A joyful moment for two of our favorite royals

I am happy to report that my cataract surgery went quite well, as has the recovery. I want to thank everyone for the good wishes. All of you who assured me that it was pain-free and anxiety-free were quite right. I still have to get the left lens changed, of course, so I can’t read much on the computer screen until that is done, but I am delighted with the results. And it is also true that colors do seem brighter.
I missed several important Angevin milestones this past week, so I will post some retroactive comments as I slowly catch up. Meanwhile, today is the birthdate 857 years ago, September 8th, 1157, of the most famous of the Devil’s Brood, Eleanor’s favorite son, Richard. I couldn’t resist posting from a scene in Time and Chance, a scene frozen in amber, in which Henry and Eleanor’s marriage was still whole and happy and they still thought the world was theirs for the taking.
Time and Chance, page 53
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Somewhere along the way from the castle, Henry had found a garden to raid, for he was carrying an armful of Michaelmas daisies. These he handed to Petronilla, rather sheepishly, for romantic gestures did not come easily to him. Crossing the chamber in several strides, he leaned over the bed to give his wife a kiss. (omission)
“Are you hurting, love?”
Eleanor’s smile was tired, but happy. “Not at all,” she lied. “By now the babes just pop right out, like a cork from a bottle.”
Henry laughed. “Well….where is the little cork?”
A wet nurse came forward from the shadows, bobbing a shy curtsy before holding out a swaddled form for his inspection. Henry touched the ringlets of reddish-gold hair, the exact shade of his own, and grinned when the baby’s hand closed around his finger. “Look at the size of him,” he marveled, and as his eyes met Eleanor’s, the same thought was in both their minds: heartfelt relief that God had given them such a robust, sturdy son. No parent who’d lost a child could ever take health or survival for granted again.
“We still have not decided what to name him,” Henry reminded his wife. “I fancy Geoffrey, after my father.”
“The next one,” she promised. “I have a name already in mind for this little lad.”
He cocked a brow. “Need I remind you that it is unseemly to name a child after a former husband?”
Eleanor’s lashes were drooping and her smile turned into a sleepy yawn. “I would not name a stray dog after Louis,” she declared, holding out her arms for her new baby. She was surprised by the intensity of emotion she felt as she gazed down into that small, flushed face. Had God sent him to fill the aching void left by Will’s death? “I want,” she said, “to name him Richard.”
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