Crunching, Henry amiably complied.

“Exactly how many veils are there?” he inquired, eyeing the great pile.

“Too many to count,” Eleanor said, distracted. “Florine and Faydide, have you packed my shoes?”

“All fourteen pairs,” Florine told her.

“And the forty-two gowns,” Faydide added.

“Forty-two?” Henry echoed. “You don’t need forty-two gowns.”

“I must impress our new subjects,” she answered.

“They’ll be accusing us of extravagance,” he muttered.

“The warm undershirts, madame,” Torqueri said. Henry eyed them suspiciously. Eleanor caught his expression.

“I have heard that it can be freezing cold in England,” she said. “These are to wear beneath my gowns, over my chemise.”

“For one awful moment I thought you were going to wear them in bed!” Henry grinned. The ladies giggled.

“I might yet do so, if England is as bitter in December as they say,” Eleanor warned.

“Over my dead body,” Henry growled.

“It might be!” She laughed. “How are your preparations progressing?”

“I’m all packed, and the escort is assembling,” he told her. “I am taking the usual rabble of barons and bishops—they all want a share of the booty. It’ll be hard restraining them when they get to Westminster. I had to include my brother Geoffrey, the little bastard—my mother insisted.”

Eleanor groaned. “That troublemaker? You’ll need to keep an eye on him.”

“He’s harmless enough, just a pissing nuisance. But to make up for it, my love, I have summoned your sister to join you.”

“Petronilla?” An image of a tall, fair young woman with haunted eyes and a fragile mien sprang to mind. “That was most thoughtful. I have not seen her for years. Henry, you are so good to me.”

“Since my mother is to stay here, I realized that you would be without female company of your own rank in England,” Henry explained, gratified to see her so pleased. “I gather there was some scandal,” he added lightly, throwing the apple core out of the window and reaching for a wine flagon. “I was quite young at the time, and the adults wouldn’t talk about it. Was she a naughty girl, your sister? I have heard that she is very beautiful—although not as beautiful as you,” he added quickly.

“Pour me some wine too, please,” Eleanor said, dismissing her women and sitting down on the only corner of the bed not occupied by Henry and heaps of clothing. “I need to relax for a bit.”

“Here, put that stuff on the chests and rest here with me,” Henry offered, extending his arm invitingly and winking. “You are tiring yourself. You must think of the child.”

“Which is precisely what you won’t be doing if I lie down next to you!” Eleanor chided. “Remember, the Church forbids lovemaking during pregnancy.”

“Bah!” chortled Henry. “You weren’t saying that last night, if I remember aright.”

“I don’t see any harm in it,” Eleanor said. “Neither do I see how a lot of celibate clerics, all of them terrified of women, are qualified to pronounce on such matters.”

“They’d burn you for heresy if they heard that!’ Henry laughed. “They think that sex is only for procreation and that once you’ve procreated, there’s no further excuse for doing it.”

“How little they know.” Eleanor smiled. “It may sound blasphemous, but when you are inside me, it’s almost a spiritual experience—a communion of both souls and bodies, if you will.”

“What are you trying to do to me?” Henry asked in mock anguish, pointing to the erection visibly stirring beneath his tunic.

“Control yourself!” Eleanor reproved him, feigning displeasure. “Not now, please. I’m supposed to be resting. And I was going to tell you about Petronilla.”

Henry made a face, but settled down to listen.

“It was over ten years ago,” Eleanor began, settling herself comfortably against the bolster. “My sister was only sixteen at the time, and very headstrong. She fell in love with Count Raoul of Vermandois.”

“Surely he was too old for her?” Henry interrupted.

“Yes, by thirty-five years, but it didn’t seem to matter as she was completely infatuated, as was he.”

“Randy old goat!”

“Must you always see love in terms of sex?” Eleanor made an exasperated face, but her eyes were twinkling.

“You’ve never complained.” Henry grinned, and lifted her hand to kiss it.

“Well,” she went on, appreciating the gesture, “as it happens, you are right, because Raoul was certainly deep in lust. Unfortunately, he was married to the sister of that awful Thibaut, Count of Blois, who tried to abduct me, remember?”

“As if I could forget that bastard.” Henry frowned.

“I never liked him anyway,” Eleanor continued, “and at the time, for reasons of his own, he was refusing all homage to Louis, and so to pay him back, I encouraged Raoul to seek an annulment. That wasn’t difficult, as he and Thibaut were enemies. Anyway, Raoul left his wife, and Louis appointed three bishops to annul the marriage and marry him to Petronilla. Then all hell broke loose! Thibaut took his sister’s part and complained to the Pope, and of course Abbot Bernard had to stick his nose in, telling His Holiness and anyone else who was listening that the sacrament of marriage had been undermined and the House of Blois insulted.”

“And what happened?” Henry asked.

“Raoul was ordered by the Pope to return to his wife. You should have seen Petronilla—she was beside herself with grief. But Raoul stood by her, and refused to leave her. For that, they were both excommunicated. Louis sprang to Raoul’s defense and went to war against Thibaut. He had many good reasons to, believe me. It was during that war that the massacre of Vitry took place.”

“I know about that,” Henry said.

“All Christendom does,” Eleanor sighed. “It was just awful. Louis was blamed, but he never meant for it to happen. When the townsfolk barred their gates against him, he had his men launch flaming arrows at the castle, which was made of wood. It caught fire, and the defenders perished, so Louis’s men were able to force an entry into the town. That was all planned. But the soldiers went berserk; their captains could not control them. They laid about them with swords and torches, and soon all the buildings were ablaze. In the streets, it was a bloodbath. Those people who managed to escape took refuge in the cathedral, thinking they would be safe there, poor fools.”

“Don’t tell me the saintly Louis ordered the cathedral to be fired,” Henry interrupted.

“No, he was some way off, watching in horror from a hill outside the town. It was the wind—it blew the flames toward the cathedral, and they engulfed it at terrifying speed. Fifteen hundred people died that day, women, children, the old, and the sick. It was terrible.” She turned haunted eyes to Henry.

“You saw it?” he asked, his face grim.

“No, I was in Paris, but I had to deal with Louis on his return. He was stricken. He had seen it all; he’d heard the screams of those poor trapped people, and smelled their burning flesh.” She winced. “He’d watched helplessly as the roof caved in and those wretched souls perished. He felt it was his fault, although he never intended for such a dreadful thing to happen.” She remembered him ashen-faced and shaking, unable to speak, lying sick and mute in his bed for two days. “After that, he was never the same. He was weighed down by guilt. He even cut off his long fair hair, which I had always liked, and took to wearing a monk’s robes.”

“I suppose sex was out of the question,” Henry said wryly, in an attempt to lighten the mood. Eleanor smiled at him.

“It was usually out of the question!”

“So did Louis ever forgive himself?”

“I think it was more a case of accepting that God had forgiven him,” Eleanor recalled, “and that only happened during the crusade, when we visited Jerusalem and he received absolution at the tomb of Our Savior.”

“And what of Petronilla?” Henry wanted to know.