The Courts of Love - Jean Plaidy [143]
I said: “It must end.”
“The King . . .” she began.
“I say it must end. How dare you come to my palace! How dare you take my place!”
“It was the King’s orders . . . I . . .”
I should not be hard on her, poor silly simpering little thing. She was like an insect, causing a moment’s irritation. She had no power to resist him. I was terrifying her. Well, let her be terrified. Let her fear what I would do to her.
I would have looked formidable. I was clearly pregnant with her lover’s child. What a situation!
I felt my face contort with hatred. She thought it was for her but it was for him.
“You are a harlot,” I said. “Are you not afraid?” She nodded. “Not of me, you little fool,” I said. “Of God.”
I had struck the right note. This was one who would suffer a great deal from her conscience. She had obviously been brought up as a virtuous girl. And she had lost that virtue. But as it was to the King I daresay her family would find that acceptable. It was not her fault. But I was not going to let her escape lightly. I was angry and bitter, and my marriage was completely ruined, for it could not be revived after this, and she had done it with her simpering manners, her pink and white beauty and her virtue which could be assailed by the King.
“You are a whore,” I told her. She blushed painfully, and I went on: “If you had not been, you could have married some good and worthy man. Then you would have been able to hold up your head and not bow it with shame as you must now. It were better that you had never been born. You should break this liaison with an adulterer.”
She was trying to speak but the words would not come.
“Yes,” I went on. “Better if you had not been born. Are you not afraid to face me, the King’s lawful wife and your Queen, to whom you as a subject owe allegiance? I could bring you a dagger and say, ‘Plunge that into your heart, or do you prefer a poison cup?’ I could take your life. After all, did you not take my husband?”
“If you were to harm me,” she said with a shade of defiance, “the King . . .”
“The King would say, ‘Poor Rosamund, I knew her well. She was a very willing partner in my bed. But there are plenty of others ready to take her place. England abounds in whores. Why should I fret for one?’”
“It was not so . . .”
“Oh no, with you and him it was romance, was it not? The adulterer and the wanton. There is one thing for you to do, Rosamund Clifford . . . if you truly repent your sins, and that is go into a nunnery. I recommend Godstow, which is not far from here. There perhaps, by the time your span runs out, you will have earned remission of your sins.”
I saw the sudden hope in her eyes. I laughed inwardly. I had sown a seed.
What would Henry say if he returned to Woodstock and found his mistress installed in a convent! That would be rather amusing.
“Think about it,” I said; and I left her.
I made my way back to the palace. I had given Rosamund Clifford something to think about. I wished Henry were here. I should have loved to tell him I had discovered his love-nest.
I was soon to have his child. That made the situation more ironic. I hated him. I began to dislike the child I carried because it was his.
Every vestige of gentle feeling for Henry had gone. Rosamund Clifford had killed it. This really was the end. I would never have another child by him, should never again share a bed with him. Our relationship was over.
I thought about divorce. He would lose Aquitaine, and for that I rejoiced.
I thanked God that I was still the Duchess. If I returned to Aquitaine, I was sure the unrest would end. I would rule as my grandfather and father had. I belonged there. Henry could go and gnash his teeth in rage—not because he had lost me but because he had lost Aquitaine. And France would be lost to him because of the birth of Philip Augustus. He would feel his possessions slipping away from him.
I would not live with