The Queen From Provence - Plaidy Jean - Страница 10

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‘The boy flourishes,’ he said with a hint of malice. Henry flinched. How he would have loved to have a son. ‘You must see him, Henry. After all he is named for you.’

‘I am happy to know all is well with him. I trust that ere long he will have a boy cousin.’

‘Ah, so the marriage plans are going ahead.’

‘We are still waiting for the return of the embassy. When they arrive I shall lose no time.’

‘I understand well. You have waited over long.’

‘Did you see Joanna when you were in Ponthieu?’

‘I did.’

‘And you thought her beautiful?’

Richard hesitated and he saw the anxiety dawn in Henry’s face.

‘Oh fair enough,’ he said.

‘Fair enough,’ cried Henry. ‘Fair enough for whom … for what?’

‘One cannot ask too much of a bride in a state marriage, can one. If she was born in the right bed and the marriage brings the desired terms, what matters it whether the lady be fair?’

There was a silence, while Henry’s looks grew darker. Then Richard laughed. ‘Oh, brother, I but tease. She is comely …’

‘Enough?’ added Henry.

‘To tell the truth I compared her with one other whom I met rather by chance.’

‘Oh have you fallen in love again then?’

‘I could well be on the way to it. She is the daughter of the Count of Provence. I believe I have never seen a more beautiful girl. She is clever too. A poet … a musician … a girl who has been unusually well educated. This is obvious in her manner … her speech … and of course her poetry.’

‘You are not speaking of the Queen of France?’

‘Nay. I did not meet her. ’Twas hardly likely that I should have been received with much friendship at the Court of France. The girl who so impressed me was her sister, Eleanor. You would enjoy the Court of Provence, brother. They set great store by music. The conversation sparkles with wit. Troubadours come from all over France sure of appreciation. I can tell you it is a paradise. The Count has four beautiful daughters. One you know became the Queen of France. That left Eleanor, Sanchia and Beatrice.’

‘And the one who enchanted you?’

‘They all did, but Eleanor is thirteen years old. It’s a delightful age – particularly in one as talented as Eleanor.’

‘And how does she compare with Joanna of Ponthieu?’

Richard shrugged his shoulders and lowered his eyes.

‘Come,’ said the King sharply, ‘I would know.’

‘Joanna is a comely girl … a pleasant creature …’

‘But Eleanor surpasses her?’

‘The comparison is unfair. There is none who could compare with Eleanor. When I read her poem I did not believe one so young could have written it. I determined to see her, then …’

‘What poem is this?’

‘I will show you. She wrote a long poem set in Cornwall and since I was nearby she most graciously sent it to me. Once I had read it, I must see its author and that was how I came to spend those delightful days at the Court of Provence.’

‘Let me see this poem,’ said Henry.

‘I have brought it for you. Read it at your leisure. I am sure with your own poetic gifts you will realise the talent of this girl.’

‘Your voice grows soft at the mention of her name. I do believe you are enamoured of her.’

Richard looked sadly ahead of him. ‘You know the situation in which I find myself.’

‘In which you placed yourself,’ Henry corrected. ‘It was your reckless nature that put you where you are today … married to an old woman. I could have told you you would regret it. And the Pope refusing a divorce.’

‘It may be that I shall persuade the Pope one day.’

Henry looked impatient. ‘Tell me more of Provence.’

‘The Count is proud of his daughters. Who would not be? Having secured the King of France for one of them he will look high for the others.’

‘And how does Eleanor compare with Marguerite?’

‘I heard it said in the castle that she was even more beautiful. In truth because of this she was always called Eleanor la Belle.’

‘Give me the poem. I will read it.’

‘Then I will leave you to it, Henry. I shall be interested to know what you think of it.’

‘Rest assured I shall tell you.’

As soon as he was alone the King glanced at the poem. The handwriting was exceptionally good and only slightly childish. It was written in the Provencal dialect and through their mother Henry and his brother and sisters had some knowledge of this so he was able to read it with ease.

It was charming, delightful, fresh … and full of feeling. It was true, the child was a poet.

Richard admired her. He was regretting his marriage more than ever. Had she been of more lowly birth he would have done his best to make her his mistress. Henry knew Richard. But of course that was something the Count of Provence would never allow.

She was beautiful – golden haired with brown eyes. He pictured her clearly. Soft skin, fine features, her youthful figure perfect in every detail. Richard was a connoisseur of women and he had thought her the most beautiful child he had ever seen. Her sister was already Queen of France. That was an interesting situation.

Why had he not heard of Eleanor before he had gone into negotiations with Ponthieu?

Still, he was not yet bound to Joanna. There was still time.

The idea obsessed him. Eleanor la Belle. The delectable thirteen-year-old child. He wanted a young girl, someone whom he could mould to his ways. He would have been afraid of a mature woman. Most kings of his age would have had several bastards scattered about the country by this time. Not Henry. He was shy with women; he did not want wild amorous adventures. He wanted a wife whom he could love; someone who would look up to him, and he felt this was certain to be a young girl; he wanted children; fine sons. That was necessary to the well-being of the nation. Richard might think that the succession was safe through him but that was not what Henry wanted. His own son must follow him and this beautiful young wife would provide that son.

He was already disliking Joanna and half in love with Eleanor.

But it is not too late, he told himself.

He sent for Hubert.

‘I have changed my mind,’ he said. ‘Have the messengers returned from Ponthieu?’

‘Not yet, my lord,’ replied Hubert.

‘I have decided against the marriage.’

‘My lord!’ Hubert looked aghast.

‘It is unsuitable and I have found the bride I want. She is Eleanor, daughter of the Count of Provence.’

Hubert found refuge in silence. He was thinking of the negotiations which had been going on with Ponthieu and the difficulty of breaking them; but he said nothing; the memory of the occasion when he had attempted to warn the King for his own good was too vivid. He would never fall into that trap again.

‘She is cultivated and beautiful. Her sister is the Queen of France. You will see, Hubert, that that fact alone makes the marriage desirable.’

‘It makes an interesting situation, my lord.’

‘And a politically strong one.’

‘It could be of great service in our dealing with France, my lord.’

‘So thought I. I want a message to be sent to the Count of Provence without delay.’

Hubert nodded. ‘And the embassy to Ponthieu, my lord?’

‘We will deal with that in due course. In the meantime let us consider the Count of Provence.’

‘We shall tell him of your desire and ask what his daughter’s dowry will be.’

‘That will take time.’

‘Such matters always do.’

‘There is no need to tell me that. I am well aware of the delays in other negotiations.’

‘Which, my lord, you will now be glad did not come to fruition.’

Henry laughed, friendly again. ‘You are right, Hubert. I hear that Eleanor of Provence is … incomparable. Now, we will make ready, with as much speed as possible. You understand me.’

‘Perfectly, my lord,’ said Hubert.

Before the day was out courtiers were on their way to Provence. Henry waited in an agony of impatience.

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