1. A Powerful Attribute
She wore it up these days. Coiled and swirled in intricate designs on the back of her head by the hands of her skilled ladies. With the distance that had grown between them, Henry found it easy to forget the effect that his Queen's hair had on him. He almost never saw her in her chambers outside of her role as Queen of France, so there was little opportunity to view her with her hair down like she used to wear it. She was regal and elegant, mature and authoritative. A woman, and not a girl.
The way Catherine styled her hair was befitting of her station, and she dressed in an equally suitable way. Henry was always pleased with her choice of gowns and dresses. They may not be close to each other any longer, and perhaps at each other's throats more often than not, but she reflected well on him as his Queen, standing at his side. She looked and acted the part, which added to his own regal appearance, and he was pleased with that.
Last evening, he had gone to her chambers, angry with her about something that he'd immediately forgotten the moment he'd set eyes on her. Something she was obviously expecting, and she had wasted no energy on venting her own anger towards him on the subject. Almost ready for bed, she had been seated in the chair at her vanity as her ladies finished letting her hair down, setting the pins carefully in their box, when Henry had stormed in. She had risen furiously from her chair in her floor-length nightgown and robe, tension bristling all over her body, and sharply ordered her ladies to leave the room. He had meant to return her fire with his own, but he had no recollection of his argument, watching her approach him with her hazel eyes ablaze, her sunset hair long and luxurious down her back. When she tossed her head to the side as she scoffed in irritation over something he wasn't even listening to, her hair flowed over one shoulder, its curled tips resting softly over her robed breast. Henry had been mesmerised by the silkiness of its layers which slid together, mingling the sweet curls amongst each other as she moved. By the time he had returned his gaze to her eyes, he had no interest at all in the subject of their disagreement, and could think only of her fire and colour bringing out her beauty, and of touching this untameable, passionate creature.
Henry had faced her down, silently, with that great tension hanging in the air, as she had braced herself and lifted her stubborn little chin – such stubbornness drove him insane, and yet sometimes was the source of his passion for her. Such an exasperating paradox. He had felt an intoxicating surge of angry frustration and intense desire, and when she had fiercely uttered "What are you going to do about it!", he had reached out with a sudden impatience that had surprised even himself, and grasped her shoulder – the one that was covered with her flowing silken curls. He had had only a moment to appreciate the plush softness of her lovely hair beneath his hand before he realised that she had similarly taken hold of him, her eyes looking into his, their fire now a mixture of fierce emotion and lustful passion.
He remembered their lips crushing together, with all the anger and resentment they had between them fuelling their passion. How her hands grasped desperately at his body as his hands roamed hers, forcing ties and tearing buttons as they clawed the clothing from each other, before resuming their focus – each of them pulling, pressing, urgently seeking, the unresolved tension between them adding aggression to their touch. He had sought to diffuse his tension with her body, as it seemed she was doing with his, and the results had been mind-blowing. This was one place they spoke the same language, where they were completely compatible – between the sheets.
He had been especially entranced by her hair that evening, and he could not even explain the power it gave her over him. The carnal aspect of their marriage was normally very satisfying, and he had learned that tension between them made for sensational sex, but that night – her hair shifting softly over her bare skin, framing her face to make her look to Henry more arousing than he had ever seen her, he simply couldn't explain it. He had only to open his eyes at the peak of his passion and behold her with her beautiful hair mussed slightly, her eyes closed and her lips apart, strawberry blonde curls moving with the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she gasped and panted, their tips brushing his chest as she leaned over him, and he was catapulted into a state of unparalleled ecstasy, more explosive – he felt sure – than if he had not opened his eyes and drank in the sight of her.
In the aftermath of bliss, with Catherine collapsed over his chest as she fought to catch her breath, Henry had sifted his fingers through the soft curls fanned out over his chest and shoulder, tenderly stroking the silky locks against him. He had threaded his fingers through the softness to reach the skin on Catherine's shoulders and back, but she appeared to be recovering, and sat up, eyeing him with a look that told him she hadn't forgotten how he had hurt and angered her. They had spoken no words as they parted from each other, cleaning up and putting their clothes back on again. Henry had watched, unable to bring himself to apologise, as Catherine had sat at her vanity once more, braiding her hair back, putting it out of his sight again. And, the tension released but not resolved, he had left.
Now, as he lay in his own bed, dwelling on his delight in her red-gold hair, he remembered a time only a couple of years back when he had overheard a few noblemen talking at a party he had hosted. Normally he would have been provoked to jealousy by any compliment spoken from a man towards his wife, but they were not being scandalous about her, simply complimentary.
"I will say, the Queen of France does possess the most beautiful hair in the most intriguing colour," one man had pointed out.
"Indeed," replied another. "It serves her well, does it not? The Queen is a fine compliment to King Henry."
How could Henry think ill towards these nobles, as they had included him in their compliments?! No, his chest had swelled with pride, an enjoyment of this praise directed at himself, but also a thrill that he possessed a wife with an attribute so striking that it was talked about amongst his people. He had loved her hair before, but the overheard conversation seemed to add to his pleasure every time he glanced at Catherine and noticed her hair, in whatever way she had chosen to style it that day.
Of course, it was no secret between them that his favourite style was without style. Henry had always loved it when Catherine wore her hair loose. When they were young, she always wore it loose, sometimes with ribbons threaded through it, or a little of it pulled back from her face and tied with one.
Relaxing into his pillows, Henry allowed his mind to wander further back in time, as memory triggered memory. He had so many that he enjoyed revisiting, about Catherine and her lovely hair.
