Alison Weir - Captive Queen

“Which is precisely why he won’t let Eleanor go,” Geoffrey reminded him. “Why should he effectively hand those rich domains to a vassal? If he divorces her, there’ll be a stampede for her hand, which is why he’s stalling. God, Henry, you can be stubborn. Just leave it alone. No good can come of it.”

“I don’t call gaining half of France no good,” his son riposted.

“Then think of your immortal soul, you young fool.”

“Oh, I do think of it always, I assure you, Father,” Henry lied.

Henry closed the door and stood regarding Eleanor in the flickering light of the candles. He was wearing the same plain hunting clothes he had worn for the investiture. In contrast, she had donned a thin loose robe of finest white samite, pinned on earrings of precious stones, and had her maids brush her long hair until it shone like bright molten fire. She found herself reveling in the power she could wield over Henry with her beauty and her body. She was headily aware of the diaphanous quality of her robe, the prominence of her erect nipples, and his obvious pleasure at what he was avidly devouring with his eyes.

He moved quickly toward her, throwing his belt aside and ripping off his tunic as he strode across the floor. His chest was broad, lightly covered with brown hair, darker than that on his head, and his arms and shoulders rippled with muscle. Eleanor could not stop herself. With a muted cry she went to him, herself pulling down his braies to reveal his engorged penis. She was cherishing it in both hands when Henry’s strong arms folded around her, crushing her against him as he pressed urgent lips to her forehead and then sought her mouth. His fingers, rough with calluses from riding, were tugging at the embroidered neckline of her robe, pulling it down around her hips, then grasping her upper arms to hold her away from him as he stared at her full breasts. Then he bent and released the robe, which fluttered to the floor around her ankles, leaving her standing there naked before him.

Lifting her up, he carried her to the waiting bed and lay down with her on the silk sheets and bolsters, his hands everywhere, caressing her until she thought she would die of the pleasure. She gave like-for-like in return, teasing and exciting him with her fingers and tongue until he could bear it no more and swiftly mounted her, thrusting deeper inside her than any lover before him, and flooding her with his desire, shouting his triumph. Afterward, Eleanor eagerly took his hand and guided his fingers to her clitoris, not needing to show him what to do next, for he clearly knew. Her climax, when it came, was shattering, for Henry, hard again, entered her once more at the moment of culmination. She had not believed such ecstasy possible.

It was hours before they slept. Eleanor had never before had such a vigorous and enthusiastic lover, and she quickly discovered in herself an undreamed of capacity for pleasure in places she had barely known existed. Then came sleep, quiet and restful, and in the dawn, when she awakened, Henry’s arms about her once more and his manhood insistent against her thigh.

Later, lying close to him in the afterglow of lovemaking, getting to know each other better, she knew she could never relinquish him.

Henry’s gray eyes, heavy-lidded with fulfillment, were gazing into hers. His full lips twitched into a smile.

“I think,” he murmured, “that I have never felt like this with a woman before.” His fingers, surprisingly gentle, traced her cheek. His dynamism, even after his passion had been spent, excited her.

“I feel wonderful,” she told him, her eyes holding his. “Tell me this is more than just lust.”

“I cannot deny it.” He grinned. “In truth, you are magnificent.” He stretched out his hand and smoothed it slowly along the length of her body. “But I want you for more than this. I want to know you, all of you. I want your mind as well as your body. I want your soul.”

“From the moment I saw you, I felt—nay, I knew—that we were destined for each other,” Eleanor ventured. “Does that sound extravagant?”

“No,” Henry replied. “I feel the same, and it is a delight to me that we are equal in our passion.”

It had to be destiny, Eleanor was certain. She was filled with a sense of it, and of elation. God had led this man to cross her path, this man who had the power to satisfy not only her body but also her ambition. She had known, in the moment they had joined as one, that their coming together would have far-reaching consequences, and with a sudden flash of perfect clarity, she could see what those consequences would be. She would leave Louis and break their marriage. She would go back south to Aquitaine and reclaim it as her own. Then she would give it, with herself, as a gift to Henry. Together, with her lands joined to his coming inheritance, they could build an empire such as Christendom had never seen, and Aquitaine would become a great power in the world. And with Henry’s backing, she would quell her turbulent lords and rule it wisely and well.

“Henry FitzEmpress,” she said, looking into those fathomless eyes, “I want to be your wife.”

“And I, my lady, want to be your husband,” he replied ardently, kissing her again. “I know, for many speak of it, that you have doubts about your marriage, doubts shared even by the saintly Bernard. But what of Louis? Will he let you go?”

“I will talk to him,” Eleanor whispered, nuzzling his ear. “This time he must listen.”

“You’re not going to tell him about us?” Henry asked, alarmed.

“Of course not,” she said. “I am not a fool, my heart. Do you think he would relinquish me, knowing I wanted to marry you?”

“No, I am the fool! My father often says it.”

Eleanor giggled and began lightly stroking his hairy thigh.

“It makes sense, us marrying,” she said. “I have long wanted my freedom, but how long would I keep it? I would be beset by fortune hunters. I could not wed just any man. But you would be my powerful protector, and I know without doubt that you would safeguard my inheritance, and help me to rule it well.”

Henry looked long and hard at her.

“It did occur to me you would think I had pursued you only for your inheritance. I think you know now that there is a little more to it than that.” He stretched luxuriously, toying with her nipples. “Even if you were dowerless, I would want you for my wife. I mean that, Eleanor. By the eyes of God!”

“I believe you,” she answered teasingly, “although I should hope that God has averted His eyes for the moment! Yet it has not escaped my notice that the men, money, and resources that my domains could offer you would be of enormous help in gaining you England!”

Henry laughed. “So you know about my ambitions in that direction. Of course, it is no secret.”

“And,” Eleanor went on, “I am aware too that marrying me would make you the greatest and richest prince in the whole world.”

“Now, why didn’t I think of that?” Henry countered. “Suddenly, you are infinitely more desirable!” He began kissing her, playfully at first, then with a more serious purpose.

“Wait,” Eleanor said, holding him off. “Shall we make a promise to marry?”

He became still and regarded her solemnly. “We shall. I, Henry FitzEmpress, take thee, Eleanor of Aquitaine, as my future wedded wife.”

Eleanor sat up in the bed, her long hair tumbling over her breasts.

“And I, Eleanor, do promise myself to thee, Henry, forever and ever, Amen.” She beamed at him with such radiance that he caught his breath. “Now it is decided. We will make it come about. You can leave Louis to me.”

“I shall have to. We depart for Anjou tomorrow. You will not fail me, my Eleanor, I know that.” Henry took her hand and kissed it. She had intuitively guessed that, plain man as he was, he made such courtly gestures but rarely, and she prized it all the more for that.