Had any other woman ever worn the crowns of both En gland and France? History had never interested Geoffrey much, but he doubted it. Eleanor always seemed to be defying the natural boundaries of womanhood, a royal rebel who was too clever by half and as willful as any man. But her vast domains and her seductive smile more than made up for any defects of character, and after her divorce from the French king, Geoffrey had attempted to claim this glittering prize, laying an ambush for her as she journeyed back to Aquitaine.
It was not to be. Geoffrey had been bitterly disappointed by his failure to capture a queen. But it well nigh drove him crazy to think of her belonging to his brother, sharing her bed and her wealth with Harry—and of her own free will.
Where was the justice or fairness in that? But it was not Harry. Geoffrey frowned at the sight of them. He could expect no support from them, and well he knew it. Even their scowls were the same. Do you never tire of licking his arse, Little Brother? Or have you acquired a taste for it by now? You hold the chancellorship, yet you balk at taking your holy vows.
But you, Geoffrey Fitz Empress, serve only Satan, even if you know it not. A foreigner unfamiliar with En gland would not have taken the man in the doorway for the En glish king, for he scorned the trappings of kingship, the rich silks and gemstones and furred mantles that set men of rank apart from their less fortunate brethren.
Henry looked even more rumpled than usual today, his short, copper-colored hair tousled and windblown, his eyes slate-dark, hollowed and bloodshot. Not that he cared what was weighing Harry down. A pity it was not an anchor. The young king was notorious for his scorching temper, but those who knew Henry best knew, too, that these spectacular fits of royal rage were more calculated than most people suspected, deliberately daunting.
His anger was far more dangerous when it was iced over, cold and controlled and unforgiving, and Geoffrey was soon squirming under that unblinking, implacable gaze.
Divorced by the French king for her failure to give him a male heir, Eleanor had then borne Henry two sons in their first three years of marriage.
She stayed with him until he died, and then she made the funeral arrangements, accompanied his body to Reading for burial. I am sorry about your son. But it was not my fault! Blame God if you must, not me! I blame you for your treachery, your betrayals, your willingness to ally yourself with my enemies. It was not my fault! Well, you might remember his name better once you have time and solitude to think upon it! Tell me! Clutching at the shreds of his pride, he stumbled across the chamber, determined not to plead, but betraying himself, nonetheless, by a panicked, involuntary glance of entreaty as the door closed.
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