Beloved Enemy (29 page)

Henry, well aware of the devastation brought about by lack of a male heir, gave an inward shudder. Hadn’t it been a similar circumstance that plunged England into seventeen years of chaos? He felt an unwitting spark of sympathy for Louis.

“An annulment means Louis will lose the wealthiest fief in France,” he remarked. “Now
that
is something to be upset about.”

They passed through the tower gate and across the fortified bridge. Just beyond lay the castle.

Geoffrey laughed. “Indeed. But remember, Louis also loves Eleanor. Don’t judge him by your own ambitions.”

Henry barely heard him. The situation had engaged his interest, and he wondered how best to take advantage of it. Such a major loss as Aquitaine would be bound to affect the future of the Capet dynasty. Might it also benefit Normandy?

“Ah, we have arrived,” Geoffrey said.

They dismounted in the courtyard and entered the open doors of the keep.

While the French castle looked grim and dreary from the outside, inside it was another tale altogether. Henry was astounded at silk-cushioned stools woven with shimmering gold thread, and wonderfully worked tapestries depicting lions and dragons in glowing red-and-blue wools. There were narrow windows filled with the very new leaded glass and painted with roses, images of the Virgin and other saintly female figures. Neither Angers nor Rouen boasted anything so luxurious. Scotland, of course, was primitive by comparison. Henry carefully noted all the details of the castle so that later he could recount them to his mother.

Louis, surrounded by the bishop of Paris, Bernard of Clairvaux, and several other advisors, awaited them in the great hall seated on a high-backed chair draped with a gold cloth. Dressed in a black tunic set off by a heavy silver crucifix, the French king looked more like a prelate than a mighty monarch. His pale face resembled the underbelly of a fish, and he greeted Henry and his father with a formal courtesy that did little to hide his dislike and suspicion.

“We trust you have come to sign the treaty, my lord,” said Louis in a cold voice.

“Certainly my son and I are most eager to discuss the matter, Sire.” Geoffrey beamed.

“Indeed. Most eager,” Henry said, noting that, as usual, his father was laying on the famous Angevin charm with a trowel. “But at the moment, Sire, we are somewhat fatigued from the journey.

Perhaps after we have refreshed ourselves …”

“Of course. You will be shown to your quarters at once. I will see you at Vespers and then at supper.”

Two equerries escorted Henry and Geoffrey from the hall. Henry felt Louis’s gaze follow him out the door.

“Thank you for taking my advice and saying nothing,” said Geoffrey in a dry tone.

“Is it my imagination or does Louis hate me?” Henry kept his voice low. “What kind of bargain will he strike under such circumstances?”

“A man is known by his enemies as well as his friends. If the king of France hates you, it is because you are Norman and he fears you. A man’s fear may be used against him. Never underestimate your power, my son, and always use it—with friend and foe alike.”

Henry glanced at his father with respect. Sometimes it was easy to overlook the fact that beneath the count’s glib charm and foppish appearance lay an astute and cunning mind coupled with a singleness of purpose that drove him straight as an arrow toward his goal.

He was about to tell his father how he felt when suddenly Henry was aware of the sounds of laughter and singing, accompanied by the strains of pipe and viol. Geoffrey paused before an open door.

“I should like to pay my respects to the queen,” Geoffrey said to the equerries.

Henry, almost overpowered by a sweet, musky scent coming from the chamber, was amazed to see his father march across the threshold with assured familiarity. The music stopped; there was the twitter of excited voices.

“Why, it’s Geoffrey le Bel!” cried a gay lilting voice as alluring as Eve. “What a delightful surprise. Who is that oddly dressed young man with you? Your squire? He must come in as well, I insist.”

Henry did not know why he hesitated, one foot poised over the threshold, as if entering the room were a kind of special challenge that he was reluctant to meet. But he had been called a squire! This was sufficient to propel him into the chamber.

He was dumbfounded to see his father greeted by a bevy of lovely young women who surrounded him like chirping birds. Geoffrey then approached a wide cushioned bench set upon a dais. A woman sat surrounded by several troubadours kneeling before her. Over a cream-colored gown she wore a pale blue surcoat powdered with silver stars and crescent moons. Her pale amber skin glowed; luxuriant waves of chestnut hair shimmered with bronze lights. Under thick arched brows, her eyes, a mixture of glittering green and warm brown, like a forest at sunrise, sparkled with mischief and gaiety. A garland of white roses encircled her head.

“It’s been far too long,
mon ami,
” she said, stretching out graceful white hands to Geoffrey as she stepped from the dais. Her fingers sparkled with pearl, emerald, and ruby rings.

“Here is my eldest son and heir, Henry, duke of Normandy,” said Geoffrey, staring at the queen as one bewitched.

Who could blame him? Henry knew that he himself was falling under a spell, dazzled by the queen’s beauty and charm, yes, but also something more—much, much more. A heart-stopping sense of destiny. It was as if all the days of his life had only existed to lead him to this time and this place. With every instinct he possessed Henry knew he had met a harbinger of his fate. Whether for good or ill he could not tell.

“So—this is no squire but the unruly young duke who’s been troubling France.” Eleanor’s lips, inviting as the open half of a ripe peach, widened in a seductive smile. Her small white teeth reminded Henry of a dainty fox. “Except for his ceremonial ducal sword he is certainly not dressed like a powerful lord.”

Henry felt his cheeks burn. Cursing himself for a dolt, he could not think of an apt rejoinder. “It is a great honor to meet you, Madam.” The words came out in a belated croak.

“What’s this? But of course we have met before,” Eleanor said, cocking her head to one side.

“Impossible. I would never have forgotten,” Henry said, relieved to have found his voice at last.

“Indeed? Of course you were only four or five years old at the time, and in the midst of a violent temper tantrum, so you may be forgiven.”

Eleanor’s women tittered; Henry looked bewildered.

“I took you to the queen’s betrothal feast in Bordeaux,” Geoffrey said.

Henry glowered, feeling at a disadvantage. He hated being told of events that had either excluded him or he had forgotten, although memory of the event was starting to return. His discomfort increased when Eleanor, hands on hips, lips pursed, now walked slowly around him.

“Is Normandy in such dire straits that the treasury cannot afford new clothes for its duke?”

Henry flushed crimson while Geoffrey allowed a tiny smile of satisfaction to cross his features.

“You’re a far cry from the elegance of your father,” she said, walking over to Geoffrey.

In what Henry took to be an intimate gesture that bespoke of long familiarity, Eleanor smoothed the count’s gold-embroidered blue mantle. “Geoffrey le Bel, you must give the duke the name of your tailor. He’s too barbaric for our civilized court.”

Henry knew she was deliberately taunting him; it stirred him like new wine.

“With apologies to my father, but clothes alone do not make the man,” he said, determined to rise to this challenge.

Eleanor widened her eyes. “Ah, so we have a philosopher in our midst. Tell me, pray, I am all ears. What does make the man?”

“I would be most happy to show you, Madam.” Henry grinned. “Any time. Any place. You have only to say the word.”

Geoffrey looked like a thundercloud.

Eleanor laughed. “Did you hear that,
demoiselles?
Is that a fair offer, would you say?”

The women giggled.

Eleanor’s eyes clashed with Henry’s like steel ringing against steel in the lists; the air between them crackled. Henry’s loins stirred, the blood pounded in his head. How he wanted this woman, proud and mettlesome as a wild filly, and as far beyond his reach as a star.

Eleanor clapped her hands. “My lords, you must help us with this most intriguing question. My ladies, my troubadours, and myself are holding a most serious debate on the nature of love: Can there be true love in marriage?”

“I fear that we cannot do justice to that question at the moment,” Geoffrey said in a curt voice. “We must retire to our quarters. Perhaps another time, Lady.”

“I hope you will attend me later—both of you,” said Eleanor, her eyes upon Henry.

Caught in the incandescent moment Henry was unable to break the spell, until Geoffrey bowed, grabbed his arm, then physically marched him from the chamber. The equerries led them to their quarters where their squires had already unpacked the saddlebags. The count was silent but Henry felt a tension emanating from his father, and could guess the reason.

“Does something trouble you, my lord?” He decided it was better to let Geoffrey air his grievances than have them fester inside him.

“You pushed yourself forward in a most aggressive manner,” Geoffrey said, rummaging through his belongings.

He lifted out a silver mirror that traveled everywhere with him, then rearranged his red-gold locks in an attempt to hide a few strands of gray hair.

Watching his father preen, Henry grudgingly admitted to himself that he was still an extraordinarily handsome man. Although his waist had thickened somewhat over the years, and his fair skin had slightly coarsened, the purity of his features was striking, his carriage was straight as a spear, and the cornflower blue of his eyes remained undimmed. “Geoffrey le Bel” still applied.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you exhibited the worst characteristics of a typical boorish Norman,” Geoffrey said, “and behaved most offensively. The queen was displeased with your uncouth manner.”

Henry laughed. “Displeased? On the contrary.”

“I flatter myself I know the queen better than you.”

“That’s obvious. How much better is the question.” The moment the words were out he regretted them. Too late.

Geoffrey placed the mirror carefully in his saddlebag then spun around. “Take care how you speak to me. Some matters do not concern you.”

Henry felt the blood rise to his head, and threw caution to the winds. “If the king of France has personally taken against
me
because
you
have put a pair of horns on him, surely that is my concern—and my mother’s as well.”

Geoffrey, white with rage, swung his arm wide and cuffed him on the side of the head. “Impudent young cub! I’ll teach you to flout your sire.”

Henry was so taken aback that he had no time to react. By the time he did, his ear tingling from the blow, Geoffrey had marched out of the chamber. The cuff had been more insulting than painful, and he was not angry so much as astonished.

Henry had witnessed his father in some vile moods over the years, but he had never before seen him in a jealous rage. The sight did not make pleasant viewing. Eleanor must mean more to Geoffrey—a great deal more—than he had imagined. Had the French queen bedded his father? It was none of his affair, yet he felt as if someone had driven a burning spear through his vitals. One way or another, he intended to find out the truth.

“I
S THERE SOMETHING AMISS
between you and your father? You seem distant with each other,” said Eleanor later that evening in the great hall.

To Henry’s amazement he had been seated at the high table next to the queen, while Geoffrey was placed next to Louis. A far greater honor but one undoubtedly less pleasing to the count.

“Are you surprised?” he asked.

“Should I be?”

“I would have thought very little surprises you, Lady.”

“If you think I’m responsible for any coolness between you and Geoffrey, why not come right out and say so?”

After a moment’s silence Henry, aware of his surging heartbeat, turned to look Eleanor directly in the face. “How well do you know my father?”

“Not nearly as well as he would have liked.” The words came readily to her tongue. Too readily? “Does that disturb you?” She met his gaze squarely. “It shouldn’t. After all, everyone knows the count and countess of Anjou have never gotten along.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that.” Henry stabbed a piece of roast venison with his knife. “In future, please refer to my mother as the empress. It is the title she prefers.”

“Yes, of course.” Eleanor paused. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to open old wounds.” She gave him a crooked smile. “I understand about old wounds. Sometimes it helps to share them.”

The new note of gentleness in her voice, the empathetic warmth in her eyes, brought an unexpected lump into his throat. Jesu, what was happening? Eleanor had somehow taken control of the conversation; its unforeseen turn was now making him feel acutely uncomfortable. He must get the reins back into his own hands. Henry swallowed, forced a smile, then flashed her a roguish look that usually reduced most females to simpering peahens.

“I would share more than confidences with you, Madam.”

There was a moment’s silence. “Would you indeed? How very unoriginal.” The warmth was gone, replaced by the voice of the queen teasing her courtiers. “I’ve always heard the Normans lacked subtlety, but I hardly expected their duke to behave like—well—” She gave an eloquent shrug.

“How else would you expect me to behave? I’m a man like any other—but not a silver-tongued gallant.”

“No! One would never have guessed.” She peered at him flirtatiously over the rim of her jeweled goblet.

The dangerous moment was over; Henry relaxed. Eleanor’s face, framed by a white muslin wimple and topped by the ducal coronet of Aquitaine, looked even more youthful and vibrant than it had earlier in the day. For a moment Henry’s gaze lingered on the gold emblem of her power before passing down the slender arch of her neck. He realized that her clothes were not those she had worn earlier and felt a sudden throb in his temples. Had she changed them for his benefit—or his father’s? Under a sleeveless crimson surcoat, she wore a tightly molded blue gown that revealed a slender waist and faintly outlined the nipples of her breasts. Was she wearing anything underneath? Her breasts were not large but high and firm, like a girl’s half her age. Henry wondered what they would feel like in his hands.