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Authors: Jean Plaidy
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be.’
‘Who is she? Is it a secret?’
He looked at her quizzically. ‘You believe that you could lure a man to betray himself, do you not?’
‘I had not thought of it,’ she denied.
‘Ah, you have charm enough, my lady. Look at me. I am not a romantic figure, am I? Do you know what one poet wrote of me? I’ll tell you. You see I was sighing for my love, yearning to clasp her in my arms and this is the song that was written:
‘“Sir, you have done well.
To gaze on your beloved;
Your fat and puffy belly
Would prevent your reaching her.”’
Eleanor began to laugh.
‘There, you see,’ he murmured. ‘You, too, mock me.’
‘Nay,’ she cried. ‘That is not so. I think your lady might love you for the words you write of her. You give her immortal life for she will be known for ever through your songs.’
‘She is one who does not need my songs for that. She will live through her deeds.’
‘So she is a lady of high rank.’
‘The highest.’
‘You mean the Queen.’
‘God help me, yes. The Queen.’
Eleanor blushed scarlet. Marguerite! she thought.
He read her thoughts at once and cried: ‘No. No. It is not the young Queen. She is but a child. It is Blanche … the incomparable Blanche … the White Queen with her gleaming fair hair and her white skin and her purity.’
‘She must be very old. She is the mother of the King of France.’
‘Beauty such as hers is ageless,’ murmured the Count.
Then he strummed on his lute and once again began to sing softly of his lady.
Eager as she was for her marriage, Eleanor was sorry to leave Champagne. Thibaud insisted on joining the party and accompanying it to the French frontier. So with much pomp and extravagance they set out. The people from the villages came out of their cottages to gape at the magnificence which they would remember ever after. In due course they were at the French frontier and there Thibaud took his leave of them.
Eleanor regretted his going but the excitement of meeting her sister made her soon forget him. For there was Marguerite – changed since her childhood in Provence, the Queen of France and beside her King Louis.
The Count and Countess were overcome with emotion at the sight of their beautiful daughter and her husband. They were indeed a handsome pair. Marguerite, no longer the very young girl who had left her home, had grown into a queen. There was an air of regality about her which deeply touched her parents and made them very proud.
Eleanor noticed it and rejoiced that life was giving her a role as exalted as her sister’s.
As all must be she was deeply impressed by Louis and could not help wondering if Henry would be like him. He towered above his companions and as he was also very slender he appeared to be even taller than he actually was. His very fair hair made him conspicuous; and although he did not dress as magnificently as Thibaud had done, he yet seemed to be every inch the King.
The Count thanked him for all the happiness he had given his daughter to which Louis replied in most gracious terms that his thanks were due to the Count for having given him Marguerite.
It was thrilling to ride alone with the King and Queen of France – the golden lilies carried before them.
Louis quickly realised that Eleanor had a bright alert mind as her sister had, and he enjoyed talking to her. He talked about England, admitting that he had never been there, but his father had, and he had on one or two occasions talked to him of that country.
‘So often,’ said Louis, ‘our countries have been at war, but with two sisters as their Queens that should make us friends.’
Eleanor said she could never be an enemy of her dear brother and sister, to which Louis answered gravely: ‘We will remember it.’
Eleanor was inclined to think that Louis was rather solemn. She intended to find out whether Marguerite thought this and if she would have preferred someone more fond of the gaiety of life.
On their way to Paris
‘Who is she? Is it a secret?’
He looked at her quizzically. ‘You believe that you could lure a man to betray himself, do you not?’
‘I had not thought of it,’ she denied.
‘Ah, you have charm enough, my lady. Look at me. I am not a romantic figure, am I? Do you know what one poet wrote of me? I’ll tell you. You see I was sighing for my love, yearning to clasp her in my arms and this is the song that was written:
‘“Sir, you have done well.
To gaze on your beloved;
Your fat and puffy belly
Would prevent your reaching her.”’
Eleanor began to laugh.
‘There, you see,’ he murmured. ‘You, too, mock me.’
‘Nay,’ she cried. ‘That is not so. I think your lady might love you for the words you write of her. You give her immortal life for she will be known for ever through your songs.’
‘She is one who does not need my songs for that. She will live through her deeds.’
‘So she is a lady of high rank.’
‘The highest.’
‘You mean the Queen.’
‘God help me, yes. The Queen.’
Eleanor blushed scarlet. Marguerite! she thought.
He read her thoughts at once and cried: ‘No. No. It is not the young Queen. She is but a child. It is Blanche … the incomparable Blanche … the White Queen with her gleaming fair hair and her white skin and her purity.’
‘She must be very old. She is the mother of the King of France.’
‘Beauty such as hers is ageless,’ murmured the Count.
Then he strummed on his lute and once again began to sing softly of his lady.
Eager as she was for her marriage, Eleanor was sorry to leave Champagne. Thibaud insisted on joining the party and accompanying it to the French frontier. So with much pomp and extravagance they set out. The people from the villages came out of their cottages to gape at the magnificence which they would remember ever after. In due course they were at the French frontier and there Thibaud took his leave of them.
Eleanor regretted his going but the excitement of meeting her sister made her soon forget him. For there was Marguerite – changed since her childhood in Provence, the Queen of France and beside her King Louis.
The Count and Countess were overcome with emotion at the sight of their beautiful daughter and her husband. They were indeed a handsome pair. Marguerite, no longer the very young girl who had left her home, had grown into a queen. There was an air of regality about her which deeply touched her parents and made them very proud.
Eleanor noticed it and rejoiced that life was giving her a role as exalted as her sister’s.
As all must be she was deeply impressed by Louis and could not help wondering if Henry would be like him. He towered above his companions and as he was also very slender he appeared to be even taller than he actually was. His very fair hair made him conspicuous; and although he did not dress as magnificently as Thibaud had done, he yet seemed to be every inch the King.
The Count thanked him for all the happiness he had given his daughter to which Louis replied in most gracious terms that his thanks were due to the Count for having given him Marguerite.
It was thrilling to ride alone with the King and Queen of France – the golden lilies carried before them.
Louis quickly realised that Eleanor had a bright alert mind as her sister had, and he enjoyed talking to her. He talked about England, admitting that he had never been there, but his father had, and he had on one or two occasions talked to him of that country.
‘So often,’ said Louis, ‘our countries have been at war, but with two sisters as their Queens that should make us friends.’
Eleanor said she could never be an enemy of her dear brother and sister, to which Louis answered gravely: ‘We will remember it.’
Eleanor was inclined to think that Louis was rather solemn. She intended to find out whether Marguerite thought this and if she would have preferred someone more fond of the gaiety of life.
On their way to Paris
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