Beckoning Henry away from Minna, Maude touched her hand gently to his face and then said, low-voiced, “What mean you to do with Geoffrey?”
“I would to God I knew…” He found a smile for her, hoping it might give her the reassurance that his words could not. But then Geoffrey was forgotten and he was striding hastily toward the woman just entering the hall. She was a sight to draw most male eyes, a slim, dark-haired daughter of the South, the Lady Petronilla, widowed Countess of Vermandois, his sister by marriage.
“How is she, Petra?”
“How do you think? Hurting.” Petronilla’s green eyes were coolly appraising. He supposed she blamed him for not being with Eleanor when she’d most needed him and he resented the injustice of that, but not enough to stay and argue with her. Instead, he went to find his wife.
CRESSET LAMPS still burned in the nursery. A young wet-nurse was drowsing by the fire, a swaddled baby suckling hungrily at an ample breast. The infant paid no heed to Henry’s entry, but the woman jumped to her feet, flustered and stammering as she sought to cover herself. Henry ordinarily had an appreciative eye for female charms. Now, though, he hardly glanced at the girl’s exposed bosom. “Let me see my daughter,” he said, and she hastily complied.
The baby wailed in protest as her meal was interrupted, showing she had a healthy set of lungs. Her hair was wispy and soft, as bright as the flames licking at the hearth log, and her tiny face was reddening, puckered up into a fretful pout. Henry stroked her cheek with his forefinger and then handed her back to the nurse.
There were two cradles, but there ought to have been three. That missing bed cut at Henry’s heart like the thrust of a sword. His eyes stinging, he halted by one of the cradles, gazing down at his second son and namesake. Hal was sucking on his thumb, the firelight gleaming on his cap of curly fair hair, and even in sleep, his resemblance to his dead brother was wrenching. Henry was tempted to wake him up. He was afraid, though, that the little boy would not remember him. He’d been gone for the past six of the child’s sixteen months on earth.
Will would have known him. But he’d been away so often in Will’s pitifully brief life, too. He’d meant to be a good father, to forge a bond with his sons that could never be broken. His own childhood had been a turbulent one, he and his brothers held hostage upon the battlefield that his parents had made of their marriage. He’d wanted to do better by his children, and when the duties of kingship relegated them to the outer edges of his life, he told himself that it could not be helped, that there would be time later to make amends for these lost, early years. But for Will, there would be no more time, no more chances. For Will, it was too late-for them both, too late.
Eleanor had not yet undressed, but she’d unbound her hair and it cascaded down her back in dark swirls and spirals, flowing toward her hips. Henry’s pulse still quickened at the sight of her, even after four years of marriage. She’d obviously been told of his arrival, for she showed no surprise. They’d often been separated for months at a time, had been apart for more than a year when he’d been fighting in England to regain his stolen birthright. Their reunions had always been incendiary; Henry could remember days when they’d never even left their bed. This was the first time that no passion flared between them. Crossing the chamber, he kissed her gently on the corner of her mouth, and they stood for several moments in a wordless embrace.
“I am sorry,” he said softly, “that I was not there…”
“So was I.” Eleanor’s hazel eyes had darkened. “It was dreadful, Harry. Once the fever took him, those fool doctors were useless. You know Will, he was never quiet, never still for a moment. And to see him lying in that bed, getting weaker and weaker… It was like watching a candle burn out, and there was nothing I could do.” Her mouth twisted. “Nothing!”
Henry’s throat constricted. His only defense against such pain was to push it away. “Do you want some wine?” She shook her head, but he went over to the table and poured a cupful from the flagon nonetheless. “I saw the baby. She looks like you.”
“No, she does not,” Eleanor said, so sharply that he swung away from the table, the wine sloshing over the rim of the cup. “I do not want to talk about the baby, Harry, not now. Tell me… did you weep for Will?”
“Of course I did!”
“Did anyone see you shed those tears?” When he frowned, she said, “No… I thought not.”
“What is this about, Eleanor? You blame me for not being there? Petra clearly does, but I expected better of you. Christ Jesus, woman, I was putting down a rebellion in Anjou, not roistering in the bawdy-houses of Paris!”
“I do not blame you for not being with me then, Harry. I blame you for not being with me now!”
“I damned near killed my horse getting here!”
“That is not enough, not nearly enough!”
“What do you want from me?”
“We could not bury our child together. But I thought that at least we could grieve for him together!”
“You dare to say I do not mourn our son?”
She did not flinch from his anger. “No, I know you do. But I need you to mourn with me.” She looked at him and then slowly shook her head. “You cannot do that, can you? You trust no one enough to let down your guard, not even me.”
“This serves for naught,” he said tautly. He was still holding the dripping wine cup and fought back an impulse to fling it against the wall. Setting it down, very deliberately, upon the table, he strode toward the door. He slid the bolt back, but then his fingers clenched on the latch. After a long moment, he turned reluctantly to face his wife.
“Do you truly want to quarrel with me, Eleanor?”
Her shoulders sagged. “No,” she said bleakly, “no, I do not…”
Coming back into the room, he stopped before her and held out his hand. Her eyes flicked to the jagged scar that tracked across his palm toward his thumb. “How did you do that?”
“I was hearing Mass when they brought me word of Will’s death. I put my fist through a stained-glass window.”
She ran her fingers lightly over the scar, and when he took her into his arms, she shuddered, then clung fast. “Come on, love,” he said, “let’s go to bed.”
She nodded, letting him lead her toward the bed. Kicking off her shoes, she started to remove her stockings, then gave him an oblique glance through her lashes. “Do you want to help?”
His surprise was obvious. “It is not too soon?”
“Maude was born on the second Wednesday after Whitsun, and today is the twenty-third. That makes six weeks by my count.”
“Two days short,” Henry said; he’d always been good at math.
Eleanor lay back against the pillows. “Would you rather wait?”
“I’ve never been one for waiting,” he said and kissed her, softly at first, until her arms went up around his neck. When he spoke again, his voice was husky and he sounded out of breath. “You were wrong about my not trusting anyone. I may be wary of the rest of mankind, but I do trust you, my mother, and Thomas Becket.”
Eleanor’s eyes shone in the firelight, golden and catlike. “Not necessarily in that order,” she murmured, and after that, they had no further need of words, finding in their lovemaking a familiar pleasure and even a small measure of solace.
CHAPTER TWO
May 1157
St John’s Abbey
Colchester, England
Adame, wait!” The hospitaller hurried along the cloister walkway, hoping to intercept the queen before she reached her destination: the abbey chapter house. He did not have high expectations of success, but he had to try. A woman-even a highborn one-could not be allowed to wander at will in this hallowed sanctum of holy men. He was taken aback when Eleanor stopped abruptly, then swung around to face him.
