Time and Chance

CHAPTER EIGHT

July 1159

Toulouse, France

" I said no.” Henry’s voice was even, but a muscle twitched along his jawline and his fists were clenched, incontrovertible evidence that he was fast losing control of his fabled Angevin temper, evidence that his chancellor brashly ignored. Thomas Becket’s disappointment had gotten the better of his customary discretion, and he blurted out:

“How can you, of all men, be taken in by such a foolish superstition?”

“It is not superstition!” Henry’s eyes shone with a hard grey glitter. “I swore homage to the King of France for Normandy. That makes him my liege lord. I will not lay siege to Toulouse as long as he remains within the city walls.”

“But you’ve fought him in the past!”

“I was attacked first and defending myself! I had no choice then. I do now and there will be no assault upon the city. How often do I have to say it?”

Both men were flushed. Becket shook his head slowly, as if unable to believe what he was hearing. “And so what now? We’ve come all this way for nothing?”

“We will continue the war against the Count of Toulouse,” Henry said, through gritted teeth.

“Right up to the walls of Toulouse,” Becket retorted, with such lethal sarcasm that Henry slammed his fist down onto the table, causing them all to jump.

“The decision has been made. The discussion is done.” His eyes roamed the tent, challenging the other men to protest. None did, for they either shared Henry’s qualms about a vassal’s attack upon his liege lord or they were daunted by even that brief glimpse of royal rage.

The tent was lit by smoky, reeking torches that seemed to suck out the last of the air. Suddenly Henry could not abide another moment in that stifling, crowded space. Turning on his heel, he shoved his way out into the encampment.

The sun was in full retreat. The day’s oppressive heat still lingered, though; even the westerly wind felt hot upon his skin. The soldiers he passed seemed to sense his mood and backed off. Only a slat-thin stray dog dared to trail after him, hopeful for a handout. Lights had begun to flicker in the city, glimmering in the twilight like his lost hopes for victory. Picking up a stone, he squeezed it absently, keeping his gaze upon Toulouse as the sky darkened above his head.

“Harry?”

He glanced over his shoulder, then waited for Ranulf to catch up. “Once I was gone, did the rest of them start singing Thomas’s song?”

“A few may have been humming it under their breath, but the Count of Barcelona backed your decision so emphatically that he quelled dissent. The Viscount of Carcassonne shares Becket’s indignation. He would, since he is in rebellion against his own liege lord, Count Raymond. As for the others, they either agree or they understand.”

“Then why does Thomas not understand?” Henry sounded more baffled now than angry. “Why cannot he see that I have no choice? If I attack the man to whom I’ve sworn homage, how can I expect my own vassals to keep faith with me?”

Ranulf felt laughter welling up and stifled it with difficulty. He should have known that his nephew’s decision would be an utterly pragmatic one, based upon practical considerations of common sense. He was more of an idealist himself, but he could still appreciate Henry’s stripped-to-the-bone realism, for he did not think England had been well served by its last chivalrous king, the gallant, sentimental Stephen.

“Moreover,” Henry continued with an aggrieved frown, “what would I have done with Louis if we’d seized the town? Send him off to Eleanor for safekeeping? It would be damnably awkward, to say the least. Kings do not take other kings captive.”

“Especially not if they hope to marry off their children.” Ranulf’s mockery was gentle and coaxed a reluctant half-smile from Henry.

“Well, there is that, too,” he acknowledged. After a moment, he returned to his primary concern. “For the life of me, Ranulf, I cannot see why Thomas is being so troublesome about this. He is usually so clear-sighted and sensible.”

“You mean he is usually in full agreement with you,” Ranulf teased. “I’m sure he’ll come around once his anger cools down.”

“Thomas does have a temper, for certes. Most times he keeps it under tighter rein. I suppose I was so vexed with his bullheadedness because we’ve always been of the same mind.” Henry paused and then conceded with a sardonic smile, “Mine.”

When he moved to get a better look at Toulouse’s russet-red walls, Ranulf followed. They stood in silence for a time, staring at the French king’s safe haven. Opening his fist, Henry glanced down at the forgotten stone, then threw it into the shadows.

“You remember, Uncle, when the Archbishop of Canterbury urged me to invade Ireland and give it over to my brother Will?”

“I remember. I was never sure how serious you were about it, but I thought it was for the best when you abandoned the idea.”

“My mother talked me out of it. She felt that I’d be overreaching and that Will would be better off with English estates rather than a precarious hold upon a far-off, foreign isle as prone to rebellion as Ireland.”

Ranulf felt a surge of admiration for his sister’s shrewd assessment of her youngest son. For all his fine qualities, Will was never meant to carve out an empire, still less to hold on to it afterward. “I’d say Maude gave you sound advice.”

Henry nodded, and then startled Ranulf with an abrupt, mirthless laugh. “I am beginning to wish,” he said, “that she’d talked me out of this accursed venture, too.”

Henry’s attempts to lure the Count of Toulouse out to do battle were futile. He ravaged the count’s lands and soon had all of the province of Quercy under his control. But Raymond refused to stir beyond the city walls, and Louis seemed determined to stay as long as his sister had need of him. By September, Henry’s supplies were running low and his men had begun to sicken. Turning command over to Becket, he headed north to deal with the French king’s brothers, who’d taken advantage of his absence to raid into Normandy. His war with Toulouse sputtered to an inconsequential end.

“I cannot believe it!” Eleanor spun around, a letter crumpled in her hand. “Harry has withdrawn his army from Toulouse. He has ridden away, leaving Louis in possession of the city.”

Petronilla gasped. “He has given up? It is over?”

“So it would seem.” Eleanor glanced again at the letter, then flung it from her with an oath. “How could he, Petra? He knew how much this meant to me, to my family. My grandmother was cheated of her rightful inheritance. My father was born in Toulouse’s great castle, walked its streets as a child, and loved it almost as much as Poitiers. The city is mine!”

Petronilla hastened over to commiserate with her sister, but Maud, Countess of Chester, stayed where she was in the window seat. It was unshuttered and the October sun was warm upon her face. She wondered if autumn was always this mild in Poitou. If so, little wonder that Eleanor yearned for her homeland and complained of the harshness of English winters, the suffocating grey dampness of English fogs. Reaching for her cup, Maud sipped one of Aquitaine’s robust red wines and listened as Eleanor berated her husband for his failure to take Toulouse.

“When I learned that he would not lay siege to the city, I was dumbfounded. I sought to convince myself that he must have some other strategy in mind, for Harry can be quite cunning. I refused to lose faith in him, even though I did not understand. And this… this is my reward. He lets himself be outwitted by Louis, Louis of all men!”

“Do not despair, Eleanor. I daresay you can coax him into making another attempt.”

“I am not so sure of that, Petra.” Eleanor had begun to pace restlessly. “Harry can be stubborn beyond all belief. He is not easily coaxed into anything, except into bed.”

“Well, then, make that your battlefield. Give him your body if you must, but not your passion. Indifference is a most effective weapon, Sister. It always won me victory in my skirmishes with Raoul.” Petronilla added a conventional “May God assoil him” for her late husband that was also heartfelt; hers had been that rarest of marriages, one made for love. Turning aside to pour more wine, she frowned upon finding the flagon empty, and frowned again when no servant came in response to her summons. “I will be back straightaway,” she promised, “as soon as I put the fear of God into those laggards down in the hall.”

Once she had gone, Maud set her wine cup down, rose to her feet, and crossed to the queen. “I know you are very fond of your sister,” she said, “but she gives you poor advice. I would hope you not heed her.”

Eleanor’s eyes glinted, green to gold and then green again. “You are Harry’s cousin. Defend him if you must, but not this day, not to me. I am entitled to my anger, will not let you rob me of it.”

“I speak as your friend. If you reject what I say, do so because you like not the message. But doubt not the messenger, Eleanor. My loyalty is not given only to blood-kin. It is yours, too, if you want it.”

Eleanor searched the other woman’s face. “You think I am in the wrong? That I have no right to feel disappointed, even betrayed?”

“I think that your anger has been a long-smoldering fire, feeding on grievances that lie far from the borders of Toulouse. I am not saying you have no cause for it. But let that fire kindle in your marriage bed and your marriage itself could be left in charred ruins. Think long and hard ere you let that happen, Eleanor. You may not have found all you hoped to gain in wedlock with Harry, but surely what you do have is worth holding on to.”

“So you’d have me swallow my pride and play the role of submissive, compliant wife? Is that the best you can do, Maud? What very ordinary advice. If I wanted a tiresome lecture about my duty to obey my husband, I could get that from my confessor!”

“You misread me, Madame. I preach no sermons. Heed me or not, as you will. But at least hear me out.”

“Why should I?”

“Because,” Maud said, “I know more than you of a woman’s lot. I know more, too, about compromise and caution and survival. These were lessons I had to learn, and at a very early age.”

“I know your marriage was not a happy one, Maud, but-”

“No, you do not know, Eleanor. You could not possibly know.” Maud’s usual insouciance was utterly gone; her dark eyes held only shadows and secrets she’d never before shared. “You see,” she said, “my husband was quite mad.”

Eleanor was momentarily startled into silence. “I’ve heard stories about Randolph,” she said, “stories about his ungodly rages and his treachery. Harry said he’d sooner have trusted Judas than Chester. I know he was so hated that when he was poisoned, the only surprise was that it had not happened earlier. But Harry and Ranulf led me to believe that you did not fear him as others did, that you-”

“I learned not to show him my fear. And in time, the fear did lessen, for I found that my boldness was the best shield I could have against Randolph’s cruelty. He scented out weakness, the way they say wolves can smell blood for miles. Because I never cowered, because I never let him see my tears, he grudgingly gave me a reluctant respect. So few people ever dared to stand up to him that I suppose the novelty of it disarmed him. And it helped greatly, of course, that he was always so hot to share my bed.”

“Did you never think to leave him?”

“I was seventeen when we wed, too young and too proud to be scorned for a failed marriage. For I knew that I’d be blamed, just as my aunt Maude was when her marriage to Geoffrey of Anjou foundered on the rocks of their mutual loathing. Geoffrey was more brutal to her than Randolph was to me, yet that counted for naught. People still saw the failure as hers. So I knew what I could expect. I did not want to disappoint my parents, to bring dishonor upon our family. And so I chose to make the best of it.”

“Jesu, Maud, your life must have been hellish!”

“No… surprisingly, it was not. I learned to take my pleasures where I could find them, even in Randolph’s bed. I also enjoyed the privileges that came to me as Countess of Chester. And in time, I had my sons to love. I suppose ours was not the worst of marriages, given how wretched some of them can be. But when Randolph died,” she concluded coolly, “I felt like a prisoner suddenly shoved from the dark up into the light of day.”

Eleanor turned abruptly toward the bed, sat down, and beckoned for Maud to join her. “So what would you have me do? Follow in your footsteps?”

“No, there is no need for you to go down that rock-strewn road.” Maud grinned suddenly. “You could not even if you wanted to, for it is not in your nature to make ‘the best’ of things. If it were, you’d still be Queen of France.”

“God forbid,” Eleanor said, and they both smiled.

“As for Toulouse, I think you must resign yourself to its loss.”

Eleanor arched an elegant brow. “Must I, indeed?” she said, but with none of her earlier asperity, and Maud nodded.

“If two men as utterly unlike as Harry and Louis could not win it, does that not tell you something about your chances?” Maud paused, unable to resist adding, “Unless you mean to try again with a third husband?”

“Do not tempt me,” Eleanor retorted, but there was a hint of amusement hovering in the corners of her mouth. “A pity I could not ride against Toulouse myself. If only women were not so damnably dependent upon men to get what we want in this life!”

“Amen,” Maud said fervently. “But you cannot in fairness blame Harry for that, Eleanor. It is not his fault that men get to soar high and wide whilst we are earthbound, birds with clipped wings.”

“Ah, here it comes, the loyal kinswoman rallying to her cousin’s defense,” Eleanor mocked, and Maud grinned again.

“A defense, yes, but a qualified one. For all that I think the world of Harry, I am not blind to his flaws. He is stubborn and single-minded and surely not the easiest of men to live with. But he is also a man who does love you deeply… if reluctantly.”

Eleanor stared at her and then burst out laughing. “You do understand Harry,” she said, “much better than I realized! Harry was prepared, even eager, to give me his name, his body, his crown, but not his heart. That caught him by surprise, and even now I suspect that he is not entirely easy about it.”

“Harry has good reason to be mistrustful of love. His parents’ union was not so much a marriage as a war, and he was their hostage, for he was unlucky enough to love them both.”

“He rarely talks to me of his childhood, usually shrugging off my questions with one of his jokes. I suspect that you know more than I do, Maud, about his family’s bloodletting.”

“What I know comes mainly from Ranulf and from my own parents. My father was very protective of Maude and felt strongly that she was ill-used by Geoffrey. Of course there are those to argue that she was equally to blame for their feuding. I do know that the marriage got off to the worst possible start, for Maude had been forced by her father to wed Geoffrey and she was not loath to let him know of her unwillingness to be his wife. Their most bitter quarrels took place in those first years of the marriage, and by all accounts, Maude’s sharp tongue was a poor match for Geoffrey’s fists. I would wager,” she said unexpectedly, “that Harry has never struck you… has he?”

Eleanor shook her head. “No.”

“Did you never wonder why? Most men feel it is their God-given right to chastise their wives as they would their children, and why not, when Holy Church tells them that woman was born to be ruled by man? But I knew Harry would not, for I remember a talk I once had with him and Ranulf on that subject. Not surprisingly, Ranulf disapproved of wife-beating. God save him, he is the last truly chivalrous soul in all of Christendom. But Harry was no less emphatic, saying a man ought not to take advantage of his superior strength, and Ranulf and I knew he was thinking of his mother.”

Eleanor reached for a pillow, positioning herself more comfortably on the bed. “Harry has never lacked for advocates, but you make a particularly effective one. I daresay you could even find excuses for his unfortunate habit of always being half a world away whenever one of my lying-ins begins.”

“No, for some sins, no excuses will do and penance is required. I’d suggest you demand it be done in the bedchamber, but then, that is what got you so often into those birthing chambers in the first place.”

Eleanor could not help laughing, and Maud joined in. “I guess I did a bit of preaching, after all,” she admitted, “even if that was not my intent. Thank you for taking my meddling in good humor. It may be that I envy you, just a little, for I think you and Harry have found happiness in your marriage, and we both know how rare that is. I suppose I have been urging you to give more than Harry, and that may not be fair, but it is realistic. You cannot change a man, Harry least of all. You will always come second with him, for his kingship will come first. But to come second with the most powerful man in the known world is not such a bad thing… now is it?”

“I suppose there are worse fates,” Eleanor agreed wryly. “So you are saying, then, that I must accept Harry as he is. But what if I cannot?”

Maud shrugged. “Then learn to love him less.”

Eleanor had not been expecting such an uncompromising answer. She’d always prided herself upon her pragmatism, but she realized now that she was an outright romantic compared to Maud. “I’ve never been one to settle for less. But you need not fret on our behalf, Cousin Maud. I think I can content myself with what Harry has to give. Although,” she added, half-joking, half-serious, “I’d have been far more contented had he been able to give me Toulouse!”

The stronghold of Gerberoy was in its death throes. Henry’s lightning assault had taken its garrison by surprise, for he was thought to be still raiding south of Beauvais. But Henry was already famed and feared for the speed with which he could move his army, and his men had appeared without warning out of the mist of a damp November dawn. The castle had soon fallen, and now Henry’s commanders were supervising its destruction.

Rainald’s face was streaked with smoke and grime, his eyes puffy with fatigue. His smile, however, was jubilant. “I thought Harry’s seizure last year of Thouars Castle was a dazzling feat. But taking Gerberoy was even easier. The Bishop of Beauvais must be quaking under his bed by now!”

“I hope so,” Ranulf said, watching as flames consumed the castle stables, began to lick at the roof of the great hall. “I heard that Thomas Becket had ridden into camp. Do you know if that is true?”

Rainald nodded. “He and Harry are back there now and seem to have mended their rift. When I left, Becket was boasting about the havoc he’d wrought in Quercy, taking three castles and putting towns to the torch. Rather bloodthirsty for a man of the Church, wouldn’t you say, Little Brother?”

Ranulf smiled, for it had been years since he’d been called that. “I’ve never known Becket to be much for boasting,” he said mildly. “Why do you dislike him so, Rainald?”

His brother shrugged. “I’ve never seen him drunk.”

Ranulf laughed. “You’ve never seen Harry drunk either, have you?”

“That is different. Harry is good company, drunk or sober. Becket always seems to be standing apart, watching the rest of us sin.”

Ranulf suspected that Rainald’s animosity was based upon that most common of all motives, jealousy; any man so close to the king was bound to make more enemies than friends. “Well, if he is counting up your sins, he’d better have a tally stick to keep track of them all.”

Rainald guffawed, then clouted him on the shoulder. “You’re one to talk! You may not stray far from home and hearth nowadays, but I remember when-” He stopped abruptly, awkwardly, not wanting to remind Ranulf of those dark times when his adulterous passion for Annora Fitz Clement had nearly brought him to ruin. Fumbling for another topic, he said hastily, “You’ve not heard about Stephen’s son, have you? We got word this afternoon that he died at Limoges.”

“No, I had not heard.” Ranulf sketched a cross, feeling a twinge of sadness. William, the Count of Boulogne and Earl of Surrey, had fallen ill on their withdrawal from Toulouse, but he was a young man and Ranulf had expected him to recover. How sad to die in a foreign land, so far from home and family, in the service of the king who’d been his father’s implacable foe. “He had no children by his de Warenne wife, did he?”

“No, and that is the trouble. Boulogne is now up for grabs, since the only one left of Stephen’s children is William’s sister, Mary, and she cannot very well rule it from Romsey’s nunnery. Harry was right vexed, says the vultures will soon be circling-”

“Ranulf!” Hywel was coming toward them across the smoke-wreathed bailey. “Padarn has been hurt.”

Ranulf felt a jolt of alarm; the young Welshman had once been his squire and had insisted upon being included in the contingent of Welsh he and Hywel were commanding. “How badly?”

“A flaming rafter from the stables came crashing down, killing one of the king’s hired Flemings. Padarn was able to dive clear in time, but his arm was burned and I think we ought to get him back to camp straightaway.”

As Ranulf turned toward his brother, Rainald waved him on. “Go,” he said. “Find the lad a doctor. We’ve men enough to take care of things here.”

Ranulf glanced once more at the wreckage of Gerberoy, then hastened after Hywel. Enough men had already died in a country not their own. He meant to make sure that Padarn was not one of them.

Ranulf and Hywel left Padarn in the doctor’s tent, his burns being treated with goose-grease salve, his pain with spiced red wine. Day was waning and shadows lengthening. Hywel glanced toward the north, where the glowing horizon attested to Gerberoy’s fiery demise. “I promised Padarn we’d find him some mead. Are we going to have to ferment it ourselves?”

“Probably.” Henry’s command tent lay ahead and Ranulf quickened his step. Just then the flap was pulled up and a tall man emerged, dark and saturnine and vaguely familiar. As Ranulf watched, he signaled imperiously to his waiting attendants, then strode over to a tethered bay stallion. Once he and his men were mounted, they galloped out of the encampment at a pace to send soldiers scattering, but he seemed as indifferent to their hurled curses as he’d been to their safety, never once looking back.

Hywel cursed, too, for he’d turned his ankle jumping out of the way. “Who is that arrogant whoreson?”

“I’ve seen him somewhere,” Ranulf said, “but my memory needs prodding. Let’s find out from Harry.”

Henry and Thomas Becket had spread a map out upon a trestle table and were studying it intently. They looked so pleased with themselves that Ranulf knew something was afoot. And it was then that he remembered where he’d seen the swaggering stranger: last year in Paris, at the court of the French king.

“Good God Almighty, that was Simon de Montfort!”

“You think so?” Henry asked innocently, but his eyes were full of laughter.

“Who,” Hywel asked, “is Simon de Montfort?”

“The Count of Evreux, a highborn and high-handed lord who happens to be a vassal of the French king. What was he doing here, Harry?”

“Betraying Louis,” Henry said, and gestured for a servant to fetch them wine. “He has agreed to do homage to me…” He paused deliberately, savoring the drama. “And to turn over into my keeping the castles of Montfort, Rochefort, and Epernon.”

“Which means,” Becket chimed in, “that Louis’s domains will be cut in half, as this map plainly shows.”

“I am impressed,” Ranulf said. “Dare I ask how you brought this about?”

Henry merely smiled, leaving it to Becket to answer for him. “De Montfort saw what befell the Bishop of Beauvais’s lands and, quite understandably, became alarmed that his own estates might suffer the same fate. It was not difficult to persuade him that he’d fare better as Harry’s vassal than he would as Louis’s.”

Hywel had followed Ranulf over to look at the map. “With his brothers in full retreat and his vassals deserting him, will the French king be able to continue the war?”

Becket shook his head. “We very much doubt it. De Montfort’s defection puts him in a perilous position, and even if he does not realize that, there will be plenty to point it out to him.”

Henry perched on the edge of the table, running his hand absently through his unruly coppery hair. “Louis has neither the desire nor the stomach to turn Normandy and France into a bloody battlefield. He’ll soon seek a truce, which I will agree to, and then we can all go home.”

“Now that you mention it,” Ranulf said, “Hywel and I are both eager to get back to Wales.”

“You and Lord Hywel can have the use of one of my ships,” Becket said, and when Ranulf looked inquiringly at his nephew, Henry nodded.

“I see no reason for you to wait upon the truce. Take Thomas up on his offer. He has six ships, you know, whilst the Crown only has the one. I ofttimes have to borrow one of his myself!”

Ranulf’s smile was brilliant, radiant with relief. “Is the morrow too soon? It’s been more than six months since I’ve seen my wife, after all.”

“It’s been nigh on that long since I’ve seen my wife, too,” Henry said, then smiled ruefully, for he suspected that making peace with the French king would be easier than making peace with Eleanor.

The great fortress of William the Bastard was situated on an escarpment high above the Norman town of Falaise. One of the most formidable of Henry’s castles, it was here that he had chosen to hold his Christmas court, and it was here that he was to have his long delayed reunion with his wife.

Sleet was lashing the streets of Falaise, and few of the townspeople came out to watch as the king rode up the hill toward the castle. An earlier snowfall had yet to melt and the road was half-hidden, perilously icy in patches. Winter’s siege that year had begun early and seemed likely to be a long and brutal one, and Henry’s men were shivering from the cold, hunched over their saddles in a futile attempt to escape the wind’s buffeting fury. They were all looking forward to the roaring hearths and warm beds awaiting them at the castle; Henry alone felt no sense of relief as they rode into the bailey.

He didn’t think he was nervous; how could a man be uneasy at facing his own wife? But he felt an unfamiliar edginess, nonetheless, as he strode into the great hall. Eleanor was standing by the hearth, and as always when they’d been long apart, he was struck anew by the sheer physical impact of her beauty. Her youth was behind her, for she was thirty-seven, and she was not as willow-slim as on their wedding day, not after five pregnancies in seven years. But the body clad in a clinging green gown had a voluptuous, feline grace, and her finely sculpted cheekbones, full, sensual mouth, and slanting hazel eyes gave her a look uniquely her own, at once elegant and provocative. The first time he’d laid eyes upon her, in the Paris palace of the French king, she’d quite literally stolen his breath away. She still did, for she was too passionate and too self-willed and too reckless a woman ever to be taken for granted. As she moved to meet him, he wanted only to sweep her into his arms and off to bed. But it would not be that simple. Life with Eleanor was by turns exciting and unpredictable and occasionally infuriating, but never simple.

His mother had traveled from Rouen for his Christmas court, and she and his brother, Will, hastened forward to welcome him home. Eleanor followed, more slowly. Her greeting was appropriately formal in a hall filled with highborn guests. When he grazed her cheek with a deliberately casual kiss, her smile was unwavering, her eyes unrevealing. They had no chance to speak, for the nurses were ushering his children toward him.

Six months was a significant span in a child’s life, and Henry was startled to see how rapidly they’d grown in his absence. Hal was nigh on five, Tilda three, Richard two, and Geoffrey, the baby, tottering unsteadily at fifteen months. They all had Henry’s vivid coloring, as did his illegitimate son, another Geoffrey, who would celebrate his sixth birthday in less than a week’s time. Beckoning the boy forward when he hung back shyly, Henry glanced over at Eleanor, remembering her reaction when he’d told her about Geoffrey. He hadn’t been sure how she’d react to his revelation of a bastard child, one he meant to raise as his own. But she’d taken the news with aplomb, saying she was not likely to get jealous because he’d scratched an itch.

Maude at once began to question him about the truce with the French king, but the mother soon prevailed over the empress. “Harry, your clothes are soaked through,” she chided softly. “You’d best change out of them straightaway.”

“I’ll send servants to prepare a bath for you,” Eleanor said, showing a proper wifely concern that gave Henry no comfort, for those luminous hazel eyes remained inscrutable.

As men poured steaming buckets of hot water into the tub, Henry sat on a coffer so his squire could pull off his boots. His fatigue took him by surprise, for he was accustomed to long, hard hours in the saddle in weather even worse than this. Hastily stripping off his sodden clothes, he sank down gratefully in the tub, waving away the youth’s offer of further assistance.

“You look half-frozen, too, lad. Go find yourself a flagon of wine or a willing lass, whatever it takes to warm you up.”

Miles grinned and disappeared. Henry dismissed the rest of the servants, too; he’d never liked being hovered over. Leaning back, he rested his neck against the padded rim of the tub. The water was caressing his aching muscles, soothing away cramps and stiffness. A tantalizingly familiar scent filled his nostrils; after a moment, he realized that they’d given him Eleanor’s perfumed soap. He poured some into his palms and lathered his chest. He did not usually linger in his bath, but the warm water was lulling, even seductive, and he soon closed his eyes.

He did not even realize when he fell asleep, and when he awoke, it was with a start, unsure how much time had passed. Something cold touched his cheek and he sat up with a splash, staring into the soft brown eyes of Felice, Eleanor’s brindle greyhound. Reaching out, he fondled the dog’s silky ears, and then turned so hastily that he churned up a wave of water. His wife was seated across from him on the coffer, her feet tucked comfortably under her, regarding him impassively over the rim of a silver gilt wine cup.

The silence spun out between them, a spider’s web made of memories and the tangled skeins of miscommunication. It was a contest of wills Henry was bound to lose, and he knew it. “So,” he said, falling back upon humor that was somewhat defensive, too, “were you planning to drown me whilst I slept?”

“Have you given me reason to want to drown you?”

“You tell me.”

Eleanor lifted her wine cup, drinking slowly. “Are we talking of Toulouse, Harry?”

“What else? I know you had your heart set upon reclaiming it. But it was not to be, Eleanor. Go ahead, blame me if you will. I’ll hear you out. It will change nothing, though.”

“I know.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “You’re taking this much better than I expected.”

“Is that why you avoided Poitiers on your withdrawal from Toulouse?”

Henry’s first instinct was to justify his absence, to remind her that he’d been occupied in chasing Louis’s brothers out of Normandy. But she’d spoken so matter-of-factly that he found himself conceding, “I suppose I may have been somewhat reluctant to face you then.” Adding, with just the glimmer of a smile, “After all, I could only fight one war at a time.” He waited for her response, but she continued to sip her wine, saying nothing. “Are you going to tell me that I was wrong?” he challenged. “That you were not wroth with me?”

“No, I was indeed wroth with you, Harry. So it was probably for the best that you did stay away as long as you did.”

“And now that I’m back?”

She finished the last of her wine, reached for a nearby flagon, and poured another cupful. Coming to her feet, she leaned over the tub. “Now that you’re back,” she said, “I think we have better things to do than argue.”

As she held out the cup, he made no move to take it, letting her tilt it to his lips. The water had begun to cool, but his body was suddenly flooded with heat, centering in his groin and radiating outward. He’d never known another woman able to stir his desire so fast, and he groped hastily for a towel, saying huskily, “I’ve spent enough time in this bath.”

But as he started to rise, she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back. “No… wait,” she said, and as he watched, she unfastened her veil and wimple, began to loosen her long, dark braid. Lifting her skirt, she kicked off her shoes. He expected her to remove her stockings next, but instead she straightened up, and then swung her leg over the rim of the tub. A moment later, she’d slid down into the water, smiling at his startled expression. Running her fingers along the sopping silk that now molded to her body like a second skin, she said, “You owe me a new gown.”

Henry began to laugh. “I owe you more than that,” he said, and pulled her into his arms. The water was soon spilling over the tub’s rim, drenching the floor rushes. But by then, they were too busy to care, even to notice.

Eleanor stirred and sighed. Usually she was an early riser. But this morning she and Henry had slept late, for their lovemaking had been ardent and frequent, and it was almost dawn before they’d finally fallen into an exhausted, satisfied sleep. Her thigh muscles were as sore as if she’d spent a day in the saddle, and she smiled drowsily as the night’s memories came surging back.

The ruin of a favored gown had been well worth it, for that calculated plunge into his bath had aroused her husband even more than she’d dared hope. Once a man’s imagination was inflamed, his body kept catching fire of its own accord. Not that Harry ever needed much encouragement. His sexual hungers were usually as boundless as his energy. Unlike the monkish Louis, he was delighted when her own passion flared out of control, fondly calling her “hellcat” if she left scratches down his back, teaching her ways to pleasure a man that would have horrified her confessor.

Beside her, Henry slept on, one arm draped across her hip, his face pillowed in her hair. Laying her hand over his heart, she entwined bright golden strands of chest hair around her forefinger, tugging gently. He already had an early morning erection, and she could feel it swelling against her thigh as her fingers trailed across his belly. He kept his eyes shut, pretending still to sleep until her intimate caresses evoked an involuntary gasp. Laughing, she rolled over into his arms, and did her very best to reward him for being so responsive to her overtures.

Eleanor would never have admitted, even to herself, that she was beginning to feel the first stirrings of insecurity. She had a beautiful woman’s confidence, which had indeed often bordered on arrogance, for she’d been accustomed to bedazzling men since her fifteenth year. But marriage to a much younger man, one with a roving eye, had made her vulnerable in a way she’d never anticipated and was not yet willing to acknowledge, not consciously. For now, she assuaged these instinctive and unfamiliar pricklings of foreboding with the sweet balm of seduction, finding reassurance as well as pleasure in her husband’s eager embrace.

The fire had burned out during the night and servants were attempting to rekindle it. Henry’s squire was searching in a coffer, selecting his king’s clothes for the day while he flirted with Veronique, the newest and youngest of Eleanor’s ladies-in-waiting. Listening to the commotion filling the chamber, Henry and Eleanor realized that they could no longer keep the world at bay. But for now, the bedcurtains remained drawn, giving them a few more moments of precious semiprivacy. Leaning over, Henry smoothed his wife’s dark cloud of hair back from her face. “I’d better get out of this bed ere you cripple me.”

He didn’t move, though, and Eleanor smiled at him lazily. “Well, then you could boast it was a war wound, gotten in the service of your queen.”

Henry laughed and tightened his arms around her. “Ah, but I am going to miss you,” he said, and then reluctantly reached out to open the bed hangings and start their day.

Eleanor sat up, too, catching his hand. “You’re here but one night and already planning your departure?” she asked, not able to hide her dismay. “Where do you mean to go now?”

“Not me, love… you. I need you to return to England.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been gone from its shores for more than a year and I cannot leave Normandy just yet, not until I’ve patched up a peace with Louis and made sure our plans to wed our children have not been jeopardized. I know I have a good man in Leicester. But I’d feel more secure, Eleanor, if you were there to watch over our English interests. Leicester is merely my justiciar; you’re my consort.”

Eleanor was silent for a moment, sorting out conflicting urges. As Henry’s wife, she was troubled by the prospect of another long separation, and even more troubled that he was not. But as his queen, she was pleased that he had such faith in her. She’d been disappointed that he’d not given her a larger role in his decision-making, and she harbored an unwelcome suspicion that he valued his mother’s advice more than he did hers. It was heartening, therefore, that he wanted her to be his eyes and ears in England, even if it did mean sleepless nights in a cold, lonely bed.

“When do you want me to go, Harry?”

“Soon, love, mayhap after the Christmas revelries. Is that agreeable to you?”

“No,” she said, “but it is acceptable.”

The seacoast manor of Aber was the favorite residence of Owain Gwynedd. On this frigid night in late December, not even a well-stoked hearth could dispel the chill that was pervading his bedchamber. Settling back in his chair, Owain studied his son. Hywel was drinking deeply from a brimming cup of mead, putting the cup down with a satisfied smile.

“I got to fancy some of the French wines, but I missed mead and, believe it or not, the wet Welsh climate. I suffered a few minor injuries in the course of Harry’s war, but nothing gave me more discomfort than the sunburn I got in Quercy!”

Owain smiled, too. “And did you get to meet the English queen, as you’d hoped?”

“At Poitiers. She is as beautiful as men say, and too clever by half, I suspect.” Hywel could not resist glancing toward his father’s concubine as he spoke, an insinuation that was not lost upon Cristyn. Taking up her mantle, she slipped unobtrusively from the chamber.

Owain’s interest in Eleanor was peripheral. “Tell me,” he said, “of the English king. I notice you call him Harry now. You found him likable, then?”

“Yes, I suppose I did. He looks upon life with a humorous eye, and for a man reputed to have the Devil’s own temper, I never saw him unleash it upon the truly defenseless. It helped, too, that he laughed at my jokes!”

“What are his failings?” Owain asked, and leaned forward intently to hear his son’s answer.

“He thinks he can get whatever he sets his mind upon.”

“God help him, then,” Owain said dryly. “Is that why he attempted to lay claim to Toulouse?”

“I think it was in part to please his woman, and in part because he thought he could win it without paying too high a price. Becoming a king at one and twenty has made him rather cocky, prone to overvalue his own abilities and undervalue those of his opponents.”

“Does he, indeed?” Owain said thoughtfully. “That is most useful to know, Hywel. But I’ll confess that I am uneasy about his hunger for lands not his. Your friend Ranulf sought to assure me that he had no desire to swallow Wales whole. Think you that he is right?”

“Well… we are a much poorer country than Toulouse and that probably works to our advantage. Harry is a practical man for all his youth, and I cannot see him lusting after a land that has no towns, little sun, and more sheep than people!”

“Ranulf said also that if we provoked him into all-out war, he’d be the most dangerous foe I’ve ever faced. What say you to that, Hywel?”

Hywel didn’t hesitate. “Ranulf spoke true. I have no doubts whatsoever about that.”

“I would say, then, that your time in these foreign lands has served us well.”

Owain was usually sparing with his praise and Hywel flushed with pleasure. Draining his cup, he pushed his chair away from the table. “It is late,” he said, “and I’d best find a bed over in the hall ere they are all taken.”

Owain nodded. “I am glad,” he said, “to have you home,” and Hywel departed with a light step and a lingering smile.

Outside, the sky was clear, stars gleaming in its ebony vastness like celestial fireflies. It was bitterly cold, and Hywel’s every breath trailed after him in pale puffs of smoke. The glazed snow crackled underfoot as he started toward the great hall. He’d taken only a few steps when a ghostly, graceful figure glided from the shadows into his path.

Hywel came to a halt. “Were you waiting to bid me good night, Cristyn? How kind.”

Cristyn pulled down her hood. The face upturned to his was bleached by the moonlight, her eyes dark and fathomless. “I was hoping,” she said, “that you’d not come back.”

“I missed you, too,” he drawled and heard her draw a breath, sharp as a serpent’s hiss.

“I know what you are up to,” she warned, “and it will avail you naught. You may be Owain’s spy, but you’ll never be his heir.”

“You might want to check with my father ere you settle the succession for him. I daresay he has an idea or two on that particular subject.”

Cristyn gave him a stare colder even than the December night. “You will not cheat Davydd of his birthright.”

Hywel laughed softly. “Now if I were facing you across a battlefield, darling, I might be worried. But little brother Davydd? He could not out-fight a flock of drunken whores. Ask him to tell you sometime about the night he balked at paying for services rendered and the outraged bawd chased him through the streets of Bangor, walloping him with a broom.”

Hywel waited to see if she would respond. When she did not, he walked on, still laughing under his breath. Cristyn stayed where she was, as if rooted to the frozen earth, watching as he sauntered toward the hall. But he never looked back.