To Be Queen (36 page)

Petra and her girls stayed for the rest of that summer. I would not send them home again, but kept them safe in my household. They would return to Poitiers before me, after my annulment was secure. During those months, the sun shone more than it ever had, as if offering a blessing on my divorce. Louis' people had begun the arduous work of securing it through Rome.

The Parisians were relieved that they would soon see the back of me. For my part, I was relieved to have someone else shoulder the expense. Bribes in the Vatican cost more than anywhere else on earth.

Still, I was queen in France. And every day, I stood with Louis as he heard petitions in the great hall of the Palace of the City.

One morning in late August, Petra stood with me on the dais. She and I were whispering together, planning to take the girls out into the sunshine that afternoon. We would walk down to the river, to watch my man Bardonne catch fish. Now that my time with my daughters was short, I spent as much of my leisure with them as I could.

So I was not looking when Henry of Normandy first walked into my husband's court. Louis sat on his gilded throne, attending to all and sundry with a patience that had always surprised me. No doubt Suger had taught him that.

As for myself, I felt restlessness rising from the ground at my feet, the sap of life mounting through the stones of the palace, through the soft soles of my shoes, and up into my spine. It made me light-headed, and as hungry for life as I had been in Antioch.

“It is the retinue from Normandy, Your Majesty,” Brother Matthew, Louis' new confessor, said. “They have come, my lord king, that the eldest son might be confirmed as duke.”

“Indeed? Let them come forward.”

If Louis had known about the Normans' scheduled interview, he had forgotten all about them until that moment. Petra's lips quirked, and I had to look away, or laugh outright.

Geoffrey of Anjou, my father's old friend, came forward first and made his bow. His red blond hair gleamed in the sunlight of Louis' audience hall. He was a tall man, and seemed used to commanding all who came before him. He did not walk up to the dais, but stopped ten feet from us, and knelt where he stood. I wondered at this, until my eyes fell on his eldest son.

Henry strode past his father to kneel before my husband. He paced like a lion in a cage, his energy barely contained as he moved forward to greet Louis, as if the King of France were his equal. His eyes were a light gray, but it was the fire in them that I saw first, a brand that seemed to run along my skin, heating every inch it touched. He stepped forward and knelt, his eyes locked on me.

“My lord king. I come to claim my lands in Normandy. I offer myself as your faithful vassal.”

At eighteen, he seemed too young to have conquered the great duchy of Normandy where his father, Geoffrey of Anjou, had failed. This boy, Henry, had taken Normandy by force, reclaiming his mother's lands for his own, as his father had never been able to do.

But as I looked into his eyes, I saw that Henry had been a man for years.

Henry's bold gray gaze met mine across the distance that separated us. Though he knelt below the dais at my husband's feet, he seemed the kind of man that, in his own mind, never knelt or yielded to anyone.

His hair was cut short for war, but fell against his forehead in a sweep of dark red. He was a handsome man, with wide shoulders, but he was not a hulking colossus, as one might expect a conqueror to be. He had not worn his sword into the royal presence, but the silk of his tunic strained against the heavy muscles of his arms. As soon as I saw him, it seemed to me that he would be more at home in armor on the field of battle with a sword or mace in his hand.

Even as a boy, no doubt this man's strong chin had dissuaded others from ever taking him too lightly. There was a gleam in his eye, a light that took in all he saw with a glint of humor. I could see beyond that light to an intelligent, serious mind, for no man would have made himself Duke of Normandy at the age of eighteen without skill in politics as well as in war. One might take in the merry light in Henry's eyes, and think him a merry man. But I knew at once that Henry valued respect as much as he valued his own strength. One would be a fool to approach him with easy familiarity, thinking him a man for jokes and laughter only. From the way he carried himself, I could see that one day, Henry of Normandy would be a king.

Stephen of Blois still held England and Wales, the lands that by rights belonged to Henry's mother, Maude. I saw from the resolution in Henry's eyes that he would make short work of Stephen, and of any who stood too long in his way. He was walking the path of power; I had no doubt that when this man took ship for England, he would reconquer that land just as he had conquered Normandy.

As if he could read the thoughts in my head as he might read a book laid out on a table, Henry smiled at me. A bolt of fire flashed between us, a charge so hot, it took my breath. If Louis had an opposite on earth, surely it was the man kneeling before me.

My husband's cool blue gaze took in Henry of Normandy as it had every other petitioner, with no sign of emotion. Louis gestured, and Henry rose to his feet.

“You are welcome here, my lord duke. Tomorrow, we will confirm you in your office. You will take your lands once more from our hands. Until that time, stay here with us; feast and drink in our hall.”

“I thank you for your hospitality, my lord king,” Henry said, his eyes on me.

“We both thank you,” Henry's father said. Geoffrey of Anjou was a powerful presence as he rose from his knees. Geoffrey stepped forward, so that he stood at Henry's elbow, presenting Louis and his court with a united front. He was never strong enough to hold his wife's lands, but now that I looked into his face, I saw why my father had fought for him in Normandy. There was something in Geoffrey that called on men to follow him. My father had recommended this man to me as a protector, as a friend in adversity. I wondered if Papa had been right, if Geoffrey would have come to my aid, had I needed it, as my father had come to his.

Their audience was over. Indeed, all the petitions for the day were done. Louis turned without a word and left by a side door. He would be at prayer for the rest of the afternoon.

I stood and watched my husband go. His shoulders were stooped, as if he were a man of five and forty. His priests led him away, and closed the door behind him. When I turned back, Henry was standing beside me; Geoffrey of Anjou had approached the dais with him.

“Your father was a good man,” Geoffrey said. “Had he been my general, perhaps we would have won.”

There was no answer to that, so I offered none. “He spoke well of you, my lord,” I said. “Even at the end of his life, he named you as a friend.”

“That is my honor. He served well in Normandy, and was wounded for his pains.”

I was surprised that Geoffrey would speak of it. Though he had never won the lands that had fallen to his son so easily, I saw no evidence of envy in his eyes. Either he schooled his features, as my father had taught me to do, or he felt no resentment at all.

“Yes,” I said. “I remember.”

Henry stood silent between us. I thought his gaze might turn to Petra, for men loved her sweet smile and her soft blond hair. But he did not. Though he did not stare like a country clod, he had eyes only for me.

“You are renowned for your beauty,” Henry said. “I see that those reports are not exaggerated.”

I laughed at this clumsy attempt at flattery. My laughter echoed off the stone walls of my husband's hall, and wrapped us in its warmth. I mocked him, and he knew it. I saw that he did not care.

Louis' people eyed us, and murmured to one another. I sighed. Another rumor started. By night's end they would have me in bed either with this boy or with his father, or with both of them together. I was deeply tired of Paris and all its trickery.

I turned to Petra, and nodded to her. She proceeded toward the inner door, knowing that I would follow.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me, I must be about the business of the keep.”

“Of course.” Geoffrey bowed, but Henry did not. The young Duke of Normandy still stared at me, and I saw laughter in his eyes. He knew I was no housekeeper. Perhaps my reputation had preceded me, as well as word of my beauty.

“Good afternoon, my lady queen. We will see you again at this night's feast,” Henry said.

“Indeed,” I said. “This is my kingdom. You could not avoid it, if you tried.”

“Who would avoid your lovely presence?” Geoffrey asked. His courtly smile was smooth as silk, but it was Henry who caught my eye as I turned to walk away. It was Henry's gaze that followed me, Henry's warmth that I felt on my skin, until the door closed behind me.

The rains came out of nowhere, as they often did in Paris, so that Petra and the girls were forced to stay indoors by the fire. My sister played with them as if she were not a countess in her own right. She romped and chased them as if she were as young as they. I left them to it. Rain or no, that afternoon I was too restless to stay indoors.

I left the girls with Petra and went walking in my rose garden. The rain was still falling, but had slowed to a drizzle. I drew my wool cloak close around me. The fur lining kept me warm as I walked the damp stone paths. The wet seeped into my boots, so that my hose became wet as well, but I did not heed it. I walked in circles, like a caged bear, round and round that garden without looking at the flowers.

I was alone that afternoon with my thoughts, as alone as I ever was, without even Amaria to attend me. She kept watch for me by the door that led back into the castle keep. She knew these moments without my women were precious to me. Before long, the sun would set, and I would need to go inside to dress for dinner in the hall.

I stood looking at my roses without seeing them, their scent mingling with the smell of damp earth, when Henry came to me.

He was silent, like a great cat. He approached me slowly, as if he feared to startle me. Perhaps he thought me timid, though my reputation surely would have told him otherwise. As he stepped toward me, heat rose between us, then built until I could not catch my breath. I had never felt such power between myself and a man before, not with Rancon, not even with Raymond. Henry's dark red hair glinted in the gray light of my husband's keep. His eyes met mine as an equal; like Louis, he was only a little taller than I was. In my garden, with the rain falling all around us, as I began to fathom the depths that lay behind the gray of his eyes, Henry reached down, and took my hand. His fingertips worried at the diamond Louis had given me, and his thumb played over the ruby signet ring of Aquitaine.

“Do you always stand in the rain, lady, or did you simply come here to meet me?”

I laughed at his audacity. That joy-filled sound swirled around us, binding us like a warm cloak, caressing us both. “I wait for no man, my lord duke. And you might greet me with a little more respect. I am your queen.”

“You are,” he said. “A man could not wish for a queen more beautiful.”

I thought for one breathless moment that he might kiss me then and there. When he leaned closer still, I did not pull away. I wondered what folly I had gotten into, what foolhardiness I hoped to serve by allowing this boy to make love to me in the very shadow of my husband's house, where even the walls had ears.

But Henry did not kiss me. His breath was warm on my lips, taunting me, even as he raised my hand. He kissed my signet ring, his soft lips caressing it. He left my wedding band untouched.

“I looked for you every where,” he said, his voice low. “I even checked the chapel, but all I found was your husband at prayer.”

“Louis prays a great deal,” I said. “He is a good man.”

“I am a better one.”

“You are a boy.”

I spoke more to deny myself than him, but my challenge lit his eyes with fire. He wrapped one arm around my waist and drew me close, easily, as if I were a doxy he had purchased at market.

He did not deny my words, for he did not need to. We both knew I was lying. He smiled at my bravado, a knowing smile that did not belong on the face of one so young. He drew me close, one arm wrapped around my waist, the other moving up into my hair. He cupped the back of my neck in one great hand. I felt the calluses on his palm and fingers snag the bronze strands. My people had said, when I asked for a report of him, that he never wore riding gloves, not when hunting or at war. For some reason, evidence of that knowledge undid me. The calluses on his hands excited me, and any resistance I might have mounted slid away as his lips closed over mine.

It was a soft kiss, much softer than I would have thought to receive from a man so strong. It seemed his strength did not have to prove itself. We both knew that he had vanquished me already.