Beloved Enemy (36 page)

“I’m serious.”

“So am I, by Christ! Too old for what?”

“To please you,” she whispered.

Henry stared at her in astonishment. “God’s splendor, I wonder if I shall ever understand women. Well, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” He threw back the blue coverlet exposing both their naked bodies.

She screwed her eyes shut tight and held her breath. In the long silence that followed, Eleanor could hear only the pounding of her heart, and feel a rasping dryness in her throat. Suddenly she felt Henry’s lips nibbling at her ear.

“If I were one of your clever idle troubadours I might be able to describe your perfection as it deserves, but being just a simple country Norman, I can only show you.”

His mouth came down hard on hers. Weak with relief and gratitude, Eleanor wrapped her arms around Henry’s heavily muscled body. After Raymond’s seasoned expertise, she had wondered how she would respond to Henry’s youthful ardor. Raymond had been smooth and silken, a goblet of mellow Gascon wine in the purple dusk of a desert night, a tender melody sweetly strummed by a master player, infinitely skillful, always remote.

By comparison Henry was rough, raw, demanding. His lips forced hers to open; his hands explored her body as if he were invading a foreign country. His fingers grasped her breasts, squeezing them, rubbing the points against his palm until she almost screamed. When his lips traveled down from her lips to her nipple he sucked so hard she cried out in protest.

But Henry was in the moment, his attention wholly with her, every part of him involved. His excitement was so intense it poured off his body in rivulets of heat, fueling her own. It grew ever stronger, gaining momentum, consuming her body in a conflagration of desire. In her dreams Eleanor had imagined Henry touching her gently, expertly, as Raymond had done, worshipping her body with the practiced ease of a long-known rite. Instead he threw himself upon her with the force of a conqueror mounting an attack. He was larger than Louis, but after a moment’s adjustment she opened to receive him.

Suddenly, at last, she felt all the hard pounding energy that was Henry Plantagenet plunging inside her like a primitive force of nature. It was terrifying. Wait, Eleanor cried out, wait, stop. Anticipating her own undoing, she pounded her fists against his back then tried to thrust him aside. Henry paused for the space of a single heartbeat, then renewed his assault, penetrating deeper and deeper through layer after layer of resistance. Her cries were drowned out, the voices in her mind silenced by a sensation so excruciating, so unexpected, so overwhelming that terror and pleasure merged, became one. Her last thought before the whole world crested, crashing out of control, was that Henry had not just taken possession of her body but violated the deepest recesses of her being.

When Eleanor slowly opened her eyes, the chamber was bathed in pale pink light streaming in through the narrow window. Was it really dawn already? The events of the previous night passed hazily through her mind. Had it all really happened or was it only a glorious dream? But no dream could have produced this delicious feeling of peaceful joy. With a sigh of deep contentment she turned her head to find Henry propped up against the pillows reading a book.

“What are you reading?” she asked in a sleepy voice.

“Good morning, slug-a-bed,” Henry said, carefully closing the book and laying it beside him. “A fourth-century Roman handbook on war that belonged to my father. Are you ready to get up?”

“Get up?”

“Yes. Time is limited and I want you to show me Poitou before I leave.”

Henry leapt from the bed and began to pull on his drawers and hose. Eleanor watched him with a smile. She would have preferred to wile away the day in Henry’s arms but his energy was contagious.

“Why is time limited?” she asked. “Surely we can please ourselves. There is no need to leave for a few months I hope.”

“A few weeks is more likely. Unless Louis causes trouble here, I must return to Normandy and continue my plans to invade England.”

“Oh, Henry, a few weeks?”

Henry walked over to the bed, threw back the coverlet, and pulled Eleanor to her feet. “Don’t you want to be a queen again? Meanwhile, I’m here now. Let us make the most of it.” He kissed her. “Did I tell you that I’ve never spent a more fulfilling night?”

“Nor I. Oh, Henry, nor I.” Flown with happiness she flung her arms around him, wanting to prolong the moment forever.

The chapel bells rang the hour of Prime. Henry kissed the top of her head and disengaged himself.

“Best that I remove myself from temptation. I will see you in the chapel.” With a grin he tucked the book under his arm and left the chamber.

A short time later Eleanor joined him in the chapel. To her amusement, Henry paid no attention to the service but alternately read his Roman book, whispered bawdy nonsense in her ear to make her laugh, or asked questions of the seneschal who sat on his other side. After mass he bounded out of the chapel and raced into the great hall to break his fast. The moment the chaplain had finished grace Henry gulped down a goblet of Gascon wine, tore off the end of a wheaten loaf, and was back on his feet before Eleanor had barely started.

“Meet me in the stables before Sext,” he said, then grabbed the old chaplain, Master André, by the arm. “I want you to tell me the whole history of Aquitaine. Now. You can eat later.” Before he could protest Henry had led the astonished cleric out of the hall.

“Sweet St. Radegonde, has a whirlwind landed in our midst?” asked Eleanor’s uncle in a grumbling voice. “What a life he will lead you, Niece.”

“Nell looks as if she will thrive on such a life,” said Aunt Agnes with a tart sniff. “She glows like a candle. Just remember, my child, all flesh is grass.”

Whatever that meant. But Aunt Agnes was certainly right about her thriving. When Eleanor remembered the frustration of bedding with Louis compared to the ecstasy of last night …

The next two weeks were spent in a blissful round of passionate nights, days crammed with activity. When word of the nuptials was spread abroad, troubadours and knights flocked to Poitou. As the marriage seemed to be gaining acceptability and the general atmosphere became increasingly festive, Eleanor arranged for more elaborate celebrations. She had the great hall decorated daily with spring flowers, the floor strewn with fresh green rushes mixed with horehound, myrrh, and coriander.

In the evenings tall white tapers in silver sconces cast flickering shadows over tables set with snowy clothes and great silver salt cellars. Jeweled goblets sparkled with wine from Bordeaux and Gascony. To tempt Henry’s indifferent palate, she had ordered a variety of dishes: roast swans decorated with leaves and red-and-blue ribbons, peacocks in their feathers, sole, oysters, and sperlings. There was a profusion of sauces spiced with sage, cumin, garlic, and dittany, as well as silver dishes of candied fruit, figs, and tarts.

Every night jugglers tossed balls and knives into the air; acrobats turned handsprings. Troubadours sang
chansons de geste, joi d’amour,
and the bawdy love songs of Eleanor’s grandfather. Storytellers wove spells with their tales of King Arthur, Charlemagne, and Roland; beauteous Helen of Troy, crafty Odysseus, his faithful wife, Penelope, and the enchanting siren, Calypso. To Eleanor’s delight Henry had never heard these tales before and was suitably impressed. The legend of Odysseus, in particular, caught his fancy. With the exception of a single incident, no ripple of discord marred the harmony of Henry’s visit.

One night Bernart de Ventadour introduced a new song he had composed in honor of the beautiful duchess of Aquitaine. When he came to the lines “… if she but graciously consent one night, while shedding all her clothes, to set me in some chosen place and make a necklace of her arms,” there were murmurs of praise and loud clapping. The Aquitainians were connoisseurs of the
gai saber
of the troubadours and made a great show of their appreciation.

Pleased, Eleanor turned to Henry, expecting him to be equally appreciative. His face was a deep crimson and the expression in his eyes frightened her.

“Henry, what is it? Are you unwell?”

“Is there any truth in what that whoreson says?” he asked between clenched teeth.

At first Eleanor did not understand. “What who says?”

“Have you shed your clothes for that rogue?”

“Don’t raise your voice. Of course not. Are you mad? Bernart is a great troubadour and this is how troubadours entertain, singing courtly love songs to the lady or duchess of the castle.”

“Not to my duchess he doesn’t. Order him to stop.”

His attitude reminded her of Louis and Eleanor felt a chill. “I will do no such thing. These
joi d’amour
are the custom here, a tradition started by my own grandfather; you must know that by now. No one attaches any significance to them except as a form of the
gai saber.
”

To her horror Henry seemed to lose all vestige of control. He fell to the ground; a white froth bubbled around his lips; his eyes bulged.

“The duke seems to be having a fit of some kind,” said her uncle, his voice laced with alarm. “Perhaps we should carry him to the solar and have a physician examine him.” The seneschal’s mouth fell open. “Sweet St. Radegonde, listen to him, he cannot know what he is saying.”

By this time Henry was writhing on the ground, kicking his legs and mouthing incoherent abuse. The object of his violence appeared to be both troubadours and Aquitainians. Suddenly he gnashed his teeth and began to chew the rushes. Truly terrified, Eleanor signaled for Bernart to stop singing. It took four large guards to lift the thrashing duke and carry him out of the hall.

By the time the white-bearded physician arrived, Henry had become calmer. After examining him, the physician recommended that he be bled to let out the foul humours.

“Is he seriously ill? What can have caused this?” Eleanor asked, badly shaken. She glanced at Henry lying on the bed. The deep purple color was fading from his face and his body was no longer twitching uncontrollably. “It is as if a demon possessed him.”

The physician shrugged. “They say the Angevins are a devil’s brood but I leave such matters to the priests. In my opinion this demon has been brought on less by the devil than by a deep displeasure.”

Eleanor stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean only that displays of this kind may have won the duke favorable attention in the past. My advice, Lady, is to let the matter go. Say nothing; do nothing, lest you cause more harm than good. Such behavior may solace him in some way we cannot understand. I will bleed him now.”

Concerned, Eleanor followed his advice. When Henry recovered, it was as if nothing had happened. He made neither excuse nor apology, nor did he ever refer to what had occurred. After a few days Eleanor wondered if she had imagined the whole scene. What she hadn’t imagined, however, was that Henry had ultimately gotten his way. She had hurriedly sent Bernart to Bordeaux; the other troubadours were more circumspect in the lyrics dedicated to her.

“He hasn’t changed much, has he?” Aunt Agnes remarked before returning to Saintes.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Eleanor.

“Have you forgotten his display at your betrothal feast in Bordeaux?”

“No. But I do not see the connection.”

Aunt Agnes gave her a withering look. “If you would know the man, observe the boy.”

After she left, Eleanor grew thoughtful. A new aspect of Henry’s character had been revealed, at least to her. Eleanor wondered if she would ever truly know the man she had so hastily married. Henry was a mixture of so many contradictory qualities it was like living with four or five men at once. In bed he was a constant revelation. After having initially established who was master, he turned out to be both tender and affectionate, quite willing to let her take the lead if she wished. He was also an apt pupil, soon practicing all the arts Raymond had shown her. If he applied them with more zest and less skill, what did it matter? Not since her childhood could Eleanor remember such a period of uninterrupted happiness.

Unlike Louis, Henry, who had had a diverse education on both sides of the Channel, was deeply interested in everything. Music and song were wont to leave him indifferent but history, political matters, and people fascinated him.

“You never told me that your grandfather threatened to build for his convenience a special brothel in the shape of a nunnery and install an entire order of whores under a harlot-abbess,” he said to Eleanor with a roguish grin as they rode together, exploring the countryside beyond the city gates.

“He loved jests,” Eleanor said. “Everyone adored the Troubadour—except his long-suffering wives, of course. I believe his first wife was your father’s aunt. A very short-lived marriage, I’m told. His mistresses, on the other hand, he treated like queens. What was your grandfather like?”

“I don’t recall him, unfortunately. But he was not a jesting man. Feared and respected rather than adored. Although he had plenty of mistresses too.”

“Is that typical of most Normans?” Eleanor glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Which? The fear and respect or the mistresses?”

“Take your choice.”

“Well, my grandfather kept England and Normandy under iron control,” Henry said. “Can the same be said of your grandfather? According to your chaplain he hardly ever won a battle. Most of his life, so legend goes, was spent pursuing women, seducing them, and writing songs about his conquests! By God’s eyes, what kind of sons will we have with such a heritage?”

“The conquest of women is surely more civilized than the conquest of land.”

“More enjoyable certainly.” Henry rolled his eyes suggestively then jabbed a finger at her. “One day I will remind you of those words, Nell. However, had I known of these frivolous qualities in your blood I would have thought twice before aligning myself with the decadent House of Aquitaine.”

Eleanor stuck out her tongue at him.

In addition to his scholarly pursuits Henry loved to hunt with hawk or hound. He was immensely pleased whenever his gyrfalcon brought down a larger bird than Eleanor’s. Since hawking was simply a pleasure, not a game to be won or lost, she was happy to let his bird beat hers.