energy to move. “Good God, woman . . .”
Her hair was half-covering her face, tousled and wild and damp with perspiration. “That is what you said on our wedding night.”
She sounded out of breath, and he rolled over, kissing the soft skin of her throat. “Did I?” he said, and when he smiled, she saw that he’d echoed the same words by chance, not because he’d remembered.
Henry wasn’t sure when he’d finally realized that she was not going to confront him about Rosamund Clifford. When he’d considered all her possible responses, that was the only one he’d not envisioned. At worst, he’d seen her flinging down her ultimatum like a gauntlet, demanding Rosamund’s immediate and permanent banishment from his life. It was all too easy to imagine her berating him for bringing Rosamund to Woodstock, raging at him for being so careless of her pride, blistering the air with her considerable command of profanity, much of which she’d learned from him. He could even envision her so angry that she’d be tempted to heave candlesticks or books at his head; she’d confided that she’d once thrown an inkwell at Louis. Or she could have gone to the other extreme: aloof, maddeningly remote, for she could outdo his mother the empress when it came to being imperial. It had never occurred to him, though, that she might choose to deal with the problem of Rosamund Clifford so simply and effectively—by not even acknowledging there was a problem.
Henry retrieved a pillow from the floor, propped it behind his head, and slid an arm around Eleanor’s shoulders, drawing her in against him. There were many reasons to be grateful that God had given him this woman, apart from the obvious ones—that she was a great heiress and a great beauty, too. She had courage and common sense, a quick wit and a passionate nature. Like him, she dreamed of empires, craved crowns for their children. But of all her virtues, the one that shone the brightest for him on this December night at Argentan was her sophistication. She was wise enough to understand that men were born to sin, and worldly enough not to let it trouble her unduly. He should have realized that Eleanor, the most celebrated queen in all of Christendom, would not be threatened by a mere slip of a girl like Rosamund Clifford.
His lashes kept flic
kering downward, heeding the message his body was sending his brain, that sleep would not be long denied. Stifling a yawn, he brushed a trail of soft kisses across her throat. “I have a confession, love,” he said drowsily. “The only way I’ll stay awake much longer is if you stick pins in me. But ere I doze off, I wanted to tell you that I’ve missed you this past year, am very glad that you’re back where you belong . . .”
“Are you?”
He had never found it easy to talk of love, for if it was present, what was the need to mention it and if it was not, why lie? It had always seemed like a needless extravagance to lavish upon a wife, telling her what she already knew. But he sensed that this was one of those times when a woman would expect no less, and so he repeated his assurances that she’d been greatly missed, adding a slightly self-conscious “I do love you, after all” as he leaned over to kiss her for the last time that night. He supposed it would not harm him to be a little less grudging with the words, and made a hazy resolution to be more forthcoming with them in the future, his last conscious thought before he drifted off to sleep.
The chamber’s candles still flickered, wavering pinpoints of light against the encroaching shadows. They’d not drawn the bed curtains and Eleanor could see flames licking the hearth log, continuing to give out a measure of heat. Her greyhound rose, paused to sniff at the clothing scattered in the floor rushes, and then padded to the bed, poking a cold nose into Eleanor’s hand. She fondled the dog’s silken head absently, from habit, listening to the hissing of the fire and the deep, even breathing of the man asleep beside her.
She’d given him a chance and he’d scorned it. So be it, then. Rising up on her elbow, she stared down at his face, faintly lit by firelight. He must think women are such fools. Did he truly imagine that she did not know about his continuing letters to Rosamund Clifford? Or that he’d planned to bring her over to join him in Normandy? Did he really think she’d not be able to find eyes and ears to serve her at Woodstock? Or did he just assume that she’d act the dutiful wife, expecting her to endure the shame in silence, saying nary a word of protest whilst he plucked his little English gosling?
During the months since Woodstock, her rage had slowly congealed into ice. By the time she was ready to return to his court, she believed she had come to terms with his betrayal. She had every right to object to his whoring. If she’d not cast her lot in with his, if she’d not agreed to wed, who was to say if he’d ever have become England’s king? Aquitaine had been his stepping-stone to the English throne, her Aquitaine.
Over these past months, she’d deliberately dwelt upon her grievances, remembering all those times when he’d disregarded her advice, ignored her counsel, alienated her vassals with his high-handed Angevin ways. He’d not truly trusted her political judgment—this from the man who’d given the keys to the kingdom over to Thomas Becket. She’d actually wielded more influence with the dithering, hapless Louis than ever she had with Harry, and what greater irony could there be than that?
When she’d finally sailed from Southampton, she’d believed that her heart was well armored against further betrayals. She would make it clear that she’d not tolerate any more Rosamund Cliffords. She’d always been reasonable about his women, had never expected him to abstain when they were long apart. But she’d not abide his flaunting concubines at their court, in her bed for all she knew. He owed her better than that.
Nothing had gone, though, as she’d planned. The indifference she’d been cultivating with such care had cracked wide open, like a defective shield. Instead of a measured, matter-of-fact recital of her wrongs and complaints, she’d been caught up in emotions that were as raw and primitive as they were unexpected, one breaking wave after another of floodtide fury, resentment, jealousy, and unhealed hurt. She’d given him the opportunity to make things right between them, to make her believe that Rosamund Clifford meant no more to him than any of the other harlots he’d taken to his bed. And he repaid her with a Judas kiss.
It was plain now what he wanted from her—to turn a blind eye to his straying, to accept Rosamund Clifford as his paramour, to content herself with the nursery and needlework. Did he think to set his wench up under the same roof, as her grandfather had done with the most notorious of his conquests? If so, she wasn’t sure which of them was the bigger fool.
Swallowing was suddenly painful. She felt as if her throat was being squeezed in a strangler’s hold, as if a heavy millstone was pressing onto her chest, forcing the air from her lungs. But she shed no tears; her eyes, narrowed on Henry’s sleeping form, were dry and burning. She could still give him an ultimatum, tell him on the morrow that Rosamund Clifford must go. But what if she made such a demand and he refused? She’d not humble her pride like that, would never risk such a humiliation, not in this life or the next. Nor would she forgive.
HENRY AWOKE to a distinct chill, soon discovered that the fire had gone out during the night. A weight lay across his feet. Blinking, he saw that his wife’s greyhound had sneaked up onto the bed while they slept. Eleanor was still sleeping, her head cradled in the crook of her arm, a sweep of long hair trailing over the edge of the bed. He tried to think of a reason to get up, couldn’t come up with one, and burrowed back into the warm cocoon of their covers, feeling more content than he had in months.
When he stirred again, the hearth had been tended, the dog evicted, and Eleanor’s attendants were moving quietly about the chamber. Her side of the bed was empty, the bed curtains partially drawn. As he sat up, a hand slid through the opening, holding a silver cup.
“Here,” his wife said, “this will fortify you to face the rest of the day.” Reaching for the cup, he took a tentative sip; it was one of her Gascony wines, well watered down as he preferred. “I always fare better whenever you’re around to see to the household,” he said, observing her appreciatively over the rim of the cup. She was already dressed in a gown of soft wool the color of sapphire, but she’d not yet put on her wimple and veil, and her hair was still visible, plaited and coiled at the nape of her neck. There was an agreeable intimacy about the sight, for only a husband or lover ever saw a woman with her hair unbound or uncovered. “You look very pleasing to the eye this morn,” he said. “A pity, though, that you were in such a hurry to dress. We could have stayed abed a while longer . . .” He let his words trail off suggestively, and she smiled.
“Too late,” she said briskly. “I’ve already sent for your squires.” Her timing was perfect, for at that very moment, a knock sounded at the door. Renée, still looking subdued, admitted a servant bearing a tray. Eleanor took it and carried it back to Henry. “I ordered some roasted chestnuts so you could break the night’s fast,” she said, making herself comfortable at the end of the bed, putting the tray between them.
Henry took another swallow of wine, helped himself to some of the chestnuts. Eleanor took one, shelled it deftly, and nibbled on the nut. “I was sorry to hear about the fall of that Welsh castle,” she said, and they were soon deep in a discussion of the incessant turmoil in the more troublesome regions of their domains. Her ladies continued with their tasks and when Henry’s squires arrived, they knew better than to interrupt until their lord was ready to dress.
Henry had finished lambasting the Bretons and moved on to the Poitevins. Eleanor listened intently, making an occasional incisive comment about her faithless barons. They both agreed that the de Lusignans must be dealt with—and sooner rather than later.
“I think, Harry, that it is time I returned to Aquitaine,” Eleanor said pensively. “My presence there might help to calm some of the unrest. Not with lawless hellspawn like the de Lusignans, of course. The Virgin Mary herself could be their liege lady and they’d still be conniving and pillaging. But there are others with wavering loyalties who could benefit from a reminder that they’d pledged their faith and their honor to me, Duke William’s daughter.”
Henry had been thinking along the same lines in recent months. But he’d not been able to seek her cooperation agains
t her Poitevin rebels until they’d made their peace over his indiscretion with Rosamund Clifford. “I agree, “ he said. “It has been too long since you paid a visit to Poitou. But we’d have to take measures for your safety first. Once I am sure that you’d not be at risk, we can lay our plans accordingly.”
He finished the last of the chestnuts, glancing over to see if this met with her approval. It did; she was smiling.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
March 1168
Poitiers, Poitou
THE SKY WAS THE SHADE of milky pearl. The streets would soon be astir, but for now William Marshal was riding alone through a sleeping city, hearing only the rhythmic clop of his stallion’s hooves and the high, mournful cries of river birds. It promised to be a splendid spring day. Will could learn to like the climate of his queen’s domains, for this Wednesday morn four days before Easter was milder than many an English summer’s afternoon.
Ahead lay the soaring tower of Maubergeonne, the great keep of the ancestral palace of the Dukes of Aquitaine. Will picked up the pace a bit, and was admitted into the bailey by yawning guards, for he was known on sight to the garrison. Their yawns were contagious and Will stifled one himself; sleep hadn’t figured prominently among the night’s activities. Nor would he have any time to steal a nap. This was the day his uncle, Earl Patrick of Salisbury, was to escort the queen to Lusignan Castle and Will would be part of the party. But he was one and twenty, young enough to consider sleep well lost in the pursuit of pleasurable sins.