The silence that followed her confession seemed endless to Rosamund; even the sounds of the night had ceased, and she could almost believe the entire world had gone still of a sudden. When she could endure it no more, she said, “You must think I’m shameless.. ”
Henry closed the distance between them, slid his fingers under her chin, and tilted her face up to his. “No,” he said, “I am thinking that it would take a stronger man than me to walk away from you now.”
Watching as Henry moved to the table and poured wine for them, Rosamund could only marvel that the King of England was acting as her cupbearer. He brought a single cup back to the window seat and they took turns drinking from it. Rosamund limited herself to several small sips, for she already felt light-headed, made tipsy by this astonishing turn of fate. All her daydreams notwithstanding, she found it hard to believe that she was actually here with Henry in his bedchamber, his fingers stroking her cheek, his every smile for her and her alone. She was touched that he was being so gentle with her, so unhurried. He’d unfastened her veil and wimple, unpinning her hair until it tumbled free down her back.
“You’re very beautiful,” he said, “especially with your hair loose like this. The color is remarkable, not so much spun flax as spun moonlight.”
“I’m glad it pleases you,” she said, and he set the wine cup down in the floor rushes at their feet, took her in his arms. He’d kissed her before, below in the gardens, but not like this. His mouth was hot, tasting of wine, and when he took her onto his lap, she felt the rising proof of how much he wanted her. She was breathless by the time he ended the kiss. He traced the curve of her mouth with his finger, his eyes shining silver in the lamplight. The loss of her maidenhead would turn her life onto a different path, a road unfamiliar and fraught with risk. She was immensely grateful that he cared about her honor, but she was not afraid. Her anxiety had vanished down in the gardens, once she realized that he did want her. She gave him a smile he would remember, one of tenderness and utter trust, and he lifted her up in his arms, carried her across the chamber to his bed.
Henry was thirty-two, had first learned about the profound pleasures of the flesh while still in his early teens. Oddly, though, he’d had little experience with virgins, for he was as pragmatic about bedsport as he was about other pursuits; his natural inclination was for the most direct route. Before his marriage to Eleanor, he’d preferred knowing, practiced bedmates and was quite willing to pay for the privilege, as that was easy and uncomplicated and avoided awkward misunderstandings. Since his marriage, he’d been faithful to his wife when he was with her, feeling free to seek sexual release elsewhere when he was not.
Rosamund Clifford was a departure from his usual pattern, and he was intent upon making sure that her first time was pleasurable for her, for she aroused more than his lust; there was something about the girl that made him want to take care of her. With Rosamund, he discovered a virtue he hadn’t thought he possessed-patience-and after their lovemaking was over, he held her within the sheltering circle of his arms, fighting sleep for her sake, a sacrifice he’d hitherto made only for Eleanor.
He awoke in the morning with a feeling of drowsy contentment, and for the first time in weeks with nary a thought to spare for his failed campaign, his missing uncle, or the hapless Welsh hostages. Rosamund was curled up beside him like a kitten, blond hair spilling across the pillow and over the side of the bed; it must reach nigh on to her knees, he decided, and a stray quotation from Scriptures surfaced, that “if a woman hath long hair, it is a glory to her.” When she opened her eyes and smiled up at him, he was surprised by the surge of relief he felt. He’d been confident he’d made her deflowering more pleasurable than painful, but a woman’s virtue was a valuable commodity in their world and she might well have suffered morning-after regrets. He was pleased to see that it was not so, and leaned over to kiss her sweeping golden lashes, the corner of her mouth where her smile still lingered.
Afterward, they lay entwined in the sheets, reluctant to leave the private refuge of his bedchamber for the reality waiting on the other side of the door. Henry was the first to stir, smothering a yawn with the back of his hand. “People will know,” he said. “Nothing that a king does escapes notice. Does that trouble you, Rosamund?”
“No, it does not, my lord.” The lie came readily to her lips for she’d recognized that any liaison with Henry would have consequences that were sure to spill over into every corner of her life. Until last night she’d been known to their world as Clifford’s daughter. Now she would become the king’s concubine. It was a prospect she found both daunting and humiliating, but it was a price she was willing to pay for her time with Henry.
“When do you plan to leave Chester?” she asked, and was proud of herself for making the query sound so casual, as if heartbreak was not riding upon his answer.
“Probably on Friday. My Curia Regis is scheduled to meet at month’s end.” He thought to translate the Latin into “Royal Court” for her benefit, but she scarcely noticed, for she was counting surreptitiously upon her fingers. Four days.
“Will you have time for me tonight?” she asked, still striving for nonchalance, and was reassured when he laughed and joked about staying in bed with her for the rest of his born days. She knew better, of course, but at least she’d have until Friday. That was more than many an unhappy wife had in an entire lifetime.
Sitting up, she began to untangle her hair with her fingers, feeling an almost childish delight when Henry tossed her his own brush. He was dressing with his usual dispatch, but when he smiled at her as he pulled a tunic over his head, she was encouraged to ask if he might grant her a favor.
Henry found himself fumbling with his belt, fighting back sudden suspicion. Had he so misjudged her? Was she Clifford’s accomplice, after all? He was accustomed to people wanting what a king could give, and women did their best bargaining in bed; that he well knew. But for reasons he did not fully understand, he did not want Rosamund Clifford to angle for her own advantage, to put a price upon her maidenhead. “What may I do for you?” he asked, his tone so neutral that a more worldly woman might have been warned.
Rosamund hesitated, hoping that he would not think her presumptuous. “I was wondering if… if when we are alone, I may call you Henry?”
Henry burst out laughing. “Well, no,” he said, and when he saw she’d taken his teasing seriously, he added hastily, “Actually I prefer Harry.”
She smiled, saying “Harry” with such ingenuous satisfaction that he had to return to the bed and kiss her. And when he left Chester at the week’s end, he took Rosamund with him.
In October, Eleanor gave birth at Angers to their seventh child, a fair-haired daughter who was named Joanna.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
December 1165
Angers, Anjou
In their thirteen years of marriage, Henry and Eleanor had often been apart, but they always spent Christmas together. Only war had separated them and only once. But now they were separated by more than miles. Eleanor did not understand why her husband was still in England. Nor did she approve. She had acted as his regent during his disastrous invasion of Wales, and that had been no easy task, for Thomas Becket’s defiance was a contagion, infecting the always contentious barons of Poitou, Anjou, and Maine. Small rebellions had been breaking out like brushfires all over Henry’s vast domains, fanned by agents of the French Crown and the House of Blois. Henry was needed on the Continent, where his enemies were plotting against him, where he had an infant daughter he’d yet to see and a wife who’d been sleeping alone for the past six months. Perplexed and aggrieved by his continuing absence, Eleanor finally voiced to intimates the question that was being asked by others, too, and with increasing frequency: What was keeping the king in England?
JUST AS SHE had not allowed pregnancy and childbirth to distract her from her duties as regent, Eleanor was determined to hold a Christmas Court as spectacular as any she and Henry had hosted in the past. God’
s Year 1165 had not been a good one for Henry Fitz Empress-a humiliating defeat in Wales, the birth of a son to the French king, continuing discord with the exiled archbishop, Thomas Becket, echoes of rebellion on the bleak winter winds. But Eleanor had always been one for nailing her flag to the mast so it could not be struck down. She spared no expense and her guests would be marveling at the splendor of the royal revelries for months to come.
The great castle of Angers was hung with evergreen, holly, laurel, yew, and mistletoe. To enthusiastic cheers of “Wassail!” the Yule candle was lit and then the Yule log, carefully stacked so it might burn for the following twelve days. The Eve of Christmas was a fast day, but the Christmas Day feast was lavish enough to blot out all memories of Advent abstinence: a roasted boar’s head, refeathered peacocks, oysters, venison, and the delicacy known as a “glazed pilgrim,” a large pike which was boiled at the head, fried in the middle, and roasted at the tail. The entertainment was no less impressive than the menu: music by the finest minstrels in all of Aquitaine, dancing, a fire juggler, and then the presentation of the Play of the Three Shepherds. As bells pealed to celebrate the birth of the Christ Child, Eleanor’s Christmas Day revelry came to a successful conclusion, and if her spirits had been dampened by her husband’s absence, she alone knew it.
Christmas festivities traditionally ended on Twelfth Night. The January sky was canopied by clouds, and the evidence of an earlier snowfall still glazed the ground of the castle’s inner bailey. Colors of crimson and sun-gold glowed in the wavering torchlight, for most of the guests had not bothered to cover their fine clothes with mantles or cloaks. Warmed by wine and vanity, they’d trooped outdoors in good humor for the wassailing of the trees, only to discover that hippocras and the frothy cider drink called lamb’s wool were poor protection against a biting wind and air so icy it hurt to breathe.
Hurriedly, the revelers crowded into the garden, twelve of them forming a circle around the largest of the fruit trees. “Hail to thee, old apple tree,” they chanted hoarsely. “From every bough, give us apples enow.” The rest of the rhyme was all but drowned out by the chattering of teeth and the stamping of frigid feet. Cups were hastily lifted and muffled cries of “Wassail” filled the garden. There was more to the ceremony, but the guests were already hastening back toward the great hall. Pouring the remainder of their cider onto the exposed gnarled roots of the apple tree, the twelve wassailers scrambled to catch up with their retreating audience. Soon the garden was empty of all save a lone woman who’d had the foresight to wrap herself in a mantle lined with fox fur and a youth whose arm she had linked in hers.
The young Earl of Chester was sensibly garbed, too, enveloped in a green wool mantle that billowed like a sail with each swirl of the wind. He showed neither impatience to return to the hall nor curiosity why his mother should have chosen to linger in the dark, deserted garden, and it was that very apathy that Maud found so perplexing. Hugh’s abrupt arrival at Angers had taken her by surprise, for she had expected him to remain in England with their cousin the king. Whatever had possessed the lad to make a needless winter journey like this? So far he’d been as sparing with his answers as he was with his smiles, thwarting her maternal solicitude with shrugs and silence. Watching him as he brooded amongst the wassailers, as somber as if he were attending a wake, Maud had at last lost all patience.
“Are you going to tell me what is troubling you, Hugh, or must I guess?” He glanced at her sideways, with another of those vexing shrugs, and Maud’s frustration spilled over into the sort of blunt speaking that her more conventional son deplored. What sort of sins would he be most likely to commit? Gambling debts? Nay, he was too cautious to enjoy wagering. “Have you gotten some girl with child?”
“No!” Hugh flushed, looking much younger at that moment than his eighteen years, and Maud almost smiled. So it was a lass, after all. Reminding herself how vulnerable first love could be, she said, not unkindly, “There is no crime in being smitten by a pretty face. Nor is there any great harm in sowing a few wild oats, provided that the girl is not already spoken for…” Her son’s face twitched, and she said, more sharply, “Hugh, no good can come of lusting after a married woman. Even if she is only a villein, it is not wise, for-”
“Rosamund is no villein,” he snapped, sounding offended. “She is well bred and gently born. Nor is she married.”
“Rosamund who?” she asked, so unobtrusively that Hugh found himself mumbling her surname before he could think better of it.
Maud regarded him thoughtfully; clearly this was more serious than she’d realized. Was he enamored enough to want to marry the girl? Clifford’s daughter would make most men a perfectly acceptable wife, but the Earl of Chester could aim much higher. What of the negotiations to wed him to the young daughter of the Count of Evreux? “Hugh, I hope you’ve done nothing rash. You’ve made no promises to this girl, have you?”
He shook his head mutely, and she sighed with relief. But then he added in a burst of miserable candor, “I would have, but she’ll have none of me.”
Maud’s temper ignited. That self-serving malcontent, Clifford, dared to refuse her son? What better husband could he crave for his daughter than Hugh of Chester, cousin to the king? Forgetting for the moment her own opposition to a Clifford-Chester match, she said indignantly, “Some hawks fly high these days, need to get their wings clipped for certes!” Hugh did not seem much comforted by that, and she patted his arm con solingly. “Ah, lad, I do understand. This is the first lass you’ve set your heart upon, and I know it is hurtful. But-”
“No, you do not understand!” Hugh’s despair was so naked that his mother fell silent, for such an emotional outburst was quite unlike him. “Hurtful, you say? You do not know the half of it! What choice did she have, a girl convent-reared and all too trusting? But I could do nothing, had to watch as he took her to his bed, with her lout of a father cheering him on!”
Maud stared at him. “What in God’s Name are you talking about? Who took Rosamund Clifford into his bed?”
“Who do you think?” Hugh’s mouth twisted. “The king!”
“Harry… and Rosamund Clifford?” She sighed again, this time sadly. Poor Hugh, no wonder he was so distraught. “Well, that is unfortunate, but it might turn out better for the girl than you think. If she was indeed a virgin, Harry will surely be generous enough to compensate for the loss of her maidenhead, and there are men who’d take a perverse pride in having a woman bedded by the king.”
“You still do not understand! This is more than a grope in the dark or a quick tumble between the sheets. He is besotted with her, keeps her as close as he can. Where do you think he is now? At Woodstock-with her!”
Maud’s breath hissed between her teeth. Instinctively, she glanced over her shoulder, making sure they were still alone. So that was why Harry had lingered so long in England! Jesu, but men were such fools. “Have you spoken of this to anyone else, Hugh?” When he shook his head, she reached out and gripped his arm. “See that you do not.”
Hugh looked annoyed. “What do you fear, Mother, that I’d blurt it out to the queen? I have more sense than that. But my silence will matter for naught. Sooner or later, she’ll hear about her husband and Rosamund.”
“Yes,” she agreed grimly, “she will. But it will not be from you.”
Meliora had not ventured far, only to an apothecary’s shop on Calpe Street, but the rain started again before she could return to the shelter of Winchester’s great castle. It was a stinging, cold rain, interspersed with sleet, for although the calendar had marked the first week of March, England was still in winter’s frigid grip. But Meliora was not one to be daunted by bad weather; pulling up her mantle hood, she continued on her way. Several boisterous young men came sprinting toward her, laughing and cursing as they sought to outrun the rain to the closest alehouse. A woman passing by made haste to cross the street, but Meliora didn’t give the rowdy youths a second glance. Now in her fifties, she still had the bold spirit that ha
d led her to leave her native Cornwall in search of adventure and more opportunities than any Cornish village could offer.
Twice married, twice widowed-the first marriage for fun, the second for security-she had three grown children, and a dower sufficient to keep her in a comfortable old age. But for all that her flaming red hair was now greyed, her waist thickened, and her step slowed by a touch of the joint-evil, her thirst for the unknown had not been slaked. And so when the king asked her to attend the Lady Rosamund Clifford, Meliora had accepted with alacrity.
Hearing sudden footsteps thudding behind her, she spun around, her grip tightening on the walking stick that would make a useful weapon. But the man bearing down upon her was no cutpurse, far too well dressed for that. As he drew nearer, she recognized him as the castellan’s second-in-command, and readily accepted his offer to escort her back to the castle. With ostentatious gallantry, he insisted upon carrying her apothecary’s sack and she relinquished it with a droll smile, knowing full well that the days were long past when young men vied for her favors. His chivalry was motivated by curiosity for certes; she’d wager the entire garrison was gossiping about the girl who’d accompanied the king to Winchester.
Meliora was not averse to gossip and answered readily enough, amused by the youth’s clumsy attempts at nonchalance. She confirmed that she and her lady would be leaving for Woodstock on the morrow, weather permitting, now that the king had continued on to Southampton. No, she did not know when the king would be returning to England. Yes, she and her lady would be needing an escort, but she believed the King’s Grace had arranged that with the castellan ere his departure yesterday. She was so agreeable, so affable that it was only later that he’d realize just how little she’d actually told him.
Time and Chance eoa-2 Page 36