Devil's Consort. Anne O'Brien
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on the bed pole. For all our safety.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ He strode across the room to transfer the magnificent bird to the carved pole where it sat in a sullen hunch and rustle of feathers. Clad in leather jerkin and chausses, all heavily stained with sweat, Louis was jubilant, hair wild, eyes blazing. Stripping off his gauntlets, he swooped on me, gripping me by the shoulders. And then he transferred his hands to cup my cheeks, hold me still, and he kissed me full on my startled mouth. A hot, demanding, intemperate kiss that broke my lips against my teeth. He lifted his head.
‘Eleanor!’
And kissed me again.
‘I’ve brought your gerfalcons here for you. All of them.’
I felt an urge to laugh at the foolish extravagance of the gesture, but I could not spoil Louis’s pleasure. Neither did I have the breath to reply at length. The passion in him astonished me.
‘That’s wonderful,’ I managed.
I don’t think he heard me. His fingers dug into my flesh, hard enough to bruise. ‘I led the expedition. It was a glorious success. You’ll need a new castellan, Eleanor.’
‘What?’
‘A new castellan.’
H swung away to pace the room as if he could not contain the energy that victory had brought, brushing at the bed hangings with one hand, stroking the other down the feathers of the now quiescent hawk.
‘Is de Lezay dead, then?’
‘Yes. By God, he is. And deserved it. I’ve no regrets.’ The words spewed out, heated, excited. Uncontrolled. ‘It was so hot. And we were not careful. We took off our chain mail and sent it on ahead with our weapons on the baggage carts …’
Stupid! Louis must have read it in my astonished stare for he came to a stand in front of me again and tempered his voice.
‘It was very quiet—no danger, our scouts reported—but when we followed our baggage into Talmont, the first knights were taken prisoner. So we had to fight it out with the rebels.’ Suddenly the exhilaration snapped into furious temper. ‘No one will dare to stand against me in future. We killed them all. Including de Lezay.’
As quickly as it had appeared, his anger faded. The satisfaction drained from his face, leaving it set in strained lines as his thoughts turned inward.
‘Did you fight well, my lord?’ I asked.
‘Yes. I did.’ Eyes flashing back to mine, surprise gave him a tremulous smile. ‘It was so simple. A sword was thrust in my hand and I fought.’
‘And de Lezay?’
Louis blinked at me. ‘He was guilty. I chopped off his hands. The punishment for theft, you see.’ He looked down at his own, turning them over, as if he would see blood on them. I tried not to shudder at the thought of those palms so recently framing my face. ‘I ordered my men to hold him—arms outstretched. I lifted my sword and I struck …’ Louis looked as shocked as I. ‘I’ve never spilt blood before.’ He swallowed heavily. ‘But I did what was expected of me—I punished a disobedient vassal. The rest will toe the line now. My father will be proud of me.’ Again he searched my face as if the answer there was all-important. ‘Are you proud of me, Eleanor? Do you approve? I reclaimed your castle. Your falcons …’
I saw my chance since my praise mattered so much to him.
‘More proud than you could ever imagine,’ I soothed. ‘How could a wife not be proud of the husband who won back her lands and her possessions? And her pride. You’ll make a magnificent king, Louis—when the time comes, of course.’
‘I shall!’
He was flushed, his eyes bright. Raising a hand, I touched his cheek with my fingertips. Followed by my lips. His skin was hot, the scent pungent of man and horse and outdoor living. A heady mixture. Even the pallor of religious life had been overlaid by the effects of the sun. I transferred my lips to his mouth in experimentation, a soft, virginal kiss.
With a grunt of pleasure, Louis banded his arms around me, pulling me hard against him, without thought for the sweat and dust and the effect of their proximity to my silks. His blood ran as hot as his skin—I could all but feel it as he trembled against me. His kisses rained down on my face—lips, cheeks, temple—undoubtedly extravagant but disappointingly without finesse.
‘I want you, Eleanor,’ he croaked. ‘I love you.’
And he was pushing me back onto my bed, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste, fumbling with the lacings of his chausses as he climbed beside me.
‘Wait, Louis …’ I tried.
But already he was dragging aside my robe and shift, parting my thighs with his knee, spreading himself over me with clumsy haste. At least he was erect, I observed as if I were not truly involved in this event, but aware of the hardness of him against my belly. Hopefully this time it would happen … A heave, a thrust, and he was inside me. I caught my breath at the dry pain that seemed to tear apart my body but Louis, his face buried between the pillows and my neck, oblivious to my own responses or lack of them, continued to thrust in increasing urgency to end in a final, tense, shudder and groan.
And that was it. All over before I had concentrated my mind to it, Louis spread-eagled still, heavy on my body, gasping for breath like a floundering plaice cast up on the fish dock at Bordeaux—an unfortunate thought in the circumstances—the heat of him all but suffocating me. Crushed and uncomfortable, I wriggled beneath him.
‘Forgive me …’ Immediately Louis propped himself on his elbows and looked down at me, eyes feverish, a little diffident as the extreme energy drained from his face to leave it lax, as if his features were blurred. ‘Dear, beautiful Eleanor. Now you are my wife.’ His mouth on mine was dry-lipped and tender. ‘Did I hurt you?’
‘No,’ I lied.
‘I’ll never hurt you, Eleanor.’ He searched my face. ‘Are you sure? You’re very quiet.’
I was very sore. I could not lie again but, moved by a surprising rush of tenderness, I pushed my fingers through his sweat-slicked hair. It seemed to reassure him.
‘You fired my blood. I pray God will forgive me if I took you too forcefully. I must go and order a Mass—for my safe return and the health of my lovely wife. I’ll pray for an heir.’ His face broke into a radiant smile. ‘Do you think you have conceived?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘My father will be doubly proud if you already carry my child when we return to Paris. Will you kneel beside me and pray for a son of our begetting?’
‘Yes. I’ll pray with you.’
‘God’s wounds! I feel like shouting our good fortune from the roof of the palace.’
‘I hope you won’t,’ I replied dryly. Everyone would wonder why it had taken us so long to get to this point. But Louis was no longer there to listen. With a bound he was gone from the bed, straightening his clothing, making for the door.
Leaving me to lie on the disordered linens, and consider—was this what all the fuss was about? I could not believe it. A discomfort, a sharp pain—nothing to write eloquent verse about. I had felt no pleasure in the deed. All rather messy and undignified, I decided, conscious of the slick stickiness between my thighs. Your innards will become as liquid. Your belly as the sweetest honey, your skin as hot silk. My nurse had had a way with words but not, it seemed, with truth. My muscles had tightened, clenched, against what had seemed a hostile invasion rather than a longed-for consummation. Giving pleasure to a man was one thing, but should I not receive pleasure too? Was the fault mine or that of Louis? He seemed pleased enough. It had all been rather—brief! And I thought his desire for an heir took precedence over his enjoyment with me, despite his sensitivity in asking if I had survived the experience.
Did I think I had fallen for a child? I buried my