whole. For once Henry’s dishabille had been tamed into order. His hair had seen the teeth of a comb and his new tunic of mulberry-coloured wool was immaculate—not a dog hair or torn cuff in sight. Eleanor wore mulberry too, the fabric looking as if it had been cut from the same bolt of cloth, and her own hair was bound in a net of jewelled gold. To watch them formally greeting the earls, barons, and bishops gathered for the occasion, no one would have guessed at the rift in their relationship.
In soft candle and torchlight, Eleanor looked much younger than her forty-five years. The colour of her gown enhanced her skin tones and brightened the tawny glint in her eyes. If William had been smitten by her that afternoon, now the feeling inside him grew until he was drunk on it. She drenched his senses and made rational thought difficult. Now he understood why his uncle Patrick had said that any man not smitten by the Queen of England would have to be made of stone—although she could certainly turn specific parts of a man’s anatomy to rock.
William had a place at one of the side trestles for the duration of the feast. His uncle Patrick sat at the high table in a place of honour close to King Henry’s right hand. A cloth of embroidered linen adorned the marble top and the places were set with platters and cups of silver gilt, green glass, and gold-embellished horn. The rock-crystal flagons were honoured for once by wine that was smooth and rich, for Eleanor had had fifty casks delivered from Poitou rather than trust to Henry’s notorious provision.
Where William sat, the tableware was more prosaic. The board was of wood, not marble, and the cloth bereft of embroidery. Instead of silver-gilt platters, the food was set upon thick trenchers of bread, but since this was the usual mode—indeed the cloth was a refinement—William felt no lack. The finery on the dais was the Queen’s doing too. Normally the King would drink out of the nearest vessel, which often as not was a wooden cup. Eleanor, however, appreciated and enjoyed a more sophisticated style. William watched her sip from a silver goblet, its base encrusted with amethysts. Salisbury spoke to her and she turned her head as gracefully as a swan to answer him.
William had learned the language and conventions of courtly love in the bower of de Tancarville’s wife, but until now it had all been lip service. The notion of being desperately in love with an unattainable lady far above his rank, of suffering unrequited pangs and of performing heroic deeds in order to receive a single indifferent glance from her eyes, had been a diverting whimsy; a game to play in the bower on a wet afternoon to please the women with no real heartache involved. Now, suddenly, he understood both the pleasure and the pain.
The formal feast ended, but the evening was not over. Eleanor retired to her chamber, summoning a select party to join her, including Patrick of Salisbury. Henry elected to stay in the hall, and although he and the Queen were civil to each other on parting, the air between them was glacial with unspoken words. As Salisbury followed in the Queen’s train, he crooked his finger at William. “Join me,” he commanded. “I need attendants.”
William’s eyes widened. “Join you, my lord?” Even as he questioned the words, he was rising to his feet, dusting crumbs from his tunic, and tugging the folds straight beneath his belt.
Salisbury’s eyelids crinkled with humour. “If you are to serve me in Poitou you must become acquainted with the Queen’s household.” He laid his hand on William’s shoulder. “Besides, you have a fine singing voice.” With a nod and a smile he moved on, leaving a bemused William to step free of the dining trestle and bow out of the King’s presence.
***
Although he was accustomed to the trappings of wealth, William was astounded by the transformation Eleanor’s arrival had wrought on apartments that this morning had been bare.
In soft candle and torchlight, Eleanor looked much younger than her forty-five years. The colour of her gown enhanced her skin tones and brightened the tawny glint in her eyes. If William had been smitten by her that afternoon, now the feeling inside him grew until he was drunk on it. She drenched his senses and made rational thought difficult. Now he understood why his uncle Patrick had said that any man not smitten by the Queen of England would have to be made of stone—although she could certainly turn specific parts of a man’s anatomy to rock.
William had a place at one of the side trestles for the duration of the feast. His uncle Patrick sat at the high table in a place of honour close to King Henry’s right hand. A cloth of embroidered linen adorned the marble top and the places were set with platters and cups of silver gilt, green glass, and gold-embellished horn. The rock-crystal flagons were honoured for once by wine that was smooth and rich, for Eleanor had had fifty casks delivered from Poitou rather than trust to Henry’s notorious provision.
Where William sat, the tableware was more prosaic. The board was of wood, not marble, and the cloth bereft of embroidery. Instead of silver-gilt platters, the food was set upon thick trenchers of bread, but since this was the usual mode—indeed the cloth was a refinement—William felt no lack. The finery on the dais was the Queen’s doing too. Normally the King would drink out of the nearest vessel, which often as not was a wooden cup. Eleanor, however, appreciated and enjoyed a more sophisticated style. William watched her sip from a silver goblet, its base encrusted with amethysts. Salisbury spoke to her and she turned her head as gracefully as a swan to answer him.
William had learned the language and conventions of courtly love in the bower of de Tancarville’s wife, but until now it had all been lip service. The notion of being desperately in love with an unattainable lady far above his rank, of suffering unrequited pangs and of performing heroic deeds in order to receive a single indifferent glance from her eyes, had been a diverting whimsy; a game to play in the bower on a wet afternoon to please the women with no real heartache involved. Now, suddenly, he understood both the pleasure and the pain.
The formal feast ended, but the evening was not over. Eleanor retired to her chamber, summoning a select party to join her, including Patrick of Salisbury. Henry elected to stay in the hall, and although he and the Queen were civil to each other on parting, the air between them was glacial with unspoken words. As Salisbury followed in the Queen’s train, he crooked his finger at William. “Join me,” he commanded. “I need attendants.”
William’s eyes widened. “Join you, my lord?” Even as he questioned the words, he was rising to his feet, dusting crumbs from his tunic, and tugging the folds straight beneath his belt.
Salisbury’s eyelids crinkled with humour. “If you are to serve me in Poitou you must become acquainted with the Queen’s household.” He laid his hand on William’s shoulder. “Besides, you have a fine singing voice.” With a nod and a smile he moved on, leaving a bemused William to step free of the dining trestle and bow out of the King’s presence.
***
Although he was accustomed to the trappings of wealth, William was astounded by the transformation Eleanor’s arrival had wrought on apartments that this morning had been bare.
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