Later, seated at the place of honor at the high table, he selected a chicken leg from a proffered platter, gnawed upon it absentmindedly, then turned to Sir Walter.
“I met your daughter Rosamund today,” he said, striving to make himself heard above the chatter and laughter. “I thought her a most virtuous young lady.”
Sir Walter looked along the board, beyond his great, strapping sons, to where Rosamund sat with her sisters. Henry’s eyes followed; they had been straying in that direction all evening. The girl’s eyes were modestly downcast as she ate her food daintily, but her golden tresses fanned over her shoulders and breast like a burnished cape, and her lips were ripe for kissing. She looked a picture of beauty, and Henry found himself aching with desire—yet again.
“Aye, sire,” Sir Walter said complacently. “She’s a good girl. The nuns have done well with her. I’ll have to find her a husband soon.”
“She is not yet spoken for?” Not that it made much difference. She soon would be. Any man worthy of the name would snap her up in a trice.
“No, sire. I have many children to settle in matrimony.”
“I know all about that!” Henry smiled. “I have many of my own.” But the recall of them did not act as a deterrent, and he paused for a moment, plotting frantically. “How would it be if Rosamund came to court to wait upon the Queen? She would be well looked after, and I myself would take an interest in finding a suitable match for her.” Never a truer word had been spoken, he mused.
“Lord King, I would be honored!” effused a surprised Sir Walter. “And my daughter too, depend on it.”
“Queen Eleanor is in Anjou just now,” Henry said, “but some of her English ladies are at Woodstock, awaiting her return. I myself am bound for there when my Welsh rebels have been taught some respect.” It was a lie, but Sir Walter was not to know that. “I and my men would happily escort your daughter to Woodstock, or you could arrange for her to travel in the company of your own men-at-arms later on.”
As Henry had anticipated, the proud, ambitious father jumped at his offer, and so it was decided that Rosamund should go to Woodstock.
It had been that easy.
That night, Henry lay awake, aware that what he was about to do was a great sin and an even greater wrong. Yet he was unable to help himself: he could not resist the allure of Rosamund. He hadto have her—he was mad to have her. His penis throbbed insistently at the very thought of her. He could think of nothing else.
A little voice at the back of his mind warned him there would be a reckoning. He did not doubt it, but he did not care. The devil in him, that diabolical legacy of his heritage, was driving him on, urging him to take what he wanted. He would defy the world, if need be, to have this girl. It was as bad as that.
When the time came to leave for Woodstock, early in September, there were no tearful good-byes, unlike three years before, when Rosamund had first gone to Godstow; she had now grown used to being apart from her family. Like a lamb borne to the proverbial slaughter, she went meekly with Henry, her manner trusting and respectful. If she suspected there was more to this than her going to serve the Queen, she gave no sign.
Woodstock Palace, 1165
Rosamund looked around the sunny, whitewashed stone bower with delight. It occupied the top floor of a turret, and at the bottom of the spiral stair a low wooden door opened onto a pretty pleasaunce, or garden, made colorful with violets, columbines, and roses around a lush greensward, shaded with hornbeam, hazel, and ash trees. She had beheld that with wonder, and when she saw the chamber that had been prepared for her, her cornflower-blue eyes widened even farther. This was a bower fit for a queen. In fact, although she was not to know it, it was the Queen’s. The bed had silken drapes, bleached cotton sheets, and a bright checkered coverlet. There was a window seat cut into the thickness of the wall, a chest supporting great golden candlesticks of an intricate design, a fine oak chair and two stools on the tiled floor, and carved pegs on the wall for her gowns.
Henry watched with pleasure from the doorway as his desired one exclaimed at her good fortune.
“Lord King, do all the Queen’s ladies live in such luxury?” she asked. Her manner toward him was always deferential. His gaze lingered on her.
“No,” he said at length. “This is especially for you, because you are beautiful.”
“But what will the other ladies say?” She looked frightened.
“Nothing, my sweet. There are no other ladies!” He grinned at her.
“I don’t understand.” She looked at him in puzzlement.
Henry hesitated. One false move now and all might be lost. Was it best to be honest with her? Or to keep up the charade a little longer, and give her feelings for him more time to grow and flourish?
He did not think he could wait that long. Already, people were looking askance at them both and whispering. On the way here his retinue had apparently assumed that he was escorting her back to Godstow—or so he had gathered from remarks he overheard. There had been genuine astonishment, followed by dark and disapproving looks, when he brought her to Woodstock. But he was beyond caring. He was the King, and his actions were not to be questioned.
His conscience told him he could give up the idea now and send the girl back, unsullied in body and reputation, to her father. It was not too late to do the honorable thing. But that devil, the devil that ruled his sexual impulses, was rampant in him, and not to be gainsaid. He crossed the floor and put his arms around Rosamund.
“I want you to stay here with me,” he said hoarsely, as he felt her body stiffen. His own was stiffening too, not out of alarm, but from lust. He felt he was in paradise, holding her so close. He had not wanted a woman so much since he first set eyes on Eleanor. He thrust the thought of Eleanor away quickly.
“Lord King, I beg of you …” Rosamund whispered, her breath coming in little gasps. “It would be wrong!”
“Is loving someone so very wrong?” Henry asked. “I think I have loved you since the moment I saw you. Your father gave me permission to bring you here—and here we are.” And may God forgive me the deception, he thought. The devil in him stirred again.
“My father? I thought I was to serve the Queen, sire?” Her eyes were wide with incomprehension.
“And so you are, in due course. But your father knows that royal favor and preferment can be won in many different ways,” Henry said. “He has entrusted you to my care, and I have undertaken to find you a husband in due course.” Perish the thought! “But for now, all I want is to serve you, and make you mine. Will you be mine, Rosamund?”
He saw, to his consternation, that she was weeping.
“Do not cry, sweeting,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “All will be well, you have my word on it. I will cherish and protect you, never fear.”
He tipped her chin up with his finger and looked down into her wet blue eyes. God, how lovely she was!
“Could you love me a little?” he asked her. “I think you do!”
She stared at him as if drinking him in. “I do not know,” she whispered. “I cannot. It would be wrong. I find it hard to believe that my father meant for me to become your leman, Lord King. I cannot bring dishonor on my house. It would be a sin, and we would both burn in Hell for it.”
“Fairy tales for children!” Henry scoffed. “But even if there were a Hell, I would gladly burn in it for all eternity for just one night with you.”