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.
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