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 sex. “What concubine?” he asked warily, trying not to sound defensive.
“‘What concubine?’” she echoed mockingly. “Come now, Harry, you do not expect me to believe that you’ve been sleeping alone these two years past. I think it is safe to assume that you found a bedmate or two or three in the course of your travels.”
His first reaction was relief that this was not about Rosamund, after all. She was gazing up at him serenely, with just the suggestion of a smile. But those greenish-gold eyes had never looked more catlike, utterly inscrutable, and he found himself thinking of the way cats played with their prey before moving in for the kill. “I plead guilty,” he said. “I did occasionally take a woman to warm my bed. But surely you would not fault me for that, Eleanor? You might as well blame a man for eating when he’s hungry.”
“I could not agree more. You need not fret, Harry. I know full well what matters and what does not.” It was interesting to see that she could so easily make him squirm over his little trifle, but she had no intention of pursuing it further. That ship had sailed.
Henry
“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 sex. “What concubine?” he asked warily, trying not to sound defensive.
“‘What concubine?’” she echoed mockingly. “Come now, Harry, you do not expect me to believe that you’ve been sleeping alone these two years past. I think it is safe to assume that you found a bedmate or two or three in the course of your travels.”
His first reaction was relief that this was not about Rosamund, after all. She was gazing up at him serenely, with just the suggestion of a smile. But those greenish-gold eyes had never looked more catlike, utterly inscrutable, and he found himself thinking of the way cats played with their prey before moving in for the kill. “I plead guilty,” he said. “I did occasionally take a woman to warm my bed. But surely you would not fault me for that, Eleanor? You might as well blame a man for eating when he’s hungry.”
“I could not agree more. You need not fret, Harry. I know full well what matters and what does not.” It was interesting to see that she could so easily make him squirm over his little trifle, but she had no intention of pursuing it further. That ship had sailed.
Henry
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