Captive Queen by Alison Weir Page B

sent Eleanor by his couriers was good. Louis had the temerity to invade Normandy, but Henry advanced with such speed that several horses dropped dead from exhaustion on the road; and with devastating compunction, he laid waste that land called the Vexin on the Norman-French border and the demesnes of Louis’s own brother, Robert of Dreux.
    Next she heard he had been in Touraine, taking some castles that his father left to the unfraternal Geoffrey. He was winning through. Then God Himself, it seemed, intervened. Louis, Henry wrote, had collapsed with a fever and was laid up at Geoffrey’s castle of Montsoreau. Eleanor smiled when she read that. It was typical of Louis to fall ill at such a crucial moment. She smiled even more broadly when she read on and learned that right now Henry was besieging the castle.
    “The Lord Geoffrey has submitted and begged for mercy and reconciliation,” the next messenger told her, “and the King of France has given up his cause for lost and sued for peace. He has gone back to Paris.”
    How ignominious, Eleanor thought. But again, typical.
    After six weeks, Henry was back in Poitiers, the magnificent victor. There was a new air of authority about him; he was now the dominant power in western Christendom, and he knew it.
    Wasting no time, the returning hero took his wife to bed and had his will of her vigorously and repeatedly, to her great and unbearable joy.
    “I swear to you, Eleanor,” he gasped, heaving and sweating in her eager arms, “no assault on a fortress was ever so pleasurable. You yield delightfully!”
    “Come again,” she breathed, raising her knees and clasping her ankles across his tight buttocks. He readily obliged, and soon had her crying out in ecstasy.
    “Hush!” he panted, kissing her lustily. “Your barons will think the war has broken out again!”
    Eleanor held herself in speechless stillness as waves of pleasure coursed through her. Feeling Henry inside her was sheer bliss. It had been so long … She had barely contained her need for him. But for all her delight in their joining, she was miserably aware that he was shortly to leave her again.
    “When do you depart for England?” she asked a little later, when they were lying peacefully together under the single sheet. It was a warm, balmy night, and the sky glimpsed through the narrow window was indigo blue and bright with stars.
    “Not until the end of the year,” Henry said.
    “You’re planning a winter campaign?” she asked, surprised.
    “No, my lady, I intend to use diplomacy this time. Of course, an army at my back will help negotiations wonderfully, because the English will know that I mean to deploy it if necessary.”
    “This latest victory can only have enhanced your reputation, my brave Henry,” Eleanor murmured, kissing him. “The English now know what they have to reckon with.”
    “The English are no fools. They need a strong king, and I’m their man. The question now is how to topple Stephen and his son without causing too much unpleasantness.”
    “With any luck he will have wearied of the struggle and be eager to come to terms,” Eleanor said. “Then you can return speedily to me, my love.” She turned and twined her arms around him, rejoicing in the strength of his supine body.
    “I’ll be here for a while yet,” Henry said, biting her neck playfully between words. “It occurred to me that before the autumn sets in, we should make a leisurely progress through your domains, so that you can introduce me to your vassals. The ones who are speaking to you, anyway. Of course, I hope that meets with your approval, O sovereign Duchess of Aquitaine!” He was mocking her, she knew, but she did not leap to the bait. She was too overjoyed at his suggestion.
    “I should love that, Henry,” she enthused. “There are so many places I want to show you. We should start with the Limousin. It’s wild country in every respect, but so beautiful, and it will do its unruly lords a