and his gummy smiles. This child would not be a stranger to her as Marie and Alix had been. She would make sure of that.
William was three months old when news came from England that Henry and Stephen had made a peaceful settlement at Winchester, the capital city. They had agreed that Stephen would remain on the throne for the rest of his life, and that Henry was then peacefully to succeed him as his legitimate heir; Stephen was even going to adopt him as his son. With the treaty concluded and sealed, nineteen years of conflict were brought to a joyful end.
God knows, Henry might well be his son, if the rumors about Stephen and the Empress were true, Eleanor thought; it was only what others were saying openly. She rejoiced in her lord’s success and imagined how jubilantly his mother the Empress, who had fought so hard and bitterly to topple Stephen, would be receiving the happy news. There could be no question now, Eleanor reflected, that God approved of her divorce and remarriage, for now He had ordained that she should be a queen again, and that Henry should be master of a vast domain that stretched from the Scottish marches almost to the mighty Pyrenees. To crown it all, He had blessed them with an heir to carry on this new royal line. Her heart swelled with triumph and thankfulness. All their hopes and dreams were coming to fruition at last. Their empire would soon be a reality.
It was Christmas; the palace was adorned with boughs of greenery, the yule log burned in the hearth, and the festive meats were roasting in the vast kitchens. Her beloved had been gone from her a year now. What would I not give, she thought, to see his face, hear his voice, feel his body hard upon mine? But it could not be long now before they were reunited and the terrible, dragging months of separation were over. With this joyous prospect in mind, she presided enthusiastically over the merry celebrations, and after solemn high mass had been celebrated in the cathedral on Christmas Day, sat enthroned in the Hall of Lost Footsteps wearing her ducal crown, her little son crowing upon her knee, to receive the greetings of her vassals.
Soon, God willing, she would have another crown, although that would mean she must leave her beloved Aquitaine once more. This time it would be for that far-off, war-ravaged northern kingdom with its fertile green fields, ringing church bells, and cold winters, as Abbess Isabella had described.
“But I will return whenever I can, never fear,” she promised fervently, kneeling before the painted statue of the Virgin and Child in her private chapel, saying her prayers as she always did before retiring for the night.
10
Poitiers and England, 1154
The new treaty had been sealed at Westminster, and England was now at peace. Henry had sworn allegiance to Stephen, and Stephen had promised to act with his advice in future.
“God has granted a happy issue, and peace has shone forth!” the messenger told Eleanor, much impressed by the ceremonies he had witnessed.
“What boundless joy for us all!” Eleanor exclaimed. “What a happy day for England!” It cannot be long now, she told herself. I will see him soon. She willed Henry to come home. What need had he to linger now?
Henry raised himself on his forearms and looked down with distaste at the woman lying beneath him. She had a round, cheerful face, wavy fair hair that had fanned out over the straw-filled pillow, and a voluptuous body, but now that he’d had his fill of her, he realized that she repelled him.
She puckered her lips, hoping he would kiss her as he used to.
“Woman, you’re insatiable!” he told her, not unkindly, and, sitting up, reached for his
“Must you go?” she asked.
“Surely the Lady of Akeny wishes to make herself ready for her husband’s return,” Henry mocked.
“He rarely comes,” she said. “Roger never loved me. He turns a blind eye to my affairs. It’s his fault that people call me a strumpet, but what else can I do, when he never comes to my bed?”
Henry, who was one of the chief causes why Sir Roger de Akeny had forsaken his wife for another, was at a loss for words. What did the woman expect? He did not love her. He had nothing to offer her beyond the fairly generous allowance he paid her for their son, the child conceived of their lust during one of his earlier visits to England. Geoffrey was four now, and lay sleeping in another chamber in the Akeny manor house, which commanded a ridge at Garsington, a village that lay in rolling country to the south of Oxford. Joanna did not think it fit that Geoffrey’s cot remain by her bed when Henry was in it.
Henry loved his bright little boy, who always delighted him with his quick mind and precocious speech. He was prepared to do much for him in the future, but had tired of the child’s mother long since. Yet she was unavoidably there when he went to visit his son before departing from England, and she was available and willing —so why refuse what was on offer? He had taken his casual pleasure of sundry women—prostitutes, most of them—during his time in his future kingdom, with never a thought for Eleanor, or any sense of guilt. She was his wife, he loved her and missed her deeply, but he was a man, and when the urge came upon him, he could not deny it. So he had spilled his seed where he would, and the opportunities had been legion. Women were throwing themselves at him, this young, lionlike conqueror, tarts and noble ladies alike. He had taken full advantage of it. It never occurred to him that Eleanor would see this as the worst of betrayals. It was merely a physical need, like eating or pissing, and nothing to do with her.
He stood up, fastening his belt. “I will send for Geoffrey when I am king,” he told the pouting Joanna. “I will acknowledge him as my son and bring him up accordingly. He will be well tutored, and should go far in life.” He did not pause to wonder what Eleanor would have to say about that.
Henry was back at Westminster when his brother Geoffrey’s messenger reached him.
“Well?” he barked. He was still annoyed with Geoffrey for allying himself with Louis, and—more importantly —was impatient to be out hunting.
“My lord,” the man said, “my master sends you this.” He handed over a scrolled parchment. Henry broke the seal and unraveled it, then frowned.
“It’s a poem,” he said, puzzled. “Why has he sent this to me?”
“He asks that you read it, my lord duke.”
Henry read. It was a love poem:
He looked up. “What does this mean? Who wrote this?”
“Bernard de Ventadour, a troubadour.” The messenger, a young man with a fresh, ruddy complexion, looked embarrassed. “Might we speak in private, sire?”
Henry ushered him into an alcove. “Now, what is all this about?” he asked testily.
“My Lord Geoffrey told me to say, sire, the poem was written for Madame the Duchess. She entertains this Bernard de Ventadour at her court. She always receives him as her guest with a warm welcome. His devotion to her is now well known, and many say he is in love with her. My master wishes you to know that his poems in her honor
