The Courts of Love - Jean Plaidy [142]
“I wish to come in,” I said.
“But who . . .” she began.
“I am the Queen.”
A bolt was drawn. She stood back. Oh yes, she was indeed beautiful. Her rippling fair hair, falling about her shoulders, was in some disorder; her lashes were dark, as were her well-formed brows; they accentuated the blueness of her eyes and the cornlike color of her hair; her cheeks had flushed to a rosy shade at the sight of me. She looked very frightened.
I stepped inside.
The hall was beautifully furnished. He would have given her all this. I could see at once the sort of woman she was. Meek, docile, ready to await his pleasure; with all that beauty no wonder he came back and back again to her.
“You are Rosamund Clifford,” I said. She bowed her head. “I would speak with you.”
She curtsied uneasily and led the way. We were in a richly furnished chamber, and the first things I noticed were two little boys. They were playing some game and stopped short as I entered to stare at me.
“Your sons?” I asked.
“Yes, my lady.” She went on: “William . . . Geoffrey . . .”
They ran to her. I could see him in them . . . the tawny curls, the leonine head . . . the Plantagenet arrogance, and I felt a surge of rage, not against this woman but against him.
She took the boys by the hand and led them to the door. The elder one . . . William, I think . . . could not resist looking over his shoulder at me. A woman had appeared; she took the boys, and Rosamund Clifford came back into the room.
She stood before me, her eyes downcast.
“How long have you been the King’s mistress?” I asked. She was trembling and it seemed she could not find her voice. I went on: “I know it is for several years. Those boys, are they his?” She nodded. “And he has been coming often to Woodstock to see you, and you are always here in this place when he is not here, and if I am absent you take my place in the palace, do you not?”
“It was . . . his will.”
“And what of my will?”
“I . . . I told the King that it should not be.”
Suddenly I was sorry for her. I could see how it had been. She was no wanton. Perhaps she would not have attracted him so intensely if she had been.
“When did you meet him?” I asked.
“It was in Wales . . . where the King was. My father served him.”
“Your father is Sir Walter de Clifford, is that so? And you have brothers and sisters.”
“Yes, my lady. I have two brothers and two sisters.”
“You see, I know something of you, Rosamund Clifford. Do not think that your conduct with the King is a surprise to me. Anyone, whether noblemen’s daughters or serving girls . . . they are all one to him. So it does not surprise me. But you are much talked of. And all because you flaunted yourself and your sinful behavior at the palace . . . my palace . . . for I am the Queen and, as you know, the King’s lawful wife. So the King first saw you in Wales.”
“I was at my father’s castle of Llannymddyvri. The King was campaigning . . .”
“I know. And your father was pleased that you should behave thus with the King?”
“He is the King, my lady.”
“Yes,” I said slowly, “he is the King.”
I knew I should not blame her. I could see it all so clearly. The campaign in Wales, all the women there would have been . . . and this one. She was different; her father was an honorable knight, and his daughter could not be treated like a serving-girl. I could imagine her attraction. She was outstandingly beautiful; her type would appeal to him; she was completely feminine. An English beauty and mild with it. A pure virgin when he first saw her. He would soon change that. She would be a little reluctant, yet overawed. That would add to his passion. He would soothe her. “Have no fear. I am your King. I swear no harm shall come to you.” And so she succumbed and she was in love with him. Women fall in love with power, and kingship is supreme power . . . or almost. Master of us all . . . the lover. I could see it all so clearly.
But it had lasted. That was what rankled. He would not be faithful to her any more than he had been to me. Fidelity did not exist for Henry. But he