The Summer Queen

38

Angers, August 1151

Henry, Duke of Normandy, was enjoying himself. The young woman straddling his thighs was a beauty with thick ash-brown hair, wide grey eyes and a full, cushion-soft mouth capable of rendering the most exquisite pleasure. Being eighteen years old, Henry’s enthusiasm and capability had remained firm over several sessions of love-sport, begun the previous evening when he had retired to bed with Aelburgh, a flagon of wine and a platter of honey-drizzled pastries.

‘I am going to miss you,’ he panted as she rode him. He admired the jiggle of her breasts and felt the twinges of crisis as she rose and dipped.

‘Then take me with you, sire.’ She leaned over him to nip his shoulder. ‘I would keep you warm on your journey.’

Henry briefly entertained the notion. He had been going to bring her with him on battle campaign. He appreciated the comforts she could provide and Aelburgh was not one to complain about life on the road; she would be no trouble. Regretfully he set the notion aside. His father would not be best pleased. ‘No, sweetheart,’ he gasped. ‘Much as I would enjoy having you in Paris, it would not be seemly.’

‘Hah, I did not realise you cared for what is seemly and what is not.’

‘I care when necessary. My father and I have some delicate negotiations with the King of France. There are things we want from him, and it behoves us to be perfect courtiers. What I need from you is a … fond farewell.’

She tossed her head and laughed. ‘Then I will drain you dry, my lord. When I am finished, you will not desire a woman for a full month!’

Henry doubted it, but let her continue anyway.

As the morning sun climbed out of the dawn, Henry dismissed Aelburgh with a slap on the buttocks and a pouch of silver sufficient to keep her during his absence. He felt full of wellbeing but by no means exhausted. It took more than a few sessions of enthusiastic bed-romping to wear out his vivid, vigorous energy. He needed very little sleep; when awake his mind was always busy on several tasks at once and his overflowing energy would cause him to stride about the room and fidget. Remaining still in church was the most difficult routine duty of his life. He considered that God intended him to be a king and a duke and would excuse him time spent in prayer. That was what monks and priests were for.

Henry went to look out of the window as he donned a tunic of red wool, somewhat frizzy around the cuffs where he had been playing tug of war with one of the dogs. Henry knew the value of dressing for formal occasions, but for every day he liked the old and the comfortable. It was the man inside the clothes that mattered, and how he used his power. His father disagreed with that stance, but then his father used clothing as part of his magnificence.

The courtyard was busy with activity as servants made ready for the journey to Paris on the morrow. There were horses to be shod, harnesses to be polished and equipment to be checked so that when they did set out, all would be smooth and brisk without delays. King Louis had pulled back from his intention to strike at Rouen and called for talks instead. He had claimed ill health, but in politics, unless you were face to face with someone, it was never possible to tell whether the claim was the reality or an excuse.

Whistling, Henry fastened his belt at his hips, combed his thick red-gold hair into a semblance of order, and went to find his father.

Geoffrey was in his own chamber with his bed curtains hooked out of the way and the bed itself made up with its day covers. His attendants and courtiers were already hard at work, his scribes toiling over sheaves of documents. Geoffrey sat at a trestle, his foot elevated on a padded stool. He was looking thoughtfully at a document in his hands.

‘Ah,’ he said as Henry breezed into the room. ‘The sluggard arrives.’

Henry poured a cup of wine and took a small loaf from the basket on the table. ‘I’ve been awake awhile,’ he said with a knowing grin.

His father raised his eyebrows. ‘Indeed? Let us hope you put your early rising to good use.’

A moment of humour glimmered between father and son, although Geoffrey’s expression had an irritable edge.

‘Indeed I did. Experience is all to the good, as you are forever telling me.’ Henry gestured at the stool. ‘Is your foot troubling you again?’

Geoffrey continued to look irritated. He wanted to garner sufficient respect and attention for his ailment, the result of a wound sustained in a battle campaign more than ten years ago, but without attracting any hint that he was becoming incapable. His son was eighteen and a handsome young stallion arching his neck over the stable door, but Geoffrey was still in command and never let his heir forget it. ‘No worse than usual, but better to rest it on the day before a long journey.’ He gestured Henry to sit down. ‘There are still matters we need to discuss.’

They had already talked about dealing with the French. Louis was demanding that the lands of the Vexin on the border between Normandy and France be handed over to him in return for his recognition of Henry as Duke of Normandy. There was also the matter of the rebellious castellan of Montreuil to be settled, but since Giraud de Berlai was in chains in their dungeon and Montreuil razed to the ground, it was a moot point. However, since de Berlai had appealed to Louis for aid against his Angevin overlords, he might prove a useful lever in negotiations. Henry was keen to have a truce arranged and Louis bought off or pacified. Keeping the French out of Normandy meant he could concentrate on England. If that meant greasing the wheels with conciliatory words and a strip of land, then so be it. All might change on another occasion. ‘What kind of matters?’ He sat down on a chair facing his father.

Geoffrey said, ‘King Louis is in the middle of annulling his marriage. He needs a male heir and sadly his wife’s seed is too strong and his own too weak to make this happen. All he can get on her is girls.’

Henry frowned, uncertain where his father’s speech was leading. Surely this was not about the union between himself and Louis’s eldest daughter. That had been mooted and rejected many years ago.

‘That is his fault, of course. Your mother is far more of a termagant than Alienor of France and my seed still dominated hers to plant three sons in her womb. You will have no such difficulty.’

Henry stared at him. The piece of bread he had been chewing almost stuck in his throat and he had to gulp.

‘Think of how much prestige and power we would gain from such an alliance and how much France would be weakened.’

Henry coughed and took a swallow of wine. He had not envisaged taking an older woman to wife – another man’s leavings at that.

‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’

‘I was not expecting this, sire,’ Henry managed to reply. His mind filled with the image of himself lying in bed with a world-worn hag. He could remember his father having dealings with Alienor and Louis when he was still trailing after his wet nurse with a comfort cloth in his hand. His epitome of a perfect bride was someone virginal, innocent and younger than he was, but political reality was a different matter entirely. Caught between his ideal and brutal fact, he was briefly nonplussed, and that for Henry was disconcerting.

‘Well, overcome your astonishment and accustom yourself to the notion,’ Geoffrey said curtly. ‘I expect your compliance in this.’

Henry stiffened.

Geoffrey raised his right forefinger in admonishment. ‘You must see the advantage. You will gain Aquitaine for the taking of a marriage vow. Your rule as duke will stretch from the Limousin to the Pyrenees and give you the resources to go forward in England and Normandy. If you do not seize this opportunity, others will, and you will be the loser.’

Henry grimaced.

Geoffrey’s complexion flushed. ‘Do not look at me as if I have offered you a platter of dead fish! An opportunity like this will not come again. I will have Aquitaine for my bloodline; I have been chasing it for long enough. If you refuse, I am certain one of your brothers will be pleased to accept.’

Henry glared at his sire. ‘I did not say I refused. Indeed, you are right. It is a great opportunity but you have sprung it on me. I was not thinking to wed just yet.’

‘I had been married to your mother for more than three years by the time I was your age.’

‘Hardly made in heaven though, was it? What did you say to your own father?’

‘That is not the point, as well you know,’ Geoffrey said, his eyes brightening with anger. ‘Alienor of France is an entirely fitting match for you and I will hear no more on the matter, is that understood?’

‘Perfectly, sire,’ Henry replied. ‘Do I have your leave to go?’

Geoffrey flicked his hand. ‘For now, but we must talk more on the matter because we need to be prepared before we arrive in Paris.’

Henry bowed to his father and managed to reach the latrine before he was sick, vomiting up the bread that had almost choked him. He hated being treated like a child and ordered around. He was Duke of Normandy and a grown man. He wanted to be free to do as he chose, not be directed by his father’s hand as if he were still an infant. And yet his father was right, and it was an opportunity they had to seize. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then he clenched his fist and struck the wall in temper.

‘What’s wrong?’ His half-brother Hamelin stood in the doorway. He was older than Henry by three years, a handsome, robust young man with tawny hair and changeable hazel eyes. For a short while until her death in childbirth, his mother had been Henry’s father’s mistress. Hamelin’s full sister, Emma, was currently dwelling in the secular house for women at the nunnery of Fontevraud.

‘Nothing,’ Henry said. He and Hamelin had a relationship built on grudges and rivalry, yet at the same time, they would fight side by side against the world. Henry’s battles were Hamelin’s battles, and if it came to a brawl between Henry and his two legitimate brothers, Hamelin always took Henry’s side – from self-interest if nothing else.

‘It doesn’t look like nothing to me.’

‘It’s a private matter between me and our father,’ Henry said, knowing he couldn’t say anything, even to Hamelin. ‘You will know soon enough.’

Hamelin pursed his lips while he decided whether or not to take offence.

‘God, I need to get out of here.’ Henry strode out of the latrine cubby hole. ‘Come, ride out with me.’

Hamelin’s gaze flickered. ‘Haven’t you got more business with our father?’

‘No,’ Henry said, his jaw taut. ‘We have discussed more than enough for now.’

Hamelin shrugged, content to go with Henry because there was nothing he enjoyed more than a hard gallop with the wind in his face and a good horse at full stretch. There was the competition too. Usually Henry won, but there were golden occasions when Hamelin beat him, and they were worth striving for.

Today, however, Henry rode as if the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels, and Hamelin had to taste his dust, knowing that something had seriously riled Henry, but at a loss to know what.