To Be Queen (40 page)

“No.” Henry's gray eyes met mine. “I still have a great deal to do.”

“Does it pain you, that your father loathes me?”

“He loathes power in women. There is a difference.”

I thought of the Empress Maude, and of how she should have been queen in England. I thought of Geoffrey of Anjou, and of how a weak man might hate a woman of strength. I had been lucky. As weak as Louis was, in all our years together, he had never hated me.

“I do not trust your father,” I said.

“You need trust only me. He is loyal to my cause.”

I smiled. “And what cause is that?”

Henry laughed. “Myself.”

At the door into the keep, there was a flutter of cloth. A boy came out, a boy only a year or so younger than Henry. He stood in the doorway and stared at us. Amaria must have known him, for she did not order him away.

Henry raised one hand, and the boy withdrew. He left quickly once Henry motioned for him to go, but not before I caught his furtive looks, and his dark red hair. He moved with stealth for one so large, like a skulking beast. Shorter than Henry, this boy was as broad, his arms well muscled, his eyes small. He stared at me for one long moment, but when Henry gestured again, he fled.

“My brother. My father's namesake. Geoffrey the Younger.”

“He has an ill-omened look about him,” I said.

“You have a sharp eye,” Henry answered me, his arm around my waist. I leaned against him, that he might feel the softness of my curves, covered as they were in silk and fur. “He is a thorn in my side, but one I can easily draw out.”

“He is your father's favorite,” I guessed.

Henry's eyes grew cold. “He was. He still would be, I suppose, but for my triumph in Normandy.”

I did not answer. Men did not change their favorite children as women changed their gowns. I saw in that moment that his family was one of hidden depths and valleys. Henry was leaving Paris that afternoon, and had little time to explain the intricacies of his family to me. I would ask after such things among my spies. I must know the lay of that land before I married into it.

Henry leaned down and kissed me, his tongue playing over mine in a delicious dance that pushed politics and family to the back of my mind. He drew away, and I followed him, so that he claimed my lips again.

“Eleanor, I must go.”

“I know. I thought you would be gone already.”

“I would not leave without a word between us.”

“We have no need of words,” I answered. “All our words were spoken last night.”

Henry moved back from me, and reached into the pouch at his waist. I saw he had been in the garden before me. He had filched one of my roses from the arbor, a Persian rose with red velvet petals, a rose bred to bear no thorns.

The flowers had just opened the day before. No doubt he had come before the ceremony to fetch this rose for me, or perhaps he had sent someone else to pluck it. Now he held it between his callused fingers.

The deep red rose had not been crushed in the pouch that had borne it, but it had been pressed, so that now the petals smelled of spring, and of Antioch, where I had first seen such flowers without thorns to mar them. Now, as I stood there with Henry, that rose smelled like my future.

“I'm no romantic, Eleanor.”

He laid the rose in my hand.

“You will get no poetry from me, nor songs of love. But I will love you, every day for the rest of my life. I need no oath before a priest to tell you that.”

I pressed myself against him, my lips on his. He was only a little taller than I, so I did not have to strain. His arms came about me, and clutched me, as if I were water in a desert, as if he were adrift on an endless sea, and I was all that kept him from drowning.

I knew that he meant what he said. Henry loved me for what he saw in me, for my fire and my strength, which reflected his own. My lands had drawn us together, but the fire between us would seal the bond. I knew without his having to tell me that he had searched all his life for a woman like me, thinking never to find one, just as I had never thought to find a man like him. Henry hungered for a strong woman in his life and in his bed; he longed for an equal. He found one in me.

I fell against him; I fell into his kiss, and almost lost myself. His passion for me was so strong, I almost forgot where I was and who. But always, I kept my head. It was I who drew back first.

“I must go, Eleanor. I cannot stay.”

“I know.”

Henry stepped away from me. The flower he had given me had been crushed between us. The smooth stem was still held fast between my two fingers.

“That is not just a rose, Eleanor. It is a reminder to both of us that when we deal with each other, we must keep our blades sheathed.”

I could not imagine a time when we would draw daggers against each other. With passion like ours between us, there was very little we could not settle in bed.

“When you are free,” he said, “send for me.”

Even from the distance of five feet, I thought his desire for me would burn me alive. I stood in the heat of that blaze, and stretched, like a cat that has come in from the cold to sit beside the fire. I must be careful not to have my tail singed.

“And if you are already in England?” I asked.

I kept my voice light, my tone even, as if I did not care if I never saw him again.

He did not give me a glib answer, as most other men would have done. His eyes were calm, though the fire still raged beneath the gray, ready to consume us both. He spoke solemnly, as if taking an oath.

“From England or Normandy, from anywhere on earth, I will come back for you.”

Henry did not speak again, but bowed to me, as if swearing me fealty. He left me there, alone with my waiting woman. As he strode away, he did not look back.

I stayed in that garden for another hour, though my women waited for me abovestairs, though no doubt all Louis' courtiers knew where I was and why. I stayed alone, with Amaria guarding the door. I walked the narrow paths of that rose garden, without seeing the flowers, without hearing the birdsong or even feeling the sun upon my face.

In an hour, I had schooled my looks to blandness. Amaria and I climbed the stairs to my room together, and this time, we took the formal staircase. Before we stepped into the keep, I pressed the rose Henry had given me into my alms purse, where no one else would see it.

 

 

MY ANNULMENT WAS GRANTED ON A FINE DAY IN MARCH AT Louis' castle of Beaugency. The prelates gathered with a letter written in Pope Eugenius' hand. They discussed solemnly our marriage and its barrenness. It was considered barren because living girl children did not count as heirs in France.

My daughters had been left behind in Paris. The loss of them stung me, but I knew that I would see them again. Louis would not keep them from me. And in a few years' time, first Marie and then Alix would be married away, betrothed to shore up the throne of France, sent to seal alliances and bargains made by their father and his ministers.

Long ago, I had chosen and sealed my own fate. And now I was making for myself another.

The meeting of the bishops was quick and, for the Church, strangely lacking in ceremony. Louis and I sat side by side, as if we were strangers, while the churchmen ruled our marriage null and void.

My own seal was called for, as was Louis', and then it was done. The bishops filed out to a great luncheon that Louis' people had prepared. It was odd to eat at midday, but it was even odder to disband the marriage of the King of France. All those men felt the need of a libation, and their paunches showed that they never took their wine without good meat and bread. I would leave them to it. I was going home.

Louis and I stood alone on the dais in that sunlit room. The light of noon slanted in from the windows above our heads. It shone down on Louis' fair golden head, showing traces of gray. He had borne no silver in his hair before he learned of his father's murder. Now Louis would be an old man for the rest of his life.

I thought at first that he would leave me without a word, but always, he was Louis. He had never changed in all the years I had known him. I saw now that he never would.

“I love you, Eleanor.”

Louis' voice was quiet, but I knew that his churchmen and my women heard him. They all turned away, as if he had confessed to something vile. As it was, I could not answer him, nor could I touch him. For now we were allies only. I was his vassal, he my liege lord. I would have pressed my hand to his cheek, to offer him comfort, but it was no longer my right.

“May God bless you, Louis. Now, and in all the days to come.”

When I spoke, it was not an empty wish. I hoped Louis would be blessed and cared for, just as I was grateful that the caregiver would no longer be me.

Louis left me there in the hall of Beaugency. I watched him go, his churchmen following, as they went into the chapel to take the mass. My Parisian women curtsied to me, and in a flutter of silks, they followed the man who had been my husband. I had paid them earlier that morning with sacks of gold, so they had nothing left to stay for.

Amaria came to my side, and pressed my hand. She would walk with me into my new life. Like me, she was eager to leave the Parisians behind. I did not smile at her, but turned to go, for I knew that Louis' spies were watching.

I kept my step slow and measured as I made my way from that hall. I did not increase my pace, though every nerve in my body called on me to run, to leap upon my horse and ride off into the distance, in case those churchmen might change their minds, and call me back.

Of course, they did not. No one followed me, save the eyes of Louis' spies, as I made my way out into the sunlight of the castle bailey.

My horse waited for me. She was a sleek Arabian mare, all white save for her hooves and for the streak of gold along her brow. I had purchased her in Byzantium. She had come with us all the way back to my husband's lands, and now she would travel with me to mine. For the Aquitaine and Poitou were mine now, not my father's, nor my husband's. I was duchess. And if Henry had his way, once more, I would be queen.

My Arabian mare tossed her head, and I offered her my hand, that she might breathe in my scent. She took a dried apple from my palm, and nuzzled me. Though I had not ridden her often, she knew who her mistress was.

“My lady duchess, she is beautiful. What do you call her?” Geoffrey of Rancon was at my side, holding the bridle of my horse. I had sent for him, and he had come, just as I knew he would.

“Her name is Guinevere,” I said.

“A lovely name,” he said. “The name of a queen. I only hope that she comes to a better end.”

I laughed, and my mirth filled the walls of that bailey. “Of course, she will, my lord baron. She is in my service.”

“You will always have my service, my lady duchess, for as long as I draw breath.”

Geoffrey lifted me onto my horse. She had been saddled for long riding; I would not ride pillion that day. She danced a little under me, but then she felt my hand on her reins, and she remembered herself. Or more likely, she remembered me, and what was my due. Guinevere stood still, and waited for my command.

Henry had sent me greeting from the Norman port of Barfleur only the month before. He gathered his army, and built his ships, that he might claim England and make it ours. I knew that Henry would meet me in Poitiers, as soon as I sent word to him. We would be married there, with only my people looking on. We must keep our alliance a secret, even now, but I knew that no one would stop us. He and I were not to be gainsaid, not by any man living, nor by the dead. We would make our own way, Henry and I together.

Geoffrey led the vanguard, and my men, come up from Poitiers for this purpose, fell in beside and behind me. Geoffrey took up my standard and held it high. I saw my father's golden lion, flying in the air above my head. The red and gold of Aquitaine shone along its border, catching the light of the sun and holding it fast.

As I turned my horse out of the keep at Beaugency, and took to the open road, my freedom rose up from the ground to greet me with the first spring flowers. My freedom fell with the sunlight on my hair and shoulders, gilding my red veil and gown, which I wore to match my father's standard.

That standard was mine now, more than it had ever been. For the first time in fifteen years, the fleur-de-lys of France did not share its place. There was only my father's lion, now mine, caught in the wind above me. It soared there, as my heart did. I almost felt my father with me that day, his hand on my shoulder.

It was not the kingdom my father had foreseen when I was a child, but the empire Henry and I would build together would stretch farther than the lands of Charlemagne. I would revive my father's dream in another guise, and make it my own. Henry would give me sons to rule after us, and we would reign over our new kingdom as partners for the rest of our lives.

The promise of our future filled me with the greatest bliss I had ever known. I felt as if I, too, might take flight beside the standard that rose above my head. Instead, I touched my foot to Guinevere's side, and she leaped forward into the beauty of the day. I would ride hard, with no one to stop me. For, at long last, I was free.

ELEANOR MARRIED HENRY OF NORMANDY IN THE SUMMER of 1152. Henry and Eleanor lived happily together for many years, ruling side by side, he in Normandy and England, and she in Aquitaine and Poitou. Henry won the throne of England from Stephen of Blois in 1154, and Eleanor was crowned queen there, and served as regent whenever Henry was away on the Continent.