Alison Weir - Captive Queen

“I have made up my mind,” she declared. “Nothing shall stand in our way. But there must be the strictest secrecy. We must give Louis no clue that we intend to wed until the deed is accomplished.”

“You speak sense, for he would be bound to forbid it,” Henry commended her. “He distrusts me as it is, for my fiefs encircle his royal demesne on most sides. I could be his greatest enemy. The prospect of my acquiring rich Aquitaine too would give him apoplexy!” He paused, frowning. “You do realize that our marrying without his permission, as our overlord, could mean war?”

“I do,” Eleanor said calmly. “Yet which side would have the greater chance of victory? There would be no contest. The kingdom of France is small and weak compared with the might of Aquitaine, Poitou, and Normandy.”

“Might is one thing, right another,” Henry reminded her. “Many will support Louis out of a sense of moral duty. They will argue that we acted with the greatest provocation, not to mention discourtesy. Yet if you are willing to take the risk, my lady, how could I gainsay you?” His eyes were twinkling in anticipation of a fight with Louis.

“Some things are worth fighting for,” Eleanor declared. “I am not afraid.”

“God, I love you,” Henry breathed, and crushed her beneath him once more.

“Go with God,” Eleanor said as, wrapping a cloak over her nudity, she kissed Henry farewell at the door of her chamber in the lightening of the sky before the dawn. “I will send for you as soon as I am free, then I will ride south to my capital at Poitiers. Join me there as soon as you can, if you would be married to me.”

“I will not fail you,” Henry promised. “You may count on me. I live for the day.” Again he raised her hand to his lips.

“I do not know how I shall bear being apart from you,” Eleanor told him.

“It is only for a short time. Think on our three nights of love, and know that I will be thinking of them too, and longing for more.”

After Henry had departed, slipping into the early morning mist in search of his tethered horse, Eleanor huddled her cloak close around her and prayed fervently for a happy outcome.

“Home,” she breathed. “I want to go home. I want this exile to end, to be among my own people, where I am loved. And with Henry FitzEmpress by my side, as Aquitaine’s duke. Together, we will usher in a new golden age. It would be joy beyond what I could ever have wished for. Dear God, hear my prayer! Oh, hear my prayer!”

“I am planning a final assault on England, Father,” Henry announced as he and Geoffrey rode home along the banks of the mighty Loire, a posse of men-at-arms at their heels. It was a blazingly warm day, their clothes sticking to them, and sweat lathered their horses. “I have summoned my good barons of Normandy to a council of war at Angers next week.” He outlined his plans enthusiastically.

“You have done well, my son,” Geoffrey said approvingly. “Your mother will be proud of you.”

They plodded along for a mile or so, discussing the planned offensive, then Geoffrey turned to Henry, his face suddenly grave.

“I trust you have heeded my advice regarding Queen Eleanor,” he said.

“Yes,” Henry said shortly. It was obvious that he was lying.

Geoffrey was silent.

“Nothing good could come of it,” he said at length.

“So you said, Father!” Henry retorted.

Geoffrey was silent. Beneath his hat, in which he sported his customary adornment of a broom flower—the planta genista after which his descendants would one day be named—he was sweating profusely.

“God, it’s hot,” he said, wiping his brow. Henry, perspiring too, gazed ahead across the flat wide plains of the Loire Valley.

“Do you fancy a swim?” he asked. “It would cool us down. The river is shallow at Château-du-Loir, not far from here.”

“I should like that,” said Geoffrey wearily. “And I think our escort will appreciate it too.”

At the appointed place, they dismounted and began stripping off their clothes. The men-at-arms flung themselves full-length beneath the trees to sleep in the shade, or raided their saddlebags for food and drink. One or two disappeared into the trees to relieve themselves. The sun blazed down on the dry grass, where crickets sang in chorus and lizards darted hither and thither.

Naked, Geoffrey and Henry raced to the water’s edge, then plunged into the river, swimming powerfully out into the sluggish current. Laughing, they splashed each other vigorously, then wrestled in the rippling water. Henry was surprised to find his father’s muscles iron-hard—not bad for an old man of thirty-eight, he thought. He had also glimpsed Geoffrey’s impressive manhood, and wondered seriously for the first time if his father had indeed been speaking the truth about knowing Eleanor carnally, and if he had, whether he had satisfied her as well as he himself had done.

Their horseplay abandoned, they swam a couple of widths of the river, then dragged themselves onto the shore, where they sat awhile in the heat, drying off, before donning their clothes.

“We will need to find a place to spend the night,” Geoffrey said. “I should send the scouts ahead. My castle of Le Lude is at Sarthe, not far off. Let us make for there.”

Comfortably accommodated in the fortress, and after bestirring the castellan and his staff to action, Geoffrey called for a meal, then sat down at the board with Henry and their entourage to enjoy it. Lifting a silver goblet of sweet Anjou wine, he toasted the success of Henry’s planned assault on England.

“I cannot fail,” Henry assured him expansively. The wine had made him bold and overconfident. He noticed his father looked flushed, but attributed it to the heat, although it was cooler in the stone fastness of the castle. Then Geoffrey waved away the plump roasted fowl, saying that he seemed to have little appetite for food in this weather. A little later, Henry, wolfing down the last of his own dinner, felt the first stirring of concern as the count rejected a proffered bowl of fruit, then suddenly gripped the edge of the table, shuddering.

“Are you ill, Father?” he asked anxiously. To his knowledge, Geoffrey had never known a day’s sickness in his life.

“A touch of fever, my son. It is nothing.” He sounded breathless.

Henry placed his callused palm on Geoffrey’s brow. It was burning.

“I knew I should not have gone swimming in the heat,” his father said, attempting a smile. “I must have caught a chill. It has come on suddenly.”

“You should go to bed, sire,” Henry advised.

“I will,” Geoffrey agreed, but when he tried to get to his feet, he had not the strength, and slumped heavily against the table. Henry jumped up, in unison with four men-at-arms, and together they manhandled the sick man up the stone spiral staircase to the bedchamber above, where they laid him heavily on the fur coverlet spread across the wooden bed. By now he was shivering violently, his body hot to the touch, his hands icy.

“He were a fool to go swimming in that river,” one soldier commented. Henry glared at him.

“Strip him,” he commanded.

“Are you bloody mad?” the soldier asked him. “He should be wrapped up warm.”

“He’s warm enough. He needs to cool down,” Henry insisted. “Get his clothes off.” Begrudgingly, the men complied, leaving Geoffrey wearing only his braies for modesty’s sake.

“Now, fetch a basin of water and cloths.” The men departed, muttering that their young lord had gone daft and would be the death of the count, but they complied with his orders nonetheless.

Sponging down Geoffrey’s burning body, a task he took readily upon himself, for he loved his father, Henry willed him to get better.