“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.”

“I have heard it said that he truly loves you,” Henry probed.

“Oh, yes, I have no doubt that he does, but only in a spiritual way. He feels no need to possess me physically.”

“Then he is a fool,” Henry muttered. “ Icannot wait.”

“I’m afraid you might have to,” Eleanor said lightly. “I have enemies at this court. The French have always hated me. Everything I do is wrong. I feel I am in a prison, there are so many restrictions on what I do, and they watch me, constantly. So I must be careful, or my reputation will be dragged further in the dust.”

Henry raised his eyebrows. “Further?”

“Maybe you have heard the tales they tell of me,” Eleanor said lightly.

“I have heard one or two things that made me sit up and take notice.” He grinned. “Or stand up and take notice, if you want the bare truth! But I have been no angel myself. We are two of a kind, my queen.”

“I only know that I have never felt like this,” Eleanor whispered, catching her breath.

“Hush, madame,” Henry warned. “People are looking. We have talked too long together. I will wait to hear from you.” He raised her hand and kissed it. The touch of his lips, his flesh, was like a jolt to her system.

Later that night, Eleanor sat before her mirror, gazing into its burnished silver surface. Her image stared back at her, and she looked upon her oval face with its alabaster-white skin, cherry-red rosebud lips, sensuous, heavy-lidded eyes, and well-defined cheekbones, the whole framed with a cascade of coppery tresses. She marveled that she had as yet no lines or wrinkles, but even so, wondered if Henry would desire her as much when he realized that, at twenty-nine, she was eleven years older than he was. But of course he must know that. The whole world knew of her great marriage to Louis; there was no secret about her age.

Setting aside her fears, she stood up and regarded her naked body in the mirror. Surely Henry would be pleased when he saw her firm, high breasts, narrow waist, flat belly, and curving hips. The very thought of that steely, knowing gaze upon her nudity made her melt with need, and her fingers crept greedily down to that secret place between her legs, the place that people like Bernard regarded as forbidden to the devout: the place where, five years before, she had learned to feel rushes and crescendos of unutterable pleasure.

It was Marcabru the troubadour who had shown her how, the incomparable Marcabru, whom she herself had invited from her native Aquitaine to the court of Paris—where his talents, such as they were, had not been appreciated. Dark and almost satanic in aspect, he had excited and awakened her with his suggestive—and very bad—poems in honor of her loveliness, and then done what Louis never had to bring her to a climax, one glorious July day in a secluded arbor in the palace gardens. But Louis’s suspicions and jealousy had been aroused by Marcabru’s overfamiliarity in the verses he dedicated to the Queen, and he had banished him back to the South without ever realizing just how far Marcabru had abused his hospitality. It had been Eleanor’s hunger to know that sweet fulfilment once more that had driven her into the arms of Geoffrey the following autumn.

Since then she had learned to pleasure herself, and she did so now, hungrily, her body alive in anticipation of the joys she would share with Henry of Anjou when they could be together. And, gasping as the shudders of her release convulsed her, she promised herself that it would be soon. After all, Henry and Geoffrey would not be staying long in Paris.

“I watched you talking to the Queen,” Geoffrey said.

“We exchanged a few pleasantries,” Henry said guardedly, filling his goblet. He never discussed his dealings with women with his father.

“It looked like a lot more than that,” Geoffrey accused him. “I know you, Henry. Remember, boy, she is the Queen of France, not some trollop you’d screw in a haystack. And we’ve only just made peace with her husband the King.”

“I know all that,” Henry replied mulishly. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Convince me of that,” his father retorted. “I saw you looking at her lustfully. And I saw her casting her unchaste eyes on you. You know, Henry, she has a reputation.”

“So rumor has it,” Henry said. “But there is no proof. Her husband has not cast her off for infidelity. Maybe the rumors have wronged her.”

“Her husband,” Geoffrey said carefully, “does not know the least of it, I am sure.”

“It ill becomes you to impugn her honor, Father!” Henry snapped.

“Oh, so you arehot for her,” Geoffrey observed dryly. Then his tone hardened. “Listen, my son. I say this for a very good reason. I absolutely forbid you to touch her. Not only is she married and the wife of your overlord, and therefore doubly prohibited to you, but”—and here the count hesitated and looked away—“I have known her myself.”

“I don’t believe you, Father,” Henry retorted. “You’re just saying that to warn me off.”

“It’s true, God help me,” Geoffrey insisted, his voice sounding wistful. “Five years ago I had a secret affair with her, when I was seneschal of Poitou. She was there raising support for the crusade. It was just a brief thing, nothing serious, and fortunately nothing came of it. We were never discovered.”

Henry snorted. “So what of it? What difference does it make to me having her now? Youclearly don’t want her anymore.”

“You don’t understand, boy,” Geoffrey hissed, grasping Henry firmly by the shoulders. “If you bed her, you commit incest. Such a relationship is forbidden by the Church.”

Henry glared at him and wrenched himself free.

“By the eyes of God, I care not a fig what the Church says!” he snapped. “A lot of things are forbidden by the Church, but they go on, and neither you, my lord, nor anyone else can stop me having my will of her—and not only my will, but a whole lot more besides. In case you’ve forgotten, she is the greatest heiress in Christendom.”

Geoffrey’s handsome face registered shock. He shot to his feet, sending his empty goblet clattering to the floor. “She is married to the King of France,” he hissed.

“She can be unmarried!” Henry answered. “I keep my eyes and ears open. Have you not heard what is being said at this court? That the marriage is invalid and should be dissolved? The barons believe it, the Queen is said to have urged it, even our friend Bernard, God damn him, is of that opinion. Only the King is obdurate.”

“He will not relinquish her domains,” Geoffrey said. “It is too rich an inheritance to give up, so you can forget it.”

“No,” Henry defied him. “Louis can’t keep hold of Aquitaine. His authority counts for little there. They’re an unruly lot, Eleanor’s vassal lords. Even her father couldn’t control them.”

“And you think youcould!” Geoffrey taunted.

“I’d stand a better chance than they,” Henry assured him. “Louis hasn’t the resources. But when England is mine, along with Normandy, I will be ready and able to enforce my rule.”

“You run ahead of yourself, boy,” Geoffrey said wearily. “There is no guarantee that England ever will be yours. God knows your mother and King Stephen fought bitterly over it for years, but Stephen is still enthroned there, despite what people say about God and His saints having slept through all the terrible years of his reign; and he has an heir, Eustace, to succeed him. Against that, the claim of your mother, a woman, however rightful, is tenuous indeed. She lost all hope of success years ago when she upset the English by her haughty ways.” His tone made it clear that he too had been alienated by them.