have stayed away from her bed for so long. In his thirty-nine years, he’d had women beyond counting or remembering, but none had ever stirred his lust so easily as the one he’d wed. He’d often joked that she could kindle a flame quicker than summer lightning and last night she’d done just that, radiating so much heat that he’d half-expected to find scorch marks on the sheets.
In some ways, she was still an enigma to him: strong-willed, passionate, stubborn, worldly, too clever by half, infuriating, seductive, prideful, daring, even reckless. Tallying up her vices and virtues, he was amused to realize he could not be sure which were which. But on this Christmas Eve at Chinon Castle, he was more than willing to give her the benefit of every doubt, for he missed their easy intimacy, the mutual, instinctive understanding that had been theirs since that rainy afternoon in a Paris garden. It had been a long time since he’d felt that they were in such natural harmony.
Beckoning to a servant, he instructed the man to fetch his queen and then, on impulse, his uncle. He’d planned to give Ranulf his surprise on Christmas morn, but he saw no reason to wait. Ranulf hastened over, shepherding his wife and young son Morgan up onto the dais. Henry ordered chairs to be brought out for them, watching from the corner of his eye as his servant caught Eleanor’s attention. She would not come at once, for she was not a woman to be summoned; she would wait just long enough to make it seem as if she were obeying a whim of her own. Stifling a smile, for he was pleased that he could still read her so well, he began to exchange the usual courtesies with Ranulf and Rhiannon.
As always, Henry was intrigued by Rhiannon’s ability to follow the sound of his voice; her head tilted, she turned her brown eyes toward him so unerringly that few would have suspected her blindness. After he’d inquired after their other children, a recently wed daughter and a grown son, he directed his attention to Morgan, asking his age and grinning at the boy’s answer, “Eight years, ten months,” for he could remember when he, too, had marked birthdays as milestones.
In accordance with custom, boys of good birth were sent to live in a lord’s household to receive their education, and Henry was surprised that no such provisions had been made for Morgan. When Ranulf admitted that they had not yet chosen a lord to supervise his son’s instruction, Henry suggested that Morgan join the royal household. Ranulf was momentarily at a loss, both honored and conflicted by the offer. He was well aware what a great opportunity this would be for the boy. But it was complicated by Morgan’s Welsh-Norman blood. His elder son had chosen Rhiannon’s world over Ranulf’s, even changing his baptismal name of Gilbert to the Welsh Bleddyn, and he’d chosen, too, to remain in Wales. With Gilbert’s example in mind, Ranulf was not sure what was best for Morgan.
For Rhiannon, it was much simpler. She did not want to be separated from her son, yet she knew it was inevitable. Sons were sent away at an early age; in Wales, too, that was the practice. Because she’d steeled herself for just such a moment, she kept silent, waiting with outward composure for Ranulf to decide their son’s future; only the tightening of her hand on Morgan’s shoulder revealed her inner turmoil.
Ranulf opened his mouth, still not sure what he would say. But Morgan was quicker. He’d overheard his parents discussing his education on several occasions, knew that they were deciding between the households of the Earl of Cornwall, the Earl of Chester, and a Welsh lord named Cynan ab Owain. Glancing from his father to his cousin the king, he made his own choice. “Say yes, Papa,” he entreated, “say yes.”
Ranulf knelt so they were at eye level, his eyes searching the boy’s face. “Are you sure?” And when Morgan nodded, he said, “Well, Harry, it seems to be settled.”
“Good. I’ll keep an eye on the lad, never fear. Now we have another matter to discuss. I’ve had an interesting offer recently from a Welsh prince you love not-Davydd ab Owain.” Henry broke off then as Eleanor drifted over to the dais, and invited her to join them. Once she was seated beside him, he said, “You are just in time, love. We were talking about a prince of North Wales, Davydd ab Owain.”
“The one who banished Ranulf?”
“The very one. I never understood, Uncle, just why he was so out of sorts with you. What did you do to earn his disfavor?”
“I was a friend of the man he killed, the man who ought to have been ruling Gwynedd in his stead.”
“Ah, yes, Hywel…the poet prince. A good man, a far better one than Davydd.” Henry shifted in his seat, turning toward Eleanor. “I am not sure if you remember, love, but Hywel and Davydd were both sons of Owain Gwynedd, Hywel being the eldest, the most capable, and the best-loved. But Davydd and another brother Rhodri lay in wait for Hywel after Owain’s death, and he was slain in their ambush. Owain’s surviving sons then divided up his lands. Davydd is no longer content with his share of the pie, though, is casting a covetous eye upon his brother Maelgwn’s portion, the isle of Anglesey. So in order to war upon Maelgwn, he wants to make peace with England, having figured out that only a fool would fight battles on two fronts.”
“That sounds like Davydd.” Ranulf shook his head in disgust. “Make him pay dear for his peace, Harry.”
“I did,” Henry assured him. “He must truly be hungry for Maelgwn’s lands, as he agreed to all my terms without argument. I think you’ll be particularly interested in one of his concessions, Uncle. You are welcome to reside again in his domains, welcome to return to your manor at…Trefriw, was it?”
“Truly?” Ranulf stared at Henry incredulously. “He agreed to this?”
Rhiannon’s French was quite serviceable by now, for she’d been wed to Ranulf for more than twenty years. But she was suddenly unsure of her mastery of his language, afraid to believe what she thought she’d heard. “We can go home?” she asked doubtfully, and when Henry confirmed it, she buried her face in Ranulf’s shoulder and wept for joy. Ranulf was blinking back tears himself, holding her in an embrace that was oddly private in such a public setting; for that moment they were oblivious to the crowded hall, the curious stares, even their wide-eyed young son.
Watching with a smile, Henry brushed aside their euphoric expressions of gratitude, joking that he feared they’d misunderstood him. It was Wales they’d be going back to, not Eden. Eleanor, who was fond of both Ranulf and Rhiannon, leaned over and murmured an approving “Well done.” But then she said, “Harry,” in a very different tone.
Glancing toward her, he saw that she was looking across the hall at a new arrival, a tall figure still clad in traveling clothes, a mud-splattered hooded mantle. Even at a distance, Henry recognized him at once-William Marshal, his son Hal’s sworn man-and fear caught at his heart. His injured ankle forgotten, he was on his feet by the time William Marshal reached the dais. He knelt, saying “My liege, my lady” in a low voice.
“My son…” Henry swallowed, for his mouth was suddenly dry. “What have you come to tell us, Will?”
The younger man’s head came up sharply. “Ah, no, my liege! Your son is well, I swear it!”
Relief rendered Henry speechless for a moment. “What did you expect me to think?” he said angrily, for anger was an emotion he could acknowledge. “You arrive in our midst like the Grim Reaper’s henchman, looking as if you bear the weight of the world on your shoulders. Christ Jesus, Will, I’ve seen happier men about to be hanged!”
“I am indeed sorry, my lord king, to have alarmed you for naught.” Although Henry gestured impatiently for him to rise, Will stayed on his knees. “If I seem troubled, it is because I am loath to deliver this message. Your son…he bade me inform you that he will not be attending your Christmas Court at Chinon. He is holding his own court at Bonneville.”
“ I fear,” Henry said, “that I could not get out of this bed if the castle caught fire. Jesu, woman, are you seeking to kill me? My very bones feel like melted wax.”
Eleanor cocked a skeptical brow. “If lust could kill, Harry, you’d have been dead years ago.”
“I never claimed to be a monk, love. That was your first husband, as I recall.”
Amused in spite of herself, she hid her smile in the crook of his arm. “Mock him if you will, but poor Louis has you beaten in one race at least-his sprint toward sainthood.”
“I grant you that,” he conceded. “But unlike Louis, I never wanted a halo, only a crown.” Propping himself up on an elbow, he entwined his fingers in the dark river of her hair. He loved it flowing loose like this, his mind still filled with erotic images from their lovemaking: her long tresses tickling his chest, a silken rope looped around his throat, whipping wildly about her face when she tossed her head from side to side. “You realize,” he said, “that we’ve likely scandalized the court, disappearing in the middle of the afternoon for a daylight tryst.”
“What truly scandalized the court is that you were off bedding your wife and not your concubine. What sort of example is that to set for your barons?”
Henry was instantly alert, not sure if she was being sarcastic or playful or finally throwing down the gauntlet about Rosamund. He felt a prickle of resentment, for it was very unsporting to ambush a man in the aftermath of
