The Queen from Provence by Jean Plaidy Read Free Book Online Page A

was a poet.
    Richard admired her. He was regretting his marriage more than ever. Had she been of more lowly birth he would have done his best to make her his mistress. Henry knew Richard. But of course that was something the Count of Provence would never allow.
    She was beautiful – golden haired with brown eyes. He pictured her clearly. Soft skin, fine features, her youthful figure perfect in every detail. Richard was a connoisseur of women and he had thought her the most beautiful child he had ever seen. Her sister was already Queen of France. That was an interesting situation.
    Why had he not heard of Eleanor before he had gone into negotiations with Ponthieu?
    Still, he was not yet bound to Joanna. There was still time.
    The idea obsessed him. Eleanor la Belle. The delectable thirteen-year-old child. He wanted a young girl, someone whom he could mould to his ways. He would have been afraid of a mature woman. Most kings of his age would have had several bastards scattered about the country by this time. Not Henry. He was shy with women; he did not want wild amorous adventures. He wanted a wife whom he could love; someone who would look up to him, and he felt this was certain to be a young girl; he wanted children; fine sons. That was necessary to the well-being of the nation. Richard might think that the succession was safe through him but that was not what Henry wanted. His own son must follow him and this beautiful young wife would provide that son.
    He was already disliking Joanna and half in love with Eleanor.
    But it is not too late, he told himself.
    He sent for Hubert.
    ‘I have changed my mind,’ he said. ‘Have the messengers returned from Ponthieu?’
    ‘Not yet, my lord,’ replied Hubert.
    ‘I have decided against the marriage.’
    ‘My lord!’ Hubert looked aghast.
    ‘It is unsuitable and I have found the bride I want. She is Eleanor, daughter of the Count of Provence.’
    Hubert found refuge in silence. He was thinking of the negotiations which had been going on with Ponthieu and the difficulty of breaking them; but he said nothing; the memory of the occasion when he had attempted to warn the King for his own good was too vivid. He would never fall into that trap again.
    ‘She is cultivated and beautiful. Her sister is the Queen of France. You will see, Hubert, that that fact alone makes the marriage desirable.’
    ‘It makes an interesting situation, my lord.’
    ‘And a politically strong one.’
    ‘It could be of great service in our dealing with France, my lord.’
    ‘So thought I. I want a message to be sent to the Count of Provence without delay.’
    Hubert nodded. ‘And the embassy to Ponthieu, my lord?’
    ‘We will deal with that in due course. In the meantime let us consider the Count of Provence.’
    ‘We shall tell him of your desire and ask what his daughter’s dowry will be.’
    ‘That will take time.’
    ‘Such matters always do.’
    ‘There is no need to tell me that. I am well aware of the delays in other negotiations.’
    ‘Which, my lord, you will now be glad did not come to fruition.’
    Henry laughed, friendly again. ‘You are right, Hubert. I hear that Eleanor of Provence is … incomparable. Now, we will make ready, with as much speed as possible. You understand me.’
    ‘Perfectly, my lord,’ said Hubert.
    Before the day was out courtiers were on their way to Provence. Henry waited in an agony of impatience.
    This must not go wrong as all his projects had before.
    He must have Eleanor. He pictured her – the perfect wife – beautiful, talented, enchanting. All would envy him his bride and none more than his brother Richard.
    There were many qualities which made the prospect enticing and not the least of Eleanor’s attractions was Richard’s clear appreciation of her charms.

    No one could deny that a marriage between the King of England and the sister of the Queen of France was a good proposition, so Henry had no difficulty in persuading his ministers that