"It seems your fame has spread," Eleanor said uneasily, wondering what else Henry had heard. Surely he had his hands full enough in England without going to the trouble of sending for a troubadour to entertain his knights?

"That is what the duke's messenger told me, madame. But alas, I cannot bear to leave here, or say farewell to the person who is the most dear to me."

"When the duke sends such a summons, you may not ignore it," Eleanor said. "His patronage will be most valuable to you and add to your fame. You are a fortunate man." Truth to tell, Bernard's excessive displays of devotion were becoming a little exhausting, and she would not be sorry to see him go, for what had begun as a pleasant interlude was now becoming merely prolonged tedium, and a little embarra.s.sing. Besides, she would soon be reunited with Henry. When the spring came, he had sent to say, he hoped to return to her. She was counting down the days until then.

Bernard was miserably aware that Eleanor was making no protest at his going to England, and hurt to realize that she was not even showing any sorrow. In the privacy of his chamber he wept bitter tears over her unkindness and the prospect of being parted from her, this wondrous being whose presence was so essential to his happiness. He tried to console himself with the notion that she was merely protecting herself by being so distant toward him-after all, his love for her was a secret, and she would not betray it by showing emotion in public-and even ended up convincing himself that this separation would secretly be as distressing for her as it was for him.

When he arrived, London was overcast, freezing, and deep in snow. To a man of the South, it felt like the edge of the world. Mourning the tragedy of his exile, he looked at the ice-bound river banks and thought longingly of far-off Aquitaine, and its beautiful d.u.c.h.ess-and suddenly, miraculously, it seemed as if those banks were crowded with flowers, red, white, and yellow, in a glorious sunburst of color. He could almost smell their scent, and felt faint with longing. Then he looked again and the illusion was gone. He was convinced it had been a good omen that presaged his speedy return to his lady.

His need became an obsession. When he thought of Eleanor, his heart filled with joy and misery in equal measure. He was a man possessed. Shivering in his meager lodging in the shadow of Westminster Abbey, he composed song after song in her honor, as he waited for the duke's summons to Westminster.

When it came, Bernard was disconcerted to find that Henry FitzEmpress-a steely-eyed, hawklike, terrifying young man-did not seem to be interested in discussing the martial songs he had been summoned to write. Instead, he began firing questions at him about his life at the court of Poitiers.

"Does Madame the d.u.c.h.ess welcome many troubadours like yourself?" he inquired aggressively; almost accusingly, Bernard thought. He had met with his duke in the lofty, magnificent stone hall that adjoined the King's palace; it had been built, he had learned, by the Conqueror's son, King William Rufus, just over fifty years before-and, like everywhere else in this G.o.dforsaken city, it was freezing.

"Yes, my lord. Her court is an academy of great culture," Bernard enthused, shivering.

"And she has singled you out for special favor?" Henry went on.

Bernard nodded happily. "She has been most kind to me, a humble poet."

"How kind?" Henry snapped. "I have heard disquieting rumors about you. Now I want the truth!" His face was suddenly puce with anger, his voice menacing.

Bernard quailed before him. Now the awful realization dawned, and he knew exactly why he had been summoned to England. Poor lady, he thought: this man surely is the Devil's sp.a.w.n, as people say.

"Sire, as G.o.d is my witness," he declared hotly, "I have never compromised Madame the d.u.c.h.ess's honor. It is more dear to me than my life. And she, sweet lady, would never condescend so far, I know it. She is much too virtuous. I beg you to believe me, sire."

Henry looked at him hard. He wanted-needed-to believe him.

"These poems, though," he said. "They speak of love."

"Unrequited, sire," Bernard told him, then pulled himself up. What was he saying? This harsh young man did not seem to understand the conventions of courtly love, so he hastened to explain. "In my land, it is permissible for a humble minstrel like myself to pay his addresses to the lady he loves, however exalted she be, or even wed to another. He might love her, but he would be most fortunate indeed if that love were ever reciprocated. I am devoted to Madame the d.u.c.h.ess, I do not deny it, but I never dared hope for her favors. I am content, as are many, to worship from afar. It is the custom. My lady has proved a most kind mistress to her servant, but that has been all, I a.s.sure you. I have been like a man without hope, sighing with love for her."

"You dare to stand before me, Bernard de Ventadour, and brazenly tell me you are in love with my wife?" Henry was incandescent with rage.

"In my country, such things are accounted no insult to either wife or husband," Bernard explained desperately. "It is permitted for the poet or the squire to bestow his devotion on some great lady, and hope for her favors, be they ever so small. There is no shame or evil in it."

"And in my country, they would cut your b.a.l.l.s off if you were so impertinent!" Henry hissed.

"I have been a madman," Bernard said fearfully. His face was ashen.

The duke looked at him, fury and contempt mingling in his expression. Bernard quailed, terrified of what he would do.

"You need to be taught a lesson," Henry growled. "Guards! Take this varlet to the Abbot of Westminster and tell him to lock him in a cell and feed him on bread and water to cool his blood, while I decide what to do with him."

Strong hands laid hold of the unfortunate troubadour, pinioning him, and he was marched away forthwith, struggling and wailing, beseeching his lord to have pity on him. Henry watched him go, grimvisaged. He had been so consumed with jealousy that he had come near to killing the wretch in cold blood. It was best for Bernard de Ventadour that he was out of the duke's sight.

Bernard had been three days fretting and weeping in his freezing cell before Henry calmed down and relented. Having thought the matter over with a cooler head, he decided that the wretched man was clearly harmless; he himself could not, if he were honest, imagine Eleanor ever wasting her time on him.

He sent orders to Westminster Abbey, commanding that his prisoner be brought before him, and when the trembling troubadour arrived, shivering in a coa.r.s.e, chafing monk's habit, the duke strode up and down for a bit, then came to a halt before him.

"Don't worry, I won't make a eunuch of you," he barked. "My lady has told me something of you troubadours, but evidently I was not listening properly. I had not realized that such-games-were customary in Aquitaine. Well, henceforth, things will be different. I rule Aquitaine now. In future, kindly address your poems to some wh.o.r.e or serving girl."

Bernard visibly slumped in relief, yet had the temerity to look grieved. "My lord has not understood the custom."

"My lord has some choice words to say about that custom," Henry flared. "Now, to business. My knights are waiting to be entertained, so I suggest you put on some decent clothes and go and get your lyre."

Bernard was only too glad to scuttle out of his master's presence. But he did not relish his new duties, and pined still for Aquitaine. A week later, encountering the duke in the gardens, and spurred by the courage born of desperation, he threw himself to his knees.

"Sire," he entreated, "how long am I to stay here in England?"

"Until I say you can depart," Henry said.

"But it is so cold here, and the court is a rough, unfriendly place. There are no ladies to lighten it."

"The Queen is dead, so what did you expect? The King does not need ladies to attend upon him!" his master retorted.

"I beg of you, sire, allow me to go home to Poitiers, where I can mingle with fair and courteous ladies and chevaliers!" the troubadour pleaded.

"No!" Henry barked. "You must stay here, if only for the sake of my lady's reputation. And do not ask me again, for the answer will be the same."

11.

Rouen, 1154

As Eleanor's colorful cavalcade wended its stately way through the wooded hills of the Haute-Seine toward Rouen, the capital city of the Dukes of Normandy, she could barely contain her excitement. The news brought back to her by the outriders that she had sent ahead, impatient to be at the center of things, was excellent.

"Lady, the lord duke has returned triumphantly to his duchy and is even now lodged in his palace!"

"Lady, he has been received with joy and honor by his mother, the Lady Empress, and his brothers, and by all the people of Normandy, Anjou, and Maine!"

They would be celebrating in Poitou also, at Eleanor's behest, but she had not stayed to partic.i.p.ate. At the first news that Henry had crossed the English Channel, she hastily gathered together a retinue, settled her little son in a horse litter with his nurses, and traveled north. Now she was approaching Henry's greatest city-for he had chosen to make it his seat of government for all his domains-and her mind was in joyous turmoil, her body tense and alive with desire. It had been sixteen long, dragging months since she had laid eyes on him, her beloved lord, and now it was only a matter of minutes before they would be reunited.

Had she been antic.i.p.ating a private reunion, with just the two of them present, she would have been delirious with antic.i.p.ation. Even a public reunion on familiar ground would have set her heart beating wildly. But she and Henry were to be restored to each other not only in the presence of his entire court, but also under-she antic.i.p.ated-the eagle eye of his mother, the formidable Matilda. This would be her first encounter with her mother-in-law, and she was dreading it. Hence her mixed-and very turbulent-emotions.

Before her lay the fair and bustling city, set among murmuring streams, meadows, and woods, and encircled by strong walls. As Eleanor rode through the ma.s.sive stone gates, a slender, elegant figure in rich red silk on a dancing white horse, the people cheered. They had a warm affection for their d.u.c.h.ess, for she had brought great lands and prestige to their duke, and done her duty by presenting him with an heir. And just look at him, tiny William, Count of Poitiers, gurgling and pointing on his nurse's lap as he was borne into Rouen in his fine litter! The delighted citizens waved back. Such a st.u.r.dy child, and strong! He would be another like his sire, they told one another.

Eleanor pa.s.sed through narrow, cobbled streets lined with the timbered houses of prosperous merchants and fine churches. Presently, she saw before her the impressive Romanesque cathedral of Notre Dame, with its high, tiered tower dedicated to St. Romain. Inside, she was told, were the tombs of Henry's ancestors, the early Dukes of Normandy, right back to the Viking Rollo, who had seized the duchy in the tenth century. Impatient though she was to see her lord and to have her meeting with his mother over and done with, she graciously acceded to the citizens' pleas that she enter the cathedral and marvel at its glories.

When she emerged, her eyes dazzled by sunlight after the gloom of the dimly lit interior, she became aware of the crowds parting for a small party of hors.e.m.e.n who were riding toward her across the market square, their hooves clattering on the cobbles. She squinted at them as they pulled up a few feet away, then as their leader dismounted, recognized the wonderfully familiar hunting attire and realized, her heart leaping with joy, that it was Henry, come to welcome her. Shaking with excitement, she sank to her knees as he approached.

"Eleanor, you should not kneel to me!" he exclaimed, grasping her delicate hands in his strong ones and raising her to her feet. She looked at him and marveled. A youth had gone away sixteen months before, and come back a man. A new maturity cloaked him with ease and invested him with greater authority and a.s.surance. At twenty-one, Henry was battle-hardened, taut of muscle, ferocious with energy. His cropped red head jutted forward from his bull neck as he bent and kissed her full on the lips.

"You are most welcome, my lady," he beamed, his voice cracked and husky as he spoke the formal words of greeting suitable for such a public occasion.

It was wonderful to hear that voice again, to see his face, and to have him near her. Battling surges of l.u.s.t and the need to cry joyous tears, Eleanor gladly placed her hand on his as he led her to her mount. It was obvious from his expression that he was as delighted to see her as she was to see him; he was grinning broadly, and there was a highly suggestive glint in his eyes that promised glorious bed sports later. But for now they were duke and d.u.c.h.ess, reunited, and must show themselves to their cheering people.

Eleanor's smile had become fixed as, her hand still on his, Henry walked with her into the hall of the magnificent royal palace that lay in the shadow of the church of Notre Dame des Pres, just outside the walls of Rouen. This palace was the chief residence of the Empress Matilda, and had been built by her father, King Henry I of England; it was as grandly appointed as Eleanor would have expected the palace of so great a lady to be, with its imposing arcaded hall and rounded archways richly ornamented with chevrons, its silken hangings and costly tapestries, and all the luxurious accoutrements of a royal and imperial household.

Matilda herself was very grand too. There were two thrones on the dais, and she stood erect and proud before one of them, a tall, regal woman in her early fifties, wearing a purple robe girdled with gold and a snowy white wimple held in place by a circlet studded with amethysts. Her face was still handsome, despite its hawklike nose and the faint lines that bore witness to the many disappointments she had suffered in her life. As Eleanor drew near, she saw there could be no doubting that she was Henry's mother-or that she was regarding her approaching daughter-in-law with undisguised disapproval.

Eleanor sank into a deep obeisance.

"Welcome to Rouen, madame," the Empress said in a cool voice. "Please rise." She turned to Henry. "My son!" she said, with more warmth, and raised her face for the expected dutiful kiss.

"Mother, where is Eleanor to sit?" Henry muttered, ignoring her and jerking his head at the two thrones.

"I will have a chair brought," the Empress said. She signaled to her steward.

She means to slight me, Eleanor thought. She wishes to show me who is mistress here. She knew I was coming, yet conveniently forgot to have a third throne set ready.

Aloud, she said, smiling, "My Lady Empress, I am most happy to meet you, especially on this joyous occasion. You must be overjoyed that Henry's invasion of England has led to such a successful conclusion."

The Empress bristled faintly. Was Eleanor implying that Henry had succeeded where she, for all her efforts, had failed? "He has indeed done well in championing and vindicating my cause, for England was always rightfully mine," she declared frostily. "But I happily cede my claim to him, for I will never return to that G.o.dforsaken island ..."

Henry cut her off in mid-flow. Clearly he had heard this before, and had no mind to listen to another tirade against King Stephen, his adoptive father, whom he had found himself quite liking, after having been brought up to regard him as the archenemy, and little worse than the Devil himself on the general scale of wickedness.

"You are of much greater use to me here, ruling Normandy in my absence, Mother," he said. "And when I have England under my hand, as well as Aquitaine and my other domains, I will need your help and support more than ever."

Matilda looked somewhat mollified. Just then the third chair was brought and placed next to Henry's. It was lower-backed than his, but Eleanor swallowed the insult and sat down on it, not waiting for the Empress, as the highest in rank, to be seated first. Henry covered her hand with his and squeezed it, which made her feel a little better, but she knew already that the battle lines had been drawn.

"I have a surprise for you both," she told her husband and his mother, then nodded at Torqueri de Bouillon, who briefly disappeared, came back with little William wriggling in her arms, and handed him to Eleanor.

"My lord, let me introduce your heir, the Count of Poitiers!" Eleanor announced triumphantly.

Henry's face was ecstatic as he took the child, marveling at the infant's chubby limbs and the red curls that were so like his own.

"What a grip!" he grinned, as William grabbed his finger in his tiny fist. "That's a sword grip, my son! That augurs well for the future. This boy will hold onto his own." Even the Empress's steely gaze softened. Then Henry rose to his feet and held William high above his head, much to the child's delight.

"Madame my mother, my lady, my lords and barons all. Behold my son, William, who will one day rule this duchy-and England and Aquitaine too, G.o.d willing. When he is older, I will bring him to you so that you may swear fealty to him, but in the meantime I thank G.o.d for the gift of such a fine boy, and entrust him to the excellent care of his mother." As the company cheered l.u.s.tily, he pa.s.sed William back to Eleanor.

"He looks like your father," the Empress said to Henry.

"And his beautiful mother!" Henry replied. "Eleanor has done well, has she not, in bearing me such a strong son?"

Matilda smiled faintly. "You are both to be congratulated," she said stiffly. "Now, send the child back to his nurse, as our lords and bishops are waiting to be presented to the d.u.c.h.ess."

They dined in private that evening, just the three of them, in the Empress's solar. After spreading the cloth, the servitors brought napkins, wine cups, and dishes, all offered on bended knee. Then round cakes of wheaten bread marked with crosses were served, followed by the best that Normandy could offer: gigots of lamb and succulent duckling, sole in a cream sauce, spiced apples with jugs of thick cream, and a platter of the Pont l'eveque and Livarot cheeses that tasted like ambrosia to Eleanor. When the servitors had withdrawn, the talk was mostly of England and Normandy, and by the time the fruit and spiced wine appeared, she was growing tired of being ignored.

"Have you ever visited Aquitaine, madame?" she asked Matilda.

"No," Matilda said. "Henry, did you go to Oxford? I had a horrid time there."

"Yes, Mother, I did, but we were speaking of Aquitaine. It is a land of great beauty." Oh, so you did notice, Eleanor thought, a trifle resentfully.

"I have no desire to go there," Matilda said. "I have heard that the lords there are violent and uncontrollable." She shot a look at Eleanor.

"It has ever been so," Eleanor said. "That is because Aquitaine has ma.s.sive rocky hills and rivers, and each lord thinks he is a king in his own valley. They have always fought among themselves, but I trust that now, thanks to their love for me and my lord's reputation as a strong ruler, they will not be so disobedient. My cities of Poitiers and Bordeaux are always safe and quiet, and there we enjoy a good standard of living. My duchy is a land of great abbeys and churches, and the arts and letters are thriving."

"By that, I take it you are referring to your troubadours," her mother-in-law said, her tone dismissive. "I have heard that they sing only of love and its trivialities."

"Love is not trivial," Eleanor defied her. "In Aquitaine, it is an important part of life. And women are valued there as nowhere else. Believe me, madame, I know. I have lived in France-"

"Where women are required to be virtuous and live in subjection to their husbands!" the Empress cut in.

Henry, toying with his wine cup, glanced at his mother in mock surprise, wondering when she had ever lived in virtuous subjection to his father. But Matilda was a woman on a mission and did not notice.

"I dare say," she was commenting to a frozen-faced Eleanor, "that you would not understand that, coming from Aquitaine, which, I am told, is little better than one vast brothel!"

Eleanor's temper flared, but Henry was there before her. He had been sitting at the head of the table, listening to the exchange between his wife and his mother with amused interest, but now it had gone far enough.

"Are you suggesting that Eleanor is less than virtuous?" he barked, his blood up. "Remember she is my wife!"

His mother looked as wrathful as he did. "I'm not only suggesting it, I know it!" she retorted. "Either this woman has deceived you, my son, or you have lost all sense of respect for me in bringing her here and forcing me to receive her."

Eleanor rose. "I am leaving," she said hotly. "I will not be spoken of like that."

"Will you deny, then, that you were Geoffrey's mistress?" the Empress flung at her. Eleanor paused in her flight, drawing in her breath, and there was an awful silence before she found the words to reply. Henry's expression was, as so often, unreadable.

"I will not deny it," she said, her cheeks burning, "but know this, madame, that he told me he was unhappily married and that you had no more use for each other as man and woman. Do you deny that?"

"My relations with Geoffrey are no business of yours. What you did was wrong, and it was even more wrong of you to marry my son, knowing you had been his father's leman."

"That's enough," snarled Henry. "I will hear no more. And you, Mother, must keep what you know to yourself, if you wish to retain what power is left to you in the world-and my filial devotion." His tone was sarcastic.

Matilda got to her feet. "You must both live with your consciences. It is not I who have committed the sin of incest. Mark me, there will be a reckoning one day. G.o.d is not to be mocked. And there's no need to threaten me, Henry. I had already decided that discretion was essential-do you think I would bring shame on myself by publicly announcing that my late lamented husband had an affair with a woman who is the scandal of Christendom? Don't think I haven't heard the rumors-"

"Enough!" Henry bellowed, flushing with rage.

"You're right, I've had enough," spat Eleanor, and gathering up her mantle, swept regally out of the room.

"Well, I hope you're pleased with yourself, Mother," Henry said, his gaze thunderous.

"Your marriage made good political sense, I grant you that," Matilda muttered. "But I can only deplore the fact that your wife has a stained reputation, and that she betrayed me with my husband, your own father. And that she has the brazen nerve to come here and expect to be honorably received."