The Plantagenet Prelude - Plaidy Jean - Страница 44

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‘A slut’s bastard to give himself airs!’

‘His talent makes him equal to an earl.’

‘Not in my eyes,’ said the King. ‘And I like not the insolent manner in which he regards you.’

‘Insolent! He is never that. He respects none as he does his Queen.’

‘By God,’ cried Henry, ‘it seems the fellow aspires to be your lover.’

‘Only in his dreams.’

‘Dreams! The upstart dog! Tell him that I shall send him back to the ovens where he belongs.’

‘No great poet belongs working at an oven. You have some learning, Henry. You have a respect for talent...one might say genius.’

‘And I say insolence,’ shouted the King. ‘I’ll have his eyes put out.’

‘The whole of Aquitaine would rise against you. A great poet...one of our greatest...and simply because he writes a poem...’

‘To the Queen,’ cried Henry, ‘to whom he suggests...

what does he suggest? By my mother’s blood; if words were deeds he would be in your bed. I swear it.’

‘But words are not deeds and I trust I know my duty.’

The King seized her by her shoulders and threw her on to the bed.

‘Know this,’ he said, ‘if ever I heard that you had deceived me I would kill your lover. Do you know that?’

‘And rightly so. I would not blame you.’

‘So you would not have blamed Louis if he had killed your lovers.’

‘Talk to me not of Louis.’

‘Indeed, I am no Louis.’

‘Would I have loved you, borne your children if you had been?’

‘You bore Louis children.’

‘I was younger then. I was trapped and I had not then found the way out of the trap.’

‘I like not this dalliance with your poet.’

‘Why do you fear I should prefer him to you?’

The king picked up the stool which stood in the room and threw it against the wall.

Through the castle there was hushed silence. The King was in one of his tempers. He was showing his anger and jealousy and suspicion against Bernard de Ventadour and the young poet was warned that he should slip quietly away until the storm had blown over.

Henry raged about the apartment accusing her of infidelity but there was something lacking in this bout of rage.

Finally he flung himself on to the bed where Eleanor had lain watching him.

He seized her with sudden passion and declared once more that he would run his sword through any man who dared to make love to her.

Eleanor accepted his embraces; Ventadour retired from the court although he was to return later; and very soon after that incident Eleanor discovered that she was once more pregnant.

Since Henry’s appearance in France the situation there had become more peaceful and he felt it was time that he returned to England.

He had no intention of leaving Eleanor behind in France.

He decided that she and the children should travel back to England ahead of him. The new child should be born there.

She missed Aquitaine and her troubadours for although there were many poets and singers at her court they did not seem the same as those of Provence. Often she thought of Bernard de Ventadour who had been driven from the Castle of Ventadour because of his verses to the Countess and now had displeased the King because of his devotion to Eleanor.

Bernard was a man who must have a lady to whom he could address his poems. No doubt by this time he had found another castle and another lady.

She shrugged aside romantic thoughts and gave herself up to the matter of preparing for another birth. My destiny, she thought! Is there to be no end of it? If I get another son I shall call a halt to this pattern.

She dreamed of a son. She wanted a son this time. She was fond of her children but young Henry was too overbearing, and already looked like his father. He bullied Matilda who did not show the spirit of the grandmother for whom she had been named.

This son would be different, she promised herself. Tall and handsome as Raymond of Antioch, as great a ruler as his father, in truth a king. But how could he be, when he had an elder brother?

It pleased her to dream of this son who had been conceived in the warmth of Aquitaine. Aquitaine should be his. She patted her body and whispered: ‘I shall bequeath it to you, little son.’

The child moved within her and she laughed delightedly.

He must have understood her. She was convinced this one was going to be no ordinary child.

She had traveled to Oxford for she had decided that in this neighbourhood the child should be born. Just outside the walls of the city, close to the northern gate was Beaumont Palace with its serene views of green meadows beyond which rose the turrets of Oxford Castle from which years ago Henry’s mother had escaped on the ice. Here her child should be born.

She had no intention of nursing the child herself and asked her women to find a good woman, with child herself, who could act as wet-nurse to the royal infant.

The woman, clearly in a very advanced stage of pregnancy, was brought to the palace and there she was installed in the royal nursery.

The Queen lay languidly on her bed and bade the woman sit down that she might study her. She was clean, a country woman clearly. Her skin was fresh-looking and she was buxom and quite comely.

‘It cannot be long before you are brought to bed,’ said Eleanor.

‘Nay, my lady. I expect it hourly.’

‘You have no fear of childbirth?’

‘Why no, my lady. ’Tis all natural like.’

She was not new to breeding and it was for this reason that she had been chosen, for she was known to have good milk and enough for two babies.

The royal child would be fed first and if there was enough over then she might feed her own baby. She understood this and was delighted to do the service asked of her. A stay in the royal palace, the honour of suckling a royal child.

Everyone knew a woman was well rewarded for that.

‘What is your name?’ asked Eleanor.

‘It is Hodierna, my lady.’

‘Well then, you must take good care of yourself for by so doing you will have good milk and only the best will be good enough for my child.’

‘I know it well, my lady,’ said Hodierna.

She was brought to bed the very next day and gave birth to a boy. Eleanor herself visited her and admired the child.

He was to be called Alexander.

A few days later a son was born to Eleanor.

He was called Richard and from the first he was more handsome than his brother. His limbs were long and straight and Eleanor loved him dearly.

Hodierna was the best possible foster-mother and she was right when she said she had enough milk for two boys.

As the months passed they grew into two of the finest boys at court and in time they were very much aware of each other like brothers.

When Henry returned he came to Oxford to see his new son. He admired young Richard, none could help doing that. But it was clear that he had something on his mind.

He had. He had seen Hikenai again and she had reminded him of his promise to do something for their son.

He knew he could not delay the matter much longer.

Little Geoffrey would have to be brought to the nursery and while the good foster-mother was there with her little son Alexander, it seemed a good moment to introduce him.

He said to Eleanor when they were in their bedchamber, ‘There will be an addition to the nursery.’

She did not understand him at first. ‘An addition? We have two sons and a daughter. Is that not enough? Do you want me to spend all my time in the awkward state of pregnancy?’

‘Nay, nay,’ he said. ‘I was not thinking of another for us, though doubtless there will be more. It is a boy in whom I have an interest.’

‘You have an interest!’ Eleanor had sat up. She threw back her long hair and there was bright colour in her cheeks.

‘Aye,’ he answered firmly, ‘a very special interest.’

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