The Red Rose of Anjou - Plaidy Jean. Страница 16

But what was this matter? Champchevrier stealing a portrait of Margaret and getting caught with it, and Sir John Fastolf getting angry because his prisoner was at large, and demanding that he be handed back to him.

Sir John would be disappointed. It would pay him back for the Battle of the Herrings which had been such a disgrace to the French. Besides, a marriage between Margaret and the King of England might be very advantageous to France.

And how pleased Yolande would have been. She had often fretted about the lack of Margaret’s chances. And here was an opportunity which was too dazzling for Yolande ever to have dreamed of.

Charles said: ‘I give you permission to travel freely through France. You shall be released at once to return to the King of England. Guard the picture of my niece well. It is a very fine one and exactly like her. I think Henry might like that well.’

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Rene was uneasy. Ho could not concentrate on his painting and that was a sure sign that something weighed heavily on his mind.

It was Margaret’s marriage. He really did not want her to go to the Count of Nevers. She was far too young; and far too dominating a character for a match like that. He knew that Nevers would expect a docile young girl whom he could mould to his ways and whose only important task would be to bear him children.

Margaret was an unusual girl. It was not merely because she was his daughter that he thought so. She was like her mother and his mother. They were strong, dominant women— and there were signs that Margaret was the same.

Why had Champchevrier stolen the portrait? It was quite clear that his arrival at the chateau had not been an accident. He had had some purpose. To steal Margaret’s picture. For whom? That was the question.

There was gossip that Champchevrier had been arrested, that he had been taken to the King himself and that Charles had given him permission to go on his way even though he was in fact a prisoner for whom a ransom was being asked.

It was all very mysterious and Rene had a shrewd idea that the mission had been to procure a picture of Margaret surreptitiously so that no one would guess for what reason.

And she was to go to Nevers.

He could not stop the match. Nor did he wish to until he was sure there would be a better; but he could delay matters.

Nevers—and Burgundy with him—was eager for a contract to be signed and the Count had sent word that his emissaries would be arriving very shortly.

I must do something, thought Rene.

Then he had an idea. His daughter Yolande was to marry Ferri de Vaudemont and there would be a dowry to provide for her.

He must consider this very carefully. All he had to offer was promises. They must know how impoverished he had become. His only asset of any worth was his daughters.

Although he could not cancel the contract with Nevers without arousing the fury of the House of Burgundy he could introduce a clause which would make the contract distasteful to someone, and he would have to work through the Vaudemonts. He agreed that Margaret’s children should inherit Sicily, Provence and Bar excluding any children Yolande and Ferri might have. He added that if Yolande married again any male of the second marriage would come before Margaret’s children as far as Bar was concerned.

This was, as Rene had known it would be, construed as an insult by the Vaudemonts and they protested. They were going to take the matter to parliament, they declared. They were going to set it before the King and see what he thought about such injustice.

All well and good, thought Rene. Delay...delay...that is always a good policy.

‘Why have you done this?’ Margaret asked him. ‘You must have known what the result would be.’

‘I did it for that reason.’

‘But why. Father?’

‘May I ask you a question. Do you want to marry the Count of Nevers?’

Margaret considered calmly. ‘I have to marry someone,’ she said.

‘But you can imagine someone younger...someone more romantic...than a middle-aged Count, perhaps?’

‘Why, yes, of course.’

‘Then you don’t want to marry him? You would rather wait awhile. Who knows what gallant suitor might come forth? Is that so, dear child?’

‘Yes, Father. I do not want to marry the Count of Nevers.’

‘So I thought,’ said Rene. ‘Now we will settle down to wait.’

MARGARET AND HENRY

The King was riding from St. Albans to Westminster. He was waiting impatiently for the return of Champchevrier. The thought of this young girl whose father had become impoverished through a series of misadventures appealed to him. Henry was always sorry for the failures. Perhaps it was because he sometimes felt he was a failure himself. He often wished that fate had not made him a King. Sometimes he imagined what he would have been if he had not been born royal. He might have gone into a monastery where he could have spent his days illuminating manuscripts, praying, working for the poor. He would have been content doing that and he would have done it well.

But he was the son of a King, a King in his own right, and as such was burdened by responsibilities which he could not endure.

He had not been formed to be a King – and a Plantagenet King at that. He did not belong with those blond long-legged giants who only had to wave a banner to have men flock to them. They had imposed their iron rule on the people – or most of them had – and the people had accepted it, almost always. Edward Longshanks; Edward the Third; his own father, Great Henry the Fifth. They were all kings of whom England could be proud.

And then had come Henry, a King at nine months old, surrounded by ambitious men all jostling for power. No, he was apart. His ancestors in the main had been lusty men. They had scattered their bastards all over the country. But he was different. He believed in chastity and the sanctity of the marriage vows. He was acutely embarrassed when women approached him seeking to tempt him, as they used to. They did not do it so much now because they knew it was useless; but there would always be women who would be delighted to become the King’s mistress. Never, he had said, and turned disgustedly away.

He remembered one occasion when some of his courtiers had arranged for dancers to perform for him and they came before him, their bosoms bare. So horrified had he been that he had quickly quitted the chamber muttering the nearest expletive to an oath of which he was capable, ‘Forsooth and forsooth.’ And then ‘Fie, for shame! You are to blame for bringing such women before me.’ And he had refused to look at them.

It needed incidents like that to assure those about him that he really was a deeply religious man of genuine purity.

Very laudable in a priest. But a King!

All he wanted was to live quietly, in a peaceful household; he wanted no more of the conflict in France. Did he want to be King of France? He did not want to be King of England even! His great uncle Cardinal Beaufort had assured him that with the death of his uncle Bedford the hopes of retaining a hold on France had ended. Everything had changed since the glorious days of Barfleur and Agincourt. Then England had had a great warrior King and had he lived doubtless France and England would be one by now. But he had died and Joan of Arc had come forward and changed the war. She was dead now...burned as a witch and he was still horrified by the memory of that deed. He had seen her once when he was a boy and had peeped at her through an aperture in the wall and looked into her cell; he had never forgotten her. He was certain now that she had been sent from Heaven. It was a sign that God wanted France to remain in the hands of the French. Henry wanted it too.

The great Cardinal on whom he relied had said that the time had come to make peace with the French—an honourable peace before they had lost too much.