Blood Royal by Vanora Bennett Read Free Book Online

Luckily Jean’s friend’s father is Henri de Marle …’ She paused and looked at Owain, who only looked bewildered. ‘The Chancellor of France now,’ she explained, with none of last night’s softness, just haughty astonishment that anyone could fail to know something so vital, ‘since the Duke of Burgundy left Paris; he was president of the Parliament before. A good connection …’
    She bustled around, picking things up; preparing for the day; not looking at him. She was putting things in a basket. When Owain plucked up courage to speak again, she took a moment to turn round in the direction of his voice, as if she didn’t really want him there. ‘My Duke is busy with your Queen today,’ he ventured; ‘a hunting expedition. I’m not needed.’ He sensed, from the hard line of her back, that she didn’t want to be reminded that he was the servant of an English duke. ‘So perhaps … I could … go with you, if you’re going into Paris?’ he finished, in a breathless hurry. He was longing to see the city; but he was a little scared of venturing out alone.
    She said briskly, ‘I’ll be busy here for a while.’ She didn’t meet his eye. Perhaps she was regretting the warmth of their conversation last night, he thought. She didn’t like the English,and even if he wasn’t really an Englishman, and knew he’d never be considered as one back home, he could see that, in her mind, he might still count as one. For a moment, he felt disconsolate.
    But only for a moment.
    Then the memory of the books came back to him. Brightly, Owain asked her if he could spend his free day reading one of her books, if she would choose him one; and then she did turn and reward him with a smile of surprising depth and intimacy. ‘You really want to learn something, then,’ she murmured, in her magnificent throaty rumble; nodding as if she were surprised and impressed. He glowed. He wanted to impress her; he could sense she knew many things he’d be interested to find out.
    She didn’t say any more. She just led him back to the scriptorium where he’d slept, looking approvingly at the way he’d tidied his things into a corner so as not to be in the way. She hesitated over the books on the bookshelf for a few moments, picking at first one, then another. Finally her hand pulled one out. She set it up on a lectern and left in silence.
    Owain read.
    He’d expected it to be hard. He’d expected to be out of his depth. But the story she’d chosen was a very simple one. It was the story of her life. It was like nothing he’d ever read or heard before. Even the poems and stories he remembered from long ago, before England, back there – the legends, the tales of ancient kings, the songs of praise – weren’t so shockingly personal. Before he knew what had happened, he’d been swept off into another time and place, lost, for the first time, between the covers of a book, experiencing the love that had once been in the newlywed Christine’s heart.
    The first night of our marriage, I could already feel
    His great goodness, for he never did to me
    Any outrage which would have harmed me,
    But, before it was time to get up,
    He kissed me, I think, one hundred times,
    Without asking for any other base reward:
    Indeed the sweet heart loves me well.
    Prince, he makes me mad for love,
    When he says that he is all mine;
    He will make me die of sweetness;
    Indeed the sweet heart loves me well.
    Owain turned the page, realising only now, with a sudden sickness in his heart, that he already knew that Christine had been widowed young. This story wouldn’t end well.
    ‘ My husband was the head of the household then: he was a young, wise and sensible gentleman, well-liked by princes and all those who used to work with him as King’s Secretary, a profession that enabled him to sustain his family. But already Fortune had consigned me to its wheel, preparing to confront me with adversity and knock me down. It did not want me to enjoy the