The Plantagenet Prelude - Plaidy Jean (книги серия книги читать бесплатно полностью .TXT) 📗

What have I done since my marriage to Henry? she asked herself as she listened. I have borne children – three in three years. I have either been pregnant or giving birth.

She laughed. The duty of a queen of course but hardly fitting for the heroine of a love song.

Henry had seemed content. The death of little William had shocked him, not so much for the loss of the child but because he was his eldest son. They had young Henry – that was good – and Matilda, but Henry wanted more sons.

He was constantly speaking of the plight of his grandfather Henry I who had had one legitimate son – though many illegitimate ones – and when that son had been drowned there was only his daughter to follow him. What had happened? Civil war.

‘We must get sons,’ said Henry. ‘We have my little namesake but look what happened to William. We need more sons and we must get them while you are of an age to bear them.’

He was in his early twenties – plenty of time for him. But her? The time when she would cease to be able to bear children was not so far away.

This was the first reference to the difference in their ages. It ruffled her like the faintest stirring of a rising wind.

And so she must go on bearing children. She could be a fond mother but she was a woman of too strong a personality to subdue it to that of others – husband or children.

Encroaching age, childbearing, those were matters for the future. Here she was in her beloved chateau surrounded by troubadours whose delight it was to sing songs to the lady of their dreams, and who could inspire them to such ecstasy as their Queen?

There was one among all those who sang to her who attracted her attention more than any other. This was a handsome young man named Bernard. He called himself Bernard de Ventadour but it was whispered that he had no right to the name. It was true that he had been born in the Chateau de Ventadour, but his enemies said that he was the son of one of the kitchen women and a serf. The Comte and Comtesse de Ventadour, as was the custom with so many, allowed the child to be brought up on their estate and so he would have had access to the castle.

That he was possessed of especial gifts was soon apparent, and as the Count and Countess loved song and poetry he was allowed to join their company of singers.

It soon became clear that he was a poet of no small ability and as both the Count and Countess encouraged him, his fame spread and many came to the castle to hear his verses.

The subject of these was, naturally, love, and every poet of the day selected the most beautiful and desirable lady of his circle to whom to address his words. The Countess of Ventadour was undoubtedly a beautiful woman and to whom should a member of her household address his poems but to the lady of the castle?

The songs of Bernard grew more and more daring and as he sang them he would sit at the feet of the Countess and give her the benefit of his eloquent love-hungry eyes.

This was the custom; each troubadour had his lady; but most of the troubadours were of noble families and that the son of an oven girl and a serf should raise his eyes to a countess and sing of his longings was more daring than could be countenanced.

In any case the Count thought so. He told Bernard that there was no longer a place for him at the Chateau de Ventadour.

Bernard could do nothing but prepare to leave. He was not unduly disturbed, for he had heard that Queen Eleanor was in residence in her native land and his reputation as one of the finest poets in the land had traveled far.

He presented himself to Eleanor who received him immediately for she had long admired his poems and even set some of them to her own music.

‘You are welcome,’ she told him. ‘I look forward to hearing you sing for us.’

To express respectful admiration was second nature to Bernard. And now that the beauty of the Countess was removed it was replaced by a brighter luminary. Eleanor could not help but be pleased by the frank admiration, bordering on adoration, which she read in his eyes. It was comforting following on Henry’s implication that they must get sons while she still had time to bear them.

Bernard, now known as Bernard de Ventadour – as fine a name as any of Eleanor’s courtiers – became the favoured poet of the Queen’s entourage. He was constantly at her feet. Poems and songs poured from him and their subject was always Eleanor, the Queen of Love.

She could not but be pleased. Bernard had such a beautiful voice. He was writing some of the best poetry in France and it was to her. Such words intoxicated her.

Henry came once upon her circle of troubadours and sat down among them. His quick eyes took in the sprawling figure of Bernard de Ventadour at her feet and he noticed the soft looks Eleanor cast in the poet’s direction.

His eyes narrowed. He did not think for one moment that this emotion which was obviously between them could possibly be the result of physical love. Eleanor would have too much sense. Any child she bore could be a king or queen of England and she was enough a queen to know that child could have only one father and he the King. Even so, there was no doubt that she liked this pretty fellow with his delicate beringed hands. He wondered whether Eleanor had given him the rings he was wearing.

He watched and listened and he remembered that very soon he would have to bring his bastards to court. For Avice’s children that would be easy, for they had been born before he had known Eleanor. But young Geoffrey, Hikenai’s son, would need a little explaining because he had been born after their marriage. For all Eleanor’s lively past she had been a faithful wife, which was surprising. But she had been fully occupied with childbearing. No sooner was one child born than another was on the way and there had been little time for any extra-marital adventures as far as she was concerned. He could see by her fondness for these poets who sang of a love which never seemed to reach any physical fulfilment that she was living in some romantic dream and that meant that it would be difficult for her to accept the needs of a man such as himself. He was no romantic. He was a realist. Women were important in his life and he had no intention that it should be otherwise. It was something she had to come to terms with, and she would on the day he brought young Geoffrey to court and had him brought up in that special manner reserved for a king’s bastards. His grandfather Henry I had had enough of them. William the Conqueror had not it seemed. He had never heard of a single one of his. But no one could hope to be like the Conqueror who had only lived to conquer and rule. These were good enough matters but not enough to fill a man’s life. And Eleanor would have to be made to understand.

He saw in this Ventadour affair a means of making his task easier when the moment came to confront her with young Geoffrey.

He rose suddenly in the middle of one of Bernard’s songs and left the company. Eleanor looked after him with amazement but she remained seated until the song was finished.

Then she said: ‘It seems that the King was not pleased with your little piece, Bernard.’

‘And my lady?’

‘I thought it excellent. If the lady you sing of really is possessed of so much beauty and virtue she must be a goddess.’

‘She is,’ replied Bernard fervently.

‘And your recital of her virtues clearly bored the King.’

‘I care not for the King’s boredom if I give the Queen pleasure.’

‘Be careful, Bernard. The King is a violent man.’

He bowed his head. How graceful he was! How gallant!

And how she loved his poetry!

When she was alone with Henry he decided to begin the attack.

‘That oven girl’s bastard will have to leave the court,’ he said.

‘Bernard! Why he is reckoned as one of the greatest poets in the country.’