Angers, 1165

Eleanor was lying in after her confinement, cradling her newborn daughter, Joanna, in her arms, when a letter arrived from Champagne. She opened it with trembling fingers, supporting the baby against her shoulder, and read the neat, pointed script of some unknown clerk. Her daughter Marie politely sent her greetings and inquired after her mother's health. She herself was well and happy, and wished Madame the Queen to know that she remembered her in her prayers.

That was all, but it was something, and it was more than she had received from Alix, who could not have remembered her in any case. It was but little, but it was something-something she could build on.

30.

Woodstock, 116566

The siege did not last long. When the last defense had been torn down, Henry came to Rosamund in her silken bower, and she received him with open arms. She was tight when he entered her, and gasped a little as her maidenhead fractured, but thereafter she twined herself sinuously around him as if she would never let go. Afterward he lay there with his head on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, stroking her firm, flat belly and thinking that it had been a long time since he had experienced such joy with a woman. Pleasure, yes-but not this surging tide of delight and well-being. Once, he had known a similar joy with Eleanor, and something of that survived still, when they were together; but when he was apart from her, he felt detached and even hostile.

He would not think of Eleanor now, not when his fair Rosamund lay beneath him, his for the taking again as soon as he caught his breath and rested a bit. Rosamund, whose blond tresses lay tangled across them both, tickling his cheek, and whose straight limbs with their pearly sheen lay stretched out with abandon. His fingers crept to the cleft of her s.e.x, parted it and slid farther, as her eyes widened in surprise and she began to moan with unexpected pleasure. G.o.d, she was beautiful, he thought, raising himself on one muscular elbow and raking her with his gaze as his kneading became more insistent-beautiful in a different way from Eleanor, for there was a fragility about Rosamund, and an innate delicacy. She was aptly named, with her petal-soft skin and her rosy cheeks! He knew he could never bear to be parted from her.

Henry could not leave Rosamund alone. He kept wanting her, at all hours of the day and night, and exulted in the breathless fervor with which she returned his ardor. Yet, so young and inexperienced was his love, for all her growing artfulness in bed, that every time they made love it seemed like the first time-as if he were deflowering her all over again. It was utterly irresistible!

He tarried at Woodstock all through the autumn, kept Christmas there, then made excuses to stay until the spring. He called in masons and master builders to construct a new tower for his lady, and gardeners to lay out a labyrinth for her delight, planting the young hedges of yew and briar in an intricate circular pattern. He knew that the time would come when he must leave Rosamund, and that she would be lonely and in need of recreation, and with the summer coming, this maze would divert her and the damsels he had appointed to wait on her. It never occurred to him that, one day, it would become the source of many rumors and legends.

When he wasn't dallying in bed with Rosamund, Henry was hard at work formulating his planned legal reforms, and in the depths of winter he went to meet with his Great Council at Clarendon, where his new Const.i.tutions, as he was pleased to call them, became law. One in particular gave him great satisfaction, for it meant that Becket's criminous clerks would no longer be ent.i.tled to claim benefit of clergy. Henry had won his long, hard battle-but he doubted he had won the war.

The wounds dealt by Thomas still festered. Lying awake at night, he would torment himself by reliving the heady days of their friendship, or engage in bitter disputes with the absent Archbishop, saying all the clever things he wished he had said at the time. Occasionally, with Rosamund sleeping peacefully beside him, he would let the tears fall, and wonder when he would ever be free of this turmoil. He had loved Thomas-so why had Thomas defied and abandoned him? At such times he would reach out for the sweet girl lying beside him and try to lose himself in her, to blot out the pain and the anger. He never discussed Becket with her; he did not want to sully her purity by unburdening himself. She was his refuge, his peace, his joy: that was all he needed from her.

He could no longer tarry: he was needed in Maine, to quell some G.o.dforsaken rebel va.s.sals; his ships were even now waiting at Southampton.

He kissed Rosamund long and lovingly in farewell, his heart aching. G.o.d knew when he would see her again. She stood on the mounting block, slender and utterly alluring in her soft wool gown, and lifted the stirrup cup to him as he sat on his horse at the head of his retinue, ready to depart. He made himself say his last good-bye, his voice gruff with emotion. Parting with her was unbearable, tragic, not to be borne ...

He rode south determinedly, making good time, but they had not gone far when, driven by his unspeakable need, he suddenly wheeled about and cantered back toward Woodstock, his astonished train in his wake, struggling to keep up. When they arrived, he leaped off his lathered steed, raced up the spiral stairs two at a time, and burst into Rosamund's chamber, scattering her women with a wave of his hand. As soon as the door banged behind them, he crushed her to him, devouring her with kisses.

"I had to come back to you, to see you one more time!" he gasped.

Rosamund was momentarily too stunned to respond.

"What will people think? That I keep you from your royal duties?" she asked, sounding panicked, but letting him do with her as he would.

"I care not a fig for what they think!" Henry growled. "All I know is that I have to have you once more before I cross the sea. I had to see your face, oh my darling!" His hands were everywhere, his eyes were drinking her in. He was desperate to bed her, could wait no longer. As they tumbled between the sheets, the outside world forgotten, downstairs in the hall and the courtyard, the King's household officers and men-at-arms exchanged knowing glances, then shrugged and grinned at one another.

31.

Angers, 1166

Eleanor saw Henry and his long line of followers approaching as she was taking the air on the battlements of the castle of Angers. She paused and stared. So he had come at last. Finally, he had bestirred himself and remembered that he had a wife. There was bitterness in her heart. She had not set eyes on him in more than a year; he had not come to greet his new daughter, Joanna, and had not even come for Christmas. That was a cruel blow, for never before had they spent a Christmas apart, and she had still been under the impression that things were mending between them. He could at least have thought of the children's disappointment, if not hers, she thought, aggrieved.

She had wondered if Henry heard wanton talk of her closeness to her uncle Raoul, or if Jean aux Bellesmains had blabbed of his d.a.m.ned suspicions. Or, worse still, had Raoul kept something back when he had spoken of Henry having other women? That would hardly be surprising, given her reaction. But supposing there was another woman? If a love affair was the cause of Henry abandoning his wife and family for so long, then it surely posed a serious threat to all that she held dear. The prospect was nightmarish, and she had worn herself down with wondering and playing out horrible what-if scenarios in her mind. She wished she could let it all go and not care, but that was proving impossible.

For the thousandth time she pulled herself up. Henry was a king, and, in the wider scale of things, women meant little to him beside his vision for his kingdom and the demands of his far-flung domains. Had that not been the case, his amours would have been notorious rather than discreet, and she would surely have known about them. He was not the kind of man to let a female sway or rule him. Even she herself, his queen, had been kept firmly in what he perceived to be her place, much to her chagrin. No, Henry would not shirk his duties and obligations for so long just for the sake of a woman. And if he had heard evil gossip about his wife, he would no doubt have acted upon it, much as he had all those years ago when he banished that poor fool, Bernard de Ventadour; he would never tolerate any hint of scandal attaching itself to his own.

Having reasoned yet again with herself, she realized that she was no nearer to understanding what was going on than she had been before, and, with her thoughts in turmoil, smoothed her skirts, adjusted her veil and circlet, and descended the stairs to greet her husband.

They faced each other across the polished wooden table in the solar. Henry's eyes were wary. He looked almost sheepish, guilty even. Her heart plummeted and again she wondered why he had come.

"I trust you had a good journey," she said, for the second time, betraying how nervous she was. "Some wine?"

Henry sat down, kicked off his boots, and gratefully accepted the goblet.

"I trust you are well, Eleanor," he said. "I'm sorry I couldn't get here earlier. I was at Clarendon, making sure that my new laws will be properly enforced."

That had been back in January. It was now Easter. What had he been doing in the meantime? His ships had been waiting at Southampton for weeks.

"I regret you had all that trouble with my barons in Maine," Henry was saying.

"I have never been treated with such contempt!" Eleanor fumed, anger flaring at the remembrance, and momentarily distracting her from her fears. "Your Norman captains refused to heed my orders. They said they would not take them from a woman."

"I know, I know," Henry admitted. "They had no right to say that, and they will be called to account, you may depend on it. But the rebels are crushed. On my way here I taught them a lesson they will not easily forget."

"I am relieved to hear it," Eleanor said tartly. She was aware that this conversation was being carried on purely on the surface, and that each was taking the measure of the other and wondering where they really stood. The air was almost crackling with the things they were leaving unsaid.

"Would you like to see our new daughter?" she asked.

"By all means," Henry smiled, "and our other children." He would not meet her eyes.

"You will find them much grown," she told him. "It is so long since you have seen them." It was a barb, and it hit home. She actually saw him wince.

The baby was brought by the nurse and placed in the King's arms. Henry gazed down at the copper-haired infant on his lap, with her chubby cheeks and gummy smile, and thought how like Eleanor she was. He chuckled at her, well satisfied, and gave her his blessing, his callused hand on her downy head.

"She's a pretty one," he p.r.o.nounced. "Fit to be a queen, which one day, no doubt, she will be. I hear that Louis at last has a son. Are you thinking what I am thinking?"

"Am I to understand that you have abandoned your plan to marry Matilda and Eleanor in Germany?" Eleanor asked in astonishment. "I thought you were trying to discountenance Louis to pay him back for his support of Becket?"

"I never pa.s.s up an opportunity to discountenance Louis, you know that, Eleanor!" Henry grinned, lightening the atmosphere a little. "But I did have hopes of one day annexing France to my domains. All dashed now, of course-if that boy lives. So we rattle Louis now, while planning for the future. His son will need a wife someday, and it would be to my advantage, and that of my heirs, to have an English queen on the French throne."

"It is a wise plan," Eleanor had to concede.

He nodded. "I think so. And as I haven't changed my mind about the alliances I have negotiated for Matilda and Eleanor, I will be putting this little one forward as the future Queen of France. It will be a great destiny for you, sweeting," he murmured, smiling down at the baby.

"Well, I can only hope that the French court has livened up a bit by the time she gets there," Eleanor said, her tone still tart.

"She will liven it up, I make no doubt. She has her mother's charm, I can see it." He was placating her, she knew it.

"Charm availed me little at Louis's court," she sniffed, unwilling to bend. "But it would be a great match, and it could bring a more stable peace between England and France."

"No doubt the princes of Europe are all rubbing their hands in glee in the hope of securing such a rich matrimonial prize for their daughters as the new heir to France," Henry observed wickedly. "But I think we have a strong advantage. I can always dangle the Vexin as a carrot!"

"They said Louis was overjoyed to have a son at last," Eleanor recalled, remembering how, strangely, she had felt so pleased for her former husband when she was brought the news. He had waited an unconscionably long time-and she herself had failed him in the one thing that mattered. Now his prayers had been granted, and she was glad. "There were great rejoicings, I heard. Much will be expected of this little prince. Already they are calling him Philip Augustus, like the old Roman emperors."

"I heard he was named after the month he was born, and that he'd been nicknamed 'the G.o.d Given'," Henry said. "Well, I hope, for his sake, he doesn't take after his father with names like that! He'll have to live up to them!"

He handed the baby back to the nurse, picked up his goblet, drained it to the dregs, and reached for the flagon.

"Well, I will have one more cup of wine, and then I will change my clothes and slough off the dust of the road and go greet my beloved barons of Anjou." He poured the red liquid. Eleanor watched, wondering if they would ever again be close enough to get beyond the pleasantries and generalities.

"Is there any news of our friend the Archbishop?" Henry asked, his flippant tone not quite masking his obsessive interest.

"Yes, but it's not good," Eleanor told him. "He is still living in the abbey at Sens, and still threatening to excommunicate you. It is said that he is angered by the Const.i.tutions of Clarendon."

Henry scowled. "He should get over it and accept that change is necessary. My patience is wearing thin."

It's about time, Eleanor thought, but she forbore to say anything; she hesitated to disrupt this uneasy peace between them. So she just smiled and called for the nurse again, asking her to bring the other children to greet their father.

Henry came to her bed that night and paid the marriage debt. At least, that's what it felt like, a duty to be done. Never before had he seemed so uninvolved when making love to her. She lay there afterward, sleepless and in turmoil, suspecting that what she'd long dreaded had come to pa.s.s: that he no longer loved her, and all that was left to them was a marriage of convenience, which fulfilled the purpose for which it had been made. Her personal feelings were not supposed to matter, when one looked at the wider picture. But they did, oh, they did!

She looked at Henry's sleeping back, its solid form white and shadowy in the moonlight that flooded the room through the tall window. It had struck her anew, when she first saw him on his return, how manly he looked in the strength and vigor of his maturity; a little thicker about the girth, true, but still a muscular bull of a man, broad-chested and leonine of feature. How she loved and wanted him! She could not help herself. Of all the men she had known-and known in the biblical sense-none could touch him. Yet she feared he was hers no more. Her pillow was sodden with her tears.

32.

Chinon, 1166

The court was staying at the Fort St. George, Henry's magnificent castle of Chinon, which straddled a high spur above the River Vienne, when both the King and Queen sickened. Eleanor knew very well what was causing the familiar nausea: she was pregnant for the eleventh time, made fruitful with the seed planted that tragic night at Angers, the night when she realized that she had lost Henry in all the ways that were most important to her. Since then, matters had not improved between them, and now it seemed that there was an unbreachable distance. They still observed the courtesies, and they talked like civilized beings; he had frequented her bed on several nights, but it was like coupling with a stranger. She knew he sensed her withdrawal from him, a retreat less tactical than instinctive, born of the need to protect herself. She told herself that love was not essential in a royal marriage: she was Henry's wife and queen; she was Eleanor, d.u.c.h.ess of Aquitaine, Queen of England, d.u.c.h.ess of Normandy, Countess of Anjou and Maine. She was undefeatable, a match for any light-of-love to whom her lord might take a pa.s.sing fancy. She dared not let the facade drop; she must think of herself as invincible.

Henry appeared not to be troubled by her studied amenity; she believed he welcomed it, for it absolved him of any need to put things right. There was no point in him trying to do that if his heart wasn't in it. She did not want him to play a role for her: she needed his honesty, but she was d.a.m.ned if she would probe for it, for she feared to provoke any painful revelations. But now, here she was, pregnant with his child once more, another reason why the pretense that all was well must be maintained. And she must tell him her news.

She came upon him in their solar as he sat st.i.tching a tear in his hunting cloak, and sat beside him on the wooden settle, struggling to suppress the rising bile in her throat. The thought of the coming months depressed her: she was weary of childbearing, had suffered it too often. She was forty-four, and she'd had enough. This, she vowed, would be the final time.

"I am to have another child, Henry," she announced quietly. He paused in his mending.

"You are not pleased," he said.

"If I spoke the truth, no. However, it is G.o.d's will, and I must make the best of it. But I pray you, let this be our last child." She looked at him as she spoke, but he would not meet her eyes. "You understand my meaning," she persisted, her heart breaking. She had the horrible, sinking feeling that she was closing a door forever-and perhaps closing it prematurely.

Henry did not answer. The needle flew in and out.

"Henry?"

"It's your decision," he said.

"Do you care?" she ventured, thinking that she might as well be dead, and knowing she was about to shatter the fragile equilibrium between them.

Now he did raise his head and look at her. His eyes were guarded, his expression unreadable. There was a slight flush on his bristled cheeks; was it anger? That would be something ... Surely he would not agree, uncomplaining, to what she asked. As her husband, he could insist on claiming his rights-and who knew, a miracle could happen and they might recapture the joy they had shared. She would endure ten more pregnancies for that, if he would just intimate, by one word, that he still wanted her.

"It's your decision," he said again, turning back to his handiwork. "You're the one who has to bear the children. Whether I care or not is beside the point."

"Are you accusing me of deliberately ignoring your needs?" Eleanor cried, forgetting her resolve to maintain a gentle and dignified detachment.

"I'm saying I don't need this at this time!" Henry snarled. "I've got Thomas threatening to excommunicate me and proclaiming to the whole of Christendom that my Const.i.tutions of Clarendon are unlawful. There's trouble in Brittany, where my va.s.sal, Count Conan, is unable to keep order, and your Aquitainian lords are up to their usual tricks. I'm not feeling well, Eleanor, in fact I'm feeling b.l.o.o.d.y awful, and you choose this moment to tell me you don't want to sleep with me anymore!"

Relief flooded through her. He was ill. That explained much. Maybe things were not so bad after all. Then the implications of his being ill hit her like a blow.

"You are ill?" she echoed. "Why didn't you tell me, Henry? What is wrong?"