When Christ and His Saints Slept

47

Paris, France

August 1151

The French king was glaring at Geoffrey. “Giraud Berlai is my seneschal. How dare you drag him before me in chains?”

Geoffrey’s response was one of injured innocence. “I think I’ve showed admirable restraint,” he protested. “I did not hang him, did I?”

Geoffrey’s audience was not amused, Abbot Bernard least of all. “Your mockery is offensive to the Almighty.”

“No, my lord abbot, it is offensive to you. Despite your insistence to the contrary, you are not the sole interpreter of the Almighty’s Will.”

It had been many years since anyone had dared to challenge Bernard’s moral authority; most of his countrymen had long since elevated him to living sainthood. He seemed stunned by Geoffrey’s audacity, and Henry spoke up quickly before he could recover and retaliate.

“My lord father has a legitimate grievance against Berlai. We’re here to talk about it. That is why you invited us to Paris, is it not, my lord abbot-to talk?”

The abbot’s struggle to achieve true humility was an ongoing one; he battled his pride daily and, all too often, lost. He did not appreciate being reminded that his obligation was to act as peacemaker, and it was particularly galling that the reminder should have come from Henry, for he was convinced that these Angevins sprang from a depraved stock, doomed and damned. He did not lack for discipline, though. Stifling his resentment, he said coldly:

“You are right, my lord duke. The purpose of this conference is to discuss our differences openly and freely, then seek a way to resolve them without further bloodshed.” Giving Henry a nod of austere approval, he turned the power of his accusing eyes back upon Henry’s father.

“When you refused to release Giraud Berlai from your prison, I was then compelled to lay upon you the dread anathema of excommunication. I did this with the greatest reluctance, for I would not see any man denied God’s Grace. If you release Berlai now, I will at once absolve you of this sin of disobedience and restore you to the Church.”

“I have no intention of releasing Berlai, my lord abbot. The man is a rebel and brigand, and I see it as no sin to punish him as he deserves. But if it is a sin, then I have no wish to be absolved of it. Since you claim to have God’s Ear day and night, you may tell Him that for me, that I seek no absolution for an act of simple justice.”

When Geoffrey began to speak, Bernard stiffened, righteously indignant that his olive branch should not only have been spurned, but snapped in half. By the time Geoffrey was done, though, he was speechless with horror. So were the French king and most of the onlookers, for Geoffrey’s defiance sounded to them like the worst sort of blasphemy.

Even Henry winced, wishing that his father could have been more judicious, less reckless in his refusal. He understood Geoffrey’s hostility toward Berlai, and felt that after a three-year siege, it was not unjustified. He understood, too, Geoffrey’s resentment at the posturing of the French king and Abbot Bernard, but posturing still seemed a poor reason for going to war. He’d fight the French king if he had to, but he’d rather be fighting Stephen, and he could only hope that his father would remember that-ere it was too late.

If Geoffrey had an innate sense of the dramatic, so, too, did Bernard. Drawing himself up to his full and formidable height, he thrust out his arm as if he meant to impale Geoffrey upon it. “Be not deceived, for God is not mocked, and whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. You have prayed for damnation and the Lord God has heard you. Repent now, you impious, wicked man, whilst you still can. Heed me well, for I see your death if you do not, and within a month’s time.”

Bernard’s prophetic trances were known throughout France, and this one sent a frisson of uneasy excitement shuddering across the hall. The French king paled noticeably, some of Geoffrey’s own men began to edge away from him, while others moved in for a better view, just in case the Lord chose to take His Vengeance here and now. Henry could not help admiring the abbot’s theatrical flair, but he was suspicious of the prophecy itself, for the timing was too convenient to be credible. Geoffrey looked even more skeptical; one of his eyebrows had shot upward in a familiar gesture of disbelief.

“A month, you say? Could you be more specific, my lord abbot? If you can give me the exact date, that would make it easier for me to plan Berlai’s public hanging in the time I have left.”

The abbot stared at the younger man and then slowly and deliberately made the sign of the cross. “It is true what men say, that the counts of Anjou come from the Devil’s seed. You blaspheme as easily as you breathe, mock all that is holy, you have no shame-”

“And I am doomed, too; let’s not forget that. How good of you to speak up for the Lord like this. Whatever would He do without you?” The abbot sucked in an outraged breath, but Geoffrey gave him no chance to respond. “Well, then, if I have so little time left, I see no reason to waste any more of it here.” And without a warning, without another word, Geoffrey turned on his heel and stalked from the hall.

Geoffrey’s abrupt exit created almost as much of a sensation as Abbot Bernard’s portentous prophecy. Henry was taken aback, too, for this hadn’t been in the script. Geoffrey’s nonplussed men were scrambling to follow, dragging out the wretched Berlai, while Henry’s own attendants looked to him for their cue. Feeling left in the lurch, he wasn’t sure if he should stalk out, too, stay and attempt to salvage the talks, or make a measured, dignified withdrawal. But as he observed the chaos that Geoffrey had set loose in the hall, he made an interesting discovery. The French king and his counselors were enraged and appalled, but they were also dismayed. So…they did want peace.

That was useful to know. Assuming, of course, that his father was not already leaving Paris behind in the dust of this hellishly hot summer day. How much of his dramatic departure had been fueled by genuine anger…and how much for effect? But he had managed to get the last word in his clash with the sainted Bernard, and Henry thought even the Almighty would not have found that an easy feat.

He was not surprised to find himself the focus of all eyes. The entire hall was waiting to see what he would do. By now he’d made up his mind, and he moved without haste toward the dais, where he bade farewell to the French king and the venerable Abbot of Clairvaux. He was courteous and composed and gave away nothing, not until his gaze fell again upon the woman in green silk. For just a moment, he hesitated, and then thought, Hellfire and furies, why not? Beckoning to his men, he turned and crossed the hall toward her.

Up close, she was even more stunning, those magnificent cheekbones highlighted with subtle, sun-kissed warmth, emerald eyes enhanced by the longest lashes he’d ever seen. “Madame,” he said gravely, and kissed her hand with a courtly flourish. But then he added, for her ears alone, “If you are not the Queen of France, by God, you ought to be.”

Her mouth put Henry in mind of ripe peaches. It curved at the corners, not quite a smile, but enough to free a flashing dimple. “My lord duke.” Her voice was as arresting as her appearance, low-pitched and sultry. “And if you are not yet the King of England,” she murmured, “by God, you will be.”

There was a glint of gentle mockery in those shimmering sea-green eyes, but there was something else, too, something elusive and intriguing. This exchange of theirs could not have been more public, under the full scrutiny of the French court, and yet it was also a moment of odd intimacy; it was almost as if, Henry decided, they were sharing a joke no one else got.

It had been arranged for the Angevins to stay at the Benedictine abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Pres, on the Left Bank of the Seine, and it was there that Henry found his father. Nor did he need to coax Geoffrey into resuming the peace talks; that was always Geoffrey’s intent. He confessed readily that his walkout had been a calculated ploy, meant to checkmate Abbot Bernard and unsettle the French. Henry was not surprised, for only Maude had been able to send Geoffrey’s temper up in flames. With the rest of his foes, he was always coldly in control, as Abbot Bernard and Louis would soon discover.

The talks began anew on the morrow, in an atmosphere of strained and pessimistic civility. In the days that followed, Henry was formally introduced to Queen Eleanor, met her notorious younger sister, Petronilla, and had several opportunities to take the measure of the French king and his barons. But that seemed all he’d be taking away from his Paris visit, for the negotiations were soon deadlocked. Geoffrey was not willing to free Berlai, while Henry was loath to make further territorial concessions to the French Crown. Geoffrey had already ceded half of the county of the Vexin in order to induce Louis to recognize him as Duke of Normandy, and the French king was now demanding the remainder of the Vexin as his price for extending recognition to Henry, a price he found too high. With neither side willing to yield, this peace conference seemed likely to be but a prelude to war.

IN midweek, the French king gave a lavish feast and entertainment for his obstinate vassals, but if he’d harbored any hopes of wining and dining the Angevins into a more obliging frame of mind, he was to be disappointed. Geoffrey and Henry were agreeable guests; they exchanged pleasantries with the French king, flirted with Eleanor, tactfully avoided any mention of Eustace, and even treated Abbot Bernard with polite deference. But that was just good manners; the negotiations remained bogged down in a quagmire of mutual suspicions and shared intransigence.

The following morning saw an early visitor to the queen’s chambers, for the Countess of Vermandois was becoming uneasy on her sister’s behalf and had decided a candid talk was in order. Petronilla had no illusions about the troubled state of Eleanor’s marriage. She envisioned it as a sun-scorched, arid field, parched and barren and dangerously dry…and if there was ever a man with a knack for striking sparks, it was Count Geoffrey of Anjou. The more time that Eleanor spent with Geoffrey and his son, the more smoke Petronilla smelled.

Petronilla’s disapproval was practical, not moral, for her conscience was an elastic one, able to stretch enough to accommodate a multitude of sins. Nor could she fault Eleanor’s taste, for Geoffrey was undeniably one of the handsomest men she’d ever laid eyes upon. But her sister’s timing was deplorable. Geoffrey might be gorgeous, but Petronilla did not think he could be trusted to bed Louis’s queen without boasting about it afterward, and infidelity was a lethal weapon to give an aggrieved husband on the brink of divorce.

She didn’t worry about finding Louis in Eleanor’s bed, despite the earliness of the hour. Since the tragedy at Vitry, Louis’s marital ardor had been effectively quenched by his numbing sense of guilt, and that flame had never burned very hot even in the first years of the marriage. Louis’s love for his wife had always been struggling against the lessons he’d learned too well during his boyhood at the abbey of Saint-Denis: that carnal lust was sinful, women were the Devil’s lures, and celibacy the chosen path to salvation.

Thinking now of the barrenness of her sister’s marriage bed stirred an old memory. One of Eleanor’s ladies-in-waiting had eavesdropped upon a confidential conversation between the two sisters and overheard the queen say, “I thought I’d married a king and found I’d married a monk.” The young woman could not resist sharing so sensational a bit of gossip, and had been dismissed in disgrace once Eleanor discovered her betrayal. It was a much-quoted remark, but only Petronilla knew it was a counterfeit coin. The girl had gotten the words right, the intonation wrong. People repeated it as mockery; it had been said, though, in frustration and sadness.

Eleanor looked up in comical disbelief as Petronilla was ushered in, for the younger woman had been known to sleep till noon. “I’d wager you’ve not been to bed at all!” But she agreed to dismiss her attendants when Petronilla asked, watching her sister with quizzical curiosity as she continued to brush her hair. “So…what has gotten you up at such an ungodly hour? Did you have another quarrel with Raoul?”

“Eleanor, surely you’ve noticed by now that Raoul and I like to quarrel? That is how we liven up our lovemaking.” Petronilla settled herself on the edge of the bed and began to pet her sister’s brindle greyhound. “I am here to talk about Geoffrey of Anjou. Let me say at the outset that I do not blame you for being tempted. That man could start a lust-crazed riot in a convent full of nuns.”

“Mayhap Benedictines, but surely not Cistercians? Your tribute to Geoffrey’s manhood definitely conjures up some intriguing images, and I daresay he’d be the first to agree with you. But all those lustful nuns notwithstanding, I have no intention of taking Geoffrey as my lover.”

“Truly?” Petronilla was relieved, yet puzzled. “I must have misread the signs. But I ought to warn you-I think Louis did, too. I watched him watching you and Geoffrey last night, and he looked very disgruntled.”

“I surely hope so.”

“Eleanor…what is going on? What are you up to?”

Eleanor looked at her thoughtfully, then put her finger to her lips, and moved swiftly and soundlessly across the chamber. Petronilla watched in astonishment as she jerked the door open. “Is it as bad as that? You really think Louis’s men would spy on you?”

Eleanor’s lip curled. “Thierry Galeran would hide under my bed-if only he could fit. Yes, I am quite sure I am being watched. The death vigil for my marriage has begun, and with the venerable Abbot Bernard himself standing ready to give the Last Rites.”

Petronilla should not have felt any surprise. Abbot Suger of Saint-Denis had been the French king’s chief adviser, utterly insistent that his marriage was valid in God’s Eyes. But he’d died that past January, and the French king was now heeding Abbot Bernard-Abbot Bernard who believed that if all women were suspect, daughters of Eve, Eleanor was one of Lucifer’s own.

But even though the news was expected, it still came as a shock, for the ramifications would be earthshaking. Divorce was usually disastrous for a woman; she would invariably lose custody of her children, her dower rights, and often her good name as well. Eleanor would also lose a crown. For a woman who’d been Queen of France, the rest of her life was likely to be anticlimactic. Petronilla thought it was the true measure of her sister’s desperation that she’d wanted a divorce, even knowing what it might cost her.

“Eleanor…there is still time to resurrect your marriage. Louis does love you, and if you could only get pregnant again-”

“No. The marriage has been dead for years, Petra. I would not try to breathe life back into a corpse. Better we finally bury it. It is not the divorce that is stealing my sleep at night, it is what happens afterward. It would indeed be ironic, Sister, if the peace should prove more perilous than the war!”

Petronilla nodded somberly. Eleanor was the greatest heiress in Christendom, for she held Aquitaine in her own right, a vast and rich province, stretching from the River Loire to the Pyrenees, comparable in size and wealth to France itself. Once Eleanor was free, she’d be a tempting prize, indeed, and she’d be fair game for any baron with more ambitions than scruples. All too often, heiresses were abducted and forced into marriage, as both women well knew. The year before his death, their father had become betrothed to the daughter of the Viscount of Limoges, only to have her stolen away and wed against her will to the Count of Angouleme. So the danger was a real one, and would remain so until Eleanor was safely wed again.

But as Eleanor’s liege lord, Louis would be the one to choose another husband for her, and Petronilla did not think he’d choose a husband to her liking. Whatever Louis’s failings as a husband, he was still King of France. It seemed to Petronilla that whomever Eleanor married next, it was bound to be a comedown. She could not help thinking that Eleanor’s wretched marriage to Louis was still the lesser of evils, but she knew better than to say so. Eleanor took no more kindly to unsolicited advice than she did; she would only be leaving herself open to a pointed reminder of her own stubborn insistence upon having Raoul, even if that meant they’d be together in Hell.

No matter what angle she viewed it from, her sister’s future looked precarious at best. But one thing she never doubted-that Eleanor would not sit placidly by whilst her destiny was decided by others. “What mean you to do?”

Eleanor sat down beside her on the bed. “Well, this much I know for certes-that the only fate worse than being yoked to Louis for the rest of my life would be marriage to a man handpicked by that sanctimonious, self-proclaimed saint, Bernard.”

Eleanor’s greyhound reached up suddenly, swiping her cheek in a wet kiss and making her laugh. Almost at once, though, she sobered. “And so,” she continued coolly, “I mean to do my own husband-hunting.”

Petronilla rolled her eyes. “And you dare to call me reckless!”

“Why is it reckless to want a say in my own life? You can well imagine the sort of pathetic French puppet they’d choose for me, a lackey who’d look to Paris for guidance the way infidels look toward Mecca. Do you think I’d entrust Aquitaine to such a weak-willed wretch? I need a husband who’d not be afraid to defy the French Crown or even the Church, a man who could command respect from my duchy’s unruly, quarrelsome barons.” She paused, and then added dryly, “A man I could respect, too, would be a pleasant change.”

“You are not asking much, are you?”

Eleanor reclined back against the pillows and smiled impishly at her sister. “Oh, but I want much more than that, Petra. Those were Aquitaine’s needs, but I have my own, too. I want a man who knows his own mind, who sees nothing odd about reading for the fun of it. A man who likes to laugh, even at himself. A man who is not so intent upon the glories of the next world that it blinds him to the pleasures of this one.” Eleanor was no longer smiling. “Above all, I want a man I do not have to coax to my bed.”

“And where do you expect to find this paragon of manhood? I can think of only one man who measures up to those exacting standards, and Raoul is already spoken for!” Picking up the brush, Petronilla combed out her sister’s long hair, then began to braid it with nimble fingers. “What of Geoffrey? Why then were you flirting with him? Merely to vex Louis?”

“I had a twofold purpose. I wanted to remind Louis how mismatched we are, just in case he’d begun to have second thoughts about the divorce. The only voice he heeds these days is that of our saint in residence, who divides all of womankind into three categories: nuns, sluts, and potential sluts. So I knew he’d look upon flirtation as only slightly less heinous a sin than sacrilege, and I was right. You see, Petra, those famed mystical trances of Bernard’s are only part of his sleight-of-hand. When Louis opens his mouth, lo and behold-Bernard’s words come out.”

It was not often that Eleanor let her bitterness show so nakedly, and Petronilla felt a surge of immediate and indignant sympathy. Her loyalties burned too hot and too deep ever to allow for detachment or objectivity; she supposed that Louis had his side, too, but she had no interest whatsoever in hearing it. Eleanor was right to look for a way out, she decided. The marriage was indeed dead and decomposing, and keeping up the pretense would be like living in a charnel house, trying all the while to ignore the stench.

“Forget what I said earlier about attempting to mend the rift. I’d not urge you to run back into a burning building just because you had nowhere else to go. But I am still curious about that ‘twofold’ remark of yours. Why else were you seeking Geoffrey out? I know you claim you have no interest in a dalliance, but you must have been tempted, at least a little…?”

“I am beginning to think Raoul had best keep an eye on you till Geoffrey departs Paris! Must I assure you again that I am not as susceptible as you to a handsome face? Geoffrey of Anjou was my red herring, no more than that.”

Petronilla’s frown was one of bafflement. She had hunted enough to understand Eleanor’s allusion; drawing a herring across a trail was said to throw pursuing dogs off the scent. But she did not see its application, not at first. When it finally came to her, she gasped aloud and inadvertently jerked on Eleanor’s braid. “Holy Mother Mary! It is not Geoffrey at all, is it? Not the sire-the son!”

Eleanor laughed. “Glory be, at last! Are we such an unlikely pairing, that you never once thought of Henry?”

“It is a brilliant match, Eleanor,” Petronilla enthused. “When I was ransacking my brain for a suitable husband, I did not even think of him, I admit it…mayhap because of the age difference. And yet he is the ideal choice! Of course he is rather young, but he is no green lad, for certes. No son of Maude and Geoffrey could lack for boldness, so you’d be getting a husband willing to challenge the French Crown. One with prospects enough to unsettle even the most complacent of former husbands-Duke of Normandy, heir to Anjou and Maine, not to forget that very intriguing claim across the Channel. Jesu, Eleanor, he might be King of England one day!”

“I’d say that is a foregone conclusion, Petra. Henry strikes me as a bowman who rarely misses the target. I’d wager he gets whatever he aims for.”

Petronilla looked closely into her sister’s face, and then grinned. “So, that is the way the wind blows, does it? I think you fancy the lad!”

Eleanor grinned, too. “Let’s just say I think he has…potential.”

Petronilla burst out laughing, leaning over to give her sister an exuberantly affectionate embrace. Eleanor’s greyhound took that as an invitation and jumped onto the bed. “Felice, down!” Eleanor fended off the dog with a pillow, laughing, too, and for a few moments, they managed to forget about the high stakes, the all-or-nothing gamble that Eleanor was about to make.

It did not even occur to Petronilla to wonder if Henry would be receptive to Eleanor’s overtures. No man in his right mind would turn down Eleanor and Aquitaine; that she never doubted. Nor did she see a need to speak of Eleanor’s daughters, six-year-old Marie and one-year-old Alix. They were lost to Eleanor, whether she married Henry or not, for the French king would never give them up. There’d already been discussions about finding them suitable highborn husbands, forging marital alliances that would further French interests, and as likely as not, they’d grow to girlhood in far-off foreign courts, just as the eight-year-old Maude had once set sail for Germany, child bride of the Imperial Emperor Heinrich V.

“You have not yet had a heart-to-heart talk with Henry?”

Eleanor shook her head. “I have been observing him closely all week, and I like what I’ve seen so far. He is quick-witted, deliberate, and rather cocky-but I need to know if he is also discreet. If Louis had even a suspicion of what I was planning, I’d find myself convent-caged for the remainder of my days, and I do not think I’d make a good nun.”

Eleanor had spoken lightly, but there was too much truth in what she’d said for humor. Petronilla was suddenly and uncharacteristically pensive. Eleanor was right. Louis would do almost anything to keep her from marrying Henry and uniting Aquitaine with Normandy and mayhap even England. She could not have chosen anyone better calculated to appall the king and desolate the man.

“Eleanor, are you sure you want to do this? Have you thought about all you’d be risking?”

“Of course I have,” Eleanor said impatiently. After a moment, though, she smiled. “But then I think about all I’d be gaining!”

Paris had been sweltering in a high-summer heat wave, but the weather changed abruptly by week’s end. The city awoke to a steady downpour and dropping temperatures. It was a dismal day outside, and no less gloomy within the Cite Palace, where the peace negotiations had broken down in recriminations and acrimony. Geoffrey had a hangover and a throbbing headache, and he’d walked out in midmorning, once again declaring he’d had enough and would be departing for Anjou on the morrow. This time Henry believed him.

Henry remained a while longer, in a final attempt to come to terms with the French king. It was another exercise in futility, for neither one was willing to compromise. The rain was still falling by the time Henry and William de Vere, his chancellor, emerged out onto the wide stone steps of the Cite Palace. Henry was just starting down them when he was accosted by a woman in a red mantle.

“May I have a few moments of your time, my lord Henry?” Her face was half-hidden by her hood, but Henry readily agreed, for he’d recognized the voice and was curious to find out what the Lady Petronilla wanted from him.

Sending his men back into the hall, Henry fell into step beside Petronilla, hiding his surprise when she led him out into the deserted, rain-drenched royal gardens. If not for the weather, it would have been an idyllic setting, with bordered walkways, raised flower beds abloom with poppies, Madonna lilies, and spectacular scarlet peonies, a grassy mead spangled with snow-white daisies, and an abundance of fragrant red roses. Today, though, it was wet and wind-raked, the turf seats soaked, the paths pockmarked with puddles; even the River Seine looked different, flat and leaden-grey under a lowering slate sky.

Petronilla kept up a comfortable flow of chatter, the sort of soothing small talk that put people at their ease and yet revealed nothing of importance. She tactfully made no mention of the flagging peace negotiations, instead told Henry an amusing story about her young son’s latest misdeed, asked politely about his mother, the empress, and reminded him playfully that they’d nearly been kin, for several years ago, Geoffrey had suggested a marriage between Henry and Marie, Louis and Eleanor’s baby daughter. Henry had almost forgotten that, and he was glad now that nothing had come of it, for he had no wish to be so closely bound to the French king. After a moment, he laughed aloud, unable to envision the exotic Eleanor of Aquitaine as his mother-in-law.

The rain had eased up, but not for long; the clouds were thick and foreboding. By now they’d reached the far end of the island, jutting out into the Seine like the prow of a ship. A trellised garden arbour lay just ahead, sheltered by climbing roses and tangled honeysuckle. It was so well shielded that Henry did not at first see the woman seated within, not until he and Petronilla were almost upon her. She was clad in a hooded mantle of a glistening silver grey, and looked elegant and somehow ethereal, too, a maid of the mist that was rising off the river. When Henry glanced her way, she reached up and drew back her hood. He came to an abrupt halt, staring at the French queen, and then moved swiftly toward her.

As he kissed her hand, Eleanor gave him a vivid smile. “I apologize for the deception, and for dragging you out into the rain, but I needed to speak with you-in private.”

“I’m willing to brave some rain for your sake.” When she gestured toward the bench, he did not need to be asked twice, and seated himself beside her in the trellised hideaway. Only then did he remember Petronilla, but she was already retreating back up the walkway to keep watch. The dreary day had suddenly taken a dramatic upswing for the better. Henry could not imagine a more pleasant pastime than an intrigue with Eleanor; that he did not yet know the nature of this intrigue troubled him not at all. “This is very clandestine and mysterious,” he acknowledged, “and I am eager to find out why you’d want to talk in such secrecy. Not that I am complaining, just curious.”

“After being lured out into a secluded garden, many men would leap to the simplest, most obvious conclusion, that the woman had dalliance in mind.”

“I doubt that there is anything obvious about you, Lady Eleanor,” Henry parried. She did not have sea-green eyes, after all; he was close enough now to see gold flecks in the green. Hazel suited her better, he decided, for it was an uncommon color, subtle and ever-changing. She was watching him with an odd intensity, as if a great deal depended upon his answer. “A rain-soaked garden is a good place for privacy,” he said, “but not for a tryst. It would be too damnably wet.”

His candor seemed to amuse her; like a shooting star, that dimple came and went. “Moreover,” he continued, “infidelity has more serious consequences for a woman than for a man, and for a queen, most of all. No, whatever your reasons for this rendezvous, it is not because you yearned for an hour of high-risk sinning with a stranger.”

She said nothing, but her sudden smile was blinding. “Why do I get the feeling,” he joked, “that I’ve just passed some sort of test?”

Eleanor laughed, marveling at his intuitiveness, and sure now that her instincts had been right. He was looking at her with alert interest, slight wariness, and undisguised desire. As their eyes met, he grinned. “But if you ever did decide to throw yourself at me, I’d be right pleased to catch you.”

“How gallant of you, Henry.”

“My friends call me Harry.”

His nonchalance was just a little too studied to be utterly convincing; she suspected that he was not as confident as he’d have her believe. But she was not put off by this hint of youthful insecurity. She found it rather endearing, for she was untroubled by the ten-year gap in their ages. In some ways, he seemed more mature to her than her husband, who at thirty was still dithering indecisively at every royal crossroads.

“Harry?” she echoed. “I like that. Tell me…what do your bedmates call you?”

He blinked. “Unforgettable.” But he could not quite carry it off, and burst out laughing. So did Eleanor, for she was more and more charmed by this engaging youth; bravado and self-deprecating humor and unabashed lust were an appealing brew to a woman whose marriage had been sober and chaste and desert-dry more often than not.

Henry still did not know what she wanted from him, but he was willing to wait-with rare patience-until she was ready to reveal her intent. He was also very willing to carry on this fascinating flirtation, and he was disappointed when she then steered the conversation into a more innocuous channel, one with no erotic depths.

The rain had stopped, and he jerked his hood back, running his hand absently through his damp, unruly hair, all the while trying not to stare too openly at the soft hollow of her throat or the solitary raindrop that had splashed onto her cheek and trickled like a wayward tear toward her mouth. She was the most desirable woman he’d ever seen, and when he found himself thinking that a man could get drunk just by breathing in her perfume, he realized how prescient his father had been to call her “dangerous.”

Eleanor was well aware of the effect she was having upon him. For fully half of her life, men had been looking upon her with hot hunger and carnal lust; only the man she’d married had never been singed by her heat. Here in this trellised grotto that was scented with honeysuckle and glimmering with crystal droplets of rain, she was seducing Henry merely by inflaming his imagination.

The conversation was deceptively casual; for the moment, they were both pretending to be oblivious of the undercurrents swirling between them. The questions were mainly Eleanor’s, the answers Henry’s. He explained that his father had gotten the informal surname Plantagenet because of his habit of wearing a sprig of broom or planta genesta in his cap. He confirmed that he called himself Henry Fitz Empress rather than Fitz Count or Fitz Geoffrey. While he did not elaborate upon his reasons for this break with tradition, Eleanor understood the realism of it and approved. After fourteen years of marriage to a man without a shred of practicality in his soul, she could appreciate Henry’s pragmatism as much as she did his ambition.

Petronilla had lamented the fact that Henry did not resemble his father more closely. While she’d agreed that he was attractive, he was too rough-hewn for her taste, utterly lacking Geoffrey’s flamboyant good looks and dashing sense of style. Eleanor conceded that no one would ever call Henry suave, as they did Geoffrey. Geoffrey always looked as if he’d just been visited by his tailor, whereas Henry’s clothes were of good quality but carelessly worn, as if he’d flung on the first garment at hand. Geoffrey had hair any woman might envy, bright gold and gleaming, rarely mussed. Henry’s hair was redder, unfashionably short, and usually tousled. Petronilla had remarked that he looked more like a huntsman than a highborn lord, and Eleanor tended to agree with her sister. She thought it a fine joke that the son of the Empress Maude and Geoffrey le Bel should be so down-to-earth, so indifferent to the trappings of power.

But Henry was not indifferent to the power itself, that she never doubted. As she studied him now, she was struck again by his presence. She had to keep reminding herself that he was not yet nineteen, for already he had it, that indefinable quality that would give him the mastery of other men.

He’d been in motion constantly as he talked, gesturing expressively with his hands, stretching out his legs. He wore high leather boots, not shoes, as if he’d dressed for a day’s hunting, and with sudden insight, she realized that this was indeed how he seemed to her-as a man always on the verge of action. His energy was awesome, like a fire at full blaze, and she found herself wondering what it would be like to feel all that energy between her thighs. The erotic image of the two of them entwined together in a rumpled bed startled her somewhat, for she’d not expected to be drawn so strongly to him.

“I think,” she said, “that it is time I told you why I contrived to meet you out in these rain-sodden gardens. You were right when you said it was an unlikely place for a tryst. But it is a good place to avoid eavesdroppers or onlookers, whilst not compromising me beyond repair if we are discovered together.” Her dimple flashed again, almost too quick to catch. “Rumors to the contrary, I am more careful of my reputation than certain churchmen claim.”

Henry saw no reason not to name her enemy straight out. “If we are choosing up sides, Lady Eleanor, I would rather be on yours than on Abbot Bernard’s,” he said, and this time her dimple lingered.

“It is passing strange,” she said, “the odd turns that fate takes. No sensible man would set out upon a long journey without knowing the roads to follow, and yet we all blunder through life without any maps whatsoever. I’ve puzzled you, I can see. I was remembering that long-ago suggestion of your father’s, that we consider marriage for you and my daughter Marie. Who would ever have imagined then what lay ahead? Do not ever doubt, Harry, that the Almighty has a sense of humor!”

This was the first time she’d called him Harry, and he was young enough to take pleasure in that. But he also felt a distinct letdown. Was this why she’d wanted to see him alone-to revive those scuttled marriage plans? That was such a prosaic and mundane solution to a marvelous mystery. No intrigue, merely a marital alliance. Hiding his disappointment, he said, “I am not sure I understand, Lady Eleanor. Are you offering me your daughter again?”

“No, Harry, I am offering myself.”

Henry had been shifting in his seat. But he stopped in midmotion and stared at her. So, she thought, he can sit still, after all. He scarcely seemed to be breathing, his eyes intently searching her face. She knew without being told that he was seeking to make sure she was serious, for it was becoming evident to her that there was a cool, calculating brain behind the heat of those smoke-grey eyes.

“I accept.”

“Do not be too quick to commit yourself, Harry. Do you not want me to specify what I am offering ere you say yes?”

“I assumed you were talking of divorce. But if I misread you and you are offering a liaison, the answer is still the same. I would take you,” he said huskily, “any way I could get you, even barefoot and in rags.”

“Yes,” she murmured, “but you would not marry me without Aquitaine,” and Henry began to laugh, recognizing in this worldly older woman a true kindred spirit.

“You are right,” he admitted. “I would not marry you without Aquitaine. No more than you would marry me without Normandy. Since we are being so candid, what of England? Is this marriage of ours contingent upon my first becoming king of the English?”

“No,” she said, “I’ll take you as you are, my lord duke. Your capture of the English crown is not a contingency. But I think I can safely say that it is an inevitability.”

Henry exhaled an uneven, admiring breath. “What a Queen of England you will make!” To Eleanor’s amusement, he’d already slid over on the bench so that their bodies were now touching. How quick men were to claim possession, to plant their flags! This lad would need no prompting, for certes. He’d made a very promising beginning, kissing her fingertips, her palm, and then the pulse at her wrist. Laying her hand flat against his chest, over his heart, she said reluctantly:

“I dare not take you to my bed, Harry. No one can have even a glimmering of suspicion about us, for if they do, Louis will never set me free.”

He knew she was right. He was warmed, too, by the note of genuine regret in her voice. But that still did not make it any easier to agree. “How long do you think it will take to have your marriage annulled?”

“Most likely about six months or so,” she said, and smiled when he winced and muttered an obscenity under his breath. His eagerness was sweet balm for an old wound.

When Henry had seen her in the hall, she’d always been wearing the newly fashionable wimple, a delicate white scarf which framed her face while covering her neck and hair. Today she’d reverted to the older style and wore only a gossamer veil, which left her slender throat bare and gave him his first glimpse of her long, glossy braids, adorned with gold-thread ribbons.

He should have been surprised that her hair was not blonde, for fairness was the defining measure of beauty in their world. But he was not, for he was learning that Eleanor of Aquitaine was a law unto herself in all things. At first, he thought the braids were black, but when he reached for one and entwined it around his hand, he saw it was actually a very dark brown, burnished with auburn glints. He wondered how long it would be ere he’d get to see her hair spilling across his pillow, and his fingers twitched with the urge to untie those ribbons.

“One kiss,” he said. “Surely we can risk that. We do have a plight troth to celebrate, after all.”

Even as he spoke, he was already leaning toward her, and Eleanor decided that a kiss was not an unreasonable request. She tilted her face up and he caressed her cheek with his fingers before claiming her mouth with his own. The kiss was unhurried, gentle at first, but with enough passion to make it interesting. When they drew apart, Eleanor was smiling, very pleased with herself and this youth who would soon share her dreams and her bed. They would rule an empire together, she and Harry, and she would give him all the sons a man could want, confounding Louis and Bernard and those who’d dared to judge her so harshly, to scorn her so unfairly as that greatest of all failures, a barren queen.

She was still congratulating herself on how well her plans had gone when Henry began kissing her again. Her brain warned her this was too reckless, but her body was more receptive to the message it was getting from Henry. His mouth was hot, his hands sliding up her back, under her mantle, pulling her in tight against him. She started to tell him this was dangerous, but by then he was fondling her breasts, kissing her throat, and instead of protesting, she sought a closer embrace, followed him heedlessly into the flames.

“Christ on the Cross!”

The cry was strident, sharp enough to rip them apart. Flushed and dazed, they spun around to confront a highly indignant Petronilla. “Have you both gone stark mad?” she demanded. “If you mean to put on a public display, by all means, let’s invite the entire court so everyone can watch!”

By now, Eleanor had recovered her breath and her senses. “The rain has stopped, so people will be coming out into the garden. Harry…you must go.”

Henry was shaken, too, belatedly realizing how foolish they’d been. “You are right,” he agreed hoarsely, and managed a crooked grin. “I do not trust myself around you!”

But still he lingered, until Petronilla turned and gave him a slight push. “Hurry,” she urged, “for I do not trust either one of you!”

Henry insisted upon kissing Eleanor’s hand one last time before turning away, adjusting his clothing as he strode along the pathway. He paused once, looking back at Eleanor, as she’d known he would, and she watched until he’d vanished from view.

Stepping into the trellised arbour, Petronilla sat beside her sister and reached over to pull Eleanor’s hood up. “I hope to God he does not look at you like that out in the hall. Apart from the danger of starting a fire, it would be a signed confession of adultery!”

“You need not worry, Petra. Harry will be discreet.”

“For your sake, he’d better be!” Petronilla gave Eleanor a sidelong, appraising glance, and then, a sly smile. “So,” she said, “how did your hunt go? Did you get your quarry?”

Eleanor nodded, only half listening to her sister’s banter. She was still gazing out across the wet, empty garden. “In truth,” she said softly, “I think Harry and I may be getting more than we bargained for.”

Upon his return to the abbey guest quarters, Geoffrey had instructed his men to prepare for departure in the morning, and then took his hangover and his headache off to bed. He awoke long before he was ready, to find his head still hurting, the rain still coming down, and his son carrying on like a lunatic, banging around the darkened chamber in search of a lamp and making enough racket to be heard back in Anjou. Rolling over, Geoffrey groaned and called Henry a foul name just as a light flared, half blinding him.

“Go away, Harry, ere I get my strength back and kill you,” he mumbled, trying to blot out the glare and noise with his pillow. But his son seemed to have developed a death wish, for he snatched the pillow away and insisted that Geoffrey sit up, utterly unfazed by the steady string of curses being hurled at his head.

“Here, Papa, have some wine. It’ll make you feel much better,” he said, sounding so odiously cheerful that Geoffrey began to suspect that Maude was an even worse wife than he’d realized, for how could this be a son of his loins?

He protested in vain, soon found himself propped up with pillows, scowling at Henry as the young man sloshed a wine cup into his hand and then settled himself cross-legged on the foot of the bed. “Maude put you up to this. I know she did, so you might as well admit it.”

Henry laughed. “Stop grumbling, Papa, and listen. I have a great favor to ask of you.”

“Quit whilst you’re ahead, Harry, whilst you’re still in my will.” Geoffrey took a tentative swallow of the wine and grimaced. “Where did you get this? It tastes like goat piss.”

“You were certainly guzzling it down last night without complaint. I am serious, Papa. I want you to set Giraud Berlai free.”

Geoffrey’s wine cup froze in midair. “Are you drunk?”

“I am as sober as the sainted Bernard, and very much in earnest, Papa. On the morrow I am going to tell Louis that I’ve decided to cede the Vexin to him. I want peace with the French king, and I want you to help me get it.”

“This morning you were determined to hold on to the Vexin. What has changed since then?”

“Everything!” Henry leaned forward, splashing wine onto the bed, but not even noticing. His eyes were shining, his color high. Geoffrey had rarely seen him so excited, not off the hunting field.

“I think you’d better tell me what this is all about, lad,” he said, and grabbed for Henry’s wine cup, just in time to keep it from being dumped in his lap. “Why are you suddenly willing to give up the Vexin?”

“For Aquitaine,” Henry said, and grinned. “For Eleanor and Aquitaine. I’d say that is a fair trade, Papa, more than fair.”

“You…and Eleanor?” Geoffrey was stunned, but not disbelieving; his son was too euphoric to doubt. “Are you saying what I think you are, lad?”

Henry nodded vigorously. “As of this afternoon, I have a wife…or I will have as soon as she gets shed of Louis. Once she does, we shall wed. So you see why I need to make peace with Louis. I want nothing to distract him from the urgent matter of getting his marriage annulled.”

“Holy Mother of God…” Geoffrey shook his head slowly. “I thought I’d taken your measure, Harry, but clearly I’ve been undervaluing you!”

“No, Papa. As much as I’d like to claim credit for this, the idea was Eleanor’s. She is a remarkable woman, and if she were mine, I would never let her go. But Louis will, and once he does, the English crown will be ours for the taking. Can you imagine how Stephen will react when he hears?”

Henry laughed again, swung off the bed, and went to get another flagon from the table. “So…what say you, Papa? Will you set Berlai free for me?”

“Of course I will. Although you’ll owe me for this, lad, and you may be sure I’ll remind you frequently of that. Now pour me some more of this swill and let’s talk. I agree that Stephen will likely have a seizure when word of this gets out, for the day you wed Eleanor, you’ll cast a shadow across half of Europe…and all of France. That is why you must think about how Louis will react, too. He is your liege lord as well as Eleanor’s, and if you marry the woman without his consent-which he’d never give-you’ll be making a mortal enemy.”

“He’ll not like it any,” Henry admitted, “but he’ll get over it.”

“No, Harry, I think not. He does love her, you see. And if she divorces him because they are fourth cousins or whatever, and then marries you, also a fourth cousin…well, believe me when I say a wound like that will never heal. Trust me on this, for I know more about hating than you. He’ll be cursing you both with his dying breath.”

“Mayhap you are right,” Henry agreed, “but what of it? Surely you are not suggesting that I do not marry her?”

Geoffrey’s smile was wry. “No, I am not-and you’d not heed me even if I did. You cannot turn down an opportunity like this, for marriage to Eleanor could make you master of Europe one day. Normandy and Aquitaine and England and Anjou and Maine-Christ Jesus, Harry, Caesar might well envy you! And if you were mad enough to spurn Eleanor’s offer, you’d have to worry then about the man she might marry in your stead. I just want you to understand that she’ll be bringing you the undying enmity of the French king as her marriage portion. It is still, as you said, a fair trade, but you need to bear that clearly in mind, for this marriage will turn Christendom upside down and that is no lie.”

“I understand that, Papa, truly I do. But can I not have one day just to be happy about it?”

Henry’s smile was coaxing, and so contagious that Geoffrey had to smile back. “Fair enough, lad.” Reaching out, he clinked his wine cup against Henry’s in a mock salute. “To you and your bride-to-be. I think I can safely predict that your life together will never be dull. What of your mother? Do you plan to tell Maude?”

He’d caught Henry off balance. “I’d rather not,” he confessed, “for the fewer people who know, the better. But I suppose I should, for Mama would not soon forgive me if I did not.”

“No, she would not. But you need not worry about her keeping your secret. Whatever she may say to you about this marriage in private, she’d never breathe a word to the world at large.”

Henry lowered his wine cup. “You think she will not approve?”

Geoffrey’s mouth twitched. “The empress will counsel you to wed Eleanor as soon as she is free to do so. But I suspect that the mother will find it deplorable that her beloved son must settle for damaged goods.”

He saw Henry’s head come up at that, and held up a hand to stave off his protest. “You do not like that, do you? Well, you’d best get used to hearing it, Harry, for you will be marrying a woman whose honour is frayed around the edges, or so men think.”

“Spiteful gossip and slander,” Henry said scornfully, and Geoffrey shrugged.

“Gossip is still something we all have to live with, lad. If you can ignore it, more power to you. Look, Harry, I am not saying I believe the stories. I told you honestly on the road to Paris that I do not know if the rumors about Eleanor are true. Nor will I lie to you now just because it would be what you want to hear. Eleanor might well be as pure and chaste as the Blessed Lady Mary. Or she may indeed have strayed. But-”

“If she did, Louis gave her cause!”

“I am not arguing with you, lad. You need not defend her to me. But I will give you some advice, and I hope you heed me. Let it lie. Decide now that whatever may or may not have happened in her past is between Eleanor and her confessor, and do not pry. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Henry said, after a long pause. “But I still say rumors prove nothing. Accusing a woman of wantonness is the easiest way to discredit her, for some of the mud is always sure to stick.”

“You are right. But God help you, for you are also sounding like a man smitten,” Geoffrey joked. “There is another matter we ought to talk about, though. You were eighteen last March, and if memory serves me, Eleanor turned twenty-nine this summer. Are you comfortable with so great an age difference?”

Henry shrugged. “Ten years, five months-not so vast a gap. If my memory serves, Mama is eleven and a half years older than you!”

“Yes, and we’ve had twenty-three years of wedded bliss and marital joy,” Geoffrey said, with a tight smile, too much rancor for humor.

Henry was quiet for a moment, not wanting to hurt his father by pointing out the obvious, that Maude had never wanted to marry Geoffrey, whereas he was very sure, indeed, that Eleanor wanted to marry him. “It does not trouble me, Papa, truly not,” he assured his father. “She is still young enough to bear children and that is what counts. I have no doubt that she’ll give me sons. She has been unfairly blamed for failing to bear Louis an heir, for you said yourself that he shied away from their marriage bed. Believe me, that is not a problem she’ll ever have with me!”

“No, with you, I’d say the problem will be getting you out of her bed, not into it!”

“Papa…I am sensing some misgivings on your part. Are you just playing the Devil’s advocate or do you truly have qualms about this marriage?”

Geoffrey did not respond as Henry hoped, with a hearty denial. Staring down into the dregs of his wine cup, he said, “Not qualms, lad, not exactly. I want you to be King of England, and your prospects will be greatly enhanced by marriage to Eleanor. I am pleased for you, God’s Truth. I just wish you were not so taken with the woman herself.”

“Why ever not? I think it is my great, good fortune that I shall have a wife I find so desirable. Not only is she beautiful, but she is clever and witty and educated, bred to be a queen. How lucky can I get?”

“I am going to give you some more advice, Harry, that I do not expect you to take. Save your passion for your concubines, your respect for your wife. The best marriages are those based upon detached goodwill or benign indifference. But unfortunately for you, the one emotion you will never feel for Eleanor of Aquitaine is indifference.”

“Jesu, I would hope not! Papa, I know you mean well. But miserable marriages are not passed down from father to son like hair color or height. It is no secret that you and Mama made mistakes. But why should I not learn from them rather than repeat them?”

“Why not, indeed?” Geoffrey conceded. “I hope you do, lad. God knows, I hope you do.”

This was not a conversation Henry had expected to have with his father; he’d thought Maude would be the one to harbor doubts. He was both amused and irked that Geoffrey should be so protective, for his wariness reflected poorly upon Eleanor.

“Papa, you need not worry about this marriage. I have always known that one day I would rule over England. I have never doubted that. And I am just as sure now that Eleanor is the woman meant to rule with me. I know in my heart that it is so, I swear I do.”

“I’d say the body part you’re heeding at the moment is not your heart,” Geoffrey drawled and then laughed abruptly. “Do not mind me, Harry. I am right proud of you, and who knows, mayhap even a little envious! Congratulations, lad, you’ve captured a queen.”

And in that moment, the full wonder of it hit Henry, too. “Yes,” he said jubilantly, “I did!” Laughing, he raised his wine cup high. “To Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine, Queen of France, and-one day-Queen of England.”