Текст книги "Captive Queen"

Автор книги: Элисон Уир

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After Henry finally let her return to their pavilion, when the choking dust became too much to bear, she just wanted to flee as far from Limoges as possible, or crawl into a hole like a badger, for she keenly felt her citizens’ grief and anger, and the conviction that, in failing to save their walls, she had betrayed them. She burned with fury against Henry, and even more so when they met for dinner later and he made no reference to the events of the day and was his usual genial self. In bed he was once again the ardent lover, by turns demanding and tender, and Eleanor almost managed to persuade herself that all was well, but found it hard to respond because she was deeply preoccupied with concern about what her people now thought of her.

She could not stop brooding. It seemed to her that this marriage that she had defied the world to make had become, in its own way, as much a form of captivity as her union with Louis had been in another. This was not the partnership she had planned for, but a vile endurance, she told herself angrily. She had been duped, no doubt of it. Henry’s passion had driven her sense of power, but now she saw that it had all been an illusion. Yes, they’d had mutual aims, and he had been happy to consult and defer to her, but only when it suited him. The reality was, he had the mastery of her, by all the laws of God and man—and was determined to assert it, even if it meant riding roughshod over her feelings and sensibilities. She seethed at her own helplessness, chafing against the invisible chains that bound her.

There were, of course, no cheers as they rode away from the destruction that was now Limoges, but the rest of the progress passed without incident, and Henry cheered up considerably when the people of Gascony showed themselves more than willing to be recruited for his English offensive, and ready to provide him with ships and supplies. He put it down to word of his strong and uncompromising rule going before him. In the future, these godforsaken southerners would think twice about defying him! Small wonder they were groveling.

At last they came to the Talmont, that pretty village nestling above the Gironde estuary on a promontory of high white cliffs. Here, Eleanor’s family had built a hunting lodge, a place much beloved by her. Yet even here her subjects’ antipathy toward Henry was palpable. She cringed when, on the first day they arrived at the mews, her falconers took no pains to hide their dislike, and kept Henry waiting an unconscionable time in his saddle for a bird; and when it was brought to him, he was not pleased to find that it was a lowly sparrowhawk—a bird deemed suitable only for priests or women—instead of the royal gyrfalcon he had been expecting, and which was his right. She, on the other hand, had a most noble hawk perching on her glove. It had been horribly embarrassing, because for all the servile excuses that no suitable falcon was available, quite clearly the slight had been deliberate.

She said nothing. Secretly, she was gratified to see Henry so discomfited. Let him reap what he had sown!

On the surface, however, they were existing in a tacit state of truce. The weather was still good, despite the lateness of the year, and they rode out hawking daily, admired the spectacular views from the cliffs, went to mass in the squat stone church of St. Radegonde, and enjoyed each other’s bodies every night. And gradually, unwillingly, Eleanor found herself succumbing again to her husband’s charm and dynamism.

“I could live here quite happily,” Henry said, stretching, as they lay abed one sunny morning.

“It is beautiful in summer,” she told him, her tone still a little clipped and formal, for resentment was yet festering in her. “There are hollyhocks everywhere.”

“Then we will come back next year,” he promised. His eyes sought hers.

“You are still angry with me about Limoges,” he said.

“You had your way. There is nothing more to say.” Eleanor shrugged, her eyes veiled.

“But you are holding aloof from me,” Henry complained. “I fuck you every night, and in the mornings too, but I can’t reach you.”

“What did you expect?” she asked. “You have no cause to find fault with me. I played the part of submissive wife to perfection, at the risk of alienating my subjects. I allow you the use of my body whenever you want it. I am with you in bed and at board. Many couples rub along with less.”

“But we had so much more!” Henry flared.

“We did,”Eleanor agreed vehemently. “It was you who decided to play the aggressive husband, you who set at naught my hopes for a partnership of equals. I am a captive in this marriage!”

“So I’m being punished,” he retorted.

“No, that is how things are now.” Eleanor made to rise from the bed, but Henry caught her wrist.

“I love you, you know,” he said urgently.

Tears welled in her eyes.

“I love you,”he said again, staring at her.

Slowly, she came into his arms, her body racked with uncontrollable sobs, and clung to him.

“There now,” Henry soothed. “Now you are mine again. By the eyes of God, I will make things right between us!” As he fell to kissing her hungrily, Eleanor allowed herself to relax a little. Could things really be once more as they had been before Limoges? She had thought not, but now saw that she must stop nurturing this resentment, and give her feelings for Henry a chance to flower again. As they were flowering now, God be thanked—or cursed, was it?—under the onslaught of his caresses …

Returning to Poitiers in December, Eleanor’s heart was heavy. Henry was bound for England at last, and impatient to be gone.

“I should make haste,” he told her. “I must stop at Rouen on the way to visit my Lady Mother the Empress. It’s the least I can do, since she’s been so generous with funds for this venture. And I want to consult her about my invasion plans.”

Eleanor fumed inwardly. He could rarely be pressed to discuss them with his wife, and still made no secret of his opinion that women should not interfere in politics. But clearly he was willing to make an exception for his mother.

As if reading her thoughts, Henry said, “She is to govern Normandy while I am abroad—there is much to talk over with her. And she knows England well—and King Stephen.”

“By all accounts she knew him very well!” Eleanor said tartly.

“Don’t believe those old tales,” Henry said lightly. “But he did have a chivalrous regard for her, despite their being enemies.”

“I wonder at your naivety!” Eleanor grimaced. He threw her a filthy look.

“Remember it’s my Lady Mother of whom you are speaking,” he reminded her. “Although I wouldn’t have put it past her! She’d have eaten him for breakfast, poor weakling that he is.”

“I should like to meet her,” Eleanor said, not meaning it.

“You will, one day,” Henry told her. His disinterested tone betrayed no awareness of any possible grounds for antipathy between his mother and his wife. Eleanor wondered if he knew about her own affair with his father. He had never mentioned it, and neither would she, ever.

Henry’s quick, restless mind had moved on.

“I’m leaving Anjou and Aquitaine in your hands,” he said. “I know you will rule them both well.” Eleanor was surprised and touched, and felt not a little guilty for having jumped to unfair conclusions about him; for not only was he trusting her to look after her duchy in his absence, but also his own county of Anjou, the domain of his forefathers. He was trying to make amends, she suspected.

She smiled at him at last, her eyes brilliant.

“I will not fail you, my lord,” she promised.

In the early hours of the morning, Eleanor awoke. It was still warm in the bedchamber, for two braziers had been left burning. In their flickering red glow she could see Henry lying naked on his stomach beside her, the sheet tangled around his legs. He was watching her drowsily, a rare gentleness in his eyes.

“You’re awake,” she whispered.

“How can a man sleep with you lying next to him?” He chuckled, feasting his eyes on her full breasts and her long limbs stretched luxuriously before him. “There is no one like you, Eleanor. There never has been, and I doubt there ever will be.”

“So there were others before me?” she teased, really wanting to know. Henry had never spoken of any previous encounters with women, although she had heard rumors.

“Legions!” he grinned. Eleanor made to thump him with her pillow, but he stayed her hand. “I am a man, with a man’s needs. Of course there were others. But believe me when I say that none compared to you. They meant nothing.”

She believed him, yet still felt a pang of jealousy.

Henry was regarding her closely. “Now you tell me,” he said, “what happened in Antioch?”

Eleanor was startled. “What have you heard about that?” she asked warily, feeling herself flush.

“That you cuckolded Louis with Raymond, the Prince of Antioch, your own uncle, for Christ’s sake, and were bundled out of the city in shame.” Henry’s gimlet gaze was fixed on her face. “Is it true?”

“Yes, it is true,” Eleanor admitted. “You know how barren of love my marriage to Louis was. Like you, I took my pleasure where I found it—but I paid for it dearly. Louis barely spoke to me for a whole year.”

“And did you take your pleasure with anyone else?” Henry demanded to know. He was no longer bantering with her.

“Yes, twice, and that only briefly,” Eleanor replied in a low voice.

“With my father?” he asked, his expression unreadable.

“You knew?” She was shocked.

“He told me before he died. He begged me not to marry you.”

“But you defied him—and, knowing that, you did marry me.” Eleanor was incredulous.

“Of course.” Henry pulled her toward him. “That’s how much I wanted you. For you, I have defied my own father, the King of France and the Church itself!”

“The Church?” Eleanor echoed.

“Yes, my ignorant lady. Don’t you realize that your coupling with my father places us within the forbidden degrees of consanguinity, closer than you ever were to Louis?”

“I was not married to Geoffrey,” Eleanor said.

“That’s immaterial. Our marriage is forbidden—or it would be if the Church had known what you’d been up to.”

Eleanor felt a shiver of fear; it was as if the carefully constructed edifice of her world had been rocked. She saw that by her rash actions she had put at risk everything she now held dear. A tremor coursed through her. Henry felt it and tightened his arms about her.

“Fear not,” he soothed. “I won’t betray our little secret, if you won’t.”

“But what of the legality of our marriage?” Eleanor asked, shocked, seeing the foundations of their glorious future, the empire they were building, rocking and then crumbling …

“I care not a fig for that.” He grinned. “We Angevins came from the Devil, remember? Why should I bother myself about a trifle like that? No one knows, so no one can question it. Should it really matter to us?”

“No,” she said after a pause. “It matters not one whit.”

“What does matter,” Henry said purposefully, “is this …” He pulled her on top of him and thrust himself up inside her, fully aroused. “I swear to you, Eleanor, that no Pope or bishop will part us. You are mine forever, mine … oh, God!”

Afterward, sated, he lay with her in his arms.

“Who was the other man?” he asked.

“The other man?” Eleanor, relaxed and contented, had no idea what he was talking about.

“You said you took your pleasure with two men besides Raymond of Antioch.”

“This sounds like an inquisition,” she said, only half joking.

“It is,” Henry said. “I need to know. You are my wife and, God willing, will be the mother of my sons.”

“And if I tell you, will you also tell me about the women with whom you have slept?” she challenged him.

He snorted. “I’ve forgotten most of them. They were just casual encounters. One was called Joanna, another Elgiva … Oh, and perhaps I should mention Hersinde, Maud, Lucy, Ghislaine, Marie …” He was laughing.

“Stop!” Eleanor cried. “You’re making those names up!”

“Well, I really can’t remember them all,” Henry said ruefully, playing with her hair. “And talking to them wasn’t really called for!”

“You’re impossible,” Eleanor told him.

He raised himself up on one elbow to look into her face. “There, I’ve told you what you wanted to know. Now you keep your part of the bargain.”

“Very well,” Eleanor said. “It was a brief affair with a troubadour called Marcabru.”

“A troubadour?” Henry echoed, surprised, and not a little jolted. “A lowborn varlet? You might have looked higher than that!”

“You forget, I had looked higher,” Eleanor shot back. “I was married to the King of France, no less, and much satisfaction I got from him!” She snapped her fingers. “Marcabru showed me how to make love, and for that I will always be grateful—and so should you, for you benefit from it.”

“Did Louis ever find out?”

“He knew that Marcabru had written verses to me. He considered them overfamiliar and banished him. He assumed I shared his outrage, and I did not disabuse him of that notion—in fact, I played along with it.”

“You lied to him?” Henry asked uneasily.

“I had no cause—he never asked if I had been unfaithful. It would never have occurred to him that I would actually permit a troubadour to make love to me. You princes of the North are all alike in dismissing troubadours as being of little account, but may I remind you, Henry, that in Aquitaine they are accorded a proper respect for their talents.”

“This one certainly seems to have had talents beyond the ordinary,” Henry threw at her, not quite reassured. “What was he like as a poet?”

“Terrible!” Eleanor replied, and suddenly they were both heaving with laughter, and the awkward moment had passed.

“I will recite you some really good troubadour poems,” she said later, when they had calmed down and were once more lying peacefully against each other. “It would be fitting to speak of love on this precious night.” And she began telling him about her celebrated grandfather, the talented Duke William the Ninth.

“They call him the first of the troubadours,” she said, “and indeed, he did have a wondrous way with words. Some of his works are very bawdy, some very moving. I particularly like the one in which he says, ‘All the joy of the world is ours, if you and I were to love one another.’ And elsewhere, ‘Without you I cannot live, so thirsty am I for your love.’”

“He could have written those lines for us, that good duke,” Henry observed, his callused fingers caressing her bare arm. He bent forward and kissed her. “What of his bawdy lyrics? I should like to hear some of them!”

“He was always chasing women in his verse, to one purpose of course, and he wrote that he usually ended up with his hands inside their cloaks.” Henry guffawed, as Eleanor went on: “He wrote of women as horses to be mounted, yet at the same time he believed that they should be free to bestow their love freely, and not be forced into marriage.”

“That’s all very well for the lower orders,” Henry opined, “but I can’t imagine my barons approving of it! We cannot have our highborn ladies sleeping with whom they please—no man could be certain that his heir was his own!”

“Yet you yourself did not object when I bestowed my love freely upon you?” Eleanor reminded him archly. “I do not recall my holding out for marriage.”

“Weare not ordinary mortals,” Henry told her, only half joking. “We can defy custom and tradition, and break all the rules. We’ve proved that already, haven’t we?” His lips were again on hers, his tongue inside her mouth. For the third time, they gave themselves up to the sweet pleasures of love, knowing it would be long before they tasted them again.

9

Angers and Poitiers, 1153

Eleanor was at Angers, Henry’s capital of Anjou, when she discovered that she was to have a child, conceived on that glorious night. She regarded her pregnancy as proof that God looked with favor upon her irregular marriage, and bore the discomforts of morning sickness and fatigue with triumphant fortitude.

Her heart still ached for those dear little girls she had left behind in Paris. It pained her to think there was barely the remotest chance of her seeing them now, for Louis must surely still hate her for marrying Henry, his enemy, behind his back. Yet she consoled herself with the knowledge that this new baby would compensate in some way for the loss of her daughters, and promised herself that never again would she allow any child of hers to be denied a close bond with its mother.

She missed Henry appallingly. Despite the strange changes that pregnancy wrought, she wanted him, needed him. At night her longing for his caresses and his body inside hers was so acute that she had to bite on the sheet to stifle her unwitting moans. Yet the news from England was good. He had landed safely and been rapturously received. Sermons were preached, proclaiming: “Behold, the ruler cometh, and the kingdom is in his hand.” It was all stirring tidings that portended well.

His objective was to march on a place called Wallingford, where his supporters were under siege in the castle, and relieve them and as he made his jubilant progress toward that place, town after town fell to him. All this Eleanor learned joyfully from the messengers Henry sent to her fairly regularly. They told her he had been jubilant at the news that she was carrying his child and exhorted her to take good care of herself. Eleanor smiled at his thoughtfulness. She was strong and healthy, she had borne her previous children with ease, and she bade the messengers to tell Henry so.

After the tedious and tiring early weeks, she bloomed. Her skin was soft as a blossom, her hair silky and lustrous, her breasts full. Thus did an ambitious young troubadour, Bernard de Ventadour, behold her when he presented himself at her court, looking for patronage.

“Madame the Duchess,” he declared, bowing elaborately low, “your fame is without parallel. I have made so bold as to come here in the hope that you will not turn away one of your subjects who would entertain you with his humble lays and verses.”

Eleanor warmed to his florid praise. She saw that he was a young man to whom a happy combination of wavy chestnut locks, green eyes, and chiseled features lent exquisite manly beauty. Were she not so contented with her lord, she thought to herself, she might well have had seduction on her mind at this moment.

“Messire Bernard, tell us about yourself,” she invited, waving a languid hand to encompass the watching courtiers.

The young man’s eyes were mellow. He was looking at her with open admiration. “Madame, my fortune is in my songs, not my birth. I am merely the son of a kitchen maid in the household of the Viscount of Ventadour in the Limousin.”

“I know the viscount.” Eleanor smiled. “He and his family have long been patrons of troubadours like yourself.”

“Indeed, madame,” Bernard agreed, looking at her a touch shiftily, she thought. “He was kind enough to say that I had talent, and to tutor me himself in writing poetry and lyrics.”

“Then you are much indebted to him,” Eleanor observed, to a murmur of assent from the company. Again, there was that fleeting shifty look on the young troubadour’s face. “But tell me, messire, why have you left his castle? Is it just to seek greater fame in the wider world?”

“Yes,” Bernard de Ventadour said, not now meeting her gaze. She knew he was lying. No matter, it was no concern of hers, although she was curious as to why he had left such a kind lord’s service.

He was looking at her again, his green eyes eager.

“Well, let us hear how talented you are,” Eleanor said. “Play for us.”

The troubadour produced his stringed vielle and sang an amusing sirvente, a satire on gluttonous monks, which prompted much mirth among Eleanor and her courtiers.

Clapping, Eleanor asked, “Do you know any songs of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere?”

“Alas, my lady, I do not, although I have read the tales of Geoffrey of Monmouth. I do know some lines from the ancient poet Ovid that might please you. They come from his work, Ars Amatoria—The Art of Love.”His eyes twinkled mischievously. “Mayhap you would not understand how bold they are …”

“I know my Latin,” Eleanor reproved him gently. “But play, please. We would all like to hear your naughty song!”

The troubadour, blushing, laid down his vielle and took a cithara from his pack. He began strumming an introduction, then with a smile sang in his rich voice: First then believe, all women may be won;

Attempt with confidence, the work is done!

The grasshopper shall first forbear to sing

In summer season, or the birds in spring,

Than woman can resist your flattering skill:

Even she will yield, who swears she never will!

This is the sex: they will not first begin,

But when compelled, are pleased to suffer sin.

Ask, that thou may enjoy; she waits for this,

And on thy first advance depends thy bliss.

Bernard looked directly at Eleanor as he sang those last words, his meaning unmistakable. She returned his gaze reprovingly.

“You are bold, messire!”

“You did not like Ovid’s poem, madame?”

“I did.” She knew he was flirting with her in the accepted courtly manner: such games had become customary in this land of troubadours. It was all quite harmless, of course—or was supposed to be. A lowly squire or poet might pay his ardent addresses to the highborn lady of his choice, and she could accept—and even encourage—his adoration without tarnishing her reputation, but it rarely went further than that.

In Paris, when Eleanor had tried to introduce these conceits, Louis and his clerics were shocked: they had condemned this game of courtly love as merely an excuse for committing adultery. But in Aquitaine, as Eleanor knew well, for she had grown up in the relaxed culture of the South, it was regarded as merely a sophisticated and enjoyable pastime. She thought nothing of accepting the homage and flattery of the troubadours and young men who frequented her court, for everyone understood it was all part of an elaborate and exciting game.

Eleanor’s ladies were asking for more.

“I like this Master Ovid!” declared frivolous Faydide de Toulouse.

“I have heard he is much disapproved of by some,” said beautiful Torqueri de Bouillon.

Mamille de Roucy, plump as a partridge, giggled. “That makes him all the more interesting!”

“Well, Messire Bernard, can you sing some more of Ovid’s verse?” Eleanor asked.

“With pleasure, madame,” he replied warmly, and took up his cithara again. There was a wicked glint in his eyes as he sang: In Love’s rite

Should man and woman equally delight.

I hate a union that exhausts not both!

I like to hear a voice of rapture shrill

That bids me linger and prolongs the thrill;

Love’s climax never should be rushed, I say,

But worked up softly, lingering all the way!

He was looking at Eleanor again as his voice died and his strumming ceased. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks at his lewd song, which conjured up so vividly the wild, erotic nights when she had lain with Henry. Striving to control the rising ache in her loins, she joined in the applause with her ladies, all of whom were pink with excitement.

“That is a very lewd song, messire,” she reproved, but her eyes were kind. “I think, however, that we have all enjoyed it. You shall play for us again soon.”

And he did. Suddenly, he was always there, in the dining hall, or the great chamber, or the gardens, watching her, begging permission to play for her, singing his songs of lust and dalliance. She sensed there was more to his devotion than courtly convention.

“I have written a song for you, madame,” he announced one day, coming upon her seated under a magnolia tree, abandoned by her ladies, who were a little way off, gathering early April flowers. “Shall you hear it?”

“I am listening,” Eleanor told him. She was gentle with him, knowing that he could hope for nothing more from her. His voice was strong and ardent: When the sweet breeze

Blows hither from your dwelling,

Methinks I feel

A breath of Paradise!

When he finished, he was visibly shaking. Eleanor took pity on him.

“No one has ever written a song like that for me,” she told him.

“Your beauty has inspired me, madame,” Bernard said fervently. “You are gracious, lovely—the embodiment of all charm! With your lovely eyes and noble countenance, you are fit to crown the state of any king! Yet alas, it is I, a humble troubadour, who loves you.”

“You know you may not aspire to me,” Eleanor chided him sweetly. It was the correct, the only, response.

“Say I may hope, madame, I beg of you,” Bernard pleaded. “Or if you will not extend to me such kindness, then give me leave to sing your praises in my verse. I swear I will not reveal the object of my adoration.” As if, she thought, suppressing a smile, it was not obvious to anyone with eyes in their head.

“Why, of course, messire,” she said aloud, giving him her hand to kiss to show that he was dismissed. He pressed his lips to it joyfully.

After that the court was regaled with song after song dedicated—without her name being mentioned—to the duchess. Only a fool would have failed to realize for whom they were meant. Eleanor found such flattery irresistible. It was balm to her lonely heart to hear herself described as noble and sweet, faithful and loyal, gracious and lovely. She only wished that Henry were with her to hear it. No, she just wished Henry were with her. All she craved was his presence. But since she could not have that, there was no harm in enjoying this pleasurable little diversion and the homage of her adoring troubadour.

“When you look at me with your eyes full of fire and eloquence, I feel the kind of joy one only experiences at Christmas or other great festivals,” Bernard effused to her, after she had graciously permitted him to walk with her on the massive castle ramparts that overlooked the River Maine, keeping her damsels at a discreet distance, yet within earshot. The wind was chilly and whipping her veil in every direction, but she had gathered her heavy mantle about her and stepped out briskly, enjoying the invigorating air. Walking, she had been told, was good for her condition.

“What have I done to deserve such devotion?” she teased.

Bernard looked at her with reproach. “You exist, divine lady! You have been the first among my joys, and you shall be the last, so long as there is life in me.”

“Then what of Alaiz, the wife of the Viscount of Ventadour?” Eleanor teased him. At his stricken look, she smiled. “I am well informed, as you see!” In fact, she’d had inquiries made at Ventadour.

The young man continued to look crestfallen. “It was a passing fancy, no more, madame, I swear it …”

“You seduced her!” she accused him, still smiling. “Do not deny it! It was serious enough for the viscount to throw you out of his house and lock up his wife, whom he has now repudiated.” She frowned.

“Do not condemn me, I beg of you, my dear lady,” Bernard pleaded. “I was young and foolish—and she was not worth the trouble. I see that clearly now that I have beheld your face. I swear by all that is holy that I never loved her as I love you, and that from now on I will be true to you, fair queen of my heart.”

Eleanor shot him a look of disdain and strode on. He hastened to keep up with her.

“I swear it!” he cried.

She relented. “Very well, we will speak no more of it.”

Bernard was on his knees, kissing the hem of her mantle. “Of all women, you are the most kind and beautiful, madame, and I would not trade your charms for even the wealthy city of Paris!”

“I should hope not,” she chided, “for beauty, although it lies only in the eyes of the beholder, is surely priceless! Now please get up. You are making a spectacle of us both!”

They were almost at the tower door that led to the royal lodgings.

“Accept this, madame, with my devotion,” Bernard said breathlessly, thrusting a scroll into Eleanor’s hands.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Poems I have written for you,” he breathed. “Read them, please, for they contain secret messages that only you will understand.”

Later, when she read them, she found them to be no more than further outpourings of his devotion. He declared that Tristan had never suffered such woe for the fair Yseult as he, Bernard, now suffered for his chosen lady. Eleanor smiled when she read that in her presence he was so overcome by love, his wits fled and he had no more sense than a child. “All I write and sing,” he vowed, “is meant for your delight.” Poor man, she thought: he can never have what he craves. Yet it is fortunate that the rules of the game permit no mention of husbands, for I cannot be cruel and tell him that all I see is my Henry.

“God Himself has appeared to be fighting for me,” Henry had sent to tell her. He was before Wallingford at last, ready to confront the forces of King Stephen. “But the bishops and barons are urging us to negotiate; many are of the opinion that Stephen should acknowledge me as his heir.”

“And will he, think you?” Eleanor asked the messenger.

“He might, left to himself, lady,” the man replied, “but the Lord Eustace, his son, is determined to stand up for his rights, so there may yet be bloodshed.”

Eleanor shivered. “Pray God there will not,” she said sharply. She could not bear the thought of anything happening to Henry, not just for her own sake (although the Lord knew that would be bad enough), but also for the sake of the kingdom that was nearly—but not quite—within his grasp.

It was high summer, glorious August, with the golden countryside basking in the hot, unforgiving rays of the sun. She had returned to Poitiers, her capital, to give birth to her heir—and Henry’s. The babe had long since quickened in her womb, and she was heavy and listless, longing for her ordeal to be over.

Her son was born with very little trouble that month, on the very day—as she later learned—that Eustace died suddenly from food poisoning. Both events, she had no doubt, demonstrated God’s approval of Henry’s cause. The child was strong and lusty, with a shock of black hair, and he would be a king’s son before long, for it was now only a matter of time before the grieving and war-weary Stephen ceded victory to Henry FitzEmpress.