Devil's Consort (42 page)

The Count’s eyes were a clear grey with no subservience in them. His smile, deepening, was warmly intimate.

‘We did not expect you, lady. We should have been prepared to welcome you.’

‘It was a sudden decision on my part.’

I found myself holding out my hand. Count Geoffrey took it and raised it to his mouth, brushing my fingers with his lips, his eyes never leaving mine. His touch rippled over my skin, and I allowed my hand to rest there, enclosed by his long, elegant fingers. Until I pulled my hand away. How could I be so obtuse? So lacking in dignity as to stare at him as if I had never seen anything quite so desirable. Even more horrified, as I felt the flush of hot blood in my cheeks, it came into my mind that this arrogant man sensed my confusion when the quirk of his mouth gained a touch of malice.

‘So your royal monk has allowed you to escape the confines of the Ile de la Cité and travel alone.’

How insolent he was, and yet I felt no animosity
towards him. What impressed me far more was that at that moment he had fallen easily into fluent court Latin rather than his own Angevin French, and I had thought him no more than an ill lettered lout, albeit a titled one. The Count of Anjou had received an education at someone’s hands.

‘I am Countess here,’ I remarked mildly, at odds with my galloping heartbeat, gesturing to Agnes to leave. It seemed that this was a day for preserving my privacy. ‘I travel when I wish.’

The Count inclined his head. ‘I meant no disrespect, lady.’

‘And is your wife not here with you?’ I could retaliate and punish him for his presumption. I knew full well she wasn’t, and was not surprised when the Count’s brow darkened into quick temper.

Everyone knew of the warlike Angevin marriage.

Matilda, daughter and only surviving child of King Henry the First of England and thus by rights Queen of that country, was in England. I knew she would spend no more time than she had to with the husband foisted on her by her father against her will. Nor would the Count choose to spend his time with his undoubtedly important wife. She was the Count’s greatest achievement so far in his climb to greatness, but it had not made for a comfortable coupling. Matilda, eleven years older than he and reputably a shrew of a woman, was fixed on claiming the throne of England if only she could persuade the barons of that country that a woman
could wear the crown as effectively as a man. I wished her well but could see little hope for her. The English barons were reluctant to take on a woman and would never accept an Angevin as their king, no matter how strong the claim of his wife. Instead they would rather give their oath of allegiance to Matilda’s male cousin Stephen. His claim might be open to question but at least he was a man—and not an Angevin. So Stephen ruled and Matilda strove to snatch the crown from him.

‘Does the Lady Matilda have no love for Poitou?’ I asked sweetly.

Geoffrey’s smile replaced the hint of the scowl as if he saw my intent, but there was the edge of roughness in his reply. ‘She has other interests and is not here.’ Abruptly he changed direction. ‘Do you intend to stay long? There’s good hunting to the north that I can recommend. Deer and boar are plentiful.’ His eyes gleamed with the thrill of the hunt. ‘And the wildfowl on the marshes if you have an interest in hawking. The weather is set fair …’ Somehow he had taken possession of my hand again and led me to a low stool. ‘Will you stay, lady?’

I was conscious of nothing but his hand around mine, his fingers rough with calluses of sword and rein against my skin. And when I raised my eyes to his they were smiling, as if they could read every thought in my head.

Take care, Eleanor! The warning whispered through my mind.

‘Yes, I will stay,’ I heard myself say. Such an easy decision to make.

A noise at the door took our attention, and a shadow such as the Count had made, barred by the sun, a scuffle of feet.

A young man emerged at the top of the stair, to stand momentarily below the door arch. A young man just escaping from the uncoordinated clumsiness of childhood, in transition from youth to man. Not uncertain or hesitant, but carefully watchful. I did not think he was a page. His clothes were too good, even though scuffed and showing signs of wear, and his demeanour held a touch of incongruous youthful arrogance immediately reminiscent of the Angevin before me.

Count Geoffrey barked a laugh. ‘Henry! You shouldn’t be here. But since you are …’ He swung back to me, his face bright with pride. ‘My eldest son and heir. Henry, who will one day step into my shoes as Count of Anjou …’

I smiled a welcome but the youth did not smile back. Rather his forehead creased in a frown and his eyes darted around the room, taking in every detail.

‘Come.’ I beckoned. And stood to encourage him.

Henry Plantagenet needed no encouragement from me. Loping across the room, he bowed with more energy than grace, then knelt at my feet, head bent. He had been well schooled. And how like his father—the
same gilded russet hair, the same cool grey eyes, the same potent agility and energy. Two handsome, virile men. Henry might be young but was already growing into his strength. Shorter than his father he may be, more stocky in build, but the Plantagenet print was strong on his features, in his hair.

‘Rise, Henry,’ I invited.

He did, but shuffled from foot to foot as if he could barely contain the energy that flowed through him. The hands that grasped his cap were large and capable, his appraisal direct and surprisingly mature. I felt its force with a frisson of amusement.

‘You should make your apology for disturbing the lady,’ the Count growled, but indulgently.

‘Forgive me, lady.’ Henry’s eyes lifted to his father, then back to me. ‘I wished to see the Queen of France for myself.’

His voice was his father’s too. And his Latin as polished.

‘And now you have seen her.’ The Count cuffed his son affectionately on the shoulder. ‘So don’t interrupt.’

As the Count and I talked mundane matters of law and business in Poitou, I watched the Angevin heir out of the corner of my eye, my amusement growing. Constantly on the move, he strode to the window to inspect new arrivals in the courtyard below, he slouched in a chair to turn the pages of a book, lingering here and there, only to replace it and leap to his feet. His eye alighted on everything and anything of interest
or novelty, picking it up, inspecting it, rearranging chess pieces on the board, inspecting his appearance in a looking glass but without much interest. An ivory and enamelled casket brought by my grandfather from Outremer from his crusading days proved too much for him. With the point of his knife Henry dismantled the cunning hinges and clasp, then put them back together again.

An amazing perpetual need to investigate and explore.

But when he descended on my popinjay, to ruffle its feathers, repeating his own name so that the bird might copy it—it didn’t but only squawked—the Count had had enough.

‘Go away, Henry.’

‘Can I take the bird with me?’

‘No!’

I laughed at the disappointment on his face. ‘Yes. Take it. But don’t put it in a bad mood.’

‘I’ll teach it to say Eleanor!’

With a blinding smile and a neat little bow, Henry turned on his heel and strode across the room, taking popinjay and wolfhound with him, only to stop by the stair and look back, one hand pulling at the animal’s ears.

‘They say she is the most beautiful woman in Europe. And she is.’

Then he ran down the staircase, only halting to flatten
himself against the wall as the steward appeared with the wine and a maidservant carrying a tray.

Count Geoffrey scowled after his son, then laughed. ‘Sometimes there’s no restraining him. When he’s not asleep he’s on the move.’ His glance at me was sharp. ‘I’ll add my own regrets for his manners, lady.’

‘I think you are proud of him.’

‘Of course. He is my son. And, before God, he speaks the truth.’

Bright colour rose in my cheeks again. The Count stepped aside for the steward to pour the wine, waiting in silence until it was done and we were alone again. Even so I was aware of his every move as he prowled restlessly towards the window, kicking a log more firmly into the fireplace. His son Henry was not the only one with an excess of energy. Finally he raised his cup in a silent toast to me. He didn’t need to speak. It seemed I could read him as well as he could read me. The heat flared even hotter in my face.

‘You’ll need to settle in.’ The Count put down his cup. ‘I’ve given orders for hot water to be brought. Will you eat with me when you are rested? We will celebrate your return. Will that please you, lady?’

‘Yes.’ Nothing would have kept me from it.

When he had left me, while the beat of my blood returned to its normal steady rhythm, I unfastened the clasp of the little casket, lifted its hinged lid. It worked perfectly. And then I laughed. On the chess board,
Henry Plantagenet had left the pieces at checkmate. The White Queen was under threat from an opposing knight.

As he promised, a banquet was prepared in the magnificent Great Hall. Given the short preparation time, it was admirable. Here were the banquets of my youth when my grandfather Duke William had allowed his passions to run free. Colour and music and laughter. Jokes and ribald comment married to courtly admiration. Succulent dishes stirred by the warm wines of the south. Dancing and singing. The softening dusk after a warm day with scents of lavender and rosemary. Everything to assuage the senses and welcome me home.

It should have been a delight. And so it was, yet I had to confess that I cared nothing for it except as counterpoint to the rioting in my blood. The churn of desire in my belly that destroyed my appetite. The rich sauces, the plangent song, even the caress of my silk skirts against my body fed my emotions so that I could barely contain them.

But I did. I was Countess of Poitou, Queen of France, and would behave as such. Did the Queen of France fall at the feet of the first handsome man who smiled at her and showed his hunger in his eyes, the caress of it in his voice? She did not. Eleanor might imagine the whisper of his breath over her skin. Eleanor might burn with a
craving—and, before God, she did so! The Queen set her teeth and kept her dignity.

But when we sat side by side at the High Table on the dais, looking over my vassals who gave themselves enthusiastically to the food and wine, Eleanor had a tendency to replace the Queen. My barons may as well not have been there when Geoffrey’s arm brushed mine as he offered me the grace cup.

What did we talk of? I had no idea. Art and literature, a little—he proved to be exceptionally well read. The Count’s plans for Anjou. I think he told me about the skills of Alexander the Great as a battle tactician. He admired the achievements of my father and grandfather on the battlefield. Oh, he knew the way to my heart. He refrained from reminding me of how ineffectual a leader my husband was. He made no mention of the disasters of Toulouse and Champagne. Vitry-le-Brule, as it had been sardonically renamed, did not hang in the air between us.

Neither did Louis. We did not speak of Louis at all. Nor, I recall, did Matilda encroach. We spoke nothing of our lives outside this moment in time.

So what was it that touched my heart more than all the rest? Count Geoffrey addressed me as an equal, not as a foolish woman who knew nothing but stitching and good works for the poor, who had no right to consider matters of state to be within her grasp. He asked my opinion on the state of Europe, the power of the great eastern empire centred on Constantinople,
showing interest on my views on the troubled divided papacy. He conversed with me, listened to me, weighed my comments. How long had it been since any man had done that? Not since the death of my father almost a decade ago, and then I had been too young to give a balanced opinion.

Had not saintly Bernard damned me for such female impertinence in having an opinion?

The Angevin listened to my replies, his eyes intent on mine, and invited more. Did I consider Anjou to be an enemy of France? A threat to Aquitaine?

And I was entranced, so much that I eventually clenched my hands into fists, afraid that I would let down my guard, letting words and opinion spill out. Such openness would be unwise. I struggled to keep my replies cool and measured. And I think I failed.

Geoffrey Plantagenet cast a spell on me that night. Far from the unpolished lout I had anticipated, he saw to the comfort of those at the feast, of Aelith, with such graciousness. He drew his son into a discussion of where we might hunt on the following day. Yet all the time I felt the power of his concentration on me. He saw to it that I was fed the choicest meats, that my cup was refilled.

Louis would not have noticed.

When he offered me a platter of grapes from the south his fingers grazed my wrist. He did not look at me but I knew he wanted me. I knew.

‘Well, now!’ Aelith leaned close.

‘Well, what?’

‘Beware the Count of Anjou.’ Her eyes were knowledgeable and fixed on the Seneschal as he conversed with the steward over some matter of the provision of dishes. ‘He’s hunting.’

‘I don’t take your meaning.’

‘Oh, yes, you do. And it’s not deer. You are the quarry.’

‘Then he will be disappointed.’

‘Make sure you are not the one to be disappointed, sister mine!’ I raised my brows but she grinned. ‘Shall I give you advice?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘I’ll give it forsooth. Take him!’

‘As you took Raoul? Look at the mess that caused.’ And instantly regretted it as Aelith flushed from chin to hairline. ‘Forgive me.’ I squeezed her hand. ‘That was unpardonable. But I am not free to follow my desires.’

‘So you admit to liking him?’

‘How could I not? Liking is one thing. I admit to nothing else. Neither will I act on some crude emotion that will only bring me pain!’

But then he danced with me. At Count Geoffrey’s instruction, the musicians struck up a simple round dance. He stood, offered his hand.

How could I refuse? Louis never danced with me.

We joined the other dancers and stepped the undemanding meandering measure. I knew the steps, and the music—round dances needed no sophistication,
merely an ability not to fall over one’s own feet—and thus could give my attention elsewhere. Not least to the careful disposition of my long skirts and sleeves. And, of course, to the man who led me, turned me. And I revelled in it, this hot excitement of music and laughter. It was like the sweetness of honey in my blood. The heavy brush of his tunic against my thighs, the male scent of him, the heat of his body as we came close all added to one surge of irrepressible delight. My breath-lessness had nothing to do with the dance, nor had the flush in my cheeks when the music ended.