Beloved Enemy (30 page)

“Stop looking at my bosom,” she said in a low voice. “Everyone is watching you watching me. Particularly your father and Louis.”

“I would do more than look.” Henry did not shift his gaze. “Why should I make a secret of my admiration? Particularly when I know you enjoy it.”

Eleanor sharply drew in her breath. “What brazen cheek! I have not said so.”

“You do not need to say so.”

“I find you absolutely outrageous.” Her face was flushed.

“You do? From all I hear that is like the kettle calling the cauldron black.”

“Are you so gullible to believe everything you hear? You should know by now that royalty attracts gossip with or without cause. However this is neither the time nor the place for such talk.”

“Tell me the time and place and a herd of wild horses won’t keep me away.” Henry’s squire offered him a silver bowl of water, and he washed the grease off his fingers. “I should warn you, however, I have no gift for inconsequential chatter.”

“So you keep reminding me. I find repetition boring.”

“I’m a man of action; that is where my talents lie.”

“Tell me,” Eleanor said, picking up the wing of a roast guinea fowl, nibbling at it, then laying it down again. “Do you never tire of bellowing your prowess? How can one know if you truly live up to the high expectations you claim for yourself?”

Beneath her bantering tone Henry discerned a shiver of excitement in her voice. His heart hammered in his chest. The tension between them, increasing moment by moment, was as intense as forked lightning.

“We could bandy words from now ’til doomsday,” Henry said in a husky voice. “Accept the challenge and find out.”

Eleanor gave a low throaty laugh that seemed to promise a thousand delights. When she lifted her goblet, Henry saw that her jeweled fingers trembled slightly. After a quick glance at the French king she turned back to Henry.

“Put up your lance, my lord. Any moment now Louis will arise. I will send you word of the time and place.”

“Unlike your laggard husband, I have been rising for some time.” He grinned, hoping she would not see how he ached to touch her. “I eagerly await your summons.”

Eleanor turned pink and almost choked on her wine. She turned away and Henry, tingling from the encounter, played with the food on his trencher, too wrought up to eat.

After supper when Louis asked if he were now ready to discuss the terms of the treaty, Henry again pleaded fatigue. Eleanor had given no indication when she would send for him but he wanted to be available. Heady, as if he were flown with wine, he went into the courtyard to cool his blood. High above, a full moon paced across a sable sky, gilding the towers of the castle with a silvery light, casting dark shadows in the corners of the courtyard.

The bells of Notre Dame rang the hour of Compline. The window slits in the castle were dark, but high in the keep flickered a single flame. Eleanor’s solar? Henry stared at it intently. After an hour or so, he walked disconsolately back inside the keep, up a narrow staircase, and down a winding passage to the chamber he shared with Geoffrey and their squires. He had been strenuously hoping she might have summoned him tonight.

Geoffrey appeared to be asleep, but there was something about the rigid position of his body that made Henry wonder if the count were shamming. He knew the difficulty with his father would have to be cleared up before they met with Louis. If Normandy did not present a united front, the French king would be sure to take advantage of the situation. He might demand more than the Vexin in return for acknowledging Henry as duke of Normandy. Without removing his boots Henry lay down on the straw pallet, flung an arm across his face, and with a sigh thought of Eleanor.

The alluring body, taut and sinuous as a whip, the challenging sparkle in her eyes, the peach-bloom skin were as vivid in Henry’s mind as a clear-running stream in the Verte Forest outside Rouen. Was she truly getting an annulment? he wondered; had she really told him the truth about her relationship with Geoffrey?

That night he dreamed of the ducal coronet of Aquitaine, a golden circlet set with pearls and rubies. In the dream the rubies turned into drops of blood; the pearls became teardrops.

The next morning Henry woke late to find Geoffrey already gone.

“He woke at Prime and went to morning mass, my lord,” Geoffrey’s squire told him. “He has not yet returned here.”

Henry splashed cold water on his face from a silver basin, ran a hand through the bristles of his tawny-red hair, then searched through the litter of clothes for his best mantle. A present from his mother, it was made of scarlet cloth embroidered with gold lions. Fine enough to please the most exacting queen.

“My lord, you cannot appear in public with your boots covered in mud,” said the squire. “You must have dirtied them last night. Let me clean them for you.”

“No time now.”

The squire looked horrified. “Oh my lord, what will the count say—”

Henry grabbed the mantle, dashed out the door and through the long passage, down the staircase and into the great hall. The tables were empty but for a few knights and squires. Still standing, he downed a goblet of wine, tore the end off a wheaten loaf, and went in search of his father.

Outside in the courtyard, a servant approached and said in the soft accents of the
langue d’oc
that the queen wished to have converse with him. Henry hesitated then shrugged. If royalty beckoned he must obey. He was sure to find Geoffrey before they met with Louis. They passed a patch of summer lilies growing beside a stone bench. Henry stopped, remembering now for the first time in years that he had presented a bunch of lilies to the newly wedded French queen when she was—God’s eyes!—only a few years younger than he was now. He plucked a handful of the wilted blooms and followed the servant around the side of the castle.

Eleanor anxiously paced the small antechamber. Her head was spinning with a jumble of incoherent thoughts that touched on Raymond of Antioch, the impending annulment of her marriage, her future status in Aquitaine, and, most importantly, her headlong, inexplicable attraction to Henry of Anjou. A wild impulse had come into her mind last night and nothing would dislodge it. Was she raving mad to even consider such an option? If only her uncle were here to guide and reassure her. Eleanor felt as if she were about to plunge into unknown waters that might well sink her—unless she could navigate them with a skill she had never had to use before and was not even sure she possessed.

Once the incredible idea had seized her she had spent a sleepless night trying to decide what course to follow.

Ever since the fateful meeting with Raymond, when the idea of an annulment had first been presented to her, Eleanor had known that the time would come when she would be faced with having to acquire another husband. But she had put the matter out of her mind as there were far more pressing problems that required immediate attention. Once she was a free woman, secure in Aquitaine, reliable candidates would be carefully considered. She was no longer so innocent or so foolish to believe she could rule the duchy alone—much as she would prefer to do so—because of the great dangers involved. In truth, this was exactly the position she had been in when her father died—only now she understood the potential hazards far better. But at least she would be in control. She could choose her moment; choose her consort.

Now, when she had least expected—or wanted it—the moment of choice was at hand.

Eleanor opened the door and peered out. The passage was empty. Grateful for the reprieve, she picked up a purple fig from the table and resumed pacing the chamber, astonished, no, overwhelmed at her reactions.

With the exception of Raymond of Antioch, she had been drawn to Henry of Anjou more than she had ever been to any man. When the duke was in the same room she could not look at anyone else; when he was absent she counted the moments until she would see him again. Despite his youth, it was obvious that he was already a strong, intelligent figure, and as he matured his strength would increase. He was Geoffrey’s son, after all. In addition, Henry had wit, ambition, but overriding it all—Eleanor forced herself to admit it—she craved him so desperately that her body actually ached with longing. Putting aside her own needs—at least for the moment—Eleanor forced herself to look at the practical side of this choice.

Already ruler of a powerful duchy, Normandy, in time Henry would also inherit the counties of Anjou and Maine. Through his mother he was the rightful king of England. With her, Eleanor’s, help—Aquitaine, after all, had vast resources—the English crown became even more of a certainty. It was politic to wed such a man, Eleanor told herself; that she found him so appealing as well was an unexpected bonus.

But did he want her? Henry lusted after her, of course. Many men did. Not that Eleanor had ever blinded herself to the equally seductive lure of Aquitaine. But did he truly want
her?
She could not endure another loveless marriage. She had always longed for love, to be swept away on the tide of an emotion stronger than herself yet still remain inviolate, in control, a free spirit. A typical Aquitainian contradiction, countered the voice of an unseen Raymond in her head, like trying to ride horses of two different colors. She could almost hear the languid yawn. It’s in the blood, my dear. You’ll never resolve it.

Eleanor opened the door again. The passage was still deserted.

Impulsively, she had asked to see the young duke. Now that his arrival was imminent what should she say to him? She was a duchess and a queen, used to deference, respect, and mostly having her own way.

He was eleven years younger; she had never thought to wed a younger—Eleanor suddenly stifled a cry. Sweet St. Radegonde, what had that fortune-teller said so long ago? She calculated rapidly. Yes, yes, the times would fit! But what did it mean? Was Henry the one? Now, at this great turning point of her life, a moment that might never come again, Eleanor felt less in command of her fate than at any time in the past.

The servant led Henry through a narrow door, down a dimly lit passage, then showed him into a small antechamber. The door closed softly behind him. Eleanor, a serious expression on her face, was standing in the middle of the room. Henry gazed in astonishment at the walls, consisting entirely of glazed deep blue mosaic tile; at the floor of red-veined marble. A low ebony-inlaid table sat in front of a long divan heaped with silken cushions in vermillion, azure, and purple. On the table lay two silver goblets chased with precious stones, and silver dishes of plump blue-black and deep crimson fruits he had never seen before. Several gold-embroidered cushioned stools graced the chamber.

“I’ve patterned this room after one in my late uncle Raymond’s palace in Antioch,” said Eleanor, in answer to his wordless reaction to the chamber. She walked over to the divan, sat down, and patted a place beside her. “The figs and pomegranates I import from the East—at great expense, I might add.”

“What does Louis say about that?”

“Louis has nothing to say about it. I pay for such luxuries out of my revenues from Aquitaine and Poitou.”

Henry, trying not to appear as awestruck as he felt, sat down gingerly beside her. The elegance and sophistication of the queen, as well as of the chamber, made him wish that his boots had been cleaned, and an unmistakable whiff of stables less pronounced. In his own eyes he appeared clumsy and ill at ease, a ham-fisted bumpkin from the provinces. Thank God he had had the foresight to wear the scarlet mantle.

In what he felt was a graceless gesture, Henry thrust the flowers at her. He could think of nothing to say.

Eleanor gave him a questioning look then suddenly smiled.

“So you remember our second meeting. I wondered if you would. Thank you for these.” She laid them carefully on the table.

Under the ducal coronet, her face looked as lovely, her body as tantalizing as he remembered. She wore the blue gown of the previous night, not entirely suitable for morning wear, Henry thought, wondering if this were meant to convey some message. His blood stirred when he realized they were entirely alone.

Except Eleanor was not in the least flirtatious this morning. On the contrary, her face was grave, her eyes intent. She appeared softer, almost vulnerable. Whatever she had in mind it was not a lighthearted tryst. Henry felt a vague sense of disappointment.

“There is so much to explain and so little time in which to do it,” Eleanor began. “Forgive my boldness but I had to see you before your audience with Louis.” She took a deep breath. “You’ve no doubt heard rumors that Louis and I are in the process of having our marriage annulled?”

“From my father. They are not merely rumors then?”

“Far from it. The details of the annulment are still being worked out but that shouldn’t take too much longer. Perhaps only another six months.” She paused. “Then I will be free.”

Henry picked up a blue-black fig, of a kind he’d never seen before, turning it over in his fingers. Was the stem meant to be eaten? He finally popped the whole thing into his mouth, wondering why Eleanor was confiding in him. After chewing vigorously he decided that the stem was not meant to be eaten.

“Do I offer condolences or congratulations?” he asked. Where was all this leading?

“I think you already know the answer to that. The truth is I have always been miserable with Louis.”

“Surely he doesn’t mistreat you?” The question was ridiculous. Who would dare to mistreat this imperious beauty? Henry was growing so intensely aware of her physical presence he could hardly keep his wits about him.

“No. Unless being bored to death is considered mistreatment. It is in Aquitaine.”

Henry could hear the bitterness in her voice when she talked about the king. And no wonder. It was nothing less than a crime that this charming, desirable woman should have been married to a eunuch like Louis of France. How he wished he could help her.

“When my second daughter, Alix, was born, I knew Louis would be advised to cast me off.”

“I see.” Henry felt flattered at her confidences but still could not imagine where the conversation was heading. Certainly not toward the seduction he had initially looked forward to.