“I know, but it seems to me he has taken his stand on so many things that we have all lost sight of what the quarrel was originally about.” Eleanor sighed. “I have done my best to support Henry, truly I have, but he does not appear to need my support. I too am the enemy these days. I have criticized his need for vengeance too often.”
“You were right to do so,” Matilda pronounced. “Someone needs to keep my son in check. He is too passionate and headstrong for his own good.” She leaned her bewimpled head back against her chair. “Alas, I fear this will end badly. It goes on relentlessly.”
“It dominates our lives to an unacceptable extent,” Eleanor told her. “It has spoiled my marriage. I pray God it is resolved soon.”
“Amen to that,” the Empress murmured. “But I suspect it will not be.”
Eleanor spent a mere fortnight with Henry before he was off on his horse again, bound this time for Wales, to teach a lesson to the Welsh princes who had united to cast off his rule.
His mood had been kinder these past few days. She wondered if his mother had said anything to make him treat her more tenderly. He’d come to her bed every night, and they had made love frequently—not as fervently as they once had, but with something of their former passion and a sense of closeness. Eleanor dared to hope that if things went on like this, they would in time recapture some of the joy they had once taken in each other.
She knew for certain that matters were mending between them when Henry told her, two days before he left, that he was entrusting the government of Anjou and Maine to her while he was overseas.
“I want you to go to Angers,” he said. “Take up residence there; be a visible presence in my dominions.” It was wonderful—and heartening—to have him pay her such a compliment.
She went, her heart singing, to Angers. Once installed in the massive fortress that dominated the town, she sent to Poitiers, requesting that her faithful uncle, Raoul de Faye, come to join her to assist her in her great task. Henry had never had a good opinion of Raoul’s abilities, but Eleanor had found him to be a true and loyal deputy these past few years, dedicated to her service and diligent at attempting—not always successfully, she had to admit—to keep her troublesome lords in check. Anyway, Henry was far away, fighting the Welsh. The decision to send for Raoul was hers to make.
Raoul came. Eleanor had never before noticed how elegant and attractive he was; for years she’d had eyes for no other man than Henry, and the two men could not have been more different. At forty-nine, Raoul was just six years her senior, long wed to Elizabeth, the heiress of Faye-le-Vineuse, who had borne him two children. He had all the charm and humor of her mother’s family, the seigneurs of Châtellerault, and Eleanor felt entirely comfortable in his company. He was courtly in manner, ready to do her service in any capacity, and full of good advice, much of which she was happy to heed. Most important of all, he shared her tastes in music and literature, and in doing so proved himself to be a true son of the South.
The long hours they spent together discussing the affairs of Anjou and Aquitaine—how she delighted in hearing news of her own land!—lent an intimacy to their relationship. She found herself eagerly anticipating their meetings and captivated by Raoul’s wicked smile and sharp wit. He was capable of saying the most outrageous things—court gossip was his specialty, particularly the amorous exploits of the Queen’s ladies—and she enjoyed his earthy turns of phrase. She found herself laughing a lot of the time she was in his company—something she had not done very much with Henry in recent years. It was all exceedingly pleasant.
She was aware, of course, of something flowering between them. She knew instinctively that Raoul wanted more from her than an uncle should expect of a niece, but she could hardly blame him for that. Her scandalous affair with another uncle, Raymond of Antioch, was universally notorious, and gossip about it had been circulating for years. Raoul would surely have heard it and perhaps concluded that she would not be averse to a similar dalliance with him. The idea amused Eleanor, although she did not consider it seriously. She was content to enjoy flirting with him, indulging in the old familiar game of courtly love—so much a part of their common culture—and keeping him tantalizingly at arm’s length. There was no harm in that, was there?
There were, of course, more serious moments, as when they discussed the problem of Becket.
“I have never met him, but I know I would detest him,” Raoul declared loyally. “He is a dangerous man, and the King your husband is well rid of him.”
“But he is notrid of him, that’s just the point!” Eleanor exclaimed. “However far away he may be, Becket is a constant presence in our lives, stirring up trouble.”
“If I were the King, I would find a way to silence him,” Raoul declared.
“And think what a furor that would cause!” Eleanor rejoined.
“It could be managed … discreetly,” he suggested. She wondered if this was a game, if he was really in earnest.
“And tongues would wag. No, my dear uncle, it wouldn’t work. And Henry would never agree to it. He has many vices, but murder is not one of them.”
“Forgive me, I spoke only in his interests,” he hastened to assure her. “I would rid him of that bastard archbishop if I could.” The hostility in his voice was palpable.
“Why do youhate Becket so?” Eleanor asked curiously.
“Because he has been the cause of your pain,” Raoul answered, his hand closing on hers.
They were alone in her solar, seated at the table with a bank of scrolls and tally sticks before them and the sun streaming in through the windows. Eleanor silently withdrew her hand.
“You are still very beautiful,” Raoul said softly. “You have a fine bone structure that will never age. You are incredible.”
“Flatterer!” She smiled.
“It is the truth. I know beauty when I see it.”
She laughed. “You expect me to believe that—me, an old married woman, pregnant with her tenth child? Look at me, Raoul!”
He did, intently, his deep-set, dark eyes full of yearning, and suddenly they were no longer laughing.
“It is now, especially, that you should be cherished,” he said. “Does the King your husband cherish you as he should, sweet niece?”
“Henry cannot help the fact that the Welsh are in rebellion,” she answered lightly.
“But if he werehere, would he be cherishing you as you deserve?” her uncle persisted.
“Of course,” Eleanor answered, although her voice betrayed a lack of conviction. The recent renewal of the bonds she shared with Henry was too fragile, too precious, to be taken for granted. He had never been one to cosset her when she was carrying his children, but then she herself had not encouraged it, preferring to carry on much as normal. Raoul, on the other hand, was a true son of the South, a ladies’ man in every sense, courtly and extravagantly devoted. He would not understand how she and Henry functioned together. He didn’t like Henry anyway, never had—and now he had an ulterior motive for finding fault with him.
He was frowning, still looking at her intently.
“You know he is unfaithful to you,” he said. His words hit her like a slap in the face. She reeled inwardly from the blow. Coming out of the blue, it forced her to confront a truth she had long feared to face. She had wonderedcountless times if, when they were apart, Henry took his pleasure where he would, but she’d had no proof. And there were those rumors she had heard … She had dismissed them as mere gossip. Yet now it all made sense; and there was no surprise in her. Of course Henry had been unfaithful. How could she ever have doubted it?
“Explain exactly what you mean by that!” she cried, rising and going over to the window, keeping her back to Raoul so he should not see how profoundly he had shocked her. If what he said were true, she would not want to look a fool—the poor, ignorant wife, the last to find out. Already, she feared, she had betrayed herself by her violent response.