Bernard’s stern, ascetic face gazed down at her. His features were emaciated, his skin stretched thin over his skull. All the world knew how greatly he fasted through love of Our Lord. There was barely anything of him.
“My lady,” he said, bowing slightly, and was about to make his escape and move on when it suddenly struck Eleanor that he might be of use to her in her present turmoil.
“Father Abbot,” she detained him, putting on her most beseeching look, “I am in need of your counsel.”
He stood looking silently at her, never a man to waste words. She could sense his antipathy and mistrust; he had never liked her, and had made no secret of his opinion that she was interfering and overworldly.
“It is a matter on which I have spoken to you before,” she said in a low voice. “It is about my marriage to the King. You know how empty and bitter my life has been, and that during all my fourteen years of living with Louis, I have borne him but two daughters. I despair of ever bearing him a son and heir, although I have prayed many times to the Virgin to grant my wish, yet I fear that God has turned His face from me.” Her voice broke in a well-timed sob as she went on, “You yourself have questioned the validity of the marriage, and I have long doubted it too. We are too close in blood, Louis and I. We had no dispensation. Tell me, Father Abbot, what can I do to avert God’s displeasure?”
“Many share your concerns, my daughter,” Bernard replied, his voice pained, as if it hurt him to have to agree with her for once. “The barons themselves have urged the King to seek an annulment, but he is loath to lose your great domains. And, God help him, he loves you.” His lip curled.
“Love?” Eleanor retorted. “Louis is like a child! He is an innocent, and afraid of love. He rarely comes to my bed. In faith, I married a monk, not a king!”
“That is of less consequence than your unlawful wedlock,” Bernard flared. “Must you always be thinking of fleshly things?”
“It is fleshly things that lead to the begetting of heirs!” Eleanor snapped. “My daughters are prevented by their sex from inheriting the crown, and if the King dies without an heir, France would be plunged into war. He should be free to remarry and father sons.”
“I will speak to him again,” Bernard said, visibly controlling his irritation. “There are indeed many good reasons why this marriage should be dissolved.” Eleanor bit her lip, determined not to acknowledge the implied insult. Then she espied Henry of Anjou through a gap in the crowd, quaffing wine as he conversed with his father, Geoffrey, and her heart missed a beat.
Bernard saw him too, and sniffed.
“I distrust those Angevins,” he said darkly. “From the Devil they came, and to the Devil they will return. They are a cursed race. Count Geoffrey is as slippery as an eel, and I have never liked him. By his blasphemy, to my very face, he has revealed his true self. But the vengeance will be God’s alone. Mark you, my lady, Count Geoffrey will be dead within the month!”
Eleanor was struck by a fleeting chill at the abbot’s words, but she told herself that they had been born only of outrage. Then she realized that Bernard was now frowning at Henry.
“When I first saw the son, I knew a moment of terrible foreboding,” he said.
“May I ask why?” Eleanor inquired, startled.
“He is the true descendant of that diabolical woman, Melusine, the wife of the first Count of Anjou. I will tell you the story. The foolish man married her, being seduced by her beauty, and she bore him children, but she would never attend mass. One day, he forced her to, having his knights hold fast to her cloak, but when it came to the elevation of the Host, she broke free with supernatural strength and flew shrieking out of a window and was never seen again. There can be no doubt that she was the Devil’s own daughter, who could not bear to look upon the Body of Christ.”
Eleanor smiled wryly. She had heard the tale before. “That’s just an old legend, Father Abbot. Surely you don’t believe it?”
“Count Geoffrey and his son believe it,” Bernard retorted. “They mention it often. It seems they are even proud of it.” He winced in disgust.
“I think they might have been having a joke at your expense,” she told him, remembering Geoffrey’s wicked sense of humor. God only knew, he’d needed it, married to that harridan, Matilda the Empress, who never ceased reminding him that her father had been King of England and her first husband the Holy Roman Emperor himself! And that she was wasted on a mere count!
“One should never joke about such things,” Bernard said stiffly. “And now, my lady, I must speak with the King.” He backed away, nodding his obeisance, evidently relieved to be quitting her company. She shrugged. Kings and princes might quail before him, but to her, Bernard of Clairvaux was just a pathetic, meddlesome, obsessive old man. And why should she waste her thoughts on him when Henry FitzEmpress was coming purposefully toward her.
What was it about a certain arrangement of features and expression that gave one person such appeal for another, she wondered, unable to tear her eyes from the young duke’s face.
“Madame the Queen, I see that the many reports of your beauty do not lie,” Henry addressed her, sketching a quick bow. Eleanor felt the lust rising again in her. God, he was beddable! What she wouldn’t give for one night between the sheets with him!
“Welcome to Paris, my Lord Duke,” she said lightly. “I am glad you have reached an accord with the King.”
“It will save a lot of bloodshed,” Henry said. She was to learn that he spoke candidly and to the point. His eyes, however, were raking up and down her body, taking in every luscious curve beneath the clinging silk gown, with its fitted corsage and double belt, which emphasized the slenderness of her waist and the swell of her hips.
“I trust you had a good journey?” Eleanor inquired, feeling a little faint with desire.
“Why don’t we forget the pleasantries?” Henry said abruptly. It was rude of him, but his words excited her. His gaze bore into hers. “We both know what this is all about, so why waste time, when we could be getting better acquainted?”
Eleanor was about to ask him what he could possibly mean, or reprimand him for his unforgivable familiarity to the Queen of France, but what was the point? She wanted him as much as he clearly wanted her. Why deny it?
“I should like to get to know you too,” she murmured, smiling at him boldly, and forgetting all that nonsense about custody of the eyes. “You must forgive me if I do not know how to respond.”
“From what I’ve heard, you’ve not had much chance,” Henry said. “King Louis is known for his, shall we say, saintliness. Apart, of course, from when he is leading armies or burning towns. It is odd that such a pious man should be capable of such violence.”
Eleanor shuddered. All these years later, she could not bear to think of what happened at Vitry. It had changed Louis forever.
“My marriage has not been easy,” she admitted, glad to do so. Let Henry not think she was in love with her husband. Once she had been, in a girlish, romantic way, but that was long years ago.
“You need a real man in your bed,” Henry told her bluntly, his eyes never leaving hers, his lips curling in a suggestive smile.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Abbot Bernard,” Eleanor said mischievously.
“Him? The watchdog of Christendom? He’d never understand.” Henry laughed. “Do you know that when he was young, and got his first erection from looking at a pretty girl, he jumped into an icy pond to cure himself!”
Eleanor felt herself flush with excitement at his words. So soon had they progressed to speaking of such intimate matters, it was unreal—and extremely stimulating.
“You are very self-assured for such a boy,” she said provocatively. “Are you really only eighteen?”
“I am a man in all things that count,” Henry assured her meaningfully, slightly offended at her words.
“Are you going to prove it to me?” she invited.
“When?” he asked, his expression intent.
“I will send a message to you by one of my women,” she told him without hesitation. “I will let you know when and where it is safe for us to be alone together.”
“Is Louis a jealous husband?” Henry inquired.
“No, he never comes to me these days,” Eleanor revealed, her tone bitter, “and he rarely ever did in the past. He should have entered a monastery, for he has no use for women.”
