The Courts of Love - Jean Plaidy [105]
Bernard was no fool. He might say that he only cared for me and that the opinions of others mattered not to him, but Henry was formidable, even in Aquitaine where he was unpopular.
I was once more pregnant and was beginning to wonder whether my life was to be spent bearing children. It was true that I had wanted them and that I now had only one son, but I did feel that the pregnancies were too frequent, and a little respite in between would be desirable.
My sojourn in Aquitaine had been a disappointment. It was no longer the same, for while the people loved me and accepted me as their Duchess, they could not forget that I had a husband and that he was trying to force his rule upon them. They did not like it. He did not understand them and they did not understand him. He thought that what was successful in England could be successful here. We were a different people. We had lived too long in the sun; we did not care for discipline; we liked to go along smoothly, effortlessly. Henry was quite alien to these people. They could not understand his restlessness, his love of law and order, his immense energy.
I wanted to go back to England. I found life too depressing in the sunshine of my native land.
It was February when we arrived in England. Henry had gone to Anjou. He was still concerned about troublesome Geoffrey. Matilda was as good as a general, and Normandy was in excellent hands; he trusted those in England. But I knew he would be with me as soon as possible.
He would be missing Becket, I thought ruefully.
I was feeling well in spite of my pregnancy. I was getting used to that state now.
An uprising on the Welsh borders brought Henry back to England before Easter. This was what we had to expect from life, I supposed. As soon as one little corner was safe, there would be trouble in another.
With his unbounded energy he set about getting his army together. The Welsh campaign was not a great success. The Welsh were fierce fighters, and the victory Henry had expected had not come. Instead he was all but defeated and shrewdly he quickly made a concession to the Welsh which would confine them to their own country and make the border safe.
He came back less triumphant than usual. We had an affectionate reunion, but again I had that feeling that he had something on his mind.
We were alone in the bedchamber when he looked at me steadily and almost defiantly said: “We shall have another in the nursery.”
I naturally thought he was referring to the child I was carrying and I replied: “I wonder if this one will be a boy.”
“It is a boy,” he said. “His name is Geoffrey.”
I stared at him. I saw the defiant look in his eyes and I knew. He had been preparing me for this. His mock rage over Bernard de Ventadour was when he was wondering how to broach the subject. He had been hinting at my infidelity to excuse his own. And now he had decided to exert his rights and to let me know he was the master. Hence his arrogance.
“Geoffrey?” I said. “And who might this Geoffrey be?”
“He is my son.”
“Your . . . bastard?”
“Yes, of course. Since he is not yours he must be.”
“And you want to bring him into the royal nursery?”
“I am bringing him into the royal nursery.”
“Without consulting me?”
“I am telling you of my wishes now.”
“And you think I will consent to this?”
“He is coming tomorrow.”
“No!”
“But yes. It is good for him to be with his brother and sister.”
“I do not understand how you can behave like this.”
“There is much you have to learn of me then.”
“These are my children.”
“Mine too, I hope.”
“How dare you!”
“Why so outraged? Your reputation is not exactly chaste.”
“And yours, my lord?”
“Not chaste either. I have never questioned yours. Why should you mine?”
“How old is this boy?”
“A little older than Henry.”
“Then . . . so long ago . . . you were unfaithful!”
He looked puzzled. “Madam, I was far from home. Do you expect me to live like a monk? There are women, of course. They mean nothing . . .”
“And this one . . . the mother of the boy . . . she means nothing to you?”
“Nothing