“She can be unmarried!” Henry answered. “I keep my eyes and ears open. Have you not heard what is being said at this court? That the marriage is invalid and should be dissolved? The barons believe it, the Queen is said to have urged it, even our friend Bernard, God damn him, is of that opinion. Only the King is obdurate.”
“He will not relinquish her domains,” Geoffrey said. “It is too rich an inheritance to give up, so you can forget it.”
“No,” Henry defied him. “Louis can’t keep hold of Aquitaine. His authority counts for little there. They’re an unruly lot, Eleanor’s vassal lords. Even her father couldn’t control them.”
“And you think youcould!” Geoffrey taunted.
“I’d stand a better chance than they,” Henry assured him. “Louis hasn’t the resources. But when England is mine, along with Normandy, I will be ready and able to enforce my rule.”
“You run ahead of yourself, boy,” Geoffrey said wearily. “There is no guarantee that England ever will be yours. God knows your mother and King Stephen fought bitterly over it for years, but Stephen is still enthroned there, despite what people say about God and His saints having slept through all the terrible years of his reign; and he has an heir, Eustace, to succeed him. Against that, the claim of your mother, a woman, however rightful, is tenuous indeed. She lost all hope of success years ago when she upset the English by her haughty ways.” His tone made it clear that he too had been alienated by them.
“That’s unfair! You never loved my mother,” Henry flung at him.
“We’ve always cordially hated each other, you know that,” Geoffrey replied sanguinely. “But that’s beside the point. Those whom God hath joined must learn to put up with each other, or live apart, as we have. As for you, my son, just forget this harebrained scheme to snatch Queen Eleanor from her husband. You will live to regret it, I promise you.”
“There would be no snatching involved. I know, as sure as God is God, that she would come to me quite willingly.”
“Then you’re more of a fool than I’d realized,” Geoffrey spat, retrieving his goblet and striding toward the lion-shaped aquamanile jug on the table. He poured a full measure of wine, then downed it in one gulp. “You hardly know her.”
“Enough to know that I want her, and not just for her domains.” The young duke’s excited brain was racing ahead of him. “Yet think on it, Father: were I to marry Eleanor, I’d become master of all the land from the River Loire to the Pyrenees, a mighty inheritance, perhaps the mightiest in history. I could found an empire—an Angevin empire. I would advance our house and make you proud of me. Louis would be pissing himself at the prospect!”
“Which is precisely why he won’t let Eleanor go,” Geoffrey reminded him. “Why should he effectively hand those rich domains to a vassal? If he divorces her, there’ll be a stampede for her hand, which is why he’s stalling. God, Henry, you can be stubborn. Just leave it alone. No good can come of it.”
“I don’t call gaining half of France no good,” his son riposted.
“Then think of your immortal soul, you young fool.”
“Oh, I do think of it always, I assure you, Father,” Henry lied.
Henry closed the door and stood regarding Eleanor in the flickering light of the candles. He was wearing the same plain hunting clothes he had worn for the investiture. In contrast, she had donned a thin loose robe of finest white samite, pinned on earrings of precious stones, and had her maids brush her long hair until it shone like bright molten fire. She found herself reveling in the power she could wield over Henry with her beauty and her body. She was headily aware of the diaphanous quality of her robe, the prominence of her erect nipples, and his obvious pleasure at what he was avidly devouring with his eyes.
He moved quickly toward her, throwing his belt aside and ripping off his tunic as he strode across the floor. His chest was broad, lightly covered with brown hair, darker than that on his head, and his arms and shoulders rippled with muscle. Eleanor could not stop herself. With a muted cry she went to him, herself pulling down his braiesto reveal his engorged penis. She was cherishing it in both hands when Henry’s strong arms folded around her, crushing her against him as he pressed urgent lips to her forehead and then sought her mouth. His fingers, rough with calluses from riding, were tugging at the embroidered neckline of her robe, pulling it down around her hips, then grasping her upper arms to hold her away from him as he stared at her full breasts. Then he bent and released the robe, which fluttered to the floor around her ankles, leaving her standing there naked before him.
Lifting her up, he carried her to the waiting bed and lay down with her on the silk sheets and bolsters, his hands everywhere, caressing her until she thought she would die of the pleasure. She gave like-for-like in return, teasing and exciting him with her fingers and tongue until he could bear it no more and swiftly mounted her, thrusting deeper inside her than any lover before him, and flooding her with his desire, shouting his triumph. Afterward, Eleanor eagerly took his hand and guided his fingers to her clitoris, not needing to show him what to do next, for he clearly knew. Her climax, when it came, was shattering, for Henry, hard again, entered her once more at the moment of culmination. She had not believed such ecstasy possible.
It was hours before they slept. Eleanor had never before had such a vigorous and enthusiastic lover, and she quickly discovered in herself an undreamed of capacity for pleasure in places she had barely known existed. Then came sleep, quiet and restful, and in the dawn, when she awakened, Henry’s arms about her once more and his manhood insistent against her thigh.
Later, lying close to him in the afterglow of lovemaking, getting to know each other better, she knew she could never relinquish him.
Henry’s gray eyes, heavy-lidded with fulfillment, were gazing into hers. His full lips twitched into a smile.
“I think,” he murmured, “that I have never felt like this with a woman before.” His fingers, surprisingly gentle, traced her cheek. His dynamism, even after his passion had been spent, excited her.
“I feel wonderful,” she told him, her eyes holding his. “Tell me this is more than just lust.”
“I cannot deny it.” He grinned. “In truth, you are magnificent.” He stretched out his hand and smoothed it slowly along the length of her body. “But I want you for more than this. I want to know you, all of you. I want your mind as well as your body. I want your soul.”
“From the moment I saw you, I felt—nay, I knew—that we were destined for each other,” Eleanor ventured. “Does that sound extravagant?”
“No,” Henry replied. “I feel the same, and it is a delight to me that we are equal in our passion.”
It had to be destiny, Eleanor was certain. She was filled with a sense of it, and of elation. God had led this man to cross her path, this man who had the power to satisfy not only her body but also her ambition. She had known, in the moment they had joined as one, that their coming together would have far-reaching consequences, and with a sudden flash of perfect clarity, she could see what those consequences would be. She would leave Louis and break their marriage. She would go back south to Aquitaine and reclaim it as her own. Then she would give it, with herself, as a gift to Henry. Together, with her lands joined to his coming inheritance, they could build an empire such as Christendom had never seen, and Aquitaine would become a great power in the world. And with Henry’s backing, she would quell her turbulent lords and rule it wisely and well.
“Henry FitzEmpress,” she said, looking into those fathomless eyes, “I want to be your wife.”
“And I, my lady, want to be your husband,” he replied ardently, kissing her again. “I know, for many speak of it, that you have doubts about your marriage, doubts shared even by the saintly Bernard. But what of Louis? Will he let you go?”