Bernard looked at her with reproach. "You exist, divine lady! You have been the first among my joys, and you shall be the last, so long as there is life in me."

"Then what of Alaiz, the wife of the Viscount of Ventadour?" Eleanor teased him. At his stricken look, she smiled. "I am well informed, as you see!" In fact, she'd had inquiries made at Ventadour.

The young man continued to look crestfallen. "It was a pa.s.sing fancy, no more, madame, I swear it ..."

"You seduced her!" she accused him, still smiling. "Do not deny it! It was serious enough for the viscount to throw you out of his house and lock up his wife, whom he has now repudiated." She frowned.

"Do not condemn me, I beg of you, my dear lady," Bernard pleaded. "I was young and foolish-and she was not worth the trouble. I see that clearly now that I have beheld your face. I swear by all that is holy that I never loved her as I love you, and that from now on I will be true to you, fair queen of my heart."

Eleanor shot him a look of disdain and strode on. He hastened to keep up with her.

"I swear it!" he cried.

She relented. "Very well, we will speak no more of it."

Bernard was on his knees, kissing the hem of her mantle. "Of all women, you are the most kind and beautiful, madame, and I would not trade your charms for even the wealthy city of Paris!"

"I should hope not," she chided, "for beauty, although it lies only in the eyes of the beholder, is surely priceless! Now please get up. You are making a spectacle of us both!"

They were almost at the tower door that led to the royal lodgings.

"Accept this, madame, with my devotion," Bernard said breathlessly, thrusting a scroll into Eleanor's hands.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Poems I have written for you," he breathed. "Read them, please, for they contain secret messages that only you will understand."

Later, when she read them, she found them to be no more than further outpourings of his devotion. He declared that Tristan had never suffered such woe for the fair Yseult as he, Bernard, now suffered for his chosen lady. Eleanor smiled when she read that in her presence he was so overcome by love, his wits fled and he had no more sense than a child. "All I write and sing," he vowed, "is meant for your delight." Poor man, she thought: he can never have what he craves. Yet it is fortunate that the rules of the game permit no mention of husbands, for I cannot be cruel and tell him that all I see is my Henry.

"G.o.d Himself has appeared to be fighting for me," Henry had sent to tell her. He was before Wallingford at last, ready to confront the forces of King Stephen. "But the bishops and barons are urging us to negotiate; many are of the opinion that Stephen should acknowledge me as his heir."

"And will he, think you?" Eleanor asked the messenger.

"He might, left to himself, lady," the man replied, "but the Lord Eustace, his son, is determined to stand up for his rights, so there may yet be bloodshed."

Eleanor shivered. "Pray G.o.d there will not," she said sharply. She could not bear the thought of anything happening to Henry, not just for her own sake (although the Lord knew that would be bad enough), but also for the sake of the kingdom that was nearly-but not quite-within his grasp.

It was high summer, glorious August, with the golden countryside basking in the hot, unforgiving rays of the sun. She had returned to Poitiers, her capital, to give birth to her heir-and Henry's. The babe had long since quickened in her womb, and she was heavy and listless, longing for her ordeal to be over.

Her son was born with very little trouble that month, on the very day-as she later learned-that Eustace died suddenly from food poisoning. Both events, she had no doubt, demonstrated G.o.d's approval of Henry's cause. The child was strong and l.u.s.ty, with a shock of black hair, and he would be a king's son before long, for it was now only a matter of time before the grieving and war-weary Stephen ceded victory to Henry FitzEmpress.

She named her son William, at Henry's insistence. It would, he had sent to command her, please the English-or, more importantly, the Norman barons who ruled over them-if the future heir to England were called after King William the Conqueror, Henry's great-grandfather, who had invaded the kingdom and seized the crown in that memorable year 1066. She approved the choice: William had also been the name of her father, her grandfather, and many of their forebears. Her people would be pleased, and to please them further, she gave the child the t.i.tle Count of Poitiers.

Little William thrived. Although she handed him over to the care of a wet-nurse, since it was unthinkable that a great lady feed her own child, she made time each day to sing and play with him, taking delight in his progress and his gummy smiles. This child would not be a stranger to her as Marie and Alix had been. She would make sure of that.

William was three months old when news came from England that Henry and Stephen had made a peaceful settlement at Winchester, the capital city. They had agreed that Stephen would remain on the throne for the rest of his life, and that Henry was then peacefully to succeed him as his legitimate heir; Stephen was even going to adopt him as his son. With the treaty concluded and sealed, nineteen years of conflict were brought to a joyful end.

G.o.d knows, Henry might well be his son, if the rumors about Stephen and the Empress were true, Eleanor thought; it was only what others were saying openly. She rejoiced in her lord's success and imagined how jubilantly his mother the Empress, who had fought so hard and bitterly to topple Stephen, would be receiving the happy news. There could be no question now, Eleanor reflected, that G.o.d approved of her divorce and remarriage, for now He had ordained that she should be a queen again, and that Henry should be master of a vast domain that stretched from the Scottish marches almost to the mighty Pyrenees. To crown it all, He had blessed them with an heir to carry on this new royal line. Her heart swelled with triumph and thankfulness. All their hopes and dreams were coming to fruition at last. Their empire would soon be a reality.

It was Christmas; the palace was adorned with boughs of greenery, the yule log burned in the hearth, and the festive meats were roasting in the vast kitchens. Her beloved had been gone from her a year now. What would I not give, she thought, to see his face, hear his voice, feel his body hard upon mine? But it could not be long now before they were reunited and the terrible, dragging months of separation were over. With this joyous prospect in mind, she presided enthusiastically over the merry celebrations, and after solemn high ma.s.s had been celebrated in the cathedral on Christmas Day, sat enthroned in the Hall of Lost Footsteps wearing her ducal crown, her little son crowing upon her knee, to receive the greetings of her va.s.sals.

Soon, G.o.d willing, she would have another crown, although that would mean she must leave her beloved Aquitaine once more. This time it would be for that far-off, war-ravaged northern kingdom with its fertile green fields, ringing church bells, and cold winters, as Abbess Isabella had described.

"But I will return whenever I can, never fear," she promised fervently, kneeling before the painted statue of the Virgin and Child in her private chapel, saying her prayers as she always did before retiring for the night.

10.

Poitiers and England, 1154

The new treaty had been sealed at Westminster, and England was now at peace. Henry had sworn allegiance to Stephen, and Stephen had promised to act with his advice in future.

"G.o.d has granted a happy issue, and peace has shone forth!" the messenger told Eleanor, much impressed by the ceremonies he had witnessed.

"What boundless joy for us all!" Eleanor exclaimed. "What a happy day for England!" It cannot be long now, she told herself. I will see him soon. She willed Henry to come home. What need had he to linger now?

Henry raised himself on his forearms and looked down with distaste at the woman lying beneath him. She had a round, cheerful face, wavy fair hair that had fanned out over the straw-filled pillow, and a voluptuous body, but now that he'd had his fill of her, he realized that she repelled him.

She puckered her lips, hoping he would kiss her as he used to.

"Woman, you're insatiable!" he told her, not unkindly, and, sitting up, reached for his braies.

"Must you go?" she asked.

"Surely the Lady of Akeny wishes to make herself ready for her husband's return," Henry mocked.

"He rarely comes," she said. "Roger never loved me. He turns a blind eye to my affairs. It's his fault that people call me a strumpet, but what else can I do, when he never comes to my bed?"

Henry, who was one of the chief causes why Sir Roger de Akeny had forsaken his wife for another, was at a loss for words. What did the woman expect? He did not love her. He had nothing to offer her beyond the fairly generous allowance he paid her for their son, the child conceived of their l.u.s.t during one of his earlier visits to England. Geoffrey was four now, and lay sleeping in another chamber in the Akeny manor house, which commanded a ridge at Garsington, a village that lay in rolling country to the south of Oxford. Joanna did not think it fit that Geoffrey's cot remain by her bed when Henry was in it.

Henry loved his bright little boy, who always delighted him with his quick mind and precocious speech. He was prepared to do much for him in the future, but had tired of the child's mother long since. Yet she was unavoidably there when he went to visit his son before departing from England, and she was available and willing-so why refuse what was on offer? He had taken his casual pleasure of sundry women-prost.i.tutes, most of them-during his time in his future kingdom, with never a thought for Eleanor, or any sense of guilt. She was his wife, he loved her and missed her deeply, but he was a man, and when the urge came upon him, he could not deny it. So he had spilled his seed where he would, and the opportunities had been legion. Women were throwing themselves at him, this young, lionlike conqueror, tarts and n.o.ble ladies alike. He had taken full advantage of it. It never occurred to him that Eleanor would see this as the worst of betrayals. It was merely a physical need, like eating or p.i.s.sing, and nothing to do with her.

He stood up, fastening his belt. "I will send for Geoffrey when I am king," he told the pouting Joanna. "I will acknowledge him as my son and bring him up accordingly. He will be well tutored, and should go far in life." He did not pause to wonder what Eleanor would have to say about that.

Henry was back at Westminster when his brother Geoffrey's messenger reached him.

"Well?" he barked. He was still annoyed with Geoffrey for allying himself with Louis, and-more importantly-was impatient to be out hunting.

"My lord," the man said, "my master sends you this." He handed over a scrolled parchment. Henry broke the seal and unraveled it, then frowned.

"It's a poem," he said, puzzled. "Why has he sent this to me?"

"He asks that you read it, my lord duke."

Henry read. It was a love poem: I am not one to scorn

The boon G.o.d granted me.

She said, in accents clear,

Before I did depart,

"Your songs they please me well."

I would each Christian soul

Could know my rapture then,

For all I write and sing

Is meant for her delight.

He looked up. "What does this mean? Who wrote this?"

"Bernard de Ventadour, a troubadour." The messenger, a young man with a fresh, ruddy complexion, looked embarra.s.sed. "Might we speak in private, sire?"

Henry ushered him into an alcove. "Now, what is all this about?" he asked testily.

"My Lord Geoffrey told me to say, sire, the poem was written for Madame the d.u.c.h.ess. She entertains this Bernard de Ventadour at her court. She always receives him as her guest with a warm welcome. His devotion to her is now well known, and many say he is in love with her. My master wishes you to know that his poems in her honor are sung even in Anjou and Normandy."

Henry grabbed the messenger violently by the collar of his leather jerkin.

"What are you implying?" he hissed, his face twisted in fury.

"Nothing, sire," gasped the young man. "I but repeat what my master has asked me to tell you. Out of his great love for you, he thinks you should know that people are beginning to talk. He says that he himself would never question Madame the d.u.c.h.ess's virtue, of course, but that others say this Bernard is her lover."

Henry howled in rage. "How dare they? And how dare he presume so far? I'll have him strung up for this! And worse!" He was shouting, and several men-at-arms who were drinking nearby turned curiously to look at their future king, exchanging glances among themselves. But he was unaware of their interest. He was remembering that Eleanor had not scrupled to take a troubadour to her bed in the past-and that she had deceived Louis over it.

"Tell me truthfully," he growled, "think you there is any truth in these bruits? On your honor!"

"Sire, many say there cannot be, for the d.u.c.h.ess's love for you, my lord, is well known ..."

"But others say there is!" Henry filled in, when the man fell silent.

"Some say she is in love with this Bernard." The messenger swallowed hard.

Henry could not bear the thought. Eleanor was his, and his alone. He was no Louis to shun her bed and turn a blind eye to her infidelities. She was his wife, his d.u.c.h.ess, and the mother of his heir.

With an effort, he mastered his fears and his fury.

"You may tell your master that I will deal with this," he said gruffly, then strode off to the scriptorium to rouse his clerks, thinking that castration might be too good for this impudent Bernard de Ventadour. Yet, gripped by fury as he was, he knew his revenge must be more subtle than that. No breath of scandal must taint Eleanor's name-and nothing must be allowed to sully what was between them. He must take care not to perpetuate the scandal. If this matter were handled discreetly, the gossip would soon die a speedy death. Yet the pain in his heart was searing. Had Eleanor betrayed him? Had she bestowed her smiles-or, G.o.d forbid, more-on this piddling poet? He must search out the truth, and soon. He would know when he saw her, he was certain, but that would not be for a while: he could not leave England just yet. In the meantime he had several weeks of mental torture to endure, imagining her in another man's arms, rousing the interloper to pa.s.sion as only she knew how, using all the tricks she had practiced on himself. Not to be borne!

At first he thought of murder. Covert and efficient, the body thrown in a river under cover of darkness, leaving no trace. Yet reluctantly, his innate sense of justice-which would one day make him a great king-a.s.serted itself, and his fevered brain conjured up another plan.

"I have been summoned to England, madame," Bernard said, rising from his elegant bow.

"To England?" She looked at her ladies, who seemed as puzzled as she did herself.

"Yes, madame. My lord duke wishes me to compose martial tunes for my lyre, to entertain his knights." He looked downcast-almost desperate.