The Passionate Enemies by Jean Plaidy Page A

they would talk together of deeper matters. There had been a bond between them. Beauclerc had chosen scholars for his friends.
    Henry must remember those days of friendship. He must see him.
    Yet he had always known that Henry was a ruthless man. Why had he been tempted to write those songs? The words had been witty and he had always been carried away by words. And Henry
was
wrong to take Normandy. The Clito – or his father – were the true heirs.
    Henry must know this, for he was a just man. Just, cruel, ruthless . . .
    â€˜Oh, God, let me see the King,’ he prayed. ‘Let me talk to him.’
    He could remind him of the old days, the hilarious adventures, the women they had known, the days of their youth.
    But the King would not see him. The Earl of Flanders came.
    â€˜I have tried to plead with Henry,’ he explained. ‘He stands firm. Your songs angered him greatly.’
    â€˜Oh, fool that I was. I never thought he could do this to me.’
    The Earl looked sorrowfully at the poet.
    â€˜You made an ill choice,’ he said, ‘and now must needs pay for it. Did you not realize that the Clito could never win against the King.’
    â€˜I thought his cause just.’
    â€˜And to mock the King! Did you not know that he would never forgive that?’
    â€˜I thought I could talk to him; he ever loved an argument. I thought we would talk as we used to in the old days.’
    The Earl shook his head and Luke put his hands over his eyes.
    â€˜So,’ he said at length, ‘there is no hope then.’
    The Earl was silent.
    â€˜My eyes, my precious eyes,’ muttered Luke. ‘I will never never part with them until the day I die.’
    The Earl sought to comfort him but what comfort was there for a man who must for ever after grope his way through darkness?
    They led him to the scaffold. The people of Rouen had gathered to watch the agonies of this man whose quarrel with the King had become notorious.
    Luke de Barré, tall, handsome, his hands bound behind his back, his eyes wild and staring as though they were trying to miss no tiny detail of any scene before their light was put out.
    On the scaffold was the brazier; there were the red-hot irons.
    â€˜Oh, God, help me,’ prayed Luke de Barré. ‘Thou knowest I cannot live without mine eyes.’
    He spoke in loud tones to the men who guarded him. ‘Tell the King,’ he said, ‘that I shall never forget him, and he will never forget me.’
    Then with a sudden cry he ran from his guards. They followed him but not with any concern for his hands were bound behind his back and escape was impossible for him. There were many in that crowd come to witness the agony of the King’s enemy who felt sorry for the poet. Some of the women would have sheltered him could they have done so, for even now that he was no longer young there was about him undeniable charm.
    â€˜Hold him,’ cried the guard, but no one moved. Then Luke de Barré faced the crowd and said: ‘I cannot say farewell, my eyes, for thee and I must never part.’
    Then running fast forward he lowered his head and thrust it against the stone wall.
    There was a groan from the crowd as the blood streamed from his head and again and again he threw his head against the wall.
    He lay on the ground. The guards bent over him.
    Luke de Barré was dying but there were a few moments of consciousness left to him.
    He was heard to murmur: ‘He could not take my eyes from me. I see . . . I see while life remains, I see.’ And then: ‘He shall never forget me . . . never while he lives.’
    And so died Luke de Barré before the King’s order could be carried out.
    When the news was brought to the King he was greatly disturbed.
    Henry dismissed depressing thoughts. He had brought the trouble in Normandy to a temporary standstill. There still remained Fulk of Anjou, quiet at the moment because the timewas not ripe