The Courts of Love - Jean Plaidy [11]
“Try to forget it,” I said. “It is over.”
“It will live with me forever. I see that I have failed and not done what I should for my country . . . and for God. What shall I do, Eleanor my child? What shall I do?”
“Forget what has happened. Have no more trouble with these Popes. Let them fight their own battles. Rule Aquitaine. This is your country. What else matters?”
“I fear I have not done well. There is unrest in the country more than there was during my father’s time.”
“Your father did not worry with such matters as you do.”
“No, he was content in his Courts of Love.”
“As you must be.”
“I am different from my father. I see how neglectful I have been of my duties. My dear wife died . . . and our son with her. I am left with two daughters.”
“We are as good as any sons, Father.”
He smiled at me. “There is none like you, my dear child, nor ever could be, but you are a woman. There will be trouble when I am gone if there is not a strong hand on the reins.”
I held out my hands to him. “They are strong, Father.”
“They are beautiful . . . soft as a woman’s should be. You do not understand, dear child. There should be a male heir.”
“You have me now.”
I was shaken with horror at his next words. “It is not too late.”
“What do you mean?”
“I must do my duty. It is expected of me. I am going to change my ways. I have been brought face to face with the truth. Because I did not wish to marry again I thrust the matter out of my mind. But I see that I must.”
“No!” I cried.
“My dear daughter,” he said, “you want to be the ruler of Aquitaine. That is because you do not know what it entails. It would bring you little joy. It is a task for a man.”
“But you have said you have not done well, and you are a man.”
“This is not the time to twist words, dear daughter. I have been thinking over the past days that I must marry. I must give Aquitaine a son. If only your brother had lived . . .”
I stood up and, without asking permission, left him.
How weak he was, how clinging. He could not bear that I should withhold myself from him. When I look back, I am amazed at the power I had in that Court. I was thirteen years old but more like eighteen. I was both physically and mentally developed beyond most girls of my age. I had been in the forcing-ground of maturity ever since I was born. I had seen romantic love and lust in my grandfather’s Court; I had gradually become aware of my father’s weakness; I had seen him disintegrate before my eyes. Oddly enough, this made me feel strong. It made me more certain than ever that when the time came I should be capable of ruling Aquitaine. I should not have made the mistakes I had seen my father make. I should not have considered the Popes’ quarrel mine. I should never have given way to the influence of Bernard.
And now my father, in his weakened state, was reaching out to me. I felt strong, important. Aquitaine was going to be mine.
My father sent for me. He told me with some humility that he had not meant to hurt me. He thought I was wonderful. Many of the young men at Court admired me, looked up to me as an ideal. That pleased him. He, too, venerated me. He knew that I was no ordinary girl. He was proud of me.
“And yet you would replace me by some sickly boy!”
“I merely feel that a son would be more acceptable to the people. I have not thought enough of my people, Eleanor. There is no reason why the boy should be sickly.”
“You are becoming old now. I believe the age of its parents has an effect on a child. Here am I strong and healthy, the daughter of your youth. I can read and write with ease; I can reason. Rest assured I shall be fit to govern when the time comes.”
“I doubt it not. But the people want to look to a man.”
“Where will you find this bride?”
“I must look for her.”
“Then I suppose you will go on a pilgrimage to some shrine or other to pray for a fertile wife.”
“A pilgrimage,” he said slowly. “Perhaps I should go on a pilgrimage.”
I thought: If it is going to stop these thoughts of marriage, yes,