Devil's Consort Page 30

  ‘Love does not exist,’ I bleakly informed Aelith, who met me on my journey and continued with me to Poitiers. ‘Physical desire is not worthy of a woman of intellect.’

  She was a grown woman now, confident, fine drawn with the exigencies of the past months but gleaming with contentment. Dismounting in the road, I hugged her, joyful at being reunited with her. I think my emotions were decidedly unsteady, although that may have been a poor excuse for what I did. The choice I made that was far from good sense.

  ‘Ridiculous!’ Aelith laughed.

  ‘How so?’ I remounted. My emptiness was not the subject for laughter.

  ‘Did I give up everything, even my immortal soul, for a warm friendship with Raoul?’ The curl of her lip said it all.

  ‘I don’t deny the strength of your feelings,’ I admitted grudgingly.

  ‘Yes, you do. Just because you’ve no experience of it, it does not mean it doesn’t exist. If you had even the slightest affection for Louis—which you haven’t, and neither would any woman in your position—you would not say anything quite so stupid!’

  Agnes, a willing eavesdropper, smirked. ‘I’ve said the same, lady.’

  Rattled, not altogether pleased, I touched my heel to my mare, encouraging her into a canter with Aelith following, to draw us out of earshot of interested listeners and smart retainers.

  ‘I am not stupid,’ I said through my teeth.

  ‘No. But you’ve never been in love, have you?’

  I hunched my shoulders. ‘How will I know it?’

  ‘You will. When a man touches you and your body responds. When even the caress of his eyes stirs fire in your blood. And I’ll say this, Eleanor—anyone would think you were jealous of my good fortune.’

  Well, I was.

  ‘Eleanor …’

  I looked across at her to see the concern in her face and forced a smile. It was wrong of me to burden Aelith with my ill humour. I begged forgiveness and we were at one once more, but my heart was as heavy in my chest as a lump of over-kneaded dough, my mood as sour as an Aquitaine lemon.

  ‘Welcome, lady.’ My steward relieved me of my mantle as he escorted me to my rooms in the Maubergeonne Tower. ‘We have missed you here in Poitiers. Do you stay long with us? I will make your chambers ready to your requirements.’

  ‘I’m not certain …’ I unwound the veil that had kept the dust from my hair. I was surprisingly undecided, lacking any need or motivation other than to get out of Paris. I supposed I would travel on south, sounding out the loyalty of my barons, simply making my presence known, but Poitiers was so welcoming and familiar. The tower closed around me like a soft glove and I sighed with pleasure.

  ‘The Seneschal is here in residence, lady.’

  ‘Oh?’ Now in my private chambers, I dropped the veil, handed my gloves to Agnes.

  ‘He has been here some days, to hold a court of justice.’ The steward placed the mantle over a coffer before moving to open the shutters to let sunlight into the unused rooms. ‘There has been some noise of rebellion in the Limousin. My lord has stamped on it most effectively, I understand.’

  ‘Has he? That’s good.’ Louis had appointed a seneschal to rule in my name—and his—in our absence, a sensible decision all in all, yet I felt a quick brush of irritation that I should not have the palace to myself and Aelith, but must play the role of hostess to the man. I did not want to converse and dispense hospitality. Rather to brood alone.

  The steward waited, bright eyed, accommodating. ‘Do you wish to speak with Count Geoffrey, lady, when he rides in? He’ll be anxious to give his report.’

  Count Geoffrey, Lord of Anjou. I knew his name well enough. I had never met him, had no particular desire to do so. He had a reputation for military prowess but to my mind was little more than a robber baron, much as Louis’s ancestors, descended from a long line of enterprising thieves, striving to make his mark in Europe by snapping up states that were not well protected. A pretentious upstart, so it was said, a dangerous man with an eye to every opportunity to consolidate his power.

  I frowned. Normandy sprang to my mind, one of those opportunities snatched up by the Count. When Louis had been too busy dealing with Theobald of Champagne to watch his back, this Geoffrey had marched his troops into Normandy and overrun it. Since then, the Count of Anjou and Louis had come to terms and Louis had confirmed him vassal status as Duke of Normandy, but I had seen no reason to encourage the man by making him Seneschal of Poitou as well, and had said as much to Louis—who ignored me and did as he pleased.

  No, I did not have much of an opinion of Geoffrey of Anjou.

  ‘Ask the Count to come,’ I requested as I washed my hands in a bowl of cool water, considering whether I really needed to see him. Annoyed that I must. The Seneschal was too important to law and order and the smooth running of Poitou to be cast off lightly. ‘Bring wine, if you will. And food.’

  Less than an hour later, a firm thump of boots on the stair heralded my Seneschal. An oblique shadow on the curve, then a glint of metal and jewels as a figure moved through a sunbeam angling through a window and came to stand in the centre of the room.

  I turned to face him.

  God’s blood!

  He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Before I could string two thoughts together desire ripped through me—oh, yes, I recognised this longing, this need, as sharp as a blade, for what it was. Here was no product of a dream to leave me dry-mouthed and unfulfilled on waking, no romantic but nebulous image to sigh over from a troubadour’s song. Here was a man: he lived and breathed and stood here in my solar. When he smiled at me, and bowed with such fluid grace my heart leapt to thud against my ribs. In that moment I forgot Louis, I forgot my failure to entice, my loneliness and the restless emptiness of my life. I forgot everything but the starvation in my body, in my soul, everything but my wish to touch this man and for him to touch me. He filled me to the brim, just by being there and looking at me as if I was the woman he coveted above all things.

  Well! I hid every one of those thoughts, of course. I forced myself to breathe evenly and hold his gaze.

  Lord, but Count Geoffrey was a bold man. He looked at me, not as if I was his sovereign lady but as if he would strip the silk from my body and ravish me on the floor. And, by the Virgin, I wished for it too. There he stood, suffusing my solar with as much brilliance as the sun itself. Geoffrey le Bel. The Fair, the handsome. At his heels an equally handsome wolfhound. It was as if all the air had fled from the chamber, and I had to struggle to breathe at all.

  Had I lost my wits?

  It was his presence that forced itself on me first. He was tall, taller than I with the broad shoulders and lean athletic build of a trained soldier. He strode across the solar with such elegant ease, muscles fluid and shown to advantage in hose and knee-length boots of soft leather. And what a pleasure it was to see a man in a tunic of wool and silk, deep blue, trimmed and braided, showily impressive. Jewels glowed on his breast, on his fingers, clipped to the brim of his felt cap. Over all was cast a cloak of fine wool against the autumn chill, now flung back over one shoulder for ease of movement.

  His face drew my attention.

  Oh, he was good to look at. I had not known he was so striking a man, despite his common sobriquet. Pleasingly clean-shaven, my gaze lingered on his mouth. Firm, with perhaps a hint of temper in its straight lines. And then a high-bridged nose and masterful chin that did nothing to hide the strength of his will. Confidence oozed from him as curds from a muslin bag.

  Count Geoffrey halted, stripped off his cap with the tell-tale sprig of broom flowers clipped in the jewel—planta genista—that bestowed on him a second label, and bowed in a flamboyant manner. His hair was deep and glowing russet, trimmed short and mussed into disarray round his face, his complexion light, as so often matched such colouring.

  I grabbed for composure, calling on the high blood of Aquitaine.

  ‘Lady of Poitou.’ His voice was soft and deep.

 
‘Plantagenet!’ I lifted my chin at the yellow flowers, now drooping.

  ‘As you say.’ His stern mouth relaxed in a smile. ‘You are right welcome.’

  ‘My thanks, Lord Geoffrey.’

  Suddenly incongruously, ridiculously shy before this man, I could think of nothing more to say. ‘A fine animal,’ I managed as the hound sank to the floor with a sigh, chin on paws.

  ‘She is. And not yet grown to her full strength.’

  The Count’s eyes were a clear grey with no subservience in them. His smile, deepening, was warmly intimate.

  ‘We did not expect you, lady. We should have been prepared to welcome you.’

  ‘It was a sudden decision on my part.’

  I found myself holding out my hand. Count Geoffrey took it and raised it to his mouth, brushing my fingers with his lips, his eyes never leaving mine. His touch rippled over my skin, and I allowed my hand to rest there, enclosed by his long, elegant fingers. Until I pulled my hand away. How could I be so obtuse? So lacking in dignity as to stare at him as if I had never seen anything quite so desirable. Even more horrified, as I felt the flush of hot blood in my cheeks, it came into my mind that this arrogant man sensed my confusion when the quirk of his mouth gained a touch of malice.

  ‘So your royal monk has allowed you to escape the confines of the Ile de la Cité and travel alone.’

  How insolent he was, and yet I felt no animosity towards him. What impressed me far more was that at that moment he had fallen easily into fluent court Latin rather than his own Angevin French, and I had thought him no more than an ill lettered lout, albeit a titled one. The Count of Anjou had received an education at someone’s hands.

  ‘I am Countess here,’ I remarked mildly, at odds with my galloping heartbeat, gesturing to Agnes to leave. It seemed that this was a day for preserving my privacy. ‘I travel when I wish.’

  The Count inclined his head. ‘I meant no disrespect, lady.’

  ‘And is your wife not here with you?’ I could retaliate and punish him for his presumption. I knew full well she wasn’t, and was not surprised when the Count’s brow darkened into quick temper.

  Everyone knew of the warlike Angevin marriage.

  Matilda, daughter and only surviving child of King Henry the First of England and thus by rights Queen of that country, was in England. I knew she would spend no more time than she had to with the husband foisted on her by her father against her will. Nor would the Count choose to spend his time with his undoubtedly important wife. She was the Count’s greatest achievement so far in his climb to greatness, but it had not made for a comfortable coupling. Matilda, eleven years older than he and reputably a shrew of a woman, was fixed on claiming the throne of England if only she could persuade the barons of that country that a woman could wear the crown as effectively as a man. I wished her well but could see little hope for her. The English barons were reluctant to take on a woman and would never accept an Angevin as their king, no matter how strong the claim of his wife. Instead they would rather give their oath of allegiance to Matilda’s male cousin Stephen. His claim might be open to question but at least he was a man—and not an Angevin. So Stephen ruled and Matilda strove to snatch the crown from him.

  ‘Does the Lady Matilda have no love for Poitou?’ I asked sweetly.

  Geoffrey’s smile replaced the hint of the scowl as if he saw my intent, but there was the edge of roughness in his reply. ‘She has other interests and is not here.’ Abruptly he changed direction. ‘Do you intend to stay long? There’s good hunting to the north that I can recommend. Deer and boar are plentiful.’ His eyes gleamed with the thrill of the hunt. ‘And the wildfowl on the marshes if you have an interest in hawking. The weather is set fair …’ Somehow he had taken possession of my hand again and led me to a low stool. ‘Will you stay, lady?’

  I was conscious of nothing but his hand around mine, his fingers rough with calluses of sword and rein against my skin. And when I raised my eyes to his they were smiling, as if they could read every thought in my head.

  Take care, Eleanor! The warning whispered through my mind.

  ‘Yes, I will stay,’ I heard myself say. Such an easy decision to make.

  A noise at the door took our attention, and a shadow such as the Count had made, barred by the sun, a scuffle of feet.

  A young man emerged at the top of the stair, to stand momentarily below the door arch. A young man just escaping from the uncoordinated clumsiness of childhood, in transition from youth to man. Not uncertain or hesitant, but carefully watchful. I did not think he was a page. His clothes were too good, even though scuffed and showing signs of wear, and his demeanour held a touch of incongruous youthful arrogance immediately reminiscent of the Angevin before me.

  Count Geoffrey barked a laugh. ‘Henry! You shouldn’t be here. But since you are …’ He swung back to me, his face bright with pride. ‘My eldest son and heir. Henry, who will one day step into my shoes as Count of Anjou …’

  I smiled a welcome but the youth did not smile back. Rather his forehead creased in a frown and his eyes darted around the room, taking in every detail.

  ‘Come.’ I beckoned. And stood to encourage him.

  Henry Plantagenet needed no encouragement from me. Loping across the room, he bowed with more energy than grace, then knelt at my feet, head bent. He had been well schooled. And how like his father—the same gilded russet hair, the same cool grey eyes, the same potent agility and energy. Two handsome, virile men. Henry might be young but was already growing into his strength. Shorter than his father he may be, more stocky in build, but the Plantagenet print was strong on his features, in his hair.

  ‘Rise, Henry,’ I invited.

  He did, but shuffled from foot to foot as if he could barely contain the energy that flowed through him. The hands that grasped his cap were large and capable, his appraisal direct and surprisingly mature. I felt its force with a frisson of amusement.

  ‘You should make your apology for disturbing the lady,’ the Count growled, but indulgently.

  ‘Forgive me, lady.’ Henry’s eyes lifted to his father, then back to me. ‘I wished to see the Queen of France for myself.’

  His voice was his father’s too. And his Latin as polished.

  ‘And now you have seen her.’ The Count cuffed his son affectionately on the shoulder. ‘So don’t interrupt.’

  As the Count and I talked mundane matters of law and business in Poitou, I watched the Angevin heir out of the corner of my eye, my amusement growing. Constantly on the move, he strode to the window to inspect new arrivals in the courtyard below, he slouched in a chair to turn the pages of a book, lingering here and there, only to replace it and leap to his feet. His eye alighted on everything and anything of interest or novelty, picking it up, inspecting it, rearranging chess pieces on the board, inspecting his appearance in a looking glass but without much interest. An ivory and enamelled casket brought by my grandfather from Outremer from his crusading days proved too much for him. With the point of his knife Henry dismantled the cunning hinges and clasp, then put them back together again.

  An amazing perpetual need to investigate and explore.

  But when he descended on my popinjay, to ruffle its feathers, repeating his own name so that the bird might copy it—it didn’t but only squawked—the Count had had enough.

  ‘Go away, Henry.’

  ‘Can I take the bird with me?’

  ‘No!’

  I laughed at the disappointment on his face. ‘Yes. Take it. But don’t put it in a bad mood.’

  ‘I’ll teach it to say Eleanor!’

  With a blinding smile and a neat little bow, Henry turned on his heel and strode across the room, taking popinjay and wolfhound with him, only to stop by the stair and look back, one hand pulling at the animal’s ears.

  ‘They say she is the most beautiful woman in Europe. And she is.’

  Then he ran down the staircase, only halting to flatten himself against the wall as the steward appeared wi
th the wine and a maidservant carrying a tray.

  Count Geoffrey scowled after his son, then laughed. ‘Sometimes there’s no restraining him. When he’s not asleep he’s on the move.’ His glance at me was sharp. ‘I’ll add my own regrets for his manners, lady.’

  ‘I think you are proud of him.’

  ‘Of course. He is my son. And, before God, he speaks the truth.’

  Bright colour rose in my cheeks again. The Count stepped aside for the steward to pour the wine, waiting in silence until it was done and we were alone again. Even so I was aware of his every move as he prowled restlessly towards the window, kicking a log more firmly into the fireplace. His son Henry was not the only one with an excess of energy. Finally he raised his cup in a silent toast to me. He didn’t need to speak. It seemed I could read him as well as he could read me. The heat flared even hotter in my face.

  ‘You’ll need to settle in.’ The Count put down his cup. ‘I’ve given orders for hot water to be brought. Will you eat with me when you are rested? We will celebrate your return. Will that please you, lady?’

  ‘Yes.’ Nothing would have kept me from it.

  When he had left me, while the beat of my blood returned to its normal steady rhythm, I unfastened the clasp of the little casket, lifted its hinged lid. It worked perfectly. And then I laughed. On the chess board, Henry Plantagenet had left the pieces at checkmate. The White Queen was under threat from an opposing knight.

  As he promised, a banquet was prepared in the magnificent Great Hall. Given the short preparation time, it was admirable. Here were the banquets of my youth when my grandfather Duke William had allowed his passions to run free. Colour and music and laughter. Jokes and ribald comment married to courtly admiration. Succulent dishes stirred by the warm wines of the south. Dancing and singing. The softening dusk after a warm day with scents of lavender and rosemary. Everything to assuage the senses and welcome me home.