The great fortress of William the Bastard was situated on an escarpment high above the Norman town of Falaise. One of the most formidable of Henry’s castles, it was here that he had chosen to hold his Christmas court, and it was here that he was to have his long delayed reunion with his wife.
Sleet was lashing the streets of Falaise, and few of the townspeople came out to watch as the king rode up the hill toward the castle. An earlier snowfall had yet to melt and the road was half-hidden, perilously icy in patches. Winter’s siege that year had begun early and seemed likely to be a long and brutal one, and Henry’s men were shivering from the cold, hunched over their saddles in a futile attempt to escape the wind’s buffeting fury. They were all looking forward to the roaring hearths and warm beds awaiting them at the castle; Henry alone felt no sense of relief as they rode into the bailey.
He didn’t think he was nervous; how could a man be uneasy at facing his own wife? But he felt an unfamiliar edginess, nonetheless, as he strode into the great hall. Eleanor was standing by the hearth, and as always when they’d been long apart, he was struck anew by the sheer physical impact of her beauty. Her youth was behind her, for she was thirty-seven, and she was not as willow-slim as on their wedding day, not after five pregnancies in seven years. But the body clad in a clinging green gown had a voluptuous, feline grace, and her finely sculpted cheekbones, full, sensual mouth, and slanting hazel eyes gave her a look uniquely her own, at once elegant and provocative. The first time he’d laid eyes upon her, in the Paris palace of the French king, she’d quite literally stolen his breath away. She still did, for she was too passionate and too self-willed and too reckless a woman ever to be taken for granted. As she moved to meet him, he wanted only to sweep her into his arms and off to bed. But it would not be that simple. Life with Eleanor was by turns exciting and unpredictable and occasionally infuriating, but never simple.
His mother had traveled from Rouen for his Christmas court, and she and his brother, Will, hastened forward to welcome him home. Eleanor followed, more slowly. Her greeting was appropriately formal in a hall filled with highborn guests. When he grazed her cheek with a deliberately casual kiss, her smile was unwavering, her eyes unrevealing. They had no chance to speak, for the nurses were ushering his children toward him.
Six months was a significant span in a child’s life, and Henry was startled to see how rapidly they’d grown in his absence. Hal was nigh on five, Tilda three, Richard two, and Geoffrey, the baby, tottering unsteadily at fifteen months. They all had Henry’s vivid coloring, as did his illegitimate son, another Geoffrey, who would celebrate his sixth birthday in less than a week’s time. Beckoning the boy forward when he hung back shyly, Henry glanced over at Eleanor, remembering her reaction when he’d told her about Geoffrey. He hadn’t been sure how she’d react to his revelation of a bastard child, one he meant to raise as his own. But she’d taken the news with aplomb, saying she was not likely to get jealous because he’d scratched an itch.
Maude at once began to question him about the truce with the French king, but the mother soon prevailed over the empress. “Harry, your clothes are soaked through,” she chided softly. “You’d best change out of them straightaway.”
“I’ll send servants to prepare a bath for you,” Eleanor said, showing a proper wifely concern that gave Henry no comfort, for those luminous hazel eyes remained inscrutable.
As men poured steaming buckets of hot water into the tub, Henry sat on a coffer so his squire could pull off his boots. His fatigue took him by surprise, for he was accustomed to long, hard hours in the saddle in weather even worse than this. Hastily stripping off his sodden clothes, he sank down gratefully in the tub, waving away the youth’s offer of further assistance.
“You look half-frozen, too, lad. Go find yourself a flagon of wine or a willing lass, whatever it takes to warm you up.”
Miles grinned and disappeared. Henry dismissed the rest of the servants, too; he’d never liked being hovered over. Leaning back, he rested his neck against the padded rim of the tub. The water was caressing his aching muscles, soothing away cramps and stiffness. A tantalizingly familiar scent filled his nostrils; after a moment, he realized that they’d given him Eleanor’s perfumed soap. He poured some into his palms and lathered his chest. He did not usually linger in his bath, but the warm water was lulling, even seductive, and he soon closed his eyes.
He did not even realize when he fell asleep, and when he awoke, it was with a start, unsure how much time had passed. Something cold touched his cheek and he sat up with a splash, staring into the soft brown eyes of Felice, Eleanor’s brindle greyhound. Reaching out, he fondled the dog’s silky ears, and then turned so hastily that he churned up a wave of water. His wife was seated across from him on the coffer, her feet tucked comfortably under her, regarding him impassively over the rim of a silver gilt wine cup.
The silence spun out between them, a spider’s web made of memories and the tangled skeins of miscommunication. It was a contest of wills Henry was bound to lose, and he knew it. “So,” he said, falling back upon humor that was somewhat defensive, too, “were you planning to drown me whilst I slept?”
“Have you given me reason to want to drown you?”
“You tell me.”
Eleanor lifted her wine cup, drinking slowly. “Are we talking of Toulouse, Harry?”
“What else? I know you had your heart set upon reclaiming it. But it was not to be, Eleanor. Go ahead, blame me if you will. I’ll hear you out. It will change nothing, though.”
“I know.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “You’re taking this much better than I expected.”
“Is that why you avoided Poitiers on your withdrawal from Toulouse?”
Henry’s first instinct was to justify his absence, to remind her that he’d been occupied in chasing Louis’s brothers out of Normandy. But she’d spoken so matter-of-factly that he found himself conceding, “I suppose I may have been somewhat reluctant to face you then.” Adding, with just the glimmer of a smile, “After all, I could only fight one war at a time.” He waited for her response, but she continued to sip her wine, saying nothing. “Are you going to tell me that I was wrong?” he challenged. “That you were not wroth with me?”
“No, I was indeed wroth with you, Harry. So it was probably for the best that you did stay away as long as you did.”
“And now that I’m back?”
She finished the last of her wine, reached for a nearby flagon, and poured another cupful. Coming to her feet, she leaned over the tub. “Now that you’re back,” she said, “I think we have better things to do than argue.”
As she held out the cup, he made no move to take it, letting her tilt it to his lips. The water had begun to cool, but his body was suddenly flooded with heat, centering in his groin and radiating outward. He’d never known another woman able to stir his desire so fast, and he groped hastily for a towel, saying huskily, “I’ve spent enough time in this bath.”
But as he started to rise, she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back. “No… wait,” she said, and as he watched, she unfastened her veil and wimple, began to loosen her long, dark braid. Lifting her skirt, she kicked off her shoes. He expected her to remove her stockings next, but instead she straightened up, and then swung her leg over the rim of the tub. A moment later, she’d slid down into the water, smiling at his startled expression. Running her fingers along the sopping silk that now molded to her body like a second skin, she said, “You owe me a new gown.”
Henry began to laugh. “I owe you more than that,” he said, and pulled her into his arms. The water was soon spilling over the tub’s rim, drenching the floor rushes. But by then, they were too busy to care, even to notice.
Eleanor stirred and sighed. Usually she was an early riser. But this morning she and Henry had slept late, for their lovemaking had been ardent and frequent, and it was almost dawn before they’d finally fallen into an exhausted, satisfied sleep. Her thigh muscles were as sore as if she’d spent a day in the saddle, and she smiled drowsily as the night’s memories came surging back.
The ruin of a favored gown had been well worth it, for that calculated plunge into his bath had aroused her husband even more than she’d dared hope. Once a man’s imagination was inflamed, his body kept catching fire of its own accord. Not that Harry ever needed much encouragement. His sexual hungers were usually as boundless as his energy. Unlike the monkish Louis, he was delighted when her own passion flared out of control, fondly calling her “hellcat” if she left scratches down his back, teaching her ways to pleasure a man that would have horrified her confessor.
Beside her, Henry slept on, one arm draped across her hip, his face pillowed in her hair. Laying her hand over
