Henry awoke suddenly, torn from a troubled dream of bloodshed and betrayal. So jarring was his return to reality that for a moment, he could not remember where he was. It was only when he saw the slender female form beside him in bed that he recognized his surroundings. This was Falaise, the house he’d leased for Rosamund, a private refuge from the brutal border wars he’d been fighting for much of the year.
Sitting up, he cocked his head, listening to the dreary sound of sleet drumming upon the roof, pelting against the shutters. The hearth had burned out and the chamber was filling with frigid air; by morning, ice would be glazing the water in the washing lavers. After a lifetime of indifference to weather woes, he was startled to find himself minding this winter’s misery so much. November was always a wretched month. It was a waste of breath to curse the cold or damn the wind. But still he shivered under coverlets of fox fur and at last rolled over, seeking Rosamund’s warmth.
She was drowsily accommodating, stifling a yawn and entwining her arms around his neck. She was not surprised that he was awake again. For all the gold in his coffers and the lands under his rule, sleep was the one luxury that often eluded him. She sometimes tried to visualize the workings of his brain, imagining his thoughts galloping like the fleetest greyhounds through the mazes of his mind, going too fast for respite. Even during his pursuits of pleasure-his hunting, their lovemaking-he never let the man control the king. His hunger was for empires, his dreams of dynasties. He had too much, she feared, for any mortal man to govern. A surfeit of ambitions, enemies, dominions, even sons.
She’d been quieter than usual that evening. Henry was not accustomed to giving much thought to the moods of others; that was one of the many perquisites of kingship. But Rosamund was like a wildflower on a well-traveled path, too easily trodden underfoot. For her, Henry was learning to be circumspect.
He hoped she was not still fretting over that gossip about him and Eudo de Porhoet’s daughter. The Breton rebel was claiming that he’d seduced the girl during her stint as his hostage and somehow Rosamund had heard of it. When she’d gathered up the courage to ask, he’d denied it with convincing sincerity. Eleanor would have known how little that meant. He could always lie with conviction, and saw his flexibility with the truth as a venal sin, too minor to matter. Of course Eleanor would not have asked the question in the first place. She’d have understood that such slander was merely another weapon, a convenient way for the Bretons to stir up hostility against their Angevin overlord. And she’d have understood, too, that even if it were true, it meant nothing to their marriage.
Henry sighed softly, regretting that Rosamund was still such an innocent. After a moment, the humor of it struck him-that he was wishing his mistress was as worldly as his wife-and he smiled to himself in the dark. He’d lied to Rosamund before and doubtless would do so again if need be, but this time he had indeed spoken true. He’d not so much as touched the hand of de Porhoet’s precious daughter. Hellfire, when would he have found the time? For the past two years, he’d all but lived in the saddle, putting down one rebellion after another, only to have his foes rise up again like that blasted serpent in Greek myth, the nine-headed Hydra.
“What are you thinking of, my love?” she asked shyly. Her skin was soft and warm, her long, loose hair flowing like a silvery stream over them both, tickling his chest. This was a favorite query of hers, and although he considered it a girlish whim, he was usually willing to indulge her. Now he pondered briefly before coming up with a suitable answer, one that was a half-truth, for his upcoming meeting with the French king was never far from his thoughts.
“I was thinking about the Epiphany council. It has taken almost a year to get this far; I’d hate to have it all fall apart at the eleventh hour.”
Rosamund snuggled still closer, offering her body heat as freely as she did her heart. He’d sent for her in the spring, soon after the de Lusignans had ambushed his queen. She’d seen him seldom in these past six months, though, for he’d spent the summer in Brittany and much of the autumn warring along the Marches of Normandy. During his brief visits, he’d talked of his intent to make peace with Louis, and she knew how much it meant to him, for without the cooperation and goodwill of the French king, he could not advance his plans for his sons.
Rosamund turned her head into the crook of his shoulder. She did not fully understand why he wanted to divide his empire amongst his sons, but she took comfort in the knowledge that Eleanor backed him in this; from all she’d heard, the queen was as shrewd as any man when it came to statecraft. She cared only for his peace of mind and she’d already begun praying daily for the success of his endeavor, entreating the Almighty to look with favor upon His son, Henry Fitz Empress.
Henry was engaging in a doomsday exercise, trying to envision all that might possibly go wrong during the council. He was by nature an optimist, always expecting to win whenever he took the field. But too much was at stake for overconfidence. He wanted to be prepared for any eventuality, any ambush. God knew, he had enemies enough at the French court, pouring poison into Louis’s ear every chance they got.
“If Louis wants proof of my good faith,” he said caustically, “he need look no further than my agreeing to meet with that traitor, Becket.”
Rosamund propped herself up on her elbow and stopped him from speaking with a lingering kiss, for she’d learned early on that talking about Thomas Becket only served to kindle his wrath and often brought on one of his infrequent, intense headaches. Henry was willing to be distracted and for a time, Becket and the French king were forgotten. Afterward, he felt a throb of tenderness toward the woman lying in his arms, wanting to give her some of the comfort she gave to him.
“Did I tell you I’ll be keeping my Christmas court at Argentan this year?”
Rosamund was already dreading the coming of Christmas. Never did she feel so alone, so aware of her precarious position as his concubine as she did during days of holy celebration. “I suppose your queen will be there, too,” she murmured, striving to sound casual and failing miserably.
“No… Eleanor plans to hold court at Poitiers. I had too much still to do in Normandy to venture down into Poitou.”
Later she would wonder why the queen had not joined him, then, at Argentan. Now she felt only a surging joy. “So you’ll be able to find time for me?” she asked, too delighted for coyness or coquetry.
Henry laughed. “As much time as you want,” he promised, tightening his arm around her shoulders. Outside, sleet and rain continued to fall, the wind wailing through the deserted streets of Falaise. But the storm’s din no longer disturbed Henry and soon after, he slept.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
January 1169
Montmirail, France
Henry was happy that day, happier than he’d been in a long time, convinced that the Almighty had looked with favor upon this council of kings, for even the weather was cooperating. Above his head, the sky was the glowing shade of the lapis lazuli gemstone that shimmered upon his left hand, a gift from the French monarch. The air was cold but clear, free of the hearth-smoke that hovered over the streets of Montmirail, and the open fields were revived by a dusting of powdery snow, camouflaging the drab ugliness of winter mud and withered grass. The banners of England and France fluttered in the wind, proud symbols of power and sovereignty, but nothing gave him more pleasure than the sight of his sons.