"Who is that man?" Geoffrey asked.

"He is a poor vagrant," Henry explained.

The poor vagrant continued to regard him with speculative eyes. The King turned to his friend.

"Would it not be an act of merit to set the boy an example and give that poor old man a warm cloak to shield him from the rain?" he asked, a glint of mischief in his eye.

"It would," Thomas agreed, missing the glint, and thinking this was uncharacteristically generous of Henry.

"Yours be the merit then!" the King announced gleefully, and whipping Becket's expensive cloak from his shoulders, thrust it at the astounded beggar, who gathered it around him and scuttled off without a word, leaving Thomas with no choice but to accept his loss; but he was angered and shocked, realizing in that moment that Henry could be unthinkingly cruel. It was the first time he had felt anything other than love for the younger man, and he was further grieved with Henry for making him feel that way. As he stood there, shivering in the damp porch, it even occurred to him to wonder how far his unpredictable master, in times to come, might put their friendship to the test.

Eleanor stared as her husband stood before her, giving the strange little boy a push in her direction.

"Bow to the Queen," he instructed, as the black-haired child stood there uncertainly. Henry grabbed him by the collar and jerked his head forward. "Like that!" he said. "Eleanor, this is Geoffrey. He is my natural son, born before our marriage. I have brought him to court to receive an education and to be company for our boys."

Eleanor froze. She knew that kings and lords took mistresses as a matter of right and sired b.a.s.t.a.r.ds unthinkingly, especially those whose arranged marriages were unhappy. Her father and grandfather had done it, and to prove it her two illegitimate brothers were even now in her household, eating her out of house and home. No prude herself, she knew too that Henry had had mistresses in the past, and accepted that, but being confronted with the living evidence of his rutting with other women was a shock to her. In a flash she realized what the true purpose of the hunting expedition had been.

"I bid you welcome, Master Geoffrey," she said coolly, stiffly on her dignity. It had been impressed on her as a child, by Grandmere Dangerosa, that a wife never upbraided her husband for his infidelities, but maintained a lofty silence. That was all very well, but only up to a point. There were questions that had to be asked.

"Who is his mother?" she asked lightly, as if this were a normal conversation to be having with her husband.

"The lady of the manor of Akeny in Oxfordshire," Henry told her, his tone defensive. "I was lonely on my forays into England. I took my comfort where I could. I'm sure you can understand that."

"I can," she replied, her tone softening. "How old is Geoffrey?"

"He is five years old."

Eleanor relaxed a little. The child smiled at her winningly. "I can read, lady," he told her proudly.

"Can you now?" she responded, warming to his sunny nature despite herself.

"He is a marvel," Henry declared, clearly bursting with pride, "and will be a fitting playmate for William and Henry, who will benefit by his example."

Eleanor, still schooling herself to the dignified acceptance that Dangerosa had enjoined, rang the tinkling little bell she kept for summoning her damsels.

"Welcome to court, Master Geoffrey," she said. "I hope you will be happy here." She told herself she could hardly blame this little lad for his father's sins, and that Henry had in no way betrayed her; he had just omitted to tell her of the boy's existence. When Torqueri arrived, she instructed her: "This is Master Geoffrey, our Lord the King's son. Take him to the nursery and tell them to treat him with honor, and kindness, for he may be missing his mother."

Hiding her astonishment, Torqueri took Geoffrey's hand and led him away.

"We have a new litter of puppies," she could be heard saying. "The Lord William will enjoy showing them to you."

When they were gone, Eleanor looked at Henry.

"Am I to expect any other additions to my children's household?" she asked.

"No," Henry lied, knowing there might one day be several moments of reckoning in regard to a number of other b.a.s.t.a.r.ds he had carelessly sired, but confident that he could bluff his way through them if or when the time came.

He rose and walked over to his queen; he still found her utterly beautiful with her coppery locks loose, her deep-set green eyes regarding him seductively-he thought-and her full lips ripe for loving. He bent and kissed her.

"You are my lady," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "You have my heart. None can touch you." It was true, and he meant it absolutely. Frantically f.u.c.king Avice de Stafford in a garderobe when overcome by l.u.s.t did not count at all against his s.e.xual cherishing of his wife. He tightened his arms around her, wanting her urgently.

"Send your women away," he murmured in her ear. "I can hear them clucking in your bedchamber. I want to be alone with you, and get another heir to England!"

An hour later, as they lay peacefully entwined between the tumbled sheets, Henry gazed down at his lovely Eleanor and traced a trail with his rough fingers from her breast to her hip.

"If only all my other kingly duties were as pleasant!" He grinned.

"And my queenly ones!" She smiled back.

Henry caught sight of the hourgla.s.s on the table and frowned. "My G.o.d, I had best go. I'm already late for a meeting with my barons of the Exchequer to discuss improving the coinage."

He stood up and stretched, the sunlight from the window anointing his muscular, naked body. Eleanor gazed at him lazily, admiring the perfection of his broad shoulders and taut b.u.t.tocks.

"Will you join me for dinner tonight, my lady?" he asked, pulling on his clothes.

Now it was Eleanor's turn to grimace.

"If the food is palatable," she said. These days Henry was busy all the time and didn't care too much what he ate, usually gobbling it up and leaving the table within five minutes. Consequently, the fare served at his court was poor, and she had taken to having her own meals prepared by her own cook, and eating them with Petronilla and her chief ladies in her solar. When he had leisure, Henry would join her, but as he had explained, a king had to have a visible presence at his court, so it was expedient that he made it his usual habit to dine in the great hall with his household. On feast days and holy days, though, Eleanor always took her place there at Henry's side, and put up with the appalling food. This day was neither feast day nor holy day, but she sensed that he wanted her to be with him after that ecstatic session in bed, and knew that she should seize the moment.

"I will expressly order my cooks to make sure that it is to your liking," he promised, pulling on his boots. "And we will have some music, to delight you."

"You delight me," she told him, rising in all her naked beauty and clasping her arms about his neck.

"Witch!" he growled, kissing her. "Would you detain me with your wiles? What of the coinage? My barons await me."

"They can wait a little longer," Eleanor purred, employing her tongue to artful effect and pulling him down with her once more on the bed.

At the board of the Exchequer, the lords sat looking at one another and drumming the table with impatient fingers, watching the sand drizzling slowly through the hourgla.s.s and wondering what had become of their king.

At his place at the high table on the dais, Becket, watching Henry's unruly barons arriving-half drunk already-for dinner, reflected that his friend John of Salisbury had been right when he'd compared the English court to ancient Babylon. All scandal, debauchery, and frivolity were here, encouraged by sensuous music and bawdy mimes and dramas. He had heard that they were to have some entertainment later this evening-more ribaldry, he supposed-but that was fortuitous in a way, since it would ensure that the King actually sat down to eat, and everybody else could finish their meal-although, thought Becket with distaste, perhaps that was not such a boon.

He could only disapprove of the excesses he witnessed at court, and regretted that Henry did nothing to curb them. But, of course, the King would do no such thing, for he indulged in such excesses too, swearing, drinking himself into oblivion, and whoring with the best of them. It was not dignified behavior in a king. That was why Becket was happier when he could entertain Henry in his own house, and afford him the elegance, luxury, and sophistication that were deplorably lacking at court. He sensed, though, that Henry cared far less for these things than he did, and that the person who gained the most pleasure from them was himself. It flattered his vanity to be able to lavish such bounty on his king, and show him how things should be done.

The company was standing now-or trying its best to-as Henry entered the hall, holding the Queen by the hand. They'll have to be on their best behavior now, Becket thought, amused, knowing how Eleanor was a stickler for observing the courtesies. Someone belched loudly, and she glared, quelling the unfortunate culprit, who hung his head in unaccustomed shame.

Henry escorted her to her seat at his right hand; Becket, standing to his left, bowed as she sat down. He heard her murmur to her husband, "Your barons could at least comb their hair before they come to table. They're a disgrace."

As Becket suppressed a smile, Henry looked about him, puzzled.

"I hadn't noticed," he said. "As long as they serve me well and do as I tell them, their appearance matters not one jot to me. But since it obviously does to you ..." He rose to his feet and raised one hand.

"Silence!" he bawled above the hubbub, and upward of fifty faces turned toward him.

"I have a new edict for you," he announced, smirking. "At the express wish of the Queen, no man is henceforth to come into her presence with his hair uncombed. And that means you, my Lord of Arundel!" He frowned disapprovingly at an earl who was engrossed in picking nits out of his greasy locks. The fastidious Becket shuddered.

Everyone laughed, even Eleanor. Then she noticed that there were no napkins on the table, and grimaced.

"Summon the ewerer," she murmured to the steward, as Henry sat down beside her. He made a face and smirked as, presently, reasonably clean napkins were brought and distributed along the tables.

"Anything else you would like, my lady?" he asked, only half joking.

"No, thank you. I am looking forward to the culinary delights in store for me!" Eleanor replied, recalling the green, rancid meat she had been served the last time she dined in the palace hall. Even the garlic sauce that smothered it had not disguised the foul taste and smell. But tonight Henry had a.s.sured her, she would have a feast fit for the Queen she was.

The chief butler and his acolytes came in with great flagons of wine, and a thick, murky brew of indeterminate color was poured into Eleanor's goblet. She sipped it warily. It was horrible, greasy and foul, and tasted like soot. Almost banging down her goblet, she decided to treat herself to some quality wine from her city of Bordeaux when she returned to her chamber. Next to her, Henry was imbibing thirstily, but she was aware of Becket also disdaining to drink. A faint pucker of distaste pursed his thin lips. It wasn't often that Eleanor found herself and Becket to be kindred spirits.

The first course was the wild boar that Henry had killed while out hunting that very morning, so it was fresh, and only slightly overcooked. The second course was trout, long dead. Eleanor smelled one whiff and recoiled in disgust.

"That fish cannot be less than four days old!" she complained.

Henry took a mouthful. "Hmm, it is a bit off."

"Sire, it is so off that it should be food only for worms," Becket said. "I marvel that the King is so badly served."

Eleanor bit back a mischievous suggestion that Becket take on the cooking for the court in addition to all his other duties. She knew he was speaking the truth, and that he was supporting her, but she felt he had no right to be saying such things, which amounted effectively to a criticism of his master.

"Tell them to send something else," Henry commanded, "or I will be paying a visit to the kitchens." After ten minutes a dish of jugged hare arrived, along with some capons in saffron sauce. Eleanor tasted both cautiously, but they were equally delicious. A plump partridge followed.

"It's remarkable how the threat of a royal inspection can work wonders," Henry observed dryly.

The Abbot of Winchester, who was in London on business, and the King's guest by virtue of his standing, sampled the partridge and complimented his sovereign on his table. "Our bishop allows us only ten courses at meals," he lamented, clearly antic.i.p.ating more to come. Henry stared at him.

"Perish your bishop!" he exclaimed. "In my court we are satisfied with three courses. In a moment the tablecloth will be lifted, so hurry up and finish, as we have some minstrels waiting to play for us. From Germany, you understand. They have come a long way."

The portly abbot looked crestfallen and hastened to eat up his partridge, as if it might be s.n.a.t.c.hed from him at any moment. Eleanor tried to hide a smile.

When Becket, as the King's chaplain, had risen to thank G.o.d for His bounty, the minstrels were ushered in.

"They are called minnesingers," Henry said. "The German equivalent of your troubadours, Eleanor. I trust they are more respectful." Eleanor chose to ignore the barb. Henry never had come to terms with the troubadour culture in which she was steeped.

The lead singer was a beautiful young man with long red hair, full lips, and sad eyes. He fixed them boldly on Eleanor as he rose from an elaborate bow.

"This for you, meine Konigin," he announced. A hush fell on the court as he began singing, his voice as poignant as his expression, his words imbued with yearning and erotic meaning: The sweet young Queen

Draws the thoughts of all upon her,

As sirens lure the witless mariners

Upon the reef.

If all the world were mine

From the seash.o.r.e to the Rhine,

That price were not too high

To have England's Queen lie

Close in my arms.

There was a stunned pause as the singer fell silent. Drunk as they were, Henry's courtiers had seen their master's face darken, and were refraining from applauding in case of provoking his notorious temper. Eleanor sat tense in her chair, relishing the tribute paid to her in the song, and smiling fixedly, yet graciously, at the young singer, as courtesy-and the best traditions of the South-demanded. She did not dare look at her husband.

"You are bold, minstrel," Henry said at last. "Overbold, methinks."

"Lord King, I mean no offense," the young man protested, clearly surprised that anyone should take his song amiss. "The beauty of the Queen is sung of even in my land. Her fame is great. Our young men sigh for a glimpse of her."

"Yes, yes, so it appears," said Henry testily. "Well, you can stop sighing and play us something more appropriate. And remember, minstrel"-he leaned forward menacingly-"the only arms in which this beautiful queen will ever lie are mine!"

There was general mirth as the discomfited youth bowed and hastily launched into a well-known song about the heroic Chevalier Roland, which was much more to the martial taste of the barons and knights present, who clapped and roared their approval. Eleanor now ventured to look Henry's way and, to her astonishment, found him smiling at her.

"Yon bold fellow has some nerve, but he has put me in mind of how fortunate I am!" he said, taking her hand and kissing it. "Will you lie close in my arms tonight, my lady?"

It was at that moment that Eleanor caught sight of Becket's face over Henry's shoulder, and saw the fleeting, anguished look of naked longing and pain that was quickly replaced by the chancellor's usual suave, aloof expression. Becket had been looking at Henry; he could not but have seen the courtly gesture and heard what the King had said.