Bredelais Castle, the Welsh Border, 1165
Henry slowed his horse to a trot. He had far outgalloped his companions, who were some way behind with the huntsmen, carrying with them the game they had caught that day. Ahead, in the distance, loomed the castle of Bredelais, the home of their host, Sir Walter de Clifford, whose services in the so far unsuccessful campaign had nevertheless been admirable. But the tide seemed to be turning, thank God, and, flushed with success, both in the field of battle and in the chase, Henry was in a holiday mood, looking forward to a merry supper with his genial host and his lordly companions.
Behind him, he could hear faint shouts and guffaws. Close by, a cuckoo called. It was the early evening of a glorious summer day, with the sun sinking to the west in a blaze of gold and roseate hues. God, but it was warm. He had long since stripped off his tunic and stuffed it in his saddle bag, and wore only his shirt and hose. He trotted along whistling, feeling as if he had not a care in the world. He even thought he might ask for a bath to be prepared on his return. That should set them scuttling!
He steered his mount through some woodland, keeping the castle always in his view through the trees, and emerged onto a grassy meadow, a vast green expanse that swept up to the moat. There was a girl there, kneeling in the long grass, her tight-laced dress a vivid blue against the emerald sward. She had her back to him, so he could not see her face. Long fair tresses rippled unbound and uncovered over her shoulders, proclaiming her a maiden as yet untouched, and her fine raiment bore testament to her gentle birth. She was gathering flowers, and made, in all, a pretty, fetching sight.
His eye roving on the slender lines of her body and hips, Henry felt the familiar upsurge of lust. He had not been so aroused by a woman in a long time. Rohese he had abandoned months before, tired to satiety of her all too familiar charms. Eleanor was in Angers, pestering him with demands for aid against some rebellious vassals, and no doubt bitching about Becket to anyone who would listen. Try as he might, he could not recapture the happiness he had once shared with her. There had been a fleeting resurgence of it, back in the spring, but it had as briefly waned, at least on his part. He could not forgive Eleanor her hostility to Thomas, her searching questions, her neediness. He loved her still, and knew he always would, but not in the way she wanted. It grieved him, but there it was. Something that had died could not be brought to life again.
He was thirty-two, a man in his prime, even if he was putting on a bit of weight, and naturally there had been women, plenty of them, conquered, used, then as quickly forgotten. But now that he had seen this exquisite young girl, it came to him in a blinding instant that something precious had long been absent from his life, and that he needed far more than a quick roll in the hay with any easy trollop.
But this was no hoyden to be pursued for his gratification: this, he guessed, must be one of the daughters of his host, who had a large brood that included five strapping sons. He wondered why he hadn’t seen her the night before, when Lady Clifford presented her family to her king.
The girl had heard his horse approaching. She turned around suddenly, and the flowers spilled from her lap, scattering in a riot of delicate colors over her gown and the grass. She was utterly enchanting. Her skin was like cream, her lips full and round like dark cherries, her cheeks flushed with surprise, her eyes the blue of cornflowers. As she rose, her gown settled becomingly; the jeweled girdle wound around her waist and hips revealed a slim figure, the low, scooped neckline and tight bodice accentuated small, high breasts. Henry felt his erection harden. He must have her, God, he must have her!
Of course, she would have no idea who he was. She had not met him the night before. As he slowed his horse to a standstill, she was already backing away, the flowers forgotten.
“Fair maiden, have no fear!” he called gently. “I am your king, and your father’s guest. I wish you no harm.” I wish you in my bed. That was what he really wanted to say to her.
The girl looked flustered. Her creamy cheeks blushed strawberry red, and she sank into a curtsey. “Sire, I beg your pardon!” Her voice was low and melodious, with a delightful Welsh accent. Henry heard it and was utterly lost.
“Up!” he instructed, with a winning smile, dismounting beside her. “No need to stand on ceremony, fair maiden. What is your name?”
“I am Rosamund,” she told him. “Rosamund de Clifford.”
“Rosamund,” he repeated. “Rosa mundi. The rose of the world. A beautiful name, in English or Latin.”
She said nothing, but just kept on blushing. Henry held out his arm to her and, leading his horse by the reins, proceeded to walk with her toward the castle drawbridge, where the sentries could be seen dozing at their posts in the heat. The touch of her small hand on his skin was heaven.
“Tell me, Rosamund, why were you not here to greet me last night?” Henry probed.
“Lord King, I returned only this day from the good nuns of Godstow, with whom I have lived these past three years.”
Henry was intrigued. “Am I to understand that your parents intended to make a nun of you?”
“No, Lord King, they wished me to receive a virtuous education that would serve me well when God sees fit to send me a husband.”
“Very wise, very wise. You are far too pretty to spend your life in a cloister!” Rosamund blushed becomingly again.
“How old are you, my little nun?” Henry teased.
“I am fourteen, Lord King.”
“And have you come home to be married?”
“I know not, sire.”
Henry was captivated—and dismayed. He had lusted before after virgins from good families, and it always ended badly, with irate fathers summarily shoving their daughters into convents or hastily marrying them off. Most of the women he had bedded over the years were either married women, or whores—or his wife. He knew very well that Rosamund was virtually beyond his reach—unless he proved himself the monster he always claimed jokingly not to be. He knew very well that no decent man worthy of his knighthood—or his kingship—would so dishonor a maiden of noble birth, for that would irrevocably ruin her chances in the marriage market and sully her reputation forever. Men who were not as decent might not scruple to do so, but Henry now had daughters of his own, and would have cheerfully run through any bastard who ventured to compromise their honor. He told himself he could not do such a thing to sweet Rosamund, or to her father, his loyal and likable host.
But just then he glimpsed Rosamund peeping coyly at him from under her lashes. Her artless look betrayed her. She found him attractive, he would swear to it! She might well be amenable … In which case he would not, could not, feel so guilty about robbing her of her maidenhead. He realized—for he was, as he liked to boast, a plain man, always brutally honest with himself—that, dismally soon, all his chivalrous scruples were falling by the wayside. It could only be Rosamund’s fault: with that shy glance, she had disarmed him. By the eyes of God, he wanted her!
Of course, he had to relinquish her arm when he brought her to her father’s castle, and let her lady mother—gushingly grateful to her king for escorting the girl home safely—cart Rosamund off to her chamber so she could wash and change her clothes for the feast that was planned for the evening. It was painful for him to let her go, but he murmured a few gracious words, then retired to submit to the attentions of his valet.