Time and Chance

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

December 1167

Winchester, England

Eleanor could not stop shivering. Cursing the damp English winter, she moved closer to the hearth, but the flames were not hot enough to dispel her chill. It had been raining for more than a week, an icy, soaking rain that drowned all memories of sunlit springs and better days. Eleanor’s small son had been affected by the gloom, too, fretting and whimpering, resisting his nurse’s attempts at comfort. When Eleanor could endure John’s mewling no longer, she snapped, “For the love of God, fetch Rohese. He cannot cry if he’s suckling.”

Eleanor’s attendants eyed her warily, as they’d learned to do in the eleven months since John’s birth. None complained or protested, even though one of them would have to venture out into that miserable, wet night in search of Rohese. John’s fussing increased in volume, progressing from low wail to high-pitched shriek. The Countess of Chester had always been adept at soothing querulous babies, but she had no luck with John and hastily handed him over to the wet-nurse once Rohese had finally been found.

Maud then took matters into her own hands, announcing that she wanted to visit the chapel to pray for the queen’s safe return to Normandy. This pious declaration earned her a startled look from Eleanor, which she blandly ignored. “Will you accompany me, my lady, so we may pray together?”

Eleanor wavered momentarily between common sense and curiosity, but the latter won. Signaling for her mantle, she rose reluctantly to her feet and was soon following the flickering glow of Maud’s lantern out into the rain-drenched darkness. By the time they’d reached the chapel, her skirts were sodden, her shoes muddied, and she was convinced that curiosity must be one of the Seven Deadly Sins.

Candles flared upon the altar, and a torch in one of the wall sconces was lit, but the priest was not present. Probably warm and snug before a blazing hearth, Eleanor thought sourly, in a mood to begrudge anyone comforts she was not sharing. “The next time you get an irresistible urge to commune with the Almighty, Maud, make it a solitary quest.”

“This was not one of my better ideas,” Maud agreed, wringing moisture from the hem of her mantle with a grimace. “But I could think of no other place for us to be utterly alone, safe from eavesdroppers.”

“There was always my bedchamber, which is not only private but reasonably dry.”

“Now you’re being disingenuous, Eleanor. I could not dismiss your ladies or servants. All I could do was to make you curious enough to..”

When she paused, Eleanor suggested, “Take your bait?”

“Well, yes,” Maud admitted and then she grinned. “I will indeed pray that God gives you an easy sailing, though. Anyone who sets foot on shipboard is deserving of prayers.”

“Is that also true for a wife returning to an unfaithful husband?” Eleanor asked coolly. “I’ll take your prayers, Maud, but I’ve no need of your advice.”

“No? Then why did you ‘take the bait,’ as you put it? I think you do want to talk about your return, and who better than me? I am good at intrigues and at keeping secrets, impossible to shock, and however dismal your marriage may seem at the moment, it is infinitely preferable to the calamity that was mine, so you need not fret that I’d respond with either smugness or pity!”

Amused in spite of herself, Eleanor leaned back against the altar, regarding the other woman challengingly. “What is there to discuss? I will be joining Harry at Rouen for his Christmas Court and you were summoned to Winchester so I could bid you farewell ere I left England.”

Maud was quiet for a moment, knowing that she’d be entering a verbal quagmire, one rife with pitfalls. In their world, a husband’s adultery was something to be endured or ignored. Even queens had to play by those rules. If only she could be sure that Eleanor understood that.

“How are you going to handle it, Eleanor? Do you intend to give Harry an ultimatum about the Clifford wench?”

“Of course.” Eleanor’s eyes glinted. “What would you have me do, compete with that insipid, ordinary child for Harry’s favor?”

“No… but have you thought about his likely response? Even if he is already tiring of the girl, he might balk at being given a command. Men tend to get their backs up as often as their cocks. What will you do if Harry refuses?”

There was a prolonged silence. Eleanor’s lashes swept down to veil her eyes, but the flickering candlelight revealed the stubborn downturn of her mouth. “I will make sure,” she said, “that he greatly regrets it.”

This was what Maud had feared. “I do not doubt that. I just want to be certain that none of the regrets are yours. I understand your desire to punish Harry for his betrayal, but that is such a dangerous road to start down. However justified your grievances, you cannot ever forget that a woman’s power is a derivative commodity, borrowed at best-”

“Forget?” Eleanor spat. “You truly think I could forget that? After Antioch?”

As familiar as Maud was with Eleanor’s combustible temper, she had never seen it take fire so fast. “Antioch?” she echoed, momentarily perplexed.

“Yes, Antioch,” Eleanor shot back, and in her mouth the name of that elegant crusader kingdom became a harsh obscenity. “Do not pretend you do not know what happened in Antioch, Maud. Even holy hermits under a vow of silence heard of the great scandal caused by the King of France’s wanton, wayward queen. If gossip is to be believed, I was guilty of adultery and incest and single-handedly brought the crusade to ruin.”

“Yes… if gossip is to be believed.” The stories that had trickled out of Syria were indeed salacious and shocking. It was said that Eleanor had taken her uncle Raymond, Prince of Antioch, as her lover, declared her intention to annul her marriage and remain in Antioch, and had been compelled by Louis to accompany him on to Jerusalem. Maud had not believed the rumors, though, not once she’d met Eleanor. The young French queen had been willful and reckless, but she’d never been a fool.

“The crusade was botched from the beginning,” Eleanor said, with a bitterness that not even the passage of nearly twenty years had abated. “And then at Antioch, Louis balked at going to the rescue of Edessa, contending he must first carry out his vow to reach Jerusalem. I thought that was madness and so did Raymond, a military blunder that might well lose Antioch, too, to the infidels. When Louis refused to heed us, I warned him that if he did not attack Edessa as agreed upon, I would remain in Antioch and keep my vassals with me. He insisted that I must obey him and he quoted from Scriptures, that wives must submit themselves to their husbands as unto the Lord. It was then that I told him I wanted to end the marriage.”

“And so his advisers convinced him that you were bedding Raymond?” Eleanor nodded tersely. “For a time, they did,” she said dismissively, making it clear that she had no interest in discussing her uncle. “They persuaded Louis that it would look unmanly for him to leave me in Antioch. And so I was awakened in the middle of the night by men sent by my husband, taken by force from my lodgings and out of the city… as helpless to resist as any cotter’s wife, for all that I wore a crown.”

“You are right,” Maud conceded. “You need no lessons from me as to how the scales of power are weighted between men and women. It is just that I know you, Eleanor, I know that at heart, you are a rebel and have never been one for doing what is expected of you.”

The corners of Eleanor’s mouth softened, curved upward. “You need not worry, Maud. I will not do anything rash… not unless Harry provokes me, of course. And yes, that is a joke.” She did smile, then, although without humor. “Unfortunately, so is his little blonde bauble.”

Patrick d’Evereaux paused before entering the great hall of Argentan’s castle. He moved with the careless confidence of one accustomed to attracting attention, trailing authority and honors and his long-suffering wife like the spume churned up in a ship’s wake. And indeed his entrance did turn heads, for he was not only the Earl of Salisbury and Sheriff of Wiltshire; to those on this side of the Channel, his importance lay in the power he wielded as Henry’s surrogate in Aquitaine.

The hall was very crowded, for attendance at the king’s Christmas court was a matter of prestige as much as pleasure. A baron’s absence might well give rise to rumors that he’d lost royal favor, even encourage his enemies to try to sow seeds of discord with the king. Salisbury’s gaze raked the throng, noting that many of the Poitevin lords were not present even though the queen, their liege lady, was expected to arrive any day now. Their conspicuous absence did not bode well for his tenure in Aquitaine. Seeing that Henry was occupied with the Bishops of Liege and Poitiers, Salisbury decided to approach him later and instead looked about for one who would know if Eleanor’s anticipated appearance was rooted in reality or gossip.

The Earl of Cornwall was the perfect choice, and Salisbury grasped his wife’s elbow, heading in Rainald’s direction. The two men were on friendly terms, and Rainald greeted Patrick and Ela with boisterous, wine-flavored goodwill, kissing her gallantly on the cheek and thumping Salisbury on the back heartily enough to send the earl into a coughing fit. The next few moments were awkward, for courtesy demanded that Salisbury and Ela ask after Rainald’s wife, even though they both knew the frail and unstable Beatrice had not left her Cornwall estates for years. They politely pretended to believe the excuses Rainald made on his wife’s behalf, but then Salisbury remembered he’d not seen Rainald since the death of the empress, and it was necessary to tender their condolences for her loss.

Rainald’s Christmas ebullience was temporarily dampened by these specters of death and derangement conjured up by the Salisburys. Snatching a wine cup from a passing servant, he drank deeply. He soon brightened, declaring that his son had accompanied him to Argentan. Salisbury knew, of course, that Rainald doted upon a natural son, named Henry after the king, but as he followed the other man’s pointing finger toward a youngster in his midteens, he saw that Rainald was speaking of his legitimate heir, the son born to Beatrice.

“The lad over there, standing behind the king…?” Salisbury frowned then, but Ela covered for him smoothly, saying “Nicholas” so naturally that none would notice his lapse of memory. Salisbury took her adroit intercession for granted; that was what a wife was supposed to do, after all. Nicholas was richly dressed, but he lacked Rainald’s vivid coloring and robust stature. The youth standing by Nicholas’s side was far more impressive, tall and well favored, and Salisbury felt a flicker of family pride.

“That is my nephew talking with your Nicholas,” Salisbury said, “my sister’s son, Will Marshal. He was knighted a few months ago and has asked to enter into my service. He’s a likely lad, a good hand with a sword, too.”

Rainald made a sound that passed for polite agreement; his interest in Salisbury’s kin was minimal. But then the name pricked a memory. “One of John Marshal’s get?” When Salisbury nodded, Rainald turned to look at young Marshal with genuine curiosity. He was not surprised that Will needed to make his own way in the world, for John Marshal had a surfeit of sons, six in all between his two marriages, and there would be little provision made for a younger lad. But William Marshal had acquired a certain fame as a small boy, for his father had offered him up as a hostage and then dared King Stephen to hang him, boasting that he had the hammer and anvil with which to forge other sons.

Salisbury knew Rainald was thinking of that same siege of Newbury, for men invariably did upon first meeting Will. But he had no desire to discuss his brother-in-law’s notoriety, Stephen’s unkingly compassion, or his nephew’s narrow escape, and he acted quickly to head off Rainald’s reminiscences. “Is it true that the queen is expected at Argentan?”

“So I’ve been told. She sent the king word that she’d arrived at Rouen and would be joining him for their Christmas court, but I do not know if she’s-” Rainald never finished the sentence. “Now what do you suppose that is all about?”

Straining to see for himself, Salisbury too, was puzzled, by the tableau meeting their eyes. Henry had swung around to face Nicholas and Will, interrupting his conversation with the bishops. Both youths had gone beet-red and even from across the hall, their discomfort was obvious. Rainald and Salisbury exchanged perplexed looks; had Nicholas and Will been foolish enough to offend the king?

Salisbury was inclined to let his nephew flounder to shore on his own, but Rainald’s first impulse was to rush to the rescue, and he was starting forward just as Henry turned away. Their eyes met and Henry murmured something to the bishops, then headed in Rainald’s direction as Ela moved off to greet a friend. Rainald restrained himself until after the exchange of courtesies, but not a moment longer. “What happened? Nicholas looked as if he’d swallowed his tongue!”

“Oh, that… your son was sharing some of the gossip being bruited around the court these days. I suppose he thought they were safely out of my hearing, and in truth, I only caught part of the conversation. But I heard enough to justify putting the fear of God into the lad, so I spun around and told them rumor had it that I was going deaf, too.”

Rainald laughed, relieved that Henry seemed to be taking it in such good humor. He could well imagine the sort of rumor a youngster would find most interesting, the more lurid the better. There was a time when he wouldn’t have been able to resist a bawdy joke, but he was developing a modicum of discretion in these, his autumn years, and he decided that his nephew would not appreciate jests about wronged wives, not with Eleanor about to descend upon Argentan like one of the Furies of ancient Greece. The classical allusion was not his own; that was not Rainald’s style. He’d heard it from Arnulf de Lisieux and it had lodged in his memory, for he’d always had a healthy respect for the queen’s temper, convinced that Aquitaine could match Anjou in sheer heat any day of the week.

Henry had already forgotten about Nicholas’s faux pas; he had far weightier matters on his mind than a young cousin’s gaffe. “Actually, I was looking for you,” he confided to Rainald and Salisbury. “A messenger arrived this morn from England, bearing word that Owain Gwynedd has taken Rhuddlan Castle.”

This was a significant loss for the Crown. Owain had been quick to take advantage of Henry’s troubles in Brittany and Poitou, and the siege had been dragging on for more than three months. Henry was tempted to blame the castellan, but he knew the fault was his; he’d delayed too long in putting together a rescue expedition, thinking the castle could hold out safely till the spring. The Welsh prince had become overly bold, would have to be dealt with. But when? He still had to punish the de Lusignans and the rest of Eleanor’s troublesome subjects. What was it his father had ofttimes said about Aquitaine? Ah, yes… that the barons of Poitou were as perverse as any in Christendom, likely to double-cross the Devil on a whim and then laugh all the way into Hell. They were a vexing people, his wife’s Poitevins, as impulsive and unpredictable and hotheaded as his uncle Ranulf’s Welshmen.

But tonight, Henry did not want to think about Ranulf or Wales. Exercising a king’s prerogative to commandeer the conversation, he switched the subject from Rhuddlan to Salisbury’s recent pilgrimage to the sacred Spanish shrine of St James of Compostela. But he found it difficult to corral his wayward thoughts. Each time he glanced around the hall, he encountered swiftly averted eyes, poorly concealed curiosity and speculation. Like his young cousin Nicholas, they were all wondering about his coming reunion with Eleanor, avid to know what would happen once they were alone in the royal bedchamber.

Henry would have given a great deal to know that himself. He really wasn’t sure what to expect from Eleanor. Her self-exile in England for the past year was not as easy to read as it first appeared. Did it indicate the gravity of her grievance against him? Or had she deliberately stayed away to give her lacerated pride time to heal?

In the beginning, he’d been relieved by her absence, then bemused, and finally, unsettled. Her infrequent letters told him much about her days, nothing about her heart. He’d been taken aback when she did not return to Normandy after hearing of his mother’s death. He’d gotten a graceful condolence letter that said all the right things, yet seemed oddly impersonal coming from a woman who’d been his wife for fifteen years and borne him eight children. Not even Tilda’s departure had brought Eleanor home; she’d accompanied their daughter across the Channel, saw her off for the imperial court with the German ambassadors, then sailed back to England before Henry had heard of her brief presence on Norman soil.

Feigning interest in Salisbury’s pilgrim stories, Henry acknowledged that the portents were not auspicious. Whenever he sought to convince himself that Eleanor’s actions need not mean she nursed a grudge, an inner voice mocked that he was like an unwary sailor, insisting that a red morning sky did not warn of a coming storm. No, her return was sure to bring squalls and high winds. They were likely to have a God-awful quarrel; he might as well reconcile himself to that. And because she was the one wronged, he’d have to make things right between them.

But what if he could not placate her with an honest apology? What if that was not enough for her? If she demanded that he put Rosamund aside, end their liaison? Logically, that should not present a problem. He had not laid eyes upon the girl in well over a year. He could not even remember the names of his other bedmates in that year. They’d never mattered to him, and Eleanor understood that. So why then was Rosamund different? Why this reluctance to disavow her? As often as he’d been down this road, he never found the answers he sought. In truth, he did not know what he’d do if Eleanor insisted that Rosamund be forsworn. He could only hope that her price for peace would not be so high.

Eleanor was wearing a gown Henry did not remember seeing before, a brocaded silk of deep gold, with a tightly fitted bodice, full, sweeping skirts, and swirling sleeves of emerald green. It reminded him vaguely of the gown she’d worn on their wedding day, stirred up memories he preferred to keep becalmed. Presiding over their evening meal in the great hall, she glittered and sparkled like the rings flashing on her fingers, looking beautiful and elegant and enigmatic. Henry silently applauded her performance; no queen ever born could play that role better than Eleanor. Nor had he expected any less from her. Even if she yearned to cut his throat with his own dagger, no one would ever guess it from her public demeanor. That would be a surprise she’d save for the privacy of their bedchamber.

And so the meal passed in outward harmony, with wine flowing as freely as the polished, courteous conversation. One advantage of having so many children and so many enemies, Henry acknowledged wryly, was that they’d never run out of something to talk about. By the time several elaborate subtleties had been wheeled into the hall, Henry and Eleanor had traded information upon their vast brood, interspersed with the latest gossip coming out of the French court, the Papal See, and Thomas Becket’s self-proclaimed sanctuary at Sens.

The subtlety for the high table was a depiction of the Birth of the Christ Child, acclaimed for its artistry, but not expected to be eaten, and Henry decided he could wait no longer for the second act in this drama. Why not leave their guests to fend for themselves, he suggested, and wasn’t sure whether to be gratified or aggrieved by the nonchalance with which Eleanor accepted his offer.

A nursery had been furnished for the three youngest of Henry and Eleanor’s children: six-year-old Eleanor, two-year-old Joanna, and John, who was just days away from his first birthday. Of the older offspring, Tilda was in Germany, Hal had his own household as befitting the heir to the English throne, and Richard and Geoffrey had not yet arrived at Argentan. As Eleanor and Henry entered the chamber, John’s wet-nurse leaped to her feet as if caught in some dereliction of duty. Joanna’s wet nurse was made of sterner stuff and as she curtsied, she dared to put a finger to her lips, warning the parents not to awaken their daughter, who had finally and blessedly gone to sleep. Eleanor, named after her mother but called Aenor after her maternal grandmother, was permitted a later bedtime and was playing alone in a corner with a felt puppet. She seemed no less startled than the wet-nurses by this sudden intrusion into the nursery, and her greetings were subdued, even shy.

Henry was not surprised by the little girl’s reticence, for she’d been apart from her mother for more than a year, and how could he be other than a stranger? How often did he see any of his children? As always, when confronted with the remote reality of royal parenthood, he felt a genuine regret, a sadness that he had developed with none of his children the sort of easy, affectionate rapport he’d enjoyed with his own father. But he no longer resolved to remedy matters, for by now he knew better. The demands of kingship were invariably going to prevail over the attractions of the nursery. Since he found his children to be more interesting as they matured, he’d assuaged any sense of loss by assuring himself that there would be time enough once they’d left babyhood behind.

Joanna was sleeping soundly, her hair a tangle of bright gold upon the pillow. But as Henry leaned over John’s cradle, the boy opened his eyes. Henry had gotten only a cursory glimpse of his son upon their arrival at Argentan, for John had been asleep, well swaddled in blankets. Their other children had all been fair; John’s dark hair came as a surprise, therefore, to his father. “Our first black sheep,” he said softly. “He looks like you, Eleanor.”

“You think so?”

“Not just his hair. He has your eyes, too.” The resemblance seemed so obvious to Henry that he did not understand how Eleanor could have missed it. Yet there had been an unmistakably skeptical tone to her voice. Unless their time apart had completely skewed his instincts where she was concerned. When he’d glanced down into his son’s shining hazel eyes, they’d told him nothing about the workings of that small brain, nor had he expected them to; an infant’s world was an alien abode. But as Eleanor’s eyes met his over the cradle, they were no more revealing than John’s.

He’d almost forgotten how well she could mask her thoughts when she chose. He’d been in Paris nigh on a week, and until she’d lured him into the privacy of the rain-screened royal gardens, he’d had no idea whatsoever of her intent. Now, their eyes held, and suddenly he had no more patience for these womanly games. This was his wife and he wanted her back in his bed, in his life, wanted the ease and familiarity and erotic intimacy that he’d once taken for granted.

Her hand was resting upon their daughter’s shoulder and he covered it with his own, both a caress and a claim. Lowering his voice to foil the eavesdropping wet-nurses, he murmured, “Where? Your chamber or mine?”

She regarded him unsmilingly, the candlelight giving her eyes a golden tint. “Mine,” she said. “Let it be mine.”

When Henry was admitted to his wife’s bedchamber, she was seated on a coffer by the hearth, having her hair brushed out. The young woman wielding the brush was one of Eleanor’s attendants from Aquitaine, a blithe spirit who had a penchant for practical jokes, flirtations, and games of chance. Taking the brush from her hand, Henry said with a smile, “It is early yet, Renee. Why don’t you go down to the great hall and break a few hearts?”

Renee’s dark eyes sought out Eleanor’s in the polished reflection of her hand mirror. When Eleanor nodded, almost imperceptibly, Renee dropped a graceful curtsy and did as Henry bade, without even a trace of her usual elan. Henry would have liked to believe her uncharacteristic reserve was due to travel fatigue, but he knew better. The members of Eleanor’s household were utterly and fiercely loyal to her. Glancing at Felice, his wife’s favorite greyhound, he almost made a dubious jest about the dog lunging for his private parts, caught himself just in time.

Eleanor’s hair flowed through his fingers like a sunless river, as dark and sensuous against his skin as a summer midnight. After he’d seen her head bared for the first time, he no longer understood why men were so taken with hair that was curly and golden. Her perfume was beguiling, an evocative, subtle fragrance that seduced with its very unfamiliarity.

“You changed your perfume?” He leaned closer, breathing in the aroma. “Abbot Bernard, God rot his sanctimonious soul, could have preached a fire and brimstone sermon after just one whiff. I think he truly believed that women were all damned as daughters of Eve, and as for you, love… well, he never doubted that you were the Devil’s handmaiden, put upon this earth for the sole purpose of tempting men into mortal sin.”

Her lip twitched at the mention of that old enemy from her past life as Queen of France. “Is that what you think I’m doing, Harry.. tempting you into sin?”

He smiled into her hair. “Well, a man can always hope…” He’d liked to joke that she could kindle a flame hotter than Greek fire, predicting the day would come when there’d be nothing left of him but a pile of ashes in their marriage bed. Unfortunately, she was still able to work the same magic. His intention had been to get the worst over with as soon as possible, do whatever he must to mend the marriage, and hope she did not mean to prolong their estrangement through the Christmas festivities. But his body was balking at that battle strategy.

He had never been a man to let lust command his brain. This surge of sudden desire was distracting enough, though, for him to reconsider his tactics. She’d never been shy about speaking her mind in the past. Would she have permitted him to brush her hair like this if she was not amenable to reconciliation tonight? Sooner rather than later? Mayhap she wanted an ugly, embittering quarrel no more than he did.

Setting the brush down, he reached over and took the mirror from her hand, tossing it carelessly into the floor rushes. “You cannot possibly know,” he said huskily, “how desirable you look. I came in here with my head crammed full of contrary, confusing thoughts, and all I can think now is how much I want you.”

She did not resist as he drew her to her feet, but rested a hand against his chest before he could take her into his arms. Her eyes were inscrutable, intent upon his face. “You sound,” she said, “as if you truly mean that.”

“You need proof?” He gave a hoarse laugh, for his mouth had gone dry. “I ache with it, Eleanor, that’s how much I want you…” And this time when he reached for her, she did not pull away.

Her golden gown was a casualty of his urgency, its lacings snapped by his impatient fingers. He had a blurred memory of rending silk on their wedding night, too, and half-expected her to tease him about that. But she said nothing, wrapping her arms around his neck as he backed her toward the bed. He recalled suddenly that he’d not bolted the door after Renee’s departure, but by then, they were sinking down into the softness of the feather mattress and he was not about to stop, not even if the chamber caught fire.

Afterward, there was a reassuring familiarity about it all: the covers thrown off, their bodies glistening with sweat and tangled in the sheets, the floor littered with their discarded clothing. So often had they resolved quarrels in bed like this, more than he could even begin to count. He lay still for a time, waiting for his heart and pulse to slow their erratic racing. Mayhap that old fool Bernard was right after all and sex could indeed kill a man… if done right. Turning his head toward his wife, he traced the line of her cheek with a finger, not yet having enough energy to move. “Good God, woman.. ”

Her hair was half-covering her face, tousled and wild and damp with perspiration. “That is what you said on our wedding night.”

She sounded out of breath, and he rolled over, kissing the soft skin of her throat. “Did I?” he said, and when he smiled, she saw that he’d echoed the same words by chance, not because he’d remembered.

Henry wasn’t sure when he’d finally realized that she was not going to confront him about Rosamund Clifford. When he’d considered all her possible responses, that was the only one he’d not envisioned. At worst, he’d seen her flinging down her ultimatum like a gauntlet, demanding Rosamund’s immediate and permanent banishment from his life. It was all too easy to imagine her berating him for bringing Rosamund to Woodstock, raging at him for being so careless of her pride, blistering the air with her considerable command of profanity, much of which she’d learned from him. He could even envision her so angry that she’d be tempted to heave candlesticks or books at his head; she’d confided that she’d once thrown an inkwell at Louis. Or she could have gone to the other extreme: aloof, maddeningly remote, for she could outdo his mother the empress when it came to being imperial. It had never occurred to him, though, that she might choose to deal with the problem of Rosamund Clifford so simply and effectively-by not even acknowledging there was a problem.

Henry retrieved a pillow from the floor, propped it behind his head, and slid an arm around Eleanor’s shoulders, drawing her in against him. There were many reasons to be grateful that God had given him this woman, apart from the obvious ones-that she was a great heiress and a great beauty, too. She had courage and common sense, a quick wit and a passionate nature. Like him, she dreamed of empires, craved crowns for their children. But of all her virtues, the one that shone the brightest for him on this December night at Argentan was her sophistication. She was wise enough to understand that men were born to sin, and worldly enough not to let it trouble her unduly. He should have realized that Eleanor, the most celebrated queen in all of Christendom, would not be threatened by a mere slip of a girl like Rosamund Clifford.

His lashes kept flickering downward, heeding the message his body was sending his brain, that sleep would not be long denied. Stifling a yawn, he brushed a trail of soft kisses across her throat. “I have a confession, love,” he said drowsily. “The only way I’ll stay awake much longer is if you stick pins in me. But ere I doze off, I wanted to tell you that I’ve missed you this past year, am very glad that you’re back where you belong…”

“Are you?”

He had never found it easy to talk of love, for if it was present, what was the need to mention it and if it was not, why lie? It had always seemed like a needless extravagance to lavish upon a wife, telling her what she already knew. But he sensed that this was one of those times when a woman would expect no less, and so he repeated his assurances that she’d been greatly missed, adding a slightly self-conscious “I do love you, after all” as he leaned over to kiss her for the last time that night. He supposed it would not harm him to be a little less grudging with the words, and made a hazy resolution to be more forthcoming with them in the future, his last conscious thought before he drifted off to sleep.

The chamber’s candles still flickered, wavering pinpoints of light against the encroaching shadows. They’d not drawn the bed curtains and Eleanor could see flames licking the hearth log, continuing to give out a measure of heat. Her greyhound rose, paused to sniff at the clothing scattered in the floor rushes, and then padded to the bed, poking a cold nose into Eleanor’s hand. She fondled the dog’s silken head absently, from habit, listening to the hissing of the fire and the deep, even breathing of the man asleep beside her.

She’d given him a chance and he’d scorned it. So be it, then. Rising up on her elbow, she stared down at his face, faintly lit by firelight. He must think women are such fools. Did he truly imagine that she did not know about his continuing letters to Rosamund Clifford? Or that he’d planned to bring her over to join him in Normandy? Did he really think she’d not be able to find eyes and ears to serve her at Woodstock? Or did he just assume that she’d act the dutiful wife, expecting her to endure the shame in silence, saying nary a word of protest whilst he plucked his little English gosling?

During the months since Woodstock, her rage had slowly congealed into ice. By the time she was ready to return to his court, she believed she had come to terms with his betrayal. She had every right to object to his whoring. If she’d not cast her lot in with his, if she’d not agreed to wed, who was to say if he’d ever have become England’s king? Aquitaine had been his stepping-stone to the English throne, her Aquitaine.

Over these past months, she’d deliberately dwelt upon her grievances, remembering all those times when he’d disregarded her advice, ignored her counsel, alienated her vassals with his high-handed Angevin ways. He’d not truly trusted her political judgment-this from the man who’d given the keys to the kingdom over to Thomas Becket. She’d actually wielded more influence with the dithering, hapless Louis than ever she had with Harry, and what greater irony could there be than that?

When she’d finally sailed from Southampton, she’d believed that her heart was well armored against further betrayals. She would make it clear that she’d not tolerate any more Rosamund Cliffords. She’d always been reasonable about his women, had never expected him to abstain when they were long apart. But she’d not abide his flaunting concubines at their court, in her bed for all she knew. He owed her better than that.

Nothing had gone, though, as she’d planned. The indifference she’d been cultivating with such care had cracked wide open, like a defective shield. Instead of a measured, matter-of-fact recital of her wrongs and complaints, she’d been caught up in emotions that were as raw and primitive as they were unexpected, one breaking wave after another of floodtide fury, resentment, jealousy, and unhealed hurt. She’d given him the opportunity to make things right between them, to make her believe that Rosamund Clifford meant no more to him than any of the other harlots he’d taken to his bed. And he repaid her with a Judas kiss.

It was plain now what he wanted from her-to turn a blind eye to his straying, to accept Rosamund Clifford as his paramour, to content herself with the nursery and needlework. Did he think to set his wench up under the same roof, as her grandfather had done with the most notorious of his conquests? If so, she wasn’t sure which of them was the bigger fool.

Swallowing was suddenly painful. She felt as if her throat was being squeezed in a strangler’s hold, as if a heavy millstone was pressing onto her chest, forcing the air from her lungs. But she shed no tears; her eyes, narrowed on Henry’s sleeping form, were dry and burning. She could still give him an ultimatum, tell him on the morrow that Rosamund Clifford must go. But what if she made such a demand and he refused? She’d not humble her pride like that, would never risk such a humiliation, not in this life or the next. Nor would she forgive.

Henry awoke to a distinct chill, soon discovered that the fire had gone out during the night. A weight lay across his feet. Blinking, he saw that his wife’s greyhound had sneaked up onto the bed while they slept. Eleanor was still sleeping, her head cradled in the crook of her arm, a sweep of long hair trailing over the edge of the bed. He tried to think of a reason to get up, couldn’t come up with one, and burrowed back into the warm cocoon of their covers, feeling more content than he had in months.

When he stirred again, the hearth had been tended, the dog evicted, and Eleanor’s attendants were moving quietly about the chamber. Her side of the bed was empty, the bed curtains partially drawn. As he sat up, a hand slid through the opening, holding a silver cup.

“Here,” his wife said, “this will fortify you to face the rest of the day.” Reaching for the cup, he took a tentative sip; it was one of her Gascony wines, well watered down as he preferred. “I always fare better whenever you’re around to see to the household,” he said, observing her appreciatively over the rim of the cup. She was already dressed in a gown of soft wool the color of sapphire, but she’d not yet put on her wimple and veil, and her hair was still visible, plaited and coiled at the nape of her neck. There was an agreeable intimacy about the sight, for only a husband or lover ever saw a woman with her hair unbound or uncovered. “You look very pleasing to the eye this morn,” he said. “A pity, though, that you were in such a hurry to dress. We could have stayed abed a while longer…” He let his words trail off suggestively, and she smiled.

“Too late,” she said briskly. “I’ve already sent for your squires.” Her timing was perfect, for at that very moment, a knock sounded at the door. Renee, still looking subdued, admitted a servant bearing a tray. Eleanor took it and carried it back to Henry. “I ordered some roasted chestnuts so you could break the night’s fast,” she said, making herself comfortable at the end of the bed, putting the tray between them.

Henry took another swallow of wine, helped himself to some of the chestnuts. Eleanor took one, shelled it deftly, and nibbled on the nut. “I was sorry to hear about the fall of that Welsh castle,” she said, and they were soon deep in a discussion of the incessant turmoil in the more troublesome regions of their domains. Her ladies continued with their tasks and when Henry’s squires arrived, they knew better than to interrupt until their lord was ready to dress.

Henry had finished lambasting the Bretons and moved on to the Poitevins. Eleanor listened intently, making an occasional incisive comment about her faithless barons. They both agreed that the de Lusignans must be dealt with-and sooner rather than later.

“I think, Harry, that it is time I returned to Aquitaine,” Eleanor said pensively. “My presence there might help to calm some of the unrest. Not with lawless hellspawn like the de Lusignans, of course. The Virgin Mary herself could be their liege lady and they’d still be conniving and pillaging. But there are others with wavering loyalties who could benefit from a reminder that they’d pledged their faith and their honor to me, Duke William’s daughter.”

Henry had been thinking along the same lines in recent months. But he’d not been able to seek her cooperation against her Poitevin rebels until they’d made their peace over his indiscretion with Rosamund Clifford. “I agree, “ he said. “It has been too long since you paid a visit to Poitou. But we’d have to take measures for your safety first. Once I am sure that you’d not be at risk, we can lay our plans accordingly.”

He finished the last of the chestnuts, glancing over to see if this met with her approval. It did; she was smiling.