The Summer Queen (54 page)

Henry looked thoughtful but said nothing.

‘My grandsire built this tower as a range of domestic apartments, but this room was always hers. My other grandmother retired to the abbey at Fontevraud.’

‘My aunt is abbess there,’ he said. ‘My father’s sister, Mathilde. And my sister Emma lives there in the secular house of women.’

‘Your sister?’

‘Half-sister. She and Hamelin share the same mother and my aunt has mostly had the raising of her.’

‘Is she going to take vows?’

Henry shook his head. ‘Not unless she has developed a sudden vocation. I would ask you the favour of visiting Fontevraud while I am in England.’

‘Of course.’

‘And I would also ask you to consider taking Emma into your household as one of your ladies. She is amenable and her stitchwork is superb. I think you and she will do well together.’

‘As you wish,’ Alienor said, feeling intrigued. It would be interesting to meet Henry’s aunt and half-sister, and it was one of her duties as Henry’s wife to foster ties with his kin and sponsor positions for them as appropriate.

‘I do wish, thank you.’ He drank the wine and taking another stuffed date, fed it to her. She licked his fingers with a delicate tongue to remove the stickiness. He put his hands in her hair and kissed her, and once more he was hard with arousal. Picking her up, he carried her back to bed.

The second time was slower than the first, but more intense. Henry was almost sobbing as he reached completion and Alienor gripped him for dear life, feeling as if she was being drawn through the heart of a thunderstorm. This time when their bodies parted, he pulled her close and set his arm across her and in moments was asleep.

The warmth of his body and his strong arms around her made her feel secure and protected for the first time since her girlhood. In the early days, Louis had clung to her out of his own need and with Geoffrey she had never had a chance to lie like this; but Henry was confident in his own body, they were man and wife, and she no longer had to be afraid.

Henry woke up in the early morning feeling pleased and full in the heart. The shutters were open and white southern light streamed through the window. The bed curtains were open as they had left them last night and he was lying curled up close to his bride. She was breathing quietly, her golden hair spread on the pillow. He lifted himself up to look at her. The deed was done. Aquitaine was his and so was its beautiful duchess. Their union was better than he had expected it to be. She had known how to pleasure him, and had derived great pleasure herself. Despite not being a virgin, she had still felt as tight as one. And the smoothness of her arms and those long, cool fingers … He loved the delicate pale skin of her throat; the little place just under her ear; the perfect angles of her brow and cheek and jaw. There was nothing he would change. He ran his hand lightly along her arm from shoulder to hand, admiring the pale silkiness of her skin, and remembered what his father had said about her – that he should beware of her and always make sure he had the upper hand. Well and good. He would make sure by whatever means at his disposal that he kept her full cooperation and loyalty.

Alienor sleepily opened her eyes and smiled at him. Henry withdrew, slightly uneasy to be caught looking. Even with what they had shared, they were still strangers, and she was not one of the regular women of the camp with whom he could josh and tumble in the daylight. Sitting up, he began to dress.

She watched him while gathering her hair in a golden sheaf over one shoulder. ‘There is no hurry today.’

Henry shook his head. ‘I have matters to sort out with my men and much to do. I will see you later – we will ride out together.’ He kissed her on the lips and on the cheek, and was gone.

Frowning, Alienor leaned back against the pillows. Henry was clearly not a man for leisurely bed-talk. If he was awake, he had to be in motion, and she would have to adapt herself because in this case it would certainly be easier than training him to slow down. She admired all that vigour and energy, but she did wish he had lingered a little. She had woken in the night and enjoyed the feel of him next to her. All that golden strength. She had to get to know him properly now, and he her, but acknowledged it would not happen until he had dealt with the matter of England.

Later in the day they went riding as he had said, and Henry carried his new gyrfalcon Isabella on his wrist. Alienor kept La Reina in the mews so that Henry could concentrate on the pleasure of his hawk without competition. He proved an adept handler of the bird and she flew for him in strength and beauty and fierceness. He laughed with joy as he watched her soar and dip. She caught several rock doves, and then a plump cock pheasant. Grinning broadly, Henry tucked one of the tail feathers in his cap. Watching him sent a pang through Alienor’s heart. He was so alive. A man full of himself to the point of brimming over, but in confidence, not conceit.

They stopped to picnic by a stream and Henry gave Isabella to an attendant, who fastened her to a perch.

Alienor handed her new husband a cup of wine to wash down the bread and cheese he was devouring with appetite. ‘So now that we have helped ourselves to a marriage,’ she said, ‘what are we going to do about Louis?’

He swallowed and looked at her, his grey eyes bright with question. ‘Why should we do anything?’

‘By rights as tenants-in-chief we should have asked his permission before we wed.’

He snorted. ‘That was never likely.’

‘No, but now he has the right to turn on us and bring sanctions – perhaps even military ones.’

Henry shrugged. ‘If he does, he will not catch me sleeping, because I never sleep.’

‘You cannot be in three places at once.’

‘You think not?’ He looked amused. ‘A Roman tactician Vegetius said that courage is worth more than numbers and speed is worth more than courage. My army stands at Barfleur, but I can mobilise fast if I have to, and change my direction. I have better men around me than Louis does, and I can control mine. In my camp, the rider is on the horse, not the other way around. I knew the risks,’ he said, ‘and I still took them, because the rewards far outweighed the perils.’ He gave her a look, his gaze smouldering and predatory. ‘Would you not agree, madam?’

She toasted him with her cup. ‘I am still deciding,’ she replied.

Henry set his cup down and drew her close to kiss her. ‘But you are open to persuasion?’

Alienor laughed. ‘I am always open to persuasion.’

Henry was ready to leave. In the courtyard his entourage waited for him as dawn pearled the sky. He fastened his cloak and with impatient vigour cast it back over his shoulder, a mannerism with which Alienor was already becoming familiar.

‘God speed you, my husband,’ she said. ‘I will pray for your success and your early return.’

‘I will pray for that too,’ Henry said with a grin. ‘This is like being invited to a feast where one is only allowed to snatch a taste of the first course before being dragged away.’

Alienor raised her brows. ‘It will keep your hunger sharp,’ she said.

‘There are no doubts on that score.’ He embraced her, his touch possessive now. He had gained confidence even in two days, but she enjoyed this assertion of his masculinity. It felt so good to be thought of as desirable rather than reviled as a creature of temptation.

She watched him lithely mount his horse: a fresh one from her stables. His own hard-ridden bay was resting up. This one was an iron-grey dapple with a raven mane and tail. She had provided horses for the rest of his entourage too.

Henry reined the horse about and rode over to her. ‘Until I come back to you with a crown.’ He made the horse rear and paw the air in a final salute, and then dropped him to all fours and rode out at a gallop, raising a cloud of dust.

Alienor felt a sense of emptiness when he had gone. She returned to her chamber. The maids had not yet tidied it and the bedclothes were rumpled. Henry’s pillow still bore the indentation of his head. A strand of red-gold hair sparkled there and gave her a sudden catch of breath. More evidence of his arrival in her life lingered in the sight of yesterday’s shirt and braies crumpled on the floor at the bedside. Henry was certainly not tidy and pernickety like Louis. She stooped to pick up the garments, pressing them to her nose to inhale the acrid, masculine scent.

After a moment she told herself off for behaving like a daydreaming girl and put the clothes with the other linens to be washed by the laundry maid.

Louis looked at his seven-year-old eldest daughter, kneeling to pray with her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Her braided hair was pale flaxen like his and, kneeling in her blue dress with her head bowed, she looked angelic. Noticing a hint of her mother in the line of her cheek and her posture, he was stirred by a pang of regret and unease.

He felt nothing as strong as love for her but he did possess a kind of tepid affection. She was a good girl who said her prayers, sewed accomplished seams and only spoke when addressed. However, she was rarely in his eyeline. His visits to the nursery reminded him of Alienor’s failure to give him a son, and his two daughters were tangible proof of God’s disfavour. But for now, they were the heirs of Aquitaine and he still had a claim through them.

‘Amen,’ Marie said. She crossed herself and stood up, her eyes downcast. At her side stood Henri, lord of Champagne, to whom she had just been betrothed. His brother Theobald, who had made an abortive attempt to abduct Alienor on her way to Poitiers, had been betrothed to little Alix. She was only just walking and beginning to talk in single word imperatives, and had been carried to church in the arms of her nurse.

From Notre-Dame, the royal company processed solemnly back to the palace where a formal feast had been arranged to celebrate the betrothals. Henri treated Marie kindly, kissing her cheek and bidding her be a good girl and grow up swiftly so he could welcome her into his household as Countess of Champagne, after which she was taken away to the nursery with her little sister. In the great hall, the future husbands relaxed and basked in the knowledge that they were betrothed to princesses of France, and that Aquitaine was now firmly in their sphere.

‘My daughters will leave for the convent of Aveney on the morrow,’ Louis told the future bridegrooms. ‘They will be raised properly, uncorrupted, to make them fitting consorts.’

Sage nods of agreement followed his pronouncement. Convents were safe and suitable places to raise gently bred girls and keep them pure in thought and body.

‘How is my lord de Vermandois?’ asked Henri. ‘I was sorry to hear of his illness.’

‘He is recovering,’ Louis said shortly. ‘I have no doubt he will return to court soon.’ Raoul had been suffering from a general malaise ever since the annulment of his union with Petronella last autumn and his swift remarriage to Lauretta, sister of the Count of Flanders. There had been numerous risqué comments about the new bride wearing out her elderly husband, all of which Louis was trying to ignore.

An usher sidled towards him, a scroll in his hand. Louis beckoned to him with a sinking heart. A message delivered at the table was always important news – usually not good. He took the letter, broke the seal and, as he read what was written, grew white around the mouth.

‘What is it?’ Robert of Dreux leaned towards him in concern.

Louis’s expression contorted. ‘My former wife has married Henry of Anjou.’

A taut silence gripped the dais table.

‘But he’s in Normandy!’ Robert spluttered. ‘He’s at Barfleur!’

‘Not according to this letter.’ Louis swallowed, feeling sick. ‘He is in Poitiers and my wife – my former wife – has married him.’

‘Good God.’

Louis could not believe what he had just read. He felt sick remembering how the young man had come to court. The lowered eyes, the wary but respectful deference and all a front for secret negotiations. The thought of Alienor and the red-haired whelp from Anjou in bed together curdled his stomach. How could she, only two months after their annulment and with a youth of nineteen? And behind his back. The bitch, the whore!

‘They cannot do this,’ Robert said furiously. ‘They are vassals-in-chief; they must have your permission to wed. Since neither of them has sought it, they must be brought to account.’

Henri of Champagne and his brother nodded vigorous agreement, for the development was a massive threat to what they stood to gain from betrothals to Louis’s daughters.

‘I shall summon them to answer,’ Louis ground out.

‘You think they will come?’ Robert gave a disbelieving snort. ‘You’ll have to go further than that. Their marriage is consanguineous. You must write to Rome and bring the full force of the law down upon them.’

Louis nodded, although he was still reeling. Why had she done this? Out of lust because she was a corrupt woman? Because she believed she could manipulate a youth of nineteen into doing what she wanted as she had once manipulated him? Henry himself clearly had delusions of grandeur. ‘If they do not answer the summons, I shall indeed take it further.’

‘Believe me, they won’t,’ Robert said. ‘Act sooner rather than later.’

‘I will act when I decide,’ Louis snapped. He stamped off to be alone with his anger and humiliation that Alienor had seen fit to cavort with Henry of Anjou. Louis’s only consolation was that if she could not give him sons, she was never going to bear them to Henry, because God would punish the couple and render them barren. His own situation with recourse to his heirs was all her fault.

He was kneeling at the portable altar by his bed when his chamberlain craved admittance.

‘What now?’ Louis demanded furiously. ‘Did I not say I wished to be left in peace?’

‘Sire, I am sorry to disturb you, indeed I would not do so, but news has arrived that my lord Raoul of Vermandois is dead.’ The man held out a letter.

It was not unexpected but it still hit Louis like another body blow. Raoul had been a constant in his life ever since Louis had emerged from the cloister as a frightened child to become the heir to the throne. At times they had been at odds, but mostly Raoul had served him well; he had been steadfast in policy even if a fool with women and unable to control his impulses. He left three children all under age who would now become wards of court. They could not possibly go to their mad mother and Louis would have to decide where to bestow them.