Blood Royal. Vanora Bennett

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ it was stinking; a king humiliated. It never stopped trying to escape. Even now, in this heat, it was pulling the chain that ran from its collar to the stake in the ground as taut as it could, testing the possibilities, following its instinct, feeling for a way out.

      A silence fell on them all as they admired its powerful shoulders and the magnificent lines of its muzzle and its tawny, deadly eyes.

      ‘Has it ever got out?’ Owain asked, in a dazed voice.

      No one answered.

      Charles whispered: ‘They feed it a whole dog, or a pig, or a sheep, every day.’ He added, without expression: ‘The animals always scream before they die.’

      After a while, Catherine asked, just as quietly: ‘Does the King of England keep lions?’

      As she spoke, she glanced up towards Christine, who was standing well back from the cage. She was looking past the lion into the distance; lost in some private thought of her own, which, to judge from the tragic expression on her face, wasn’t a happy one.

      Catherine turned her steady gaze back on Owain.

      Owain had no idea if there had ever been a lion in England. And his head was too full of lion-stink and heat to be able to think straight. But there was nothing he wanted more than to feel her eyes on him. ‘There’s an elephant at the Tower of London,’ he said. He’d heard the story, even if he hadn’t seen the elephant on his few brief trips to London. And he’d seen a picture of an elephant once. It was the most impressive thing he could think of to say.

      ‘What’s an elephant like?’ Catherine asked.

      ‘Huge and grey,’ he said boldly, describing the picture he remembered, beginning to enjoy his story. ‘Like a giant dog. And instead of a nose it has an extra limb – curving up, in the shape of a horn.’

      He’d hoped to astonish her with his fabulous beast. But she just nodded, matter-of-factly, as if she saw elephants every day. Perhaps being among miracles at all times took away the edge of shock.

      Then, after another furtive glance at Christine, she added in a whisper: ‘And what’s Henry of England like?’

      She moved a little closer.

      Owain paused, trying desperately to marshal his thoughts. She smelled of roses.

      ‘Honest,’ he muttered, thinking defiantly that he could at least do something to right the damningly wrong impression Christine had given of his King. ‘Straightforward. Good-tempered … A good planner … And an excellent master: everyone who serves him loves him …’

      He glanced up at Christine himself, hoping she was still staring past the lions, thinking her thoughts and not listening to him.

      Catherine was so close now that she couldn’t help but catch the movement of his eyes and know what he was thinking. She bit her lip; but the breathless beginning of a giggle escaped anyway. She nodded conspiratorially at him. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered, ‘Christine’s not listening.’

      For a moment they stood too close, exchanging glances, not quite laughing. He was dizzy with the intimacy of it; dizzy with the bees buzzing around him. Then she went back to prompting him: ‘And the court, the English court? What’s that like?’

      Owain hardly knew anything of the court, either. He’d served at banquets – three hours of silent eating. He’d ridden behind hunts. But he didn’t know if any of that would impress her, any more than the elephant had. He let the smell of roses and warm skin drift delightfully into his nostrils. He hesitated. He wanted to make England attractive. But he wanted to tell her the truth, too.

      Hesitantly, he began: ‘Not as magnificent as this … and London isn’t a quarter the size of Paris.’ His head cleared. Suddenly he knew what might appeal to someone brought up in times as uncertain as those Catherine had known here – times, he thought, with sudden understanding, that had perhaps been almost as uncertain as those he’d known, in a different way. He’d tell her what had appealed to him about coming to England – it had been exactly the same thing. He went on, with greater confidence: ‘But it’s very orderly. Dignified. Decorous. Calm. The King and his brothers and his three Beaufort uncles rule together, wisely and in perfect unison … and the people love them all.’

      She was nodding now; looking thoughtful; wistful even. He’d been right. She was impressed by that.

      Louder, because it would be foolhardy to expect Christine not to come out of her reverie sooner or later, and seriously, because he wanted the pleasure of watching Catherine’s lips move and eyes dance and neck sway as she considered her reply, he asked: ‘And what about here? The French court … what’s that like?’

      She thought. Her forehead wrinkled enchantingly.

      But it was Charles who, turning away from the lion at last, broke in with an answer. ‘Dancing and debauchery!’ he shouted, throwing out both arms as if taunting a mob.

      Catherine laughed, a little uneasily. ‘He doesn’t know what it means,’ she told Owain. ‘It’s just something they were shouting in the street … last year … when there was …’ Then, as Owain’s startled look sank in, she turned crossly to her little brother and reprimanded him: ‘You mustn’t say that! I’ve told you so many times!’

      ‘I do know what it means. There was a ball here once when four men dressed up as hairy savages,’ Charles piped up stubbornly. ‘They were supposed to jump out and scare the ladies. But their costumes caught fire on a torch, and two of them burned to death before everyone’s eyes,’ he added with ghoulish relish. ‘You can imagine the screaming.’

      ‘Did that really happen?’ Owain couldn’t help asking. You never knew, here. Perhaps it had. ‘Were you there?’

      With something like regret, the little voice replied: ‘No … before I was born.’ And the pinched, freckled boy’s face clouded.

      Catherine said: ‘But I went to the Court of Love once … my uncle’s idea … the Duke of Orleans …’

      She dimpled at Owain.

      He softened: ‘And what was that?’ he asked.

      ‘A kind of repeating ball. No, more than that: an idea, a place where people could meet – the officers of the Court of Love – and talk about chivalry, judge cases of unhappy love, and learn how to be true lovers themselves …’ she said, being careful with her words. He could see she remembered it with affection.

      ‘And everyone wore beautiful clothes, too,’ she added, with childlike regret; ‘we don’t have anything like that any more … not since …’

      Charles said: ‘… my uncle was murdered.’ There was ghoulish pleasure in his eyes.

      There was a rush of air behind them. All three young people froze, as if they’d been caught doing something terribly wrong. Christine had come to herself. With a whisk of bony elbows, she broke into their little circle, clearly annoyed at the way the conversation was going. ‘You were three at the Court of Love,’ she said sharply to Catherine. ‘And he’s been dead for seven years. If there’s nothing like that now, then there’s no reason to talk about it any more, either. It might well have done us all more good if there’d been less idle talk about chivalry back then, and more sensible thought about real life.’

СКАЧАТЬ