The Courts of Love - Jean Plaidy [104]
I kept Bernard de Ventadour with me. He raised my flagging spirits. It was wonderful to be courted and loved through his music. I had been brought up in such an atmosphere, and it was natural that I should re-create it.
This was Aquitaine, not England.
I had a notion that Henry had something on his mind and that it concerned me. I would catch him watching me covertly, as though he were assessing me.
He came to the hall one evening when Bernard de Ventadour was lying at my feet singing one of his love songs. My ladies and the gentlemen of the Court were listening intently. The song was about the beauty of the loved one, who was too high and noble for the singer to reach.
Henry stood, legs apart, head thrust forward, glowering at Bernard, who went on singing unfalteringly and perhaps putting more expression than ever into his voice, while his warm southern eyes rested on me.
“By the eyes of God,” cried Henry, “what nonsense!”
Then he turned and strode away.
Bernard went on singing.
When he had finished there was halfhearted applause from those who did not know what action to take. I knew it was no use ignoring the incident, so I said: “The King did not like your verses, Bernard.”
“If the Queen liked them, that is all I ask.”
There was a breathless silence. I was asking myself, could Henry really have been jealous?
I was a little afraid for Bernard, knowing how violent Henry could be. Indeed, I had been astonished by his restraint. He might well have commanded Bernard to stop singing, even ordered him to leave. I did not want that to happen. I would try to placate him, and perhaps it would be better if Bernard were slightly less prominent for a while.
When I was in our apartment, Henry came in. He looked at me, his tawny eyebrows raised a little. He was not going to wait for me to comment. He was coming straight into the attack.
“That insolent fellow will have to go.”
“Are you referring to Bernard de Ventadour?”
“Bernard de Ventadour! A fine name for a serving wench’s bastard.”
“Oh, come,” I said. “We are talking about a great poet.”
“Poet!”
“Indeed yes, and recognized as such by people who know of such matters.”
“Which I don’t, eh? I have better use for my time than listening to such jibbering. Insolent dog.”
“Insolent! He has never shown me anything but the utmost respect.”
“And he has shown me something, too. He is your lover.”
“What nonsense!”
“That stuff he was singing . . .”
“You must know it was just poetic imagination.”
“Imagination! Tell him he can go back to the kitchens from which he came. They can find a place for his imagination down there among the spits and pots.”
“I thought you liked those who are intelligent.”
“I could have his tongue cut out. That would put an end to his licentious driveling.”
“Do you think my people would allow that? Already you are no favorite of theirs. This is my country, Henry. You would do well to remember that.”
I saw the color coming into his face. He tore off his cloak and flung it from him. He lay on the floor and kicked at the wall. He gnashed his teeth, biting the flounces about the bed.
I watched him. I had seen these rages before, but there was something not quite the same about this one. The thought flashed into my mind: He is staging this. There is something behind it. He is performing for my benefit.
On other occasions when I had seen those senseless rages I had been alarmed . . . for his health, for his sanity. I had indeed thought he was possessed by devils and there was something in that story about his ancestry. But this was different.
He was shouting obscenities about Bernard and me.
I drew in my skirts and walked past him, out of the apartment.
Henry said no more about Bernard de Ventadour, but I advised the troubadour not to sing when he was present. I told him I feared the King was jealous and when he was