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

Petronelle turned to Eleonore and said: ‘Do you think he will come back?’

There was a faraway look in Eleonore’s eyes; she was gazing into the future. ‘It was foolish of him,’ she said, ‘to attempt such a journey at such a time of the year.’

‘Why did he not wait until the summer?’

‘It would have been too easy a journey. It had to be hazardous that he might earn forgiveness for his sins.’

‘Had he so many?’

Eleonore laughed. ‘He thought he had. He was obsessed by his sins, as our grandfather was.’

‘What about you, Eleonore? Have you committed any sins?’

She shrugged her elegant shoulders. ‘I am too young to be concerned with sins. It is only when you are of an age to fear death that repentance is necessary.’

‘So we need not concern ourselves with repentance yet, sister. We may sin to our heart’s content.’

‘What a pleasant prospect,’ cried Eleonore.

‘Everyone in the castle respects you,’ said Petronelle adoringly. ‘I think they love you more than they did our father. But if he marries again and we have a brother...’

Petronelle looked fearfully up at Eleonore who was scowling.

‘It won’t happen, sister,’ went on Petronelle quickly. ‘If he married he wouldn’t get a boy.’

‘It maddens me,’ cried Eleonore. ‘Why this reverence for the male sex? Are not women more beautiful, more subtle, often more clever than men?’

‘You are, Eleonore, cleverer than any man.’

‘Yet because they go into battle, because they have greater physical strength, they regard themselves so superior that a puny son would come before a fine daughter.’

‘No son our father got would ever equal you, Eleonore.’

‘Yet he must undertake this pilgrimage in the hope that Saint James will plead for him and he come safely back, marry and get a son.’

‘The saints will never listen to him. They will call him ungrateful. God has given him you, Eleonore, and he is not satisfied!’

Eleonore laughed and blew a kiss to her sister.

‘At least you appreciate me,’ she said with a smile.

She went to the narrow window and looked out on the bleak road.

‘One day,’ she said, ‘we shall see a party of horsemen on that road. It will either be my father coming back triumphant or...’

‘Or, what, Eleonore?’ asked Petronelle who had come to stand beside her.

But Eleonore shook her head. She would say no more.

It was but a few days later when a messenger did come to the castle.

Eleonore, who had been warned that he was sighted, was in the courtyard to greet him; she herself held the cup of hot wine for him.

‘I bring ill tidings, my lady,’ he said before he would take the cup. ‘The Duke is dead. The journey was too much for him. I have a sorry tale to tell.’

‘Drink,’ said Eleonore. ‘Then come into the castle.’

She took him into the hall and sat with him beside the fire. She ordered that food be brought to him, for he had ridden far and was exhausted. But first she must hear the news.

‘He suffered towards the end, my lady, but never wavered from his purpose. We carried him right to the shrine and that made him happy. He died there in his litter but not before he had received the blessing. It was his wish that he be buried before the main altar in the Church of Saint James.’

‘And this was done?’

‘It was done, my lady.’

‘Praise be to God that he died in peace.’

‘His one concern was for your welfare.’

‘Then he will be happy in Heaven for when he looks down on me he will know I can take care of myself.’

‘Before he died he received an assurance from the King of France, my lady.’

Eleonore lowered her eyes.

There would be a wedding. Her own. And to the son of the King of France. Louis the Fat would not have been so eager to ally his son with her had she not been the heiress of Aquitaine.

How could she grieve? How could she mourn? Her father, who had planned to get an heir who would displace her, was no more. His plans were as nothing.

There was one heir to Aquitaine. It was Duchess Eleonore.

Young Louis was very apprehensive. He was to travel to Aquitaine, there to present himself to his bride and ask her hand in marriage. That was a formality. His father and hers had already decided that there should be a match between them.

What would she be like – this girl they had chosen for him? At least she was a year younger than he was. Many royal princes were married to women older than themselves. That would have terrified him.

How he wished that he had remained in Notre-Dame. He longed for the ceremonies in which he had taken part, the sonorous chanting of priests, the smell of incense, the hypnotic murmur of voices in prayer. And instead there must be feasting and celebration and he must be initiated into the mysteries of marriage.

He wished that he were like so many youths; they lived for their dalliance with women; he had heard them boasting of their adventures, laughing together, comparing their brave deeds. He could never be like that. He was too serious; he longed for a life of meditation and prayer. He wanted to be good. It was not easy for rulers to shut themselves away from life; they had to be at the heart of it.

They were said to govern, but often they were governed by ministers. They had to go to war. The thought of war terrified him even more than that of love.

The King lay at Bethizy and thither had come the most influential of his ministers, among them the Abbe Suger.

The marriage between young Louis and Eleonore of Aquitaine had won their immediate approval. It could only be to the good of the country that the rich lands of the south should come to the crown of France. The King could be assured that his ministers would do all in their power to expedite the marriage.

The Abbe Suger would himself arrange the journey and remain beside the Prince as his chief adviser.

The King, who knew that death could not be far off, was anxious that the progress from Bethizy to Aquitaine should be absolutely peaceful. There must be no pillaging of towns and villages as the cavalcade passed through. The people of the kingdom of France and the dukedom of Aquitaine must know that this was a peaceful mission which could bring nothing but good to all concerned.

He could rest assured that his wishes would be carried out, the Abbe told him.

He sent for his son. Poor Louis! So obviously destined for the Church. And he had heard accounts of Eleonore. A voluptuous girl ripe for marriage, young as she was. She would know how to win Louis, he was sure of that. Perhaps, when he saw this girl who by all accounts was one of the most desirable in the country – and not only for her possessions – he would realise his good fortune.

He told him this when he came to his bedside. ‘Good fortune,’ he said, ‘not only for you, my son, but for your country, and a king’s first duty is to his country.’

‘I am not a king yet,’ said Louis in a trembling voice.

‘Nay, but the signs are, my son, that you will be ere long.

Govern well. Make wise laws. Remember that you came to the crown through God’s will and serve him well. Oh, my dear son, may all -powerful God protect you. If I had the misfortune to lose you and those I send with you, I should care nothing whatever either for my person or my kingdom.’

Young Louis knelt by his father’s bed and received his blessing.

Then he left with his party and took the road to Bordeaux.

The town of Bordeaux glittered in the sunshine; the river Garonne was like a silver snake and the towers of the Chateau de l’Ombriere stretched up to a cloudless sky.

The Prince stood on the banks of the river gazing across.

The moment when he was brought face to face with his bride could not long be delayed.

He was afraid. What should he say to her? She would despise him. If only he could turn and go back to Paris. Oh, the peace of Notre-Dame! The Abbe Suger had little sympathy for him. As a churchman, he might have been expected to, but all he could think of – all anyone could think of – was how good this marriage was for France.