Rainald guffawed, then clouted him on the shoulder. “You’re one to talk! You may not stray far from home and hearth nowadays, but I remember when-” He stopped abruptly, awkwardly, not wanting to remind Ranulf of those dark times when his adulterous passion for Annora Fitz Clement had nearly brought him to ruin. Fumbling for another topic, he said hastily, “You’ve not heard about Stephen’s son, have you? We got word this afternoon that he died at Limoges.”
“No, I had not heard.” Ranulf sketched a cross, feeling a twinge of sadness. William, the Count of Boulogne and Earl of Surrey, had fallen ill on their withdrawal from Toulouse, but he was a young man and Ranulf had expected him to recover. How sad to die in a foreign land, so far from home and family, in the service of the king who’d been his father’s implacable foe. “He had no children by his de Warenne wife, did he?”
“No, and that is the trouble. Boulogne is now up for grabs, since the only one left of Stephen’s children is William’s sister, Mary, and she cannot very well rule it from Romsey’s nunnery. Harry was right vexed, says the vultures will soon be circling-”
“Ranulf!” Hywel was coming toward them across the smoke-wreathed bailey. “Padarn has been hurt.”
Ranulf felt a jolt of alarm; the young Welshman had once been his squire and had insisted upon being included in the contingent of Welsh he and Hywel were commanding. “How badly?”
“A flaming rafter from the stables came crashing down, killing one of the king’s hired Flemings. Padarn was able to dive clear in time, but his arm was burned and I think we ought to get him back to camp straightaway.”
As Ranulf turned toward his brother, Rainald waved him on. “Go,” he said. “Find the lad a doctor. We’ve men enough to take care of things here.”
Ranulf glanced once more at the wreckage of Gerberoy, then hastened after Hywel. Enough men had already died in a country not their own. He meant to make sure that Padarn was not one of them.
Ranulf and Hywel left Padarn in the doctor’s tent, his burns being treated with goose-grease salve, his pain with spiced red wine. Day was waning and shadows lengthening. Hywel glanced toward the north, where the glowing horizon attested to Gerberoy’s fiery demise. “I promised Padarn we’d find him some mead. Are we going to have to ferment it ourselves?”
“Probably.” Henry’s command tent lay ahead and Ranulf quickened his step. Just then the flap was pulled up and a tall man emerged, dark and saturnine and vaguely familiar. As Ranulf watched, he signaled imperiously to his waiting attendants, then strode over to a tethered bay stallion. Once he and his men were mounted, they galloped out of the encampment at a pace to send soldiers scattering, but he seemed as indifferent to their hurled curses as he’d been to their safety, never once looking back.
Hywel cursed, too, for he’d turned his ankle jumping out of the way. “Who is that arrogant whoreson?”
“I’ve seen him somewhere,” Ranulf said, “but my memory needs prodding. Let’s find out from Harry.”
Henry and Thomas Becket had spread a map out upon a trestle table and were studying it intently. They looked so pleased with themselves that Ranulf knew something was afoot. And it was then that he remembered where he’d seen the swaggering stranger: last year in Paris, at the court of the French king.
“Good God Almighty, that was Simon de Montfort!”
“You think so?” Henry asked innocently, but his eyes were full of laughter.
“Who,” Hywel asked, “is Simon de Montfort?”
“The Count of Evreux, a highborn and high-handed lord who happens to be a vassal of the French king. What was he doing here, Harry?”
“Betraying Louis,” Henry said, and gestured for a servant to fetch them wine. “He has agreed to do homage to me…” He paused deliberately, savoring the drama. “And to turn over into my keeping the castles of Montfort, Rochefort, and Epernon.”
“Which means,” Becket chimed in, “that Louis’s domains will be cut in half, as this map plainly shows.”
“I am impressed,” Ranulf said. “Dare I ask how you brought this about?”
Henry merely smiled, leaving it to Becket to answer for him. “De Montfort saw what befell the Bishop of Beauvais’s lands and, quite understandably, became alarmed that his own estates might suffer the same fate. It was not difficult to persuade him that he’d fare better as Harry’s vassal than he would as Louis’s.”
Hywel had followed Ranulf over to look at the map. “With his brothers in full retreat and his vassals deserting him, will the French king be able to continue the war?”
Becket shook his head. “We very much doubt it. De Montfort’s defection puts him in a perilous position, and even if he does not realize that, there will be plenty to point it out to him.”
Henry perched on the edge of the table, running his hand absently through his unruly coppery hair. “Louis has neither the desire nor the stomach to turn Normandy and France into a bloody battlefield. He’ll soon seek a truce, which I will agree to, and then we can all go home.”
“Now that you mention it,” Ranulf said, “Hywel and I are both eager to get back to Wales.”
“You and Lord Hywel can have the use of one of my ships,” Becket said, and when Ranulf looked inquiringly at his nephew, Henry nodded.
“I see no reason for you to wait upon the truce. Take Thomas up on his offer. He has six ships, you know, whilst the Crown only has the one. I ofttimes have to borrow one of his myself!”
Ranulf’s smile was brilliant, radiant with relief. “Is the morrow too soon? It’s been more than six months since I’ve seen my wife, after all.”
“It’s been nigh on that long since I’ve seen my wife, too,” Henry said, then smiled ruefully, for he suspected that making peace with the French king would be easier than making peace with Eleanor.
The great fortress of William the Bastard was situated on an escarpment high above the Norman town of Falaise. One of the most formidable of Henry’s castles, it was here that he had chosen to hold his Christmas court, and it was here that he was to have his long delayed reunion with his wife.
Sleet was lashing the streets of Falaise, and few of the townspeople came out to watch as the king rode up the hill toward the castle. An earlier snowfall had yet to melt and the road was half-hidden, perilously icy in patches. Winter’s siege that year had begun early and seemed likely to be a long and brutal one, and Henry’s men were shivering from the cold, hunched over their saddles in a futile attempt to escape the wind’s buffeting fury. They were all looking forward to the roaring hearths and warm beds awaiting them at the castle; Henry alone felt no sense of relief as they rode into the bailey.
He didn’t think he was nervous; how could a man be uneasy at facing his own wife? But he felt an unfamiliar edginess, nonetheless, as he strode into the great hall. Eleanor was standing by the hearth, and as always when they’d been long apart, he was struck anew by the sheer physical impact of her beauty. Her youth was behind her, for she was thirty-seven, and she was not as willow-slim as on their wedding day, not after five pregnancies in seven years. But the body clad in a clinging green gown had a voluptuous, feline grace, and her finely sculpted cheekbones, full, sensual mouth, and slanting hazel eyes gave her a look uniquely her own, at once elegant and provocative. The first time he’d laid eyes upon her, in the Paris palace of the French king, she’d quite literally stolen his breath away. She still did, for she was too passionate and too self-willed and too reckless a woman ever to be taken for granted. As she moved to meet him, he wanted only to sweep her into his arms and off to bed. But it would not be that simple. Life with Eleanor was by turns exciting and unpredictable and occasionally infuriating, but never simple.
His mother had traveled from Rouen for his Christmas court, and she and his brother, Will, hastened forward to welcome him home. Eleanor followed, more slowly. Her greeting was appropriately formal in a hall filled with highborn guests. When he grazed her cheek with a deliberately casual kiss, her smile was unwavering, her eyes u
nrevealing. They had no chance to speak, for the nurses were ushering his children toward him.
Six months was a significant span in a child’s life, and Henry was startled to see how rapidly they’d grown in his absence. Hal was nigh on five, Tilda three, Richard two, and Geoffrey, the baby, tottering unsteadily at fifteen months. They all had Henry’s vivid coloring, as did his illegitimate son, another Geoffrey, who would celebrate his sixth birthday in less than a week’s time. Beckoning the boy forward when he hung back shyly, Henry glanced over at Eleanor, remembering her reaction when he’d told her about Geoffrey. He hadn’t been sure how she’d react to his revelation of a bastard child, one he meant to raise as his own. But she’d taken the news with aplomb, saying she was not likely to get jealous because he’d scratched an itch.
Maude at once began to question him about the truce with the French king, but the mother soon prevailed over the empress. “Harry, your clothes are soaked through,” she chided softly. “You’d best change out of them straightaway.”
“I’ll send servants to prepare a bath for you,” Eleanor said, showing a proper wifely concern that gave Henry no comfort, for those luminous hazel eyes remained inscrutable.
As men poured steaming buckets of hot water into the tub, Henry sat on a coffer so his squire could pull off his boots. His fatigue took him by surprise, for he was accustomed to long, hard hours in the saddle in weather even worse than this. Hastily stripping off his sodden clothes, he sank down gratefully in the tub, waving away the youth’s offer of further assistance.
“You look half-frozen, too, lad. Go find yourself a flagon of wine or a willing lass, whatever it takes to warm you up.”
Miles grinned and disappeared. Henry dismissed the rest of the servants, too; he’d never liked being hovered over. Leaning back, he rested his neck against the padded rim of the tub. The water was caressing his aching muscles, soothing away cramps and stiffness. A tantalizingly familiar scent filled his nostrils; after a moment, he realized that they’d given him Eleanor’s perfumed soap. He poured some into his palms and lathered his chest. He did not usually linger in his bath, but the warm water was lulling, even seductive, and he soon closed his eyes.
He did not even realize when he fell asleep, and when he awoke, it was with a start, unsure how much time had passed. Something cold touched his cheek and he sat up with a splash, staring into the soft brown eyes of Felice, Eleanor’s brindle greyhound. Reaching out, he fondled the dog’s silky ears, and then turned so hastily that he churned up a wave of water. His wife was seated across from him on the coffer, her feet tucked comfortably under her, regarding him impassively over the rim of a silver gilt wine cup.
The silence spun out between them, a spider’s web made of memories and the tangled skeins of miscommunication. It was a contest of wills Henry was bound to lose, and he knew it. “So,” he said, falling back upon humor that was somewhat defensive, too, “were you planning to drown me whilst I slept?”
“Have you given me reason to want to drown you?”
“You tell me.”
Eleanor lifted her wine cup, drinking slowly. “Are we talking of Toulouse, Harry?”
“What else? I know you had your heart set upon reclaiming it. But it was not to be, Eleanor. Go ahead, blame me if you will. I’ll hear you out. It will change nothing, though.”
“I know.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “You’re taking this much better than I expected.”
“Is that why you avoided Poitiers on your withdrawal from Toulouse?”
Henry’s first instinct was to justify his absence, to remind her that he’d been occupied in chasing Louis’s brothers out of Normandy. But she’d spoken so matter-of-factly that he found himself conceding, “I suppose I may have been somewhat reluctant to face you then.” Adding, with just the glimmer of a smile, “After all, I could only fight one war at a time.” He waited for her response, but she continued to sip her wine, saying nothing. “Are you going to tell me that I was wrong?” he challenged. “That you were not wroth with me?”
“No, I was indeed wroth with you, Harry. So it was probably for the best that you did stay away as long as you did.”
“And now that I’m back?”
She finished the last of her wine, reached for a nearby flagon, and poured another cupful. Coming to her feet, she leaned over the tub. “Now that you’re back,” she said, “I think we have better things to do than argue.”
As she held out the cup, he made no move to take it, letting her tilt it to his lips. The water had begun to cool, but his body was suddenly flooded with heat, centering in his groin and radiating outward. He’d never known another woman able to stir his desire so fast, and he groped hastily for a towel, saying huskily, “I’ve spent enough time in this bath.”
But as he started to rise, she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back. “No… wait,” she said, and as he watched, she unfastened her veil and wimple, began to loosen her long, dark braid. Lifting her skirt, she kicked off her shoes. He expected her to remove her stockings next, but instead she straightened up, and then swung her leg over the rim of the tub. A moment later, she’d slid down into the water, smiling at his startled expression. Running her fingers along the sopping silk that now molded to her body like a second skin, she said, “You owe me a new gown.”
Henry began to laugh. “I owe you more than that,” he said, and pulled her into his arms. The water was soon spilling over the tub’s rim, drenching the floor rushes. But by then, they were too busy to care, even to notice.
Eleanor stirred and sighed. Usually she was an early riser. But this morning she and Henry had slept late, for their lovemaking had been ardent and frequent, and it was almost dawn before they’d finally fallen into an exhausted, satisfied sleep. Her thigh muscles were as sore as if she’d spent a day in the saddle, and she smiled drowsily as the night’s memories came surging back.
The ruin of a favored gown had been well worth it, for that calculated plunge into his bath had aroused her husband even more than she’d dared hope. Once a man’s imagination was inflamed, his body kept catching fire of its own accord. Not that Harry ever needed much encouragement. His sexual hungers were usually as boundless as his energy. Unlike the monkish Louis, he was delighted when her own passion flared out of control, fondly calling her “hellcat” if she left scratches down his back, teaching her ways to pleasure a man that would have horrified her confessor.
Beside her, Henry slept on, one arm draped across her hip, his face pillowed in her hair. Laying her hand over his heart, she entwined bright golden strands of chest hair around her forefinger, tugging gently. He already had an early morning erection, and she could feel it swelling against her thigh as her fingers trailed across his belly. He kept his eyes shut, pretending still to sleep until her intimate caresses evoked an involuntary gasp. Laughing, she rolled over into his arms, and did her very best to reward him for being so responsive to her overtures.
Eleanor would never have admitted, even to herself, that she was beginning to feel the first stirrings of insecurity. She had a beautiful woman’s confidence, which had indeed often bordered on arrogance, for she’d been accustomed to bedazzling men since her fifteenth year. But marriage to a much younger man, one with a roving eye, had made her vulnerable in a way she’d never anticipated and was not yet willing to acknowledge, not consciously. For now, she assuaged these instinctive and unfamiliar pricklings of foreboding with the sweet balm of seduction, finding reassurance as well as pleasure in her husband’s eager embrace.
The fire had burned out during the night and servants were attempting to rekindle it. Henry’s squire was searching in a coffer, selecting his king’s clothes for the day while he flirted with Veronique, the newest and youngest of Eleanor’s ladies-in-waiting. Listening to the commotion filling the chamber, Henry and Eleanor realized that they could no longer keep the world at bay. But for now, the bedcurtains remained drawn, giving them a few more moments of precious semiprivacy. Lea
ning over, Henry smoothed his wife’s dark cloud of hair back from her face. “I’d better get out of this bed ere you cripple me.”
He didn’t move, though, and Eleanor smiled at him lazily. “Well, then you could boast it was a war wound, gotten in the service of your queen.”
Henry laughed and tightened his arms around her. “Ah, but I am going to miss you,” he said, and then reluctantly reached out to open the bed hangings and start their day.
Eleanor sat up, too, catching his hand. “You’re here but one night and already planning your departure?” she asked, not able to hide her dismay. “Where do you mean to go now?”
“Not me, love… you. I need you to return to England.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been gone from its shores for more than a year and I cannot leave Normandy just yet, not until I’ve patched up a peace with Louis and made sure our plans to wed our children have not been jeopardized. I know I have a good man in Leicester. But I’d feel more secure, Eleanor, if you were there to watch over our English interests. Leicester is merely my justiciar; you’re my consort.”
Eleanor was silent for a moment, sorting out conflicting urges. As Henry’s wife, she was troubled by the prospect of another long separation, and even more troubled that he was not. But as his queen, she was pleased that he had such faith in her. She’d been disappointed that he’d not given her a larger role in his decision-making, and she harbored an unwelcome suspicion that he valued his mother’s advice more than he did hers. It was heartening, therefore, that he wanted her to be his eyes and ears in England, even if it did mean sleepless nights in a cold, lonely bed.
“When do you want me to go, Harry?”
“Soon, love, mayhap after the Christmas revelries. Is that agreeable to you?”
“No,” she said, “but it is acceptable.”
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