"Never better, lady," the messenger replied cheerily, and relief coursed through her. That was one blessing, at least. She dismissed the man, then summoned her seamstress.

"You should rest, Eleanor," Matilda said. "Remember your condition."

"Did you, madame?" Eleanor asked.

The Empress had to smile.

"No, I was not very good at heeding the advice of my women, or the midwives," she admitted. "Pregnancy was a great trial to me. Once I had borne Geoffrey three sons, I told him that was it. No more." Her tone grew cooler and faded. Saying Geoffrey's name had reminded her of how Eleanor and Geoffrey betrayed her, and of the reason for it. She was sage and just enough to admit that it was partly her fault, but she found it hard to forgive. Geoffrey had been her husband, and they had both dishonored her by rutting together. Yet she had come to concede that Eleanor had dignity and intelligence, and she was aware of a grudging admiration for her. She had made Henry the greatest prince in Christendom, this errant daughter-in-law of hers, and she would make a fine queen. That was enough to earn Matilda's acceptance. But she knew she would never, ever like Eleanor, or approve of her-that much was certain.

When Henry did finally return, he found his wife, his mother, and the whole court immersed in a flurry of preparations for the journey to England.

"What's all this?" he asked, astonished, coming into Eleanor's chamber at noon with a sore head, after a night spent celebrating his accession with his barons, then his joyful reunion with his lady. There, on the bed, on the table, on stools, and on every available surface, were heaped piles of clothes, fine garments of silk, linen, and wool, many of them richly embroidered, gowns, bliauts, cloaks, chemises ... Red-cheeked damsels were hastening to and fro, stowing some of it away in chests or adding even more items to the piles.

"We are packing." Eleanor was swirling about before her mirror in a rich mantle lined with ermine. Henry looked at her admiringly as he came up behind her.

"I see you are dressed like a queen already," he complimented her, pulling her hair aside and kissing her on the neck. "We make a handsome couple, eh?" he added, looking at their joint reflection.

"If you would take the trouble to dress a little more like a king, we'd make a very handsome couple," Eleanor said tartly as she swiveled out of his grasp, then put the mantle into the arms of Mamille. Henry looked down ruefully at his hunting clothes; he rarely wore anything else, and only donned state robes when it was necessary to impress on formal occasions. The riding gear was clean and of good cloth, but mended in places. He had wielded the needle himself, as Eleanor watched in astonishment. "Why can't you ask your valet to do that for you?" she had asked. "That's no job for the Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine!"

"Why, when I can do it myself?" Henry had replied.

She secretly applauded his lack of grandeur. It made him all the more approachable. You knew where you stood with him. There was no false facade.

Henry threw himself on the bed, shoving aside a pile of veils, and began munching an apple.

"Mind those veils!" Eleanor cried, and hastened to rescue them. "Torqueri spent a long time hemming and pressing these," she reproved. "And get your muddy boots off the bed!"

Crunching, Henry amiably complied.

"Exactly how many veils are there?" he inquired, eyeing the great pile.

"Too many to count," Eleanor said, distracted. "Florine and Faydide, have you packed my shoes?"

"All fourteen pairs," Florine told her.

"And the forty-two gowns," Faydide added.

"Forty-two?" Henry echoed. "You don't need forty-two gowns."

"I must impress our new subjects," she answered.

"They'll be accusing us of extravagance," he muttered.

"The warm undershirts, madame," Torqueri said. Henry eyed them suspiciously. Eleanor caught his expression.

"I have heard that it can be freezing cold in England," she said. "These are to wear beneath my gowns, over my chemise."

"For one awful moment I thought you were going to wear them in bed!" Henry grinned. The ladies giggled.

"I might yet do so, if England is as bitter in December as they say," Eleanor warned.

"Over my dead body," Henry growled.

"It might be!" She laughed. "How are your preparations progressing?"

"I'm all packed, and the escort is a.s.sembling," he told her. "I am taking the usual rabble of barons and bishops-they all want a share of the booty. It'll be hard restraining them when they get to Westminster. I had to include my brother Geoffrey, the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d-my mother insisted."

Eleanor groaned. "That troublemaker? You'll need to keep an eye on him."

"He's harmless enough, just a p.i.s.sing nuisance. But to make up for it, my love, I have summoned your sister to join you."

"Petronilla?" An image of a tall, fair young woman with haunted eyes and a fragile mien sprang to mind. "That was most thoughtful. I have not seen her for years. Henry, you are so good to me."

"Since my mother is to stay here, I realized that you would be without female company of your own rank in England," Henry explained, gratified to see her so pleased. "I gather there was some scandal," he added lightly, throwing the apple core out of the window and reaching for a wine flagon. "I was quite young at the time, and the adults wouldn't talk about it. Was she a naughty girl, your sister? I have heard that she is very beautiful-although not as beautiful as you," he added quickly.

"Pour me some wine too, please," Eleanor said, dismissing her women and sitting down on the only corner of the bed not occupied by Henry and heaps of clothing. "I need to relax for a bit."

"Here, put that stuff on the chests and rest here with me," Henry offered, extending his arm invitingly and winking. "You are tiring yourself. You must think of the child."

"Which is precisely what you won't be doing if I lie down next to you!" Eleanor chided. "Remember, the Church forbids lovemaking during pregnancy."

"Bah!" chortled Henry. "You weren't saying that last night, if I remember aright."

"I don't see any harm in it," Eleanor said. "Neither do I see how a lot of celibate clerics, all of them terrified of women, are qualified to p.r.o.nounce on such matters."

"They'd burn you for heresy if they heard that!' Henry laughed. "They think that s.e.x is only for procreation and that once you've procreated, there's no further excuse for doing it."

"How little they know." Eleanor smiled. "It may sound blasphemous, but when you are inside me, it's almost a spiritual experience-a communion of both souls and bodies, if you will."

"What are you trying to do to me?" Henry asked in mock anguish, pointing to the erection visibly stirring beneath his tunic.

"Control yourself!" Eleanor reproved him, feigning displeasure. "Not now, please. I'm supposed to be resting. And I was going to tell you about Petronilla."

Henry made a face, but settled down to listen.

"It was over ten years ago," Eleanor began, settling herself comfortably against the bolster. "My sister was only sixteen at the time, and very headstrong. She fell in love with Count Raoul of Vermandois."

"Surely he was too old for her?" Henry interrupted.

"Yes, by thirty-five years, but it didn't seem to matter as she was completely infatuated, as was he."

"Randy old goat!"

"Must you always see love in terms of s.e.x?" Eleanor made an exasperated face, but her eyes were twinkling.

"You've never complained." Henry grinned, and lifted her hand to kiss it.

"Well," she went on, appreciating the gesture, "as it happens, you are right, because Raoul was certainly deep in l.u.s.t. Unfortunately, he was married to the sister of that awful Thibaut, Count of Blois, who tried to abduct me, remember?"

"As if I could forget that b.a.s.t.a.r.d." Henry frowned.

"I never liked him anyway," Eleanor continued, "and at the time, for reasons of his own, he was refusing all homage to Louis, and so to pay him back, I encouraged Raoul to seek an annulment. That wasn't difficult, as he and Thibaut were enemies. Anyway, Raoul left his wife, and Louis appointed three bishops to annul the marriage and marry him to Petronilla. Then all h.e.l.l broke loose! Thibaut took his sister's part and complained to the Pope, and of course Abbot Bernard had to stick his nose in, telling His Holiness and anyone else who was listening that the sacrament of marriage had been undermined and the House of Blois insulted."

"And what happened?" Henry asked.

"Raoul was ordered by the Pope to return to his wife. You should have seen Petronilla-she was beside herself with grief. But Raoul stood by her, and refused to leave her. For that, they were both excommunicated. Louis sprang to Raoul's defense and went to war against Thibaut. He had many good reasons to, believe me. It was during that war that the ma.s.sacre of Vitry took place."

"I know about that," Henry said.

"All Christendom does," Eleanor sighed. "It was just awful. Louis was blamed, but he never meant for it to happen. When the townsfolk barred their gates against him, he had his men launch flaming arrows at the castle, which was made of wood. It caught fire, and the defenders perished, so Louis's men were able to force an entry into the town. That was all planned. But the soldiers went berserk; their captains could not control them. They laid about them with swords and torches, and soon all the buildings were ablaze. In the streets, it was a bloodbath. Those people who managed to escape took refuge in the cathedral, thinking they would be safe there, poor fools."

"Don't tell me the saintly Louis ordered the cathedral to be fired," Henry interrupted.

"No, he was some way off, watching in horror from a hill outside the town. It was the wind-it blew the flames toward the cathedral, and they engulfed it at terrifying speed. Fifteen hundred people died that day, women, children, the old, and the sick. It was terrible." She turned haunted eyes to Henry.

"You saw it?" he asked, his face grim.

"No, I was in Paris, but I had to deal with Louis on his return. He was stricken. He had seen it all; he'd heard the screams of those poor trapped people, and smelled their burning flesh." She winced. "He'd watched helplessly as the roof caved in and those wretched souls perished. He felt it was his fault, although he never intended for such a dreadful thing to happen." She remembered him ashen-faced and shaking, unable to speak, lying sick and mute in his bed for two days. "After that, he was never the same. He was weighed down by guilt. He even cut off his long fair hair, which I had always liked, and took to wearing a monk's robes."

"I suppose s.e.x was out of the question," Henry said wryly, in an attempt to lighten the mood. Eleanor smiled at him.

"It was usually out of the question!"

"So did Louis ever forgive himself?"

"I think it was more a case of accepting that G.o.d had forgiven him," Eleanor recalled, "and that only happened during the crusade, when we visited Jerusalem and he received absolution at the tomb of Our Savior."

"And what of Petronilla?" Henry wanted to know.

"Well, after more fighting and arguing, Abbot Bernard brought about a peace between Louis and Thibaut, and eventually Petronilla's marriage to Raoul was confirmed by the Pope. That was a relief! But her happiness lasted no more than ten years. When Louis and I divorced, Raoul decided that he no longer wanted to be married to the sister of the King's ex-wife; there was no advantage in it for him. More to the point, he had fallen for another woman, much to Petronilla's grief. Despite her tears and protests, he divorced her, and took custody of their three young children. Losing them has been dreadful for her. Her little boy suffers from a nasty skin disease, poor child, and she worries fearfully about him. Petronilla's lot has not been a happy one."

But Petronilla, when she arrived, looking like a paler, plumper replica of her sister, was cheerful at the prospect of being reunited with Eleanor, and excited to be going to England for the coronation. Putting on a brave face to mask the ever-present sorrow she felt at being parted from her children, she made much of young William, who gurgled with delight whenever his aunt approached. Petronilla threw herself with vigor into the preparations for the coming voyage, and she and Eleanor spent many a happy hour reminiscing on their childhood and making plans for the future. Before long, though, it dawned on Eleanor that Petronilla's cheerfulness was largely the result of her increasing dependence on the fruit of the vine. But her sister had had such a difficult life, with her happiness cruelly s.n.a.t.c.hed from her along with her little ones, that she could not bring herself to remonstrate with her.

In Petronilla's wake, again at Henry's behest, had come Eleanor's two b.a.s.t.a.r.d half brothers, William and Joscelin, whom he had appointed to join her household knights. Eleanor thanked Henry appreciatively for his thoughtfulness and warmly embraced the two eager young men who so much resembled her.

At last the great retinues were gathered, and Henry and Eleanor formally bade farewell to the Empress Matilda and set off on the road to Barfleur, where their ships were waiting to transport them to England.

13.

Normandy and England, 1154

"This should make a good impression on my new subjects!" Henry declared, waving an expansive hand at the long procession of magnates and bishops, each with their retinues and baggage carts, that trailed into the distance behind them. Inwardly, Eleanor thought that the English might see the King's great train as a pack of scavengers come to bleed their country dry, but she was confident that Henry's reputation was such that his followers would heed the honorable lead he intended to give them, and deal honestly with his new subjects.

She smiled up at him from her litter; she was too far advanced in pregnancy to ride beside him, and not relishing being jolted along the rutted tracks that pa.s.sed for roads, but was making light of her discomfort and trying to relax on the piled cushions beneath her, pulling her fur-lined cloak closer about her to protect herself from the freezing wind. She would not complain, she had resolved, because she knew Henry wanted to get to England as quickly as possible, and she just wanted the long journey to be over.

It was when they were making an overnight stop in Caen that Henry espied Bernard de Ventadour skulking among the varlets of his household.

"What's he doing here?" he muttered to himself, and beckoned the troubadour over. Bernard, who was hoping that his master had not seen him, and was on the point of fleeing, had the grace to look terrified.

"Sire?" he almost squeaked.

"I thought I told you not to leave England without my permission!" Henry said fiercely.

"I-I know, sire, but your whole retinue was returning with you, and your knights needed entertaining ..."

"Blast my knights!" Henry roared. "You disobeyed me, you sc.u.m." The troubadour quailed.

"Now hear this," Henry went on, "and never disobey me again, or you will rue it painfully. You are to leave here now, without delay."

"But sire, where shall I go?" asked Bernard.

"Anywhere but here!"

"But I cannot go back to Ventadour ..."

"No, that you cannot, and my good lady has told me why." Henry had the satisfaction of seeing the young man wince. "You'll have to find somewhere else."

Tears filled Bernard's eyes. "This is a great grief to me, sire," he wept. "I know not what to do or where to go."

"Take my advice and go as far away as possible. You might try your talents with the Count of Toulouse."

"Sire, may I speak frankly?" Bernard was frantic.

Henry folded his arms and looked at him. "I'm waiting," he said brusquely.

"There is a lady, sire-"

"By G.o.d there is!" Henry erupted.

"Nay, sire, not Madame the d.u.c.h.ess-another lady." Bernard hung his head.

"Hah!" Henry pointed at him. "Another lady! You don't waste much time." And he doubled up with laughter.

"Sire, I love her, and could never leave her ..."