Captive Queen

1 Paris, August 1151

Please God, let me not betray myself, Queen Eleanor prayed inwardly as she seated herself gracefully on the carved wooden throne next to her husband, King Louis. The royal court of France had assembled in the gloomy, cavernous hall in the Palace of the Cité, which commanded one half of the Île de la Cité on the River Seine, facing the great cathedral of Notre Dame.

Eleanor had always hated this palace, with its grim, crumbling stone tower and dark, chilly rooms. She had tried to lighten the oppressive hall with expensive tapestries from Bourges, but it still had a stark, somber aspect, for all the summer sunshine piercing the narrow windows. Oh, how she longed for the graceful castles of her native Aquitaine, built of light mellow stone on lushly wooded hilltops! How she longed to be in Aquitaine itself, and that other world in the sun-baked south that she had been obliged to leave behind all those years ago. But she had schooled her thoughts not to stray in that direction. If they did, she feared, she might go mad. Instead, she must fix her attention on the ceremony that was about to begin, and play her queenly role as best she could. She had failed Louis, and France, in so many ways—more than anyone could know—so she could at least contrive to look suitably decorative.

Before the King and Queen were gathered the chief lords and vassals of France, a motley band in their scarlets, russets, and furs, and a bevy of tonsured churchmen, all—save for one—resplendent in voluminous, rustling robes. They were waiting to witness the ending of a war.

Louis looked drawn and tired, his cheeks still flushed with the fever that had laid him low for some weeks now, but at least, thought Eleanor, he had risen from his bed. Of course, Bernard of Clairvaux, that meddlesome abbot standing apart in his unbleached linen tunic, had told him to, and when Bernard spoke, Louis, and nearly everyone else in Christendom, invariably jumped.

She did not love Louis, but she would have done much, especially at this time when he was low in body and spirits, to spare him any hurt—and herself the shame and the fearful consequences of exposure. She had thought herself safe, that her great sin was a secret she would take with her to her grave, but now the one person who might, by a chance look or gesture, betray her and imperil her very existence was about to walk through the great doors at the end of the hall: Geoffrey, Count of Anjou—whom men called “Plantagenet,” on account of the broom flower he customarily wore in his hat.

Really, though, she thought resentfully, Louis could hardly blame her for what she had done. It was he, or rather the churchmen who dominated his life, who had condemned her to live out her miserable existence as an exile in this forbidding northern kingdom with its gray skies and dour people; and to follow a suffocating, almost monastic régime, cloistered from the world with only her ladies for company. For fourteen long years now, her life had been mostly barren of excitement and pleasure—and it was only in a few stolen moments that she had briefly known another existence. With Marcabru; with Geoffrey; and, later, with Raymond. Sweet sins that must never be disclosed outside the confessional, and certainly not to Louis, her husband. She was his queen and Geoffrey his vassal, and both had betrayed their sacred oaths.

Thus ran the Queen’s tumultuous thoughts as she sat with the King on their high thrones, waiting for Geoffrey and his son Henry to arrive, so that Louis could exchange with them the kiss of peace and receive Henry’s formal homage. The war was thus to be neatly concluded—except there could be no neat conclusion to Eleanor’s inner turmoil. For this was to be the first time she had set eyes on Geoffrey since that blissful, sinful autumn in Poitou, five years before.

It had not been love, and it had not lasted. But she had never been able to erase from her mind the erotic memory of herself and Geoffrey coupling gloriously between silken sheets, the candlelight a golden glow on their entwined bodies. Their coming together had been a revelation after the fumbling embarrassment of the marriage bed and the crude awakening afforded her by Marcabru; she had never dreamed that a man could give her such prolonged pleasure. It had surged again and again until she cried out with the joy of it, and it had made her aware, as never before, what was lacking in her union with Louis. Yet she had forced herself to forget, because Louis must never know. One suspected betrayal was enough, and that had hurt him so deeply his heart could never be mended. Things had not been the same between them since, and all she was praying for now was the best way out of the ruins of their marriage.

And now Geoffrey was in Paris, in this very palace, and she was terrified in case either of them unwittingly gave Louis or anyone else—the all-seeing Abbot Bernard in particular—cause to wonder what had passed between them. In France they did terrible things to queens who were found guilty of adultery. Who had not heard the dreadful old tale of Brunhilde, the wife of King Clotaire, who had been falsely accused of infidelity and murder, and torn to death by wild horses tethered to her hair, hands, and feet? Eleanor shuddered whenever she thought of it. Would Louis be so merciless if he found out that she had betrayed him? She did not think so, but neither did she want to put him to the test. He must never, ever know that she had lain with Geoffrey.

Even so, fearful though she was, she could not but remember how it had been between them, and how wondrously she had been awakened to the pleasures of love …

No, don’t think of it! she admonished herself. That way lies the danger of exposure. She even began to wonder if that wondrous pleasure had been worth the risk …

The trumpets were sounding. They were coming now. At any moment Geoffrey would walk through the great door. And there he was: tall, flame-haired, and intense, strength and purpose in his chiseled features, controlled vitality in his long stride. He had not changed. He was advancing toward the dais, his eyes fixed on Louis. He did not look her way. She forced herself to lift her chin and stare ahead. Virtuous ladies kept custody of their eyes, Grandmère Dangerosa had counselled her long ago; but Dangerosa herself had been no saint, and in her time used her eyes to very good effect, to snare Eleanor’s grandfather, the lusty troubadour Duke of Aquitaine. Eleanor had learned very early in life that women could wield a strange power over men, even as she did over Louis, although, God help them both, it had never been sufficient to stir his suppressed and shrinking little member to action very often.

Eleanor tried not to think of her frustration, but that was difficult when the man who had shown her how different things could be was only feet away from her, and accompanied by his eighteen-year-old son. His son! Suddenly, her eyes were no longer in custody but running amok. Henry of Anjou was slightly shorter than his father, but he more than made up for that in presence. He was magnificent, a young, redheaded lion, with a face upon which one might gaze a thousand times yet still wish to look again and feast on the gray eyes, which outdid his father’s in intensity. His lips were blatantly sensual, his chest broad, his body muscular and toned from years in the saddle and the field of battle. Despite his rugged masculinity, Henry moved with a feline grace and suppressed energy that hinted at a deep and powerful sexuality. His youthful maleness was irresistible, glorious. Eleanor took one look at him—and saw Geoffrey no more.

There was no doubt at all that her interest was returned, for, as Louis rose and embraced Geoffrey, Henry’s appreciative gaze never left Eleanor: his eyes were dark with desire, mischievous with intent. Lust knifed through her. She could barely control herself. Never had she reacted so violently to any man.

With an effort, she dragged her eyes—those treacherous eyes—back to the homage that was being performed, then watched Henry, in the wake of his father, falling to his knees and placing his hands between those of the King.

“By the Lord,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice, “I will to you be true and faithful, and love all that you love, and shun all that you shun. Nor will I ever, by will or action, through word or deed, do anything which is unpleasing to you, on condition that you will hold to me as I shall deserve, so help me God.”

Eleanor was captivated. She wanted this man. Watching him, she knew—she could not have said how—that he was destined to be hers, and that she could have him at the click of her fingers. Her resolve to end her marriage quickened.

She caught Geoffrey looking at her, but found herself staring straight through him, barely noticing the faint frown that darkened his brows as he watched her. She was thinking of how she was bound by invisible ties to the three men standing before her, that each was unaware of that fact, and that two of those ties must now be loosed. Forgetting Geoffrey would be easy: she saw with sharp clarity that she had fed off that fantasy for too long, of necessity. It had been lust, no more, embellished in her mind with the fantasies born of frustration. And she had waited for years to be free of poor Louis. The only question now was how to accomplish it.

“In the name of God, I formally invest you with the dukedom of Normandy,” Louis was intoning to Henry, then bent forward and kissed the young man on both cheeks. The young duke rose to his feet and stepped backward to join his father, and both men bowed.

“We have much to thank Abbot Bernard for,” the King murmured to Eleanor, his handsome features relaxing into the sweet smile that he reserved only for his beautiful wife. “This peace with Count Geoffrey and his son was of his making.”

More likely it was some wily strategy invented by Geoffrey, Eleanor thought, but she forbore to say anything. Even the unworldly Louis had accounted it odd that the crafty Count of Anjou had made this sudden about-turn after blaspheming in the face of the saintly Bernard, who had dared to castigate Geoffrey for backing his son, Henry FitzEmpress. Stubbornly, Henry FitzEmpress had for a long time refused to perform homage to his overlord, King Louis for the dukedom of Normandy. Even Eleanor had been shocked.

“That boy is arrogant!” Louis had fumed. “I hear he has a temper on him that would make a saint quail. Someone needs to bridle him before he gets out of control, and his father cannot be trusted to do it, whatever fair words he speaks for my benefit.

“I can’t believe that Geoffrey was lackwitted enough to cede his duchy to that cocky young stripling,” Louis muttered now, the smile fixed on his face.

Eleanor was finding it difficult to say anything in reply, so smitten was she with Henry.

“Even now, I do not trust either of them, and neither does Abbot Bernard. Whatever anyone says, I was right to refuse initially to recognize Henry as duke. Why God in His wisdom struck me down with illness just as I was about to march on them I will never understand.” Louis was working himself up into one of his rare but deadly furies, and Eleanor, despite herself, knew that she had to make him calm down. People were looking …

Louis was gripping the painted arms of his throne with white knuckles. She laid a cool hand on his.

“We must thank God for Abbot Bernard’s intervention,” she murmured soothingly, recalling how Bernard had stepped in and, ignoring Geoffrey’s customary swearing and bluster—God, the man had a temper on him—had in the end performed little less than a miracle in averting war.

“Aye, it was a fair bargain,” Louis conceded, his irritation subsiding. “No one else could have extracted such terms from the Angevins.” Eleanor could only agree that Henry’s offer of the Vexin, that much-disputed Norman borderland, in return for the King’s acknowledgment of him as Duke of Normandy, was a masterful solution to the dispute.

“Come, my lord,” she said, “they are all waiting. Let us entertain our visitors.”

As wine and sweetmeats were brought and served, the King and Queen and their important guests mingled with the courtiers in that vast, dismal hall. Searching for Duke Henry in the throng, hoping for the thrill of even a few words with him, just to hear once more the sound of his voice, Eleanor unwillingly found herself face-to-face with the saintly Abbot Bernard, who seemed equally dismayed by the encounter. He did not like women, it was well known, and she was convinced he was terrified of the effect they might have on him. Heavens, he even disapproved of his sister, simply because she enjoyed being married to a rich man. Eleanor had always hated Bernard, that disapproving old misery—the antipathy was mutual, of course—but now courtesy demanded that she force herself to acknowledge him. The odor of sanctity that clung to him—Odor indeed! she thought—was not conducive to social conversation.

Bernard’s stern, ascetic face gazed down at her. His features were emaciated, his skin stretched thin over his skull. All the world knew how greatly he fasted through love of Our Lord. There was barely anything of him.

“My lady,” he said, bowing slightly, and was about to make his escape and move on when it suddenly struck Eleanor that he might be of use to her in her present turmoil.

“Father Abbot,” she detained him, putting on her most beseeching look, “I am in need of your counsel.”

He stood looking silently at her, never a man to waste words. She could sense his antipathy and mistrust; he had never liked her, and had made no secret of his opinion that she was interfering and overworldly.

“It is a matter on which I have spoken to you before,” she said in a low voice. “It is about my marriage to the King. You know how empty and bitter my life has been, and that during all my fourteen years of living with Louis, I have borne him but two daughters. I despair of ever bearing him a son and heir, although I have prayed many times to the Virgin to grant my wish, yet I fear that God has turned His face from me.” Her voice broke in a well-timed sob as she went on, “You yourself have questioned the validity of the marriage, and I have long doubted it too. We are too close in blood, Louis and I. We had no dispensation. Tell me, Father Abbot, what can I do to avert God’s displeasure?”

“Many share your concerns, my daughter,” Bernard replied, his voice pained, as if it hurt him to have to agree with her for once. “The barons themselves have urged the King to seek an annulment, but he is loath to lose your great domains. And, God help him, he loves you.” His lip curled.

“Love?” Eleanor retorted. “Louis is like a child! He is an innocent, and afraid of love. He rarely comes to my bed. In faith, I married a monk, not a king!”

“That is of less consequence than your unlawful wedlock,” Bernard flared. “Must you always be thinking of fleshly things?”

“It is fleshly things that lead to the begetting of heirs!” Eleanor snapped. “My daughters are prevented by their sex from inheriting the crown, and if the King dies without an heir, France would be plunged into war. He should be free to remarry and father sons.”

“I will speak to him again,” Bernard said, visibly controlling his irritation. “There are indeed many good reasons why this marriage should be dissolved.” Eleanor bit her lip, determined not to acknowledge the implied insult. Then she espied Henry of Anjou through a gap in the crowd, quaffing wine as he conversed with his father, Geoffrey, and her heart missed a beat.

Bernard saw him too, and sniffed.

“I distrust those Angevins,” he said darkly. “From the Devil they came, and to the Devil they will return. They are a cursed race. Count Geoffrey is as slippery as an eel, and I have never liked him. By his blasphemy, to my very face, he has revealed his true self. But the vengeance will be God’s alone. Mark you, my lady, Count Geoffrey will be dead within the month!”

Eleanor was struck by a fleeting chill at the abbot’s words, but she told herself that they had been born only of outrage. Then she realized that Bernard was now frowning at Henry.

“When I first saw the son, I knew a moment of terrible foreboding,” he said.

“May I ask why?” Eleanor inquired, startled.

“He is the true descendant of that diabolical woman, Melusine, the wife of the first Count of Anjou. I will tell you the story. The foolish man married her, being seduced by her beauty, and she bore him children, but she would never attend mass. One day, he forced her to, having his knights hold fast to her cloak, but when it came to the elevation of the Host, she broke free with supernatural strength and flew shrieking out of a window and was never seen again. There can be no doubt that she was the Devil’s own daughter, who could not bear to look upon the Body of Christ.”

Eleanor smiled wryly. She had heard the tale before. “That’s just an old legend, Father Abbot. Surely you don’t believe it?”

“Count Geoffrey and his son believe it,” Bernard retorted. “They mention it often. It seems they are even proud of it.” He winced in disgust.

“I think they might have been having a joke at your expense,” she told him, remembering Geoffrey’s wicked sense of humor. God only knew, he’d needed it, married to that harridan, Matilda the Empress, who never ceased reminding him that her father had been King of England and her first husband the Holy Roman Emperor himself! And that she was wasted on a mere count!

“One should never joke about such things,” Bernard said stiffly. “And now, my lady, I must speak with the King.” He backed away, nodding his obeisance, evidently relieved to be quitting her company. She shrugged. Kings and princes might quail before him, but to her, Bernard of Clairvaux was just a pathetic, meddlesome, obsessive old man. And why should she waste her thoughts on him when Henry FitzEmpress was coming purposefully toward her.

What was it about a certain arrangement of features and expression that gave one person such appeal for another, she wondered, unable to tear her eyes from the young duke’s face.

“Madame the Queen, I see that the many reports of your beauty do not lie,” Henry addressed her, sketching a quick bow. Eleanor felt the lust rising again in her. God, he was beddable! What she wouldn’t give for one night between the sheets with him!

“Welcome to Paris, my Lord Duke,” she said lightly. “I am glad you have reached an accord with the King.”

“It will save a lot of bloodshed,” Henry said. She was to learn that he spoke candidly and to the point. His eyes, however, were raking up and down her body, taking in every luscious curve beneath the clinging silk gown, with its fitted corsage and double belt, which emphasized the slenderness of her waist and the swell of her hips.

“I trust you had a good journey?” Eleanor inquired, feeling a little faint with desire.

“Why don’t we forget the pleasantries?” Henry said abruptly. It was rude of him, but his words excited her. His gaze bore into hers. “We both know what this is all about, so why waste time, when we could be getting better acquainted?”

Eleanor was about to ask him what he could possibly mean, or reprimand him for his unforgivable familiarity to the Queen of France, but what was the point? She wanted him as much as he clearly wanted her. Why deny it?

“I should like to get to know you too,” she murmured, smiling at him boldly, and forgetting all that nonsense about custody of the eyes. “You must forgive me if I do not know how to respond.”

“From what I’ve heard, you’ve not had much chance,” Henry said. “King Louis is known for his, shall we say, saintliness. Apart, of course, from when he is leading armies or burning towns. It is odd that such a pious man should be capable of such violence.”

Eleanor shuddered. All these years later, she could not bear to think of what happened at Vitry. It had changed Louis forever.

“My marriage has not been easy,” she admitted, glad to do so. Let Henry not think she was in love with her husband. Once she had been, in a girlish, romantic way, but that was long years ago.

“You need a real man in your bed,” Henry told her bluntly, his eyes never leaving hers, his lips curling in a suggestive smile.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Abbot Bernard,” Eleanor said mischievously.

“Him? The watchdog of Christendom? He’d never understand.” Henry laughed. “Do you know that when he was young, and got his first erection from looking at a pretty girl, he jumped into an icy pond to cure himself!”

Eleanor felt herself flush with excitement at his words. So soon had they progressed to speaking of such intimate matters, it was unreal—and extremely stimulating.

“You are very self-assured for such a boy,” she said provocatively. “Are you really only eighteen?”

“I am a man in all things that count,” Henry assured her meaningfully, slightly offended at her words.

“Are you going to prove it to me?” she invited.

“When?” he asked, his expression intent.

“I will send a message to you by one of my women,” she told him without hesitation. “I will let you know when and where it is safe for us to be alone together.”

“Is Louis a jealous husband?” Henry inquired.

“No, he never comes to me these days,” Eleanor revealed, her tone bitter, “and he rarely ever did in the past. He should have entered a monastery, for he has no use for women.”

“I have heard it said that he truly loves you,” Henry probed.

“Oh, yes, I have no doubt that he does, but only in a spiritual way. He feels no need to possess me physically.”

“Then he is a fool,” Henry muttered. “I cannot wait.”

“I’m afraid you might have to,” Eleanor said lightly. “I have enemies at this court. The French have always hated me. Everything I do is wrong. I feel I am in a prison, there are so many restrictions on what I do, and they watch me, constantly. So I must be careful, or my reputation will be dragged further in the dust.”

Henry raised his eyebrows. “Further?”

“Maybe you have heard the tales they tell of me,” Eleanor said lightly.

“I have heard one or two things that made me sit up and take notice.” He grinned. “Or stand up and take notice, if you want the bare truth! But I have been no angel myself. We are two of a kind, my queen.”

“I only know that I have never felt like this,” Eleanor whispered, catching her breath.

“Hush, madame,” Henry warned. “People are looking. We have talked too long together. I will wait to hear from you.” He raised her hand and kissed it. The touch of his lips, his flesh, was like a jolt to her system.

Later that night, Eleanor sat before her mirror, gazing into its burnished silver surface. Her image stared back at her, and she looked upon her oval face with its alabaster-white skin, cherry-red rosebud lips, sensuous, heavy-lidded eyes, and well-defined cheekbones, the whole framed with a cascade of coppery tresses. She marveled that she had as yet no lines or wrinkles, but even so, wondered if Henry would desire her as much when he realized that, at twenty-nine, she was eleven years older than he was. But of course he must know that. The whole world knew of her great marriage to Louis; there was no secret about her age.

Setting aside her fears, she stood up and regarded her naked body in the mirror. Surely Henry would be pleased when he saw her firm, high breasts, narrow waist, flat belly, and curving hips. The very thought of that steely, knowing gaze upon her nudity made her melt with need, and her fingers crept greedily down to that secret place between her legs, the place that people like Bernard regarded as forbidden to the devout: the place where, five years before, she had learned to feel rushes and crescendos of unutterable pleasure.

It was Marcabru the troubadour who had shown her how, the incomparable Marcabru, whom she herself had invited from her native Aquitaine to the court of Paris—where his talents, such as they were, had not been appreciated. Dark and almost satanic in aspect, he had excited and awakened her with his suggestive—and very bad—poems in honor of her loveliness, and then done what Louis never had to bring her to a climax, one glorious July day in a secluded arbor in the palace gardens. But Louis’s suspicions and jealousy had been aroused by Marcabru’s overfamiliarity in the verses he dedicated to the Queen, and he had banished him back to the South without ever realizing just how far Marcabru had abused his hospitality. It had been Eleanor’s hunger to know that sweet fulfilment once more that had driven her into the arms of Geoffrey the following autumn.

Since then she had learned to pleasure herself, and she did so now, hungrily, her body alive in anticipation of the joys she would share with Henry of Anjou when they could be together. And, gasping as the shudders of her release convulsed her, she promised herself that it would be soon. After all, Henry and Geoffrey would not be staying long in Paris.

“I watched you talking to the Queen,” Geoffrey said.

“We exchanged a few pleasantries,” Henry said guardedly, filling his goblet. He never discussed his dealings with women with his father.

“It looked like a lot more than that,” Geoffrey accused him. “I know you, Henry. Remember, boy, she is the Queen of France, not some trollop you’d screw in a haystack. And we’ve only just made peace with her husband the King.”

“I know all that,” Henry replied mulishly. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Convince me of that,” his father retorted. “I saw you looking at her lustfully. And I saw her casting her unchaste eyes on you. You know, Henry, she has a reputation.”

“So rumor has it,” Henry said. “But there is no proof. Her husband has not cast her off for infidelity. Maybe the rumors have wronged her.”

“Her husband,” Geoffrey said carefully, “does not know the least of it, I am sure.”

“It ill becomes you to impugn her honor, Father!” Henry snapped.

“Oh, so you are hot for her,” Geoffrey observed dryly. Then his tone hardened. “Listen, my son. I say this for a very good reason. I absolutely forbid you to touch her. Not only is she married and the wife of your overlord, and therefore doubly prohibited to you, but”—and here the count hesitated and looked away—“I have known her myself.”

“I don’t believe you, Father,” Henry retorted. “You’re just saying that to warn me off.”

“It’s true, God help me,” Geoffrey insisted, his voice sounding wistful. “Five years ago I had a secret affair with her, when I was seneschal of Poitou. She was there raising support for the crusade. It was just a brief thing, nothing serious, and fortunately nothing came of it. We were never discovered.”

Henry snorted. “So what of it? What difference does it make to me having her now? You clearly don’t want her anymore.”

“You don’t understand, boy,” Geoffrey hissed, grasping Henry firmly by the shoulders. “If you bed her, you commit incest. Such a relationship is forbidden by the Church.”

Henry glared at him and wrenched himself free.

“By the eyes of God, I care not a fig what the Church says!” he snapped. “A lot of things are forbidden by the Church, but they go on, and neither you, my lord, nor anyone else can stop me having my will of her—and not only my will, but a whole lot more besides. In case you’ve forgotten, she is the greatest heiress in Christendom.”

Geoffrey’s handsome face registered shock. He shot to his feet, sending his empty goblet clattering to the floor. “She is married to the King of France,” he hissed.

“She can be unmarried!” Henry answered. “I keep my eyes and ears open. Have you not heard what is being said at this court? That the marriage is invalid and should be dissolved? The barons believe it, the Queen is said to have urged it, even our friend Bernard, God damn him, is of that opinion. Only the King is obdurate.”

“He will not relinquish her domains,” Geoffrey said. “It is too rich an inheritance to give up, so you can forget it.”

“No,” Henry defied him. “Louis can’t keep hold of Aquitaine. His authority counts for little there. They’re an unruly lot, Eleanor’s vassal lords. Even her father couldn’t control them.”

“And you think you could!” Geoffrey taunted.

“I’d stand a better chance than they,” Henry assured him. “Louis hasn’t the resources. But when England is mine, along with Normandy, I will be ready and able to enforce my rule.”

“You run ahead of yourself, boy,” Geoffrey said wearily. “There is no guarantee that England ever will be yours. God knows your mother and King Stephen fought bitterly over it for years, but Stephen is still enthroned there, despite what people say about God and His saints having slept through all the terrible years of his reign; and he has an heir, Eustace, to succeed him. Against that, the claim of your mother, a woman, however rightful, is tenuous indeed. She lost all hope of success years ago when she upset the English by her haughty ways.” His tone made it clear that he too had been alienated by them.

“That’s unfair! You never loved my mother,” Henry flung at him.

“We’ve always cordially hated each other, you know that,” Geoffrey replied sanguinely. “But that’s beside the point. Those whom God hath joined must learn to put up with each other, or live apart, as we have. As for you, my son, just forget this harebrained scheme to snatch Queen Eleanor from her husband. You will live to regret it, I promise you.”

“There would be no snatching involved. I know, as sure as God is God, that she would come to me quite willingly.”

“Then you’re more of a fool than I’d realized,” Geoffrey spat, retrieving his goblet and striding toward the lion-shaped aquamanile jug on the table. He poured a full measure of wine, then downed it in one gulp. “You hardly know her.”

“Enough to know that I want her, and not just for her domains.” The young duke’s excited brain was racing ahead of him. “Yet think on it, Father: were I to marry Eleanor, I’d become master of all the land from the River Loire to the Pyrenees, a mighty inheritance, perhaps the mightiest in history. I could found an empire—an Angevin empire. I would advance our house and make you proud of me. Louis would be pissing himself at the prospect!”

“Which is precisely why he won’t let Eleanor go,” Geoffrey reminded him. “Why should he effectively hand those rich domains to a vassal? If he divorces her, there’ll be a stampede for her hand, which is why he’s stalling. God, Henry, you can be stubborn. Just leave it alone. No good can come of it.”

“I don’t call gaining half of France no good,” his son riposted.

“Then think of your immortal soul, you young fool.”

“Oh, I do think of it always, I assure you, Father,” Henry lied.

Henry closed the door and stood regarding Eleanor in the flickering light of the candles. He was wearing the same plain hunting clothes he had worn for the investiture. In contrast, she had donned a thin loose robe of finest white samite, pinned on earrings of precious stones, and had her maids brush her long hair until it shone like bright molten fire. She found herself reveling in the power she could wield over Henry with her beauty and her body. She was headily aware of the diaphanous quality of her robe, the prominence of her erect nipples, and his obvious pleasure at what he was avidly devouring with his eyes.

He moved quickly toward her, throwing his belt aside and ripping off his tunic as he strode across the floor. His chest was broad, lightly covered with brown hair, darker than that on his head, and his arms and shoulders rippled with muscle. Eleanor could not stop herself. With a muted cry she went to him, herself pulling down his braies to reveal his engorged penis. She was cherishing it in both hands when Henry’s strong arms folded around her, crushing her against him as he pressed urgent lips to her forehead and then sought her mouth. His fingers, rough with calluses from riding, were tugging at the embroidered neckline of her robe, pulling it down around her hips, then grasping her upper arms to hold her away from him as he stared at her full breasts. Then he bent and released the robe, which fluttered to the floor around her ankles, leaving her standing there naked before him.

Lifting her up, he carried her to the waiting bed and lay down with her on the silk sheets and bolsters, his hands everywhere, caressing her until she thought she would die of the pleasure. She gave like-for-like in return, teasing and exciting him with her fingers and tongue until he could bear it no more and swiftly mounted her, thrusting deeper inside her than any lover before him, and flooding her with his desire, shouting his triumph. Afterward, Eleanor eagerly took his hand and guided his fingers to her clitoris, not needing to show him what to do next, for he clearly knew. Her climax, when it came, was shattering, for Henry, hard again, entered her once more at the moment of culmination. She had not believed such ecstasy possible.

It was hours before they slept. Eleanor had never before had such a vigorous and enthusiastic lover, and she quickly discovered in herself an undreamed of capacity for pleasure in places she had barely known existed. Then came sleep, quiet and restful, and in the dawn, when she awakened, Henry’s arms about her once more and his manhood insistent against her thigh.

Later, lying close to him in the afterglow of lovemaking, getting to know each other better, she knew she could never relinquish him.

Henry’s gray eyes, heavy-lidded with fulfillment, were gazing into hers. His full lips twitched into a smile.

“I think,” he murmured, “that I have never felt like this with a woman before.” His fingers, surprisingly gentle, traced her cheek. His dynamism, even after his passion had been spent, excited her.

“I feel wonderful,” she told him, her eyes holding his. “Tell me this is more than just lust.”

“I cannot deny it.” He grinned. “In truth, you are magnificent.” He stretched out his hand and smoothed it slowly along the length of her body. “But I want you for more than this. I want to know you, all of you. I want your mind as well as your body. I want your soul.”

“From the moment I saw you, I felt—nay, I knew—that we were destined for each other,” Eleanor ventured. “Does that sound extravagant?”

“No,” Henry replied. “I feel the same, and it is a delight to me that we are equal in our passion.”

It had to be destiny, Eleanor was certain. She was filled with a sense of it, and of elation. God had led this man to cross her path, this man who had the power to satisfy not only her body but also her ambition. She had known, in the moment they had joined as one, that their coming together would have far-reaching consequences, and with a sudden flash of perfect clarity, she could see what those consequences would be. She would leave Louis and break their marriage. She would go back south to Aquitaine and reclaim it as her own. Then she would give it, with herself, as a gift to Henry. Together, with her lands joined to his coming inheritance, they could build an empire such as Christendom had never seen, and Aquitaine would become a great power in the world. And with Henry’s backing, she would quell her turbulent lords and rule it wisely and well.

“Henry FitzEmpress,” she said, looking into those fathomless eyes, “I want to be your wife.”

“And I, my lady, want to be your husband,” he replied ardently, kissing her again. “I know, for many speak of it, that you have doubts about your marriage, doubts shared even by the saintly Bernard. But what of Louis? Will he let you go?”

“I will talk to him,” Eleanor whispered, nuzzling his ear. “This time he must listen.”

“You’re not going to tell him about us?” Henry asked, alarmed.

“Of course not,” she said. “I am not a fool, my heart. Do you think he would relinquish me, knowing I wanted to marry you?”

“No, I am the fool! My father often says it.”

Eleanor giggled and began lightly stroking his hairy thigh.

“It makes sense, us marrying,” she said. “I have long wanted my freedom, but how long would I keep it? I would be beset by fortune hunters. I could not wed just any man. But you would be my powerful protector, and I know without doubt that you would safeguard my inheritance, and help me to rule it well.”

Henry looked long and hard at her.

“It did occur to me you would think I had pursued you only for your inheritance. I think you know now that there is a little more to it than that.” He stretched luxuriously, toying with her nipples. “Even if you were dowerless, I would want you for my wife. I mean that, Eleanor. By the eyes of God!”

“I believe you,” she answered teasingly, “although I should hope that God has averted His eyes for the moment! Yet it has not escaped my notice that the men, money, and resources that my domains could offer you would be of enormous help in gaining you England!”

Henry laughed. “So you know about my ambitions in that direction. Of course, it is no secret.”

“And,” Eleanor went on, “I am aware too that marrying me would make you the greatest and richest prince in the whole world.”

“Now, why didn’t I think of that?” Henry countered. “Suddenly, you are infinitely more desirable!” He began kissing her, playfully at first, then with a more serious purpose.

“Wait,” Eleanor said, holding him off. “Shall we make a promise to marry?”

He became still and regarded her solemnly. “We shall. I, Henry FitzEmpress, take thee, Eleanor of Aquitaine, as my future wedded wife.”

Eleanor sat up in the bed, her long hair tumbling over her breasts.

“And I, Eleanor, do promise myself to thee, Henry, forever and ever, Amen.” She beamed at him with such radiance that he caught his breath. “Now it is decided. We will make it come about. You can leave Louis to me.”

“I shall have to. We depart for Anjou tomorrow. You will not fail me, my Eleanor, I know that.” Henry took her hand and kissed it. She had intuitively guessed that, plain man as he was, he made such courtly gestures but rarely, and she prized it all the more for that.

“I have made up my mind,” she declared. “Nothing shall stand in our way. But there must be the strictest secrecy. We must give Louis no clue that we intend to wed until the deed is accomplished.”

“You speak sense, for he would be bound to forbid it,” Henry commended her. “He distrusts me as it is, for my fiefs encircle his royal demesne on most sides. I could be his greatest enemy. The prospect of my acquiring rich Aquitaine too would give him apoplexy!” He paused, frowning. “You do realize that our marrying without his permission, as our overlord, could mean war?”

“I do,” Eleanor said calmly. “Yet which side would have the greater chance of victory? There would be no contest. The kingdom of France is small and weak compared with the might of Aquitaine, Poitou, and Normandy.”

“Might is one thing, right another,” Henry reminded her. “Many will support Louis out of a sense of moral duty. They will argue that we acted with the greatest provocation, not to mention discourtesy. Yet if you are willing to take the risk, my lady, how could I gainsay you?” His eyes were twinkling in anticipation of a fight with Louis.

“Some things are worth fighting for,” Eleanor declared. “I am not afraid.”

“God, I love you,” Henry breathed, and crushed her beneath him once more.

“Go with God,” Eleanor said as, wrapping a cloak over her nudity, she kissed Henry farewell at the door of her chamber in the lightening of the sky before the dawn. “I will send for you as soon as I am free, then I will ride south to my capital at Poitiers. Join me there as soon as you can, if you would be married to me.”

“I will not fail you,” Henry promised. “You may count on me. I live for the day.” Again he raised her hand to his lips.

“I do not know how I shall bear being apart from you,” Eleanor told him.

“It is only for a short time. Think on our three nights of love, and know that I will be thinking of them too, and longing for more.”

After Henry had departed, slipping into the early morning mist in search of his tethered horse, Eleanor huddled her cloak close around her and prayed fervently for a happy outcome.

“Home,” she breathed. “I want to go home. I want this exile to end, to be among my own people, where I am loved. And with Henry FitzEmpress by my side, as Aquitaine’s duke. Together, we will usher in a new golden age. It would be joy beyond what I could ever have wished for. Dear God, hear my prayer! Oh, hear my prayer!”

2 The Loire Valley, September 1151

“I am planning a final assault on England, Father,” Henry announced as he and Geoffrey rode home along the banks of the mighty Loire, a posse of men-at-arms at their heels. It was a blazingly warm day, their clothes sticking to them, and sweat lathered their horses. “I have summoned my good barons of Normandy to a council of war at Angers next week.” He outlined his plans enthusiastically.

“You have done well, my son,” Geoffrey said approvingly. “Your mother will be proud of you.”

They plodded along for a mile or so, discussing the planned offensive, then Geoffrey turned to Henry, his face suddenly grave.

“I trust you have heeded my advice regarding Queen Eleanor,” he said.

“Yes,” Henry said shortly. It was obvious that he was lying.

Geoffrey was silent.

“Nothing good could come of it,” he said at length.

“So you said, Father!” Henry retorted.

Geoffrey was silent. Beneath his hat, in which he sported his customary adornment of a broom flower—the planta genista after which his descendants would one day be named—he was sweating profusely.

“God, it’s hot,” he said, wiping his brow. Henry, perspiring too, gazed ahead across the flat wide plains of the Loire Valley.

“Do you fancy a swim?” he asked. “It would cool us down. The river is shallow at Château-du-Loir, not far from here.”

“I should like that,” said Geoffrey wearily. “And I think our escort will appreciate it too.”

At the appointed place, they dismounted and began stripping off their clothes. The men-at-arms flung themselves full-length beneath the trees to sleep in the shade, or raided their saddlebags for food and drink. One or two disappeared into the trees to relieve themselves. The sun blazed down on the dry grass, where crickets sang in chorus and lizards darted hither and thither.

Naked, Geoffrey and Henry raced to the water’s edge, then plunged into the river, swimming powerfully out into the sluggish current. Laughing, they splashed each other vigorously, then wrestled in the rippling water. Henry was surprised to find his father’s muscles iron-hard—not bad for an old man of thirty-eight, he thought. He had also glimpsed Geoffrey’s impressive manhood, and wondered seriously for the first time if his father had indeed been speaking the truth about knowing Eleanor carnally, and if he had, whether he had satisfied her as well as he himself had done.

Their horseplay abandoned, they swam a couple of widths of the river, then dragged themselves onto the shore, where they sat awhile in the heat, drying off, before donning their clothes.

“We will need to find a place to spend the night,” Geoffrey said. “I should send the scouts ahead. My castle of Le Lude is at Sarthe, not far off. Let us make for there.”

Comfortably accommodated in the fortress, and after bestirring the castellan and his staff to action, Geoffrey called for a meal, then sat down at the board with Henry and their entourage to enjoy it. Lifting a silver goblet of sweet Anjou wine, he toasted the success of Henry’s planned assault on England.

“I cannot fail,” Henry assured him expansively. The wine had made him bold and overconfident. He noticed his father looked flushed, but attributed it to the heat, although it was cooler in the stone fastness of the castle. Then Geoffrey waved away the plump roasted fowl, saying that he seemed to have little appetite for food in this weather. A little later, Henry, wolfing down the last of his own dinner, felt the first stirring of concern as the count rejected a proffered bowl of fruit, then suddenly gripped the edge of the table, shuddering.

“Are you ill, Father?” he asked anxiously. To his knowledge, Geoffrey had never known a day’s sickness in his life.

“A touch of fever, my son. It is nothing.” He sounded breathless.

Henry placed his callused palm on Geoffrey’s brow. It was burning.

“I knew I should not have gone swimming in the heat,” his father said, attempting a smile. “I must have caught a chill. It has come on suddenly.”

“You should go to bed, sire,” Henry advised.

“I will,” Geoffrey agreed, but when he tried to get to his feet, he had not the strength, and slumped heavily against the table. Henry jumped up, in unison with four men-at-arms, and together they manhandled the sick man up the stone spiral staircase to the bedchamber above, where they laid him heavily on the fur coverlet spread across the wooden bed. By now he was shivering violently, his body hot to the touch, his hands icy.

“He were a fool to go swimming in that river,” one soldier commented. Henry glared at him.

“Strip him,” he commanded.

“Are you bloody mad?” the soldier asked him. “He should be wrapped up warm.”

“He’s warm enough. He needs to cool down,” Henry insisted. “Get his clothes off.” Begrudgingly, the men complied, leaving Geoffrey wearing only his braies for modesty’s sake.

“Now, fetch a basin of water and cloths.” The men departed, muttering that their young lord had gone daft and would be the death of the count, but they complied with his orders nonetheless.

Sponging down Geoffrey’s burning body, a task he took readily upon himself, for he loved his father, Henry willed him to get better.

“You are strong, sire. You must hold fast!”

Geoffrey lay there listlessly, his eyes glazed with fever. He was muttering something, and Henry bent an ear down to listen. Most of it was unintelligible, but he could make out the words “Don’t, I beseech you” and “Eleanor.” Grimly, he understood what his father was saying, and still he chose to ignore him. These were just the ramblings of a sick man.

Henry watched beside Geoffrey all night as the fever raged; he did his best to keep him cool, and turned a deaf ear to his mumblings. In the shadows, the men-at-arms kept vigil also, shaking their heads at his unorthodox treatment. But Henry had learned his wisdom from his old tutor, Master Matthew of Loudun, a very sage man who had taught him much when he was living in England, at Bristol, not just from books, but all sorts of practical knowledge. These uneducated soldiers had never had the benefit of Master Matthew’s learning. His father would live, he knew it.

But Geoffrey grew worse, not better, and Henry spent much of the second night bargaining with God. If He would spare his father, then he would renounce Eleanor. He meant it at the time, although he had no idea how he could bear to give her up. God, it seemed, was listening, though, and as the sun rose, Geoffrey opened his eyes, from which the wildness had fled, and spoke lucidly for the first time since his collapse.

“My son,” he said, his face pale beneath the tan, “will you swear that, if and when you become King of England, you will give my counties of Anjou and Maine to your brother Geoffrey?”

“Father!” cried Henry, alarmed and outraged, for he had little love for his younger siblings. “First, you are not dying, so this is no time for swearing such oaths. And second, you are asking me to swear away my patrimony. I cannot do it, nor should you require it of me.”

“Boy, I am dying,” Geoffrey said hoarsely. “I feel it in my bones. And I order that my body must lie unburied until you swear to do what I ask.”

“But Father, Anjou and Maine should be mine by right of birth, as your oldest son,” Henry protested.

“You have Normandy, and you will, God willing, have England.” Geoffrey’s voice was weakening. “Is that not enough? Can you not humor your dying father?”

“No,” Henry declared firmly. “I am sorry, I cannot, for it is an unjust request.”

Geoffrey looked at him sadly.

“Then will you at least promise not to pursue the matter of the French queen? I ask only because I fear for the safety of your soul. I am done with earthly concerns.”

“I have renounced her,” Henry said truthfully, knowing that, if his father died, he would be released from that vow, God not having kept His part of the bargain.

“Then I can die partly content,” Geoffrey croaked, his breath coming now in shallow gasps.

“Father, do not die!” Henry cried in panic, grasping the sick man’s hands and rubbing some warmth into them, then recoiling horrified as they fell limply from his fingers and Geoffrey’s eyes glazed over. “Father! Father!” He burst into noisy tears.

The soldiers, heads bowed in grief, for the count had been a good lord to them, knelt by the bed in respect for the passing of a soul; after a moment a dazed Henry knelt with them. It took a moment more before he realized that he was now not only Duke of Normandy, but also Count of Anjou and Maine, and master of a quarter of France.

Later, Henry stood beside his father’s sheeted body, which still lay on the bed on which he had died.

“He has paid his debt to Nature,” he told his men, “and yet I cannot order his burial because I would not swear to disinherit myself.”

“But it would be a disgrace to leave your father’s body to lie rotting here in this heat,” cried the castellan, knowing full well that the ever restless Henry would soon be on his way, leaving him to deal with the problem.

“You must bury him, sire,” the soldiers urged. “You must swear now to what you would not swear before. You cannot leave him to stink the place out.”

“Very well,” Henry agreed, almost weeping in frustration. “I vow to give Anjou and Maine to my brother Geoffrey. Does that satisfy you? Now let us go to Le Mans to make arrangements for my father’s burial in the abbey of St. Julien.” And then, he added to himself, vow or no vow, I will take firm possession of Anjou and Maine and secure the allegiance of my vassals there before setting my sights on England—and the crown that is my right. And I will marry Eleanor, with Louis’s approval or without it.

3 Paris, September 1151

“Louis, you must listen to me,” Eleanor said suddenly, as they sat alone at supper in her chamber. The servants, having placed spiced rabbit, girdle bread, fruit, and hard cheese on the table, had left them alone in the flickering candlelight.

Louis turned his fair head with its shorn hair toward his wife; he had cut off his beautiful long locks in penance after the burning of Vitry. There was sadness in his eyes. He knew he had lost her, this beautiful woman who had strangely captured his heart but never his body, and he feared to hear her say the words that would make the break final.

“We have known, you and I, for a long time, that there are serious doubts about the validity of our marriage,” Eleanor said carefully. A great deal hung on the outcome of this conversation, and she was determined not to let her inbred impetuousness ruin everything.

Louis’s heart plummeted like a sinking stone. She looked so fine, sitting there in her bejeweled blue gown, that glorious cloud of hair rippling over her shoulders. He could not believe she was asking him to renounce her.

“Pope Eugenius himself blessed and confirmed our union when we were in Rome,” he said quietly. “Had you forgotten that?”

“How could I forget it?” Eleanor asked, shrinking inwardly at the memory of the beaming pontiff beseeching them to set aside their differences and their bitterness, and then—it had been hideously embarrassing—showing them into that sumptuous bedchamber with its silken hangings and ornamental bed and urging them to make good use of it. And they had done so, God help them, with Louis taking his usual fumbling, apologetic approach. Little Alix, now a year old, had been the result. But Louis had not touched Eleanor since. She wondered what all those French barons who blamed her for her failure to bear a son would have to say about that.

“Others, of great wisdom, have different opinions,” she said carefully, reaching for some grapes. “Abbot Bernard for one. The Bishop of Laon for another. Bernard is adamant that our marriage is forbidden. He asks why you are so scrupulous about consanguinity when it comes to others, when everyone knows that you and I are fourth cousins. He told me he would speak to you.”

Louis’s brows furrowed; he was inwardly quailing at the prospect of Bernard hectoring him yet again. He looked at Eleanor helplessly. He had stopped eating. He could not face another mouthful.

“Can’t you see—God Himself has made His displeasure clear,” Eleanor went on earnestly. “He has withheld the blessing of a son, an heir to France. Our daughters cannot inherit this kingdom, you know that as well as I. Will you risk your immortal soul, Louis, to stay in this marriage?”

“No, my lady. I cannot fight you anymore,” he said sadly. “It seems I must heed the good Abbot’s exhortations, even though they run contrary to my own wishes.” A tear trickled down his cheek. “Did you ever love me?” he asked plaintively.

“It is because of the love I bear you that I fear for your immortal soul,” Eleanor told him, congratulating herself on this spontaneous response that so neatly sidestepped his question. “And I fear for my own soul too.” She leaned forward. “Louis, we must part. There is no help for it.”

The King continued to sit there in his high-backed chair, weeping silently.

“You have ever had your way of me, Eleanor,” he said at length. “Yet have you thought what our separation will mean for me? I will lose Aquitaine, that jewel in the French crown.”

“You could never hold it,” she reminded him, cutting a sliver of cheese. “You have not the men or the resources. You would be well rid of the responsibility.”

Louis nodded, frowning. “You speak truth. It has proved a thankless task trying to govern your unruly lords. But do you think you can succeed where I have failed?”

“I know them,” Eleanor said, “and they know and love me. I am their duchess.” She drained her wine goblet.

“They might not love you when you rule against them in one of their interminable disputes.”

“That is a risk any prince must take,” Eleanor replied.

“You will remarry, of course,” Louis stated. Looking at her, in all her vital beauty, he could not bear the thought of her as another man’s wife. It was unendurable. She had been his prize, his ideal, and, he had to admit it, his torment. She was so vital and strong, whereas he knew himself to be a poor apology for a king—and a man. He could not help it: he was afraid of the sins of the flesh. He knew he had failed Eleanor in that regard, which was why she wanted her freedom. He understood, of course—he had even forgiven her for her dalliance (he hoped fervently it had been nothing more) with her uncle, Raymond of Antioch, during the crusade—but he could only deplore her craving for sensual pleasures. It was what had always repelled the saintly Abbot Bernard, and Louis’s old tutor and counselor, Abbot Suger. If only Eleanor would think more on the things of the spirit rather than of the flesh …

“I will weigh everything carefully before committing myself to marriage again,” she was saying in a noncommittal tone.

“You cannot seriously be thinking of ruling alone?” Louis asked, shocked. “You will need a protector, a strong man who will govern in your name. And one, I might remind you, who is loyal to me and would not seek to abuse his power.” Which, he thought to himself, is probably asking for the moon.

“I had thought of that,” she said evenly, “which is why I am making no hasty decision. This has to be resolved in everyone’s best interests.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Eleanor was holding her breath, waiting.

“Then it seems I must grant your wish,” Louis capitulated. She tried to look suitably sorrowful.

“I wish it could have been otherwise,” she said gently, reaching across to lay her hand on his.

“You cannot know how deeply I wish that,” her husband replied, removing his hand and pushing his plate away, sickened at the sight of the uneaten meat congealing in its thick sauce. “There is but one thing I ask of you, for the sake of my pride, as a king and as a man.”

“Yes?” Eleanor responded warily.

“That you allow me to initiate proceedings. Never let it be said that the King of France was abandoned by his wife.”

“I agree,” Eleanor said, biting back the retort that she was not really his wife. There was no point in making matters worse by sparring. She had gotten what she wanted.

“There is another thing,” Louis went on. “I take it you have thought of our daughters.”

Eleanor had thought. Those two beautiful little girls with their blond curls and wide blue eyes. Every time she looked at Marie and Alix, she marveled that she herself had helped to create them. She loved them, of course, yet had been constrained to do so from a distance. They had never seemed like hers anyway. As the daughters of France, they were given over at birth to a gaggle of nurses and servants, and she had not been involved in their daily care. They were far closer to Thomasine, their Lady Mistress, than they ever had been to their mother. She had rarely seen her children, and consequently established no close bond with them.

Yet there had been precious moments, as when her daughters twined their soft arms around her neck, resting their downy little heads against her cheek as she told them stories of fairies and demons, or sang them lays of the South, learned in her girlhood; but these came rarely. And of course it was better that way, for one day, not far distant, those little girls would leave France forever, to be married to great lords or princes. It was the way of the world, and she had known from the first that it would not do to allow herself to become too attached to them, for she might never see them again afterward.

For all that, she was hoping she might have a chance to enjoy many more sweet moments with her daughters before that inevitable parting, and the opportunity to forge a closer bond with them.

“Yes, I have given them much thought,” she told Louis. “How could I not? Marie and Alix are flesh of my flesh, and very dear to me. How will it be if I take them with me to Aquitaine, then send them back to you in a few years when you have found husbands for them?”

Louis frowned. “Eleanor,” he said, his voice cold, “have you forgotten that Marie and Alix are princesses of France? Their place is here, in France, with me, the King their father. My barons would never agree to them going with you.”

Eleanor blanched. “Louis, they are but six years and one year in age. I am their mother.”

“You should have thought of that when you pressed for an annulment!” Louis said reprovingly.

“I did think of it, constantly! Is it my fault that we are too near in blood? Louis, I beg of you …”

“Is it not enough that I am to be deserted by the wife I love? Should I lose my children too? I tell you, Eleanor, no court in Christendom would award you custody of them, and it would kill me to have you take them away.” There were tears in Louis’s eyes, his pain not all on account of his daughters.

“So you would deprive them of their mother?” Eleanor persisted.

“They will have a stepmother before long. You said that I must remarry, remember? And I will be expected to, for the sake of the succession.”

“I realize that, but they are my children too!” Eleanor cried. “Do not deprive me of them, I beg of you.”

“Eleanor, you know, as do I, that this is not about consanguinity,” Louis replied sadly. “You want your freedom, I have long been aware of that. Who is doing the depriving here?”

“I never intended that, God knows,” she sobbed, sinking to her knees. “I know you love our girls.” They were both weeping now.

“As usual, you never think things through, Eleanor,” Louis said, resisting the urge to kneel down and comfort her. “You just act impetuously, causing a lot of grief. I loved you—God help me, I love you still—and I feel for you. But on this issue I will not—nay, I cannot—bend. Princesses of France must be reared in France. The people would expect it. Besides, you left Marie for more than two years to go on the crusade. You insisted on coming with me, as I recall.”

“It grieved me to leave her, you must believe that. But I had to accompany you, Louis. My vassals would not accept you as their leader. Besides, I rarely saw Marie anyway. She did not need me. Neither of my daughters needs me. It is I who need time to get to know them, to make up to them for what I have not been.”

“Alas, I cannot grant you that,” Louis said. “Be realistic, and understand my position.” There was a pause, a heartbeat as his gaze held hers. “You could always reconsider.”

“You know that I cannot,” Eleanor told him. She was trembling. The prospects of her freedom, her return to Aquitaine, and a life with Henry of Anjou, not to mention the manifold benefits their marriage would bring, were too precious to her to give them up, but she had now been made devastatingly aware of just how high a price she was to pay for them. Desperately, she conjured up Henry’s leonine face in her mind, trying to blot out the plaintive image of those two sweet, fair-haired little girls.

Louis shook his head. “What a mess. We made our marriage with such high hopes.”

“We did our best,” Eleanor consoled, her mind still fixed fervently on Henry. “But God’s law must prevail.”

“I will speak to my bishops,” Louis said wearily. “Then we must attend to the practicalities.”

“You mean the transfer of Aquitaine to me?” Eleanor snapped.

“Yes. There will be a peaceful withdrawal of my royal officials and French garrisons. We will go there together and oversee it. Your vassals shall attend you.”

“All those defenses you built must be dismantled,” Eleanor insisted. “My people resent them.”

“It shall be done,” Louis agreed.

Eleanor rose and went to look out of the narrow window—barely more than an arrow slit—across the broad Seine and the huddled rooftops of Paris. Above them, the inky sky was studded with stars—those same stars under which Henry of Anjou was living, breathing, waiting … She caught her breath suddenly, certain she had made the right decision. She must suppress her sadness, for there was no other way for her. Her daughters were well cared for and would barely miss her; she must love them from a distance, as she always had—except the distance would be farther. Her own future was mapped out by destiny, and there was no escaping it, even if she wanted to. She had only to contain herself in patience for some while longer, and in the meantime she would be returning to Aquitaine, to reclaim her great inheritance. She was going home, home to the sweet, lush lands of the South, the lands of mighty rivers and verdant hills, of rich wines and fields of sunflowers; where people spoke her native tongue, the langue d’oc, which would sound as music after the clumsy, outlandish dialect they spoke in the North. She could not wait to be once more among her own people, quarrelsome and often violent though they were. It meant more to her to be Duchess of Aquitaine than it ever had to be Queen of France, or queen of the whole world, for that matter.

4 Beaugency-sur-Loire, 1152

The whispering was hushed in the vaulted hall as the princes of the Church took their seats on the stone benches, their rich robes settling in swathes of purple and black around them.

Eleanor, enthroned above them on the dais, glanced at Louis, who was staring straight ahead, his handsome features set in stern resolution. He would betray by no frown or grimace what he was feeling inside, she knew. His pride would not allow it.

It was ten days since this synod of archbishops had first assembled. The King and Queen had attended on the first day, to plead their case and present genealogical charts showing how they were related within the forbidden degrees. Witnesses had been summoned by Louis to attest to this, and the venerable Archbishop Hugh of Sens, Primate of France, who had convened this ecclesiastical court, questioned them all at some length, and Louis and Eleanor too, to determine whether they were seeking an annulment for pure motives and no other cause. That was certainly the case with the King, the Archbishop had decided—as for the Queen, who knew? Like most churchmen, he neither liked nor approved of her. She was willful, flighty, and headstrong, and France would be well rid of her. Archbishop Hugh had been mightily relieved when the Pope’s decision, solicited by Abbot Bernard some weeks earlier, had arrived this morning, and he had been able to reconvene the court. Now he was rising to his feet and unraveling the scroll of parchment in his hands.

“By the authority invested in me by His Holiness Pope Eugenius,” he intoned in his softly moderated voice, “I pronounce that the plea of consanguinity laid by our lord, King Louis, and the Lady Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine, be upheld, and that the marriage between them be deemed null and void.”

As the archbishops murmured their assent, and Abbot Bernard—come here specially to show his support for the annulment—looked on approvingly, Eleanor felt her heart bursting with joy and elation welling within her. She was free, at last, after all these long years of bondage! She was liberated. In vain, she struggled to keep her face impassive, for it would not be seemly to betray the exultation seething within her. Aquitaine was hers once more. Henry FitzEmpress would be hers … She was free.

Bernard of Clairvaux, catching the fleeting smile of triumph on her face, frowned. Heaven only knew what this wanton woman would do now that she had her release. He thanked God that Louis had put her away, yet trembled at the realization that she was now at liberty to wreak havoc on the rest of Christendom.

Archbishop Samson of Rheims, whom Louis had appointed to represent Eleanor at the synod and look to her interests, was now standing. He bowed in her direction, cleared his throat, and declared, “My Lord King has given me assurances that the Lady Eleanor’s lands will now be restored to her as she possessed them prior to her marriage. Because this union was entered into in good faith, its issue, the Princesses Marie and Alix, are to be held legitimate, and custody of them is granted to King Louis.”

Eleanor swallowed. She could hardly bear to remember the day, weeks before, when she had said farewell to her daughters. They had been playing with a puppy in their nursery, tying ribbons around his neck, feeding him morsels of meat saved from their dinner, and throwing a woolen ball for him to fetch. They had been impatient of their mother’s needy embraces, anxious to get back to the game, and while Marie looked at Eleanor with a puzzled expression when told that it might be a while before they would see her again, plump little Alix lost interest and toddled back to the puppy. Eleanor had briefly dropped one final kiss on each blond head, then resolutely walked out of the chamber, her eyes blind with tears. That was her worst moment, and she had briefly wavered in her resolve—but not for long. Now, she forced herself to think of the present, and heard Archbishop Samson conclude: “Both parties are free to remarry without hindrance, so long as the Lady Eleanor remains faithful in her allegiance to King Louis as her overlord.”

“I am gratified to see that agreements have been so amicably reached on all issues,” Archbishop Hugh said. “That being so, I grant the parties a decree of separation.” Eleanor bowed her head, again not wanting the world to see the elation in her face. There had been rumors aplenty that Louis was putting her aside because of her adultery, or that she had pushed for this divorce for lascivious reasons. Well, that at least was true, she admitted, but her scruples about the marriage had been long-held, and if Bernard shared them, then she had been right to press for an end to it.

Beside her, Louis was sitting motionless, gripping the arms of his chair. He would not look her way. The court was rising, the archbishops departing in a sedate flurry of purple and furs, making their obeisances to the King as they left, the lawyers and clerks gathering parchments while murmuring to each other of the verdict. It was not every day that a royal marriage was dissolved.

Suddenly, Louis stood up and, without a word, strode after Archbishop Hugh.

“Madame the Duchess!” It was her own Archbishop of Bordeaux, stepping into the breach. “Might I be of service to you in any way?”

Eleanor beamed at him. “Your Grace, I am grateful for your tender care of me, and for coming all this way to attend the synod.”

“What will you do now?” the Archbishop inquired.

“I am bound for Poitiers,” Eleanor told him.

“Immediately?”

“Yes. Aquitaine needs a ruler, there is much to be done, and I need to be there without delay.” She had not, of course, confided to him the most important thing she intended to accomplish in Poitiers. For that, she knew she must wait until she was safely back in her domains.

“Then I beg of you, madame, allow me to escort you there. My men-at-arms will offer you protection. These are dangerous times, and the greatest heiress in Christendom should not be traveling unguarded.”

“Nor will I be,” Eleanor smiled. “My uncle, the Count of Châtellerault, and my good Count of Angoulême, who makes up in loyalty for what he lacks in years, are come with their retinues to bring their duchess home. For your kindness, you are welcome to join forces and travel with us.”

“Thank you, madame, I will,” the Archbishop said, bowing. He had seen King Louis returning, and diplomatically backed away.

Louis faced her, his gray eyes clouded with sorrow. Eleanor took his hands.

“This is adieu, my lord,” she said briskly. “Not farewell, for I know we will meet again, as overlord and liege. And as friends, I trust and hope.”

Louis could barely speak.

“Forgive me,” he said humbly. “If I had been a better husband to you, we would not now be taking our leave of each other.”

“Nay,” Eleanor protested, “it is I who have failed as a wife. I lack the necessary meekness. I know my own faults.” She could afford to be generous now that she was no longer bound in wedlock to this man.

“I wish you well; I want you to know that,” Louis said. “If ever I can extend good lordship to you, you have only to ask.”

“I thank you.” Eleanor smiled. “And now I must depart. I have a long journey ahead of me, and wish to cross the Loire by nightfall. Adieu, my lord. God keep you.”

“And may He have you in His keeping also,” Louis whispered, loosing his hands from Eleanor’s. Then he watched as she stepped from the dais, sank before him in a deep curtsey, and walked out of the hall, her two damsels following.

5 Blois and Port-de-Piles, 1152

“Free at last,” Eleanor kept saying to herself, spurring on her horse and cantering southwest across the lush wide valley of the Loire, now lit by the rising moon. She had been saying it for several hours now, ever since they had set off from Beaugency that morning. “Free. I am free!”

The Archbishop, her lords, and her women were following close behind her, huddled in their thick cloaks; and on either side, carrying lighted torches, rode the helmeted men-at-arms who made up her escort. They had long ago lost sight of the sumpter mules and the carts, heavily laden with her personal possessions, so urgent was the need to move ever southward and put a great distance between her and her party and the kingdom of France. If King Louis got wind of what she was planning, he would certainly send a force to seize her and bring her back. It was unlikely that he would get wind of it, of course—she had always been better than he at subterfuge—but even so, she was aware of the pressing need to make haste. And, of course, every league brought her closer to a reunion with Henry.

She had already dispatched a messenger to him with the summons he had been waiting for. Now it was imperative that they both get safely and speedily to Poitiers, before the world heard of their intentions. Her lords and the Archbishop were in her confidence: they knew of her bold and daring plan.

Her standard-bearer galloped ahead, his fluttering pennant announcing to all who saw it that this way came Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine, Countess of Poitou, and—until this morning—Queen of France. The counts had shaken their heads at her boldness in thus proclaiming her identity to the world.

“Madame, you are no longer queen, no longer under royal protection, and therefore at the mercy of any chance adventurer,” they had urged.

“They would not dare,” she had challenged, her green eyes flashing.

“Madame,” they had protested, “you are no ordinary heiress. You own half this land of the Franks, and there are many, make no doubt, who would risk much to match with you.”

“I am already spoken for,” she declared, in a tone that brooked no further argument. “He who would lay hands on the future wife of Henry FitzEmpress would be a fool indeed.” As she said it, she felt a thrill of lust at the memory of Henry’s strong hands on her body, hands that would take what they wanted and hold onto it, be it a woman, a duchy, even a kingdom. So she had prevailed, and there it flew, always in her sights, the silk banner embroidered with the lion of Poitou. Her own emblem. She had insisted on it.

“It will be a blessed relief not to have to sleep in that gloomy barn of a bedchamber in Paris.” She smiled at her noble lady-in-waiting, Torqueri de Bouillon, thankful that she would never again have to lie frigidly beside Louis in that great bed, both of them striving to keep as far apart as possible. “Or with that monk I was married to!” Her smile was impish. She felt like a girl once more, for all her thirty years. And yet, she thought, smiling again and recalling the image that had gazed back at her that very morning from the burnished mirror, she still wore those years lightly: they had barely touched her. She knew she was beautiful, extraordinarily beautiful. Enough courtiers and troubadours had told her so, without flattery. And Louis, of course. He had taken pride in her loveliness, despite himself. She knew she had been his prize possession.

But not prized enough. The smile faded to a frown. She stretched in her saddle, rubbing her aching back and smoothing down her gown, fingers splayed over her tiny waist and slender hips; she could feel her flesh taut beneath the rich samite, unslackened by her two pregnancies. She turned to her lords.

“How far to the river?” she asked.

“A mile at most,” the Count of Châtellerault told her. He pointed ahead. “Look, that is Blois in the distance.” Eleanor could see tiny pinpoints of light in the darkness, and realized that they must be flares on the château ramparts. There was a bridge across the Loire at Blois, and that was the place they were making for.

“God grant we may cross the bridge unobserved,” Eleanor muttered.

“Madame,” Torqueri said fearfully, her soft voice barely audible on the night wind, “none of us will rest easy until you are safely back in Poitiers.”

Poitiers! Eleanor thrilled again at the name. Home. To be home at last would be bliss indeed. And when Henry kept his promise … She shuddered, seized with another tremor of unbidden desire. She did not fear the dangers of the journey. She would get home safely, she must get home … She felt herself invincible.

They had brought food to eat on the road. Some hours ago she had feasted by the wayside on cold capon, white bread, and the rich, sweet wine of the region. A simple meal, but delicious fare, appreciated all the more because she was in such a good mood. She was hungry at this moment, but willing to ignore the emptiness in her belly. Food was not her priority just now; they could buy more on the morrow. For the present, they must make all speed.

They were nearing Blois. Above them loomed the dark outline of the Tour de Foix, standing sentinel above the River Loire. There was a horseman galloping toward them in the dim light. It was one of the scouts who had been sent ahead to spy out the land. His mount was lathered with sweat.

“Lady,” he said breathlessly, bowing low in the saddle. “Go no farther! There is a band of armed men riding this way. They bear the device of Count Thibaut of Blois.”

“Perchance my Lord Count wishes to pay his respects and offer us hospitality,” Eleanor replied, a mischievous smile playing about her lips, since she knew that to be most unlikely, for there was bad blood between their families. But that was in the past, and supposedly forgiven and forgotten. They were all meant to be friends now.

“Nay, lady, by their words, which I overheard, they are planning to lie in wait for us. They were saying something about Count Thibaut having plans for you.”

“Does he indeed?” she replied grimly. “Of course, he is a widower, so I can well imagine what they are. You have done gallantly to warn me.”

The lords and the captains were eager to be gone; their taut faces betrayed their alarm. This was what they had feared. “Madame, we cannot risk the bridge. We must go by another way,” the Count of Angoulême urged.

“À moi!” Eleanor cried, as her forebears had done many times in the field of battle, and spurred her horse, knowing they must hurry and get away from this place if they wished to avoid disaster. She had no mind to end her days as the Countess of Blois.

Moving by stealth along the river banks, one of Eleanor’s captains came upon a barge tethered to a jetty, which he gleefully appropriated. Huddled together in the sanctuary it offered, and almost crushed by such baggage as they could squeeze into the remaining space, Eleanor and her companions uttered not a word as the craft glided swiftly along the river, making its silent way toward Tours. Only when dawn broke did they relax enough to begin a debate as to which way they should now take.

“Let us make south for the Vienne, and cross the Creuse at Port-de-Piles,” Eleanor decided. On the other bank, the men-at-arms were waiting with the Archbishop, having been permitted to cross the bridge at Blois after convincing the guards they were merely escorting His Grace back to his diocese.

The further south they rode from the Loire, the safer Eleanor felt. But as they neared Port-de-Piles, another scout came hastening toward them.

“Go no farther, lady!” he cried. “There is an ambush lying in wait for you ahead.”

“God’s teeth!” Eleanor swore, as the Archbishop winced. “Another fortune hunter! Who is it this time?”

“I fear it is young Geoffrey of Anjou, lady, Duke Henry’s brother.”

“That young idiot? He’s still wet behind the ears, surely. Well, my good angel, for that you certainly are, we will disappoint him of his quarry. My lords!” Eleanor turned to the two counts, who were waiting grim-faced in their saddles. “What do you suggest?”

“We should swing south, madame, to where we can ford the Vienne, and then make a dash across country for Poitiers.”

“That makes sense,” Eleanor agreed, as the others voiced their approval of the plan, and the weary Archbishop craved leave to make his own way to Bordeaux. Having bidden the old man a quick, affectionate farewell, she wheeled around her horse and spurred it on, smiling to herself as she imagined young Geoffrey’s fury when he discovered that she had eluded him. How enraged Henry would be when he learned that his little brother had plotted to supplant him!

6 Poitiers, 1152

As the flat swaths of the Loire Valley had given way to the great plain of Poitou with its lush countryside, scattered castles, solid Romanesque churches, and stone longhouses with red-tiled roofs, Eleanor’s sense of elation burgeoned. It was the sight of those red tiles that had first moved her. You never saw such things in the dreary North. Soon, she would be home!

She had loosed her hair, as a gesture to her newly unwed status, and luxuriated in it streaming behind her in the warm wind that blew across from the Atlantic sea, which lay some miles to the west. Straight-backed she rode, her eager eyes on the road ahead, the road that led to her city of Poitiers. It could not be far now. She had donned her crimson bliaut with its fitted bodice and sweeping, gold-embroidered skirts and topped it off with a splendid blue mantle for her homecoming. And yes, there it was ahead, majestic on its promontory above the River Clain, her fair city! Here, the Romans had come in ancient times; here, Charles Martel had vanquished the Saracens long centuries before; here, in a fine church within the walls, lay the blessed relics of St. Radegonde, the queenly patron saint of Poitiers. And there were her people, bursting through the gates, clamoring to greet her, their duchess come back to her own.

How they cheered as she trotted at the head of her escort through the packed streets, her standard going before her! They called down blessings on her for her beauty, because she was one of them, and because she had booted out the hated French. As she was carried into the great cathedral of St. Pierre, there to give thanks for her safe homecoming, Eleanor vowed to herself that, with God’s help, she would henceforth dedicate her life to her people, and never again subject them to the hateful rule of a foreigner.

After mass on Easter Sunday, the duchess made her way in procession to the spacious ducal apartments in the Maubergeonne Tower of the palace of Poitiers, and took her place in the high chair of her ancestors in the circular council chamber. Colorful banners hung high on the sandy stone walls, which had been crudely painted with scenes of long-past battles. The chief vassals of Aquitaine, who had gathered for the festival at the duchess’s summons, seated themselves at the long table before her.

Their eyes were on her, their newly returned duchess; they were waiting to find out what she would be like as their liege lady, and—more importantly—whom she would marry. None of them had even considered the possibility of her ruling alone: she was a woman, and women were weak creatures, not fit to wield dominion over men. Yet she was her father’s daughter and they were loyal to her, most of them after their fashion, and would remain so provided she did not take a husband who would subvert their autonomy and interfere too much in the affairs of the duchy. Having just gotten rid of the hated French, they were unwilling to stomach another foreign interloper. But the duchess must marry and bear heirs, of course, and she must have a strong man as her protector: they accepted that. They had all been told of her plans to marry Henry of Anjou, and were agreed that the young Duke of Normandy—now also Count of Anjou and Maine after his father’s death—did not pose too much of a threat to them, however formidable his reputation. He would more than likely be preoccupied with this northern kingdom of England, which looked set to be his too one day—and he was young enough to be molded to their will.

Eleanor was surveying them all as they waited for the feasting to begin. She knew, from her father, and from bitter experience, that her vassals were all but ungovernable. Away from the courts of her chief cities of Poitiers and Bordeaux, entrenched in their remote castles and hilltop fastnesses, they could thumb their noses at ducal jurisdiction. So it was best to sweeten them now by clever diplomacy and gifts—and the Lord knew she had been generous enough with those already—to keep them friendly.

“Sirs,” she began, her voice low and mellifluous, “I have asked you here formally to inform you of the annulment of my union with King Louis, and to approve my coming marriage. You all know that I have consented to wed the Duke of Normandy, and that I must do so without the sanction of King Louis, who is overlord of us both, for he would surely refuse it.” A mischievous smile played around her lips. The lords looked at her approvingly: they understood such underhand dealings, and their resentment of the French was such that they were more than happy to overlook this blatant breach of feudal etiquette.

“Our wedding must be arranged without delay, or it might never take place at all,” Eleanor told them. “This marriage will seriously undermine the power of France, and if King Louis discovered my plans, even he, weakling that he is, might fight. Once Henry and I are wedded and bedded, he can do nothing about it.”

“You must send again to the duke, madame,” her uncle, Hugh of Châtellerault, urged. “What if your messenger has been intercepted?”

“I will dispatch envoys today,” Eleanor promised, inwardly willing Henry to come soon, and wondering why he had not responded to her first message. “And now to other business. I am resolved to cancel and annul all acts and decrees made by King Louis in Aquitaine.” The lords looked at her approvingly. So far she was doing well. “And,” she went on, “I intend to replace them by charters issued in my own name, and to renew all grants and privileges. My lieges, there is much work to be done, but before we get down to business, you are my guests, and we have much to celebrate.”

At her signal, the servitors entered the chamber in a line, each bearing succulent-smelling dishes: mussels and eels in garlic and wine, salty mutton, fat chickens, the tasty local beans known as mojettes, ripe goat’s cheeses, and figs. All were offered in turn to the duchess and her lords, as the ewerers came around with tall flagons of red wine. Then a toast was drunk to the happy conclusion of the marriage negotiations and the future prosperity of Poitou. Tomorrow might bring war, but for now they would enjoy the feast!

It was May, with the palace gardens in colorful bloom, when Henry FitzEmpress rode proudly into Poitiers to claim his bride. Word of his coming had been brought ahead to Eleanor, and she was waiting with her chief vassals to greet him in the Grande Salle of the palace, the magnificent arcaded Hall of Lost Footsteps, as it was popularly known, because the chamber was so long and the beamed roof so high that the sound of a footfall barely carried at all.

Eleanor knew she looked her most beautiful: she had donned a vivid blue trailing bliaut of the finest silk tissue, patterned all over with gold fleurs-de-lis, and so cunningly cut and girdled that it revealed every seductive curve of her voluptuous figure. Over it she wore a shimmering sleeveless mantle of gold, banded with exquisite embroidery. Shining gold bracelets adorned her arms, and from her ears hung pendants of glittering precious stones. Still defying the convention that constrained matrons to wear wimples covering their hair, she had on her head just a delicate circlet of wrought gold encrusted with pearls and tiny rubies, which left her copper tresses cascading freely over her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes were shining with excitement, her lips parted in anticipation … This marriage that she had dreamed of, with its endless, exciting possibilities, was soon to be a reality; and tonight she would lie with Henry. At last! Her body trembled at the prospect.

And here he was, striding purposefully into the vast hall, attired in his habitual riding clothes—she was already aware that he cared little for fashion or rich robes—and wearing a jubilant smile. The sight of his face suffused her with joy. She would always remember this moment as one of the happiest of her life.

“My lady!” Henry bowed courteously, then came briskly toward Eleanor as she rose from her throne, and jumped eagerly up the step to the dais. The touch of his flesh as he took hold of her hands set her senses on fire. She had become anxious, as the weeks since their trysts in Paris turned into months, that imagining the attraction between them to have seemed greater than it was, that it would turn out to have been an illusion. That was of no moment, of course, in the making of marriages for policy, for there were powerfully compelling political reasons for this union, regardless of how she or Henry felt. But having known the sweetest passion in his arms, and pleasure that she could not have imagined possible, she thought she would die if she were to be cheated of it. Now, however, her fears were gone, for there was everything she had hoped there would be in Henry’s ardent gaze and the firm, possessive grasp of his hands—and in her own response to him.

“I must apologize for my tardiness in coming to you,” he told her as she gestured to him to sit beside her; already, a second throne had been set ready for Aquitaine’s future duke. “A delegation of nobles arrived from England, begging me to delay no longer in making good my claim to the throne. My supporters there are apparently losing patience. Well, I sent to tell them they will have to wait just a while yet. I have more important things to do.” He smiled at her. “You did wonderfully well!” he said. “I never looked to marry you so soon.”

“Louis was more amenable than I had expected,” Eleanor told him, her eyes devouring every line of his face.

“He won’t be when he knows what we are plotting!” Henry laughed. “But we can deal with that.”

“Now my lords are waiting to be presented to you,” Eleanor said, and beckoned them to come forward, one by one. They approached warily, eyeing the young Duke of Normandy with speculation. Foremost among them were Hugh, Count of Châtellerault, and Raoul de Faye, her mother’s brothers: Hugh, serious, stammering, and earnest: and the younger Raoul, witty, able, and prepared—to a point—to charm his new master. Then came eighteen-year-old William Taillefer, the handsome Count of Angoulême, so eager to prove himself to the renowned Duke of Normandy in the field and in matters of state; and after him, the loyal and chivalrous Geoffrey de Rancon, Lord of Taillebourg, whom Eleanor had long forgiven for his rash but well-meant actions during the crusade, which had led to the slaughter of seven thousand soldiers and his being sent back home in disgrace by King Louis. Henry had evidently heard of this too, for he was regarding Geoffrey warily as the man made his obeisance.

His wary look darkened to a frown when there knelt before him Hugh de Lusignan and Guy of Thouars, swarthy-skinned and black-haired, two of the most volatile of her vassals, whose notorious reputation was enough to send any overlord reaching for his sword; but they were on their best behavior today, and observing the courtesies in deference to the duchess’s presence. She knew, though—for Louis had had enough cause to grumble about it—that these men paid only lip service to their allegiance, and that their allegiance to her would go flying out of the window if it ever came between them and some land or fortress they coveted. And by the look on Henry’s face, as he bade Hugh and Guy rise and be merry, he needed no warning of their perfidy.

Last, but by no means least, there came the staunch Saldebreuil of Sanzay, Constable of Aquitaine, whom she had appointed her seneschal in reward for his loyalty and staunch service. Henry smiled at him and slapped him heartily on the shoulder as the good man bent to receive the kiss of greeting.

Eleanor was pleased to see Henry playing his part to perfection, doing his best to win over her lords by deferring to this one’s wisdom and experience, or praising that one’s renowned prowess in the field of battle or the tourney lists. She was amazed at his store of knowledge, especially of her domains. He had gone to a great deal of trouble to make himself accepted here. And most of them were responding in the proper manner and saying all the right things. It was the most promising of beginnings.

Later, after the last vassal went back to his place and wine had been served, Eleanor led Henry and her courtiers into the gardens, where they could relax in the warm sunshine in the shade of apple and peach trees. As the nobles rested on turf benches and talked of politics and warfare, young gallants sought out the duchess’s damsels and sang songs to them, their eyes bright with the expectation of favors to come later, when the velvet summer night had stolen over the land.

Henry walked with Eleanor beside a flower-filled lawn enclosed by low trellises.

“Tell me, do you miss being a queen?” he inquired, taking her hand.

“Need you ask?” Eleanor countered. “What I have now”—she waved her hand to indicate her throne, her lords, and her surroundings, then looked him directly in the face—“more than compensates.”

“I will make it up to you a thousandfold,” Henry promised. “I will make you Queen of England, the greatest queen that godforsaken land has ever known, I swear it. And then I will make you the sovereign lady of half Europe!”

“I have all my faith in you,” Eleanor told him, caught up in the heady excitement of this imperial vision, and exulting at the prospect of the glorious future, when all their hopes and ambitions would, God willing, be realized.

“Think of it,” Henry enthused, visibly elated. “When England is mine, all Christendom from the Scottish border down to the Pyrenees will be under my hand! Louis will be raging with envy, but there will be nothing he can do about it. Our domains will dwarf his beggarly royal demesne.”

Our domains. Those words should have thrilled Eleanor, but coming from Henry’s mouth, there was something about them that suddenly unsettled her. For all her need of him, she was suddenly aware that she did not know him well, and it was possible that, in marrying him, she might after all be surrendering her autonomy—and that of her people. Despite the warmth of the day, she felt a little chilled, but resolutely suppressed the thought, shocked at herself. They would be a partnership, she and Henry, from first to last, and their aims would be as one. That had been implicit from the first.

“Greatness and power,” Henry was saying, “lie in land and a ruler’s strength. Louis has neither.”

“Yet he is still our overlord,” she reminded him.

“So the fiction goes!” Henry grinned.

Eleanor smiled. “I should be scandalized.”

“Oh, I am sure you are! But remember, my dear love, you are marrying into the Devil’s own family. Do not expect us Angevins to be virtuous.”

“How could I, when your brother Geoffrey tried to abduct me on the way down here?”

“What?” Henry almost roared. “That little rabbit? I’ll cut his balls off.”

Eleanor could not suppress a giggle. “Surely you of all people don’t blame him for being an opportunist, my lord?”

“It’s a family trait,” Henry muttered.

“Does our marriage find favor with your Norman lords?” Eleanor asked.

“Yes, and with those of Anjou and Maine. They know it will bring prestige to my domains, and trade too. They are all agog to see you. I sang your praises, never fear.”

“And your mother, the Empress?” Eleanor had heard a lot about the formidable Matilda.

“She is content,” Henry said shortly, with little conviction. “She thinks it makes sound political sense for us to marry. And you will charm her, I am sure.”

“I look forward to meeting her,” Eleanor replied politely, with equally scant conviction. She wondered if Matilda was aware that her soon-to-be daughter-in-law had made the two-backed beast with her husband Geoffrey.

“I didn’t come here to talk about my mother, you know.” Henry grinned. “I’d rather discuss our immediate plans.” He lowered his voice to a seductive murmur. “Will you bed with me tonight?”

Eleanor smiled at him, her eyes dark with desire. “It is what I have been waiting for.”

——

Henry withdrew from Eleanor and, panting heavily, rolled back on his side, his hand trembling as it sensuously traced the arching curve of her waist, hip, and thigh. His eyes held hers, warm in the flickering candlelight. He bent forward and kissed her gently on the lips.

“I have dreamed of this,” he said breathlessly, “through all those dreadful months of waiting. God, I hated having to wait. You have been in my heart and in my loins. I ached for you.”

“Did you ever have doubts?” Eleanor asked, resting her cheek against the curling hair that crested his broad chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath his skin.

“Not for a moment. Did you?”

“I did wonder if I had dreamed some of it,” she murmured. “It was so unbelievable, what happened between us.”

“In the future, troubadours will sing of us and our love,” Henry predicted. Eleanor thrilled once more to hear him speak of love. She raised herself up on one elbow, her nipples teasing his ribs.

“They certainly will!” She laughed. “Is it not quite shocking for a husband and wife to love each other? Marriage, according to our poets, sounds the death knell to love.”

“It will not be so with us,” Henry vowed firmly.

“How could it be?” Eleanor rejoined, leaning over to kiss him, and trailing her hair all over his body. Then she lay down on her side, gazing again into his eyes.

“This is bliss after bedding Louis,” she told him. “I always had to beg him to make love to me, if only to get an heir, and then he was down on his knees praying both before and after he had done the dread deed. I feel as if I have come alive. I am free of all that! Oh, the joy of it!” She kissed Henry ardently, her tongue darting mischievously into his mouth. “In France, I was not free. They didn’t want me interfering, as they called it, in their politics. I was relegated to playing chess with my ladies, or embroidery, or telling riddles, for God’s sake. I have a brain, but they wouldn’t let me use it. Tell me that we won’t have a conventional marriage, Henry. I couldn’t bear that.”

“How could we?” he replied lazily. “We are not conventional people.”

“You are aware that I am giving up my newfound freedom to marry you,” Eleanor ventured. “I hope you won’t forget that I am sovereign Duchess of Aquitaine, even though you have the right to rule here as my husband? And to rule me—if I let you.” Her smile was full of mischief.

Henry concealed his surprise at her words and regarded her wickedly. “That is any husband’s right, as well you know! Once we’re married, my fine beauty, I might shut you up in a tower or beat you if you prove to be disagreeable or deny me your bed!”

“Then I’ll not go through with it!” Eleanor threatened, giggling. “I’ll be your mistress instead. You won’t get an inch of my domains!” For answer, Henry began tickling her until she squealed for mercy. Then he pinioned her down and kissed her hungrily.

“At this moment, I wouldn’t really care, so long as I can have you,” he muttered. “Louis was mad to spurn you, or let you go,” he went on hoarsely, mounting her a second time, his purpose clearly urgent. “But his loss is my gain: you are the rarest and most beautiful woman I have ever known. Now say you’ll marry me, or I won’t give you what you so clearly want!” The tip of his penis was teasing her sex, sending her into spasms.

“I’ll marry you, on condition you allow me my sovereignty,” Eleanor demanded breathlessly.

“God, you drive a hard bargain,” Henry gasped, thrusting into her.

“Say it!” she insisted, desire flooding through her: this sparring between them was decidedly erotic. But Henry was now too preoccupied to say anything, so pressing was his need, and when he was spent, they both drifted to sleep in each other’s arms, his promise ungiven.

The sun’s dazzling rays were streaming through the tall windows of St. Pierre’s Cathedral in Poitiers. They bathed in golden light the man and woman kneeling before the high altar, receiving the Church’s benediction upon their marriage. Eleanor was fully aware, as Henry took her hand and raised her to her feet, that this was an important moment in history, and that she was a participant in a deed that would have far-reaching consequences for her, for her new husband, for their descendants, and for the world at large. For this day would see the founding of an empire that promised to be one of the greatest in Christendom. The prospect was breathtaking—and a little chastening. She knew that a heavy task lay ahead of them both.

This day was also the start of a marriage—and of her cherished partnership of princes. Walking back through the nave of the cathedral with Henry, her vassals saluting and bowing as they passed, she knew she looked her radiant best, slim and seductive in her cornflower-blue bliaut, scarlet mantle, and gauzy white veil held in place by her richly chased ducal crown. Henry too was crowned, with the coronet of the Dukes of Normandy. He looked splendid in profile, straight-nosed, neatly bearded, his wavy red hair springing abundantly from his noble brow. His flushed, freckled face wore a triumphant look, and his hand was grasping hers possessively. She was his now, and since they were already one flesh, no one could divide them.

It pleased her to know that, thanks to her, her magnificent Henry was now Duke of Aquitaine and—at just nineteen—the mightiest prince in Europe. Together, she knew, they would make a stir in the world, greater than any royal couple before them. And as they emerged from the cathedral to acknowledge the rapturous acclaim of her people, she was again convinced of the rightness of it all—that she had made her bargain with destiny.

That night, Henry took her with even greater ardor than before, stripping away inhibitions and boundaries, and launching them on a long and sensual journey of ever-greater discovery.

“Never hold back!” he demanded. “I want everything you can give me.”

“I am my lord’s to command now,” Eleanor answered willingly, and in that moment meant it.

“Ours is a marriage of lions,” he breathed in her ear. “Did it occur to you? You have a lion as the symbol of Poitou, and my symbol is also a lion, inherited from my grandfather, King Henry of England. They called him ‘the Lion of Justice,’ but he’s supposed to have thought up the idea after receiving the gift of a lion for his menagerie in the Tower of London.”

“I like that,” Eleanor murmured, snuggling closer to him in the warmth of the feather mattress. “A marriage of lions. It has a chivalric ring to it.”

“It is apt in more ways than one, I think,” her husband observed as his arms tightened about her. “Eh, my Eleanor? We are neither of us meek and mild, but strong, audacious characters, brave as lions ourselves.”

“With you beside me, I will never know fear,” she told him, pressing her smooth cheek to his bearded one, reveling in the masculine scent of him.

“We will do well together, my fair lioness!” Henry laughed, and drew her close to him once more.

7 Abbey of Fontevrault, 1152

It was with a glad heart that Eleanor paid a visit to Fontevrault the month after her wedding.

“This abbey is a place especially dear to me,” she told Henry. “It was founded at my grandmother’s behest, and is dedicated to Our Lady.”

Henry nodded approvingly. He had heard of the fame of this double house of monks and nuns under the rule of an abbess, which had become a finishing school and retreat for royal and aristocratic ladies, and a haven of piety and contemplative prayer. It was a most unusual establishment in that its founder, a renowned Breton scholar called Robert d’Arbrissel, had wished to enhance the status of women, and even dared to assert that they were superior to men in many ways. Leaving that strange notion aside, Henry could understand why Eleanor thought highly of Fontevrault. He had a very good opinion of it himself. It was one of the greatest bastions of piety and faith in all Christendom.

The abbey lay by a fountain, in lush woodland on the banks of the River Vienne in north Poitou, near the border with Anjou. As Eleanor entered its lofty white church, which was distinguished by a quality of light and space seen nowhere else on Earth, and which had been beautified with simple, soaring columns and elegant triforium arcades, she felt uplifted and suffused with thankfulness. The abbess, Isabella of Anjou, who was Henry’s aunt, kissed her warmly in welcome, conducted her through the tranquil cloisters and ushered her into her spacious house, which was attached to the adjoining convent of Le Grand Moutier, where the nuns lived. Almond milk, pears, and sweetmeats were brought, and the two women, who immediately felt a mutual respect and affection, sat down to enjoy some congenial conversation.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, my lady?” Abbess Isabella asked. She was a plump, motherly woman in her mid-forties with the florid Angevin coloring, and had ruled her community for four years.

“It is a great joy to me to come to Fontevrault at this time, Mother,” Eleanor said. “I have much for which to be grateful to God. My heart is so full, and I wish to offer thanks for the great happiness He has bestowed on me in my marriage, and for making me the instrument through which unity and peace might be achieved in Christendom.”

“We must all give thanks to God for that,” the abbess declared. Intelligent and perceptive woman that she was, she was well aware of the hoped-for outcome of the duchess’s union with Henry FitzEmpress. “You will join us for dinner in our refectory afterward?” the abbess invited.

“Most certainly, I thank you.” Eleanor smiled. “But there is another purpose to my visit, Mother. After my marriage to my Lord Henry, I felt that divine inspiration was leading me to visit this sacred congregation. It feels as if I have been guided by God to Fontevrault, and while here, I intend to approve and confirm all the charters and gifts that my forefathers have given to this house. If you will have this drawn up on a parchment, Mother, I will affix my seal. It is a new one.” Proudly, she drew it from the embroidered purse hanging at her girdle and showed it to the abbess. It portrayed Eleanor as duchess of both Aquitaine and Normandy. “See, I am holding a bird perched upon a cross; it is a sacred symbol of sovereignty.”

“If I may say so, madame, wedlock suits you: you are looking radiant,” the abbess observed. “I am delighted that you have found such joy in your union with my nephew. I hear that he has ambitions to be King of England.”

“Which I have no doubt he will fulfill,” Eleanor said.

“I was in England thirty years ago, before I entered religion,” Abbess Isabella recalled. “I was married to William, the son of King Henry, who was himself son to William the Conqueror, and grandfather to your husband. They called King Henry the ‘Lion of Justice.’ He was a lion indeed! Strong and respected as a ruler, but a terrifying man, cruel and ruthless. I can never forget what he did to his grandchildren.”

“What did he do?” Eleanor asked, thrusting away the unwelcome thought that the same violent blood ran in her own Henry.

“One of his daughters defied him, with her husband, and he had the eyes of their two little girls put out as punishment.”

Eleanor shivered. “How vile. That’s too awful to contemplate. What was his son like?”

“William? They called him ‘the Atheling,’ after the old Saxon princes before the conquest. He was another like his father, proud, fierce, and hardhearted. Mercifully, I was not married to him for very long.”

“Was he the prince who drowned when the White Ship sank?”

“The very same.”

“I have heard my lord speak of his death. He said King Henry never smiled again.”

“For the King, it was a tragedy. He had no other son to succeed him. Not a legitimate one, at any rate. His bastards, of course, were legion.” The abbess’s lips twitched. “But God in His wisdom took unto himself my young lord, and King Henry forced his barons to swear allegiance to his daughter Matilda as his heir.”

“The Empress, my mother-in-law,” Eleanor supplied. “Did you ever meet her?”

“No, she was then married to the Holy Roman Emperor and living in Germany. He died later on, and she married my brother Geoffrey, but she never came to visit me. By all accounts she is a strong woman. She has certainly fought hard for the kingdom that was lawfully hers.”

“And lost,” Eleanor put in. “But my lord will reclaim it in her name. She has ceded her rights to him. The portents are good.”

“King Stephen still lives, though,” Isabella stated.

“He is hated and despised, my lord says. Those barons who would not accept a woman as their ruler are far more amenable to Henry, especially now that he has proved himself a ruler to be reckoned with. Tell me, Mother, what is England like?”

“They call it ‘the ringing isle’ because there are so many churches. It is green and lovely, and a lot like France in some parts, but the weather is unpredictable. The people are insular, but hospitable. And no, before you ask, they do not have tails, as is popularly bruited here!”

Eleanor laughed. “I never heed such nonsense!” She accepted a tiny fig pastry. “I will look forward to seeing England someday. Oh, I wanted to tell you that my lord and I have commissioned a window commemorating our marriage in the new stained glass. It is to be set into the east window of the Poitiers cathedral, that all who see it will remember where we were made man and wife.”

“A fitting gesture,” the abbess said. “And an enduring one.”

“Yet more precious to God will be my thanks and praise,” Eleanor said, swallowing the last of the pastry and rising to her feet. “If you would excuse me, Mother, I shall go into the church now. Summon your scribes, if you would. We can have the charter written out later.”

7 Aquitaine, 1152

“Louis has summoned us,” Henry announced, bursting into Eleanor’s solar and thrusting a parchment into her hands. Briefly, she perused it.

“This was addressed to both of us,” she said, anger rising, born of her fear of what Louis might do, and shock at Henry’s presumption. “You should not have broken the seal without my being there.”

“I am the duke,” Henry stated uncompromisingly.

“And I am the duchess!” she flared.

“And my wife,” Henry shouted. His sudden anger excited her, despite her annoyance with him. This was not the first quarrel they had had, and it would certainly not be the last, she knew that well. The only compensation was that every time, without fail, they found themselves in bed, sealing their reconciliation with passionate lovemaking.

“This is my duchy!” Eleanor insisted.

“And mine in right of our marriage. I shouldn’t have to remind you that I am the ruler here now. I’ve told you before, Eleanor, governing is man’s work, and women should not interfere.”

“You’re as bad as Abbot Bernard!” she flung at him. “You and I are meant to be a partnership. We agreed. I am no milksop farmwife to be cast aside: I am the sovereign Duchess of Aquitaine, and I will be deferred to as such! Do you heed me?”

For answer, Henry folded her in his arms and kissed her brutally. “This is your role now, my lady. I do not remember agreeing to anything.”

“How dare you!” Eleanor cried, struggling free and slapping him on the cheek. “These are my domains, and my word is law here.”

Henry recoiled. His face was thunderous, his voice menacing. “Enough, Eleanor. Leave that for now. There are more pressing matters to consider. I came to tell you that Louis has summoned us to his court”—he unscrolled the parchment and read—“‘to account for our treasonable misconduct in marrying.’”

“It’s bluster,” Eleanor declared, still angry. “He cannot do anything to us.”

Henry frowned. “I wouldn’t be so complacent. The envoys who brought this say that their master is shocked and angered. He accuses me of basely stealing his wife—”

“As if I were a chattel to be taken against my will!” Eleanor interrupted, furious.

Henry threw her a look. “Some of the French lords have even urged Louis to revoke the terms of your annulment,” he went on, “or even the annulment itself. Others want us excommunicated.”

“Words!” fumed Eleanor.

“Angry men often translate words into actions,” Henry said. “My enemies are uniting against us. Even my beloved little brother Geoffrey has declared his support for Louis. And Count Henry of Champagne, who is betrothed to your daughter Marie, is dashing off to Paris to join them. Of course, he knows very well that if you and I have a son, Marie will not get Aquitaine. His brother, Thibaut of Blois, that bastard who tried to abduct you, is also for Louis.”

“He is to wed my little Alix when she is of age,” Eleanor said, a touch wistfully. “I could wish it otherwise. He could not win the mother, so he settled for the daughter, the bastard!”

“It’s war, no less,” Henry declared. “I must leave for Normandy at once. The rumor is that Louis plans to attack it in my absence.”

“Then this is our first farewell,” Eleanor said, the last traces of her rancor evaporating. She swallowed and put on a brave smile. “I suspect it will be the first of many, given how far-flung our domains are.”

“You knew that when you took me for a husband,” Henry said gently, tilting her chin toward his face. He kissed her long and hard, all trace of annoyance gone. “It grieves me too, Eleanor, but it will not be for long. I will send Louis and all his cronies scuttling back to Paris with their tails between their legs. And mayhap I am leaving you with child …”

“Then God will have smiled upon our union,” Eleanor pronounced. “I fear it is too early to tell.”

Henry sighed. “I could have done without all this,” he growled. “I was planning to take an army across to England and settle matters there, but it will have to wait, yet again. At this rate, the English will get fed up with waiting and declare for the usurper Stephen after all.”

He kissed her again, then broke away.

“I must go,” he said briskly. “Speed is of the essence.”

The news Henry sent Eleanor by his couriers was good. Louis had the temerity to invade Normandy, but Henry advanced with such speed that several horses dropped dead from exhaustion on the road; and with devastating compunction, he laid waste that land called the Vexin on the Norman-French border and the demesnes of Louis’s own brother, Robert of Dreux.

Next she heard he had been in Touraine, taking some castles that his father left to the unfraternal Geoffrey. He was winning through. Then God Himself, it seemed, intervened. Louis, Henry wrote, had collapsed with a fever and was laid up at Geoffrey’s castle of Montsoreau. Eleanor smiled when she read that. It was typical of Louis to fall ill at such a crucial moment. She smiled even more broadly when she read on and learned that right now Henry was besieging the castle.

“The Lord Geoffrey has submitted and begged for mercy and reconciliation,” the next messenger told her, “and the King of France has given up his cause for lost and sued for peace. He has gone back to Paris.”

How ignominious, Eleanor thought. But again, typical.

After six weeks, Henry was back in Poitiers, the magnificent victor. There was a new air of authority about him; he was now the dominant power in western Christendom, and he knew it.

Wasting no time, the returning hero took his wife to bed and had his will of her vigorously and repeatedly, to her great and unbearable joy.

“I swear to you, Eleanor,” he gasped, heaving and sweating in her eager arms, “no assault on a fortress was ever so pleasurable. You yield delightfully!”

“Come again,” she breathed, raising her knees and clasping her ankles across his tight buttocks. He readily obliged, and soon had her crying out in ecstasy.

“Hush!” he panted, kissing her lustily. “Your barons will think the war has broken out again!”

Eleanor held herself in speechless stillness as waves of pleasure coursed through her. Feeling Henry inside her was sheer bliss. It had been so long … She had barely contained her need for him. But for all her delight in their joining, she was miserably aware that he was shortly to leave her again.

“When do you depart for England?” she asked a little later, when they were lying peacefully together under the single sheet. It was a warm, balmy night, and the sky glimpsed through the narrow window was indigo blue and bright with stars.

“Not until the end of the year,” Henry said.

“You’re planning a winter campaign?” she asked, surprised.

“No, my lady, I intend to use diplomacy this time. Of course, an army at my back will help negotiations wonderfully, because the English will know that I mean to deploy it if necessary.”

“This latest victory can only have enhanced your reputation, my brave Henry,” Eleanor murmured, kissing him. “The English now know what they have to reckon with.”

“The English are no fools. They need a strong king, and I’m their man. The question now is how to topple Stephen and his son without causing too much unpleasantness.”

“With any luck he will have wearied of the struggle and be eager to come to terms,” Eleanor said. “Then you can return speedily to me, my love.” She turned and twined her arms around him, rejoicing in the strength of his supine body.

“I’ll be here for a while yet,” Henry said, biting her neck playfully between words. “It occurred to me that before the autumn sets in, we should make a leisurely progress through your domains, so that you can introduce me to your vassals. The ones who are speaking to you, anyway. Of course, I hope that meets with your approval, O sovereign Duchess of Aquitaine!” He was mocking her, she knew, but she did not leap to the bait. She was too overjoyed at his suggestion.

“I should love that, Henry,” she enthused. “There are so many places I want to show you. We should start with the Limousin. It’s wild country in every respect, but so beautiful, and it will do its unruly lords a power of good to be brought face-to-face with their new suzerain. They will meet their match and more!”

“Your faith in me is touching!” Henry murmured, nuzzling her ear.

“We must go to my father’s hunting lodge at Talmont—he used to take us hawking there. It is where my gyrfalcons are bred. I will give you one, the prize of the mews. Nothing but the best for my lord! You must see Les Landes in Gascony—nothing but acres and acres of scrub, sand dunes, and pine forests, but so wild and bracing.”

“We will ride out there together, alone,” Henry promised, catching her excitement.

“The pearl of my domains is the Périgord,” Eleanor went on. “The valley of the Dordogne is unsurpassed for its beauty. There I will feed you on freshly dug truffles, which are glorious in omelettes, and confit of duck, and foie gras—the area is known for its wonderful food.”

“Stop, you’ll have me running to fat!” Henry interrupted, laughing. “My forebears were enormous.” He paused and looked down at her. “So show me all, my love … apart from your lands!” And he ducked, choking with mirth, as Eleanor rose wrathfully up in the bed and began pounding him with her pillow.

The tour had not gone well.

“Your vassals do not like me!” Henry repeatedly complained. “You, they defer to, and treat with respect. I am regarded with suspicion!” His gray eyes were narrowed in anger.

Eleanor could not refute what he said, for it was no less than the truth. Everywhere, without exception, there had been enthusiastic cheers for her and cool receptions and studied politeness for Henry. No one had actually said anything, and mercifully there were no demonstrations, but the hostility was palpable. It made a mockery of the glorious, spacious autumnal landscapes, the sunflowers browning drowsily in the fields, the majestic rivers and spectacular crags. Henry remarked upon none of these wonders; he had been simmering with rage.

Early on there had been the awful day when several of Eleanor’s lords came to her privately after they had arrived in the Limousin. “Madame the Duchess,” one of them had said, grim-faced, “to you, we are devoted and loyal, never doubt it. But hear this: we owe Duke Henry no allegiance save as your husband.”

“He is your lord now,” Eleanor had said sternly, knowing how badly Henry would take this; “and it is my will that you acknowledge him as such, and show him the customary fealty and obedience.”

“Madame, he is a foreigner, like the French. His first loyalty is not to us, but to Normandy and Anjou, and his ambitions lie in England. Many believe he means to milk Aquitaine dry to achieve his crown.”

“He does not need to,” she assured them, springing to Henry’s defense. “He has sufficient men and resources of his own! I give you my word on that.”

She did not manage to convince them, however, and did not dare reveal this conversation to Henry. Things were bad enough, and the reluctance of her vassals to pay court to him all too plain. Inevitably, Henry’s temper had become increasingly foul throughout the progress. In vain she’d tried to distract him by pointing out ancient churches and mighty castles, and to tempt him with the fine food and abundant vintages of the region, which should have been the source of much mutual enjoyment. But it was a wasted effort. He was not going to say one good word about anything, on principle. In the end she gave up trying.

Now, having reached gentler countryside, and traversed peaceful pastures, they were before Limoges, her chief city of the Limousin, their gaily striped tents pitched outside the massive new walls, the pride of its citizens. Henry looked up approvingly at the impressive fortifications, and his mood lightened further as he and Eleanor entered the city to the unexpectedly rapturous acclaim of the people. He expressed admiration for the great abbey and shrine of St. Martial, the city’s patron, and showed a genuine interest in the Romanesque splendor of the cathedral and the exquisite, richly colored enamel plaques that he and Eleanor were given as gifts by the burghers.

That night, they were to dine in their silken pavilion beyond the walls, with the Abbot of St. Martial and the chief lords of the Limousin as guests. Eleanor’s damsels had dressed her in a beautiful green Byzantine robe that set off her red hair to perfection, and as she and Henry took their places at the high table, she’d begun to hope that her husband was feeling happier about the progress, and that things would be better from now on.

Given their warm welcome, she happily anticipated a lavish feast, and waxed lyrical about the succulent truffles produced in the Limousin, the rich game, the roast ox drizzled with sweet chestnuts, and the violet mustard. But Henry took one look at the puny duck and scrawny goose that lay on the golden platters before him and barked, “Is this all there is to eat?”

“It is all we have, lord,” the serving varlets stammered.

“Ask Madame the Duchess’s cook to come here!” Henry demanded. “This is mean fare indeed!”

Eleanor’s master cook came hastening into the pavilion, his lugubrious face crumpled with concern. He bowed ostentatiously to her, ignoring Henry.

“Lady, I am very sorry, but this is all we have. The citizens did not send the usual supplies.”

“And why was that?” Henry snarled.

“Let me deal with this,” Eleanor murmured.

“No, my lady, they will answer to me. Am I not the Duke of Aquitaine?” Henry’s cheeks were flushed with fury.

“My lieges, allow me to explain what has happened,” the Abbot of St. Martial intervened smoothly. He was a haughty man with a chill in his manner, and for all his courtesy, barely concealed his resentment of his new overlord.

Henry glared at him, while Eleanor shuddered inwardly. More trouble, she thought, and just when matters were improving.

“It is customary, I fear,” the abbot went on in his high, reedy voice, “for food supplies to be delivered to the royal kitchens only when Madame the Duchess is lodging within the city walls.”

Henry’s set expression suddenly changed dramatically. He went purple with anger. Eleanor had never seen him so enraged; was she at last going to witness the notorious Angevin temper at its worst? It seemed she was! Roaring curses on the abbot, the citizens, and—for good measure—St. Martial himself, Henry lost control and, throwing himself on the floor, rolled around yelling bloodcurdling oaths before finally falling quiet and grinding his teeth on the rushes strewn over the flagstones. The fit lasted a full three minutes, with Eleanor looking on open-mouthed, the abbot curling his lip in disgust at the prone, seething figure at his feet, and the aghast company craning their necks to get a better view.

After the worst excesses of his rage had subsided, Henry got dazedly to his feet and stood glowering at the sea of faces staring at him.

“Know this!” he cried in his cracked voice. “I, Henry FitzEmpress, your duke and liege lord, will not tolerate such blatant disrespect. Nor will my lady here.” He looked hard at Eleanor, challenging her to agree with him, and although she had been on the point of interrupting, she subsided, quelled by the menacing steel in his gaze.

“Limoges will pay dearly for this insult,” Henry announced to the silent company. “Its walls shall be razed to the ground. No one, least of all you, my Lord Abbot, will be able in future to use them as an excuse for depriving me or your duchess of our just and reasonable dues. Now you had best get back to the city and convey my orders to your people—and see that they are obeyed! Demolition must begin tomorrow.”

Eleanor watched, appalled, as the mighty abbot, who had up till now enjoyed great power and autonomy, was dismissed like an errant novice. She knew that Henry’s anger was justified, but also felt that his vengeance was overly harsh. Yet to appeal to him now would be disastrous—she must appear to be supporting him and show the world that they were united in their indignation.

Later, though, in the privacy of their tent, she burned with the injustice of it all. After they had lain silent in bed for a while, she turned to him.

“What on earth were you doing?” she asked. “People were looking at you as if you were possessed by devils.”

“Sometimes, when these rages are upon me, I think I am,” Henry muttered.

“Can you not control yourself?”

“No. Something in me explodes, and I have no power over it. Anyway, I was right to be angry. I will not be slighted like that. I will not have you slighted like that.”

“Yes, you were right,” Eleanor agreed. “No one could blame you for being angry. I just wish you could have curbed your temper a little and not made such a spectacle of yourself.”

Henry stiffened. “Don’t you dare preach to me, Eleanor!”

“I am not. I was embarrassed. And, if I may venture to say so without your biting my head off or throwing a tantrum, I think the punishment you handed down was severe in the extreme.”

Henry raised himself up on one muscular elbow. “Do you? Pah! The citizens of Limoges—and your people at large—need to be taught who is master here. Stern measures are called for. It’s called strategy, my dear.”

“Those walls are brand-new and strong, the latest in defenses. You were admiring them yourself. They took years to build, at great cost. If you force the people to pull them down, you will be hated and resented. Could you not rescind the order and think up some other punishment?”

“I would rather be hated and resented than not have my vassals fear me,” Henry declared. “How would it look, retracting my order? I would be seen as a weak man whose word is not his bond, one to be cozened and wheedled out of decisions. No, Eleanor, once my mind is made up, it is made up for good. There is no point in trying to dissuade me.”

“You might have taken counsel of me first,” she protested. “I am the duchess, after all, and these are my people.”

“You are my wife, and your part is to obey me,” Henry flared. “I am heartily sick of playing a subordinate role in this duchy. Now get on your back and learn who is master!”

No man had ever spoken to her like that, but Eleanor was too shocked to object as Henry forced her thighs apart and thrust himself between them, ramming his manhood into her with little care about hurting her. Not that it did hurt—not physically, anyway, for she usually thrilled to rough handling—but this was the first time that Henry had taken her in anger or used her body to enforce his own supremacy. Afterward, as he slumped at her side and his heavy breathing quietened, she lay there grieving, knowing that, without her being able to help it, the balance in their relationship had altered, and fearing it might never again be possible for them to come together as equals after this.

Henry, by contrast, seemed unaware that there had been a change. He was up early the next morning, pulling on his tunic and hose and splashing cold water on his face.

“Are you getting up?” he asked.

Eleanor gazed at him wearily from the pillow. She knew what this day must witness, and wanted no part in it.

He came toward her and sat on the bed.

“I am going to supervise the dismantling of the walls,” he said, bristling with determination. “I want you with me, to show that we are united in our anger.”

“No,” she said firmly. Henry snorted with impatience.

“Up!” he barked. “Get up! Like it or not, you are coming with me.” He grabbed her arms none too gently, pinching the soft flesh, and dragged her into a sitting position.

“Very well,” Eleanor said icily, realizing that further protest would only result in an undignified scuffle that she could not hope to win. She slid off the bed and pulled on her shift. “Grant me at least the courtesy of ten minutes to make myself presentable.”

Alone with her women, she asked for her black mourning gown to be brought. “That, and a black veil—and my ducal coronet. No jewels.”

“You look like a bloody nun,” Henry exclaimed when he saw her. “Why the weeds?”

“How perceptive you are!” she retorted. “I am mourning the loss of my people’s love.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he scoffed.

“After yesterday’s display, you are in no position to talk,” Eleanor snapped, adjusting her veil. “Well, I am ready,” she added quickly, seeing him framing a biting reply. “I suppose you are still insisting on this cruel, harsh order being carried out?”

“Come!” was all Henry said.

They emerged from their tent to a maelstrom of activity. Scaffolding was being erected, tools commandeered, and surly, glowering men—long lines of them—were being impressed to do the demolition work. Even the master masons, loudly protesting, had been given no choice. Women, and even children, were scurrying to and fro with huge baskets, or carrying messages conveying orders, while great carts stood ready to carry away the rubble. The atmosphere was subdued, the resentment of the people palpable. When Henry appeared, there were muffled curses.

He leaped up onto a large boulder and signaled to his men-at-arms to sound the alarum. The activity ceased, and hundreds of pairs of angry eyes turned to the stocky figure of the duke. Eleanor, standing miserably behind him, almost shaking with resentment, could see burning hatred in those eyes—and a desire for revenge.

“People of Limoges!” Henry cried in ringing tones. “I hope you will not forget this day, and I hope you will learn from it. When Madame the Duchess and I next visit you, I trust you will treat us with greater courtesy. And maybe you might like to rebuild these inconvenient walls so as to allow better access to your kitchens!”

There was a sullen silence. Then someone in the crowd threw a stone. It missed, but Henry was not in a forgiving mood.

“If I catch the varlet who did that, I’ll have him castrated,” he threatened. “And anyone else who thinks they can mock my justice. Now, back to work, all of you.” He jumped off the boulder and strode over to Eleanor, then grasping her purposefully by the hand, led her along the perimeter of the plateau on which the old city was built, following the line of the doomed walls. Behind them tramped his armed escort. The citizens saw them coming as they bent furiously to their task, not daring to slacken, for Henry’s anger was still writ plain upon his face. Finally, he and Eleanor arrived at a vantage point at a safe distance from the demolition work and stood there to watch, as citizens who had lavished good money and pride, not to mention the sweat of their backs and the blood of their willing fingers, building their defenses, grudgingly pulled them apart, stone by stone. As the walls of Limoges began crashing to the ground in clouds of yellow dust, Eleanor felt the destruction like a physical pain. Yet her face remained impassive, for Henry was watching her, as if daring her to protest; but she would not allow him that satisfaction.

After Henry finally let her return to their pavilion, when the choking dust became too much to bear, she just wanted to flee as far from Limoges as possible, or crawl into a hole like a badger, for she keenly felt her citizens’ grief and anger, and the conviction that, in failing to save their walls, she had betrayed them. She burned with fury against Henry, and even more so when they met for dinner later and he made no reference to the events of the day and was his usual genial self. In bed he was once again the ardent lover, by turns demanding and tender, and Eleanor almost managed to persuade herself that all was well, but found it hard to respond because she was deeply preoccupied with concern about what her people now thought of her.

She could not stop brooding. It seemed to her that this marriage that she had defied the world to make had become, in its own way, as much a form of captivity as her union with Louis had been in another. This was not the partnership she had planned for, but a vile endurance, she told herself angrily. She had been duped, no doubt of it. Henry’s passion had driven her sense of power, but now she saw that it had all been an illusion. Yes, they’d had mutual aims, and he had been happy to consult and defer to her, but only when it suited him. The reality was, he had the mastery of her, by all the laws of God and man—and was determined to assert it, even if it meant riding roughshod over her feelings and sensibilities. She seethed at her own helplessness, chafing against the invisible chains that bound her.

There were, of course, no cheers as they rode away from the destruction that was now Limoges, but the rest of the progress passed without incident, and Henry cheered up considerably when the people of Gascony showed themselves more than willing to be recruited for his English offensive, and ready to provide him with ships and supplies. He put it down to word of his strong and uncompromising rule going before him. In the future, these godforsaken southerners would think twice about defying him! Small wonder they were groveling.

At last they came to the Talmont, that pretty village nestling above the Gironde estuary on a promontory of high white cliffs. Here, Eleanor’s family had built a hunting lodge, a place much beloved by her. Yet even here her subjects’ antipathy toward Henry was palpable. She cringed when, on the first day they arrived at the mews, her falconers took no pains to hide their dislike, and kept Henry waiting an unconscionable time in his saddle for a bird; and when it was brought to him, he was not pleased to find that it was a lowly sparrowhawk—a bird deemed suitable only for priests or women—instead of the royal gyrfalcon he had been expecting, and which was his right. She, on the other hand, had a most noble hawk perching on her glove. It had been horribly embarrassing, because for all the servile excuses that no suitable falcon was available, quite clearly the slight had been deliberate.

She said nothing. Secretly, she was gratified to see Henry so discomfited. Let him reap what he had sown!

On the surface, however, they were existing in a tacit state of truce. The weather was still good, despite the lateness of the year, and they rode out hawking daily, admired the spectacular views from the cliffs, went to mass in the squat stone church of St. Radegonde, and enjoyed each other’s bodies every night. And gradually, unwillingly, Eleanor found herself succumbing again to her husband’s charm and dynamism.

“I could live here quite happily,” Henry said, stretching, as they lay abed one sunny morning.

“It is beautiful in summer,” she told him, her tone still a little clipped and formal, for resentment was yet festering in her. “There are hollyhocks everywhere.”

“Then we will come back next year,” he promised. His eyes sought hers.

“You are still angry with me about Limoges,” he said.

“You had your way. There is nothing more to say.” Eleanor shrugged, her eyes veiled.

“But you are holding aloof from me,” Henry complained. “I fuck you every night, and in the mornings too, but I can’t reach you.”

“What did you expect?” she asked. “You have no cause to find fault with me. I played the part of submissive wife to perfection, at the risk of alienating my subjects. I allow you the use of my body whenever you want it. I am with you in bed and at board. Many couples rub along with less.”

“But we had so much more!” Henry flared.

“We did,” Eleanor agreed vehemently. “It was you who decided to play the aggressive husband, you who set at naught my hopes for a partnership of equals. I am a captive in this marriage!”

“So I’m being punished,” he retorted.

“No, that is how things are now.” Eleanor made to rise from the bed, but Henry caught her wrist.

“I love you, you know,” he said urgently.

Tears welled in her eyes.

“I love you,” he said again, staring at her.

Slowly, she came into his arms, her body racked with uncontrollable sobs, and clung to him.

“There now,” Henry soothed. “Now you are mine again. By the eyes of God, I will make things right between us!” As he fell to kissing her hungrily, Eleanor allowed herself to relax a little. Could things really be once more as they had been before Limoges? She had thought not, but now saw that she must stop nurturing this resentment, and give her feelings for Henry a chance to flower again. As they were flowering now, God be thanked—or cursed, was it?—under the onslaught of his caresses …

Returning to Poitiers in December, Eleanor’s heart was heavy. Henry was bound for England at last, and impatient to be gone.

“I should make haste,” he told her. “I must stop at Rouen on the way to visit my Lady Mother the Empress. It’s the least I can do, since she’s been so generous with funds for this venture. And I want to consult her about my invasion plans.”

Eleanor fumed inwardly. He could rarely be pressed to discuss them with his wife, and still made no secret of his opinion that women should not interfere in politics. But clearly he was willing to make an exception for his mother.

As if reading her thoughts, Henry said, “She is to govern Normandy while I am abroad—there is much to talk over with her. And she knows England well—and King Stephen.”

“By all accounts she knew him very well!” Eleanor said tartly.

“Don’t believe those old tales,” Henry said lightly. “But he did have a chivalrous regard for her, despite their being enemies.”

“I wonder at your naivety!” Eleanor grimaced. He threw her a filthy look.

“Remember it’s my Lady Mother of whom you are speaking,” he reminded her. “Although I wouldn’t have put it past her! She’d have eaten him for breakfast, poor weakling that he is.”

“I should like to meet her,” Eleanor said, not meaning it.

“You will, one day,” Henry told her. His disinterested tone betrayed no awareness of any possible grounds for antipathy between his mother and his wife. Eleanor wondered if he knew about her own affair with his father. He had never mentioned it, and neither would she, ever.

Henry’s quick, restless mind had moved on.

“I’m leaving Anjou and Aquitaine in your hands,” he said. “I know you will rule them both well.” Eleanor was surprised and touched, and felt not a little guilty for having jumped to unfair conclusions about him; for not only was he trusting her to look after her duchy in his absence, but also his own county of Anjou, the domain of his forefathers. He was trying to make amends, she suspected.

She smiled at him at last, her eyes brilliant.

“I will not fail you, my lord,” she promised.

In the early hours of the morning, Eleanor awoke. It was still warm in the bedchamber, for two braziers had been left burning. In their flickering red glow she could see Henry lying naked on his stomach beside her, the sheet tangled around his legs. He was watching her drowsily, a rare gentleness in his eyes.

“You’re awake,” she whispered.

“How can a man sleep with you lying next to him?” He chuckled, feasting his eyes on her full breasts and her long limbs stretched luxuriously before him. “There is no one like you, Eleanor. There never has been, and I doubt there ever will be.”

“So there were others before me?” she teased, really wanting to know. Henry had never spoken of any previous encounters with women, although she had heard rumors.

“Legions!” he grinned. Eleanor made to thump him with her pillow, but he stayed her hand. “I am a man, with a man’s needs. Of course there were others. But believe me when I say that none compared to you. They meant nothing.”

She believed him, yet still felt a pang of jealousy.

Henry was regarding her closely. “Now you tell me,” he said, “what happened in Antioch?”

Eleanor was startled. “What have you heard about that?” she asked warily, feeling herself flush.

“That you cuckolded Louis with Raymond, the Prince of Antioch, your own uncle, for Christ’s sake, and were bundled out of the city in shame.” Henry’s gimlet gaze was fixed on her face. “Is it true?”

“Yes, it is true,” Eleanor admitted. “You know how barren of love my marriage to Louis was. Like you, I took my pleasure where I found it—but I paid for it dearly. Louis barely spoke to me for a whole year.”

“And did you take your pleasure with anyone else?” Henry demanded to know. He was no longer bantering with her.

“Yes, twice, and that only briefly,” Eleanor replied in a low voice.

“With my father?” he asked, his expression unreadable.

“You knew?” She was shocked.

“He told me before he died. He begged me not to marry you.”

“But you defied him—and, knowing that, you did marry me.” Eleanor was incredulous.

“Of course.” Henry pulled her toward him. “That’s how much I wanted you. For you, I have defied my own father, the King of France and the Church itself!”

“The Church?” Eleanor echoed.

“Yes, my ignorant lady. Don’t you realize that your coupling with my father places us within the forbidden degrees of consanguinity, closer than you ever were to Louis?”

“I was not married to Geoffrey,” Eleanor said.

“That’s immaterial. Our marriage is forbidden—or it would be if the Church had known what you’d been up to.”

Eleanor felt a shiver of fear; it was as if the carefully constructed edifice of her world had been rocked. She saw that by her rash actions she had put at risk everything she now held dear. A tremor coursed through her. Henry felt it and tightened his arms about her.

“Fear not,” he soothed. “I won’t betray our little secret, if you won’t.”

“But what of the legality of our marriage?” Eleanor asked, shocked, seeing the foundations of their glorious future, the empire they were building, rocking and then crumbling …

“I care not a fig for that.” He grinned. “We Angevins came from the Devil, remember? Why should I bother myself about a trifle like that? No one knows, so no one can question it. Should it really matter to us?”

“No,” she said after a pause. “It matters not one whit.”

“What does matter,” Henry said purposefully, “is this …” He pulled her on top of him and thrust himself up inside her, fully aroused. “I swear to you, Eleanor, that no Pope or bishop will part us. You are mine forever, mine … oh, God!”

Afterward, sated, he lay with her in his arms.

“Who was the other man?” he asked.

“The other man?” Eleanor, relaxed and contented, had no idea what he was talking about.

“You said you took your pleasure with two men besides Raymond of Antioch.”

“This sounds like an inquisition,” she said, only half joking.

“It is,” Henry said. “I need to know. You are my wife and, God willing, will be the mother of my sons.”

“And if I tell you, will you also tell me about the women with whom you have slept?” she challenged him.

He snorted. “I’ve forgotten most of them. They were just casual encounters. One was called Joanna, another Elgiva … Oh, and perhaps I should mention Hersinde, Maud, Lucy, Ghislaine, Marie …” He was laughing.

“Stop!” Eleanor cried. “You’re making those names up!”

“Well, I really can’t remember them all,” Henry said ruefully, playing with her hair. “And talking to them wasn’t really called for!”

“You’re impossible,” Eleanor told him.

He raised himself up on one elbow to look into her face. “There, I’ve told you what you wanted to know. Now you keep your part of the bargain.”

“Very well,” Eleanor said. “It was a brief affair with a troubadour called Marcabru.”

“A troubadour?” Henry echoed, surprised, and not a little jolted. “A lowborn varlet? You might have looked higher than that!”

“You forget, I had looked higher,” Eleanor shot back. “I was married to the King of France, no less, and much satisfaction I got from him!” She snapped her fingers. “Marcabru showed me how to make love, and for that I will always be grateful—and so should you, for you benefit from it.”

“Did Louis ever find out?”

“He knew that Marcabru had written verses to me. He considered them overfamiliar and banished him. He assumed I shared his outrage, and I did not disabuse him of that notion—in fact, I played along with it.”

“You lied to him?” Henry asked uneasily.

“I had no cause—he never asked if I had been unfaithful. It would never have occurred to him that I would actually permit a troubadour to make love to me. You princes of the North are all alike in dismissing troubadours as being of little account, but may I remind you, Henry, that in Aquitaine they are accorded a proper respect for their talents.”

“This one certainly seems to have had talents beyond the ordinary,” Henry threw at her, not quite reassured. “What was he like as a poet?”

“Terrible!” Eleanor replied, and suddenly they were both heaving with laughter, and the awkward moment had passed.

“I will recite you some really good troubadour poems,” she said later, when they had calmed down and were once more lying peacefully against each other. “It would be fitting to speak of love on this precious night.” And she began telling him about her celebrated grandfather, the talented Duke William the Ninth.

“They call him the first of the troubadours,” she said, “and indeed, he did have a wondrous way with words. Some of his works are very bawdy, some very moving. I particularly like the one in which he says, ‘All the joy of the world is ours, if you and I were to love one another.’ And elsewhere, ‘Without you I cannot live, so thirsty am I for your love.’”

“He could have written those lines for us, that good duke,” Henry observed, his callused fingers caressing her bare arm. He bent forward and kissed her. “What of his bawdy lyrics? I should like to hear some of them!”

“He was always chasing women in his verse, to one purpose of course, and he wrote that he usually ended up with his hands inside their cloaks.” Henry guffawed, as Eleanor went on: “He wrote of women as horses to be mounted, yet at the same time he believed that they should be free to bestow their love freely, and not be forced into marriage.”

“That’s all very well for the lower orders,” Henry opined, “but I can’t imagine my barons approving of it! We cannot have our highborn ladies sleeping with whom they please—no man could be certain that his heir was his own!”

“Yet you yourself did not object when I bestowed my love freely upon you?” Eleanor reminded him archly. “I do not recall my holding out for marriage.”

“We are not ordinary mortals,” Henry told her, only half joking. “We can defy custom and tradition, and break all the rules. We’ve proved that already, haven’t we?” His lips were again on hers, his tongue inside her mouth. For the third time, they gave themselves up to the sweet pleasures of love, knowing it would be long before they tasted them again.

9 Angers and Poitiers, 1153

Eleanor was at Angers, Henry’s capital of Anjou, when she discovered that she was to have a child, conceived on that glorious night. She regarded her pregnancy as proof that God looked with favor upon her irregular marriage, and bore the discomforts of morning sickness and fatigue with triumphant fortitude.

Her heart still ached for those dear little girls she had left behind in Paris. It pained her to think there was barely the remotest chance of her seeing them now, for Louis must surely still hate her for marrying Henry, his enemy, behind his back. Yet she consoled herself with the knowledge that this new baby would compensate in some way for the loss of her daughters, and promised herself that never again would she allow any child of hers to be denied a close bond with its mother.

She missed Henry appallingly. Despite the strange changes that pregnancy wrought, she wanted him, needed him. At night her longing for his caresses and his body inside hers was so acute that she had to bite on the sheet to stifle her unwitting moans. Yet the news from England was good. He had landed safely and been rapturously received. Sermons were preached, proclaiming: “Behold, the ruler cometh, and the kingdom is in his hand.” It was all stirring tidings that portended well.

His objective was to march on a place called Wallingford, where his supporters were under siege in the castle, and relieve them and as he made his jubilant progress toward that place, town after town fell to him. All this Eleanor learned joyfully from the messengers Henry sent to her fairly regularly. They told her he had been jubilant at the news that she was carrying his child and exhorted her to take good care of herself. Eleanor smiled at his thoughtfulness. She was strong and healthy, she had borne her previous children with ease, and she bade the messengers to tell Henry so.

After the tedious and tiring early weeks, she bloomed. Her skin was soft as a blossom, her hair silky and lustrous, her breasts full. Thus did an ambitious young troubadour, Bernard de Ventadour, behold her when he presented himself at her court, looking for patronage.

“Madame the Duchess,” he declared, bowing elaborately low, “your fame is without parallel. I have made so bold as to come here in the hope that you will not turn away one of your subjects who would entertain you with his humble lays and verses.”

Eleanor warmed to his florid praise. She saw that he was a young man to whom a happy combination of wavy chestnut locks, green eyes, and chiseled features lent exquisite manly beauty. Were she not so contented with her lord, she thought to herself, she might well have had seduction on her mind at this moment.

“Messire Bernard, tell us about yourself,” she invited, waving a languid hand to encompass the watching courtiers.

The young man’s eyes were mellow. He was looking at her with open admiration. “Madame, my fortune is in my songs, not my birth. I am merely the son of a kitchen maid in the household of the Viscount of Ventadour in the Limousin.”

“I know the viscount.” Eleanor smiled. “He and his family have long been patrons of troubadours like yourself.”

“Indeed, madame,” Bernard agreed, looking at her a touch shiftily, she thought. “He was kind enough to say that I had talent, and to tutor me himself in writing poetry and lyrics.”

“Then you are much indebted to him,” Eleanor observed, to a murmur of assent from the company. Again, there was that fleeting shifty look on the young troubadour’s face. “But tell me, messire, why have you left his castle? Is it just to seek greater fame in the wider world?”

“Yes,” Bernard de Ventadour said, not now meeting her gaze. She knew he was lying. No matter, it was no concern of hers, although she was curious as to why he had left such a kind lord’s service.

He was looking at her again, his green eyes eager.

“Well, let us hear how talented you are,” Eleanor said. “Play for us.”

The troubadour produced his stringed vielle and sang an amusing sirvente, a satire on gluttonous monks, which prompted much mirth among Eleanor and her courtiers.

Clapping, Eleanor asked, “Do you know any songs of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere?”

“Alas, my lady, I do not, although I have read the tales of Geoffrey of Monmouth. I do know some lines from the ancient poet Ovid that might please you. They come from his work, Ars Amatoria—The Art of Love.” His eyes twinkled mischievously. “Mayhap you would not understand how bold they are …”

“I know my Latin,” Eleanor reproved him gently. “But play, please. We would all like to hear your naughty song!”

The troubadour, blushing, laid down his vielle and took a cithara from his pack. He began strumming an introduction, then with a smile sang in his rich voice:

First then believe, all women may be won;

Attempt with confidence, the work is done!

The grasshopper shall first forbear to sing

In summer season, or the birds in spring,

Than woman can resist your flattering skill:

Even she will yield, who swears she never will!

This is the sex: they will not first begin,

But when compelled, are pleased to suffer sin.

Ask, that thou may enjoy; she waits for this,

And on thy first advance depends thy bliss.

Bernard looked directly at Eleanor as he sang those last words, his meaning unmistakable. She returned his gaze reprovingly.

“You are bold, messire!”

“You did not like Ovid’s poem, madame?”

“I did.” She knew he was flirting with her in the accepted courtly manner: such games had become customary in this land of troubadours. It was all quite harmless, of course—or was supposed to be. A lowly squire or poet might pay his ardent addresses to the highborn lady of his choice, and she could accept—and even encourage—his adoration without tarnishing her reputation, but it rarely went further than that.

In Paris, when Eleanor had tried to introduce these conceits, Louis and his clerics were shocked: they had condemned this game of courtly love as merely an excuse for committing adultery. But in Aquitaine, as Eleanor knew well, for she had grown up in the relaxed culture of the South, it was regarded as merely a sophisticated and enjoyable pastime. She thought nothing of accepting the homage and flattery of the troubadours and young men who frequented her court, for everyone understood it was all part of an elaborate and exciting game.

Eleanor’s ladies were asking for more.

“I like this Master Ovid!” declared frivolous Faydide de Toulouse.

“I have heard he is much disapproved of by some,” said beautiful Torqueri de Bouillon.

Mamille de Roucy, plump as a partridge, giggled. “That makes him all the more interesting!”

“Well, Messire Bernard, can you sing some more of Ovid’s verse?” Eleanor asked.

“With pleasure, madame,” he replied warmly, and took up his cithara again. There was a wicked glint in his eyes as he sang:

In Love’s rite

Should man and woman equally delight.

I hate a union that exhausts not both!

I like to hear a voice of rapture shrill

That bids me linger and prolongs the thrill;

Love’s climax never should be rushed, I say,

But worked up softly, lingering all the way!

He was looking at Eleanor again as his voice died and his strumming ceased. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks at his lewd song, which conjured up so vividly the wild, erotic nights when she had lain with Henry. Striving to control the rising ache in her loins, she joined in the applause with her ladies, all of whom were pink with excitement.

“That is a very lewd song, messire,” she reproved, but her eyes were kind. “I think, however, that we have all enjoyed it. You shall play for us again soon.”

And he did. Suddenly, he was always there, in the dining hall, or the great chamber, or the gardens, watching her, begging permission to play for her, singing his songs of lust and dalliance. She sensed there was more to his devotion than courtly convention.

“I have written a song for you, madame,” he announced one day, coming upon her seated under a magnolia tree, abandoned by her ladies, who were a little way off, gathering early April flowers. “Shall you hear it?”

“I am listening,” Eleanor told him. She was gentle with him, knowing that he could hope for nothing more from her. His voice was strong and ardent:

When the sweet breeze

Blows hither from your dwelling,

Methinks I feel

A breath of Paradise!

When he finished, he was visibly shaking. Eleanor took pity on him.

“No one has ever written a song like that for me,” she told him.

“Your beauty has inspired me, madame,” Bernard said fervently. “You are gracious, lovely—the embodiment of all charm! With your lovely eyes and noble countenance, you are fit to crown the state of any king! Yet alas, it is I, a humble troubadour, who loves you.”

“You know you may not aspire to me,” Eleanor chided him sweetly. It was the correct, the only, response.

“Say I may hope, madame, I beg of you,” Bernard pleaded. “Or if you will not extend to me such kindness, then give me leave to sing your praises in my verse. I swear I will not reveal the object of my adoration.” As if, she thought, suppressing a smile, it was not obvious to anyone with eyes in their head.

“Why, of course, messire,” she said aloud, giving him her hand to kiss to show that he was dismissed. He pressed his lips to it joyfully.

After that the court was regaled with song after song dedicated—without her name being mentioned—to the duchess. Only a fool would have failed to realize for whom they were meant. Eleanor found such flattery irresistible. It was balm to her lonely heart to hear herself described as noble and sweet, faithful and loyal, gracious and lovely. She only wished that Henry were with her to hear it. No, she just wished Henry were with her. All she craved was his presence. But since she could not have that, there was no harm in enjoying this pleasurable little diversion and the homage of her adoring troubadour.

“When you look at me with your eyes full of fire and eloquence, I feel the kind of joy one only experiences at Christmas or other great festivals,” Bernard effused to her, after she had graciously permitted him to walk with her on the massive castle ramparts that overlooked the River Maine, keeping her damsels at a discreet distance, yet within earshot. The wind was chilly and whipping her veil in every direction, but she had gathered her heavy mantle about her and stepped out briskly, enjoying the invigorating air. Walking, she had been told, was good for her condition.

“What have I done to deserve such devotion?” she teased.

Bernard looked at her with reproach. “You exist, divine lady! You have been the first among my joys, and you shall be the last, so long as there is life in me.”

“Then what of Alaiz, the wife of the Viscount of Ventadour?” Eleanor teased him. At his stricken look, she smiled. “I am well informed, as you see!” In fact, she’d had inquiries made at Ventadour.

The young man continued to look crestfallen. “It was a passing fancy, no more, madame, I swear it …”

“You seduced her!” she accused him, still smiling. “Do not deny it! It was serious enough for the viscount to throw you out of his house and lock up his wife, whom he has now repudiated.” She frowned.

“Do not condemn me, I beg of you, my dear lady,” Bernard pleaded. “I was young and foolish—and she was not worth the trouble. I see that clearly now that I have beheld your face. I swear by all that is holy that I never loved her as I love you, and that from now on I will be true to you, fair queen of my heart.”

Eleanor shot him a look of disdain and strode on. He hastened to keep up with her.

“I swear it!” he cried.

She relented. “Very well, we will speak no more of it.”

Bernard was on his knees, kissing the hem of her mantle. “Of all women, you are the most kind and beautiful, madame, and I would not trade your charms for even the wealthy city of Paris!”

“I should hope not,” she chided, “for beauty, although it lies only in the eyes of the beholder, is surely priceless! Now please get up. You are making a spectacle of us both!”

They were almost at the tower door that led to the royal lodgings.

“Accept this, madame, with my devotion,” Bernard said breathlessly, thrusting a scroll into Eleanor’s hands.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Poems I have written for you,” he breathed. “Read them, please, for they contain secret messages that only you will understand.”

Later, when she read them, she found them to be no more than further outpourings of his devotion. He declared that Tristan had never suffered such woe for the fair Yseult as he, Bernard, now suffered for his chosen lady. Eleanor smiled when she read that in her presence he was so overcome by love, his wits fled and he had no more sense than a child. “All I write and sing,” he vowed, “is meant for your delight.” Poor man, she thought: he can never have what he craves. Yet it is fortunate that the rules of the game permit no mention of husbands, for I cannot be cruel and tell him that all I see is my Henry.

“God Himself has appeared to be fighting for me,” Henry had sent to tell her. He was before Wallingford at last, ready to confront the forces of King Stephen. “But the bishops and barons are urging us to negotiate; many are of the opinion that Stephen should acknowledge me as his heir.”

“And will he, think you?” Eleanor asked the messenger.

“He might, left to himself, lady,” the man replied, “but the Lord Eustace, his son, is determined to stand up for his rights, so there may yet be bloodshed.”

Eleanor shivered. “Pray God there will not,” she said sharply. She could not bear the thought of anything happening to Henry, not just for her own sake (although the Lord knew that would be bad enough), but also for the sake of the kingdom that was nearly—but not quite—within his grasp.

It was high summer, glorious August, with the golden countryside basking in the hot, unforgiving rays of the sun. She had returned to Poitiers, her capital, to give birth to her heir—and Henry’s. The babe had long since quickened in her womb, and she was heavy and listless, longing for her ordeal to be over.

Her son was born with very little trouble that month, on the very day—as she later learned—that Eustace died suddenly from food poisoning. Both events, she had no doubt, demonstrated God’s approval of Henry’s cause. The child was strong and lusty, with a shock of black hair, and he would be a king’s son before long, for it was now only a matter of time before the grieving and war-weary Stephen ceded victory to Henry FitzEmpress.

She named her son William, at Henry’s insistence. It would, he had sent to command her, please the English—or, more importantly, the Norman barons who ruled over them—if the future heir to England were called after King William the Conqueror, Henry’s great-grandfather, who had invaded the kingdom and seized the crown in that memorable year 1066. She approved the choice: William had also been the name of her father, her grandfather, and many of their forebears. Her people would be pleased, and to please them further, she gave the child the title Count of Poitiers.

Little William thrived. Although she handed him over to the care of a wet-nurse, since it was unthinkable that a great lady feed her own child, she made time each day to sing and play with him, taking delight in his progress and his gummy smiles. This child would not be a stranger to her as Marie and Alix had been. She would make sure of that.

William was three months old when news came from England that Henry and Stephen had made a peaceful settlement at Winchester, the capital city. They had agreed that Stephen would remain on the throne for the rest of his life, and that Henry was then peacefully to succeed him as his legitimate heir; Stephen was even going to adopt him as his son. With the treaty concluded and sealed, nineteen years of conflict were brought to a joyful end.

God knows, Henry might well be his son, if the rumors about Stephen and the Empress were true, Eleanor thought; it was only what others were saying openly. She rejoiced in her lord’s success and imagined how jubilantly his mother the Empress, who had fought so hard and bitterly to topple Stephen, would be receiving the happy news. There could be no question now, Eleanor reflected, that God approved of her divorce and remarriage, for now He had ordained that she should be a queen again, and that Henry should be master of a vast domain that stretched from the Scottish marches almost to the mighty Pyrenees. To crown it all, He had blessed them with an heir to carry on this new royal line. Her heart swelled with triumph and thankfulness. All their hopes and dreams were coming to fruition at last. Their empire would soon be a reality.

It was Christmas; the palace was adorned with boughs of greenery, the yule log burned in the hearth, and the festive meats were roasting in the vast kitchens. Her beloved had been gone from her a year now. What would I not give, she thought, to see his face, hear his voice, feel his body hard upon mine? But it could not be long now before they were reunited and the terrible, dragging months of separation were over. With this joyous prospect in mind, she presided enthusiastically over the merry celebrations, and after solemn high mass had been celebrated in the cathedral on Christmas Day, sat enthroned in the Hall of Lost Footsteps wearing her ducal crown, her little son crowing upon her knee, to receive the greetings of her vassals.

Soon, God willing, she would have another crown, although that would mean she must leave her beloved Aquitaine once more. This time it would be for that far-off, war-ravaged northern kingdom with its fertile green fields, ringing church bells, and cold winters, as Abbess Isabella had described.

“But I will return whenever I can, never fear,” she promised fervently, kneeling before the painted statue of the Virgin and Child in her private chapel, saying her prayers as she always did before retiring for the night.

10 Poitiers and England, 1154

The new treaty had been sealed at Westminster, and England was now at peace. Henry had sworn allegiance to Stephen, and Stephen had promised to act with his advice in future.

“God has granted a happy issue, and peace has shone forth!” the messenger told Eleanor, much impressed by the ceremonies he had witnessed.

“What boundless joy for us all!” Eleanor exclaimed. “What a happy day for England!” It cannot be long now, she told herself. I will see him soon. She willed Henry to come home. What need had he to linger now?

Henry raised himself on his forearms and looked down with distaste at the woman lying beneath him. She had a round, cheerful face, wavy fair hair that had fanned out over the straw-filled pillow, and a voluptuous body, but now that he’d had his fill of her, he realized that she repelled him.

She puckered her lips, hoping he would kiss her as he used to.

“Woman, you’re insatiable!” he told her, not unkindly, and, sitting up, reached for his braies.

“Must you go?” she asked.

“Surely the Lady of Akeny wishes to make herself ready for her husband’s return,” Henry mocked.

“He rarely comes,” she said. “Roger never loved me. He turns a blind eye to my affairs. It’s his fault that people call me a strumpet, but what else can I do, when he never comes to my bed?”

Henry, who was one of the chief causes why Sir Roger de Akeny had forsaken his wife for another, was at a loss for words. What did the woman expect? He did not love her. He had nothing to offer her beyond the fairly generous allowance he paid her for their son, the child conceived of their lust during one of his earlier visits to England. Geoffrey was four now, and lay sleeping in another chamber in the Akeny manor house, which commanded a ridge at Garsington, a village that lay in rolling country to the south of Oxford. Joanna did not think it fit that Geoffrey’s cot remain by her bed when Henry was in it.

Henry loved his bright little boy, who always delighted him with his quick mind and precocious speech. He was prepared to do much for him in the future, but had tired of the child’s mother long since. Yet she was unavoidably there when he went to visit his son before departing from England, and she was available and willing—so why refuse what was on offer? He had taken his casual pleasure of sundry women—prostitutes, most of them—during his time in his future kingdom, with never a thought for Eleanor, or any sense of guilt. She was his wife, he loved her and missed her deeply, but he was a man, and when the urge came upon him, he could not deny it. So he had spilled his seed where he would, and the opportunities had been legion. Women were throwing themselves at him, this young, lionlike conqueror, tarts and noble ladies alike. He had taken full advantage of it. It never occurred to him that Eleanor would see this as the worst of betrayals. It was merely a physical need, like eating or pissing, and nothing to do with her.

He stood up, fastening his belt. “I will send for Geoffrey when I am king,” he told the pouting Joanna. “I will acknowledge him as my son and bring him up accordingly. He will be well tutored, and should go far in life.” He did not pause to wonder what Eleanor would have to say about that.

Henry was back at Westminster when his brother Geoffrey’s messenger reached him.

“Well?” he barked. He was still annoyed with Geoffrey for allying himself with Louis, and—more importantly—was impatient to be out hunting.

“My lord,” the man said, “my master sends you this.” He handed over a scrolled parchment. Henry broke the seal and unraveled it, then frowned.

“It’s a poem,” he said, puzzled. “Why has he sent this to me?”

“He asks that you read it, my lord duke.”

Henry read. It was a love poem:

I am not one to scorn

The boon God granted me.

She said, in accents clear,

Before I did depart,

“Your songs they please me well.”

I would each Christian soul

Could know my rapture then,

For all I write and sing

Is meant for her delight.

He looked up. “What does this mean? Who wrote this?”

“Bernard de Ventadour, a troubadour.” The messenger, a young man with a fresh, ruddy complexion, looked embarrassed. “Might we speak in private, sire?”

Henry ushered him into an alcove. “Now, what is all this about?” he asked testily.

“My Lord Geoffrey told me to say, sire, the poem was written for Madame the Duchess. She entertains this Bernard de Ventadour at her court. She always receives him as her guest with a warm welcome. His devotion to her is now well known, and many say he is in love with her. My master wishes you to know that his poems in her honor are sung even in Anjou and Normandy.”

Henry grabbed the messenger violently by the collar of his leather jerkin.

“What are you implying?” he hissed, his face twisted in fury.

“Nothing, sire,” gasped the young man. “I but repeat what my master has asked me to tell you. Out of his great love for you, he thinks you should know that people are beginning to talk. He says that he himself would never question Madame the Duchess’s virtue, of course, but that others say this Bernard is her lover.”

Henry howled in rage. “How dare they? And how dare he presume so far? I’ll have him strung up for this! And worse!” He was shouting, and several men-at-arms who were drinking nearby turned curiously to look at their future king, exchanging glances among themselves. But he was unaware of their interest. He was remembering that Eleanor had not scrupled to take a troubadour to her bed in the past—and that she had deceived Louis over it.

“Tell me truthfully,” he growled, “think you there is any truth in these bruits? On your honor!”

“Sire, many say there cannot be, for the duchess’s love for you, my lord, is well known …”

“But others say there is!” Henry filled in, when the man fell silent.

“Some say she is in love with this Bernard.” The messenger swallowed hard.

Henry could not bear the thought. Eleanor was his, and his alone. He was no Louis to shun her bed and turn a blind eye to her infidelities. She was his wife, his duchess, and the mother of his heir.

With an effort, he mastered his fears and his fury.

“You may tell your master that I will deal with this,” he said gruffly, then strode off to the scriptorium to rouse his clerks, thinking that castration might be too good for this impudent Bernard de Ventadour. Yet, gripped by fury as he was, he knew his revenge must be more subtle than that. No breath of scandal must taint Eleanor’s name—and nothing must be allowed to sully what was between them. He must take care not to perpetuate the scandal. If this matter were handled discreetly, the gossip would soon die a speedy death. Yet the pain in his heart was searing. Had Eleanor betrayed him? Had she bestowed her smiles—or, God forbid, more—on this piddling poet? He must search out the truth, and soon. He would know when he saw her, he was certain, but that would not be for a while: he could not leave England just yet. In the meantime he had several weeks of mental torture to endure, imagining her in another man’s arms, rousing the interloper to passion as only she knew how, using all the tricks she had practiced on himself. Not to be borne!

At first he thought of murder. Covert and efficient, the body thrown in a river under cover of darkness, leaving no trace. Yet reluctantly, his innate sense of justice—which would one day make him a great king—asserted itself, and his fevered brain conjured up another plan.

“I have been summoned to England, madame,” Bernard said, rising from his elegant bow.

“To England?” She looked at her ladies, who seemed as puzzled as she did herself.

“Yes, madame. My lord duke wishes me to compose martial tunes for my lyre, to entertain his knights.” He looked downcast—almost desperate.

“It seems your fame has spread,” Eleanor said uneasily, wondering what else Henry had heard. Surely he had his hands full enough in England without going to the trouble of sending for a troubadour to entertain his knights?

“That is what the duke’s messenger told me, madame. But alas, I cannot bear to leave here, or say farewell to the person who is the most dear to me.”

“When the duke sends such a summons, you may not ignore it,” Eleanor said. “His patronage will be most valuable to you and add to your fame. You are a fortunate man.” Truth to tell, Bernard’s excessive displays of devotion were becoming a little exhausting, and she would not be sorry to see him go, for what had begun as a pleasant interlude was now becoming merely prolonged tedium, and a little embarrassing. Besides, she would soon be reunited with Henry. When the spring came, he had sent to say, he hoped to return to her. She was counting down the days until then.

Bernard was miserably aware that Eleanor was making no protest at his going to England, and hurt to realize that she was not even showing any sorrow. In the privacy of his chamber he wept bitter tears over her unkindness and the prospect of being parted from her, this wondrous being whose presence was so essential to his happiness. He tried to console himself with the notion that she was merely protecting herself by being so distant toward him—after all, his love for her was a secret, and she would not betray it by showing emotion in public—and even ended up convincing himself that this separation would secretly be as distressing for her as it was for him.

When he arrived, London was overcast, freezing, and deep in snow. To a man of the South, it felt like the edge of the world. Mourning the tragedy of his exile, he looked at the ice-bound river banks and thought longingly of far-off Aquitaine, and its beautiful duchess—and suddenly, miraculously, it seemed as if those banks were crowded with flowers, red, white, and yellow, in a glorious sunburst of color. He could almost smell their scent, and felt faint with longing. Then he looked again and the illusion was gone. He was convinced it had been a good omen that presaged his speedy return to his lady.

His need became an obsession. When he thought of Eleanor, his heart filled with joy and misery in equal measure. He was a man possessed. Shivering in his meager lodging in the shadow of Westminster Abbey, he composed song after song in her honor, as he waited for the duke’s summons to Westminster.

When it came, Bernard was disconcerted to find that Henry FitzEmpress—a steely-eyed, hawklike, terrifying young man—did not seem to be interested in discussing the martial songs he had been summoned to write. Instead, he began firing questions at him about his life at the court of Poitiers.

“Does Madame the Duchess welcome many troubadours like yourself?” he inquired aggressively; almost accusingly, Bernard thought. He had met with his duke in the lofty, magnificent stone hall that adjoined the King’s palace; it had been built, he had learned, by the Conqueror’s son, King William Rufus, just over fifty years before—and, like everywhere else in this godforsaken city, it was freezing.

“Yes, my lord. Her court is an academy of great culture,” Bernard enthused, shivering.

“And she has singled you out for special favor?” Henry went on.

Bernard nodded happily. “She has been most kind to me, a humble poet.”

“How kind?” Henry snapped. “I have heard disquieting rumors about you. Now I want the truth!” His face was suddenly puce with anger, his voice menacing.

Bernard quailed before him. Now the awful realization dawned, and he knew exactly why he had been summoned to England. Poor lady, he thought: this man surely is the Devil’s spawn, as people say.

“Sire, as God is my witness,” he declared hotly, “I have never compromised Madame the Duchess’s honor. It is more dear to me than my life. And she, sweet lady, would never condescend so far, I know it. She is much too virtuous. I beg you to believe me, sire.”

Henry looked at him hard. He wanted—needed—to believe him.

“These poems, though,” he said. “They speak of love.”

“Unrequited, sire,” Bernard told him, then pulled himself up. What was he saying? This harsh young man did not seem to understand the conventions of courtly love, so he hastened to explain. “In my land, it is permissible for a humble minstrel like myself to pay his addresses to the lady he loves, however exalted she be, or even wed to another. He might love her, but he would be most fortunate indeed if that love were ever reciprocated. I am devoted to Madame the Duchess, I do not deny it, but I never dared hope for her favors. I am content, as are many, to worship from afar. It is the custom. My lady has proved a most kind mistress to her servant, but that has been all, I assure you. I have been like a man without hope, sighing with love for her.”

“You dare to stand before me, Bernard de Ventadour, and brazenly tell me you are in love with my wife?” Henry was incandescent with rage.

“In my country, such things are accounted no insult to either wife or husband,” Bernard explained desperately. “It is permitted for the poet or the squire to bestow his devotion on some great lady, and hope for her favors, be they ever so small. There is no shame or evil in it.”

“And in my country, they would cut your balls off if you were so impertinent!” Henry hissed.

“I have been a madman,” Bernard said fearfully. His face was ashen.

The duke looked at him, fury and contempt mingling in his expression. Bernard quailed, terrified of what he would do.

“You need to be taught a lesson,” Henry growled. “Guards! Take this varlet to the Abbot of Westminster and tell him to lock him in a cell and feed him on bread and water to cool his blood, while I decide what to do with him.”

Strong hands laid hold of the unfortunate troubadour, pinioning him, and he was marched away forthwith, struggling and wailing, beseeching his lord to have pity on him. Henry watched him go, grimvisaged. He had been so consumed with jealousy that he had come near to killing the wretch in cold blood. It was best for Bernard de Ventadour that he was out of the duke’s sight.

Bernard had been three days fretting and weeping in his freezing cell before Henry calmed down and relented. Having thought the matter over with a cooler head, he decided that the wretched man was clearly harmless; he himself could not, if he were honest, imagine Eleanor ever wasting her time on him.

He sent orders to Westminster Abbey, commanding that his prisoner be brought before him, and when the trembling troubadour arrived, shivering in a coarse, chafing monk’s habit, the duke strode up and down for a bit, then came to a halt before him.

“Don’t worry, I won’t make a eunuch of you,” he barked. “My lady has told me something of you troubadours, but evidently I was not listening properly. I had not realized that such—games—were customary in Aquitaine. Well, henceforth, things will be different. I rule Aquitaine now. In future, kindly address your poems to some whore or serving girl.”

Bernard visibly slumped in relief, yet had the temerity to look grieved. “My lord has not understood the custom.”

“My lord has some choice words to say about that custom,” Henry flared. “Now, to business. My knights are waiting to be entertained, so I suggest you put on some decent clothes and go and get your lyre.”

Bernard was only too glad to scuttle out of his master’s presence. But he did not relish his new duties, and pined still for Aquitaine. A week later, encountering the duke in the gardens, and spurred by the courage born of desperation, he threw himself to his knees.

“Sire,” he entreated, “how long am I to stay here in England?”

“Until I say you can depart,” Henry said.

“But it is so cold here, and the court is a rough, unfriendly place. There are no ladies to lighten it.”

“The Queen is dead, so what did you expect? The King does not need ladies to attend upon him!” his master retorted.

“I beg of you, sire, allow me to go home to Poitiers, where I can mingle with fair and courteous ladies and chevaliers!” the troubadour pleaded.

“No!” Henry barked. “You must stay here, if only for the sake of my lady’s reputation. And do not ask me again, for the answer will be the same.”

11 Rouen, 1154

As Eleanor’s colorful cavalcade wended its stately way through the wooded hills of the Haute-Seine toward Rouen, the capital city of the Dukes of Normandy, she could barely contain her excitement. The news brought back to her by the outriders that she had sent ahead, impatient to be at the center of things, was excellent.

“Lady, the lord duke has returned triumphantly to his duchy and is even now lodged in his palace!”

“Lady, he has been received with joy and honor by his mother, the Lady Empress, and his brothers, and by all the people of Normandy, Anjou, and Maine!”

They would be celebrating in Poitou also, at Eleanor’s behest, but she had not stayed to participate. At the first news that Henry had crossed the English Channel, she hastily gathered together a retinue, settled her little son in a horse litter with his nurses, and traveled north. Now she was approaching Henry’s greatest city—for he had chosen to make it his seat of government for all his domains—and her mind was in joyous turmoil, her body tense and alive with desire. It had been sixteen long, dragging months since she had laid eyes on him, her beloved lord, and now it was only a matter of minutes before they would be reunited.

Had she been anticipating a private reunion, with just the two of them present, she would have been delirious with anticipation. Even a public reunion on familiar ground would have set her heart beating wildly. But she and Henry were to be restored to each other not only in the presence of his entire court, but also under—she anticipated—the eagle eye of his mother, the formidable Matilda. This would be her first encounter with her mother-in-law, and she was dreading it. Hence her mixed—and very turbulent—emotions.

Before her lay the fair and bustling city, set among murmuring streams, meadows, and woods, and encircled by strong walls. As Eleanor rode through the massive stone gates, a slender, elegant figure in rich red silk on a dancing white horse, the people cheered. They had a warm affection for their duchess, for she had brought great lands and prestige to their duke, and done her duty by presenting him with an heir. And just look at him, tiny William, Count of Poitiers, gurgling and pointing on his nurse’s lap as he was borne into Rouen in his fine litter! The delighted citizens waved back. Such a sturdy child, and strong! He would be another like his sire, they told one another.

Eleanor passed through narrow, cobbled streets lined with the timbered houses of prosperous merchants and fine churches. Presently, she saw before her the impressive Romanesque cathedral of Notre Dame, with its high, tiered tower dedicated to St. Romain. Inside, she was told, were the tombs of Henry’s ancestors, the early Dukes of Normandy, right back to the Viking Rollo, who had seized the duchy in the tenth century. Impatient though she was to see her lord and to have her meeting with his mother over and done with, she graciously acceded to the citizens’ pleas that she enter the cathedral and marvel at its glories.

When she emerged, her eyes dazzled by sunlight after the gloom of the dimly lit interior, she became aware of the crowds parting for a small party of horsemen who were riding toward her across the market square, their hooves clattering on the cobbles. She squinted at them as they pulled up a few feet away, then as their leader dismounted, recognized the wonderfully familiar hunting attire and realized, her heart leaping with joy, that it was Henry, come to welcome her. Shaking with excitement, she sank to her knees as he approached.

“Eleanor, you should not kneel to me!” he exclaimed, grasping her delicate hands in his strong ones and raising her to her feet. She looked at him and marveled. A youth had gone away sixteen months before, and come back a man. A new maturity cloaked him with ease and invested him with greater authority and assurance. At twenty-one, Henry was battle-hardened, taut of muscle, ferocious with energy. His cropped red head jutted forward from his bull neck as he bent and kissed her full on the lips.

“You are most welcome, my lady,” he beamed, his voice cracked and husky as he spoke the formal words of greeting suitable for such a public occasion.

It was wonderful to hear that voice again, to see his face, and to have him near her. Battling surges of lust and the need to cry joyous tears, Eleanor gladly placed her hand on his as he led her to her mount. It was obvious from his expression that he was as delighted to see her as she was to see him; he was grinning broadly, and there was a highly suggestive glint in his eyes that promised glorious bed sports later. But for now they were duke and duchess, reunited, and must show themselves to their cheering people.

Eleanor’s smile had become fixed as, her hand still on his, Henry walked with her into the hall of the magnificent royal palace that lay in the shadow of the church of Notre Dame des Prés, just outside the walls of Rouen. This palace was the chief residence of the Empress Matilda, and had been built by her father, King Henry I of England; it was as grandly appointed as Eleanor would have expected the palace of so great a lady to be, with its imposing arcaded hall and rounded archways richly ornamented with chevrons, its silken hangings and costly tapestries, and all the luxurious accoutrements of a royal and imperial household.

Matilda herself was very grand too. There were two thrones on the dais, and she stood erect and proud before one of them, a tall, regal woman in her early fifties, wearing a purple robe girdled with gold and a snowy white wimple held in place by a circlet studded with amethysts. Her face was still handsome, despite its hawklike nose and the faint lines that bore witness to the many disappointments she had suffered in her life. As Eleanor drew near, she saw there could be no doubting that she was Henry’s mother—or that she was regarding her approaching daughter-in-law with undisguised disapproval.

Eleanor sank into a deep obeisance.

“Welcome to Rouen, madame,” the Empress said in a cool voice. “Please rise.” She turned to Henry. “My son!” she said, with more warmth, and raised her face for the expected dutiful kiss.

“Mother, where is Eleanor to sit?” Henry muttered, ignoring her and jerking his head at the two thrones.

“I will have a chair brought,” the Empress said. She signaled to her steward.

She means to slight me, Eleanor thought. She wishes to show me who is mistress here. She knew I was coming, yet conveniently forgot to have a third throne set ready.

Aloud, she said, smiling, “My Lady Empress, I am most happy to meet you, especially on this joyous occasion. You must be overjoyed that Henry’s invasion of England has led to such a successful conclusion.”

The Empress bristled faintly. Was Eleanor implying that Henry had succeeded where she, for all her efforts, had failed? “He has indeed done well in championing and vindicating my cause, for England was always rightfully mine,” she declared frostily. “But I happily cede my claim to him, for I will never return to that godforsaken island …”

Henry cut her off in mid-flow. Clearly he had heard this before, and had no mind to listen to another tirade against King Stephen, his adoptive father, whom he had found himself quite liking, after having been brought up to regard him as the archenemy, and little worse than the Devil himself on the general scale of wickedness.

“You are of much greater use to me here, ruling Normandy in my absence, Mother,” he said. “And when I have England under my hand, as well as Aquitaine and my other domains, I will need your help and support more than ever.”

Matilda looked somewhat mollified. Just then the third chair was brought and placed next to Henry’s. It was lower-backed than his, but Eleanor swallowed the insult and sat down on it, not waiting for the Empress, as the highest in rank, to be seated first. Henry covered her hand with his and squeezed it, which made her feel a little better, but she knew already that the battle lines had been drawn.

“I have a surprise for you both,” she told her husband and his mother, then nodded at Torqueri de Bouillon, who briefly disappeared, came back with little William wriggling in her arms, and handed him to Eleanor.

“My lord, let me introduce your heir, the Count of Poitiers!” Eleanor announced triumphantly.

Henry’s face was ecstatic as he took the child, marveling at the infant’s chubby limbs and the red curls that were so like his own.

“What a grip!” he grinned, as William grabbed his finger in his tiny fist. “That’s a sword grip, my son! That augurs well for the future. This boy will hold onto his own.” Even the Empress’s steely gaze softened. Then Henry rose to his feet and held William high above his head, much to the child’s delight.

“Madame my mother, my lady, my lords and barons all. Behold my son, William, who will one day rule this duchy—and England and Aquitaine too, God willing. When he is older, I will bring him to you so that you may swear fealty to him, but in the meantime I thank God for the gift of such a fine boy, and entrust him to the excellent care of his mother.” As the company cheered lustily, he passed William back to Eleanor.

“He looks like your father,” the Empress said to Henry.

“And his beautiful mother!” Henry replied. “Eleanor has done well, has she not, in bearing me such a strong son?”

Matilda smiled faintly. “You are both to be congratulated,” she said stiffly. “Now, send the child back to his nurse, as our lords and bishops are waiting to be presented to the duchess.”

They dined in private that evening, just the three of them, in the Empress’s solar. After spreading the cloth, the servitors brought napkins, wine cups, and dishes, all offered on bended knee. Then round cakes of wheaten bread marked with crosses were served, followed by the best that Normandy could offer: gigots of lamb and succulent duckling, sole in a cream sauce, spiced apples with jugs of thick cream, and a platter of the Pont l’Évêque and Livarot cheeses that tasted like ambrosia to Eleanor. When the servitors had withdrawn, the talk was mostly of England and Normandy, and by the time the fruit and spiced wine appeared, she was growing tired of being ignored.

“Have you ever visited Aquitaine, madame?” she asked Matilda.

“No,” Matilda said. “Henry, did you go to Oxford? I had a horrid time there.”

“Yes, Mother, I did, but we were speaking of Aquitaine. It is a land of great beauty.” Oh, so you did notice, Eleanor thought, a trifle resentfully.

“I have no desire to go there,” Matilda said. “I have heard that the lords there are violent and uncontrollable.” She shot a look at Eleanor.

“It has ever been so,” Eleanor said. “That is because Aquitaine has massive rocky hills and rivers, and each lord thinks he is a king in his own valley. They have always fought among themselves, but I trust that now, thanks to their love for me and my lord’s reputation as a strong ruler, they will not be so disobedient. My cities of Poitiers and Bordeaux are always safe and quiet, and there we enjoy a good standard of living. My duchy is a land of great abbeys and churches, and the arts and letters are thriving.”

“By that, I take it you are referring to your troubadours,” her mother-in-law said, her tone dismissive. “I have heard that they sing only of love and its trivialities.”

“Love is not trivial,” Eleanor defied her. “In Aquitaine, it is an important part of life. And women are valued there as nowhere else. Believe me, madame, I know. I have lived in France—”

“Where women are required to be virtuous and live in subjection to their husbands!” the Empress cut in.

Henry, toying with his wine cup, glanced at his mother in mock surprise, wondering when she had ever lived in virtuous subjection to his father. But Matilda was a woman on a mission and did not notice.

“I dare say,” she was commenting to a frozen-faced Eleanor, “that you would not understand that, coming from Aquitaine, which, I am told, is little better than one vast brothel!”

Eleanor’s temper flared, but Henry was there before her. He had been sitting at the head of the table, listening to the exchange between his wife and his mother with amused interest, but now it had gone far enough.

“Are you suggesting that Eleanor is less than virtuous?” he barked, his blood up. “Remember she is my wife!”

His mother looked as wrathful as he did. “I’m not only suggesting it, I know it!” she retorted. “Either this woman has deceived you, my son, or you have lost all sense of respect for me in bringing her here and forcing me to receive her.”

Eleanor rose. “I am leaving,” she said hotly. “I will not be spoken of like that.”

“Will you deny, then, that you were Geoffrey’s mistress?” the Empress flung at her. Eleanor paused in her flight, drawing in her breath, and there was an awful silence before she found the words to reply. Henry’s expression was, as so often, unreadable.

“I will not deny it,” she said, her cheeks burning, “but know this, madame, that he told me he was unhappily married and that you had no more use for each other as man and woman. Do you deny that?”

“My relations with Geoffrey are no business of yours. What you did was wrong, and it was even more wrong of you to marry my son, knowing you had been his father’s leman.”

“That’s enough,” snarled Henry. “I will hear no more. And you, Mother, must keep what you know to yourself, if you wish to retain what power is left to you in the world—and my filial devotion.” His tone was sarcastic.

Matilda got to her feet. “You must both live with your consciences. It is not I who have committed the sin of incest. Mark me, there will be a reckoning one day. God is not to be mocked. And there’s no need to threaten me, Henry. I had already decided that discretion was essential—do you think I would bring shame on myself by publicly announcing that my late lamented husband had an affair with a woman who is the scandal of Christendom? Don’t think I haven’t heard the rumors—”

“Enough!” Henry bellowed, flushing with rage.

“You’re right, I’ve had enough,” spat Eleanor, and gathering up her mantle, swept regally out of the room.

“Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself, Mother,” Henry said, his gaze thunderous.

“Your marriage made good political sense, I grant you that,” Matilda muttered. “But I can only deplore the fact that your wife has a stained reputation, and that she betrayed me with my husband, your own father. And that she has the brazen nerve to come here and expect to be honorably received.”

“Mother,” Henry said quietly, leaning forward and glaring directly into her eyes. “Perhaps you did not hear me or understand, but Eleanor is my wife, and you will treat her with respect, as I do. I love her, I love her to distraction, and you had best get used to that. It matters not to me that she has strayed from virtue in the past, for I have done the same myself, often, and so am not fit to judge her. But I know that she loves me and that she has been true to me, so let that be an end to it.”

“You are a besotted fool!” she told him. “And one day you will realize it. You are so much your father’s son, headstrong and impulsive.”

“I am your son too, Mother,” he reminded her.

“No, Henry, you come from the Devil’s stock, and more’s the pity, for the Devil takes care of his own. Now go. Leave me, I am weary.”

“Very well. Shall I crave your nightly blessing, my Lady Mother?” Henry jeered. “No, don’t bother. Since I’m descended from the Devil, it won’t do me any good. What I want from you, rather, is a truce. You don’t have to be friends with Eleanor—even I, besotted fool that you say I am, wouldn’t ask that—but I want you always to treat her with the respect due to her rank and to my wife, if that is at all possible. Is that understood?”

Matilda said nothing. Her expression was glacial.

“I’m waiting,” Henry said pleasantly.

“Very well,” was the tight-lipped reply. “Just make sure that I see her as little as possible.”

“I should imagine she wouldn’t want to see you at all,” Henry said.

“I’m really sorry, Eleanor,” Henry said, climbing into bed and taking her in his arms. “I especially regret that my mother decided to poison our reunion with her vitriol—and my first meeting with young William.” He kissed her. “He’s wonderful, isn’t he? Me to the life!”

“I love you, Henry,” Eleanor murmured, feeling vulnerable, and resting her head on his chest, taking comfort from his strength. Then she forgot all about Matilda as the familiar and much-longed-for melting sensation coursed through her body, and she gave herself up to her husband’s delightful caresses—although not for long. As needy as she, he mounted her swiftly.

“God, it’s so good to hold you again!” he cried, and then could say no more as passion overtook him. Eleanor’s desire was no less urgent, and as they lost control in unison, rolling between the sheets, grabbing and devouring each other, she thought she would die of the pleasure. Afterward, lying together in blissful euphoria, kissing gently and sensuously, they gazed at each other in wonder, shaken by the depth of their passion.

“I pray you never have to leave me for so long again,” Eleanor said, touching Henry’s cheek.

“I think I shall have to, if that’s what I’ll be coming home to!” he teased, grinning. “By the eyes of God, woman, you are a marvel! No one has ever made me feel like this.” He was being serious now.

“And shall make you feel even better …” Eleanor promised, sliding sensuously down the bed. “How like you this, my dear heart? And this?”

“Eleanor, you’re insatiable!” Henry groaned, stretching with pleasure, and chuckled. “Do you realize that for this you could end up doing penance for three years?”

Eleanor momentarily stopped what she was doing. “If I confessed it,” she murmured, “but in truth, I consider it to be no sin.” She resumed where she had left off.

“Then we shall burn together in Hell, and be damned!” Henry gasped.

——

In the morning, the duke was up early, anxious to be out hunting. He would never lie late in bed, but was always restless to be gone.

“He makes a martyrdom of the sport,” his mother complained. She had complied with Henry’s demand, and there was an unspoken if uneasy truce between her and Eleanor when they met in the chapel before breakfast and bowed warily to each other.

“She had actually sent a message asking me if I wished to accompany her to mass,” Eleanor told Henry on his return.

“And did you?”

“Of course. She will never have cause to call me undutiful.” She set down the illuminated book she had been reading.

“Henry—”

“What’s that?” he interrupted, looking admiringly at the book with its bejeweled silver cover. He had an insatiable curiosity.

“It is The Deeds of the Counts of Anjou,” Eleanor told him. “I am learning all about your forebears.”

Henry sniffed. “It might put you off me for life! They were troublesome bastards, the lot of them.”

“It does make for very interesting reading.” she smiled. “And it explains a lot of things!”

“Hah!” cried Henry. “Don’t paint me with the same brush. Although if you listen to Abbot Bernard, I’m worse than all of them put together.”

“So he told me!” She laughed, then her face grew serious. “Henry, how long are we to sojourn in Normandy?”

“I’m not sure,” he said warily. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“You said six weeks.” The prospect of a longer stay with her dragon of a mother-in-law was more than she could stomach.

“I know, but I have just had news from Aquitaine. Some of your vassals are in rebellion. I want you to remain here while I go and teach them a lesson.”

“Rebellion?” Eleanor echoed.

“It seems they don’t like me,” Henry muttered, “but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“I could quell them,” she told him. “They will listen to me.”

“And that’s precisely why I am going in your stead, so that they learn to listen to me as well.”

“Henry, I insist—”

“Eleanor, my mind is made up. Don’t worry, my Lady Mother won’t eat you up while I’m gone. She’s got enough of the statesman in her to appreciate the folly of upsetting me, when her power here derives from me.”

“But Henry, you need her to govern Normandy, and she knows it,” Eleanor protested. “That’s an empty threat. She has no need to fear you.”

“Yes, but she has every need to fear you,” he retorted. “Normandy has a duchess now—why should she not rule it in my absence?”

“And when we are summoned to England? I don’t want to stay here!”

“I have many dependable Norman barons, my sweetheart. No, never fear, my mother will behave herself. And you have your ladies and young William to occupy you.”

“You make it sound as if that should be enough to content me,” Eleanor complained. “Take me with you. Let us not be parted again.”

“No,” Henry declared. “It will not be for long, and war is man’s work. Then we can look forward to another reunion.” He grinned at her suggestively.

Again Eleanor experienced that hateful feeling of being trapped and helpless.

“You just don’t understand, do you?” she fumed. “I am the Duchess of Aquitaine, and I am fit for higher things than the company of women and babies. When there is trouble in my domains, I should be with you, putting things right. We said we would do these things together, Henry! And, as you seem to have forgotten already, we have just been parted for sixteen months—sixteen months—yet you are going to leave me again. I can’t believe you would even think of that, not after last night.”

Henry came to her and caught her roughly in his arms.

“Do you think I want to leave you?” He sighed. “Ah, Eleanor, in an ideal world we would be together always, but I have vast domains to rule, and that means I must continually be on the move. Listen. I know you for an intelligent woman, and I do value your political ability, but I need to assert my authority in Aquitaine, and I need to do it alone. When those godforsaken vassals of yours have learned who’s in charge, we will rule the duchy as equals. In the meantime, all I ask is that you stay here in safety with our son.”

“Very well then,” she conceded after a pause, still simmering, “but summon me as soon as you can.”

“No, I will return to you here,” Henry said.

“But why?” she asked in dismay.

“There is news from England,” he said. “I have not yet had a chance to tell you or my mother. King Stephen is ill; it can now only be a matter of time. We must hold ourselves in readiness, and for that reason we should stay here in Normandy. It is only a short distance across the Channel from England.”

“But you are going south,” Eleanor pointed out. “What if the summons comes while you are away?”

“I shall ride like the wind and be here in ten minutes!” Henry chuckled. “And I’ll bring your rebellious vassals with me. The promise of rich pickings in England might make them like me more.”

12 Rouen, 1154

It was late October. In the solar of the royal palace, the two richly garbed royal ladies sat sewing by a brazier. The wind was howling outside, and the colorful tapestries on the walls stirred in the draft from the slit windows.

“Bring me more silks,” the Empress commanded, and her waiting woman scuttled away. Another appeared with goblets of cognac, which she placed on the table.

“I wish there was news of Henry,” Eleanor said, taking a sip. “Oh, that’s warming.”

“I expect the weather is as bad in the Vexin as it is here,” Matilda said. Her manner toward her daughter-in-law was still merely polite, but months of familiarity had eroded the sharp edge of the glacier. Thrown together by virtue of their rank, both women had had to make the best of it.

“I worry about Henry. He is still not over his illness.” Eleanor shuddered as she recalled her beloved’s close brush with death the month before, after he had been laid low with a rampant, burning fever. Thanks to his vigorous constitution, and no thanks to his inept doctors, he pulled through, but not before his wife and his mother had suffered some searingly anxious moments.

“I worry too, but it is imperative that he puts down this revolt,” Matilda said.

“I know that, madame, but he was still suffering fits of the shivers the night before he left.” And he had been too fatigued to make love.

“I know my son. He is strong, and a fighter. He will recover. But he hates being ill and, as you have no doubt discovered, he will never admit to any weakness, nor will he be told what to do.” The Empress smiled dourly, then turned her gimlet gaze on the younger woman. “You have heard the news about your former husband, King Louis?”

“That he has remarried—yes,” Eleanor said, rising to throw another log on the brazier. “I wish him nothing but happiness—and his bride nothing but fortitude.”

“They are saying that this Castilian princess, Constance, won him by her modesty,” Matilda murmured, “and that his subjects think he is better married than he had been.”

Eleanor ignored the barbs. She had grown too used to them. “More likely he was won by the prospect of a rich dowry from her father, King Alfonso,” she retorted. “At least he has now made peace with Henry and stopped calling himself Duke of Aquitaine. That really did irk me!”

She shifted in her chair and rested her hands on her swollen belly. She was five months gone with child, and finding the waiting tedious. She longed to be back in the saddle, riding in the fresh air, her hawk on her glove.

Mamille de Roucy burst into the room then, her rosy round face flushed with excitement. The Empress frowned at her deplorable lack of ceremony, but the damsel did not notice.

“Mesdames, there is a messenger arrived from England, much travel-stained! He says he is come from Archbishop Theobald and must see the duke urgently.”

Eleanor sat bolt upright. The Empress looked at her, and in the two pairs of eyes that met, hope was springing.

“Did you tell him that Duke Henry is not here?” Eleanor asked.

“I did, madame. He is asking to see you instead.”

“Then send him in.”

Eleanor rose, a proud and regal figure in her scarlet gown of fine wool with long hanging oversleeves. Her head was bare, her long hair plaited and bound around the slim gold filet that denoted her rank. Thus did the exhausted messenger see her when he was shown into her presence. His admiring glance paid tribute to the beauty of her face and the voluptuousness of her fecund body. He fell to his knees before her.

“Lady, allow me to be the first to salute you as Queen of England!” he cried. “King Stephen, whom God assoil, has departed this life. He died on the twenty-fifth day of October.”

“Praise be to God,” Matilda breathed exultantly, crossing herself. Eleanor did likewise, not being quite able to take in the glad tidings. She was a queen again, queen of that strange northern land beyond the sea, of which she had heard so many tales. Everything that she and Henry had schemed and hoped for had come to pass.

“I thank you for bringing me this news,” she told the messenger, giving him her hand to kiss. “The duke—nay, the King!—must be informed at once. I pray you, refresh yourself in the kitchens, then make all haste to the Vexin to my lord, and bid him return without delay, so that he may hasten to take possession of his kingdom. God speed you!”

When the man was gone, Eleanor turned to her mother-in-law, who had also risen to her feet. The Empress had a rapt expression on her handsome face.

“So God has been just at last,” she said. “These nineteen long winters of the usurper’s rule I have prayed for this and beseeched Him to uphold my rights. Now He has spoken, and my son will wear the crown that I fought over so long and bitterly.” Her eyes were shining.

“Madame, I rejoice in this happy ending to your struggle,” Eleanor said sincerely. In this moment of triumph, she could afford to be generous to her enemy. Impelled by a shared sense of jubilation, the two women embraced and kissed, each planting cool lips on the other’s cheek.

“Come,” Eleanor said, taking the initiative. “We must assemble our little court and tell them the glad news. Then we shall gather a retinue and go to the cathedral and give thanks.” And she swept out of the chamber, her woolen skirts trailing regally behind her, and for the first time daring to take precedence before the Empress.

There was much to be done while they waited for Henry. Letters to be sent, announcing his accession, provision made for the governance of Aquitaine in its rulers’ absence, and administrative matters to be dealt with, for the duchy of Normandy was to be left in Matilda’s capable hands. As a matter of courtesy, Eleanor had invited Matilda to come to England with her and Henry, but she had declined, much to her daughter-in-law’s relief.

“I will never set foot there again,” the older woman had stoutly declared, “not after they insulted me so horribly, and drove me out—me, their rightful queen!”

Eleanor had heard that it was Matilda’s insufferable haughtiness and arrogance that had driven the English to abandon her cause, but she said nothing of this.

“If you change your mind, madame, or even if you come only for the coronation, you will be very welcome,” she said courteously, then turned to receive a travel-weary messenger who had just come from Henry.

“Is my lord on his way?” she asked.

“No, lady, he is besieging a castle.”

“What?” Eleanor could not believe her ears.

“Lady, he says he must teach his rebels a lesson, and will not be deterred from his purpose, neither by the news he is to be a king, nor by pleas for him to come quickly. And he sends also to say that, when he is victorious in the Vexin, he must put his affairs in order elsewhere before joining you.”

“He speaks sense,” Matilda ventured to say. “There is no point in going to England and leaving unrest in Normandy. England can wait a bit. Archbishop Theobald is a sound man, and is keeping things in order. By all accounts, the English are pleased that Henry is now their king, so we can expect little trouble there.”

“I just wish he were here with me, to share this triumph,” Eleanor said wistfully, rubbing her aching back. She turned back to the messenger. “Is my lord in good health?”

“Never better, lady,” the messenger replied cheerily, and relief coursed through her. That was one blessing, at least. She dismissed the man, then summoned her seamstress.

“You should rest, Eleanor,” Matilda said. “Remember your condition.”

“Did you, madame?” Eleanor asked.

The Empress had to smile.

“No, I was not very good at heeding the advice of my women, or the midwives,” she admitted. “Pregnancy was a great trial to me. Once I had borne Geoffrey three sons, I told him that was it. No more.” Her tone grew cooler and faded. Saying Geoffrey’s name had reminded her of how Eleanor and Geoffrey betrayed her, and of the reason for it. She was sage and just enough to admit that it was partly her fault, but she found it hard to forgive. Geoffrey had been her husband, and they had both dishonored her by rutting together. Yet she had come to concede that Eleanor had dignity and intelligence, and she was aware of a grudging admiration for her. She had made Henry the greatest prince in Christendom, this errant daughter-in-law of hers, and she would make a fine queen. That was enough to earn Matilda’s acceptance. But she knew she would never, ever like Eleanor, or approve of her—that much was certain.

When Henry did finally return, he found his wife, his mother, and the whole court immersed in a flurry of preparations for the journey to England.

“What’s all this?” he asked, astonished, coming into Eleanor’s chamber at noon with a sore head, after a night spent celebrating his accession with his barons, then his joyful reunion with his lady. There, on the bed, on the table, on stools, and on every available surface, were heaped piles of clothes, fine garments of silk, linen, and wool, many of them richly embroidered, gowns, bliauts, cloaks, chemises … Red-cheeked damsels were hastening to and fro, stowing some of it away in chests or adding even more items to the piles.

“We are packing.” Eleanor was swirling about before her mirror in a rich mantle lined with ermine. Henry looked at her admiringly as he came up behind her.

“I see you are dressed like a queen already,” he complimented her, pulling her hair aside and kissing her on the neck. “We make a handsome couple, eh?” he added, looking at their joint reflection.

“If you would take the trouble to dress a little more like a king, we’d make a very handsome couple,” Eleanor said tartly as she swiveled out of his grasp, then put the mantle into the arms of Mamille. Henry looked down ruefully at his hunting clothes; he rarely wore anything else, and only donned state robes when it was necessary to impress on formal occasions. The riding gear was clean and of good cloth, but mended in places. He had wielded the needle himself, as Eleanor watched in astonishment. “Why can’t you ask your valet to do that for you?” she had asked. “That’s no job for the Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine!”

“Why, when I can do it myself?” Henry had replied.

She secretly applauded his lack of grandeur. It made him all the more approachable. You knew where you stood with him. There was no false facade.

Henry threw himself on the bed, shoving aside a pile of veils, and began munching an apple.

“Mind those veils!” Eleanor cried, and hastened to rescue them. “Torqueri spent a long time hemming and pressing these,” she reproved. “And get your muddy boots off the bed!”

Crunching, Henry amiably complied.

“Exactly how many veils are there?” he inquired, eyeing the great pile.

“Too many to count,” Eleanor said, distracted. “Florine and Faydide, have you packed my shoes?”

“All fourteen pairs,” Florine told her.

“And the forty-two gowns,” Faydide added.

“Forty-two?” Henry echoed. “You don’t need forty-two gowns.”

“I must impress our new subjects,” she answered.

“They’ll be accusing us of extravagance,” he muttered.

“The warm undershirts, madame,” Torqueri said. Henry eyed them suspiciously. Eleanor caught his expression.

“I have heard that it can be freezing cold in England,” she said. “These are to wear beneath my gowns, over my chemise.”

“For one awful moment I thought you were going to wear them in bed!” Henry grinned. The ladies giggled.

“I might yet do so, if England is as bitter in December as they say,” Eleanor warned.

“Over my dead body,” Henry growled.

“It might be!” She laughed. “How are your preparations progressing?”

“I’m all packed, and the escort is assembling,” he told her. “I am taking the usual rabble of barons and bishops—they all want a share of the booty. It’ll be hard restraining them when they get to Westminster. I had to include my brother Geoffrey, the little bastard—my mother insisted.”

Eleanor groaned. “That troublemaker? You’ll need to keep an eye on him.”

“He’s harmless enough, just a pissing nuisance. But to make up for it, my love, I have summoned your sister to join you.”

“Petronilla?” An image of a tall, fair young woman with haunted eyes and a fragile mien sprang to mind. “That was most thoughtful. I have not seen her for years. Henry, you are so good to me.”

“Since my mother is to stay here, I realized that you would be without female company of your own rank in England,” Henry explained, gratified to see her so pleased. “I gather there was some scandal,” he added lightly, throwing the apple core out of the window and reaching for a wine flagon. “I was quite young at the time, and the adults wouldn’t talk about it. Was she a naughty girl, your sister? I have heard that she is very beautiful—although not as beautiful as you,” he added quickly.

“Pour me some wine too, please,” Eleanor said, dismissing her women and sitting down on the only corner of the bed not occupied by Henry and heaps of clothing. “I need to relax for a bit.”

“Here, put that stuff on the chests and rest here with me,” Henry offered, extending his arm invitingly and winking. “You are tiring yourself. You must think of the child.”

“Which is precisely what you won’t be doing if I lie down next to you!” Eleanor chided. “Remember, the Church forbids lovemaking during pregnancy.”

“Bah!” chortled Henry. “You weren’t saying that last night, if I remember aright.”

“I don’t see any harm in it,” Eleanor said. “Neither do I see how a lot of celibate clerics, all of them terrified of women, are qualified to pronounce on such matters.”

“They’d burn you for heresy if they heard that!’ Henry laughed. “They think that sex is only for procreation and that once you’ve procreated, there’s no further excuse for doing it.”

“How little they know.” Eleanor smiled. “It may sound blasphemous, but when you are inside me, it’s almost a spiritual experience—a communion of both souls and bodies, if you will.”

“What are you trying to do to me?” Henry asked in mock anguish, pointing to the erection visibly stirring beneath his tunic.

“Control yourself!” Eleanor reproved him, feigning displeasure. “Not now, please. I’m supposed to be resting. And I was going to tell you about Petronilla.”

Henry made a face, but settled down to listen.

“It was over ten years ago,” Eleanor began, settling herself comfortably against the bolster. “My sister was only sixteen at the time, and very headstrong. She fell in love with Count Raoul of Vermandois.”

“Surely he was too old for her?” Henry interrupted.

“Yes, by thirty-five years, but it didn’t seem to matter as she was completely infatuated, as was he.”

“Randy old goat!”

“Must you always see love in terms of sex?” Eleanor made an exasperated face, but her eyes were twinkling.

“You’ve never complained.” Henry grinned, and lifted her hand to kiss it.

“Well,” she went on, appreciating the gesture, “as it happens, you are right, because Raoul was certainly deep in lust. Unfortunately, he was married to the sister of that awful Thibaut, Count of Blois, who tried to abduct me, remember?”

“As if I could forget that bastard.” Henry frowned.

“I never liked him anyway,” Eleanor continued, “and at the time, for reasons of his own, he was refusing all homage to Louis, and so to pay him back, I encouraged Raoul to seek an annulment. That wasn’t difficult, as he and Thibaut were enemies. Anyway, Raoul left his wife, and Louis appointed three bishops to annul the marriage and marry him to Petronilla. Then all hell broke loose! Thibaut took his sister’s part and complained to the Pope, and of course Abbot Bernard had to stick his nose in, telling His Holiness and anyone else who was listening that the sacrament of marriage had been undermined and the House of Blois insulted.”

“And what happened?” Henry asked.

“Raoul was ordered by the Pope to return to his wife. You should have seen Petronilla—she was beside herself with grief. But Raoul stood by her, and refused to leave her. For that, they were both excommunicated. Louis sprang to Raoul’s defense and went to war against Thibaut. He had many good reasons to, believe me. It was during that war that the massacre of Vitry took place.”

“I know about that,” Henry said.

“All Christendom does,” Eleanor sighed. “It was just awful. Louis was blamed, but he never meant for it to happen. When the townsfolk barred their gates against him, he had his men launch flaming arrows at the castle, which was made of wood. It caught fire, and the defenders perished, so Louis’s men were able to force an entry into the town. That was all planned. But the soldiers went berserk; their captains could not control them. They laid about them with swords and torches, and soon all the buildings were ablaze. In the streets, it was a bloodbath. Those people who managed to escape took refuge in the cathedral, thinking they would be safe there, poor fools.”

“Don’t tell me the saintly Louis ordered the cathedral to be fired,” Henry interrupted.

“No, he was some way off, watching in horror from a hill outside the town. It was the wind—it blew the flames toward the cathedral, and they engulfed it at terrifying speed. Fifteen hundred people died that day, women, children, the old, and the sick. It was terrible.” She turned haunted eyes to Henry.

“You saw it?” he asked, his face grim.

“No, I was in Paris, but I had to deal with Louis on his return. He was stricken. He had seen it all; he’d heard the screams of those poor trapped people, and smelled their burning flesh.” She winced. “He’d watched helplessly as the roof caved in and those wretched souls perished. He felt it was his fault, although he never intended for such a dreadful thing to happen.” She remembered him ashen-faced and shaking, unable to speak, lying sick and mute in his bed for two days. “After that, he was never the same. He was weighed down by guilt. He even cut off his long fair hair, which I had always liked, and took to wearing a monk’s robes.”

“I suppose sex was out of the question,” Henry said wryly, in an attempt to lighten the mood. Eleanor smiled at him.

“It was usually out of the question!”

“So did Louis ever forgive himself?”

“I think it was more a case of accepting that God had forgiven him,” Eleanor recalled, “and that only happened during the crusade, when we visited Jerusalem and he received absolution at the tomb of Our Savior.”

“And what of Petronilla?” Henry wanted to know.

“Well, after more fighting and arguing, Abbot Bernard brought about a peace between Louis and Thibaut, and eventually Petronilla’s marriage to Raoul was confirmed by the Pope. That was a relief! But her happiness lasted no more than ten years. When Louis and I divorced, Raoul decided that he no longer wanted to be married to the sister of the King’s ex-wife; there was no advantage in it for him. More to the point, he had fallen for another woman, much to Petronilla’s grief. Despite her tears and protests, he divorced her, and took custody of their three young children. Losing them has been dreadful for her. Her little boy suffers from a nasty skin disease, poor child, and she worries fearfully about him. Petronilla’s lot has not been a happy one.”

But Petronilla, when she arrived, looking like a paler, plumper replica of her sister, was cheerful at the prospect of being reunited with Eleanor, and excited to be going to England for the coronation. Putting on a brave face to mask the ever-present sorrow she felt at being parted from her children, she made much of young William, who gurgled with delight whenever his aunt approached. Petronilla threw herself with vigor into the preparations for the coming voyage, and she and Eleanor spent many a happy hour reminiscing on their childhood and making plans for the future. Before long, though, it dawned on Eleanor that Petronilla’s cheerfulness was largely the result of her increasing dependence on the fruit of the vine. But her sister had had such a difficult life, with her happiness cruelly snatched from her along with her little ones, that she could not bring herself to remonstrate with her.

In Petronilla’s wake, again at Henry’s behest, had come Eleanor’s two bastard half brothers, William and Joscelin, whom he had appointed to join her household knights. Eleanor thanked Henry appreciatively for his thoughtfulness and warmly embraced the two eager young men who so much resembled her.

At last the great retinues were gathered, and Henry and Eleanor formally bade farewell to the Empress Matilda and set off on the road to Barfleur, where their ships were waiting to transport them to England.

13 Normandy and England, 1154

“This should make a good impression on my new subjects!” Henry declared, waving an expansive hand at the long procession of magnates and bishops, each with their retinues and baggage carts, that trailed into the distance behind them. Inwardly, Eleanor thought that the English might see the King’s great train as a pack of scavengers come to bleed their country dry, but she was confident that Henry’s reputation was such that his followers would heed the honorable lead he intended to give them, and deal honestly with his new subjects.

She smiled up at him from her litter; she was too far advanced in pregnancy to ride beside him, and not relishing being jolted along the rutted tracks that passed for roads, but was making light of her discomfort and trying to relax on the piled cushions beneath her, pulling her fur-lined cloak closer about her to protect herself from the freezing wind. She would not complain, she had resolved, because she knew Henry wanted to get to England as quickly as possible, and she just wanted the long journey to be over.

It was when they were making an overnight stop in Caen that Henry espied Bernard de Ventadour skulking among the varlets of his household.

“What’s he doing here?” he muttered to himself, and beckoned the troubadour over. Bernard, who was hoping that his master had not seen him, and was on the point of fleeing, had the grace to look terrified.

“Sire?” he almost squeaked.

“I thought I told you not to leave England without my permission!” Henry said fiercely.

“I—I know, sire, but your whole retinue was returning with you, and your knights needed entertaining …”

“Blast my knights!” Henry roared. “You disobeyed me, you scum.” The troubadour quailed.

“Now hear this,” Henry went on, “and never disobey me again, or you will rue it painfully. You are to leave here now, without delay.”

“But sire, where shall I go?” asked Bernard.

“Anywhere but here!”

“But I cannot go back to Ventadour …”

“No, that you cannot, and my good lady has told me why.” Henry had the satisfaction of seeing the young man wince. “You’ll have to find somewhere else.”

Tears filled Bernard’s eyes. “This is a great grief to me, sire,” he wept. “I know not what to do or where to go.”

“Take my advice and go as far away as possible. You might try your talents with the Count of Toulouse.”

“Sire, may I speak frankly?” Bernard was frantic.

Henry folded his arms and looked at him. “I’m waiting,” he said brusquely.

“There is a lady, sire—”

“By God there is!” Henry erupted.

“Nay, sire, not Madame the Duchess—another lady.” Bernard hung his head.

“Hah!” Henry pointed at him. “Another lady! You don’t waste much time.” And he doubled up with laughter.

“Sire, I love her, and could never leave her …”

Henry stopped laughing.

“Toulouse!” he barked. “Get your gear and go. And let me not see your face again.”

Bernard scuttled away. There was no lady; his heart was broken and he knew himself defeated. That night, lodged at an evil-smelling inn, he hastily composed a poem to Eleanor, in which he mournfully sang her praises for the last time and told her that her lord had forced him to leave her. Then he gave it to his servant, who galloped off in search of the royal cavalcade. Eleanor, reading the grubby parchment two days later, sighed in exasperation, then screwed it up and threw it in the River Vire.

Henry peered over the stone parapet of the tower of St. Nicholas’s Church, the wind and rain lashing his face and soaking his short woolen cloak. Below him, the shallow waters of the port of Barfleur churned and seethed in the storm, and there was not a soul to be seen in the prosperous little village; the inhabitants, grasping lot though they were, had all retreated to their houses in the teeth of the bad weather.

“How much longer are we to be holed up here?” he fumed to the ship’s master.

“I beg ye, be patient, Lord King,” the weather-beaten man shouted against the gale. “Them currents down there can be mighty swift. Ye’ll have heard of the White Ship.”

Henry had heard of it, too many times, from his mother, whose brother had gone down with it on that terrible night thirty-four years before, and he’d heard of it again over the past few days, from the mariners, who always seemed to relish recounting tales of disaster. Of course, if the White Ship hadn’t sunk, drowning the heir to England, he wouldn’t be standing here now, waiting to take possession of that kingdom. And standing here was all he seemed to be doing; he was almost stamping with impatience.

“By the eyes of God, it’s not far to sail!” he argued. “Do you realize, man, that England has been without a king for six weeks? Why, my very throne might be in jeopardy because of this delay.”

“Lord King,” the master said evenly, “it is not me that commands the heavens.”

“No,” Henry muttered, “but when I command you to set forth, I expect to be obeyed. That’s five times you have defied me now.”

“And it might be five times I’ve saved your life, Lord King,” the man replied sagely. “Better for England to have a king across the sea than no king at all.”

There was no arguing with that, but Henry was not in the mood to be put off by wise words of caution.

“Thank you for your consideration,” he snapped sarcastically. “God knows, we might be here forever. No, my mind is made up. We sail today.”

The seaman was about to protest again when Queen Eleanor, her heavily pregnant figure swathed in a black hooded mantle, suddenly appeared at the tower door.

“I had to get some air,” she said, turning her face up to the elements, not minding the buffeting wind and smattering raindrops. “They’ve lit so many braziers I am suffocating in my chamber. Petronilla especially feels the cold. God’s blood, it’s wild, this weather!”

She battled her way through the tempest to Henry, who folded his arms around her.

“My lady, our ship’s master here is unwilling to put to sea,” he told her, “but I am of a mind to brave the elements and be on our way.”

“That’s madness, Lord King,” the master cried, “especially with the Lady Queen near her time.”

“Well, my lady?” Henry asked, ignoring him. “What do you say?”

“A little weather never bothered me,” Eleanor replied, more cheerfully and bravely than she felt. She knew that Henry would have his way, whatever anyone said, so it was prudent to make the best of things—although that sky looked black and angry, and the gusts were fearsome …

“I would not put you through this,” he told her, “or young William, but God knows what’s happening in England without me. Is Archbishop Theobald truly the man to keep those unruly English barons in check?”

“The last reports suggested he was doing brilliantly,” Eleanor reminded him.

“Yes, but for how long?” Henry fretted. He knew, none better, how those same barons had defied the weak Stephen: how they had built their castles without waiting for his license, then terrorized the countryside, using the civil war as a pretext for unspeakable depredations and atrocities. No, his mind was made up. There was greater risk in staying here than in braving the sea.

Eleanor thought she would never see daylight again, shut up as she was with her women in this pitching, stinking cabin with its alarmingly creaking timbers. Outside, the unforgiving Channel continued its howling, relentless assault, surging against the vessel’s sides and tossing it mercilessly on the crashing waves. The wind screamed, and the ship rolled, and every time it did, the ladies emitted little shrieks or threw up once more into the overflowing basins.

All I will ever ask you for, O Lord, is for my feet to be on dry land, Eleanor prayed silently, as she lay on her wooden cot, clutching at the side for dear life, and trying to ignore the heaving of her own stomach. Beside her lay little William, tight in the crook of her arm, and in her swollen belly the babe kicked, affrighted no doubt by the unaccustomed tumult.

She could hear men shouting above the storm, and the tethered horses neighing and rearing in terror. The baggage stored in the hold was inexorably sliding about as the ship lurched from side to side, and ominous thumps announced its latest whereabouts. She had not seen Henry once since they set sail, for the master had been firm about the women keeping to their quarters, and for all she knew—or cared, she told herself—her husband could have gone overboard. He might at least have come to inquire how she was coping in this hell.

She buried her nose in the rough pillow to escape the stench of vomit and the latrine pail. How long had they been at sea? She had utterly lost track of time, and only knew that they had all endured hours of torture locked in this fetid cabin. In the next cot, Petronilla was weeping noisily. She had consumed a lot of wine in a hurry before forcibly being persuaded to board the ship, and had paid dearly for it since, but it loosed her tongue, and her terrified ramblings were threatening to drive the other women hysterical.

“We’re going to die,” she moaned. “I will never see my sweet babes again.” This only provoked more frightened sobs and squeals. Any minute now they would all be wailing uncontrollably.

“Enough!” Eleanor said sternly. “Sailors face these storms all the time, and survive them.” She was gratified to hear herself sounding more confident than she felt. The women subsided, suppressing their cries and their fears. She spoke more gently to them, offering words of comfort and reassurance that she wished she could believe herself.

The night hours—presumably it was night—seemed endless. For most of them, Eleanor remained in that twilight state between sleeping and waking, too strung up to fall into slumber and so attain the oblivion she craved. At one point, though, she must have nodded off, for when she next came to, a watery light was penetrating the oiled linen stretched over the single window, and the sea had miraculously stilled. God had answered her prayer.

She offered little William her breast; mercifully, he was his usual, sunny self, unfazed by the terrible hours they had just endured; how blissful it must be, she thought, to be so young and innocent that one has no conception of the perils and dangers of this world. She kissed her son’s soft, downy head, feeling for the hundredth time that sweet surge of all-consuming maternal love, this time coupled with thankfulness that both of them had been safely delivered from the tempest. As soon as they made land, she promised, she would seek out the nearest church and express due gratefulness to God.

She rose, shook her women awake, and made them fetch fresh garments and a comb from the iron-banded chest that housed her most prized possessions and had not therefore been entrusted to the hold. This day she must dress like a queen, for she and Henry were setting foot for the first time in their new kingdom, and their subjects would surely come crowding to greet them. She donned her rich Byzantine robe, which fell in stately folds over her high belly, and let her long hair fall regally loose under a simple gold circlet. Then she emerged from the noisome cabin into the fresh, cold morning air, to find Henry standing not a few feet away at the ship’s side, looking across a calm estuary to wide, sandy beaches and a vast expanse of woodland beyond.

“My lady,” he said, doffing his cap. His barons and clerics bowed courteously as Eleanor came to join him. She noticed he had forsaken his customary hunting gear for a fashionable tunic ornamented with wide bands of embroidery, worn beneath the short cloak he had recently made popular, earning himself the nickname “Curtmantle.” His coppery hair curled endearingly around his ears beneath the ducal crown of Normandy. He looked every inch the king, with his high, majestic features and erect mien, and her earlier resentment was forgotten in the heady joy of the moment: she was grateful to be alive, and proud to be standing beside him as his consort.

There was no one to greet them when they disembarked. Of course, no one knew when or where to expect them. They were, for the moment, a small party, because the other ships were scattered in the storm and had hopefully made land farther along the coast.

“We ride at once to our capital city of Winchester to secure the royal treasure and receive the homage of our English barons!” Henry announced to his company, and himself led the way on his magnificent battle charger. “The others had instructions to meet up with us there if we got separated,” he explained to Eleanor. “I have sent ahead to Archbishop Theobald, commanding him to summon the magnates.”

It was a cold day, but bright with winter sunshine. The land lay damp and glistening after the storm, and the litter’s wheels made sucking noises as they were dragged resisting through the mud on the waterlogged track. The Abbess Isabella had been right, Eleanor reflected, looking out eagerly from her litter: this kingdom of England did look a lot like Normandy and the Île de France. It was green and well wooded, gently undulating with shady glades, glittering streams, heaths, and moorland. For most of their journey, though, they were riding through a great forest, its dense trees—mighty oaks, as well as chestnut, ash, and beech—bare of leaves. Here and there deer could be glimpsed in the distance, and solid, sturdy little ponies, most of them bay, brown, or gray.

“Good hunting hereabouts!” Henry enthused. “This is the New Forest, established by William the Conqueror, purely for the pleasures of the chase. The forest laws he laid down are very strict. None must poach the king’s deer on pain of death—or, in his day, mutilation.”

“Mutilation?” Eleanor’s eyebrows shot up.

“My great-grandfather was a just but harsh king. He abolished hanging, but replaced it with castration or mutilation.” Henry grinned. “It was very effective, of course. In those days you could walk from one end of the kingdom to the other with your bosom full of gold, and no man would dare molest you.”

“That’s hardly surprising!” Eleanor giggled.

“My great-uncle, King William Rufus, was shot dead with an arrow in this very forest,” Henry went on. “He had fallen out with the Church, and was generally unpopular. Some said he preferred boys to women, and the bishops, God bless them, got themselves all worked up over the extravagant clothes he and his courtiers liked to wear. His death was supposed to have been a tragic accident, with a man called Tyrell shooting the King instead of the beast he said he was aiming for, but I often wonder.”

“You think he was murdered?” Eleanor asked.

“It’s more than possible,” Henry said slowly, “although it’s not the done thing to accuse one’s own grandfather of regicide!”

“King Henry was responsible?”

“Well, he got the crown by it. Didn’t wait for the formalities—he immediately raced off to Winchester to lay hands on the royal treasure, much as we are doing now, my queen, although perhaps not with the same urgency!”

When the forest gave way to farmland, the track took them alongside acres of fields divided into a patchwork of strips; each serf would be working his own strips as well as those of the local lord to whom he was bound. As the royal cavalcade passed through a succession of small villages, each with its stone manor house and squat church surrounded by a cluster of thatched cottages of wattle-and-daub, the country folk came running to see them, curious about who these richly clad, and clearly important, strangers were. Henry greeted them all, with that common touch that came so easily to him. He listened to their grievances, shook his head over their gruesome stories of the terrible years of King Stephen’s reign, and promised that he would ensure justice for all. They cheered him heartily, hailing him almost as their savior, as the rustic priests ran out of their glebe houses to bless him, and women and children approached Eleanor with small offerings of hard apples, black bread, and cider.

Everywhere they went, they heard the ringing of church bells, that ringing for which England was famous. Once the news of the King’s coming was known, every village rang its bells in celebration, to signal this momentous event to the next parish. As the royal procession passed through each rural community, it left in its wake jubilant peasants dancing and carousing for joy.

Very soon they found themselves approaching Winchester, that great walled city dominated by its ancient cathedral, its fine abbeys, and the imposing castle built by the Conqueror. This, Henry told Eleanor, was the city of Alfred the Great, the renowned Saxon hero-king, whose bones lay buried in the cathedral not far from those of the little-lamented William Rufus. And here, coming toward them, was the worthy Archbishop Theobald, riding on his mule to greet his king, a mighty entourage of barons and prelates at his back, all craning their necks anxiously to get a good sight of the young man who would now rule over them.

“My Lord King!” Theobald saluted Henry, then dismounted and, leaning on his crozier, went down on his creaky old knees in the muddy road.

“My Lord Archbishop!” Henry cried in ringing tones, leaping off his horse and hastening to raise the old man to his feet. They exchanged the customary kiss of peace and welcome, then Henry smiled graciously—and not a little calculatingly—at the magnates, who had dismounted from their saddles and made their obeisances as one.

“Rise, my lords!” he commanded. “Greetings to you all. I thank you for coming.” Turning to the Archbishop, he said, “You have done well, Your Grace, to have kept this realm in quietness these past six weeks. Tell me, is it true that no one has dared to dispute my succession?”

Theobald beamed. He was a devout soul, but also a competent and shrewd man of business, clearly respected by all. “It is true, sire. These lords here have all remained at peace for love of the king to come. And, to be frank with you, none dared do other than good, for you are held in great awe. Your reputation has gone before you.”

Henry nodded, well satisfied, then assisted Eleanor out of her litter and presented Theobald to her.

“My lady, in truth, we are astonished to see you all here safe and sound,” the Archbishop told her. “It is a miracle you survived that terrible storm. And I may tell you,” he added in a lower tone, the hint of a smile playing on his lips, “that our barons here are quaking like a bed of reeds in the wind for fear of your husband. They think him almost superhuman to have defied the elements to come here.”

It was a good beginning. Enthroned in the Conqueror’s great hall in the castle, Henry FitzEmpress received the homage of the lords and clergy, with Eleanor watching from a smaller chair of estate, her ladies gathered about her, their number now including several English noblewomen who had traveled to the capital with their husbands. It was a day of rejoicing and goodwill, with the English barons displaying an uncharacteristic admiration and respect for their new king, and the common folk singing his praises in the streets.

After a comfortable night spent sleeping soundly beside Eleanor in the castle’s luxurious painted chamber, his hand resting proprietorially on her pregnant belly, Henry was keen to make an early start. He was anxious to get to London, and be crowned at Westminster without further delay. Then the real business of ruling England could begin.

London was frost-bound, but packed with exuberant citizens and visitors, come to witness the spectacle of the coronation. Nestling proudly beside the mighty River Thames, the city was smaller than Paris, Eleanor discovered, but equally impressive, and fully deserving of its reputation as one of the noblest and most celebrated cities of the world. Henry was full of praise for its defenses, its stout walls, its strategic position on the River Thames, and its three dominant fortresses, Baynard’s Castle, Montfitchet Castle, and the famous Tower of London, the Conqueror’s chief stronghold.

They approached through prosperous suburbs of fine houses and beautiful gardens, and, entering the city from the west, by Newgate, rode in procession through slippery, narrow streets lined with waving and applauding crowds. Everyone was huddled in cloaks and furs, but even in the bitter cold, London was vibrant and exciting, its people warm and welcoming. They hailed their new king as “Henry the Peacemaker,” and when they saw sturdy little William clasped in his mother’s arms as they were borne along in her horse litter, they cheered wildly.

Eleanor was torn between acknowledging their acclaim and gazing in awe at the sights of the City—the great cathedral of St. Paul, the fine Guildhall, the numerous monasteries and churches with their gaily jangling bells, the prosperous inns with their bunches of evergreens hanging above the doors, and the maze of streets packed with wooden houses painted red, blue, or black. In Cheapside, she was itching to take a closer look at the fine shops with their luxury goods on display: she caught tantalizing glimpses of gorgeous silks from Damascus, enamels from Limoges—a reminder of her own fair city, which brought a pang to her heart—and the famed, home-crafted goldsmiths’ work, which was of the finest quality. Eleanor made a mental note to place some orders with the merchants here at the earliest opportunity.

Eventually, they left the City by Oystergate and traversed London Bridge to the Surrey shore of the Thames and the palace of Bermondsey, where they were to lodge, since the King’s residence at Westminster had been vandalized and was awaiting refurbishment. It had been decided that they would remain at Bermondsey for the Christmas court and the birth of Eleanor’s child, which was expected in February.

When, late that night, she finally escaped the exuberant and rowdy celebrations in the great hall, Eleanor sank down on her bed, exhausted, as her women folded her clothes away into chests, blew out most of the candles, and closed the door quietly behind them. It had been an overwhelming day, and her mind was full of myriad impressions of London, and of this land of which she was now Queen. She felt elated—and yet a little trapped, like an exile, for she knew she could not hope to return to Aquitaine for some time. Her place now was here, in England, by Henry’s side; but part of her heart—the part that was not his—remained in the South. A tear trickled onto the pillow as she lay in the dark, the babe kicking inside her and homesickness engulfing her as never before. Maybe it was that the treacherous expanse of sea separated her from her homeland; when she had lived in Paris with Louis, or in Normandy or Anjou, her domains were just a few days’ ride away. Now they seemed far, far distant.

Resolutely, she put the thought away. She must be strong, for Henry, for their children, living and unborn, and for the people of England, who needed a just and strong ruler. And when, the next day, she walked in procession with the King into the magnificent abbey at Westminster, none would have guessed at her inner qualms. She looked every inch the Queen, Henry thought, his eyes roving approvingly over her elaborately gauffered white silk bliaut embroidered with gold trelliswork and clasped with a heavy emerald, and her sweeping blue mantle powdered with gold crescents and lined in rose brocade. Her hair was flowing loose, like molten copper, over her shoulders, and over it she wore a veil of the thinnest gauze, edged with gold. Most satisfying of all, Henry felt, was her obvious fecundity, manifest in the unmistakable rounded contours of her ripened breasts and high belly; it was, after all, the first duty of a queen to be fruitful.

Eleanor gazed up at Henry’s rugged features, the straight nose, the jutting jaw, the full lips—and loved him anew. There was no mistaking his majesty, as he strode purposefully up the nave, resplendent in his scarlet dalmatic with its border of gold passement around the neck and its diapered weave; beneath it he was wearing a blue tunic, and beneath that, a bleached linen alb. His long cloak billowed out behind him as he walked. His curly red head was bare in readiness for the great ceremonies to come. He looked the perfect image of a king.

The abbey was thronged with the estates of the realm, the lords and the clergy, brilliantly attired in their silks and brocades. The long coronation ritual was infused with mystery and grandeur, such as to send tremors tingling down the spines of those who heard its timeless rubric. Eleanor thrilled to hear the psalm that Henry himself had chosen as a tribute to his beautiful consort; she, unmistakably, was his “queen in gold of Ophir,” and she was exhorted to forget her own people and her father’s house. In their place, she was told, “The King will desire your beauty; he is your lord, pay homage to him.” At that moment she would gladly have cast herself down in abasement for love of him, for thus proclaiming his devotion to the world.

When Henry was lifted into his throne by the prelates, and the crown was placed on his head by Archbishop Theobald, there were resounding shouts of joy and acclaim from those watching. Then it was Eleanor’s turn, and she could not but think—as the consort’s diadem was placed on her bent head—that this was a far happier crowning than she had experienced with Louis, all those years ago, in Notre Dame in Paris, when, as a fifteen-year-old girl, she had experienced no sense of a great destiny. And there was to be further rejoicing, for afterward, as the royal couple emerged from the abbey, mounted their horses and rode through London, the citizens ran alongside crying, “Waes hail!” and “Vivat Rex!” Long live the King! It brought tears to Eleanor’s eyes, and made her heart feel near to bursting with jubilation.