When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

He supposed he could not blame her if she was suffering a few eleventh-hour qualms. Watching her entertain him with such impersonal perfection, he’d found himself thinking of an old adage: A burnt child dreads the fire. After fourteen years with St Louis, most of them miserable, was it any wonder that she might be skittish of marriage? Who would understand that better than he? For much of his life, he’d been an unwilling eyewitness to the carnage-strewn battlefield that was his parents’ marriage, hostage to their embittered and irreconcilable demands.

  He’d found it easy enough to reassure himself that if Eleanor was indeed having some doubts, it was only to be expected. But if he was so sure of that, why was he unable to sleep? He refused to believe he might be nervous. The one and only time he’d ever experienced anxiety over bedsport was before his first sexual encounter, at age fourteen. He’d never expected to feel such unease again. But he’d never lain with a woman as seductive and highborn and daunting as Eleanor. His bedmates had been numerous, for he rarely slept alone. But they were usually bedazzled village girls or high-paid harlots. Never a queen, one of the greatest beauties in Christendom.

  He’d sometimes felt sorry for women, as they seemed to have a much harder row to hoe than men. What man could be more strong-willed or daring than his mother? A king’s daughter, an empress, a would-be queen in her own right, she’d still been expected to obey his father, and had lost every major battle of their marital wars. It was not that Henry thought women should be given an equal say in the matters of men; he could not imagine anyone making an argument that preposterous. He could not help sympathizing with their plight, nonetheless, for he could envision few fates worse than to be utterly powerless. But as he tossed and turned in one of Eleanor’s guest bedchambers, he discovered that women were not as powerless as he’d often thought. Eleanor’s weapon might be a smile instead of a sword, but she could wreak her own sort of havoc, for certes. How else explain why he was still lying awake in the early hours of this, his wedding day?

  HENRY and Eleanor were married that Whitsunday afternoon, out in the spring sunlight by the door of the cathedral church of St Pierre. The churchyard was thronged with excited, jostling spectators, for word had soon spread through the city and people turned out in large numbers to watch their lady wed.

  Standing before the Bishop of Poitiers, Henry had eyes only for his bride. Eleanor’s wedding gown was form-fitting to the hips, with a swirling full skirt and train, sleeves tight to the elbow and then billowing out in graceful hanging cuffs. The material was a richly woven silk brocade, a deep, dusky shade of gold. Her hair was plaited into two long braids, entwined with gold-thread ribbons, her veil as light as sunlight and almost as transparent, held in place by a gleaming coronet. She wore his bride-gift on her right hand, an emerald ring of beaten gold. The jewel had reminded him of her eyes, but today her hazel irises reflected the color of her gown, taking on a tawny, amber glow.

  Cat’s eyes, he thought, giving away no secrets, and slipped the wedding band onto each of her fingers in turn before sliding it down onto the third finger of her left hand, the one judged closest to the heart. Having promised before man and God to cleave unto this beautiful stranger from this day forth, till “death us do part,” he said, “With this ring, I thee wed,” and as a loud burst of cheering rocked the churchyard, he could only hope that this was indeed well done.

  UPON their return to Eleanor’s palace, Henry was not pleased to find that the trestle tables had not yet been set up in the great hall. It seemed there was to be dancing before the meal began. Since there would also be entertainment afterward, this meant that the festivities would last till well past dark. He wanted nothing so much as to be alone with Eleanor, to discover again the woman who’d bewitched him in the royal gardens of the Cité Palace, but that would be hours away. Till then, he would have to curb his impatience, politely put up with her barons and family as best he could.

  He did try. He would later—much later—insist to Eleanor that he’d acted in good faith, striving to play the part expected of him, that of the eager, joyful bridegroom. Eager he was, without doubt. Joyful…no. He was too tense, too irritated by his new in-laws for genuine joy. But he would have been able to give a reasonably convincing performance—if only he’d not understood langue d’oc.

  In his boyhood, one of his favorite stories was of a young man who found a magical cloak, one that rendered him invisible whenever he wore it. Henry had been fascinated by the folktale, but he’d never realized that such a power might be a two-edged sword. Hearing what was not meant for his ears was not a pleasurable experience. The jokes were ribald and forthright in French, but far more offensive in Provençal. Normally he’d have taken the teasing in stride, for that was every bridegroom’s lot. But his sense of humor seemed to have decamped in the night. He could deflect the bawdy jokes aimed at him; he was not easily embarrassed. But the private jesting by Eleanor’s brothers and uncles could not be laughed off, for their mockery was premised upon a highly insulting assumption—that Eleanor would soon have him jumping through hoops and begging for favors like a lady’s spaniel lapdog.

  He danced several carols with Eleanor, chatted amiably with Petronilla, the only member of his wife’s family he could abide, and listened with feigned enthusiasm to a song by the troubadour and poet Bernard de Ventadour, one too lavish in praise of Eleanor’s beauty for his liking. Bored and tired and increasingly restive, he found it helped to fortify himself with the free-flowing wine, although he was usually a very sparing drinker. Accepting his third cup of spiced hippocras, he traded thinly veiled barbs with Geoffrey de Rancon. He’d not met Rancon before Poitiers, but the man was known to him; he’d heard the sorry saga of Rancon’s deadly blunder on the march toward Jerusalem, one that had caused the deaths of countless crusaders.

  Rancon had been ordered by the French king to halt at the summit of Mount Cadmos, but he’d chosen to disregard Louis’s instructions and led the vanguard onward in search of a better campsite. The king, riding in the rear, was unaware of this, and allowed the rearward to lag behind, thinking they would soon be upon Rancon’s encampment. When the watching Turks swooped down upon them, the French panicked and the rugged mountain terrain was soon soaked in Christian blood. The king himself had narrowly escaped death, and although Eleanor remained steadfastly loyal to her beleaguered vassal, Geoffrey de Rancon had been sent home in disgrace.

  Henry was not well disposed toward any man so cavalier about disobeying a royal command, convinced that inevitably led to anarchy, to Stephen’s England. Excusing himself as soon as he could, he was turning to look for Eleanor when he heard her brothers laughing behind him.

  “There he goes, on her scent again. I’d wager that in no time at all, she’ll have the lad heeling and going down on command, without even needing a leash!”

  “Well, early training works wonders with greyhound pups, fledgling hawks, and yearling colts, Will, so why not with young husbands? It is just a matter of using the right bait!”

  Under other circumstances, Henry might have reacted with indifference or annoyance, depending upon his mood. Now he swung around with an oath, his temper flaring up so fast that he had no chance at all of quenching it. Anger long-smoldering took only seconds to become a conflagration.

  ELEANOR had been slow to realize that something was troubling her new husband, distracted in part by her obligations as hostess and in part by her own edginess about the marriage. Nor did she find it easy to read Henry. He was not like Louis, whose face was a faithful mirror for his every thought. No…Harry was going to be more of a challenge. She was sure he’d give away clues; all men did. But it might take her a while to learn to recognize them.

  It was not until their return from the church that she’d begun to sense something was amiss. She’d noticed at breakfast that Henry looked as if he’d slept poorly, but she’d taken his wakefulness as a compliment. Watching him as they danced, though, she’d concluded that he was not enjoying himself. She would have to make sure t
hat the festivities did not drag on too long. She did not know yet how she’d manage that, but she’d find a way. This marriage had to succeed; there was too much at stake.

  Declining an offer to join in the circle forming for the next carol, she beckoned to her sister. “Have you seen Harry?”

  “Over there, with Will and Joscelin.”

  One glance was enough to alert Eleanor to trouble. Henry’s back was to her, but her brothers looked as if they’d been caught bloody-handed over a dead body. She headed toward them, but Henry was already stalking away. “Wait,” she cried out before her brothers could bolt. “The pair of you look guiltier than horse thieves. What happened?”

  They exchanged uncomfortable looks. Will shook his head, almost imperceptibly, but Joscelin refused to take the hint. “We have to tell her, Will,” he insisted. “Better she hears it from us.”

  Eleanor did not like the sound of that at all. “For the love of God, Jos! Just say it straight out.”

  “Eleanor…he understands langue d’oc!”

  “Oh, no…” Eleanor stared at them in dismay. If Harry had heard even half of the jokes floating around the hall…“What did you say, Jos? Will?”

  Will shrugged, refusing to meet her eyes. Looking shamefaced, Joscelin mumbled, “We were jesting. He ought to have let us know he spoke our tongue.” Squirming under his sister’s accusing eyes, he glanced toward Will for help, got none, and sighed. “We…well, we joked that he’d soon be following you about like one of your greyhounds, or words to that effect…”

  Eleanor was not mollified, realizing she’d just been given a cleaned-up version of what Henry had overheard. “I’ve never had a taste for watered-down wine, Jos,” she warned. “How can I make amends unless I know just how grievously you offended him? Try the truth this time.”

  But at that moment, there was a stir throughout the hall. The musicians had stopped in the midst of the carol. The dancers halted in puzzlement, the musicians looking apologetically in Eleanor’s direction. She knew they would not have ceased playing so abruptly unless ordered to do so, and there were just two people present with the authority to give such a command. Gathering up her skirts, she started hastily toward her husband. But she was too late; Henry was already mounting the steps of the dais.

  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 Provençal 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.

  “Jesú, 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 swee
t 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.”