Free The Sister Queens by Sophie Perinot

the bed. Then, regarding my trembling form with a kindly expression, he pulls the covers over me and says, “Somewine, I think.” Pouring me a glass he commands, “Drink it all.” I do the best that I can with shaking hands and a throat suddenly closed with fear. When the glass is drained he is not satisfied. “And another.”
    I have had nothing to eat since I broke my fast this morning, so I can feel the second glass even as it goes down. His Majesty must see its effects, for he nods his head contentedly and takes the glass from my hand. Then he begins to undress rapidly.
    My good nurse advised me to look away, as if I were about to have a splinter removed from my finger. But I cannot. It is in my nature to face what I fear. As the king’s braies come off, I catch sight of it. I have never seen such a thing, not even when I stumbled upon a stable boy and kitchen maid engaged in the act of love behind a garden wall, for then all I could see was his back and her face as she panted and moaned. My husband’s member is like the slightly gnarled limb of a flesh-colored tree. It stands straight out from his body. I cannot fathom how such a thing will fit inside me; yet this is what must happen, according to my mother’s description.
    Lifting the covers, the king slides into bed beside me and begins to kiss me once more. I hold my body back from his, as far as I can; yet I can feel the tip of it brushing my legs. I want to put my hand down and push it away, but I dare not. Moving his mouth to my ear, my husband says, “Eleanor, I will try to be gentle, but you must relax. Do you understand?”
    “Y-yes, Your Majesty,” I stammer.
    “Henry.”
    “Yes, Henry.” I cannot see what difference it makes what I call him at a moment like this!
    Sitting up, the king rolls me onto my back. “Draw up your knees,” he instructs. And when I lie helpless and uncomprehending, he arranges my legs himself as if I were an inanimate thing.
    Between my legs and kneeling over me, Henry kisses me again. Pressing his mouth once more against my ear he says, “Promise you will tell me if I hurt you.”
    I can only shake my head by way of response. I have lost my tongue.
    I feel his fingers spreading me, and for a moment something round and smooth, like the tip of a nose, hesitates at the entrance to my
cloistre virginal
. Then with slow steady pressure he begins to slide into me. My eyes tear, but he cannot see them, for his head is buried in my hair and he is kissing the side of my neck. And I refuse to cry out, no matter what I promised, even when a sudden shove causes me a sharp pain. I close my eyes and clench my hands into fists beside me against the pain of subsequent thrusts. Thankfully, after perhaps half a dozen more, Henry gives a great cry and slumps down upon me, pulling me to him in a tight embrace. Withdrawing from me, he pulls the blankets, which have come off during his efforts, up to cover me modestly, then lies beside me, stroking the hair back from my face.
    “You were very brave,” he says solemnly, “and have made me very happy.”
    “I am glad,” I mumble. I suddenly feel very sleepy, even though it is only late afternoon.
    “I promise next time will be better.” His voice is soothing, as is his touch upon my face. I have a hard time focusing my eyes on him. “Sleep,” he croons, “sleep, my beautiful bride. My treasure.”
    NEVER IN ALL MY LIFE have I met anyone more desirous of seeing me pleased than this man who has known me less than a week. On our travels from Canterbury to Westminster, where we are now ensconced, His Majesty spent nearly every minute trying either tokeep me warm or to draw me out on the subject of my likes and dislikes. There was no use telling him how much I hate the English weather, with its constant rain and a cold beyond any I have ever known. So, I confined myself to more pleasant topics. Finding that tales of chivalry delight me, he promised to take me to Glastonbury to see the