When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Standing alone upon the dais, Henry soon attracted attention. He waited, though, until all eyes were upon him. “The dancing will resume in a few moments,” he said, and startled murmurs rippled across the hall, for he’d spoken in their tongue. Having made his point, he switched then to French, for he understood Provencal better than he spoke it. “My lady duchess and I would like to thank you for celebrating our wedding with us. We hope that you enjoy yourselves during the dancing and the feasting to follow. But I prefer to have a private wedding supper with my beautiful wife. Judging from what I’ve been hearing in this hall, I am quite sure that you will understand.”

  Never had Henry seen a crowd fall silent so fast. It was suddenly and utterly still. From his vantage point upon the dais, he could see shocked faces, abashed and uneasy looks as people tried to recall whether they’d compromised themselves in his hearing. He was depriving the guests of the favorite part of any wedding celebration, the boisterous bedding-down revelries. But there were no protests, no objections. His last statement had been a threat, sheathed but with a sharp blade, withal. As he had said, they understood perfectly.

  By now he’d located Eleanor, standing a few feet away. She was looking up at him in astonishment, eyes wide, lips parted, at a rare loss for words. Before she could recover from her surprise, he came swiftly down the dais steps, holding out his hand. She took it and the guests moved aside to let them pass. The spell held; not until they’d exited the hall did bedlam break out behind them.

  Henry’s anger had been too hot not to have soon burned itself out. It was already cooling by the time he stepped from the dais, and now he found himself surrounded by charred embers and ashes, wondering how such a brief fire could have done so much damage. Eleanor was walking sedately at his side, her fingers still linked in his, deceptively docile. But she was no more submissive a wife than his mother had been, and while he was grateful for her public compliance, he was not deceived by it. He’d dragged her away from her own wedding feast, and even if he’d not said so plain out, not a soul in the hall doubted his intent-that he was not willing to wait any longer to take his wife to bed. If Geoffrey had done that to his mother, Maude would have been mortified-and she’d never have forgiven him, not in this life or the next. That Henry knew with a chilling certainty. What sort of a start had he gotten their marriage off to?

  By the time they’d reached the stairwell leading up to their wedding chamber in the Maubergeon Tower, he’d faced a hard truth. At the very least, he owed her an apology. And if that was not enough for her, he’d have to abase himself if need be, no matter how painful that was to his pride, for her grievance was a just one.

  A smoking rushlight in an overhead wall sconce dispersed some of the darkness in the stairwell. Eleanor stumbled over her trailing skirts, and when Henry reached out to steady her, she said suddenly, “I still cannot believe you truly did that!”

  He stiffened, then turned to face her. “I know you must be angry, Eleanor, but-”

  He got no further. With a rustle of silk and an elusive scent of unnamed, exotic flowers, she was beside him on the stair, her arms going up around his neck. “Why ever should I be angry? You did enliven the festivities for certes, gave our guests enough to talk about for days to come, and showed my barons that you’re a man who knows what he wants-and when he wants it, by God!” Her laugh was low, her amusement too genuine to doubt. But Henry could not quite believe his luck.

  “You truly are not wroth with me? Whilst I had good cause for my anger, I never meant to shame you, that I swear upon the surety of my soul.”

  “Harry…it does not shame a woman that her husband wants her. It only shames her if he does not.”

  “I do want you,” he said, with a shaken laugh. “You have no idea how much!”

  When she smiled, he kissed her. This was not the chaste Kiss of Peace they’d exchanged in the cathedral. It was one to fire the blood and bring men to ruin. No matter how close he held her, it was not close enough. Her breath was hot against his ear, her fingers entwined in his hair. She tasted of wine and temptation, her kisses as hungry as his own, and he forgot time and place and the world beyond her embrace, aware only of this moment and the woman in his arms and the need to make her his.

  It was the sound of rending silk that brought Eleanor back to reality. “Harry…Harry, wait,” she gasped. “Let me catch my breath…”

  His own breath was coming in short, uneven bursts, too. As he drew back, his shoe struck something metallic. Bending down, he retrieved her coronet, and they both laughed, for neither one could remember when it had been discarded. “Whenever I thought about our wedding night,” he said, “I never saw myself ravishing you in a stairwell…”

  “Well, then,” she said, “let’s find ourselves a bed.”

  They continued climbing the stairs, pausing every few steps to kiss again. When they finally reached the door, Henry said, “Wait. Let’s do this right.” And before she realized what he was about, he caught her up into his arms, carried her over the threshold, and across the chamber to their marriage bed. Given the urgency he’d shown in the stairwell, Eleanor expected him to join her at once in the bed. To her surprise, he moved away.

  “You are not going to quench the candles, are you?” she asked, hoping he was not. Louis had always insisted upon making love in the dark.

  “Jesu, no!” He gave her a startled smile over his shoulder. “Who wants to fumble around in the dark? I suppose that works well enough for bats, but not for me.”

  Fortunately, Eleanor’s servants had already made the chamber ready for them. Wood was stacked in the hearth, to be fired if need be. The floor was strewn with fresh rushes, intermingled with fragrant herbs like sweet woodruff and costmary. Knowing how she loved flowers, Colette and Yolande had filled the room with bouquets of periwinkle and violets and even a few early-blooming white roses. A flagon of wine and two gemencrusted goblets had been set out upon the table, and after he slid the door’s bolt into place, Henry poured wine into one of the goblets and carried it back to the bed.

  “To our union,” he said, holding out the cup. She saluted his wordplay with a smile, took a sip and passed the cup back. He sat beside her upon the bed, and they took turns drinking, watching each other avidly all the while. Eleanor was pleased that he no longer seemed in such a hurry, reassured that he could exercise this sort of self-control. Would he be as good a lover as his passion promised? So much she did not know about him, so much they both had to discover. But what she’d learned so far, she liked-very much, indeed. Handing Henry the goblet, she began to unbraid her hair.

  Once her hair was free, she shook her head until it drifted about her shoulders in a dark, glossy cloud, making her look even more desirable and wanton than in Henry’s most erotic dreams. “The first time I saw you, there in your husband’s hall ere half the French court, I’d have bartered my soul to have you here like this, in my bed.”

  “You can keep your soul,” she assured him, reclining back against the pillows in a pose that was both playful and provocative. “I’ll settle for your body, my lord husband.”

  Henry laughed, and when she started to unlace her gown, he caught her hand in his. “No,” he said, “let me.” Eleanor lifted her hair up out of the way and he soon had the laces loosened, so deftly done that she knew he’d had some practice at this. Her gown had gotten a small tear in that frenzied embrace out in the stairwell, and it tore still further as he drew it over her head, but he offered no apology, for he was learning what mattered to her and what did not. Her chemise was of silk, too, ivory-white and as soft as her skin. Her shoes were a patterned Spanish leather, slit over her instep and fastened with an ankle thong, her stockings gartered above the knee with beribboned scarlet ties. Watching him through her lashes as he slid a stocking down her leg, she murmured, “Now I know what a birthday present feels like as it is being unwrapped.”

  “Some gifts are worth taking time and trouble with.” Leaning forward, he kissed her again,
and then slowly and deliberately removed her last garment. As the chemise fluttered down to the floor, his breath quickened. “Helen of Troy must have looked like you,” he said, and she laughed softly.

  “That is a pretty compliment,” she said, “and I like it well. I like even better what I see in your eyes. We’ve waited a long time for this night, Harry, but there is no need to wait any longer.” He was in full agreement with her, already jerking at his belt. As he started to strip off his tunic, she reached over to help him, saying, “My turn.”

  “Next time, love. I can do it much faster!” This he proceeded to prove, as tunic and shirt went sailing across the room. His chausses were short, reaching to the knee, and quickly disposed of. That left only the linen braies, and as he slid them down over his hips, he grinned, saying, “This you can help with, love!” Marveling at how very different were the men she’d married, Eleanor did.

  Eleanor was realistic enough to be aware that their first lovemaking might be less than perfect. They might well need time for their bodies to become attuned, to discover what pleased each other, to trust enough to let down their defenses. As drawn as she was to Henry, she had no way of knowing what sort of lover he would be, not until they were in bed together on their wedding night. And if she’d misjudged him, by then it would be too late. She was sure he’d need no coaxing, for he was young and hot-blooded. But he might still prove to be a selfish lover, one intent only upon his own pleasures. Or too quick, too eager, spilling his seed too soon. Because she found that such a troubling prospect, she’d labored to rein in her expectations, reminding herself that a wedding-night disappointment did not mean marital disaster. They could adapt, they could learn. He was not like Louis.

  She soon discovered that she need not have worried. Making love with her new husband was as natural and easy as breathing, as satisfying and sensual an experience as she could ever have hoped for. There was not much tenderness in this initial coupling; they were both too aroused for that. What happened between them was impassioned, intense, and white-hot, like falling into a fire and somehow emerging unscathed. That was Eleanor’s first coherent thought afterward. She lay very still, loath to let Henry go even though he was no longer supporting his weight with his elbows, having collapsed on top of her as he reached his climax. She could hear the hammering of his heart, feel sweat trickling down between their bodies. It was not particularly comfortable, but she would have been content to stay like that for some time to come. When he finally lifted himself up, she felt bereft as he withdrew, and protested, “No, not yet…”

  “I must be squashing you,” he insisted, rolling over onto his back. His voice was normally hoarse and low-pitched, but now it had taken on a husky rasp, his words coming out slow and scratchy. Turning his head on the pillow so he could look at her, he said, “Good God, woman…” Eleanor smiled without opening her eyes.

  “Well put,” she agreed, and after a few more moments, he groped for her hand, kissing her palm.

  “Forget what I told you in Paris,” he said. “I would have married you without Aquitaine…”

  “You are a gallant liar,” she said, and he laughed. He seemed to be reviving faster than she was. Leaning over, he kissed the corner of her mouth, then reached down to recover their wine cup from the floor rushes. Finding it empty, he swung off the bed for a refill, pausing to snatch up a towel along the way. Back in bed, he shared both with Eleanor, trading sips as he patted her dry and then rubbed himself, far more vigorously.

  Eleanor stretched lithely, propping their pillows behind her back. “It seems ungracious to complain after you just gave me the most memorable wedding night any woman ever had,” she said. “But you also abducted me from our wedding supper ere I could get even a crust of bread.”

  “I’ve never yet let a hostage of mine starve.” Rising from the bed again, he strode over to ring for a servant. Eleanor enjoyed watching him, for he was so comfortable in his nakedness, so utterly unself-conscious, so unlike Louis. She wondered how long it would be ere she stopped comparing them, how long ere Louis’s spectre faded into insignificance. She did not think Harry would leave room in his marriage for any other man, even a memory.

  A servant soon came in response to the summons, and Henry opened the door just wide enough to order supper. The chamber was strewn with their discarded clothing, and as he started back to the bed, she asked, “Do you think we ought to pick up our clothes ere they bring in the food?”

  He glanced about at the telltale disarray, then shrugged. “Why? This is our wedding night. I doubt that anyone thinks we’re playing chess up here to pass the time.” But he was still pondering her query, and as he got back into bed with her, he gave her a curious, speculative look. “Was Louis one for setting up the chessboard?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” she conceded. “It is only natural that people should have been so interested in what happened-or not-in our marriage bed. He was the king, after all. But that scrutiny always made him uncomfortable. He would never have allowed servants to enter our room had it looked like this one does, as if we’d undressed in a mad race for the bed.”

  “That sounds like a race well worth running,” he joked, “given what is waiting at the finish line.” He had an exceptional memory, as Eleanor now discovered. “And always in the dark, too?”

  She nodded, somewhat reluctantly, for she did not really want to discuss her first husband with her second. Not only did it seem a gratuitous cruelty to Louis, but she could not abide the thought that Harry might pity her, a Queen of France who’d been forced to live almost as chastely as a nun. “I cannot believe you remembered my query about the candles! I think you may be too quick for my own good.”

  “Not when it truly counts,” he promised, and Eleanor rolled over into his arms, relishing another pleasure that had been scarce in her first marriage-the sweet sin of laughing together in bed.

  Eleanor had never had a meal like this one, eaten in bed, a table pulled within reach so they could help themselves, for neither she nor Henry wanted servants hovering about. Henry preferred to do the honours himself, lifting the chafing dishes to offer her a spiced meatball, a taste of savory rice, a few spoonfulls of pea soup. “Your cooks must think I have a harem hidden away up here,” he said, “for they’ve sent enough to feed a dozen hungry souls. Do you want some more of the roast pheasant?”

  “No…what are those dishes off to your right?”

  Henry lifted the lids. “This looks like lamprey eels, in some sort of sauce, and this one has beef-marrow tarts.” When she selected the latter, he passed it to her on a napkin. “So…where were we? Ah, yes, you were telling me that your father once clashed with Abbot Bernard, too?”

  Eleanor nodded. “He was not as stalwart as Geoffrey, though,” she said regretfully, “for when Abbot Bernard confronted him with the Host, he went pale as death and toppled over like a felled tree.”

  “A pity,” Henry said succinctly, and Eleanor smiled fondly at him, for she found his skepticism a pleasant contrast, indeed, to Louis’s absolute certainty that Bernard was a living saint.

  “I think it bodes well for our marriage,” she teased, “that we seem to dislike all the same people.” Leaning over, she fed him the last of her marrow tart. “When shall I get to meet your mother, Harry?”

  “I’d not be in such a hurry if I were you,” he said wryly. “Most people find my mother to be a very formidable lady, indeed. It will be fascinating-in a scary sort of way-to watch the two of you take each other’s measure. But that is not likely to come about in the near future. Remember what I told you last night…that my English allies are growing impatient? They insist they need me in England, and cannot comprehend why I’ve kept finding excuses to put off the invasion. I just hope they understand why I could not risk telling them about our marriage plans. But I promised my uncle Rainald that I’d be at Barfleur in a fortnight and we’d start gathering a fleet.”

  Eleanor was momentarily taken aback, for she’d expected that they�
�d have more than a fortnight together. But she could hardly complain, for it was not as if he were going off on a pleasure jaunt. “Do you want me to go with you to Barfleur?”

  Henry was delighted with her matter-of-fact response. How many men were lucky enough to have a wife with such political acumen, and as seductive as Eve in the bargain? “I would love to have you with me at Barfleur,” he said, “but I need you more here, in Poitiers. I can rely upon my mother to keep watch over Normandy whilst I am in England. I want you to make sure that Aquitaine stays calm, too, Eleanor, or as calm as it ever gets.”

  “I will,” she said, and he kissed her gratefully, then selected a ginger-filled wafer for them to share.

  “What about your mother? Do you remember her, Eleanor?”

  “Truthfully, not a lot. Aenor, she was called. Did you know that is what my name means? ‘The other Aenor.’ I was eight when she died, but I have few vivid memories of her, for she was not like your mother, Harry, not a woman to be reckoned with. She was soft-spoken, not one for drawing attention to herself. I do not think she was ever happy with my father, nor he with her. They were coerced into the marriage by my grandfather and her mother, and I can understand why they were loath to wed. It had created enough of a scandal when my grandfather carried off the wife of one of his own vassals. But then to marry his son to that woman’s daughter-you can well imagine the gossip that stirred up!”

  Henry sat up so abruptly that he almost spilled his wine. “Did I hear you right? Your grandfather was having a tryst with Aenor’s mother?”

  “Not just a tryst, Harry. A notorious dalliance. The lady, who had the remarkably apt name of Dangereuse, was wed to a neighboring lord, the Viscount of Chatellerault. My grandfather always did have a roving eye, and he never seemed to see marriage as much of a hindrance-his or anyone else’s.”