The Revolt of the Eaglets - Plaidy Jean - Страница 28

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Let him drool over his bastard! It was his legitimate sons to whom he would have to answer.

‘Oh, God,’ she prayed, ‘deliver him into their hands.’

She had her spies. They came to the castle on various pretexts and found the moment to speak to the Queen.

Some of her attendants had friends who gave them news. She had with her some of the women from her native Aquitaine and they spoke the Provencal language. They would sing the news to her in this language as though it were a song. Perhaps there was no need for this, but it appealed to her sense of intrigue, and enlivened the days of captivity.

How delighted she had been when she heard that Richard was holding Aquitaine and that he was rousing the knights of that fair land against his father.

Then came the news of the siege of Rouen. How like Louis! she thought.

She talked to her women of the old days when Louis had turned away from a fight because he had no stomach for it.

‘He could have faced the King of England, fought with him. But he had to run away. He was always more of a monk than a man. Though in the early days of our marriage I made almost a man of him. And my sons … Henry and Geoffrey? What of them? They should have stayed to fight. But to give in, to call a truce … and then be content to listen to his terms. And what will those terms be, I ask you? Henry Plantagenet will never take his hands from land or castle. Once his greedy claws have seized it, he will never let it go. My son Richard had more spirit than his brother. You may depend upon it, he will never give in.’

But he did give in. She pictured his cold anger when he realised that he was no match for his father. The people of Aquitaine had not trusted so young a boy and they feared the rage of Henry Plantagenet. So the war in Aquitaine had petered out even as it had outside Rouen.

‘It would seem he has but to appear and people are afraid of him. Why should they be?’ she asked, but she knew. He had a quality which she would never forget. She wished that he would come to see her in this prison in which he had placed her. How she would have enjoyed a verbal battle with him.

She railed against fate. He was too strong, he still retained the vigours of youth; and the boys were too young. In time it would not be so and as they matured so would he grow old. She must wait till the years clouded the lion’s eyes; then his cubs would savage him.

If she could but be there with them, to advise them, perhaps to cajole Louis. Could she do that now? How she longed to be free!

She was excited by an unexpected piece of news.

It was given to her in a song. A great king loved a young girl … a very young girl … who was betrothed to his son.

She listened. It could not be so.

Alice!

Why, she was but a child. But not too young to satisfy his lust.

So it had come to children! And the betrothed of his son! Richard’s bride!

What did he plan? To pass the soiled beauty over to Richard when he had finished with her?

That must not be.

Then another thought came to her. He wanted a divorce. He had suggested as much.

Oh, my God, she thought, does he want to marry Alice?

She had satisfied herself that he would not marry Rosamund. The people would not want her as their Queen and he was king enough to know that he must above all things keep the approval of his people. But Alice, the daughter of the King of France! That was another matter.

Dallying with Alice! The lecher! She could picture his face clearly; the speculation in the tawny eyes, the nostrils flaring suddenly as they did in moments of intense emotion.

How much does he want to marry Alice? she wondered. Enough to murder his wife?

How simple it would be. Who would miss her? Her children? But they were his also and he was the master. What was going on behind the lion’s mask? How safe was she?

She felt she must act quickly.

She would get a message to Richard. She had friends enough to be able to do that.

She was framing it in her mind.

‘Demand that the King sends your betrothed to you. It is time you and Alice were married. He must do this. Tell the King of France that you want your bride.’

She was alert.

She would have to take very special care now.

It was the last day of September – mild and misty – when Henry sat at the conference table facing his sons, Henry, Richard and Geoffrey.

In his heart was triumph tinged with a certain sadness. It was unseemly that a father should be called upon to make peace terms with his sons; on the other hand it was gratifying that he had brought them all to heel – every one of them – Henry, with his grandiose ideas of what belonged to him, because his father had had the magnanimity to allow him to be crowned King; Richard, cold hatred gleaming in his blue eyes, too young and inexperienced to realise how unwise he was to show it; and Geoffrey who seemed still a boy. Fine lads all of them – and all here because they had conspired against their father.

He could not help being proud of them. They were all good looking. Henry was the most handsome; it had been said of him that he was the most beautiful prince in Christendom; Geoffrey was almost as good looking, taking after his grandfather of Anjou who had borne the same name. Richard was different. None the less good-looking but in a different way. Taller than his brothers and more skilled in equestrian arts; one day when he was more experienced he would be a formidable foe to meet on the battlefield.

These boys he had sired; the thought filled him with some emotion and the sternness faded from his eyes. All the same he was going to let them know who was the master.

‘My sons,’ said Henry, ‘it grieves me that we should be sitting here in this way. I remember well those days when you were in the nurseries of my castles and what joy I took in your growing up. You have been ill-advised and have offended against the laws of God and man in taking up arms against your father. But I do not forget that you are my sons and because of this I will be lenient. First we will make a solemn vow that we all forgive our enemies and restore to their rightful owners those castles which we have taken during the conflict with each other. You may have made promises to my enemies to join with them against me. You must now declare yourselves free from all promises and undertakings.’

He watched them quietly. Henry and Geoffrey faintly sullen, Richard a little defiant. But all of them – even Richard – knew that they had no alternative but to agree to the King’s terms.

‘Henry,’ he went on, ‘you shall have two castles in Normandy and an allowance of ?15,000 Angevin money. Richard shall have two in Poitou and half the revenues of that land.’ He turned to Geoffrey. ‘And you, my son, are soon to marry Conan’s daughter, Constance. You shall now have half the marriage portion and when the ceremony takes place the whole of it.’

Inwardly the brothers were dismayed because they knew that the castles offered to them were of no strategic importance and in making these gifts their father was in fact taking from them every vestige of that power for which they had been fighting.

‘You have a young brother,’ went on the King, his voice softening a little. Young John was the best of the bunch. He had not risen against his father. At eight years old he was an engaging little fellow. Thank God, he had escaped his mother’s influence. ‘He is my son too,’ went on the King. ‘From him I have had no sign of disobedience. I gave him three castles as you know well.’ He permitted his lips to curve in a sardonic smile. Was it not these three castles over which there had been all the trouble? ‘A poor inheritance for the son of a king. Now I shall give him one thousand pounds a year in England and the castles of Marlborough and Nottingham. He shall have two hundred and fifty pounds a year from his Normandy lands and the same amount from his property in Anjou where I shall give him one castle. He shall also have one in Touraine and another in Maine. You would not wish your brother to be a pauper, I know, simply because he had the misfortune – or as it has turned out it may be the good fortune – to be born after yourselves.’

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