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books almost as much as his kingdom.’
    ‘Who is the lady who will share his throne?’
    ‘It is Joanna, the daughter of the Earl of Ponthieu.’
    The Earl of Ponthieu! thought Eleanor. She was of no higher rank than the daughter of the Count of Provence. And for her a crown! Oh, they should have acted sooner.
    ‘When … when will the betrothal take place?’
    ‘I doubt there will be any delay. My brother feels he has waited too long … and so do his ministers. I believe the proposals may already have gone to my brother. I know he is eagerly awaiting them.’
    Eleanor seemed to have lost heart. It could have worked. But it was too late.
    When Richard rode away the three girls stood with their parents waving him farewell.
    He looked back and thought what a charming group they made. Certainly the reports of the girls’ beauty had not been exaggerated. Eleanor was very gifted; Sanchia was charming – so young and appealing; and even little Beatrice was going to be a beauty when she grew up.
    He carried with him the poem. It was quite a work of art.
    He turned in his saddle and called: ‘We shall meet again. I promise it to myself.’
    Then he rode away.
    Sanchia clasped her hands and murmured: ‘He is the most beautiful man I ever saw.’
    Her parents laughed at her tenderly. Eleanor was silent. Too late, she was thinking. But a few weeks too late.

Chapter II
    A JOURNEY THROUGH FRANCE
    T he King was awaiting the return of the messengers from Ponthieu with some impatience. As he had said to one of his chief ministers, Hubert de Burgh, it was ridiculous that a man of his age – he would be twenty-nine in a year’s time – had never married. And he one of the biggest prizes in the matrimonial market!
    It was no fault of his that he had so far failed. He had tried hard enough. What mystery was this? Why should a King have to try to find a bride? It should be that all the richest and most important men of Europe would bring their marriageable daughters to his notice.
    Is there something wrong with me? he had asked himself.
    Looking in his mirror he could find nothing that should stand in the way of marriage. He was not exactly handsome and yet by no means ill favoured. He was of medium height and had a good strong body. It was true that one eyelid drooped so that the eye beneath it was hidden and this gave him an odd look which might to some seem a little sinister, but in some ways it suggested an air of distinction. He was no tyrant. He reckoned that he was liberal minded and a benevolent man – except in rare moments when his anger was aroused. He was known as a patron of the arts and a man of cultivated taste. But it was not only these gifts he had to offer a bride. He was the King of England and the woman he married would be a Queen.
    It was therefore astounding that he should have remained so long unmarried. Before this he had made three attempts and none of them had come to fruition.
    He was growing a little suspicious.
    He sent for Hubert de Burgh. Hubert was back in favour but the relationship between them would never be the same as it had been. Once when he was but a boy he had idolised Hubert, for Hubert – with William Marshal – had given him his crown. He had been but a boy of nine, the French in possession of the key towns of England, his mother recently free from the prison in which his father had placed her, when Hubert and William Marshal had set him on the throne, rallied the country and made it possible for him to be a King.
    Such a deed should have made Hubert a friend for life, and when William Marshal had died Hubert became his Chief Justiciar and adviser. Henry had listened to Hubert, had believed in Hubert, but as Hubert grew more and more influential he had become richer and had taken advantage of every situation to enhance his own power and that of his family. He had even married the sister of the King of Scotland. Hubert’s enemies then began to pour the venom of envy into Henry’s ears