by Jean Plaidy
About the Book
When William X dies, the duchy of Aquitaine is left to his fifteen year-old daughter, Eleanor. But such a position for an unmarried woman puts the whole kingdom at risk. So on his deathbed William made a will that would ensure his daughter’s protection: he promised her hand in marriage to the future King of France.
Eleanor grows into a romantic and beautiful queen, but she has inherited the will of a king, and determines to rule Aquitaine using her husband’s power as King of France. Her resolve knows no limit and, in the years to follow she was to become one of history’s most scandalous queens.
‘Miss Plaidy, whose meticulous attention to historical detail can seldom, if ever, be faulted, has woven a vivid novel to launch the Plantagent saga on what will, undoubtedly, be a top selling course.’ South Wales Argus
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Epub ISBN 9781446411711
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Published by Arrow Books in 2007
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Copyright (c) Jean Plaidy, 1976
Initial lettering copyright (c) Stephen Raw, 2006
The Estate of Eleanor Hibbert has asserted its right
to have Jean Plaidy identified as the author of this work.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First published in the United Kingdom in 1976 by Robert Hale Ltd Published in paperback in 1978 by Pan Books Ltd
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099493266
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title
Copyright
Praise for Jean Plaidy
About the Author
Available in Arrow Books by Jean Plaidy
Family Tree
Eleonore and Henry
I: Duchess and Queen
II: Petronelle and the Count
III: The Lovers of Antioch
IV: The Royal Divorce
V: Queen of England
Henry and Thomas
VI: The King’s Will
VII: Fair Rosamund
VIII: The Rise of Becket
IX: The Abbess Bride
X: The Vacant See
XI: The Rising Storm
XII: The King’s Triumph
XIII: Flight from England
XIV: Rosamund’s Bower
XV: Traitor’s Meadow
XVI: Murder
XVII: The King’s Remorse
Bibliography
Jean Plaidy, one of the pre-eminent authors of historical fiction for most of the twentieth century, is the pen name of the prolific English author Eleanor Hibbert, also known as Victoria Holt. Jean Plaidy’s novels had sold more than 14 million copies worldwide by the time of her death in 1993.
For further information about Jean Plaidy reissues and mailing list, please visit
www.randomhouse.co.uk/minisites/jeanplaidy
Praise for Jean Plaidy
‘A vivid impression of life at the Tudor Court’
Daily Telegraph
‘One of the country’s most widely read novelists’
Sunday Times
‘Plaidy excels at blending history with romance and drama’
New York Times
‘It is hard to better Jean Plaidy … both elegant and exciting’
Daily Mirror
‘Jean Plaidy conveys the texture of various patches of the
past with such rich complexity’ Guardian
‘Plaidy has brought the past to life’ Times Literary Supplement
‘One of our best historical novelists’ News Chronicle
‘An excellent story’ Irish Press
‘Spirited … Plaidy paints the truth as she sees it’
Birmingham Post
‘Sketched vividly and sympathetically … rewarding’
Scotsman
‘Among the foremost of current historical novelists’
Birmingham Mail
‘An accomplished novelist’ Glasgow Evening News
‘There can be no doubt of the author’s gift for storytelling’
Illustrated London News
‘Jean Plaidy has once again brought characters and
background vividly to life’ Everywoman
‘Well up to standard … fascinating’
Manchester Evening News
‘Exciting and intelligent’ Truth Magazine
‘No frills and plenty of excitement’ Yorkshire Post
‘Meticulous attention to historical detail’ South Wales Argus
‘Colourful … imaginative and exciting’ Yorkshire Post
‘Effective and readable’ Sphere
‘A vivid picture of the crude and vigorous London of
those days’ Laurence Meynell
Available in Arrow Books by Jean Plaidy
The Tudors
Uneasy Lies the Head
Katharine, the Virgin Widow
The Shadow of the Pomegranate
The King’s Secret Matter
Murder Most Royal
St Thomas’s Eve
The Sixth Wife
The Thistle and the Rose
Mary Queen of France
Lord Robert
Royal Road to Fotheringay
The Captive Queen of Scots
The Medici Trilogy
Madame Serpent
The Italian Woman
Queen Jezebel
The Plantagenets
The Plantagenet Prelude
The Revolt of the Eaglets
The Heart of the Lion
The Prince of Darkness
The French Revolution
Louis the Well-Beloved
The Road to Compiegne
Flaunting, Extravagant Queen
ELEONORE AND HENRY
Chapter I
DUCHESS AND QUEEN
From a window of the Chateau de l’Ombriere the Duke of Aquitaine looked down on the scene in the shaded rose garden. It was one to enchant him. His two daughters - charming creatures both of them thoug
h the elder of the two, Eleonore, surpassed in beauty her sister Petronelle - were surrounded by members of the court, young men and women, decorative and elegant, listening now to the minstrel who was singing his song of love.
The Duke’s eyes rested on Eleonore, for she was at the centre of the group. Some quality in her set her apart from the rest of the company. It was not only her beauty nor was it her rank. She was after all the heiress of Aquitaine until its Duke begot a son and, widowed as he was, he must bestir himself if he were to do so, for although he was but thirty-eight years of age, he had lost two wives and the only outcome of those marriages was his two girls Eleonore and Petronelle. Eleonore was tall and she was handsome; there was something commanding about her; she had the air of one born to rule. There was also a sensuality. He sighed, thinking of his father whose life had been dominated by his devotion to the opposite sex and wondering whether his attractive daughter would follow her grandfather in that respect.
She was fourteen years of age, Petronelle three years younger. Yet there was a ripeness about them both, even little Petronelle. As for Eleonore, she was ready for marriage. And if anything should happen to him before this event took place, who would protect her? He imagined her in her rose garden surrounded by her minstrels and the ladies of her court; and some suitor riding into the castle. There would not only be Eleonore’s vast lands and fortune to attract him but the fascinating Eleonore herself. And if she refused to marry? He knew the manners of the day. The lovely maiden would be abducted, held prisoner, deflowered if she would not yield willingly and placed in such a position that her family would be eager to marry her to her ravisher.
It was hard to imagine such a fate for Eleonore. Yet even she would be forced to submit.
He thanked God that it had not come to that. Here he was a man of thirty-eight with two attractive daughters. He must marry and beget a son. Yet what if he were to marry and there was no son? It was a logical assumption as so far there had been only daughters. How often were royal male heirs elusive. Why should he have been given only daughters? As was customary with men of his times he asked himself whether God was punishing him for his sins or perhaps the sins of his forbears.
His father had been one of the most renowned sinners of his age. Women had been his downfall. He had left his wife and set up his mistress in great state, even having an image of her engraved on his shield. William the ninth Duke of Aquitaine had cared nothing for convention, and although the greatest motive in his life had been the pursuit of women, this was a common enough quality - or failing depending on the way one looked upon it - and he was renowned rather for his love of poetry and song. This Duke’s ideal state had been to lie with his mistress of the moment and listen to the strumming of the harp, and the songs, which were often of his own composing, sung by his minstrels. He was called the Father of the Troubadours and Eleonore had inherited his talent in this; she could compose a poem, set it to music, play it, sing it and attracted to her the finest songsters in the Duchy. What else had she inherited from her grandfather? Having noted the expression in those big languorous eyes as they rested on various comely gentlemen, the Duke wondered.
What he should do was get a son quickly and find a husband for Eleonore. But neither of these projects could be achieved without a great deal of thought. A husband for Eleonore now when she was the heiress could easily be found but it would be remembered that she could be displaced if her father had a son. And to have a son he must first find a wife! Not that that presented any great difficulty. What he must have was a fruitful wife. And there was the gist of the matter. Who could say until a man was married whether his wife would give him a son? What if he married to find the lady barren or capable only of giving him daughters?
So this was his dilemma. Should he marry again and try for a son? Or should he accept Eleonore as the heiress of Aquitaine? What of her husband if she married? Quite clearly, if she were to remain heiress of Aquitaine there was only one husband who would be worthy of her and that was the son of the King of France. So he was torn by doubts as he looked down on the scene, in the garden.
He sent for Eleonore. Because she was clever and could read and write - a rare accomplishment - because she already seemed to regard herself as the potential ruler of Aquitaine, because her mind was agile and to be admired as much as her beauty, he had talked to her for some time as he would have talked with some of his ministers.
She came in from the warm sun into the comparative chill of the castle, wrinkling her nose a little for the smell of rushes after the rose garden was none too pleasant. She would order the serving-man to sweeten the place. It should have been done a week ago. Rushes quickly became unpleasantly odorous.
Her father would be in his apartment which was reached by a staircase at the end of the great hall. This hall itself was the main room of the castle. It stretched from one end to the other and it reached up to the rafters. The ducal apartments were small in comparison for it was in the hall with its thick stone walls and narrow slits of windows that the court spent most of its time. Here courtiers danced and played the harp and sang; here the ladies sat and embroidered as they told tales and sang their songs; and because the castle could not accommodate them all they lived in houses close by where they could be within reach of the court.
Eleonore mounted the stairs to her father’s apartment.
He stood up as she entered and, placing his hands on her shoulders, drew her to him and kissed her forehead.
‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘I would speak with you.’
‘I guessed it, Father, since you asked me to come to you.’
Some might have said commanded. Eleonore must be asked, never commanded, and graciously she granted the request.
Her father smiled at her. He would not have had her otherwise.
‘You know, Eleonore, my dear daughter, that I am deeply concerned.’
‘For what reason?’
‘I have no male heir.’
She lifted her head proudly. ‘And why should you need a male heir when you have a daughter?’
‘Aye, a fine daughter. Mistake me not. I am aware of your qualities. But men seem to follow men.’
‘They will be made to see that there are times when for their good they must follow a woman.’
He smiled at her. ‘I doubt not that you would make them understand that.’
‘Then, Father, you have no problem. Come to the gardens and you shall hear my minstrels sing my latest song.’
‘A treat I shall enjoy, my dear daughter. But it is suggested to me by my ministers that my duty lies in marriage.’
Eleonore’s eyes blazed in sudden anger. Another marriage! A half-brother to displace her! That was something she would do everything in her power to prevent. She loved this fair land of Aquitaine. The people adored her. When she rode out they came out of their cottages to see her, to give many a heartfelt cheer. She believed that they would never feel so warmly towards any but herself. Oh, she was a woman and it may be that her sex was against her; but her grandfather, Duke William IX, had loved women, idealised women; he had instituted the Courts of Love; he had composed poetry and songs in favour of love, and women had been the most important factor in his life. So why should not the next ruler of Aquitaine be a duchess instead of a duke? It was what the people wanted. She herself wanted it; and Eleonore had already made up her mind that what she wanted she would have.
‘And if you married,’ she cried, ‘how could you be sure that you would get this male heir by which you set such store?’
‘I am content with my daughters.’ He quailed before her fury, which was in itself ridiculous. He, a father and a duke, to be overawed by a girl, and his daughter at that! Why should he feel this need to placate her? ‘It is my ministers …’ he began feebly.
‘Then your ministers must needs mind their own affairs.’
‘Dear daughter, this is an affair of the Duchy.’
‘Very well then, marry, and I’ll swear you will soon be mak
ing a pilgrimage to some saint’s shrine asking for a fruitful marriage.’
‘A pilgrimage?’
”Tis the custom. But I wonder at you. You have sins to answer for, Father. You need redemption even as my grandfather did.’
‘I never lived the life he did.’
‘His sins were committed in the Courts of Love. There are others which have to be answered for. You have offended many, Father. It may be that the prayers of your enemies would be answered, prayers for retribution and not yours for forgiveness of your sins.’
‘Daughter, you turn all to your advantage.’
‘Mayhap I uphold the truth. I was ever one who liked plain speaking and always shall.’
‘So then let us have plain speaking. You are the heiress of Aquitaine and are determined to remain so.’
‘It is my wish and natural in me. A poor ruler I should be if I did not view the loss of my inheritance with abhorrence. If you marry and there is male issue I should be displaced. The people would regret it.’
‘Nay, they would not regret my giving them a duke.’
‘First you have to get your little duke, and God has shown you in two marriages that it is daughters for you.’
‘If you believe this you will not be disturbed at the prospect of my marrying.’
‘I shall be disturbed by your disappointment, Father.’
He laughed at her. ‘My dear Eleonore, you are a diplomatist already. And you but fourteen years of age!’
‘I have made full use of my fourteen years, sir, and something tells me that God will never give you a male child.’
‘Have you become a prophet then?’
‘Nay. So many royal lords marry for sons. There was the King of England, think how he strove for a son. And what happened? His marriage was barren. There was a man who had scattered his bastards throughout the realms of England and Normandy, but he had one legitimate son who was drowned at sea and never could beget another. God denied his dearest wish, as he may well deny you yours. I believe that Henry of England regretted his second marriage. Of what good was it? It did not bring him the very thing he married for. Sons.’
