The Passionate Enemies by Jean Plaidy

fear he inspired in all those about him, was an adversary as certain to succeed as Clito was doomed to fail.
    One by one castles fell into Henry’s hands and by Easter time it was clear that the rebel defences were crumbling and that this phase of the war was virtually at an end.
    Thousands of prisoners were taken and when Henry heard that the warrior-bard Luke de Barré was among them he laughed aloud.
    â€˜Now he will see,’ he cried, ‘what happens to those who would mock the King.’
    That night he paced his chamber asking himself what revenge would hurt his old friend most. To be condemned to death! He knew Luke. He would shrug his shoulders philosophically and make some ode on the beauty of death and go gracefully to his execution. That was not punishment enough.
    His eyes. Of course, his eyes! Those beautifully dreamy eyes which the women so much admired and with which he surveyed the world that so excited him that he must record what he saw sometimes lyrically, often satirically.
    That should be his sentence. The fate all men dreaded more than any other was to have the light put out and be plunged into a darkness which would last for the rest of their lives.
    He himself gave the order: Luke de Barré to be taken to the scaffold and there publicly to have his eyes put out.
    The King’s kinsman, the Earl of Flanders, begged for an audience.
    â€˜What is it?’ asked the King.
    â€˜My lord, forgive me, but may I speak to you concerning the poet Luke de Barré?’
    â€˜Have they not yet carried out the sentence on him?’
    â€˜Not yet, and I beg you will order it not to be done.’
    â€˜Why should you plead for a traitor?’ asked the King.
    â€˜A traitor he is, sir. But he is a poet more than a warrior.’
    â€˜Are you saying that I should pardon this man who has insulted me?’
    â€˜Nay, sir, but such a sentence . . . Allow me to bring him to you. On his knees he will ask your pardon.’
    â€˜I doubt it not, now that he is my prisoner.’
    â€˜It was but words.’
    â€˜Words! Know you not the power of words? At times methinks they are more effective than the sword.’
    â€˜I beg of you, sir, show mercy on this man.’
    â€˜No!’ cried the King. ‘I say no! This man, a wit, a bard, a minstrel, hath composed ribald songs against me and sung them to make my enemies laugh. God has delivered him into my hands. I wish all to see what happens to those who flout me that others may be deterred from like petulance.’
    â€˜Sir . . .’
    â€˜Get you gone,’ cried the King, ‘or you too will feel my wrath.’
    Alone the King muttered, ‘Now, Luke de Barré, you will learn what it means to insult the King.’
    â€˜My eyes!’ cried Luke de Barré. ‘Not my eyes. Take my life . . . but not my eyes.’
    â€˜My lord,’ said the guard, ‘it is the King’s command.’
    â€˜My eyes, my
precious
eyes. It must not be. Take me to the King.’
    â€˜The Earl of Flanders has spoken for you but the King has sworn to show no mercy.’
    â€˜I will give everything I have . . . lands, wealth . . . everything . . . for my eyes.’
    The guard did not answer.
    All through the night Luke de Barré sat in his dungeon. He had asked for a candle that he might see for as long as he would be allowed to. He asked for writing materials because he must write to the King. But such materials were denied him.
    Henry was a hard man. He had always known it. It would have been different with his brother Robert or the Clito. They would have more feeling for their friend. But Henry was the victor. Henry had always been the victor from the moment he had ridden to Winchester and proclaimed himself the King.
    They had had amusing adventures together. Two young men whose minds had been in tune. That was what had attracted Henry in the first place. He liked a companion when sporting with women and then