Blood Royal. Vanora Bennett

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СКАЧАТЬ feverish with words, eager for the next entire imaginary world he knew would be waiting for him inside the next cover. She had written so much: advice to widows, army strategy manuals (how did a woman do that?), an account of the philosopher-king Charles V’s life. But what he really wanted to read most, now, was the poems of wistful unrequited love that she’d earned her first money from.

      Finding him reading her old poems, Christine gave him someone else’s book: the treatise by Andreas Cappellanus, The Art of Honest Love, in which the rules of the convention of unrequited love known to lovers all over Christendom were set out in three volumes. Owain found it very strange, and not only because it was in Latin, which he struggled to grasp. The delicious sufferings of the knights he understood all too well; the sighs. But, in true courtly love, as depicted in books, it appeared that the lady must always be haughty and superior. Her role was only to educate her lover, whose moral standing must be improved to make him worthy of her. However, he could never hope to improve himself enough to win her. The true aim of their love had nothing to do with achieving the satisfaction of a romantic union. It was a love that could never be satisfied; it was a love that could only exist outside marriage.

      When Owain plucked up courage to ask, at Christine’s table, why the ladies of the poems must always be so harsh, it was Jean who replied, with a hint of impatience: ‘Because, if they ever did give in, there’d be nothing to show for all those years of trembling knightly devotion but adultery and moral disaster, would there now?’ He shrugged a brusque apology at his mother, but went on. ‘The idea of courtly love is … safer: a lifetime of spiritual adultery. Improve and be improved! Pine and be pined for! But never a moment of physical love. Never so much as a kiss.’

      He laughed at Owain’s hot blush. ‘I’ve shocked you,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken so plainly.’ Getting up, he added: ‘Courtly love poems can make love seem too pretty. It’s not always pretty – love. You’re too young to know. You should leave love poetry alone until you’ve felt it yourself.’

      ‘He’s working so hard,’ Christine said after he’d gone, as if excusing her son’s tetchiness. It was true. Jean was out of the house long before everyone else was up, making sure there was money coming in, food on the table, but so rushed off his feet with the chancellor’s projects that his eyes were drooping before anyone else had finished supper. Christine sighed. There was a tired silence.

      A moment later, Owain realised that Christine’s sigh signified something quite different from fatigue, or embarrassment that Jean had talked disrespectfully of poetry. She had something on her mind. She wanted to ask him a favour.

      Fiddling with a bit of gristle on her platter, and looking down, almost nervously, she cleared her throat and asked if Owain would make a two-day trip out of Paris with her, to visit her daughter Marie, who was a nun at the monastery of Poissy. ‘Usually Jean takes me; but I can’t ask him now; he can’t spare the time,’ she said, and when she looked up he saw her eyes glisten.

      Owain had read in one of Christine’s books that she had a daughter in a monastery. In her first months of widowhood, he knew, Christine had discovered that the dowry she thought had been put aside by her dead husband for this daughter had been stolen; and, without a bride price, Christine’s girl-child could never marry. Marie de Castel’s future had been saved by the King of France. When his own daughter, also called Marie, had entered the convent for royal women at Poissy, he’d found Christine’s daughter a place at her side, and paid the dowry the nuns demanded out of his own purse. Christine had written about her gratitude for the King’s goodness.

      But Owain had never heard Marie’s name mentioned in her mother’s voice. Now, looking at Christine’s imploring eyes, which – although he knew she was much too self-possessed to weep – he could swear were soft with unshed tears, he could guess why. It was simple. She missed her daughter.

      ‘I’m allowed to visit her once a year; at the feast of St John … I don’t want to miss it,’ she was saying, looking down again, and he could hear the pain in her voice now, so clear that he was touched by the bravery with which she’d lived her hard, odd life. When he put a hand on hers, she took comfort from it. She didn’t shake it off. St John, he calculated: midsummer; in the next few days. ‘Of course,’ he said gently. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

      She looked up now, blinking; and the smile that came to her face was both relieved and triumphant. She wanted to lighten the atmosphere, he could see; she knew she’d looked vulnerable, and she didn’t like to be pitiful. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured; then, in more conversational tones: ‘You’ll enjoy it, I think. It’s the most beautiful place, Poissy … tranquil … serene …’ She laughed, without amusement. ‘So beautiful that sometimes I think I should go and end my own days there, with my Marie.’ She blinked again and smiled; Owain saw that, despite her efforts, her eyes were watery again. She’d never have her family all together under one roof again; she’d never be completely happy with her choice, whether it was to be with her son or her daughter; there’d always be regrets.

      ‘… But not now, of course,’ Christine went briskly on. She got up from the table. She gestured with her veiny hands at the familiar room, full of the leftovers of dinner and her grandchildren’s clutter and the paraphernalia of family life. ‘There’s too much holding me here.’

      Owain could see her biting her lip as she headed for the door. He sat on at the table, thinking.

      He didn’t especially want to go to Poissy, not for himself. Owain could think of nothing but staying in Paris; nothing beyond the next few weeks and months here, in this perfect, frenzied, breathless moment, feeling young and full of joy with his confidence growing that every pleasure in life still lay ahead. There was something of the same feeling, he sensed, in Catherine’s endless questions about England, which kept coming even though there’d been no further word from the English court about the possible royal marriage. Whenever Christine wasn’t listening, Catherine would be whispering another request for information, about the King, jousting, London, the length of royal processions, Parliament, horses, fashions, the royal homes strung along the Thames valley … Owain couldn’t permit himself to examine the combination of hope and unease that this day-by-day interrogation aroused in him, but it hovered on the edge of his mind anyway, like a brilliant sunburst, too bright to look at. It was as if each of them were striving towards the place on the map that they sensed was natural for the other.

      Still, if Christine wanted him to travel out of Paris with her, he would do her bidding. Of course he would. Even if it meant leaving the city where the sun always seemed to shine and happiness was within such easy reach, it was the least he could do for the woman who’d opened the door to it all.

      The storm broke the next day. Over the ruins of a picnic in the gardens, they all heard the sound of hoofs in the heat of the afternoon. Half a dozen horses broke the silence; too close; too fast; only reining in a hasty gallop at the gate for long enough for a thin, angry male voice to hiss, ‘Get out of the way, you bloody fool; don’t you see who I am?’ and for a whip to crack; and then more jingling and neighing as the skittering horses were urged on again, up to the Queen’s house, over the flagstones just behind the nearest bushes.

      Owain shook himself and raised his head. He didn’t know what was habitual here and what was not; he was only responding to the heightening of tension in the others. Charles was sitting straight up. Catherine’s head had jerked round to follow the sounds. They were both watching the bushes for any glimpse of the passing horses. Christine was getting to her feet; brushing grass off her skirts.

      ‘Louis,’ Charles said. His voice was hushed. He sounded scared.

      ‘Trouble,’ Catherine said, also in a tone of foreboding, following Christine to her feet. Charles scrambled up too.

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