The Revolt of the Eaglets - Plaidy Jean (бесплатные полные книги TXT) 📗

Philip joined them.

‘What black brows!’ said the Count of Flanders lightly as he looked at Philip. ‘It would seem that there is thunder in the air.’

‘It is my mother,’ said Philip. ‘She will bring my uncles here to help me govern.’

The Count was alert. The last thing he wanted was to have those brothers at Court. The House of Blois had too high an opinion of itself. It was very closely connected with royalty for one of the Conqueror’s daughters, Adela – after whom the present Queen of France was named – had married into it. It was for this reason that Stephen her son had become King of England; and Stephen’s brother Theobald was the father of Adela Queen of France. Adela had four brothers: one the Archbishop of Rheims who had crowned young Philip; Henry, the Count of Champagne, and Theobald, Count of Blois, who had married Marie and Alix respectively – Louis’s daughters by Eleanor; and the fourth was the influential Stephen Count of Sancerre.

It was small wonder that at such a time these men should consider themselves the rightful advisers of the young King of France, and the Count of Flanders must prevent their getting influence over the young Philip.

‘You will of a surety not permit that,’ said Philip lightly.

‘I will do my best.’

‘Your best! But you only have to say you will not have them. Are you not the King?’

‘Well yes, but as my mother pointed out, the crown and the seal of office still belong to my father.’

This was true. Adela could talk to old Louis and get him to bring her brothers to Court. It had to be stopped. Philip of Flanders could see his dream of power being ruined if they came and took charge of this rather impressionable young boy.

‘We will put our heads together,’ said the Count lightly. ‘Henry will help us, will you not? He knows what it means to be frustrated.’

‘I do indeed. My father has bound me not to take action against him.’

‘And you are restive under the yoke,’ replied the Count. ‘We must see that we do not allow them to put a yoke on your fair neck, my dear Philip.’

Marguerite frowned at her half-brother. She did not like him very much. She thought it a pity that boys should be treated with such honours. She and her sisters had never been made as much of as Philip had, simply because they were girls. Moreover she loved her father dearly. Louis had always been good and gentle to his children and she was very upset that he was now lying on what everyone believed to be his death bed.

She said: ‘I do not wish to listen to such talk. My father … our father, Philip … is lying sorely afflicted. For pity’s sake let us not talk as though he were dead already.’

Henry laid a gentle hand on her arm.

‘It is not of him personally we speak, Marguerite,’ he said. ‘We love him dearly. He has been a good father to me. Kinder than my own. But Philip must make sure that he is not robbed of his rights.’

‘Philip is but a boy.’

Philip flushed and glared at her. ‘I am a man. I am capable of governing and by our lady I will govern.’

‘Spoken like a king,’ said the Count of Flanders. ‘I like to hear you speak thus. But it is action that counts. You must be ready when the day comes.’

Marguerite turned away, a glaze of tears in her eyes. She would not stay and hear them talk as though her father were already dead. She saw William Marshall in the garden and went and joined him. The Count watched her. He believed she was telling William why she was upset.

The Count did not greatly care for the influence William Marshall had over Henry and Marguerite. He had been the knight-at-arms in the nursery when they were children and being such an old friend was too important to them. They both admired him far too much. William Marshall was one of those honourable men whose actions were predictable. He did not seek honours for himself; he was the sort of knight whose value Henry Plantagenet was aware of and the kind he liked to see beside his son. William Marshall and Count Philip of Flanders were as different as two men could be.

He turned his attention to the two young men and drew Henry out to talk of the wrongs he had suffered at the hands of his father.

‘You are in a different position, Philip,’ said the wily Count. ‘Poor Henry here is the son of a forceful man who will never give way. You are the son of a dying one.’

‘There is a great difference,’ Henry agreed. He was watching Marguerite and William the Marshall. The Marshall was obviously soothing her. He, Henry, should be doing that. He, too, hated to hear them talk as though Louis was dead. He had always said Louis had been a father to him. But at the same time he had been in leading strings and he did understand Philip’s resentment.

‘A great difference,’ went on the Count. ‘There is little Henry can do at this stage. His father is too strong for him. It will not always be so. Then we shall pledge ourselves to help him, shall we not, Philip?’

Philip agreed earnestly that they would.

‘But right at the start, we must not allow Philip to be put into leading strings from which we shall find it difficult to extricate him.’

‘I’ll not allow it,’ cried Philip shrilly. Then his face clouded. ‘She is right though. He has the crown still and the seal of office.’

‘You have been crowned, remember,’ said the Count. ‘And where is the seal of office?’

‘He keeps it in his bedroom, under his pillow.’

The Count smiled. ‘If we could lay our hands on the seal …’

‘What mean you?’ said Philip.

The Count looked from the young King of France to Henry. Henry however was watching his wife and William the Marshall who were walking together towards the courtyard.

‘If you had the seal, if it could appear that he had given it to you …’

‘He will not give it to me. Should I ask for it?’

‘No. The Queen will have told him that he must not give it to you. If you slipped your hand under his pillow. If you took it …’

‘I could!’ cried Philip. ‘But he would say that he did not give it to me.’

‘His word against yours! He is a sick man. He is often delirious. If you held the seal in your hands it would be yours.’

‘I will do it,’ breathed Philip. ‘It will be easy and when I have it I shall forbid my uncles to come to Court.’

The Count of Flanders walked in the gardens alone with Henry. He liked to walk there not because he admired the flowers – he scarcely noticed them – but because out of doors it was possible to talk without being overheard.

He was succeeding well; a born intriguer he was in his element. Life must for him be a continual adventure. He had returned from the Holy Land where he had lived excitingly and nothing would please him better than to rule France through its weak young King.

He had once thought he could hold a high office in England if he could have established young Henry there, but he was not so stupid as to think he was a match for Henry Plantagenet and he knew that the old lion was going to cling to power as long as there was breath in his body. His roar grew none the less menacing nor his claws less to be feared as he grew older. Philip, with a dying father, was a much better proposition.

He still must not lose sight of the old lion across the water. The vulture had to make sure he was not cheated of his prey. Young Henry was easy to handle. He was so resentful towards his father that he would always be ready to go into action against him if ever the opportunity offered. It was hardly likely that there would be much hope of success in that direction. But if old Henry died and young Henry was King, he would then be a subject worthy of the Count’s attention.

In the meantime, he must make sure of his position in France, while keeping an eye on Henry. He had been watching William the Marshall and he believed that he was making an attempt to influence Henry against him, the Count. This could not be permitted. He would feel very much happier if William the Marshall were somewhere else than in the service of young Henry.