Time and Chance

by Sharon Kay Penman

  It was fully dark now, but the air still held some of the warmth of the day. The sudden stretch of fine weather had seemed like the ultimate ironic joke to Henry; where had the sun been when he’d had such need of it? One of the castle dogs trailed after him as he entered the deserted gardens, but soon veered off on the scent of unseen nocturnal prey. Henry was regretting not revealing the contents of de Montfort’s letter. More precisely, he was regretting not having someone to confide in, someone who’d understand his misery without the need of words. His ambitions were dynastic, his greatest wish to see his empire ruled by his sons after his death. Eleanor understood that. So had Thomas Becket—once. And Ranulf.

  He did not like the direction his thoughts had taken. Some roads were better left untraveled. He had jammed the count’s letter into his belt as he left the hall. Now he pulled it out again, wishing he had a fire to thrust it into. On impulse, he drew his dagger and began methodically to slash the parchment into ribbons. He felt faintly foolish; destroying the evidence would change nothing. But he did not stop until the sheepskin was in tatters, letting the scraps fall to the ground at his feet.

  “My lord . . .”

  He’d not heard the light footsteps in the grass, and he spun around at the sound of a soft female voice. Rosamund Clifford stood several feet away, her face blanched in the moonlight, her small fists balled at her sides. It occurred to Henry that she looked frightened and that saddened him. It did not take much to sadden him these days. He laughed suddenly, mirth lessly. God’s Bones, he was as maudlin tonight as any drunken lout deep in his cups and without the excuse of wine, for he was cold sober.

  He saw that his laughter had distressed her still further, for she’d understood that there was no humor in it. She was more perceptive than he would have expected of a convent-reared virgin, the self-serving Clifford’s flesh and blood. “Why are you wandering about in the gardens, Mistress Rosamund? Trying to avoid Hugh?”

  Rosamund blushed; she hadn’t realized that he’d noticed Hugh’s attentions. “I was looking for you, my lord.” She hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, had hoped he might think their meeting was accidental, unplanned. But face to face with him in the moonlight, she found herself too flustered for subtlety. She could only tell the truth, or as much of it as she dared. “I was worried about you, my lord. That letter seemed to trouble you so . . .”

  “This letter I was just ripping into shreds?” Henry at once regretted the sarcasm; why take out his temper on the lass? “You might as well be the first to know. All of Paris is rejoicing; it’s a wonder we cannot hear the church bells pealing across the Channel. The Almighty has finally taken pity upon the French king. On the fourth Sunday of August, his queen gave him a son.”

  He expected that he’d have to explain the political and dynastic significance of that birth. Rosamund did not give him the chance. “I am sorry to hear that,” she said softly. “Sons-by-marriage of a king have influence for certes. But uncles of a future king will wield much more.”

  Henry looked at her in surprise. “So you know Louis’s current queen is of the House of Blois?”

  She nodded shyly. “And I know, too, that her brothers, the Counts of Champagne and Blois, are men who bear you a mortal grudge.”

  She could see that he was pleased she was so knowledgeable and she felt faintly guilty, as if she were flying under false colors. The truth was that he was her abiding interest, not matters of state. In the two years since their encounter in the gardens at Woodstock, she had studied him as a scholar might study holy writ, asking questions when she could, eavesdropping when she could not, learning as much as possible about Henry Fitz Empress.

  She knew that he’d been crowned Duke of Normandy when he was but seventeen, that he’d become king of the English at one and twenty, that he was wed to a legendary beauty, that he could be lenient to rebels but unforgiving of betrayal, that his memory was extraordinary and he was said to have some knowledge of all the tongues spoken “from the coast of France to the River Jordan,” that his energy was boundless and his curiosity all-encompassing, that his anger could scorch hotter than the flames of Hell but to the downtrodden and Christ’s poor, he was unfailingly courteous, that he was unpredictable and passionate and often enigmatic even to those who knew him best, and each time she looked into his eyes, her pulse began to race and her breath quickened.

  “I truly did not expect that Louis would ever be able to get himself a son, not after three wives and four daughters. He came to believe that he’d incurred the Almighty’s displeasure, and I suppose I wanted to believe that, too.” Henry shook his head in disgust at his own shortsightedness. “If we could foretell the future with certainty, what need would we have for prayer?”

  That sounded vaguely blasphemous to Rosamund, but she decided Henry ought not to be judged by the same stringent standards that applied to other men. As King of England, he was the Almighty’s anointed, after all. She was thankful for her questions and her curiosity, for the flickering improbable hope that one day their paths might cross again, as her en deavors now enabled her to comprehend the root of his discontent. He had married his eldest son to Louis’s daughter in the belief that this marriage might one day make his son heir to two thrones. It had been an ambitious dream, but Henry was not one to settle for less if there was a chance he might get more. Louis had two daughters older than little Marguerite, of course, wed to the conniving Counts of Blois and Champagne, and Rosamund did not doubt they’d have made their own claims had Louis died without a son. Just as she did not doubt that Henry would have prevailed. But now it was not to be.

  She struggled to find some morsel of comfort to offer him, at last said hesitantly, “Your son will still be England’s king, my liege. And the lands of the French king are meager indeed when compared with the empire you rule.”

  Henry said nothing; she couldn’t be sure if he’d even heard her. He was frowning into the shadows beyond their moonlit patch of garden, withdrawing back into himself again. Rosamund felt suddenly bereft. Desperate to slow the drift, to keep his attention for a little longer, she found the courage to ask the question that had been haunting her since their arrival that afternoon.

  “My liege . . . have I offended you in some way?”

  Henry was sorry she’d asked that, for there was no honest way to answer her without causing her pain. “Of course not,” he said, hoping she’d be satisfied with his denial.

  Rosamund bit her lip, utterly unconvinced. “Then . . . then why did you look at me like that in the bailey? You were not pleased to see me, my lord, I know you were not. Can you not tell me why?”

  He was quiet for a moment, considering his options and concluding that he had none. “You are right, lass. I was displeased, but not with you. My anger was with your father.”

  “Because he sent for me?” she asked in a small voice, and Henry nodded unwillingly.

  “Rosamund, I do not want to hurt you. None of this is your doing. You did not realize what he had in mind, using you as bait to fish for the king’s favor. At Avreton Castle, he saw that I was drawn to you and he thought to take advantage of it. I should be used to it by now. But you’re his daughter, by God, and he ought to care more for your welfare than his own coffers. By pushing you toward my bed, he might have gained certain advantages today, but what of your tomorrows? What sort of marriage could you make? I’m no saint, have committed my share of sins and I’m likely to commit more. But you’re an innocent . . .”

  Henry paused, hearing again Ranulf’s voice pointing that out to him. The king’s conscience. “I do not want to hurt you,” he repeated, and this time he was not speaking of the injuries inflicted by his candor.

  Rosamund was deeply flushed; even by the moon’s silvered light, he could see the color burning in her cheeks. “You are wrong, my liege.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “I did realize what my father had in mind. I am indeed an innocent, as you say. But I am not a child. Of course I understood. What you do no
t understand is that I was willing. I wanted to come. I wanted to be with you.”

  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 t
o 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.