“Not when it truly counts,” he promised, and Eleanor rolled over into his arms, relishing another pleasure that had been scarce in her first marriage-the sweet sin of laughing together in bed.
Eleanor had never had a meal like this one, eaten in bed, a table pulled within reach so they could help themselves, for neither she nor Henry wanted servants hovering about. Henry preferred to do the honours himself, lifting the chafing dishes to offer her a spiced meatball, a taste of savory rice, a few spoonfulls of pea soup. “Your cooks must think I have a harem hidden away up here,” he said, “for they’ve sent enough to feed a dozen hungry souls. Do you want some more of the roast pheasant?”
“No…what are those dishes off to your right?”
Henry lifted the lids. “This looks like lamprey eels, in some sort of sauce, and this one has beef-marrow tarts.” When she selected the latter, he passed it to her on a napkin. “So…where were we? Ah, yes, you were telling me that your father once clashed with Abbot Bernard, too?”
Eleanor nodded. “He was not as stalwart as Geoffrey, though,” she said regretfully, “for when Abbot Bernard confronted him with the Host, he went pale as death and toppled over like a felled tree.”
“A pity,” Henry said succinctly, and Eleanor smiled fondly at him, for she found his skepticism a pleasant contrast, indeed, to Louis’s absolute certainty that Bernard was a living saint.
“I think it bodes well for our marriage,” she teased, “that we seem to dislike all the same people.” Leaning over, she fed him the last of her marrow tart. “When shall I get to meet your mother, Harry?”
“I’d not be in such a hurry if I were you,” he said wryly. “Most people find my mother to be a very formidable lady, indeed. It will be fascinating-in a scary sort of way-to watch the two of you take each other’s measure. But that is not likely to come about in the near future. Remember what I told you last night…that my English allies are growing impatient? They insist they need me in England, and cannot comprehend why I’ve kept finding excuses to put off the invasion. I just hope they understand why I could not risk telling them about our marriage plans. But I promised my uncle Rainald that I’d be at Barfleur in a fortnight and we’d start gathering a fleet.”
Eleanor was momentarily taken aback, for she’d expected that they’d have more than a fortnight together. But she could hardly complain, for it was not as if he were going off on a pleasure jaunt. “Do you want me to go with you to Barfleur?”
Henry was delighted with her matter-of-fact response. How many men were lucky enough to have a wife with such political acumen, and as seductive as Eve in the bargain? “I would love to have you with me at Barfleur,” he said, “but I need you more here, in Poitiers. I can rely upon my mother to keep watch over Normandy whilst I am in England. I want you to make sure that Aquitaine stays calm, too, Eleanor, or as calm as it ever gets.”
“I will,” she said, and he kissed her gratefully, then selected a ginger-filled wafer for them to share.
“What about your mother? Do you remember her, Eleanor?”
“Truthfully, not a lot. Aenor, she was called. Did you know that is what my name means? ‘The other Aenor.’ I was eight when she died, but I have few vivid memories of her, for she was not like your mother, Harry, not a woman to be reckoned with. She was soft-spoken, not one for drawing attention to herself. I do not think she was ever happy with my father, nor he with her. They were coerced into the marriage by my grandfather and her mother, and I can understand why they were loath to wed. It had created enough of a scandal when my grandfather carried off the wife of one of his own vassals. But then to marry his son to that woman’s daughter-you can well imagine the gossip that stirred up!”
Henry sat up so abruptly that he almost spilled his wine. “Did I hear you right? Your grandfather was having a tryst with Aenor’s mother?”
“Not just a tryst, Harry. A notorious dalliance. The lady, who had the remarkably apt name of Dangereuse, was wed to a neighboring lord, the Viscount of Chatellerault. My grandfather always did have a roving eye, and he never seemed to see marriage as much of a hindrance-his or anyone else’s.”
“I assume he already had a wife when he stole the viscount’s?”
“By then he was working on his second marriage. His first wife was a kinswoman of yours, Harry, Ermengarde, your father’s great-aunt. Fortunately for us, that marriage fell apart ere they had any children. My grandfather took as his next wife the long-suffering Lady Philippa, heiress to Toulouse. She gave him two sons and five daughters, but their marriage was no happier than his first. As he put it, he loved women too much to confine himself to just one.”
“But Dangereuse was different, not a passing fancy?”
“More like a grand passion. Philippa had put up with his straying as best she could, but his infatuation with Dangereuse could not be ignored, for after he wooed her away from her husband, he brought her right under his roof, settled her here in the Maubergeon Tower. That was too much for Philippa, and who can blame her? When my grandfather refused to send Dangereuse away, Philippa left him. She retired to Fontevrault Abbey, where-as unlikely as it seems-she became good friends with Grandpa Will’s first wife, Ermengarde, who dwelt at the nunnery whenever the whim took her. Imagine the conversations they must have had on those long winter nights!”
“I’m still mulling over the fact that your grandfather was having an affair with his son’s mother-in-law!” Henry said with a grin. “It is not as if I come from a line of monks myself. My own grandfather could have populated England with all his by-blows. But I have to admit that this grandfather of yours seems to have had a truly spectacular talent for sinning. What did the Church say about these scandalous goings-on?”
“Oh, he was often at odds with the Church, but it never bothered him unduly. In truth, Harry, nothing did. He liked to scandalize and shock people, but there was no real malice in him. As you may have guessed, I adored him. Most people did, for he had more charm than the law should allow. He did treat my grandmother rather badly-one of them, anyway! But I was too young to understand that, and by the time I did, he was long dead. What I remember most is his laughter, and I suspect that is what truly vexed his enemies, that he got so much fun out of life. He could find a joke in the most dire circumstances, as his songs attest. That shocked people, too, that a man so highborn would write troubadour poetry, but he enjoyed it and so what else mattered?”
Henry brushed back her hair. “Tell me more,” he urged, and she shivered with pleasure as he kissed the hollow of her throat.
“Well…Grandpapa Will painted an image of Dangereuse on his shield, saying he wanted to bear her in battle, just as she’d so often borne him in bed. He liked to joke that one day he’d establish his own nunnery-and fill it with ladies of easy virtue. And when he was rebuked for not praying as often as he ought, he composed a poem: ‘O Lord, let me live long enough to get my hands under her cloak.’”
Henry gave a sputter of laughter. “Between the two of us, we’ve got a family tree rooted in Hell! Once Abbot Bernard learns of our marriage, he’ll have nary a doubt that our children will have horns and cloven hooves.”
“The first one born with a tail, we’ll name after the good abbot.” Eleanor reached for a dish of strawberries in sugared syrup, popping one neatly into his mouth. He fed her the next one, and when she licked the sugar from his fingers, as daintily as a cat, his body was suddenly suffused in heat. Dipping his finger in the syrup, he coated one of her nipples. She looked startled, but intrigued, and when he lowered his mouth to her breast, she exhaled her breath in a drawn-out sigh. “Abbot Bernard preaches that sin is all around us,” she said throatily, “but I doubt that even he ever thought to warn against strawberries!”
“He’d likely have an apoplectic seizure if he only knew what can be done with honey,” Henry predicted, and Eleanor began to laugh.
“I think,” she said, “that you and I are going to have a very interesting marriage.”
Henry thought so, too. “I want you, Eleanor.”
Her eyes reflected the candle flame, but brighter and hotter, making promises that would have provided Abbot Bernard with a full year of new sermons. “My lord duke,” she said, “tonight all of Aquitaine is yours for the taking.”
They were both exhausted, but neither was ready yet to let the night go. Staving off sleep, they lay in each other’s arms, watching as the hearth flames wavered and danced and sent up white-gold sparks. Henry could not remember ever feeling so content. God truly did reward those willing to gamble. Breathing in the scent of his wife’s perfume, he nuzzled her neck and she nestled closer.
He was not at all surprised that she could fire his passion as no other woman had. But he’d not expected to feel so intensely protective. She was quite capable of taking care of herself. He’d never thought to meet a woman more self-sufficient than his mother, but here she was, her thigh resting on his, her hair tickling his chest. It was not that she needed him to take care of her; it was that he wanted to, and this was a novel sensation for him. Lust took on a new taste altogether when tenderness was added to the brew.
