Free Beloved Enemy by Ellen Jones Page B

glad to see you’re not like your hot-tempered father—may God forgive him his sins—he rarely avoided bloodshed.”
    Eleanor bit back a hot rejoinder. “Unfortunately, my father’s temper too often ruled his judgment. But I’ve learned from his mistakes. If diplomacy will serve, use it. Violence is only a last resort in my opinion.”
    Abbé Suger raised skeptical brows but let the matter drop. What Eleanor had not said was that it was quite in order for her father to put down a rebellion in his own lands, but she could not bear the thought of French knights spilling one drop of hot Aquitainian blood. Far better to postpone the consummation of the marriage.
    On the journey north to Poitou, Eleanor slept as she always had with Petronilla, who confided to her that she had fallen passionately in love with the seneschal of France, Ralph of Vermondois.
    “But he’s three times your age, with grandchildren!”
    “What does that matter? This is true love.”
    “Oh, you’re always imagining yourself in love with someone, usually unsuitable,” Eleanor said. She would have to keep an eye on her flighty sister.
    On the second day of the journey they were overtaken by the count of Anjou and a small group of his knights near Angoulême. His son was perched on the saddle in front of him, and when Geoffrey reined his horse to a stop, young Henry clamored to get down. Eleanor pulled her roan mare to a halt and Louis was forced to do the same.
    “How pleasant to see you again, my lord,” said Eleanor, her heart quickening at sight of the handsome count. “Do you ride with us awhile.”
    Geoffrey smiled down at her. “There is nothing I would enjoy more, but I must return to Angers at once to prepare for another attack on Normandy.”
    “I understand. We will miss your company, won’t we, Louis?”
    To Eleanor’s embarrassment Louis mumbled something inaudible and looked away. He seemed ill at ease, uncertain of how to conduct himself when others were present. She gave Geoffrey an apologetic smile which he returned with a sympathetic look.
    “Come along, Henry,” he called to his son, who had disappeared into the bushes along the side of the road.
    Henry reappeared with a bunch of ivory lilies, wilting from the heat, clutched in his grubby fist. He trotted up to Eleanor and solemnly presented them to her, looking up into her face with wide gray eyes and a tentative smile.
    “Why, how thoughtful!” Eleanor took the flowers, touched by the child’s gesture. “Thank you, my lord.” She smiled back, reconfirming the bond they had formed at the feast in Bordeaux.
    Suddenly overcome by shyness the boy ran to his father, who hoisted him up onto the saddle.
    “You’ve made another conquest, Lady,” said Geoffrey with a laugh and a meaningful look.
    He rode on ahead with his party. Little Henry, peering around his father, waved until he was lost in a cloud of dust.
    “What a charmer is young Henry of Anjou,” said Eleanor. “He will break many a heart when he grows to manhood.”
    Louis said nothing.
    Five days later when the royal procession crossed into Poitou, Eleanor rode ahead with Louis, eager to show him the wondrous sights so familiar to her. If she could instill in him a love of her native land it would go a long way toward establishing cordial relations between them. Although Louis dutifully followed her lead, she had no idea what was going through his mind because he continued to remain virtually tongue-tied. Eleanor began to find his silent, retiring demeanor irritating.
    He had no reaction to stately castles surmounting cropped hilltops, fortresses rising over stone-faced cliffs, green marshes or cool streams. The only time he showed any interest was when they visited the Abbey of St. Maixent.
    On a balmy morning in early August, six days after they had left Bordeaux, they came in sight of the Clain River that encircled the ancient walled city of Poitiers, capital of Poitou. Streaks of white cloud stretched