The Queen from Provence by Jean Plaidy Read Free Book Online

beautiful?’
    Richard hesitated and he saw the anxiety dawn in Henry’s face.
    ‘Oh fair enough,’ he said.
    ‘Fair enough,’ cried Henry. ‘Fair enough for whom … for what?’
    ‘One cannot ask too much of a bride in a state marriage, can one. If she was born in the right bed and the marriage brings the desired terms, what matters it whether the lady be fair?’
    There was a silence, while Henry’s looks grew darker. Then Richard laughed. ‘Oh, brother, I but tease. She is comely …’
    ‘Enough?’ added Henry.
    ‘To tell the truth I compared her with one other whom I met rather by chance.’
    ‘Oh have you fallen in love again then?’
    ‘I could well be on the way to it. She is the daughter of the Count of Provence. I believe I have never seen a more beautiful girl. She is clever too. A poet … a musician … a girl who has been unusually well educated. This is obvious in her manner … her speech … and of course her poetry.’
    ‘You are not speaking of the Queen of France?’
    ‘Nay. I did not meet her. ’Twas hardly likely that I should have been received with much friendship at the Court of France. The girl who so impressed me was her sister, Eleanor. You would enjoy the Court of Provence, brother. They set great store by music. The conversation sparkles with wit. Troubadours come from all over France sure of appreciation. I can tell you it is a paradise. The Count has four beautiful daughters. One you know became the Queen of France. That left Eleanor, Sanchia and Beatrice.’
    ‘And the one who enchanted you?’
    ‘They all did, but Eleanor is thirteen years old. It’s a delightful age – particularly in one as talented as Eleanor.’
    ‘And how does she compare with Joanna of Ponthieu?’
    Richard shrugged his shoulders and lowered his eyes.
    ‘Come,’ said the King sharply, ‘I would know.’
    ‘Joanna is a comely girl … a pleasant creature …’
    ‘But Eleanor surpasses her?’
    ‘The comparison is unfair. There is none who could compare with Eleanor. When I read her poem I did not believe one so young could have written it. I determined to see her, then …’
    ‘What poem is this?’
    ‘I will show you. She wrote a long poem set in Cornwall and since I was nearby she most graciously sent it to me. Once I had read it, I must see its author and that was how I came to spend those delightful days at the Court of Provence.’
    ‘Let me see this poem,’ said Henry.
    ‘I have brought it for you. Read it at your leisure. I am sure with your own poetic gifts you will realise the talent of this girl.’
    ‘Your voice grows soft at the mention of her name. I do believe you are enamoured of her.’
    Richard looked sadly ahead of him. ‘You know the situation in which I find myself.’
    ‘In which you placed yourself,’ Henry corrected. ‘It was your reckless nature that put you where you are today … married to an old woman. I could have told you you would regret it. And the Pope refusing a divorce.’
    ‘It may be that I shall persuade the Pope one day.’
    Henry looked impatient. ‘Tell me more of Provence.’
    ‘The Count is proud of his daughters. Who would not be? Having secured the King of France for one of them he will look high for the others.’
    ‘And how does Eleanor compare with Marguerite?’
    ‘I heard it said in the castle that she was even more beautiful. In truth because of this she was always called Eleanor la Belle.’
    ‘Give me the poem. I will read it.’
    ‘Then I will leave you to it, Henry. I shall be interested to know what you think of it.’
    ‘Rest assured I shall tell you.’
    As soon as he was alone the King glanced at the poem. The handwriting was exceptionally good and only slightly childish. It was written in the Provençal dialect and through their mother Henry and his brother and sisters had some knowledge of this so he was able to read it with ease.
    It was charming, delightful, fresh … and full of feeling. It was true, the child