they called it lust or passion or even love, what they found together in bed was rare and real and had nothing to do with crowns or kingships. She understood how lucky they’d been, hoped that he did, too.
He’d begun to stroke her thighs, and wherever his fingers touched, her skin seemed to burn. The frigid December dawn receded, and she was back in her dream, their bodies entwined, aware only of each other, the urgency of their need, and then, the shared intensity of their release.
Lying, slaked and spent, in a tangle of sheets, they soon discovered that sexual heat did not linger, and they dived, shivering, under the coverlets, where they got into a playful tussle when Henry tried to warm his cold feet against her legs. That led to the first pillow fight of their marriage, which ended abruptly when Eleanor’s greyhound decided to join in the fun.
After evicting the dog, they settled back against the pillows, and Eleanor told Henry about her erotic dream. He promised that he’d find them a private meadow, provided that she was willing to wait for the spring thaw. But then they looked at each other, their laughter stilled, remembering that he would be in England in the spring, fighting a war.
Eleanor was quiet for a time after that. Once he rode away from Poitiers, who could say how long they’d be apart? She dared not wait, would have to tell him now. “Harry…do you think there is any chance that you might be back by August?”
“I do not know,” he admitted. Shifting so he could see her face, he gave her a quizzical look. His birthday was in March, hers in June, their anniversary in May. What significance did August have in their lives? True, they’d met for the first time in August, but he knew his wife was not sentimental. “Why August?” he asked, and then caught his breath. “Eleanor?”
Eleanor had known he’d guess the truth; he was nothing if not quick. “Yes,” she said, “I think I am with child.”
Indifferent to gossip, they remained abed for most of the morning. Henry was as solicitous as he was jubilant, summoning servants to light the hearth and fetch cider and honeyed bread for their breakfast, promising Eleanor that he’d not be gone a day longer than necessary, promising, too, to bring back a crown for their babe to play with. He was so delighted by the prospect of fatherhood that he was quite unfazed when she confessed that she could not be utterly certain yet, having missed only one flux so far. He blithely insisted that she was right to tell him now, that this was news to be shared in bed, not to be imparted in a letter. He even did his best to assure her that he’d not be disappointed if their first child was a girl, with such conviction that she almost believed him.
“Did you never doubt that I would give you a son?”
“No,” he said emphatically, “never,” and this time she did believe him.
Reaching for his hand, she laced their fingers together. “Harry…do you not think it is time we owned up to it?”
As cryptic as that might have sounded to others, he understood. She saw comprehension in his eyes, and a certain wariness as he considered his response. Not surprisingly, he settled upon humor. “You first.”
Eleanor was never one to resist a dare. “All right,” she agreed, “I will. When I began to confide in my sister about you, Petra listened and then exclaimed, ‘You fancy him!’ She was right, I did. I did not realize how much, though, until we were alone in the garden. You do remember what happened when we kissed?”
Henry’s mouth quirked. “Till my dying day.”
“I was caught by surprise, for fires usually have to be stoked ere they flame up like that. I remember telling Petra that you and I might be getting more than we’d bargained for. And the same can be said for our marriage.” She flashed a sudden smile, at once mischievous and tender, too. “I discovered on our wedding night that setting a fire in a rainy garden was child’s play, compared to the conflagration you could kindle in bed. But even then, I did not expect to fall in love with you…certainly not so quickly and completely. You were supposed to be satisfied with my body, not lay claim to my heart, too!”
Henry leaned over swiftly, seeking her mouth. She returned the kiss with enthusiasm, but when it ended, she said, “Your turn.”
“You already know,” he protested. “You would not have been so candid were you not sure of me.”
That was a shrewd thrust, and she acknowledged it as such. “Pride is a shield as well as a sin. You’re right, I would not have been so quick to put it down had I not been convinced I’d not need it. I know that you care, Harry. You prove that, in bed and out. But I would like the words, too.”
So commanding was his self-assurance that she rarely remembered his youth. But now she found herself being reminded that he was not yet twenty, for he’d begun to look distinctly uncomfortable. She was not offended by his reluctance, for she could understand why he might be leery of letting down his own defenses, caught too often in the crossfire of his parents’ war. But she’d spoken no less than the truth. She did need the words, especially now that she faced months of separation and anxiety, a lonely pregnancy under the constant threat of widowhood. “Louis was not so tongue-tied,” she gibed sweetly, and Henry grimaced.
“That was a low blow,” he complained. “I am utterly besotted with you, woman, as anyone with eyes to see could tell. Is that not enough for you?” She said nothing, greenish-gold eyes never leaving his face, and he capitulated with a smothered oath. “I do love you, Eleanor.” Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her again. “God help me, but I do…”
Generous in victory, she forbore to tease, although the temptation was considerable, for his declaration of love had sounded almost like a confession. It might not be polished or even voluntary, but it was heartfelt, that she did not doubt. She’d known from the first that he would never be a man for romantic gestures or pretty speeches. So be it, then. What he could give her mattered far more than the superficial and studied gallantries of courtly love.
Sliding his hand between their bodies, he rested it upon her belly, so flat and taut that he could not easily envision it swollen with new life. “I would that I could promise to be back for the birth,” he said regretfully, “but I cannot.”
“I know,” she reassured him, “I do. I ask only that you promise to take care, Harry, to remember that your life belongs to me now, too.”
After a hurried trip to Rouen to bid his mother farewell and to borrow the vast sum of seven thousand pounds from moneylenders, Henry set sail from Barfleur on Epiphany Eve. By dawn, his ships were within sight of the Dorset coast. Entering the River Frome, Henry’s fleet anchored at Wareham, after a crossing so rough that the men would have gladly kissed the ground-had a raw, sleet-laden wind not been blasting across the harbor.
Unloading soldiers and horses was never easy, and in weather like this, it became a logistical nightmare. By the time the first of Henry’s army came ashore, men from the castle were hastening down onto the docks. Turning at sound of his name, Henry found himself enveloped in a hearty avuncular embrace.
“Holy Rood, but you feel like a block of ice, lad!” Stepping back, Rainald beamed at his nephew. “We could not believe it when we first spotted sails on the horizon. This must have been the voyage to Hell and back!”
“Close enough,” Henry admitted. “I am right glad to see you here, Uncle, but surprised, too, since you had to come all the way from Cornwall. How were you able to get to Wareham so fast?”
“My usual good luck. I happened to be at Bristol with Will when he got his summons.” As Rainald glanced back, Henry saw that his cousin Will was coming toward him, with another familiar figure at his side: Roger Fitz Miles. Henry greeted them both warmly, but he could not help feeling a regretful twinge, too, for although Will was his kinsman and Roger his friend, he knew neither one of them could hold a candle to their deceased fathers. What he would not have given to be waging this campaign with his uncle Robert!
Henry remained on the docks for a while, supervising the landing. The others kept close by, hunched deep in their mantles and cursing the cold as they gave him their news. They expected the Earls of Chester and Salisbury and Ranulf and John Marshal to be awaiting him at Devizes Castle. Ranulf might be delayed, since getting word into Wales had been no easy feat; why he’d chosen to live in the back of beyond, Rainald would never understand. Baldwin de Redvers would be answering the summons, too, his health permitting, and Chester’s brother, William de Roumare, was likely to appear as well.
That was heartening news to Henry, for his thirty-six ships held only one hundred forty knights and three thousand foot soldiers, not a large force to overthrow a king. He made a mental note to find out how many men had sailed with his great-grandfather when William the Bastard had invaded England in God’s Year 1066, and then strode down to the water’s edge to shout a warning, for a young soldier was attempting to unload a horse without blindfolding it first.
The sleet was giving way to hail, and Henry finally allowed his kinsmen to escort him up to the castle. As
