When Christ and His Saints Slept

52

Fontevrault Abbey, Anjou

June 1152

The sun was high overhead, filling the cloisters with brilliant white-gold light. Eleanor and the Abbess Mathilde were sauntering along the walkway, in such animated conversation that they did not notice when Yolande lagged behind, tugging at Colette’s sleeve to attract her attention. “Did you hear that? The abbess called our lady’s new husband ‘Harry.’ How does a nun know the duke so well?”

Colette’s black eyes held an amused glint. “That is a scandalous suggestion,” she chided, and Yolande blushed brightly.

“I did not mean there was anything improper betwixt them!”

Colette sighed. “I was but teasing you, child. The abbess is Lord Henry’s aunt, his father’s elder sister, so it is hardly surprising that she calls him ‘Harry.’ You do not know of her history, then? If not for a drunken helmsman and a hidden reef in Barfleur Harbor, she would have been Queen of England, for she’d been wed as a child to the English king’s only lawfully begotten son, the one who drowned in the wreck of the White Ship.”

Although it had been more than thirty years since the sinking of the White Ship, its tragic fate continued to haunt the imagination, its story to find new audiences. Yolande might be ignorant of English politics, but she knew every one of the legends that had sprung up around the White Ship, and she stared after the abbess with avid curiosity. “Truly? How unlucky she was!”

“Oh, I’d say she was very lucky, indeed, for she could have been on the White Ship, too. But fortunately for her, she’d sailed with the old king. Far better to be widowed than drowned, Yolande, even if it does mean forfeiting a crown!”

They’d not been as discreet as they’d believed; their voices carried across the garth. Eleanor gave her new kinswoman an apologetic smile, but the abbess shrugged, unperturbed. “I fully expect,” she said dryly, “that as I lie on my deathbed, I’ll still hear whispers about the White Ship. Who knows, even the Almighty’s angels may have a question or two to put to me!”

Eleanor laughed. She’d expected to encounter one of God’s holy lambs, for Mathilde had lived most of her life within Fontevrault’s sheltering walls. Instead she’d found a handsome woman of forty or so, one who ruled her cloistered domains with competence, pragmatic piety, and wry good humor. Eleanor thought those were admirable qualities for abbess and queen alike. “I remember,” she said, “a childhood riddle that my sister fancied: What can never be outrun? The answer was supposed to be my shadow, but it could as well have been gossip and rumor, too.”

“We’ve both been the quarry in that hunt,” Mathilde said candidly, but Eleanor took no offense, for she knew none was intended. She should have realized that Geoffrey’s sister would have her share of Angevin spice; whatever might be said of her husband’s family, no one could ever accuse them of being bland. Smiling, she followed the abbess down the shallow steps into the church.

Almost at once, Eleanor stopped in surprise. She’d often wondered why churches were invariably filled with shadows and solemnity instead of ablaze with God’s light and joy. Here in this Benedictine nunnery of the Blessed Lady Mary, she’d finally found a church to gladden her heart and dazzle her eyes. Sun spilled into the chancel from ten soaring windows, the frescoed walls of the nave glowed with vibrant color, and the floor, a gleaming white marble, shimmered like glazed ice.

Eleanor had always been intrigued by Fontevrault, for it had been founded upon the precept of the Lord Christ to St John, “Son, behold thy mother.” At Fontevrault, women reigned supreme; even the adjoining community of monks was subject to the authority of the abbess. That alone would have endeared Fontevrault to Eleanor. The fact that it had once given sanctuary to her grandmother and was now ruled by her husband’s aunt made it all the more appealing, and she’d been pleased to grant the abbey a charter confirming their existing privileges. She’d also made a generous donation of five hundred sous to the convent’s coffers. But as she gazed admiringly now upon the sunlit splendor of the Great Minster, she wished she’d given more.

Dipping her fingers into the font of holy water, Eleanor dutifully made the sign of the cross. “Did you see much of Harry as he was growing up?”

“Not as much as I would have liked. He’s always been my favorite nephew, although I suppose I ought not to admit that? Tell me, is it true that the French king ordered you both to his court to defend yourselves against a charge of treason?”

Eleanor nodded. “We got the summons just as Harry was about to depart for Barfleur. He told Louis’s messenger that it was not convenient for him to visit Paris this summer, but he’d let Louis know when he had some free time.”

Mathilde joined in her laughter. “That sounds like Harry. Bless him, it sounds like Geoffrey, too. But might it not have been wiser to seek to placate Louis?”

“Possibly,” Eleanor conceded, “but it would not have been as much fun,” and the abbess concluded that her nephew and his beautiful, controversial bride were a well-matched pair, indeed.

When Eleanor began to ask about Henry’s childhood, Mathilde was pleased, seeing Eleanor’s curiosity as a promising proof that their marriage would prosper, for only a contented wife would be interested in her husband’s boyhood misdeeds. Since Henry had never lacked for imagination, she did not lack for stories, and she was quite willing to acquaint Eleanor with some of Henry’s more memorable escapades: the time he found a fox cub and smuggled it into the castle, hoping to tame it, only to have it eat his mother’s pet magpie; the time he tried to climb from his bedchamber, using sheets knotted together, and fell into the moat; the time he sneaked blue woad dye into his brother Geoff’s bath.

They were still laughing over that last prank when they heard the footsteps out in the nave. Turning, they saw an elderly nun hastening toward the chancel, at a pace rapid enough to compromise her dignity. “Holy Mother,” she panted, “there are men come to see the duchess. We wanted to escort them to the guest hall, explaining that males may not roam about in a nunnery at will, but they refused to wait, insisting upon seeking out the duchess for themselves.”

“Did they, indeed?” the abbess said, sounding to Eleanor more like Geoffrey facing down Abbot Bernard than one of Christ’s Brides. “Just who are these ill-bred intruders, Sister Pauline?”

“The duchess’s kinsman, the Viscount of Chatellerault, and her seneschal, Reverend Mother. They were most rude-” The banging of the church door cut off the remainder of her complaint, and she spun around with an indignant cry. “There they are!”

Eleanor’s uncle Hugh de Chatellerault had always been volatile, given to emotional outbursts and dramatic posturing. She saw nothing significant or sinister in his discourtesy, for he was quite capable of forcing his way into a nunnery on a whim. But Saldebreuil de Sanzay was another sort of man altogether, rarely riled, the most levelheaded of all her counselors. And Eleanor had never seen him look as he did now-thoroughly alarmed.

Neither man responded to the abbess’s sharp challenge, not even hearing her. At sight of his niece, the viscount quickened his stride. “Christ Jesus, Eleanor,” he erupted, hoarsely accusing, “what have you brought upon us?”

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed, moving dismissively from her uncle to Sanzay. “Saldebreuil? What has happened?”

“War, my lady,” he said grimly. “A French army has gathered on the Norman border, poised to strike.”

Eleanor caught her breath. Could she have so misread Louis? She’d expected him to rant and rave and even to bluster and threaten, but not to back up those threats with force. His nature was pacific and passive, not at all martial. He was never belligerent or combative, not unless goaded to it-as at Antioch. She should have guessed there would be those to goad him at Paris, too.

“Louis is not being a gracious loser, is he?” she said, with more coolness than she felt. “And as always, his sense of timing is deplorable. If he’d just waited another fortnight, Harry would have been in England when he attacked.”

The viscount gave a snort of disbelief. “You truly think your young lordling will be our salvation?”

Her coolness was no longer feigned. “That is not the first time you’ve spoken of my husband with disdain. Let it be the last, Uncle. Harry is more than a match for Louis, as he’ll soon prove.”

Her seneschal slowly shook his head. “You do not know all of it, my lady, nor the worst of it. The French king has assembled a formidable coalition, allying himself with his brother, the Count of Dreux, Count Eustace of Boulogne, the Counts of Champagne and Blois…and Lord Henry’s younger brother, Geoffrey Fitz Empress.”

Eleanor paled. Beside her, the Abbess Mathilde gasped; Fontevrault was close enough to the border of Poitou for her to have picked up sufficient langue d’oc to understand the gist of what Sanzay had just said, that her nephew had been betrayed by his own brother. There was a moment or two of stricken silence as Eleanor admitted to herself just how badly she and Henry had erred, utterly underestimating the furor their marriage would create. But then she rallied and smiled scornfully. “Harry is a match for any of them, too.”

Her uncle started to scoff, but daunted by her warning, he thought better of it just in time. Sanzay looked at her in somber sympathy. “Mayhap he would be a match for any of them,” he agreed politely, “but for all of them?”

“Yes!” Eleanor glared at them defiantly. “You do not know Harry. I do. He will prevail against them, that I can assure you.”

Neither man looked convinced, but neither dared to contradict her. “I hope your faith in the duke is not misplaced, my lady,” Sanzay said bleakly, “for this will not be a war you can afford to lose. You see, the French king has promised his allies that your domains will be carved up between them like a Michaelmas goose.”

“The French king,” Eleanor echoed acidly, “can promise them half of Heaven for all the good it will do him. Louis was ever one for promising more than he could deliver, and his greedy accomplices will learn that soon enough. We’ll see no blood spilled on our soil, for they’ll never get that far. Nonetheless, it behooves us to take all sensible precautions. We’d best return to Poitiers straightaway, for there is much to be done.”

The men were in full agreement with that, if with nothing else she’d said. Her vassals must be warned, men summoned for military duty, castles made ready to withstand sieges, patrols sent out to guard their borders. These were familiar activities, and for that reason, reassuring to Eleanor’s uncle and seneschal, much more so than her conviction that the Angevin youth she’d wed would be able to defeat a vengeful king, his most implacable enemy, his own brother, and three highborn and land-hungry lords, all eager to turn Normandy and then Aquitaine into a smoldering wasteland of razed castles and plundered towns.

Reaching out, Eleanor took Mathilde’s hands in hers, bade her farewell, and promised to return to Fontevrault once the war had been won. The abbess kissed the younger woman lightly and approvingly on both cheeks. “Bear in mind,” she said, “what Scriptures tell us, that David prevailed over the Philistine with but a sling and a stone. I think we can safely say that Harry will be far better armed.”

Eleanor smiled and they embraced briefly. It was only then that the abbess realized how much of Eleanor’s impressive aplomb was sheer bravado, for she whispered, softly and urgently, in Mathilde’s ear, “Pray for us.”

In July, the French king invaded Normandy and laid siege to the castle Neufmarche. On the 16th, Henry led an armed force from Barfleur, riding hard for Neufmarche. But he was too late. By the time he got there, the castle had already fallen to the French. At Henry’s approach, Louis pulled back, and a battle was averted. When Louis withdrew toward Chaumont, Henry followed and the skies over the Vexin were soon smoke-blackened. Then in August, Louis suddenly crossed the Seine again. Henry broke off his harrying campaign in the Vexin and raced for Verneuil, Louis’s likely target. But on a sweltering-hot Monday, the French army appeared before William de Breteuil’s castle at Pacy.

From the battlements at Pacy, William de Breteuil looked out upon a scene that fulfilled all his expectations of the netherworld. Darkness was falling and torches had begun to flare in the enemy encampment. Bodies still lay sprawled beneath the castle walls, for it was too risky to come within arrow range merely to retrieve the dead. The assault had been a bloody one, fiercely fought on both sides. The defenders had been able to repel the first attack, although at a high cost. They’d lost more men than they could spare, and when the onslaught resumed on the morrow, William doubted that they could hold out for very long.

Moving stiffly, for he’d suffered a leg wound in the assault, William clambered down a rope ladder and limped across the bailey. A few of their dead still lay unclaimed, where they’d fallen from the battlements, but most had been dragged into the great hall, which was doing double duty as charnel house and hospital. As he sent men to relieve their comrades up on the walls, William found himself wondering how many of them would be among the wounded and dead at this time tomorrow.

He fully expected to be one of them, for he would never yield. He’d fought too long and too hard to gain Pacy ever to relinquish it, not if he still had breath in his body. He knew the odds were against him, but that had been true all his life. He ought never to have gotten Pacy for his own; it was also claimed by the powerful Beaumont family. But the strife over the English crown had offered opportunities for men wise enough or lucky enough to choose the winning side, and in 1141, Count Geoffrey of Anjou had granted him all he’d ever wanted, the honour and castle of Pacy sur Eure. He would rather die defending it than surrender and have to watch as the French king turned it over to Waleran Beaumont.

He found his wife in the great hall, tending to the wounded. Bending over a youth who’d been burned when a fire arrow ignited his clothing, she was applying goose grease and fennel to his raw, blistered arm, so intent upon her task that she did not notice her husband’s approach, not until he said, “Emma,” very low.

She looked exhausted, her skin sallow in the smoky rushlight, her eyes shining with blinked-back tears. There were bloodstains on her skirt and her hair had been pulled back severely, caught up in an untidy knot at the nape of her neck, her veil long gone. He’d never seen her so disheveled or so indifferent to her appearance. Moving away from the moaning man at her feet, she let William lead her toward a window seat.

“It is so ungodly hot,” she said, but she did not suggest that the window be unshuttered. She knew better; while night attacks were rare, they were not unheard-of. Her husband had slumped into the seat beside her, his chin sunk down on his chest. She could see dried blood in his beard and hoped it was not his. She knew, though, that he’d been in the midst of the hand-to-hand fighting up on the wall. Just as she knew he’d be there on the morrow, swinging a sword as long as he had the strength to wield it. After a while, he bestirred himself and began lying to her again, saying what he thought she needed to hear, assuring her that they’d be able to stave off the next assault, that they’d be able to hold out until the duke arrived.

Emma wanted desperately to believe him. But the duke had been heading for Verneuil, and they could not be sure that their man had reached him with their urgent plea for aid. And even if he had, even if the duke at once swung about and rode for Pacy, it was nigh on forty miles between the two strongholds. Pacy would suffer the same fate as Neufmarche, and by the time the duke got there, it would be too late.

“Will…” She got no further. It would do no good to urge him to surrender. She’d never known a man so stubborn, so prideful, for there was no pride as fierce as that of an outsider, one whose birthright was tainted by the Bar Sinister. William’s father had been a Fitz Osborn, an only son, but born out of wedlock. He’d spent his life in an embittered struggle to claim the honours of Breteuil and Pacy, and her William had then taken up the quest, too. No…God help him, but he would never yield, not with his father’s vengeful ghost dogging his every footstep. “Come abovestairs,” she said wearily, “and let me put some fresh plantain leaves on your wound, Will.”

They were just entering the stairwell when they heard the shouting. William spun around so hastily that he tripped. Emma grabbed his arm to help him regain his balance, and held tight, for they shared the same fear-that the French king had decided not to wait until the morrow, was attacking now.

As they hurried back into the hall, one of William’s knights came bursting through the door. “My lord, come quick! Something strange is happening in the French camp!” Laboring for breath, he leaned upon a chair for support and startled them then with a sudden smile. “It is going to sound mad, I know, but it looks like they are pulling out!”

William did not believe it, not until he stood on the battlements and saw for himself the confusion and turmoil in the French camp. “Jesu,” he breathed, awed beyond words at God’s Goodness, for the French army was indeed in retreat, breaking camp with such urgency that he knew there could be but one explanation. They’d gotten warning of another army’s approach. “Tell my wife,” he directed joyfully, “to go to the chapel, thank the Almighty and the duke for our deliverance!”

As the Pacy garrison watched and cheered and hooted from the battlements, the French army made a hasty retreat, leaving behind bodies and tents and smoking campfires. Soon afterward, riders came into view. The horses were caked with lather, and the men looked as though they’d been bathing in dust. But their smiles shone triumphantly on begrimed, drawn faces, and when the drawbridge was lowered to admit them into the castle, they were mobbed by the grateful garrison. The youth on a rawboned grey stallion was just as fatigued and filthy as the others, but the word soon spread among them that this was their duke, and Henry rode into the most heartfelt and heartening welcome of his life.

Shoving his way toward Henry, William de Breteuil had a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders and was brandishing a wineskin in jubilant celebration. “Drink, my lord,” he urged, sloshing the wineskin upward. “All that I have is yours for the asking.” And to the men crowding to get closer, “For the love of God, give the duke some room! How can he dismount with you coming at him from all sides?”

“I cannot stay,” Henry interjected, reaching gratefully for the wineskin. “We have not a hope in Hell of overtaking them, not after the way we’ve had to use our horses. But we ought to make sure that they are in full retreat. We’ll be back, though, so start breaking out your wine casks!”

“Your men can drain every last one,” William promised, “and with my blessings. If I had all the wine in Christendom at my disposal, I’d pour it out like a river for your troops and never count the cost. You saved us from certain defeat, my lord, and I still do not know how you did it. You could not have gotten here faster if your horses were winged. In all honesty, I never expected you to reach us in time.”

Henry took another deep swallow from the wineskin, and then grinned down at his beaming vassal. “Neither,” he said, “did Louis!”

Maude was a woman with a keen sense of injustice, one who neither forgave nor forgot her grievances. She’d not thought there was anything more she could learn about betrayal, for she’d been wronged so often. Her father had betrayed her by naming her as his heir and then failing to safeguard the succession for her. Stephen had betrayed her trust and stolen her crown. The English had betrayed her by refusing to accept her as queen, despite Stephen’s decisive defeat at Lincoln. Geoffrey’s betrayals were beyond counting. By her stringent standards, even Robert had betrayed her at first, by acquiescing in Stephen’s illicit kingship. But nothing had prepared her for the pain of her son’s betrayal.

She was both infuriated and horrified that her second son could have played into their enemy’s hands like this. What had ever possessed Geoff to behave so treacherously? Was he truly so jealous of Henry that he could rejoice in his brother’s downfall? Or was he so foolish that he did not even realize they meant Henry’s ruin? She’d never had any doubts about how to deal with disloyalty, nor had she ever had any mercy to spare for those who knowingly sinned against God and man. But this sinner was her son, flesh of her flesh. As angry as she was with Geoff, she could not help fearing for him, too.

But her greatest fear was for Henry. She’d never have thought she could regret Geoffrey’s death so deeply. If only he were still alive to come to Henry’s aid! Why had the Almighty chosen to take Robert and Brien, too, when her son had such need of them now? Night after night, she paced the floor of her bedchamber, for when she slept, her dreams were dreadful. She’d never feared to risk her own life. But Henry’s life was far more precious to her, his death the one loss she could not have survived.

Maude was preparing for bed when her son arrived at the priory. With Minna’s help, she hastily rebraided her hair, made herself as presentable as she could in the brief span before he was ushered into her chamber. Until he entered, she was not sure which son to expect. Hoping against hope that it might be a contrite Geoff, come to his senses, she felt a surge of relief, nonetheless, at sight of her youngest.

“Will, where have you been? Did you not realize how worried I would be when I did not hear from you?”

He looked surprised and then sheepish. “No,” he admitted, “I did not. I am sorry, Mama, but you need not have fretted. At sixteen, I’m old enough to take care of myself. I’ve been with Harry, of course. Where else would I be?”

“That had occurred to me,” she conceded, “for I know you’ve always gotten along better with Henry than with Geoff. But I needed to know for certes, Will!”

“No one gets along with Geoff.” Will almost added, “except the whores who’re paid to put up with him,” remembering in the nick of time that he was speaking to his mother. “Harry or Geoff-that was an easy choice, Mama.” He startled her then, though, by saying matter-of-factly, “After all, Harry is going to be King of England one day.”

She studied his sunburned, freckled face, the guileless blue eyes. Who would have guessed that her last fledgling, so cheerful and forthright, had such a practical core? “Are you so sure then, that Henry will win this war?”

He seemed puzzled by the question, that it need even be asked. “Mama, he is already winning! Did you not hear about Pacy?” When she nodded, he straddled a chair, leaning forward eagerly. “A pity you could not have been there to see it; you’d have been so proud of Harry. We half killed ourselves racing for Pacy, and we did lose some of our horses. But we got there in time to save the castle and scare off the French. This is the second time, too, that the French king has refused to do battle with Harry. How does he expect to win this war if he keeps skulking away whenever Harry gets within a mile of the French army?”

“I daresay quite a few men are asking themselves that same question. What happened after you rescued the lord of Pacy? I heard that Henry then invaded Dreux. Is that true?”

Will nodded vigorously. “That is why I am here, Mama, to let you know what has been occurring. Harry thought you ought to hear it from me,” he explained and grinned. “He probably reckoned that a brother would boast of his exploits more than a courier would. But he has earned the right to do a bit of bragging, Mama, and I’m happy to do it in his stead. After the French retreated, Harry said it was time to teach Louis’s allies that this war was going to be a costly one for them, too. We crossed into the Count of Dreux’s lands, burned Brezolles and Marcouville, and Harry demanded hostages from the count’s vassal, Richer de l’Aigle. After that, we took and burned his castle at Bonmoulins. The local people were right glad to see it burn, saying it was a brigand’s castle, a veritable den of thieves.”

Minna approached then with a brimming wine cup, and Will interrupted himself long enough to accept it with a beatific smile. It was becoming obvious to Maude that her youngest son saw this dangerous and needless war as a grand adventure. “Where is Henry now? Where did he go after destroying the castle at Bonmoulins?”

“He is garrisoning all his castles along the Norman border, and once he is sure that Normandy is no longer threatened, he said he’ll be able to quell the rebellion in Anjou.” Will stifled a huge yawn. “I have much more to tell you, Mama, but I think I’d best save the rest for the morrow. My men are bedding down in the priory guest hall, and with your permission, I’ll join them, for it’s been a long ride, a long day.”

“Of course.” Maude bade her son goodnight, kissed him on a smooth, beardless cheek, and agreed to meet him for Morrow Mass the following morning. But once he departed, all her energy seemed to have gone with him, and she sat down wearily upon a coffer chest. After a time, she felt Minna’s hand on her shoulder. For Minna understood, too, why Henry had sent Will to Rouen. He’d done it for her, Maude knew. So that her youngest would not be present when Henry dealt with his faithless brother.

Eleanor awakened with a start. The chamber was dark, save for a single night candle. Colette, a sound sleeper, lay motionless on her pallet by the bed, but Eleanor’s greyhound had begun to whine, and Yolande was fumbling with her bed-robe as she stumbled sleepily toward the door. The knocking continued, louder now. When Yolande opened the door, Eleanor recognized the voice seeking entry: Jordan, her clerk. Why would he be awakening her in the night unless the news was dire? She was grabbing for her bed-robe when Yolande spun around, eyes wide with shock. “My lady, it is your husband!”

Eleanor went cold. “He is not dead?”

“No, my lady, no! Jordan says he is here!” Opening the door wider, Yolande cried, “Jordan, tell her!”

“It is true, madame. The duke has just ridden into the bailey.” As if realizing how unlikely this sounded, Jordan insisted, “I saw him dismounting with my own eyes, my lady, I swear I did!”

“Has he been wounded?”

“No, my lady, not judging by what I saw.”

While Jordan’s assurance dispelled Eleanor’s fears about Henry’s safety, her unease persisted. She was optimistic by nature, as all gamblers are, but it was difficult to be sanguine about her husband’s midnight arrival. Why would Harry break off his campaign and return without warning to Poitiers? She could think of only one reason: the war’s tide had turned against him, so badly that Aquitaine itself was now threatened with invasion. By all accounts, he’d been more than holding his own. But she knew fortune was never so fickle as on the battlefield. What else could it be?

By now, Colette was up, too, hastily pulling on her chemise as Yolande shooed Jordan back outside while they dressed. Slipping into her bed-robe, Eleanor was searching in the floor rushes for her shoes when they heard the voices out on the stairwell. Eleanor forgot about her shoes, started for the door as it burst open again, and a moment later, she was in her husband’s arms.

“I am so glad to see you,” she said once he’d stopped kissing her, somewhat surprised herself by just how glad she was. “But I do not understand why you are here. Is the war about to spill over into Aquitaine?”

Henry smiled and shook his head. “No, love,” he said. “The war is over.”

Below in the great hall, it was chaos. Henry’s men were tired and hungry and triumphant, in need of food and wine and well-deserved accolades, all of which the palace inhabitants were more than willing to provide. For once, the cooks did not mind being roused from their beds to prepare a late-night meal. As word spread that their duchess’s young husband had routed their enemies and protected Aquitaine from invasion, people began to crowd into the hall, eager to share in the excitement, and a boisterous celebration was soon in progress.

Up in the Maubergeon Tower, a private celebration was already under way. Eleanor and her ladies could not do enough for Henry, and despite his exhaustion, he found himself enjoying all the attention, joking that this was every man’s dream come true, to be waited upon by three fair women. Was he thirsty? Yolande flew downstairs to fetch a flagon of spiced hippocras. Was he hungry? Colette was happy to send to the kitchen for venison stew and hot bread and honeyed wafers. When he expressed a need for a bath, one was swiftly arranged. Eleanor unbuckled his scabbard, assisted him in removing his muddied boots, and insisted that he settle himself comfortably upon the bed while he awaited the arrival of his food and bath. Propped up by pillows, basking in female admiration, Henry told them about the war.

“Louis has offered a truce and gone back to Paris to nurse a fever and his bruised pride,” he related, with a sardonic smile that could not hide his jubilation. “His stouthearted accomplices had already made themselves scarce, for this war did not turn out to be as much fun as they’d expected. After I raided into Dreux, Stephen’s nephews decided they were urgently needed at home, lest I pay a visit to Champagne or Blois next. They were always more keen on the spoils of war than the war itself. All save Eustace, who’s like to be sore crazed with rage at such spineless allies.”

Henry paused then, as Yolande came rushing back into the chamber with several precariously balanced wine flagons. Pouring a cup of hippocras, Eleanor carried it over to the bed and sat beside him as he drank. “What of your brother, Harry? What happened in Anjou?”

“Geoff’s rebellion sputtered out like a dying candle. The malcontent lords he’d lured to his banner scattered to the winds as soon as I crossed into Anjou. I had no trouble convincing Geoff’s castellans at Mirebeau, Loudun, and Chinon that it was in their interest to yield the castles to me. Geoff and those of his followers not already in hiding holed up in Montsoreau. I laid siege to it and captured it easily enough to embarrass Geoff, who had no choice then, but to seek my forgiveness.”

“I see.” Eleanor did not expect him to cast his brother into a dungeon and let him rot. But she feared that if he was too lenient with Geoff, other would-be rebels might learn the wrong lesson from his forbearance. “And did you? Did you forgive him?”

“Yes,” Henry said, “I did.” He drank, watching her all the while. “But first I took away his castles.”

Eleanor’s smile was dazzling. “Men will be talking about this war for years to come,” she predicted. “You humbled the French king, put the fear of God into his lackeys, thwarted your chief rival for the English throne, chastened your brat of a brother-and you did all that in less than two months.” Leaning toward him, she murmured, “After such a remarkable campaign, the least I can do is give you an equally memorable welcome home.”

Her breath was warm on his skin, her eyes a luminous cat-gold, and Henry wondered if he’d ever learn to take her beauty for granted, if he’d ever look at her without feeling his pulse jump. “That is a most intriguing offer, Eleanor. Could you be more specific?”

Eleanor laughed softly. “All in good time.” Colette was beckoning from the doorway and she slipped off the bed to confer. Colette reported that the food was almost ready, and the bathwater was being heated, would be brought up after the meal.

“Yolande and I will sleep elsewhere tonight,” she said, smiling, and without waiting to be asked, she began to unfasten Eleanor’s night plait; Colette knew enough of men to be sure that Henry would want his wife’s hair loose and free-flowing for their lovemaking. With deft strokes, she brushed Eleanor’s hair until it felt like silk and looked like fire-lit sable. “How perfect it would be,” she whispered, “if tonight you conceived a son.”

Eleanor’s throat tightened, so great was her desire to bear Henry an heir. He had proved himself, and in spectacular fashion, to her and to the world. But her battlefield would be the birthing chamber, and if she could give him the son God had denied to Louis, that would be her joy, her triumph, and her vindication.

“God Willing, Colette,” she said, and turned back toward Henry, only to come to a surprised stop. When Colette started to speak, she shook her head, putting her finger to her lips as Colette joined her beside the bed.

Colette thought Henry looked very appealing and unguarded in sleep; she’d never noticed before that he had such long golden lashes. “Do you want me to send the food up later?”

“No…let him sleep. Lord knows, he has earned a night’s rest.” Eleanor eased herself onto the bed, but Henry didn’t stir. Gesturing for Colette to hand her a blanket, she gently tucked it around him, then slid under the covers. Blowing out all the candles but one, Colette quietly withdrew. At the door, she paused. Eleanor was propped up on her elbow, gazing down at her sleeping husband. Colette would have expected to find indulgent amusement in her face, and did. But as she watched, the amusement gave way to a different sort of smile, one like a caress, surprising and revealing. Smiling, too, Colette closed the door.

Henry did not at once remember where he was; it had been weeks since he’d slept in such a soft bed. Half asleep, he wondered why he was still dressed, especially since there seemed to be a female form beside him in the bed. Yawning, he leaned over to get a look at his bedmate, admiring the bare shoulder emerging from the sheets. As he did, he caught a beguiling, familiar fragrance. Eleanor’s perfume? Jesus God! Wide awake now, he sat bolt upright as it all came back to him. How could he ever have fallen asleep in Eleanor’s bed?

His movement had shaken the mattress, and her lashes were beginning to flutter. Hoping she wasn’t too vexed with him, he was framing an apology as she opened her eyes and smiled up at him. Captivated by the sudden appearance of her dimple, he had a powerful urge to kiss it, and from there, it seemed only natural to move to her mouth. He would later swear to Eleanor that he’d not meant to make love to her yet, not until he’d washed off the dust of the road, but she kissed him back with enough ardor to blur his good intentions. And so what happened next was not only predictable, it was inevitable.

Raising up on his elbow, Henry grinned, for his discarded tunic had been flung across the room and landed atop Felice, Eleanor’s greyhound. It seemed to have snagged on her collar, for it was draped over her like a tent as she sniffed about in the floor rushes. Shifting so he could slide his arm around Eleanor’s shoulders, he smoothed her hair back from her face. Her throat was reddened, chafed by his beard, and he stroked the soft skin with his fingers, saying ruefully, “I really did plan to take a bath first. But you’re too tempting for your own good, love.”

Eleanor yawned, then gave him a smile of drowsy contentment. “I’m not complaining…”

“No,” he conceded, “you’ve been very good-natured about all of this. Are you always going to be such an obliging wife?”

“Not likely,” she said and laughed. “At the moment, I’m inclined to deny you very little. But that mood is sure to pass, so you’d best take advantage of it whilst you can.”

Henry laughed, too, and pulled her still closer. She traced the freckles on his throat with the tip of her tongue, her fingers playing pleasurably with the hair on his chest, gently scraping his skin with her nails. “I just noticed something. Your hair and beard are sort of a copper color, and your chest hair is golden. But down here,” she said, trailing her fingers across his belly, toward his groin, “the hair is bright red!”

He wouldn’t have thought she could arouse him again so soon, but his body was telling him otherwise. “Flames are always reddest where the fire burns hottest. Did you not know that?”

“If your fire burned any hotter,” she teased, “all of Poitiers would have gone up in flames.” Leaning over, she kissed him gently. No longer playful, she looked intently into his face. “Ah, Harry,” she said, softly and quite seriously, “I am so proud of you.”

What surprised Henry was not her words, it was his response to them. He already knew that he’d waged an extraordinary campaign, one that men would not soon forget, not in France nor England. While he was pleased by all the plaudits he’d reaped, he did not need this acclaim to understand the full magnitude of what he’d accomplished. Never had the English crown been so close, and his one regret was that his father had not lived to see his triumph. He’d not expected Eleanor’s praise to mean so much to him, for he’d not realized until now just how much her opinion had begun to matter. Instead of jesting, he said simply, “I’m glad.”

“I want to give a great feast for you,” she said, “one so lavish and bountiful that people will talk of it in awe. I know you do not care much for such revelries, but trust me-this one you will enjoy, Harry. You and I will sit at the high table, eating porpoise and swan, whilst we watch my male kinfolk eating humble pie!”

“You are right,” Henry said, laughing. “I daresay I would enjoy that!”

“I suppose I ought to summon a servant, for you must be starved.” But Eleanor could not bring herself to move. A pity she and Harry could not spend the entire day in bed, the door bolted, the world shut out. “Passing strange,” she said, “for we’re into our fourth month of marriage and we’ve had only a fortnight together so far. I suppose England is already beckoning, too. How long can you stay this time?”

“As long as you want.”

She sat up, staring at him. “Are you serious?”

“I’ve been thinking about it. If England has survived for nigh on seventeen years under Stephen, it can muddle through for another few months. And so…I have decided to put off my invasion for a while. I thought I’d let you show me Aquitaine instead?” Despite himself, his voice rose questioningly, for they were still, in so many ways, intimate strangers, and he could not be sure that she’d not be disappointed by the delay, craving the English crown more than his company. He saw at once, though, that he need not have worried. Kneeling naked before him on the bed, her eyes sparkling and her hair in wanton disarray, she looked of a sudden very young, giving him a glimpse of the girl who’d gone off with such high hopes to wed the French king.

“You and Aquitaine? Harry, nothing would please me more!”