one that had caused the deaths of countless crusaders.
Rancon had been ordered by the French king to halt at the summit of Mount Cadmos, but he’d chosen to disregard Louis’s instructions and led the vanguard onward in search of a better campsite. The king, riding in the rear, was unaware of this, and allowed the rearward to lag behind, thinking they would soon be upon Rancon’s encampment. When the watching Turks swooped down upon them, the French panicked and the rugged mountain terrain was soon soaked in Christian blood. The king himself had narrowly escaped death, and although Eleanor remained steadfastly loyal to her beleaguered vassal, Geoffrey de Rancon had been sent home in disgrace.
Henry was not well disposed toward any man so cavalier about disobeying a royal command, convinced that inevitably led to anarchy, to Stephen’s England. Excusing himself as soon as he could, he was turning to look for Eleanor when he heard her brothers laughing behind him.
“There he goes, on her scent again. I’d wager that in no time at all, she’ll have the lad heeling and going down on command, without even needing a leash!”
“Well, early training works wonders with greyhound pups, fledgling hawks, and yearling colts, Will, so why not with young husbands? It is just a matter of using the right bait!”
Under other circumstances, Henry might have reacted with indifference or annoyance, depending upon his mood. Now he swung around with an oath, his temper flaring up so fast that he had no chance at all of quenching it. Anger long-smoldering took only seconds to become a conflagration.
Eleanor had been slow to realize that something was troubling her new husband, distracted in part by her obligations as hostess and in part by her own edginess about the marriage. Nor did she find it easy to read Henry. He was not like Louis, whose face was a faithful mirror for his every thought. No…Harry was going to be more of a challenge. She was sure he’d give away clues; all men did. But it might take her a while to learn to recognize them.
It was not until their return from the church that she’d begun to sense something was amiss. She’d noticed at breakfast that Henry looked as if he’d slept poorly, but she’d taken his wakefulness as a compliment. Watching him as they danced, though, she’d concluded that he was not enjoying himself. She would have to make sure that the festivities did not drag on too long. She did not know yet how she’d manage that, but she’d find a way. This marriage had to succeed; there was too much at stake.
Declining an offer to join in the circle forming for the next carol, she beckoned to her sister. “Have you seen Harry?”
“Over there, with Will and Joscelin.”
One glance was enough to alert Eleanor to trouble. Henry’s back was to her, but her brothers looked as if they’d been caught bloody-handed over a dead body. She headed toward them, but Henry was already stalking away. “Wait,” she cried out before her brothers could bolt. “The pair of you look guiltier than horse thieves. What happened?”
They exchanged uncomfortable looks. Will shook his head, almost imperceptibly, but Joscelin refused to take the hint. “We have to tell her, Will,” he insisted. “Better she hears it from us.”
Eleanor did not like the sound of that at all. “For the love of God, Jos! Just say it straight out.”
“Eleanor…he understands langue d’oc!”
“Oh, no…” Eleanor stared at them in dismay. If Harry had heard even half of the jokes floating around the hall…“What did you say, Jos? Will?”
Will shrugged, refusing to meet her eyes. Looking shamefaced, Joscelin mumbled, “We were jesting. He ought to have let us know he spoke our tongue.” Squirming under his sister’s accusing eyes, he glanced toward Will for help, got none, and sighed. “We…well, we joked that he’d soon be following you about like one of your greyhounds, or words to that effect…”
Eleanor was not mollified, realizing she’d just been given a cleaned-up version of what Henry had overheard. “I’ve never had a taste for watered-down wine, Jos,” she warned. “How can I make amends unless I know just how grievously you offended him? Try the truth this time.”
But at that moment, there was a stir throughout the hall. The musicians had stopped in the midst of the carol. The dancers halted in puzzlement, the musicians looking apologetically in Eleanor’s direction. She knew they would not have ceased playing so abruptly unless ordered to do so, and there were just two people present with the authority to give such a command. Gathering up her skirts, she started hastily toward her husband. But she was too late; Henry was already mounting the steps of the dais.
Standing alone upon the dais, Henry soon attracted attention. He waited, though, until all eyes were upon him. “The dancing will resume in a few moments,” he said, and startled murmurs rippled across the hall, for he’d spoken in their tongue. Having made his point, he switched then to French, for he understood Provencal better than he spoke it. “My lady duchess and I would like to thank you for celebrating our wedding with us. We hope that you enjoy yourselves during the dancing and the feasting to follow. But I prefer to have a private wedding supper with my beautiful wife. Judging from what I’ve been hearing in this hall, I am quite sure that you will understand.”
Never had Henry seen a crowd fall silent so fast. It was suddenly and utterly still. From his vantage point upon the dais, he could see shocked faces, abashed and uneasy looks as people tried to recall whether they’d compromised themselves in his hearing. He was depriving the guests of the favorite part of any wedding celebration, the boisterous bedding-down revelries. But there were no protests, no objections. His last statement had been a threat, sheathed but with a sharp blade, withal. As he had said, they understood perfectly.
By now he’d located Eleanor, standing a few feet away. She was looking up at him in astonishment, eyes wide, lips parted, at a rare loss for words. Before she could recover from her surprise, he came swiftly down the dais steps, holding out his hand. She took it and the guests moved aside to let them pass. The spell held; not until they’d exited the hall did bedlam break out behind them.
Henry’s anger had been too hot not to have soon burned itself out. It was already cooling by the time he stepped from the dais, and now he found himself surrounded by charred embers and ashes, wondering how such a brief fire could have done so much damage. Eleanor was walking sedately at his side, her fingers still linked in his, deceptively docile. But she was no more submissive a wife than his mother had been, and while he was grateful for her public compliance, he was not deceived by it. He’d dragged her away from her own wedding feast, and even if he’d not said so plain out, not a soul in the hall doubted his intent-that he was not willing to wait any longer to take his wife to bed. If Geoffrey had done that to his mother, Maude would have been mortified-and she’d never have forgiven him, not in this life or the next. That Henry knew with a chilling certainty. What sort of a start had he gotten their marriage off to?
By the time they’d reached the stairwell leading up to their wedding chamber in the Maubergeon Tower, he’d faced a hard truth. At the very least, he owed her an apology. And if that was not enough for her, he’d have to abase himself if need be, no matter how painful that was to his pride, for her grievance was a just one.
A smoking rushlight in an overhead wall sconce dispersed some of the darkness in the stairwell. Eleanor stumbled over her trailing skirts, and when Henry reached out to steady her, she said suddenly, “I still cannot believe you truly did that!”
He stiffened, then turned to face her. “I know you must be angry, Eleanor, but-”
He got no further. With a rustle of silk and an elusive scent of unnamed, exotic flowers, she was beside him on the stair, her arms going up around his neck. “Why ever should I be angry? You did enliven the festivities for certes, gave our guests enough to talk about for days to come, and showed my barons that you’re a man who knows what he wants-and when he wants it, by God!” Her laugh was low, her amusement too genuine to doubt. But Henry could not quite believe his luck.
“You truly are not wroth with me? Whilst I had good cause for my anger, I never meant to shame you, that I swear upon the surety of my soul.”
“Harry…it does not shame a woman that her husband wants her. It only shames her if he does not.”
“I do want you,” he said, with a shaken laugh. “You have no idea how much!”
When she smiled, he kissed her. This was not the chaste Kiss of Peace they’d exchanged in the cathedral. It was one to fire the blood and bring men to ruin. No matter how close he held her, it was not close enough. Her breath was hot against his ear, her fingers entwined in his hair. She tasted of wine and temptation, her kisses as hungry as his own, and he forgot time and place and the world beyond her embrace, aware only of this moment and the woman in his arms and the need to make her his.
It was the sound of rending silk that brought Eleanor back to reality. “Harry…Harry, wait,” she gasped. “Let
