The Plantagenet Prelude - Plaidy Jean (читаем полную версию книг бесплатно txt) 📗

Louis’s feelings for Eleonore were so mixed that he could not entirely understand them himself. He knew in his heart that had she been contrite, had she given him her word that she would abandon her immoral way of life, willingly he would have taken her back. She had fascinated him; she still did; he could easily have forgiven her lapses from virtue if she had become a loving wife. He did not care for women generally, only Eleonore. He had loved her for herself, and the rich lands of Aquitaine had not influenced his feelings. But he did want a quiet, peaceful life and he knew he would never have that with Eleonore. He must divorce her, but if only she had given one little sign of contrition how happy he would have been to meet her halfway!

Again and again he would think of her with her lovers. Her own uncle! That was even more criminal than the others. Then a rare anger would arise in him. I will divorce her for adultery, he thought, and it was in such a mood that he approached his ministers.

But he was the King of France. He should not think of revenge, or his own personal feelings. He must only think of what was best for France.

If he divorced her for adultery he could not re-marry, for according to the laws of the Church, once married its members were always married. It was his duty as King to marry again. He had only two daughters and the Salic laws of France would prevent their inheriting the throne.

On the other hand if the marriage was ended because of consanguinity there would be no hindrance to remarriage because, since their close blood ties prevented their marriage being legal in the first place, they had never really been married, and either was free to marry again. As for the little girls Marie and Alix, they could be legitimised easily enough.

It was the answer. The marriage would cease to exist because of the close blood ties of Louis and Eleonore. It was the solution most satisfactory to all.

Eleonore was eagerly awaiting the outcome of the meeting of the council under the direction of the Archbishop of Bordeaux. She had taken up residence in the chateau close to the church of Notre-Dame de Beaugency where the decision was being made. She sat at the window, her eyes on the road. At any moment a messenger would come riding to the chateau and then she would know whether or not she was free.

Once she had the news she would lose no time in meeting Henry and they would be married without delay.

She would have to say goodbye to her daughters Marie and Alix. That had been her only regret. She had surprised herself by the depth of her feelings for her children; but she knew that even they could not compensate her for the loss of Henry, and she shuddered at the thought of spending the rest of her days with Louis for the sake of girls who would in a few years’ time marry and leave her.

No, she was too full of vigour, too sensuous, too egotistical to devote her life to others.

Henry was the man for her. She had known it in the first few weeks of their acquaintance. Strong, egotistical himself, and a sensualist, his nature matched hers. She had known from the first that even though she had a husband and Henry was eleven years younger than she was, he was the man she would marry.

Now, in a fever of impatience, she waited for the messengers. At last she saw them. Two bishops attended by two gentlemen were riding into the castle courtyard.

She ran down to meet them.

‘My lords,’ she said, ‘your answer.’

‘May we enter the castle?’ asked the Bishop of Langres reprovingly.

‘Nay,’ she cried imperiously. ‘I will wait no longer to hear the verdict. I command you tell me instantly without delay.’

The bishop hesitated; then he looked resigned.

He said: ‘It is the Council’s decision that on account of the close blood relationship between yourself and the King they declare the nullity of the marriage.’

Eleonore waited for no more. A great joy had come to her. ‘Come into the chateau, my friends,’ she said. ‘I would refresh you.’

Free! she was thinking. At least free of Louis. No more would she have to endure the boring company of the King, no more would she fret against a restriction on her freedom. She could go to her lover now.

There should be no delay. As soon as she had listened to this tiresome deputation, she would make preparations for her journey. Her first task must be to let Henry know that she was coming to him.

‘Ride with all speed,’ she told her messenger. ‘Tell the Duke of Normandy that Eleonore of Aquitaine sends greetings. Tell him she is on the way to her own town of Bordeaux, that she will look for him there, and that she is eager to waste no more time.’

Oh, the joy of riding in the fresh spring air! It was Easter time, the most beautiful time of the year, and how rich and fertile were the lands of the South!

As she rode south the country people came out to greet her. They cheered her. There had been stories of the immoral life she had led while married to the King of France but to the people of the South these seemed like romantic adventures. Seated on her palfrey with her hair flowing and in her gown with the long sleeves which fell to the hem of her skirts, she was a beautiful sight. A queen in very truth and she was back among them. She had brought colour to her father’s court. Songs had been written about her; she herself wrote songs and sang them, and they were about love and chivalry. It was small wonder in their eyes that she was not appreciated in the cold land of the North.

Now she was coming back and it was an occasion for rejoicing.

One day when she was riding through the domain of the Count of Blois, a party of horsemen came riding towards them. As they approached, Eleonore saw that they were led by a young man of pleasing appearance.

He pulled up before the Queen, doffing his hat and waving it in a gesture of gallantry as he bowed before her.

‘It is indeed the Queen of Queens,’ he said.

She inclined her head, pleased to be so addressed.

‘Journeying from the court of France to Bordeaux,’ he went on. ‘You will need to rest for the night at some worthy castle. Yet knowing mine to be unworthy I offer it to you. My castle of Blois is close at hand. It is the finest shelter you could find in these parts. I should be honoured indeed if you would allow me to entertain you there.’

‘We should be delighted,’ replied the Queen; and added,

‘You are Theobald, Count of Champagne.’

‘I am honoured that you should know me.’

‘I knew your father well,’ said Eleonore and thought grimly: He had a great influence on our lives. It was our conflict with him over Petronelle’s marriage that led to the burning of Vitry and our crusade.

That elder Theobald had been dead for some two years. This was his son, and he was clearly not only young and good-looking but ambitious.

As they rode side by side towards the castle of Blois he was congratulating himself on the prospect of having such a notorious lady under his roof. She was a beauty too. Eleonore was aware of his admiration but it pleased her only mildly. She longed for one man and one man only – Henry, Duke of Normandy.

When they reached the courtyard of his castle Theobald leaped from his horse and commanded that a goblet of wine be brought. He stood by her horse while the goblet was brought; then sipped it and passed it to her. Their eyes met over the cup; his were bold, and he could not hide from her the speculative gleam in them.

Foolish man! she thought. Did he think that she was ready to accept any man, and that the only qualifications he needed to accept her favours were those of his manhood? Did he think he could compare with Raymond of Antioch, Saladin, and chief of all, Henry of Normandy? She would be delighted to teach him a lesson.

‘How honoured I am that you should come to my castle,’ he said as he helped her to alight. ‘I warn you I shall do everything in my power to make your stay here a long one.’