“I truly did not expect that Louis would ever be able to get himself a son, not after three wives and four daughters. He came to believe that he’d incurred the Almighty’s displeasure, and I suppose I wanted to believe that, too.” Henry shook his head in disgust at his own shortsightedness. “If we could foretell the future with certainty, what need would we have for prayer?”
That sounded vaguely blasphemous to Rosamund, but she decided Henry ought not to be judged by the same stringent standards that applied to other men. As King of England, he was the Almighty’s anointed, after all. She was thankful for her questions and her curiosity, for the flickering improbable hope that one day their paths might cross again, as her en deavors now enabled her to comprehend the root of his discontent. He had married his eldest son to Louis’s daughter in the belief that this marriage might one day make his son heir to two thrones. It had been an ambitious dream, but Henry was not one to settle for less if there was a chance he might get more. Louis had two daughters older than little Marguerite, of course, wed to the conniving Counts of Blois and Champagne, and Rosamund did not doubt they’d have made their own claims had Louis died without a son. Just as she did not doubt that Henry would have prevailed. But now it was not to be.
She struggled to find some morsel of comfort to offer him, at last said hesitantly, “Your son will still be England’s king, my liege. And the lands of the French king are meager indeed when compared with the empire you rule.”
Henry said nothing; she couldn’t be sure if he’d even heard her. He was frowning into the shadows beyond their moonlit patch of garden, withdrawing back into himself again. Rosamund felt suddenly bereft. Desperate to slow the drift, to keep his attention for a little longer, she found the courage to ask the question that had been haunting her since their arrival that afternoon.
“My liege… have I offended you in some way?”
Henry was sorry she’d asked that, for there was no honest way to answer her without causing her pain. “Of course not,” he said, hoping she’d be satisfied with his denial.
Rosamund bit her lip, utterly unconvinced. “Then… then why did you look at me like that in the bailey? You were not pleased to see me, my lord, I know you were not. Can you not tell me why?”
He was quiet for a moment, considering his options and concluding that he had none. “You are right, lass. I was displeased, but not with you. My anger was with your father.”
“Because he sent for me?” she asked in a small voice, and Henry nodded unwillingly.
“Rosamund, I do not want to hurt you. None of this is your doing. You did not realize what he had in mind, using you as bait to fish for the king’s favor. At Avreton Castle, he saw that I was drawn to you and he thought to take advantage of it. I should be used to it by now. But you’re his daughter, by God, and he ought to care more for your welfare than his own coffers. By pushing you toward my bed, he might have gained certain advantages today, but what of your tomorrows? What sort of marriage could you make? I’m no saint, have committed my share of sins and I’m likely to commit more. But you’re an innocent…”
Henry paused, hearing again Ranulf’s voice pointing that out to him. The king’s conscience. “I do not want to hurt you,” he repeated, and this time he was not speaking of the injuries inflicted by his candor.
Rosamund was deeply flushed; even by the moon’s silvered light, he could see the color burning in her cheeks. “You are wrong, my liege.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “I did realize what my father had in mind. I am indeed an innocent, as you say. But I am not a child. Of course I understood. What you do not understand is that I was willing. I wanted to come. I wanted to be with you.”
The silence that followed her confession seemed endless to Rosamund; even the sounds of the night had ceased, and she could almost believe the entire world had gone still of a sudden. When she could endure it no more, she said, “You must think I’m shameless.. ”
Henry closed the distance between them, slid his fingers under her chin, and tilted her face up to his. “No,” he said, “I am thinking that it would take a stronger man than me to walk away from you now.”
Watching as Henry moved to the table and poured wine for them, Rosamund could only marvel that the King of England was acting as her cupbearer. He brought a single cup back to the window seat and they took turns drinking from it. Rosamund limited herself to several small sips, for she already felt light-headed, made tipsy by this astonishing turn of fate. All her daydreams notwithstanding, she found it hard to believe that she was actually here with Henry in his bedchamber, his fingers stroking her cheek, his every smile for her and her alone. She was touched that he was being so gentle with her, so unhurried. He’d unfastened her veil and wimple, unpinning her hair until it tumbled free down her back.
“You’re very beautiful,” he said, “especially with your hair loose like this. The color is remarkable, not so much spun flax as spun moonlight.”
“I’m glad it pleases you,” she said, and he set the wine cup down in the floor rushes at their feet, took her in his arms. He’d kissed her before, below in the gardens, but not like this. His mouth was hot, tasting of wine, and when he took her onto his lap, she felt the rising proof of how much he wanted her. She was breathless by the time he ended the kiss. He traced the curve of her mouth with his finger, his eyes shining silver in the lamplight. The loss of her maidenhead would turn her life onto a different path, a road unfamiliar and fraught with risk. She was immensely grateful that he cared about her honor, but she was not afraid. Her anxiety had vanished down in the gardens, once she realized that he did want her. She gave him a smile he would remember, one of tenderness and utter trust, and he lifted her up in his arms, carried her across the chamber to his bed.
Henry was thirty-two, had first learned about the profound pleasures of the flesh while still in his early teens. Oddly, though, he’d had little experience with virgins, for he was as pragmatic about bedsport as he was about other pursuits; his natural inclination was for the most direct route. Before his marriage to Eleanor, he’d preferred knowing, practiced bedmates and was quite willing to pay for the privilege, as that was easy and uncomplicated and avoided awkward misunderstandings. Since his marriage, he’d been faithful to his wife when he was with her, feeling free to seek sexual release elsewhere when he was not.
Rosamund Clifford was a departure from his usual pattern, and he was intent upon making sure that her first time was pleasurable for her, for she aroused more than his lust; there was something about the girl that made him want to take care of her. With Rosamund, he discovered a virtue he hadn’t thought he possessed-patience-and after their lovemaking was over, he held her within the sheltering circle of his arms, fighting sleep for her sake, a sacrifice he’d hitherto made only for Eleanor.
He awoke in the morning with a feeling of drowsy contentment, and for the first time in weeks with nary a thought to spare for his failed campaign, his missing uncle, or the hapless Welsh hostages. Rosamund was curled up beside him like a kitten, blond hair spilling across the pillow and over the side of the bed; it must reach nigh on to her knees, he decided, and a stray quotation from Scriptures surfaced, that “if a woman hath long hair, it is a glory to her.” When she opened her eyes and smiled up at him, he was surprised by the surge of relief he felt. He’d been confident he’d made her deflowering more pleasurable than painful, but a woman’s virtue was a valuable commodity in their world and she might well have suffered morning-after regrets. He was pleased to see that it was not so, and leaned over to kiss her sweeping golden lashes, the corner of her mouth where her smile still lingered.
Afterward, they lay entwined in the sheets, reluctant to leave the private refuge of his bedchamber for the reality waiting on the other side of the door. Henry was the first to stir, smothering a yawn with the back of his hand. “People will know,” he said. “Nothing that a king does escapes notice. Does that trouble you, Rosamund?”