The Courts of Love - Jean Plaidy [103]
“I pointed out to him that my temper frayed no matter where I was housed, and when I was provoked my rages overcame me.
“‘You admit to weakness,’ he said. ‘That is one step along on the road on which God will guide you.’ What do you think of that?”
“That this man takes great liberties with the King.”
“He cares not for kingship. I am a man. He is a man. That is how he sees it. Becket says what is in his mind. That is why conversation with him is so interesting. He is such an amusing fellow in a quiet and witty way.”
“He should take care that you do not fly into one of your rages with him.”
“With Becket? Never!” He laughed. “Though it would be amusing to see his reaction. I know what he would do. He would stand looking on in silence, watching, and then ask God to forgive me my waywardness.”
“And you would merely say, ‘Thank you, my good and faithful servant, for interceding with your good friend the Almighty on behalf of your humble sovereign.’”
He laughed aloud.
“You must admit he is a great man.”
He went on smiling, evidently thinking of some aspect of their conversation which amused him.
It certainly was a most incongruous friendship, and there was hardly a day when they were not together.
In due course I brought forth a daughter. We both wanted to call her Matilda after Henry’s mother. She was baptized in the priory of the Holy Trinity at Aldgate, which was appropriate, as the priory had been founded by Queen Matilda, the wife of Henry’s grandfather.
I still mourned William, but little Henry had consoled me, and this one was an added comfort. But soon after her birth I began to grow restless. It is probably a state in which women find themselves after childbirth. There is so much preparation before the child appears and one is carried along on a tide of serenity, but when the child is there, life for a time seems lacking in purpose and one feels the need to take some action.
I found the gray skies depressing. I saw the sun too rarely and I felt a longing for my native land.
Henry was in France at this time. There was more trouble over Anjou. I knew that Geoffrey would never be content. He was a born troublemaker.
Suddenly I decided I would consult no one. I would go and visit my own country, taking the children with me.
A great excitement possessed me. I was going home . . . perhaps only briefly, for I should never forget that I was Queen of England. I could leave the country in the good hands of Leicester, Richard de Luci—and Becket, of course. So I gave orders to make ready for the journey.
I joined Henry in Anjou. He was pleased to see me and, having settled matters there, agreed that we should take the opportunity, being on the spot, to make a progress through Aquitaine to remind the people that we were their rulers.
I was delighted at the prospect. Alas, I was less contented as the tour proceeded, for, although I was welcomed warmly by my people, it was not the case with Henry, and they did not hide the resentment they felt toward him.
Henry had declared that the government of Aquitaine was inefficient. It was not good enough, he said, to have the province defended by individual castellans who looked after their immediate surroundings. There should be a head of government, and of course that must be Henry, and deputies appointed by him to take charge in his absence according to his wishes.
I knew them well enough to realize that they were asking themselves: Who is this upstart who has married our Duchess and now thinks he owns us? He is worse than the King of France.
It was not as it had been. Alas, life does not stand still. Change comes . . . a little here, a little there, and soon the whole picture is different.
I tried to make my Court at the Maubergeonne Tower what it had been in the past, but it was not the same. I had my troubadours, and I was delighted to see Bernard de Ventadour, who had earlier graced my Court with his verses and his rendering of them in exquisite music.
Henry had his life—his rough riding, his forays into