“Have you ever visited Aquitaine, madame?” she asked Matilda.

“No,” Matilda said. “Henry, did you go to Oxford? I had a horrid time there.”

“Yes, Mother, I did, but we were speaking of Aquitaine. It is a land of great beauty.” Oh, so you did notice, Eleanor thought, a trifle resentfully.

“I have no desire to go there,” Matilda said. “I have heard that the lords there are violent and uncontrollable.” She shot a look at Eleanor.

“It has ever been so,” Eleanor said. “That is because Aquitaine has massive rocky hills and rivers, and each lord thinks he is a king in his own valley. They have always fought among themselves, but I trust that now, thanks to their love for me and my lord’s reputation as a strong ruler, they will not be so disobedient. My cities of Poitiers and Bordeaux are always safe and quiet, and there we enjoy a good standard of living. My duchy is a land of great abbeys and churches, and the arts and letters are thriving.”

“By that, I take it you are referring to your troubadours,” her mother-in-law said, her tone dismissive. “I have heard that they sing only of love and its trivialities.”

“Love is not trivial,” Eleanor defied her. “In Aquitaine, it is an important part of life. And women are valued there as nowhere else. Believe me, madame, I know. I have lived in France—”

“Where women are required to be virtuous and live in subjection to their husbands!” the Empress cut in.

Henry, toying with his wine cup, glanced at his mother in mock surprise, wondering when she had ever lived in virtuous subjection to his father. But Matilda was a woman on a mission and did not notice.

“I dare say,” she was commenting to a frozen-faced Eleanor, “that you would not understand that, coming from Aquitaine, which, I am told, is little better than one vast brothel!”

Eleanor’s temper flared, but Henry was there before her. He had been sitting at the head of the table, listening to the exchange between his wife and his mother with amused interest, but now it had gone far enough.

“Are you suggesting that Eleanor is less than virtuous?” he barked, his blood up. “Remember she is my wife!”

His mother looked as wrathful as he did. “I’m not only suggesting it, I know it!” she retorted. “Either this woman has deceived you, my son, or you have lost all sense of respect for me in bringing her here and forcing me to receive her.”

Eleanor rose. “I am leaving,” she said hotly. “I will not be spoken of like that.”

“Will you deny, then, that you were Geoffrey’s mistress?” the Empress flung at her. Eleanor paused in her flight, drawing in her breath, and there was an awful silence before she found the words to reply. Henry’s expression was, as so often, unreadable.

“I will not deny it,” she said, her cheeks burning, “but know this, madame, that he told me he was unhappily married and that you had no more use for each other as man and woman. Do you deny that?”

“My relations with Geoffrey are no business of yours. What you did was wrong, and it was even more wrong of you to marry my son, knowing you had been his father’s leman.”

“That’s enough,” snarled Henry. “I will hear no more. And you, Mother, must keep what you know to yourself, if you wish to retain what power is left to you in the world—and my filial devotion.” His tone was sarcastic.

Matilda got to her feet. “You must both live with your consciences. It is not I who have committed the sin of incest. Mark me, there will be a reckoning one day. God is not to be mocked. And there’s no need to threaten me, Henry. I had already decided that discretion was essential—do you think I would bring shame on myself by publicly announcing that my late lamented husband had an affair with a woman who is the scandal of Christendom? Don’t think I haven’t heard the rumors—”

“Enough!” Henry bellowed, flushing with rage.

“You’re right, I’ve had enough,” spat Eleanor, and gathering up her mantle, swept regally out of the room.

“Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself, Mother,” Henry said, his gaze thunderous.

“Your marriage made good political sense, I grant you that,” Matilda muttered. “But I can only deplore the fact that your wife has a stained reputation, and that she betrayed me with my husband, your own father. And that she has the brazen nerve to come here and expect to be honorably received.”

“Mother,” Henry said quietly, leaning forward and glaring directly into her eyes. “Perhaps you did not hear me or understand, but Eleanor is my wife, and you will treat her with respect, as I do. I love her, I love her to distraction, and you had best get used to that. It matters not to me that she has strayed from virtue in the past, for I have done the same myself, often, and so am not fit to judge her. But I know that she loves me and that she has been true to me, so let that be an end to it.”

“You are a besotted fool!” she told him. “And one day you will realize it. You are so much your father’s son, headstrong and impulsive.”

“I am your son too, Mother,” he reminded her.

“No, Henry, you come from the Devil’s stock, and more’s the pity, for the Devil takes care of his own. Now go. Leave me, I am weary.”

“Very well. Shall I crave your nightly blessing, my Lady Mother?” Henry jeered. “No, don’t bother. Since I’m descended from the Devil, it won’t do me any good. What I want from you, rather, is a truce. You don’t have to be friends with Eleanor—even I, besotted fool that you say I am, wouldn’t ask that—but I want you always to treat her with the respect due to her rank and to my wife, if that is at all possible. Is that understood?”

Matilda said nothing. Her expression was glacial.

“I’m waiting,” Henry said pleasantly.

“Very well,” was the tight-lipped reply. “Just make sure that I see her as little as possible.”

“I should imagine she wouldn’t want to see you at all,” Henry said.

“I’m really sorry, Eleanor,” Henry said, climbing into bed and taking her in his arms. “I especially regret that my mother decided to poison our reunion with her vitriol—and my first meeting with young William.” He kissed her. “He’s wonderful, isn’t he? Me to the life!”

“I love you, Henry,” Eleanor murmured, feeling vulnerable, and resting her head on his chest, taking comfort from his strength. Then she forgot all about Matilda as the familiar and much-longed-for melting sensation coursed through her body, and she gave herself up to her husband’s delightful caresses—although not for long. As needy as she, he mounted her swiftly.

“God, it’s so good to hold you again!” he cried, and then could say no more as passion overtook him. Eleanor’s desire was no less urgent, and as they lost control in unison, rolling between the sheets, grabbing and devouring each other, she thought she would die of the pleasure. Afterward, lying together in blissful euphoria, kissing gently and sensuously, they gazed at each other in wonder, shaken by the depth of their passion.

“I pray you never have to leave me for so long again,” Eleanor said, touching Henry’s cheek.

“I think I shall have to, if that’s what I’ll be coming home to!” he teased, grinning. “By the eyes of God, woman, you are a marvel! No one has ever made me feel like this.” He was being serious now.

“And shall make you feel even better …” Eleanor promised, sliding sensuously down the bed. “How like you this, my dear heart? And this?”

“Eleanor, you’re insatiable!” Henry groaned, stretching with pleasure, and chuckled. “Do you realize that for this you could end up doing penance for three years?”

Eleanor momentarily stopped what she was doing. “IfI confessed it,” she murmured, “but in truth, I consider it to be no sin.” She resumed where she had left off.

“Then we shall burn together in Hell, and be damned!” Henry gasped.

——

In the morning, the duke was up early, anxious to be out hunting. He would never lie late in bed, but was always restless to be gone.