The chamber’s candles still flickered, wavering pinpoints of light against the encroaching shadows. They’d not drawn the bed curtains and Eleanor could see flames licking the hearth log, continuing to give out a measure of heat. Her greyhound rose, paused to sniff at the clothing scattered in the floor rushes, and then padded to the bed, poking a cold nose into Eleanor’s hand. She fondled the dog’s silken head absently, from habit, listening to the hissing of the fire and the deep, even breathing of the man asleep beside her.
She’d given him a chance and he’d scorned it. So be it, then. Rising up on her elbow, she stared down at his face, faintly lit by firelight. He must think women are such fools. Did he truly imagine that she did not know about his continuing letters to Rosamund Clifford? Or that he’d planned to bring her over to join him in Normandy? Did he really think she’d not be able to find eyes and ears to serve her at Woodstock? Or did he just assume that she’d act the dutiful wife, expecting her to endure the shame in silence, saying nary a word of protest whilst he plucked his little English gosling?
During the months since Woodstock, her rage had slowly congealed into ice. By the time she was ready to return to his court, she believed she had come to terms with his betrayal. She had every right to object to his whoring. If she’d not cast her lot in with his, if she’d not agreed to wed, who was to say if he’d ever have become England’s king? Aquitaine had been his stepping-stone to the English throne, her Aquitaine.
Over these past months, she’d deliberately dwelt upon her grievances, remembering all those times when he’d disregarded her advice, ignored her counsel, alienated her vassals with his high-handed Angevin ways. He’d not truly trusted her political judgment-this from the man who’d given the keys to the kingdom over to Thomas Becket. She’d actually wielded more influence with the dithering, hapless Louis than ever she had with Harry, and what greater irony could there be than that?
When she’d finally sailed from Southampton, she’d believed that her heart was well armored against further betrayals. She would make it clear that she’d not tolerate any more Rosamund Cliffords. She’d always been reasonable about his women, had never expected him to abstain when they were long apart. But she’d not abide his flaunting concubines at their court, in her bed for all she knew. He owed her better than that.
Nothing had gone, though, as she’d planned. The indifference she’d been cultivating with such care had cracked wide open, like a defective shield. Instead of a measured, matter-of-fact recital of her wrongs and complaints, she’d been caught up in emotions that were as raw and primitive as they were unexpected, one breaking wave after another of floodtide fury, resentment, jealousy, and unhealed hurt. She’d given him the opportunity to make things right between them, to make her believe that Rosamund Clifford meant no more to him than any of the other harlots he’d taken to his bed. And he repaid her with a Judas kiss.
It was plain now what he wanted from her-to turn a blind eye to his straying, to accept Rosamund Clifford as his paramour, to content herself with the nursery and needlework. Did he think to set his wench up under the same roof, as her grandfather had done with the most notorious of his conquests? If so, she wasn’t sure which of them was the bigger fool.
Swallowing was suddenly painful. She felt as if her throat was being squeezed in a strangler’s hold, as if a heavy millstone was pressing onto her chest, forcing the air from her lungs. But she shed no tears; her eyes, narrowed on Henry’s sleeping form, were dry and burning. She could still give him an ultimatum, tell him on the morrow that Rosamund Clifford must go. But what if she made such a demand and he refused? She’d not humble her pride like that, would never risk such a humiliation, not in this life or the next. Nor would she forgive.
Henry awoke to a distinct chill, soon discovered that the fire had gone out during the night. A weight lay across his feet. Blinking, he saw that his wife’s greyhound had sneaked up onto the bed while they slept. Eleanor was still sleeping, her head cradled in the crook of her arm, a sweep of long hair trailing over the edge of the bed. He tried to think of a reason to get up, couldn’t come up with one, and burrowed back into the warm cocoon of their covers, feeling more content than he had in months.
When he stirred again, the hearth had been tended, the dog evicted, and Eleanor’s attendants were moving quietly about the chamber. Her side of the bed was empty, the bed curtains partially drawn. As he sat up, a hand slid through the opening, holding a silver cup.
“Here,” his wife said, “this will fortify you to face the rest of the day.” Reaching for the cup, he took a tentative sip; it was one of her Gascony wines, well watered down as he preferred. “I always fare better whenever you’re around to see to the household,” he said, observing her appreciatively over the rim of the cup. She was already dressed in a gown of soft wool the color of sapphire, but she’d not yet put on her wimple and veil, and her hair was still visible, plaited and coiled at the nape of her neck. There was an agreeable intimacy about the sight, for only a husband or lover ever saw a woman with her hair unbound or uncovered. “You look very pleasing to the eye this morn,” he said. “A pity, though, that you were in such a hurry to dress. We could have stayed abed a while longer…” He let his words trail off suggestively, and she smiled.
“Too late,” she said briskly. “I’ve already sent for your squires.” Her timing was perfect, for at that very moment, a knock sounded at the door. Renee, still looking subdued, admitted a servant bearing a tray. Eleanor took it and carried it back to Henry. “I ordered some roasted chestnuts so you could break the night’s fast,” she said, making herself comfortable at the end of the bed, putting the tray between them.
Henry took another swallow of wine, helped himself to some of the chestnuts. Eleanor took one, shelled it deftly, and nibbled on the nut. “I was sorry to hear about the fall of that Welsh castle,” she said, and they were soon deep in a discussion of the incessant turmoil in the more troublesome regions of their domains. Her ladies continued with their tasks and when Henry’s squires arrived, they knew better than to interrupt until their lord was ready to dress.
Henry had finished lambasting the Bretons and moved on to the Poitevins. Eleanor listened intently, making an occasional incisive comment about her faithless barons. They both agreed that the de Lusignans must be dealt with-and sooner rather than later.
“I think, Harry, that it is time I returned to Aquitaine,” Eleanor said pensively. “My presence there might help to calm some of the unrest. Not with lawless hellspawn like the de Lusignans, of course. The Virgin Mary herself could be their liege lady and they’d still be conniving and pillaging. But there are others with wavering loyalties who could benefit from a reminder that they’d pledged their faith and their honor to me, Duke William’s daughter.”
Henry had been thinking along the same lines in recent months. But he’d not been able to seek her cooperation against her Poitevin rebels until they’d made their peace over his indiscretion with Rosamund Clifford. “I agree, “ he said. “It has been too long since you paid a visit to Poitou. But we’d have to take measures for your safety first. Once I am sure that you’d not be at risk, we can lay our plans accordingly.”