But tonight, Henry did not want to think about Ranulf or Wales. Exercising a king’s prerogative to commandeer the conversation, he switched the subject from Rhuddlan to Salisbury’s recent pilgrimage to the sacred Spanish shrine of St James of Compostela. But he found it difficult to corral his wayward thoughts. Each time he glanced around the hall, he encountered swiftly averted eyes, poorly concealed curiosity and speculation. Like his young cousin Nicholas, they were all wondering about his coming reunion with Eleanor, avid to know what would happen once they were alone in the royal bedchamber.
Henry would have given a great deal to know that himself. He really wasn’t sure what to expect from Eleanor. Her self-exile in England for the past year was not as easy to read as it first appeared. Did it indicate the gravity of her grievance against him? Or had she deliberately stayed away to give her lacerated pride time to heal?
In the beginning, he’d been relieved by her absence, then bemused, and finally, unsettled. Her infrequent letters told him much about her days, nothing about her heart. He’d been taken aback when she did not return to Normandy after hearing of his mother’s death. He’d gotten a graceful condolence letter that said all the right things, yet seemed oddly impersonal coming from a woman who’d been his wife for fifteen years and borne him eight children. Not even Tilda’s departure had brought Eleanor home; she’d accompanied their daughter across the Channel, saw her off for the imperial court with the German ambassadors, then sailed back to England before Henry had heard of her brief presence on Norman soil.
Feigning interest in Salisbury’s pilgrim stories, Henry acknowledged that the portents were not auspicious. Whenever he sought to convince himself that Eleanor’s actions need not mean she nursed a grudge, an inner voice mocked that he was like an unwary sailor, insisting that a red morning sky did not warn of a coming storm. No, her return was sure to bring squalls and high winds. They were likely to have a God-awful quarrel; he might as well reconcile himself to that. And because she was the one wronged, he’d have to make things right between them.
But what if he could not placate her with an honest apology? What if that was not enough for her? If she demanded that he put Rosamund aside, end their liaison? Logically, that should not present a problem. He had not laid eyes upon the girl in well over a year. He could not even remember the names of his other bedmates in that year. They’d never mattered to him, and Eleanor understood that. So why then was Rosamund different? Why this reluctance to disavow her? As often as he’d been down this road, he never found the answers he sought. In truth, he did not know what he’d do if Eleanor insisted that Rosamund be forsworn. He could only hope that her price for peace would not be so high.
Eleanor was wearing a gown Henry did not remember seeing before, a brocaded silk of deep gold, with a tightly fitted bodice, full, sweeping skirts, and swirling sleeves of emerald green. It reminded him vaguely of the gown she’d worn on their wedding day, stirred up memories he preferred to keep becalmed. Presiding over their evening meal in the great hall, she glittered and sparkled like the rings flashing on her fingers, looking beautiful and elegant and enigmatic. Henry silently applauded her performance; no queen ever born could play that role better than Eleanor. Nor had he expected any less from her. Even if she yearned to cut his throat with his own dagger, no one would ever guess it from her public demeanor. That would be a surprise she’d save for the privacy of their bedchamber.
And so the meal passed in outward harmony, with wine flowing as freely as the polished, courteous conversation. One advantage of having so many children and so many enemies, Henry acknowledged wryly, was that they’d never run out of something to talk about. By the time several elaborate subtleties had been wheeled into the hall, Henry and Eleanor had traded information upon their vast brood, interspersed with the latest gossip coming out of the French court, the Papal See, and Thomas Becket’s self-proclaimed sanctuary at Sens.
The subtlety for the high table was a depiction of the Birth of the Christ Child, acclaimed for its artistry, but not expected to be eaten, and Henry decided he could wait no longer for the second act in this drama. Why not leave their guests to fend for themselves, he suggested, and wasn’t sure whether to be gratified or aggrieved by the nonchalance with which Eleanor accepted his offer.
A nursery had been furnished for the three youngest of Henry and Eleanor’s children: six-year-old Eleanor, two-year-old Joanna, and John, who was just days away from his first birthday. Of the older offspring, Tilda was in Germany, Hal had his own household as befitting the heir to the English throne, and Richard and Geoffrey had not yet arrived at Argentan. As Eleanor and Henry entered the chamber, John’s wet-nurse leaped to her feet as if caught in some dereliction of duty. Joanna’s wet nurse was made of sterner stuff and as she curtsied, she dared to put a finger to her lips, warning the parents not to awaken their daughter, who had finally and blessedly gone to sleep. Eleanor, named after her mother but called Aenor after her maternal grandmother, was permitted a later bedtime and was playing alone in a corner with a felt puppet. She seemed no less startled than the wet-nurses by this sudden intrusion into the nursery, and her greetings were subdued, even shy.
Henry was not surprised by the little girl’s reticence, for she’d been apart from her mother for more than a year, and how could he be other than a stranger? How often did he see any of his children? As always, when confronted with the remote reality of royal parenthood, he felt a genuine regret, a sadness that he had developed with none of his children the sort of easy, affectionate rapport he’d enjoyed with his own father. But he no longer resolved to remedy matters, for by now he knew better. The demands of kingship were invariably going to prevail over the attractions of the nursery. Since he found his children to be more interesting as they matured, he’d assuaged any sense of loss by assuring himself that there would be time enough once they’d left babyhood behind.
Joanna was sleeping soundly, her hair a tangle of bright gold upon the pillow. But as Henry leaned over John’s cradle, the boy opened his eyes. Henry had gotten only a cursory glimpse of his son upon their arrival at Argentan, for John had been asleep, well swaddled in blankets. Their other children had all been fair; John’s dark hair came as a surprise, therefore, to his father. “Our first black sheep,” he said softly. “He looks like you, Eleanor.”
“You think so?”
“Not just his hair. He has your eyes, too.” The resemblance seemed so obvious to Henry that he did not understand how Eleanor could have missed it. Yet there had been an unmistakably skeptical tone to her voice. Unless their time apart had completely skewed his instincts where she was concerned. When he’d glanced down into his son’s shining hazel eyes, they’d told him nothing about the workings of that small brain, nor had he expected them to; an infant’s world was an alien abode. But as Eleanor’s eyes met his over the cradle, they were no more revealing than John’s.
He’d almost forgotten how well she could mask her thoughts when she chose. He’d been in Paris nigh on a week, and until she’d lured him into the privacy of the rain-screened royal gardens, he’d had no idea whatsoever of her intent. Now, their eyes held, and suddenly he had no more patience for these womanly games. This was his wife and he wanted her back in his bed, in his life, wanted the ease and familiarity and erotic intimacy that he’d once taken for granted.