When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  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 despit
e 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.