Captive Queen

Eleanor was surveying them all as they waited for the feasting to begin. She knew, from her father, and from bitter experience, that her vassals were all but ungovernable. Away from the courts of her chief cities of Poitiers and Bordeaux, entrenched in their remote castles and hilltop fastnesses, they could thumb their noses at ducal jurisdiction. So it was best to sweeten them now by clever diplomacy and gifts—and the Lord knew she had been generous enough with those already—to keep them friendly.

“Sirs,” she began, her voice low and mellifluous, “I have asked you here formally to inform you of the a

“Our wedding must be arranged without delay, or it might never take place at all,” Eleanor told them. “This marriage will seriously undermine the power of France, and if King Louis discovered my plans, even he, weakling that he is, might fight. Once Henry and I are wedded and bedded, he can do nothing about it.”

“You must send again to the duke, madame,” her uncle, Hugh of Châtellerault, urged. “What if your messenger has been intercepted?”

“I will dispatch envoys today,” Eleanor promised, inwardly willing Henry to come soon, and wondering why he had not responded to her first message. “And now to other business. I am resolved to cancel and a

At her signal, the servitors entered the chamber in a line, each bearing succulent-smelling dishes: mussels and eels in garlic and wine, salty mutton, fat chickens, the tasty local beans known as mojettes, ripe goat’s cheeses, and figs. All were offered in turn to the duchess and her lords, as the ewerers came around with tall flagons of red wine. Then a toast was drunk to the happy conclusion of the marriage negotiations and the future prosperity of Poitou. Tomorrow might bring war, but for now they would enjoy the feast!

It was May, with the palace gardens in colorful bloom, when Henry FitzEmpress rode proudly into Poitiers to claim his bride. Word of his coming had been brought ahead to Eleanor, and she was waiting with her chief vassals to greet him in the Grande Salle of the palace, the magnificent arcaded Hall of Lost Footsteps, as it was popularly known, because the chamber was so long and the beamed roof so high that the sound of a footfall barely carried at all.

Eleanor knew she looked her most beautiful: she had do

And here he was, striding purposefully into the vast hall, attired in his habitual riding clothes—she was already aware that he cared little for fashion or rich robes—and wearing a jubilant smile. The sight of his face suffused her with joy. She would always remember this moment as one of the happiest of her life.

“My lady!” Henry bowed courteously, then came briskly toward Eleanor as she rose from her throne, and jumped eagerly up the step to the dais. The touch of his flesh as he took hold of her hands set her senses on fire. She had become anxious, as the weeks since their trysts in Paris turned into months, that imagining the attraction between them to have seemed greater than it was, that it would turn out to have been an illusion. That was of no moment, of course, in the making of marriages for policy, for there were powerfully compelling political reasons for this union, regardless of how she or Henry felt. But having known the sweetest passion in his arms, and pleasure that she could not have imagined possible, she thought she would die if she were to be cheated of it. Now, however, her fears were gone, for there was everything she had hoped there would be in Henry’s ardent gaze and the firm, possessive grasp of his hands—and in her own response to him.

“I must apologize for my tardiness in coming to you,” he told her as she gestured to him to sit beside her; already, a second throne had been set ready for Aquitaine’s future duke. “A delegation of nobles arrived from England, begging me to delay no longer in making good my claim to the throne. My supporters there are apparently losing patience. Well, I sent to tell them they will have to wait just a while yet. I have more important things to do.” He smiled at her. “You did wonderfully well!” he said. “I never looked to marry you so soon.”

“Louis was more amenable than I had expected,” Eleanor told him, her eyes devouring every line of his face.

“He won’t be when he knows what we are plotting!” Henry laughed. “But we can deal with that.”

“Now my lords are waiting to be presented to you,” Eleanor said, and beckoned them to come forward, one by one. They approached warily, eyeing the young Duke of Normandy with speculation. Foremost among them were Hugh, Count of Châtellerault, and Raoul de Faye, her mother’s brothers: Hugh, serious, stammering, and earnest: and the younger Raoul, witty, able, and prepared—to a point—to charm his new master. Then came eighteen-year-old William Taillefer, the handsome Count of Angoulême, so eager to prove himself to the renowned Duke of Normandy in the field and in matters of state; and after him, the loyal and chivalrous Geoffrey de Rancon, Lord of Taillebourg, whom Eleanor had long forgiven for his rash but well-meant actions during the crusade, which had led to the slaughter of seven thousand soldiers and his being sent back home in disgrace by King Louis. Henry had evidently heard of this too, for he was regarding Geoffrey warily as the man made his obeisance.

His wary look darkened to a frown when there knelt before him Hugh de Lusignan and Guy of Thouars, swarthy-ski

Last, but by no means least, there came the staunch Saldebreuil of Sanzay, Constable of Aquitaine, whom she had appointed her seneschal in reward for his loyalty and staunch service. Henry smiled at him and slapped him heartily on the shoulder as the good man bent to receive the kiss of greeting.