21st day of March 1152 The Castle of Beaugency near Orleans, France

The proclamation was read before the court of assembled nobles and high clergy in the Great Hall. Eleanor sat stiff backed and impassive at the side of her husband as the papal nuncio intoned the words that would restore her freedom and ruin her reputation.

Know that the Holy Father, Pope Eugenius III, has decreed that the marriage of Louis the Pious, his most august Majesty, King of France, to the Lady Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine and Countess of Poitou, is declared unlawful in the sight of God on the grounds of consanguinity to the fourth degree. This kinship, forbidden by the laws of God and Man, was punished by the lady's long years of barrenness, finally ended by the birth of female issue, the Princesses Marie and Alix. May God have mercy on them for their sin!

The document was passed to an attendant who handed it on bended knee to the king. Louis stood up and spoke.

"Henceforth I am no longer bound to the lady Eleanor by law of God and Man. The former queen will depart this day for Poitiers, there to be restored to her patrimony and to conduct her affairs as befits an heiress of the realm. The Princesses Marie and Alix will remain in the Ile de France until such time as they come of age to marry. When God decrees, even kings must obey!"

At that, Louis held out his hand to his erstwhile queen with whom he had shared his throne, cold bed, and lacklustre marriage for fifteen years. Consanguinity to the fourth degree! Was any ruling monarch in Europe able to argue a more distant kinship? The rules were there to be raised or discarded as kings and pontiffs saw fit. Eleanor might be the most desirable woman in France, as well as the richest, but her lands and beauty were not worth the cost. No male heirs, a miserable relationship and her cuckoldry had worn down that weak and vacillating king despite his doe-eyed adoration of the fiery beauty. He had finally agreed to her pleading and the insistence of his advisors, led by Bernard, the intimidating abbot of Clairvaux. Eleanor must be discarded.

The Duchess, a queen but moments ago, rose to her feet and bowed her head. In silence she swept from the room, head held high, aware of every eye fixed upon her like vultures on a still-warm carcass. She heard the whispers of derision and satisfaction that society always pours down on its fallen heroes--- more so on its heroines.

'She is a whore!'
'She bore the children of her courtiers!'
'She lay with her blood uncle.'
'She debauched herself with a troubadour.'
'So much for southerners. They are decadent sensualists and heretics!'
She is like unto her grandfather, that famous seducer of the innocent!'

"They can spit out their bitter northern venom! I am free of this prison," she thought, "and I will teach them all to regret what they have thrown away!"

August 1151 - 8 months earlier

Geoffrey of Anjou entered the throne room, his son close behind. At 38, the Count still lived up to his soubriquet 'The Fair' bestowed on him long ago when he had won the heart of the Empress Matilda and had become her second husband. Tall, dwarfing most men of his day, his bright blue eyes sparkled with arrogant confidence and challenge. He could turn the head of any woman and intimidate most men.

Striding to the centre of the chamber, Geoffrey threw himself upon his knees and made obeisance to his liege lord. His behaviour was impeccable but contained within it an indefinable air of disrespect- impossible to capture, but implicit and recognised by all.

His son Henry followed his example and knelt beside his father. The young man's eyes, however, lingered a moment on the queen sitting on her carved throne, a statue of perfection, unmoving and expressionless. His watery blue-green eyes met hers and for an instant he saw the flame of curiosity before blank stare returned again.

Head dropping, he prostrated himself.

'Here before you lies your humble liege servant, Henri Plantagenet, Duke of Normandy, who has come to this place to do homage to you as his sovereign lord. He swears to be your man in all things pertaining to his fiefdom and pledges obedience to your will.'

Louis lifted up a jewelled sword resting on a cushion of purple velvet. Henry stepped forward, received the touch on his right shoulder, head bowed as the words of investiture were spoken.

The young man stood before his Lord King. He was eighteen years old and already one of the most powerful men in France, a warrior of some note who had wrested his ancestral lands from his cousin and enemy, Stephen, King of England. This Henry Plantagenet was the Duke of Normandy, heir to Anjou, Maine and Touraine and the claimant to the English throne. Henry was the most eligible bachelor in Christendom and one of the most engaging.

Not as tall or comely as his splendid father, but stockier built and more crudely wrought, his physique was a legacy from his Norman grandsire. Even at his youthful age, he was powerful of shoulder and sturdy of thigh; he owned the body of a warrior. His face was manly, square jawed and virile, not pretty but compelling, a face of character and strength of will. It was a face that women loved to view for on it they saw a challenge and a promise; this man would be difficult to tame but offered much to enjoy. His sea-green eyes were searching and restless but offered passion and emotion one moment, steel and ice the next.

Queen Eleanor saw all this as she gazed serenely over the gathered court on that hot midsummer morning, the air a heavy humid cloak; an atmosphere of charging current prickling in the air. A storm would break before the day was out and much needed torrents would fall on arid ground. Henry ran his hands through the untamed dark gold locks, streaked with auburn lights and glanced back once more at the queen. She shivered in the heat and felt the trickle of cold sweat down her back. Her mind saw lightening and heard thunder crack; a torrential flow poured down.

Late March 1152

The royal retinue trundled along the banks of the Loire following the southern road. They had passed a disturbed night at Blois during which a secret message conveyed to the lady's escort from an unnamed source warned of the presence of Count Thibaud of Champagne, who wished to make a bold attempt to carry off the Duchess Eleanor. A nocturnal escape had been made but the guards were still watchful and the whole party was nervous.

Eleanor rested her head on silken pillows and contemplated her position. She was almost thirty, a discarded queen and a suspected adulteress. A smile crossed her beautiful face, still unmarked by the passing of years, still as fair as the day she had been bartered to a king's son.

"I am the richest woman in France, heiress to its greatest landmass and a lady prized and serenaded in song, verse and courtly lays. What need I of cares?" To be free to choose her destiny and to return to her beloved Mediterranean lands were all that she desired. As long as she made this perilous journey safe through the predatory territories of this lawless country and evaded the marauding of the fortune hunters who sought her wealth in marriage, she would be safe from harm.

Approaching the great citadel of Tours, the party found themselves all at once surrounded by a large force of armed men. The guards reached for their weapons but a call from their captain stayed their hands. They were vastly outnumbered by the assailants, but these men had not raised arms; indeed a flag of parley flew.

Eleanor became aware of the halting of the train. Sitting up and parting the curtains, she was immediately cognisant of the danger. Her captain of guard, Jerome de Monriac, rode up and dismounted, removing his headgear and shaking back his black locks. He bowed and begged to be allowed to speak.

"My lady, these men are the honour guard of Lord Henry, Duke of Normandy. He wishes to be presented to you and claims valuable information for your Majesty." Jerome was besotted with his lady and had worn her colours at several tourneys. He could not accept that she was no longer a monarch- to him she would always be the queen of his heart. But then he was a Poitevin and had been raised on tales of courtly love and honour. Eleanor smiled at his grave concern and unwitting mistake in address.

She nodded and awaited the young Duke. Accepting Jerome's proffered hand, she gained the ground and stood to await the arrival of her noble interceptor.

Henry approached, striding purposefully along the muddy track potted with the holes left by the winter thaw. He genuflected before the Duchess and kissed her extended hand.

"Please stand, sir! You have some matter of import to discuss with me?"

"Madame, I have news that is painful to relate. You are in grave danger. My younger brother Geoffrey, named for my father who recently passed on so tragically and unexpectedly, has formed a plan to lay unfriendly hands upon your person. He is waiting in Tours with a force of soldiers and intends to carry you off, violate your body and claim rights to marry you by virtue of the consummation. Thus he desires to use your land and authority to wage war for the possession of my father's estate, which, as the eldest son, has rightfully passed to me. Geoffrey has developed a bitter rancour; you are but the pawn in his game."

Eleanor repressed a knowing smile. Henry might be the rightful heir by birth but his father's will had not agreed. It had decreed that, as Henry had Normandy and probably England, too, from his mother, the Angevin lands should devolve to the younger son. No French count wished to see the Norman upstarts gain a greater stranglehold in France- even if they were one's own sons!

"You took his patrimony, sir."

"I am the eldest son, madam."

"You have Normandy, perhaps England one day, my lord."

"Or perhaps not, my lady. A man must look to his rights."

"Indeed. Pray, what is your actual purpose here, sir?" Eleanor deftly brought the conversation to the present.

"My purpose?" Henry smiled, a strange, enigmatic smile; Eleanor felt a frisson of something pass between them. He was enjoying her overt challenge and she could feel the subtext behind his words as clearly as if he had enunciated them. It was a fleeting moment of knowledge, half-glimpsed, like a shadow on a wall, gone before one turns one's head. "Why…my purpose is merely to protect you and perhaps in doing so, protect myself. I intend to escort you to Poitiers - by an alternative route. To save you from a fate that you do not desire."

Eleanor studied his expression; it was impossible to read. On the surface there was polite courtesy, charming words and a plausible explanation for his presence but Eleanor sensed menace and an iron will beneath. Young Normandy was not all he seemed and would brook no opposition.

"And if I decline your gracious offer and take my chances on the road?"

Henry's eyes flashed, his face stiffening imperceptibly, but he forced a pleasant and attentive smile. Eleanor thought instantly of a crocodile that she had once seen in the East, basking and grinning but ready to strike with incredible ferocity in moments.

"Oh madam, I did not give you the option to decline. You will accept my hospitality and you will take my alternative route."

He bowed and backed away. No quarter was to be given. She was a prisoner of Henry Plantagenet - saved from one brother (if his tale was to be believed) but thrust into the care of the elder, much more dangerous sibling.

Eleanor allowed herself a fleeting smile. What a man! What a worthy opponent for such as I! But, if he meant to take her, she would make him toil and the idea filled her with a desire that she had not felt in many a year.

w

The castle was set on a rocky plateau leering down on the well-tended farmlands of lower Touraine. It was nightfall when they entered the bailey and Eleanor shivered at the grim foreboding of the towering citadel. This was no palatial residence as might befit a great lord but a fortress hewn out of the rock and meant for defence not comfort. There was only one way in and one way out---unless you were dead.

The place was silent but for the crowing of ravens settling in eerie expectation on the towers as if they were assembling for a tourney. A sharp knock sounded at the door of her carriage and it was opened before she could reply. A knight, not one of hers, curtly bade her to exit and she stepped down. Her men were standing at a distance, disarmed and uneasy. Eleanor caught Jerome's eye and saw the flash of desperation. She shook her head and hoped that he would understand. He was not to interfere. His life would be as insignificant to Henry Plantagenet as that of a flea.

Following her self-appointed guardian, Eleanor was led into a tower, up a winding moss damp spiral to an upper floor. There a door was opened which led into a series of chambers- a large reception room, a smaller bedchamber and a tiny stone flagged cubicle, part suspended over the castle wall with its crude opening and slab; the necessary arrangements were at least taken care of.

A fire burnt in the grate of the largest room and food was set upon the wooden trestle. Two servants, mute and eyes downcast, filled a large tin bath with hot water and Eleanor was momentarily impressed. The northerners were dirty creatures, most of whom rarely bathed, and she had expected Henry to be such. Perhaps he was more civilised.

Her own maidservants unpacked some toiletries and set themselves to preparing their mistress' bath. From a silver box they scattered fragrant dried leaves of laurel and rosemary into the water and added a few drops of attar of roses. They removed Eleanor's heavy travelling clothes and helped her into the soothing water. With a sigh she lay back, closed her eyes and shook her long golden locks over the edge of the bath to fall in luxuriant waves onto the floor. It was in this position that Henry found her.

"Madam!"

Eleanor's eyes shot open and she gasped. "How dare you, sir!"

Henry bowed and turned his back. "Forgive me but I did not expect to find you at your toilette. I merely came to ascertain that your needs were met. There is food and a clean bed, a warm fire - all you should need. Welcome to Mathelan."

Eleanor indicated to her maids to cover her bath with a large cloak. They arranged it round her neck.

"You may turn round, sir." He obeyed and a slight flicker of amusement crossed his lips. "I thank you for your hospitality," she went on, enunciating the word clearly so that he could hear her sarcasm. "And now I have all I require, good night, sir."

"Oh, I am not leaving, madam. I intend to dine with you. Pay me no mind. I have seen naked women before and will not be embarrassed by your state of undress." His voice was deep and sonorous, his tone flirtatious.

"Get out! How dare you! What think you that I could be impressed by the arrogant talk of a young boy like you?"

Henry laughed scornfully. He helped himself to a piece of meat from the table and poured himself some wine. "And what makes you think that a young man like me would be interested in a discarded wife of your advanced years? You flatter yourself, madam!" And with that he drank down the wine and bowed, leaving the room with a flourish.

Eleanor threw down the cloak and hit the water in temper. Her maids came forth and attended to her, washing her body and helping her to step out. With soft cloths they dried her slender form. All the while Eleanor fumed and hissed at his effrontery.

"What does he mean - a woman of advanced years? Am I not beautiful enough for a crude Norman thug like him?" She looked down at her body, the first doubts creeping in. She was almost thirty years of age and had borne two children. But her breasts were still high and full, her belly smooth and soft, her skin unmarked by pock or scar. And her hair still looked like corn in a summer meadow.

As her maids dressed her in a soft linen shift and wrapped the heavy damask robe of deep shimmering jade about her, she began to laugh. He was a rogue, this golden boy, this child-man. He had a wit and a tongue in his head and was toying with her to arouse her passions. Eleanor was used to the sweet flattery and cloying sentiments of courtly love where suitors and admirers pour honeyed words on a woman to woo her. It would seem that Henry had a method all his own- crude and aggressive, but not without an earthy charm. She felt her interest grow stronger.

At the wooden table, the Duchess ate a meal on her own and wished that he had returned. Rising from the table, she went to the window and sat upon the seat, peering out into the night. Above her waxed a silvery moon and a starry sky, a lover's sky, but it was hard to make out through the narrow arrow-slits, made for war not stargazing.

On a whim Eleanor called for a lamp and made her way up the spiral until she gained the highest level and pushed open the wooden door to the battlements. Her maidservant Clostelle carried a candle to light her way.

The night was cold -still late March- and they were high up, but it was clear and the air was bracing. Eleanor stood and took in the impressive view that gave control of an entire valley to the occupants. She did not hear him approach.

"My lady!"

Eleanor started at his presence for the second time that evening. Henry was standing before her, dressed informally. He had discarded his heavy cloak and tunic and wore nothing but hose and a loose white shirt open at the front to reveal his chest. Even in the moonlight, Eleanor could make out his powerful frame set on the flat belly and narrow hips of youth. His shirt hung down over his belt and Eleanor felt a momentary curiosity at what lay beneath the tight woollen hose. Everything about this man, young as he was, suggested virility and she suspected he would be handsomely endowed; it was somehow evident in his swagger.

"My lord Duke. You seem to make a habit of startling me."

"It was not my intent, my lady. I am but a clumsy oaf. I merely wished to show my concern. If, however, I wished to startle you, I would know full well how to achieve it."

Eleanor raised a carefully shaped eyebrow. "Indeed. And how would that be, sir?"

Henry rubbed a thoughtful hand over his chin, a faraway look in his eyes. "Why first, I would stand so."

And he stepped behind the lady, close enough for her to smell his wine-scented breath.

"Then, I might place my hand so." And he put his left hand over her eyes, pulling her slightly into his body. Eleanor stiffened but did not stop him.

"Finally, I would do this…" And Henry lowered his mouth to place a soft kiss on the tender skin at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. His tongue made contact and she felt him lick lightly to find her ear where he nibbled on the shell-like lobe. "And I'll warrant madam, that you would be startled throughout your whole body."

As suddenly as he had laid hands on her, Henry stepped away and leaned over the battlements. Eleanor struggled to compose herself, grateful for the gloom that hid the blush forming on her cheeks and breast.

"That was an unacceptable approach, sir," she remarked.

"Ah, but you accepted it anyway," Henry added, a note of satisfaction in his voice.

Eleanor turned as if to walk away and then she swept back round to face him. She saw his hair gleaming slightly in the glow of the candle, how it fell boyishly across his face and then noticed the shapely swell of his tight buttocks framed by the dark hose.

"What do you really want of me, sir? Why I am here? I am tired of boyish games!"

Henry straightened up and placed his hands on his hips; his tongue lolled sensuously from his mouth. He thought a long while before speaking.

"I wish to have you, of that there is no doubt. And I could have you, mistress, as easily as I could pick a flower from a garden. But that is not my desire. I want you to want me. I want you to reach for me and let me love you as you should be loved. For you have lived too long with a monk for a husband, amusing yourself with unworthy suitors. I desire to show you love with a man who is your equal---and once you have tasted it, you will never yearn for another man again."

Eleanor tossed her head back and laughed in his face. "I have been courted by men whose words were like unto the gifts of gods. What can you teach me of earthly love? You are a mere boy with an inflated sense of your own worth. If you knew more then you would know how pitiful your boyish arrogance is to me."

Henry advanced slowly towards Eleanor and stood before her. He raised his hand to play with a golden curl. "Then show me, mistress, teach me what you know…for I would fain learn from the queen herself. Lead me into the garden of your earthly delights."

His words rippled through her like a distant rumble of thunder on a hot summer night. Despite the cool spring air, Eleanor felt hot and languid. Their eyes met and she knew then that she was lost. His arms reached for her and she found herself slipping into his body, felt the sturdy rock of his chest against her own and the warm embrace of his arms encircling her waist.

Henry tilted down his head and kissed her neck, then stroked a finger down her comely cheek. His lips met hers and she was surprised by the delicacy of his kiss: a nibble to her upper lip, a slight suck upon her lower, his tongue licking lightly along the parting of her lips. Eleanor trembled, felt herself sigh and in that moment he found his entry to slip between her pearl white teeth and duel with her willing tongue. What a kiss! A kiss that was to gain more power and land than any sword raised in anger ever did. The Duchess snaked her arms around his sturdy neck and sank into his hold as he ground his desire against her body. A parley was achieved. A concordat was being sealed. And soon, quite soon, Henry Plantagenet would enter his new kingdom.

w

Henry led Eleanor down the treacherous mossy steps back to the warm confines of her room. He dismissed her maids but whispered something to one who ducked behind a curtained alcove and then re-emerged. When the last hurried servant scuttled across the room and the door clanged shut, the man and woman moved. Throughout this period they had stood stock-still observing each other openly, taking in each feature as if granted first sight.

He was more slender than he appeared fully dressed; his girth accentuated by his wide shoulders, powerful arms and mighty chest. Moderate of height, he was no giant like his father, and this gave the impression of stockiness although his waist and hips were narrow, his legs shapely. The linen shirt he wore hung open. Around his neck he wore a leather thong on which hung a boar's tooth set in a silver clasp. It dangled on a chest lightly brushed with golden brown hair.

Eleanor saw him shake his head slightly and observed how the thick locks swung back from his face. She had thought his hair red brown but gold streaks shone in the reflected light from a brazier and the flickering image made her think of a tongue of fire hovering above his head. It would not have surprised Eleanor. Everything about this man said 'He is the chosen one, marked out for greatness.' Even her womb recognised his destiny. This blue-eyed, strong-faced Angevin was her natural mate and she could already feel his seed growing in her belly.

Henry allowed himself the luxury of unguarded gaze, so close was he to his prey. This woman was like nothing he had ever seen - he had known it since the first moment he had stood before her in Paris. Her beauty was incomparable, a mixture of the golden brown Mediterranean with the fair hair of a northerner - a combination rare and precious. Eleanor's eyes were green, tinged with hazel, sometimes pale and sometimes ocean deep. Her nose was high and gave a hauteur to her face, contrasting with the lovely mouth, wide and full, quick to anger, ready to smile. Intelligence and spirit were written all over her features; she was a woman to be tamed but never broken, like a thoroughbred warhorse who knows when to submit and when to fly.

It was hard to imagine that she was almost in her thirtieth year- her face and figure, although that of a woman and not a girl, would have passed for many years younger. There was not a line or a blemish on her skin and her body was lithe as a wand, her breasts still full and firm. A sudden urge to see her legs betook him; he imagined they were long and slim, golden and firm, shining with fragrant oils. The knowledge of the place above, that heaven wherein a man might rest, haunted him. Would her secret hair be golden like the thick dark blonde flax of her head or duskier as her skin tones were? For all his arrogant poise, young Henry was feeling close to desperation as his desire to uncover her charms engulfed him.

A sudden chord broke through the silence and they both blinked their thoughts away. Music sounded, melodic and hypnotic, a Tambourin strummed on a lute with drum beat rhythm, a Provencal favourite. It was a haunting sound as the pulse of the tambour mimicked the slow and sensuous steps of this dance of love.

Eleanor gasped and turned to where the sound originated, the curtained area behind her.

"Do not worry. My minstrel is blind. He can see nothing."

"But he can hear, my lord."

"You intend to raise an alarum?"

"I intend a noise of quite a different nature, sir. But piercing none the less."

Henry took a step towards her on the beat, his right hand raised before his face, palm out to her; she echoed his movement.

"He has heard worse, I'll warrant." He muttered as he stared intently down at her.

"Ah, sir, but never better, methinks," was her provocative reply.

The would-be lovers approached each other in the dance, first one hand extended and then the other, bodies slightly turned at an angle. An age passed as they crossed the room until their hands made contact and the shiver of touch ran rampant along nerve endings and blood vessels alerting their true natures. Round and round they stepped, first to the right, ending the turn in a rise and then a bow; shoulders changed they repeated to the left, eyes fixed upon each other, no expression but the flaring of a nostril or the flicker of an eye, both breasts heaving with scarce contained desire.

The tattoo quickened and the pace stepped up, both hands joined above their heads, making an arch where imaginary couples tumbled through. Then the final bars; the lovers come together, their courtship and marriage celebrated, the dance of consummation nigh. Henry grasped her waist and held her to him, their lower bodies adhering as she leaned away and arched slightly in his grasp, his head drooping to hover above her bosom as they spun in the whirling climax.

Eleanor observed the hunger in his eyes, now no longer confident and sure. She saw his lips part and his tongue lick the corner of his mouth as his breath came in short gasps. Her breasts cried out for his attentions, craved the warm wetness of his lips and she felt almost pain to be denied. Against her lower belly was the virile hardness of this astonishing young man and her womanhood wept for its naked caress.

The courtly measure rang its final bars and Henry slowed his movement until they reached a stop. His hand reached out to loosen her hair and he drew her to him for a kiss. The moment their lips made contact, a floodgate of passion was unleashed. Neither spoke but fingers and hands made conversation as they felt and stroked and caressed. Henry tore aside her robe and cupped her breast garbed only in fine linen; his hands were urgent but not rough. Eleanor ran a hand around his neck to rake through the thick hair and rub her face against his stubble; her other hand she dropped to glide open-palmed over his manhood, encased in the close-fitting hose. She moaned at the length and width in her small grasp.

Her overt examination was too much for him in his heightened ardour. With a grunt of frustration he swept her up in his arms and strode to the inner chamber, falling with her onto the bed, his body straddling hers, eagerness driving him too fast.

"Hold! My Lord, hold!" Eleanor gasped and pushed him away. His eyes focussed and he panted deeply, shaking himself to clear his lust-soaked brain. "Take your time; it will be as you wish."

He nodded and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth; his gesture aroused her further. It contained a latent power, which he was struggling to control. She shivered at the thought of what he might be capable of if he had a mind. But he was master of himself again and the faraway smile that spoke of things imagined yet unfulfilled returned.

Slipping from the bed, Henry stood before Eleanor and pulled her to a seated position. He lowered the soft garment from her shoulders with a gentle movement, his fingers kissing her skin as he eased it slowly down her arms. She felt as though he were unwrapping a priceless treasure and observed the spellbound concentration in his eyes. As the shift fell down to her waist, he sighed deeply at the sight of her breasts, brown nipples tipped towards him. He pressed himself against her and her breasts sang out to the shaft that lay in the valley between them. He was offering her his gift and she longed for him to bury it in another valley deeper still.

Breaking away, Henry pulled off his shirt and threw it from him, baring the chest she had only imagined. Eleanor stretched her hand to touch the round pectorals of his breast capped by their small hair ringed nipples, down the solid band of his chest to the flat belly and the thatch of hair which thickened as it met his hose, dark golden hair, soft and curly. As her knuckles brushed his groin, he smiled, turned away and pulled at the ribbon to loosen the flap, let the hose fall, dragging on the cloth to hasten the removal. Eleanor observed the swell of his fine buttocks and hooked her fingers in the wool to aid its revealing. Naked his arse was a delight, firm and round, peach-like, and she bent to place a kiss on each perfect cheek.

Henry moaned and spun round, his hands covering his manhood. Eleanor raised her eyes to his and licked her lips. "Show me!" she commanded and he dropped his left hand, slowly jerking with his right before her delighted gaze.

It was a magnificent cock, proud and thick, veined and blood darkened, steel draped in a velvet skin. A pearly drop of moisture pooled at the tiny hole and Eleanor bent forward to scoop it on her tongue.

His reaction was unexpected. The mighty cocksure youth whimpered and his head shot back, his thick neck revealing cords and sinews straining as he fought to prevent the torrent he wished to shed.

"No, please, madam…I am too close…help me…"

Eleanor rose on her knees and placed her hands on his strong young face. With tender pressure, she eased him towards her, whispering throatily, "Then take your pleasure where you will. You are young, your virility will quickly be restored and then we can play as lovers do. Come, plunge into my depths, take the reward for your audacious quest, my fine young man!"

She lay back and exposed herself before him as he sank onto the soft down of the bed. He bent to kiss her and then with a moan trailed his tongue down her neck and between her breasts, past her slender belly to the hair of burnished gold. With a grunt of frustration, Henry widened her thighs to place his kiss below, full on her nether lips, as deep and searching as his kiss upon her mouth had been.

Lapping at her wetness, thick tongue plunging in to seek out her pungent honey, his nose raked her red-tinged cunt and pressed against her hardened bud. Eleanor moaned and disported herself more widely, forcing his head deeply against her wet cleft, raising herself to watch his lewd kisses and rapacious tongue.

His ardour was at bursting point as he rose from his nestling place to kneel astride her waist, showing himself to her, the arrogance returning for a moment. Her smile and the passion-glaze of her eyes gave him his answer. Falling on to his arms, he parted her with one knee and then another. Eleanor lent him aid, wrapping her golden legs around his buttocks and with a thrust more true than many a much more experienced 'sword', Henry came into his kingdom and plundered the fruits of this warm southern land.

Eleanor sighed at the feel of his hard shaft, hot and burning, as different to the insipid poking of her ex-husband as vintage full-bodied wine is to bitter vinegar. Whatever tales were told of Eleanor's paramours, there had in reality been very few and it was many years since she had felt the promise of paradise in any man's arms. Her lonely body and the spirit of this passionate lady recognised its true mate in the lusty lovemaking of the young duke. Her sighs turned to moans, her moans to cries until Henry's ears rang with her bewitching voice calling his name over and over in her moment of climax. He had steeled himself enough, and with a deep thrust, a shudder that racked through him, he filled her with his bounty. It was no ordinary seed. Within his sac and her womb lay the stuff of kings and queens.

In the quiet that followed their wild love, the man and woman lay lost in each other's arms, stunned by the emotion that had overtaken them. Eleanor was no mere bedmate, no willing body to while away the night. Henry had never felt love, was not sure that he believed in it, even now doubted its longevity in the scheme of things. But he recognised the gift of shared obsession, passion, hunger to taste and be fulfilled. With this woman he could find that Elysium.

Eleanor thought about the young man whom she cradled on her belly as he kissed and caressed her. He was a dangerous friend and a mortal enemy, of this she was sure. His desire for power was unbridled and she a step on the scaling ladder to the citadel. With her domains enjoined to his own, he would be virtual master of France---England could not hold out against him. To be his consort, the queen to the greatest king in Christendom, was a prize beyond reckoning. She would have married him if he had but sent couriers and wise old counsellors to seek her hand!

The notion that he had carried her off and courted her in his rough and brash fashion amused her mightily. Now that she had tasted him, her reward for the wretched years spent in Paris seemed complete. What a lover! What a force of nature their two monumental figures would make whether on a throne, the field of battle or the sheets of a rumpled bed!

The cry of the change of guard on the castle wall above announced the lateness of the hour; a chill wind turned on the night air and blew an angry blast into the chamber causing tapers to sputter and flicker. Henry lifted up his head and looked around the room, a strange expression on his face. He threw himself down on the bolster by his mistress and pulled her to him.

"There? You felt the chill?" he asked. A sudden coldness fell upon the room and they both shivered.

"It is the season, the nights still carry the memory of winter."

He shook his head and fingered her heavy locks, his lips pursed and thoughtful. "No, madam, I think not. This castle is a haunted place whose stones carry traces of awful deeds committed within its walls. Remember you the story of your ancestor Melusine?"

Eleanor sat up and pulled a fur around her nakedness, Henry ran his hands down her body; and stroked her quim she shuddered and it was not from cold. "The Lusignan? My father's great grandmother?" She laughed lightly. "They say she was a witch, the enchanted Melusine, wife to Raymond of Poitiers. But surely they are only nursery tales told to frighten ignorant children or subdue peasants?"

The Duke tossed back his hair and stared up at the dank ceiling. "Oh no, madam, no indeed. You are descended from a creature of the Devil and this was her lair. Melusine, who spawned your family, once dwelt here. We are both of devil's brood. It is said my ancestor, Fulk the Black, made his own pact with the Lord of Darkness. This night Melusine has passed through; we are in her sights. That is an omen; you shall bear my sons, her descendants."

Eleanor frowned and shivered. "I may not wish to be the brood mare for your viper's nest."

"Too late, my lady, the seed is sown." His smile was oblique.

"Know you not that I am barren of male children?" Eleanor rose up, suddenly ill at ease.

"You have not been ploughed by a man until tonight; your husband was a monk, little better than a eunuch." He grabbed her naked belly and applied a firm pressure to it. "My blood courses through your womb. And to make full sure, I will scatter my seed again and again until you are swollen with me. This I promise you, fair Eleanor, my queen."

Henry reached for her and pulled her down to meet his lips, his free hand guiding hers to his tumescent manhood. Eleanor was seized by a sudden wild abandon, the spirit of her dark ancestor possessing her, and with a snarl, she bit his lip, drawing blood. As he backed away, Eleanor pushed him down and bent to taste his manhood, dragging her blood tinged tongue along his thick shaft. She grasped it and worked it firmly to its zenith whilst suckling noisily, a lewd guzzling sound. A low moan emitted from his lips as she fellated him like a skilful whore, her golden locks a veil around her lasciviousness.

Splayed before him she knelt, her naked buttocks near his face, legs parted, cunt and hair glistening with the thick white cream of his dripping ejaculate mixed with her own erotic moisture.

As the young man gave himself to her feral assault, he trailed his thumbs down her naked snatch, roughly parted her swollen folds. Grunting like a rutting beast, the horned devil of his words, he thrust two fingers into her gaping passage, frotting and tamping, insensible to delicacy in his lust.

The Duchess writhed and ground against his fingers, let him rub her pearl until she was unable to attend him, muttering and moaning crudely while he fingered her quim and fucked her mouth.

As her climax peaked and the tight walls closed around his thick fingers, he pulled away and tossed her to her back, knees bent against her breasts. Towering above her on his knees, he first rubbed his cock against her face, her breast and her burning cunt, smearing her in their sticky residue- then he plunged in.

"Watch!" he groaned through gritted teeth, grabbed her head and jerked her forward.
"Look how devils fuck!"

Eleanor stared as he sank his cock to the hilt and then withdrew, dripping in her wetness, hair glistening with their dew, a purple fleshy steel gashing the tender flesh. It was like a sword driven full deep into a body, slipping out on a gushing fountain. This was passion, crude and relentless, a combat of the senses wracked with awful pain and pleasure, like nothing either had ever known.

And then Henry changed, in a blink of an eye, from conqueror to lover, and his words became sweet and gentle. Raising her to his lap, wrapped round each other, her naked flesh crushed in his powerful grasp, Henry pounded and ground himself into her as she rose and fell, eager to share his desire. The moon cast eerie shadows lit by flickering candle light on their illicit love until they fell asleep in each other's arms, exhausted by the vigour of their unquenchable cravings.

w

Morning dawned, a blustery day of gales and driving rain. The lovers slept late until they stirred and reached for each other again to love in sleepy tenderness, so different and less heady from the raw sensuality of the dark night.

As they broke fast they were playful and gay, teasing each other with fruit at the table, snatching kisses and intimate touches even before the servants, Henry clad only in hose and Eleanor in his linen shirt.

At mid morning, Henry took his leave and instructed his mistress to be dressed and ready to meet in the great Hall within the hour. There were matters to discuss. At the appointed time, Eleanor descended, dressed in the regal splendour that befitted a former queen and great landowner.

"Madam." Henry sat at the head of a table with some older men, clearly counsellors and advisors, one a prelate by his holy garb. Her captain Jerome stood at hand, a deep furrow of concern on his brow.

Eleanor took the straight-backed seat indicated and awaited Henry's will.

"I brought you to this place against your will, although you have suffered no ill treatment at my hands. There was purpose in my deed, a two-fold purpose. First, I wished to bed you. That was my desire since I once lay at your feet in Paris and you stared so disdainfully at the mere boy before you. Now you have been beneath me and I have taken the best that you have to offer. And, madam, it was worth the journey!" Henry sneered and turned to face Jerome de Monriac, openly flaunting his conquest before her love-sick champion. He had recognised the man's unfulfilled desire since first he had observed the two together.

Eleanor paled at the open acknowledgment of their sin; his behaviour was unconscionable. Jerome bridled and let out a curse that any man could treat his lady in this callous way. Guards moved to his side, a warning hand restraining his sword arm. Henry merely grinned, a rictus that did not reach his eyes, turning back to Eleanor.

"The second reason is, of course, to seal a contract with you. Today, we shall be betrothed and will declare to the world our newfound love. These men have drawn up documents for the disposition of your land to my protection. For a woman so beautiful and fragile as yourself cannot be allowed to wander the highways and byways of this dangerous land without the safety of a champion. Why, you could be carried off and forced against your will to who knows what bestialities? As ever, your interests are paramount in my mind."

Eleanor rose from her chair, burning spots in her pale cheeks, anger flaring at the way this boy had used and manipulated her, shamed her before a room of men. "How dare you! I have no desire for marriage, sir, nor have need of it. I hold my own land and will dispose of it as I alone see fit."

Henry laughed and waved his hand for her to sit down again. "We shall marry in Poitiers as soon it can be arranged. Don't play games with me, madam! You are my whore already; I am offering you the sanctity of marriage to save your reputation, which is already sullied. A woman of thirty years, past her prime, should count herself amongst the blessed for the gift of a lusty young husband in her bed. You will not refuse me. We are of the same ilk, my fair queen. Devil's spawn! You are ambitious and power-hungry just as I; you, too, desire to rule and shape the world about you. Here is your chance. Take revenge on those who sucked your girlhood from you in a cold, loveless court. Marry me, give me sons, and I will sit you at my right hand and make you the most powerful woman in Christendom. What say you, Eleanor of Aquitaine?"

Her eyes flared at his words; he was right in his assumption. She had wanted him from the first for all the reasons he had said. But she was mindful of his great insult to her and knew it was the mark of how their lives together would fare.

"I will be your wife and your queen. I will make you shudder in my bed in the dark of the night. I will give you sons. But I will never give you peace. From this day forth, I shall hate you, Henry of Anjou, and my hate will grow. You will rue the day you thought to bend me to your will. I will put my seal to any document you lay before me but you shall never put a seal upon my will. For that is not within the power of any man!"

Henry smiled, a cold and knowing smile. The deed was done. The devil was about but they would make the future in their demonic passion. Love has no place in the beds of kings and queens.

w

Henry and Eleanor married in Poitiers on May 18th 1152 less than two months later. Their first child William was born the following year. During the next thirteen years, they had seven more children, the last one born when Eleanor was forty-three years old. Louis was enraged at the marriage, partly because it meant the loss of so many French lands to his greatest enemy, but also because of the six sons she bore Henry. Amongst these children were the kings Richard the Lion-heart and John. Was it a happy marriage? Hardly - the couple battled throughout their married life until Henry's death in 1189, whilst waging war against his sons (supported by their mother). It was a devil's brood indeed! But, despite their fights, his constant infidelities and the period he incarcerated her, they continued to have children together and their passionate couplings are remarkable in the context of their stormy relationship. This story tells the tale of a lost few days in their lives which culminated in the shock betrothal. It is hard not to imagine that something of this nature did indeed take place. Eleanor died in 1204, aged eighty-two, still playing her political games.