The Devil's Temptress

by Laura Navarre

  “Aye . . . your sons.” A muscle flexed in Jervaise’s jaw. “Prince Richard did not appear on the battlefield, and he eluded my efforts to detain him. He’s likely returned to France by now.”

  “Ah, those lads of mine.” As he massaged his brow, the king looked every one of his forty-odd years. “I was waging war too at their age—but a bit more successfully. Like father, like sons, hey?”

  Jervaise snorted.

  “Nonetheless,” the king said, “their plan to raise the rebels here has foundered, now that I’ve captured Scots William. And that spineless cur Philip of Flanders was likewise dissuaded.”

  “What are your plans now?” Alienore asked.

  “Back to Rouen.” Vigorously, the king paced. “To break French Louis’s feeble excuse for a siege and call my other sons to heel. They’ll yield, sure enough, when they find they’ve no hole to hide in.”

  And then, after a stern reprimand, Henry would forgive them, of course. She and Jervaise had whispered about it while they lay naked and spent in their bed. The king had no choice but to make peace with his heirs—the heirs to a throne he and his mother before him had fought a lifetime to secure.

  As for royal forgiveness, who needed it more than the wife who’d betrayed him?

  Glancing up, she found Henry’s eyes fixed on her. “And what of Eleanor, you mean to ask me, hey?”

  “Aye.” She bowed her head. “You will have the grace to forgive your sons when the moment comes. Queen Eleanor is no less in need of your mercy.”

  “That’s her misfortune,” Henry grunted. “The woman’s been a viper in my bed. I can’t allow her to slither free this time.”

  Her heart ached for her godmother, the woman she’d admired and loved and striven to emulate, for a time. “Surely you cannot mean to divorce her?”

  “Nay, that I can’t do.” Irritably he tossed his goblet to the page, who managed to catch it. “For then Aquitaine would rise. God’s eyes, am I to be given no peace this side of the grave?

  “But nay. She crossed the Channel with me, and I’ve installed her—behind walls and under guard—at Old Sarum.”

  “Imprisoned?” she cried. “God’s mercy, Your Grace! The queen must despise that.”

  “Well, she’s earned it.” He shrugged. “’Tis a fair castle, and secure. Eleanor will rest there safe enough, though she’s forbidden to receive visitors. That includes you, madam. I trust I’ve made myself clear?”

  “Aye,” she murmured, accepting the royal decree, even while her heart mourned.

  After Henry had taken his leave, their journey toward the coast resumed. After a time, Jervaise cleared his throat.

  “Don’t take it amiss, what Henry’s done to Eleanor. Perhaps, in time, he’ll change his mind.”

  “Perhaps.” Unexpectedly, her spirits rose. “Somehow I do not believe Eleanor of Aquitaine will spend all her days behind walls. I daresay there are pages of her history still to be written.”

  Before twilight, Jervaise called a halt. Their party pitched camp among a grove of shady birch trees near a gurgling brook. Leaving the arrangements in Nesta’s competent hands, Alienore strolled along the stream and let the sun-dappled solace of the trees envelop her. Remus bounded before her, following some scent he’d nosed.

  Trailing the wolf, she rounded a bend and came upon Jervaise. By instinct, she halted, catching the cheerful hail before it slipped from her tongue. Stripped of his armor, he knelt in his shirt and chausses on a square of colorful carpet. His back to her, he faced east, away from the setting sun.

  At first, she could not discern what he did, though the low liquid syllables of Outremer rolled from his lips. Only when he pressed his hands together and bowed, touching his brow to the carpet, did understanding bloom in her mind.

  When it did, she clasped her hands, tears of wonder and gratitude spilling beneath her lids. There, firmly planted on fertile English soil, facing the distant Mecca of Outremer, where his heritage lay—like a bridge between past and future—Jervaise de Vaux was praying.