Royal Weddings...Through the Ages

Her boldness, her vitality, her sense of humour and adventure, all called to him. Her beauty and her innate passion riled his blood. She would be a fitting wife for him and he was glad of it. The bishops, surrounded by the wafting smell of burning ashes and candles, consecrated their union by praying blessing after blessing for them and offering a seemingly endless litany of prayers. Henry grew anxious to reach the end of this ceremony. ‘Twas sacrilegious possibly, but he wanted her called wife so that he could have her to himself—and that could only happen when they were declared married.

With each passing prayer, he drew her closer, enjoying the feeling of her body near his and the knowledge that she was minutes away from being his. At last, the final benediction was prayed and, as they knelt next to each other, Eleanor squeezed his hand in response.

She was a fitting match for him and would be the wife he would need at his side during these next crucial years as he claimed England at last and forged his own kingdom. Everything he needed in a helpmeet, everything he wanted in a future queen and everything he wanted in a woman he found in Eleanor.

As he helped her stand and listened to the bishop’s words declaring them man and wife before God, Henry felt the laughter bubbling up from within and he let it out. It echoed through the large open spaces in the cathedral and then hers joined his as they raced down the long centre aisle towards the doors and the rest of their lives together.

Reaching the doors, he paused only long enough for the guards to open them before drawing Eleanor into his arms and kissing her the way he wanted to, beginning to make her his and to claim her passion for himself. Then, waving off those who would help, he lifted her onto one of the matching horses that stood waiting for them and climbed onto the other.

Trumpets flared and drums beat. Their names were chanted by the crowds and echoed down the cobbled streets of Poitiers as they made their way slowly back to the castle where they would celebrate with a feast and dancing for the rest of the day. Eleanor’s every move was filled with elegance and grace, as she nodded to her people, now his, and accepted their adulation as though it was more than simply that expected of a people for their liege. She was accepting their love.

Though his men surrounded them as their honour guard, Eleanor’s own troops led their way along the streets. An example of what their marriage meant, this merging of Normandy and Aquitaine, Angers and Poitou, would create something new and different among the powers on the continent. Henry smiled and waved as people called out his name.

As he turned back, he caught sight of Eleanor smiling at him and, for a moment, they were not duke and duchess or count and countess. They were not heirs or heiresses. Instead they were simply Henry and Eleanor, a man and a woman, married and beginning the rest of their lives together. In that instant, Henry offered up a prayer for all those things every man must wish for at such a time—many years together, a happy life and the blessing of children.

Eleanor nodded at him, seeming to understand and share his feelings, and Henry knew all would be well between them. Reaching over, he held out his hand and took hers. They rode the rest of the way with hands joined.

‘Twas hours later when Henry announced an end to the feast and sent Eleanor off with her ladies to prepare for their marriage bed. Though his men and those he called friends called out bawdy words and offered challenges to him, he brushed them off and arrived at Eleanor’s chambers alone. A formal bedding ceremony was expected, but Henry had ordered there be none. She would be his wife for the rest of their lives, for Henry had no intention of repeating Louis’s mistake in letting such a treasure escape. He would never repudiate their marriage or the woman herself and he had no intention of exposing her loveliness to the gawking gazes of others.

As arranged, she was alone when he entered, her women leaving just as he closed the door behind him. Uncertain of what to expect or where he would find her, Henry lifted the candle he carried and saw her in the bed. He lost the ability to think in that moment, for the sight of her sitting there among silken pillows and sheets, with only her hair covering the creamy flesh and feminine curves, was too alluring to resist.

What should not have surprised him was the way she watched him as he walked across the bedchamber to stand before her. If he thought she would watch him with less intensity or interest than he watched her, Henry discovered differently in a very short time. He remembered the moment he caught her staring at him in Louis’s court last autumn and saw the frank assessment in her knowing eyes. The same gaze greeted him now and he wondered how bold she could be.

Henry paused at the side of the bed, placed the candle on the table to join the others there and began to untie the laces on his tunic and shirt. She never said a word, but she missed nothing. He lifted his arms and tugged the garments over his head, allowing her to watch.

He could feel the heat of her gaze move over his flesh and his body reacted to her frank scrutiny by readying itself for what was to happen. Eleanor shifted in the bed but said nothing. Then a slight smile curved her lips and she nodded, giving him permission to continue! He laughed then and reached for the belt around his waist. Watching her reaction caused his heart to pound and his blood to race through his veins, heating every part of him.

Henry bent down and removed his boots and stockings before loosening his trews and pushing them down and off. Standing, he faced Eleanor and let her look her fill for he intended to do the same of her before the night was done. If he thought she would look away or not carefully examine his manliness, he was wrong, but the true surprise came when she spoke.

‘As I said some weeks ago, Your Grace, you will do.’

He would have sputtered out some words but her gesture forestalled him. Eleanor lifted the sheets, gifting him with a view of her full breasts and narrow waist. When she opened her legs and offered him a place between them, he accepted the passion and the woman she offered.

Only some hours later, when their ardour had been spent by several bouts of pleasure together did he respond to her words.

‘As will you, my sweet Eleanor. As will you.’

Epilogue

Le Mans, County of Anjou, 1157 AD

Eleanor, Duchess of Normandy and Aquitaine and Queen of England, smiled as the baby was handed to her husband. Henry had wanted sons and this was the third they’d produced—something even she had wondered would be possible when they’d married five years before. After having only daughters with Louis Capet, the doubt had lived deep within her. The births of little Henry and this son had eased her grief over losing the firstborn of Henry’s get and now her contentedness in the marriage she’d sought with the House of Anjou increased. Henry examined the baby and then nodded his joy at her.

‘I agree with your choice, Eleanor. Richard is a fine name for my son,’ he said. He handed the baby back to his nurse and sat on the bed, next to Eleanor, sliding their hands together. ‘I am pleased, wife.’

Eleanor understood that part of her husband’s pleasure involved tweaking the nose of her former husband, who could not seem to have a son. Word would be sent out announcing the arrival of the latest son in the Plantagenet family and she could imagine Louis’s reaction.

‘As am I, husband,’ she said, accepting the kiss he offered.

‘He will make a fine heir to Aquitaine,’ Henry declared as boldly as ever, knowing that the decision was hers and not his to make.

‘He could,’ she answered, not consenting or rejecting the idea as yet.

Five years before he had relented in his demands over this issue, but, like a dog with a juicy bone, he could not let it go. Though he’d gone on to make his claim on England the year after their marriage and then assumed the throne there another year after that, Henry still wanted Aquitaine. Even having England within his grasp did not cause him to let go of her claim of control over her provinces.

Now though, he was happy with this new heir she’d given him and would be gracious in her refusal. He realised it even as she did and so she eased her stance the tiniest bit.

‘Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Aquitaine,’ she said. ‘It does have an appealing sound to it.’

Henry leaned in close and touched his mouth to hers, gently squeezing her hand as he did so.

‘You will do,’ Henry replied. Kissing her again, he gathered her close and held her in his arms, mindless of anyone else in the chamber. ‘Aye, you will do, Eleanor.’

* * * * *

Author Note

As we all know, the marriage of Henry and Eleanor would last for decades and be one of the best known of all of the royal matches in British history. From their legendary squabbles which split apart the Angevin empire (and were the basis for dramas like The Lion in Winter) to the extraordinary long life of Eleanor (she died in her eighty-third year), who tried to hold it all together for her sons, their story was filled with all of the things that families deal with even now—love, betrayal, support, estrangement, restoration and competition.

The fates of the Capets and the Plantagenets remained intertwined and connected for generations. In love or in war, theirs was a constant competition for control of lands and titles in what would become modern France.

Though Eleanor is often demonised in the histories of the times, blamed for everything that ever went wrong in the life of Louis Capet, I cannot help but believe that history is not kind to extraordinary women who step outside the boundaries of society’s expectations of them. And I chose to see Henry as an enthusiastic young man, about to set out to pursue all of his dreams, in search of a woman who could be his equal. If he decided later that he did not want such a woman, we can’t blame her for it!

As their marriage progressed, Henry and Eleanor produced eight (or possibly nine) children, sons and daughters who inherited various parts of their family empire or who were married off to strengthen bonds with other important and powerful families. Most readers tend to remember only two of them—Richard and John. Divided by contention and favouritism, Henry’s sons were never content and eventually saw almost all of their lands on the continent lost and only England remain under their control.

But, at the beginning of it all, a marriage between an older woman and a younger man, a duchess and a duke, a count and a countess, began, I believe, with enthusiasm, anticipation and a bit of love. I hope you enjoyed the story of their royal wedding.

For readers seeking more of the historical details about this time period and this particular marriage, let me suggest two of the books I use when writing in this time period: The Knight, the Lady and the Priest: The Making of Modern Marriage in Medieval France by Georges Duby, and Eleanor of Aquitaine and the Four Kings by Amy Kelly.

Those readers familiar with my previous historical romances should recognise the man who facilitates the delicate negotiations between Henry and Eleanor—Godfroi. In The King’s Mistress, he is known as Godfrey and has indeed entered God’s service. By the time of that story, he is abbot of a large monastery in northern England and counsellor to the hero, Orrick of Silloth-on-Solway, as well as to an older but not much wiser Henry II of England. It was fun for me to go back and see how Godfroi helped in this marriage. He is, of course, a fictional character, created for these stories and not based on any real person, though I suspect there must have been someone like him who helped things along.

Happy reading!

Terri Brisbin

Lionheart’s Bride

Michelle Willingham

About the Author

MICHELLE WILLINGHAM grew up living in places all over the world. When her parents hauled her to antique shows, Michelle entertained herself by making up stories and pondering whether she could afford a broadsword with her allowance. Currently she teaches American History and English, and lives in south-eastern Virginia with her husband and children. She still doesn’t have her broadsword. Visit her website at: www.michellewillingham.com or e-mail her at [e-mail]

Previous novels by Michelle Willingham:

HER IRISH WARRIOR* THE WARRIOR’S TOUCH* HER WARRIOR KING* HER WARRIOR SLAVE ^ THE ACCIDENTAL COUNTESS % THE ACCIDENTAL PRINCESS% TAMING HER IRISH WARRIOR * SURRENDER TO AN IRISH WARRIOR *

Also available in eBook format in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone!:

THE VIKING’S FORBIDDEN LOVE-SLAVE

THE WARRIOR’S FORBIDDEN VIRGIN

AN ACCIDENTAL SEDUCTION % INNOCENT IN THE HAREM PLEASURED BY THE VIKING

* The MacEgan Brothers

^ prequel to The MacEgan Brothers mini-series

% linked by character

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Prologue

Pamplona, the Kingdom of Navarre, 1187

‘I didn’t know if you would come,’ Richard said, reaching for her hand. He had removed the chain-mail armour he’d worn earlier and wore a blue silk tunic trimmed with fur. His dark mantle rested over his shoulders, and even in the moonlight, Berengaria could see the cool grey of his eyes and the reddish glint of his hair.

‘What choice did I have?’ she accused. ‘You stole my ring at the tournament when you kissed my hand.’ Holding out her palm, she sent him a warning look. ‘I want it back.’

‘I wanted an excuse to see you again.’ He sent her a slow smile that quickened her pulse. Opening his hand, he revealed the emerald and gold ring. ‘Is this what you want?’

When she tried to seize it, he curled his fingers over his palm. ‘Come closer, and you shall have it.’

‘Do not play games, Your Grace. I’ve no interest in them.’

‘If that were true, you wouldn’t have come. You’d have sent a servant for the ring.’

‘And you’d have refused to return it.’

He drew closer, pressing the ring into her hands. ‘Do you think me such a villain?’

‘I don’t know who you are.’ Though her hands were gloved, she could feel the heat of his skin. Something about this man intrigued her, slipping past her defences like the warrior he was.

Don’t stay, Berengaria warned herself. Leave now. Her father, King Sancho, would be furious if she knew she was standing in the garden with the Duke of Aquitaine, the son of King Henry Plantagenet of England.

‘I want to know you,’ Richard said slowly. ‘No woman has ever dared to speak to me in the way that you do.’

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘You aren’t my betrothed husband and never will be.’

‘You’re right.’ His hand moved up to her cheek, and when she tried to move away, he held her in place. ‘Berengaria, you remind me of Eve. You tempt me with the tartness of your tongue. The flashing of your dark eyes.’

She shivered slightly, and her mind warned her again to move away. But his voice held her captive, while his thumb edged her cheekbone. ‘I admire your spirit.’

Richard tipped her face up to look at him. Then he leaned in closer, resting his forehead against hers. ‘You should know that this is your last chance to walk away untouched. If you stay, I’m going to claim a kiss.’ He released her and stood motionless, waiting for her decision.

Her mind cried out for her to flee, even as her feet remained rooted in place. Richard was not a man who was free to court her. He was already betrothed to another woman.

But she wanted to experience the forbidden taste of a kiss from a man who wanted her. Not her kingdom, nor her wealth, for he could have neither. Richard knew what it was to be caught in a world full of rules, a world in which they had no freedom.

His lips covered hers, and at the first moment of the kiss, she forgot all the reasons why this was never meant to happen. Richard rested his hands upon her hips, drawing her body nearer. ‘Close your eyes,’ he said softly. ‘You’re not a princess anymore. And I am not a duke.’

She obeyed, and the barriers seemed to vanish between them. Against her mouth he murmured, ‘If you were my betrothed wife, I’d steal away from my duties to seize moments like this. And you’d never tell false compliments to me, would you?’

‘Your arrogance is great enough, my lord.’

‘Richard,’ he corrected. This time, he captured her lips like a ruthless invader. There was nothing kind or polite about the kiss. She opened her mouth, shocked at the wild feelings that coursed through her. He trapped her face between his hands, kissing her as though he wanted to shred all of her defences and find the woman beneath.

Though inwardly she knew that he had an insatiable need to win, to conquer, she hardly cared. The rush of need provoked a tremulous response inside her. She couldn’t catch her breath as he plundered her mouth. And when she began to kiss him back, he softened the intensity. Warm and wet, his tongue slid inside her mouth. He drew her hips against him, and she could feel the hot length of his arousal against the folds of her skirts. The knowledge, that he wanted to claim her body, made her tremble. She clung to him, so afraid of the feelings that ran untamed within her.

‘Innocent,’ he murmured against her skin. ‘I knew it when first I saw you.’

She caught her breath as his mouth travelled over her cheek. ‘I must go now.’

‘You should.’ But he didn’t release her from his embrace, and she wondered what he intended. His palms moved up her spine, and when he kissed her again, she sensed that this was farewell.

But now, she had a memory to call her own. One that her father could not govern or take away from her. And as she kissed him for the last time, Berengaria thought to herself, I’m glad it was Richard.

Chapter One

Off the coast of Cyprus, April 12, 1191

Liam MacEgan hated ships. Though he’d spent many years of his life exploring the waters of his native Éireann, being trapped aboard a wooden vessel for months was somewhere between purgatory and hellfire.

It was your idea to go on Crusade, he reminded himself. He’d believed he was embarking on an adventure, to see the Holy Land and fight to free Jerusalem. His family had been firmly opposed to it. His father, King Patrick of Laochre, had demanded that he face his responsibilities as a future provincial king.

But he’d needed an escape from his homeland. He’d grown up listening to the stories of distant lands, told to him by his uncle Trahern. He longed to see the glittering foreign cities and taste new foods. He needed this last chance to see the worlds that were forbidden to him… to feel the sting of desert sand against his face… to learn the secrets of exotic women.

And so, defying his family’s wishes, he’d slipped out one night and arranged passage to France, to join in the service of the King Richard, Coeur de Lion.

Liam stared out at the fierce blue of the Mediterranean, and a bittersweet tang of homesickness caught him. The sky was a dark grey, and clouds rolled in the distance. He was dimly aware of a woman moving along the side of the boat, just behind the oarsmen. Her long dark hair was covered by a veil, but the length of it stirred in the sea winds.

Adriana, daughter of the Vicomte de Manzano, was one of the Princess Berengaria’s ladies. She was a dark beauty, with olive skin and raven hair. He watched as her hands curved over the wood of the ship, and she turned back to stare at the waves.

He wanted to go and talk to her, but he sensed it would be an intrusion of her time alone. Her eyes lifted to the darkening skies, as though she were afraid.

Instinct made him glance behind him, and he spied the Count of Berduria staring at the young woman. The unrestrained lust on his face made Liam cross over to Lady Adriana’s side. Though she shied away from him, he said in a low voice, ‘Don’t be afraid. I came to offer my protection, not to disturb you.’

When she sent him a confused look, he added, ‘The count is watching.’ At that, Lady Adriana settled her gaze back upon the sea. Liam wasn’t certain whether or not she wanted him to stay. ‘Would you rather I left you alone with him?’

‘Stay,’ she whispered. ‘Unless your intent is the same as his.’ She shivered in the wind, rubbing her shoulders. Liam unfastened his cloak and settled it around her shoulders. It was meant to offer her warmth, but it also sent an unmistakable message to the count.

She pulled the cloak around her. ‘You’re one of King Richard’s men, aren’t you?’

‘I chose to fight at his side, aye. But I am not his vassal.’ He refrained from mentioning anything further, not wanting to admit his own rank. During this journey, he’d told no one that he was an Irish prince, save King Richard. He wanted to experience life as a common man, as a soldier. It had meant giving up the luxuries he’d come to enjoy, but in return, he’d seen a side of life that his family had tried to protect him from.

‘Has King Richard spoken of the princess?’ Adriana asked. ‘My lady Berengaria worries that he seems so… distant, ever since the new betrothal.’

Liam shrugged. ‘His Majesty is preoccupied with the journey to the Holy Land. He’s eager to fight for Jerusalem.’

‘What of the Princess Alys? He broke his betrothal to her only a few months ago. Does he desire to reconcile—?’

‘Given that his father took Alys as his mistress and she bore him a daughter, rest assured, King Richard had little desire to take her to wife.’ Liam sent her a sidelong glance. ‘Berengaria didn’t tell you?’

Adriana shook her head. ‘She didn’t know. Queen Eleanor never spoke of why the betrothal was broken, but it was she who brought Berengaria to become the king’s bride.’

‘And what of you?’ Liam asked. ‘You intend to travel wherever the princess wishes to go? Even to the Holy Land?’

She nodded. ‘She has no choice, any more than I do.’ The young woman clasped her hands together.

‘You could marry or return to your family,’ he suggested. ‘Jerusalem is dangerous for a woman.’

‘Not for me.’

He stared at her, and she sent him a confident smile. ‘I have four brothers. I know ways to protect myself.’

‘How?’ He moved closer, until his knee brushed the edge of her silk gown.

The tip of a knife touched the soft skin above his throat. ‘Like this.’ Adriana’s dark brown eyes were dancing with amusement. ‘You wouldn’t be likely to harm me now, would you?’ She removed the blade and offered it back to him.

Son of Belenus, it was his own blade. She’d somehow stolen it from his belt without him even sensing her.

‘How did you do that?’

Her face transformed with a knowing smile. ‘You should know better than to underestimate a stranger. I am one of the princess’s guards, just as you protect His Majesty.’

It was rare for a woman to surprise him, but he found himself fascinated by Adriana. Her full mouth drew his attention, and her scent reminded him of aromatic spices, like a heady mulled wine.

‘Men are often distracted by a woman,’ she said. ‘Just as you were.’

‘You are a distraction,’ he agreed. Her expression shifted, and he saw the wariness in her eyes. She wanted nothing from him; that much was evident.

Stepping back, he asked, ‘What if your enemy overpowered you? Your strength would be no match for an attacker’s.’

‘I rely on myself. And I protect the princess when there is need of my blade.’ She squared her shoulders and removed his cloak. ‘Take this back. You’ll be cold.’