wound through her veins like a drug. He pressed her against the wall, his hips grinding, and then he swung her round and pushed her on to the bed. His mouth covered hers and his lips and tongue were fierce. He dragged off his shirt and pulled down his hose and braies, impatient now. Matilda kept her eyes shut because she did not want to see that part of him.
Geoffrey was swiftly inside her, but there was no pain because her body was moist and ready. He had indeed found the hidden stream. He held himself over her and Matilda clenched her fists as he thrust back and forth. He took her parted legs and rested them on his shoulders and heaved into her, and she felt a growing pressure deep within her loins. She 89
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wanted him to finish and let her escape, and at the same time she needed him to continue and throw her off the edge of the precipice into oblivion. But Geoffrey ceased moving and lifted his chest and shoulders off the bed and suspended her there for a long, long moment. Their eyes met and held and it was like enemies facing each other on a battlefield. And then he let go with a curse of pleasure and a final thrust while Matilda stiffened as a tide of sensation rippled over her, wave upon wave of surge and release.
Geoffrey withdrew from her and rolled over on to his back.
“For all that you look at me as if you hate me, you didn’t hate me then, did you?” he smirked, pillowing his arms behind his head, revealing tufts of ruddy-gold hair. “In fact I think you liked it a lot.”
Matilda said nothing. There was a bitter taste at the back of her throat.
“He was an older man, your first husband,” Geoffrey continued. “I intend to be more vigorous in your bed than he was.”
“You know nothing of my first husband,” she said, feeling sick. “He was a great man.” She puts emphasis on the final two words.
“I do know that he is dead.” He gave her a sidelong glance from his beautiful eyes. “You are mine now. I know you think of me as a nothing and I know your father thinks of me as little more than a strutting Angevin cockerel to tread his hen, but I am Count of Anjou and my father is to be the king of Jerusalem—and I have time to build my own empires.”
“But you will never be a king, even when I become Queen,” Matilda retorted. “And you will never be an emperor either.” Geoffrey rolled on to his stomach and faced her. “It matters little in the scheme of things whether I have gold at my brow or not, although I see the store you set by it, madam. What 90
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matters is power. You may call yourself an empress and one day you may be a queen, but here, in this household, I am your lord and master, and I command your obedience. If I order you to kneel at my feet, then you kneel.”
Revulsion surged through her. “And you would think yourself all powerful for such a petty ability…my lord?” He clenched his fist and then grazed it gently against her jaw in a caress that nevertheless threatened violence. “Yes,” he said.
“I would.”
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Eleven
Rouen, August 1128
W ill D’Albini was enjoying himself. A select number of courtiers had joined the king in his private chamber for a few hours of socialising and mirth. Will always enjoyed these occasions and took a childlike delight in the singing and stories.
He had a good ear for a tune and as well as possessing a rich singing voice, he could play most instruments, both the stringed and the woodwind, and his talents were always in demand.
The king was nodding his head and tapping his feet as Adeliza told a story to the gathered audience, including several children from the royal household. “Far across the sea there was a lady who lived in a tall tower and many knights sought her hand in marriage…” Adeliza made the motion of the waves with undulations of her hands and forearms, and then stretched up to describe a tall tower. Will avidly watched her graceful movements. Her gauzy veil was neatly held in place with small gold pins, and two of ivory shape like little mice. Her eyes shone like a silky sea on