The Courts of Love - Jean Plaidy [188]
“It would seem so.”
“From what you tell me, I would say ‘God help him’ then. And Geoffrey? You say little of Geoffrey.”
“He would be rather like John . . . but kinder. I think he is happy with Constance, and they have their little Eleanor. If John had someone like that . . . a wife to steady him . . .”
“Then we have to be grateful to Constance.”
“Geoffrey seems to be safe in Brittany. They accept him. I suppose because Constance is there. She is the heiress, in fact, and he is her husband, and as they seem happy together that pleases the people.”
“Let us at least be glad of that.”
There was much to be glad about during those days. Matilda would sit embroidering little garments for the child, and I would sing to her, read and play the lute. I sang some of the ballads I used to hear in my grandfather’s Court. How it brought it all back . . . those stories of gallantry, chivalry, of ladies rescued from tyrants, of unrequited love.
There were Matilda’s children to amuse us. They talked of their grandfather with affection. At least he had managed to win their hearts. They loved me, too. Sometimes I thought it a pity we did not forget ambition and become a happy family.
We talked of songs, and Matilda told me how, when Bernard de Borne was at Court, he used to write them in praise of her beauty.
“In truth they were for my brother Henry,” she said. “De Borne was in love with him. It was those verses of his which led to Henry’s death in a way. He flattered him and wrote of him as though he were a mighty warrior . . . invincible . . . and that was how Henry began to see himself. It was the reason why he thought he could get the better of our father.”
“Poor Henry,” I said. “He died penitent.”
“I pray his sins will be forgiven.”
“He did not repent,” I said, “until he saw that the game was lost. I suppose it is at such time that we all repent our sins.”
“I heard about the bed of ashes and the stone pillow.”
“Yes. A humble recompense. Let us hope God forgave him as his father did.”
So the days passed, and to be free and with my daughter was wonderful to me. I felt like a young woman—alive, vital, deeply interested in all that was going on around me.
It was a happy day when Matilda came safely through her confinement. She had given birth to a healthy boy and we called him William after his great ancestor the Conqueror.
We celebrated his birth with much merry-making, drinking a special spiced ale made with corn barley and honey, and I laughed maliciously when I saw that it cost the King 3.16.10, for I knew he would resent having to pay so much for a mere drink—which showed my attitude toward him had changed little.
Orders came for a move from Winchester to Westminster, and I was to accompany the party. So I was to be received back at Court! I had to thank my son Henry for this. His father could not refuse his dying wish.
A saddle ornamented with gold arrived for me. Clearly he did not want me to ride through the streets looking impoverished. He would not know what the people’s reaction would be, but one thing was certain: they would all be in the streets to see the Queen who for so long had been her husband’s prisoner.
I was going to enjoy this, particularly as I guessed Henry was thinking of it with some apprehension.
Clad in my red velvet gown with my fur-trimmed cloak, mounted on my horse with his gold-ornamented saddle, I rode to Westminster.
I had been right when I suspected that there would be crowds to see me. They watched in amazement. I knew I looked splendid. I had taken great care with my appearance, and I was practiced in the art of applying those aids to nature which are so effective. I had made sure that my dark hair looked almost as it had in my youth. My skin was unwrinkled; it had not been exposed to rough winds for years. They had been expecting an old woman; and in spite of my years I certainly did not look that.
At the palace I came face to face with Henry. He had aged considerably and was an old man now. All the defects he had had were more