The Queen From Provence - Plaidy Jean (книги онлайн полные .txt) 📗

He returned to London where Eleanor was awaiting him and together they went to the nursery to gloat over Edward.

‘I am not sorry he has gone,’ said Henry. ‘He is full of apprehension about the future. He talks continually of the barons’ displeasure. One would think they ruled this country.’

‘Perhaps now he will find a suitable wife and settle down. That is what he needs.’

Henry slipped his arm fondly through hers.

‘I believe you have a fondness for Richard,’ he said.

‘Naturally, but for him you and I would never have been brought together.’

‘Well, for that I will forgive him a great deal,’ said the King.

Arrived in France Richard began his journey across the country and when he reached Paris he was greeted by the King of France, his wife and mother who gave him a very royal welcome.

He was impressed by the young King – as indeed all must be, for his was a character of great distinction and there was a nobility in his face, bearing and manner of which none could be unaware.

His mother adored him; she had worked for him as tirelessly as she had for his father and although Louis IX had shown himself very capable of governing his kingdom – far more so than his father had ever done – she still seemed to be under the impression that she was needed.

Richard was interested to meet Marguerite, the sister of Henry’s Eleanor. A beautiful woman but lacking Eleanor’s forceful nature. Richard wondered what would have happened if they had changed roles and Eleanor gone to France and Marguerite to England. Queen Blanche would not have had the easy victories over Eleanor that she clearly had over Marguerite.

Marguerite was eager to talk to him. She wanted to know all the news of England and how Eleanor lived there. She plied him with questions and talked about her own life and how fortunate she was to have such a husband as Louis.

‘I doubt not that you could have wished for a mother-in-law who was not ever present.’

Marguerite was silent, not wishing to speak ill of Queen Blanche.

‘The King’s mother is ever alive to his interests,’ she said.

‘I doubt it not,’ replied Richard. ‘I see how often he is in her company.’

‘He came to the throne when he was only a boy. She had to be there then to guide him.’

‘He would seem to be a King who knows which way he is going and needs no guidance now.’

‘He will do as he thinks best, but he loves her dearly and he is always sad when it is necessary to go against her will.’

‘And you?’ asked Richard. ‘Do you not find her sometimes taking him from you?’

Marguerite was silent and Richard thought of what he would say to Eleanor when he returned to England.

There was another matter in which Eleanor had been more blessed than her sister: Eleanor had a son; Marguerite only a daughter – and even then the child had to be called Blanche.

In a way, mused Richard, it seemed that Eleanor had made the more fortunate marriage. But this was not entirely so. Richard was looking into the future. The strong character of Louis IX, the determination to rule well, the clever logical calm mind … these were the making of a great King. Louis would have the reins of government firmly in his hands.

Richard wondered then if there might come a day when the barons decided they would rise once more in England as they had under King John, when they would tire of a King on whom they could not rely. How would Henry stand the strain? And Eleanor? Did she realise that the people were murmuring against her, that they could not forgive her for bringing her family and friends to England and keeping their pockets well filled?

There could be no doubt who was the greater King; and if Marguerite had a forceful mother-in-law and so far only a girl child – who could not inherit the throne because of the Salic law which existed in France – perhaps her position was after all more secure than that of her sister Eleanor.

‘It has been wonderful to have news of my sister,’ said Marguerite. ‘I often think of the days when we were all together in the nursery – the four of us. How happy we were! Then I went away and the three of them were left. There will only be Sanchia and Beatrice now.’

‘I remember too when I went there and saw the three beautiful princesses. That was after I had read Eleanor’s poem.’

‘Yes, that was so romantic. But for her poem … she might not now be Queen of England. She must be ever grateful to you for I know she is very happy.’

‘Her uncles have been to England to see her,’ said Richard, his mouth tightening a little.

‘How contented she must have been!’

He did not say that the people of England had been a good deal less content.

‘Eleanor was always devoted to the family,’ went on Marguerite, ‘as we all were.’

‘Do they not visit you in France? They are much nearer to you.’

‘They come. But they do not stay long.’

Wise Louis! thought Richard. He has more sense than to spend his country’s revenues on his Queen’s impecunious uncles.

‘They stay in England,’ said Richard.

‘I have heard that the King is very generous to them.’

‘More generous than he can afford to be, I fear.’

‘Oh dear! Still, generosity is a fine quality. I think Eleanor must be very happy. And the little boy?’

‘Edward flourishes. Yes, I should say that your sister is happy in her marriage. As for the King, he adores her.’

Marguerite clasped her hands together.

‘I am so pleased for them.’ She laid her hand on his arm. ‘You should go and see my parents as you pass through Provence.’

Richard remembered that easy-going Court – the charming Count and his Countess, the beautiful daughters, the songs and the ballads; the balmy climate, the lush woods and gardens and he felt a sudden desire to be there.

He would return to England in due course and talk to the Queen of his meeting with her sister. How amusing it would be to tell her that he had rested awhile at her father’s Court.

It was pleasant to sit in the gardens of Les Baux and listen to the songs of Provence. How beautiful were the daughters of Count Raymond Berenger! Only two of them left now, Sanchia and Beatrice.

Sanchia was just as beautiful as her sister Eleanor and sixteen was such a charming age. She was not as dominating as Eleanor – she was more gentle, rather of Marguerite’s temperament, which was an advantage.

Charmingly she sang songs of her own composing.

‘Of course,’ she said when he complimented her, ‘they cannot compete with Eleanor’s. None of us is as clever as she is.’

‘I find you delightful,’ Richard told her.

He kept comparing her with poor sad Isabella. How she had aged in the last few years of her life. In comparison, Sanchia was so adorably young.

He had intended to stay but a few days, but the visit lengthened. He was closely watched by the Count, the Countess and their chief adviser Romeo de Villeneuve.

‘What think you of what we see?’ asked the Countess.

Romeo replied: ‘The Earl of Cornwall is undoubtedly enamoured of the Lady Sanchia.’

‘The others married kings,’ said the Countess.

‘The two greatest marriages in Europe!’ Romeo replied complacently, reminding them both of the part he had played in bringing about these desirable alliances. ‘But where shall we find a third king for Sanchia … and a fourth for Beatrice.’

The Count shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nowhere,’ he said.

‘Then I reckon we could not do better than marry Sanchia into England. Eleanor would be delighted. Imagine … two sisters for two brothers. The influence they would wield! Already Eleanor has seen that much good has come to the house of Savoy.’

The Countess nodded in agreement. ‘My brothers are delighted with the match.’