The Queen from Provence Read online

  Richard was still away from England, and little Margaret was a year old when a situation arose which could not be ignored even though it threatened to take the King from his happy domesticity.

  Henry’s stepfather, the Count of La Marche, wrote to him telling him that if he would come to his aid now he could promise him the help of not only the Gascons and Poitevins but also the King of Navarre and the Count of Toulouse. If Henry was ever to regain the possessions which his father had lost this was the time to do it.

  There was also a letter from Henry’s mother in which she told him she thought of him often and longed to see him. She wanted very much for the family to be reunited; and it seemed that they could serve each other by remembering their family ties.

  The fact was that the Count of La Marche (through his wife who governed him) had quarrelled with the King of France, because Louis’ brother Alphonse, who had been promised to the daughter of the Count, had married Joan of Toulouse; moreover he had been created Count of Poitier and the Count and Countess La Marche were therefore called upon to pay homage to him. This was something they could not stomach. Hence the desire to go to war.

  Henry was nonplussed. He was asked to make war on the husband of Eleanor’s sister. Yet, here was the opportunity for which he had been waiting ever since he had come to the throne. Always he was overshadowed by the sins of his father; everyone seemed to be waiting for him to display the same follies. What glory it would be if he were to regain all that his father had lost in France.

  He went to Eleanor first and showed her the dispatches from his stepfather.

  ‘You see, Eleanor,’ he said, ‘it is natural for the Kings of France and England to be enemies. Ever since great Rollo with his Norsemen forced his way into France so that the King was obliged to give him Normandy the French wanted to regain what had been given away. When William of Normandy came to England, England and Normandy were under one sovereign and the French want us out of France. My father lost so much that was ours. It has always been my dream to regain it. I would not hesitate but for one factor: the Queen of France is your sister.’

  Eleanor was thoughtful. ‘Henry,’ she said, ‘I want you to be the greatest king on earth. You can only do that by regaining what your father lost. I love my sister – but this is not our quarrel. With so many allies it will be easy for you to regain what is lost. You must go.’

  ‘What of us? We shall have to be separated.’

  She was thoughtful for a while. Then she said: ‘I could not let you go alone. You would need me with you. I will come with you, Henry.’

  ‘My dearest love. Oh how blessed I am!’

  ‘Alas,’ she said, ‘we shall have to leave the babies in England.’

  Richard had landed at Acre. He was not enthusiastic about this crusade. Crusades were always so exciting to plan when one was exalted by religious fervour and the belief that one was expiating one’s sins, but the reality was often less enticing when one had to contend with sand storms, flies – and worse, poisonous insects – dysentery and the realisation that the Saracen was not a savage, not a heathen but a man of high principles and deep religious feeling – the only difference being that he followed other doctrines.

  Moreover Richard wanted to marry. Had it not been for the crusade he would be married to Sanchia by now. Perhaps she would be pregnant with a son. And here he was at Acre, attempting to drive the Saracen from the Holy Land – a task which mighty warriors, his uncle Coeur de Lion among them, had failed to do. Could he hope to?

  Simon de Montfort, who had decided to join the crusade, arrived at Acre and Richard was pleased to greet his brother-in-law. Once he had recovered from the shock of his marrying his sister, Richard had decided that Simon would be a good ally, and both of them appeared to have forgotten the antagonism which had existed between them at the time of Simon’s marriage.

  Richard discussed his plans and how he intended to return home as soon as possible.

  ‘That is what I should like to do,’ said Simon, ‘but as you know the King was incensed against me.’

  ‘Henry’s anger soon passes,’ Richard assured him, ‘though it can be dangerous when it arises. He would have had you in the Tower and God knows what would have happened to you if we hadn’t acted promptly.’

  ‘For which I have to thank you.’

  ‘Well, are we not brothers-in-law?’

  Richard busied himself in Acre, first by offering to take into his ranks all those pilgrims who wished to go home and had not the means to do so. He marched to Ascalon where he reconstructed the fortifications of that city, and made a treaty with the Sultan of Krak which brought about the release of many prisoners. He went on to Gaza where many Christians had been slain and roughly buried. He had their bodies dug up and given Christian burial.

  He considered then that he had done his duty, earned the remission of his sins and was now justified in returning home.

  He had reached Sicily when he heard from the King that his presence was needed at home without delay as Henry was planning an expedition to France.

  Richard arrived in London in time to take part in the arrangements for the expedition. He told Henry that their brother-in-law de Montfort should be ordered to join them in Poitou.

  ‘He will be pleased to do so,’ said Richard, ‘and it will be a fitting end of your quarrel if he acquits himself well in your service, which I am sure he will.’

  Henry agreed to this.

  In view of the situation the marriage with Sanchia would have to be delayed for a while, but that was inevitable because of the war. When Henry had regained his possessions he, Richard, would be an even more desirable husband.

  It was a warm May day when the fleet sailed from Portsmouth. The King was accompanied by the Queen, Richard and seven other earls, and three hundred knights. The King had also brought with him thirty casks of money. He was in high spirits so sure was he of success. There was only one sorrow. He had had to part from his children.

  They were in the best of hands, of course, as was the Kingdom in the hands of the Archbishop of York. There was no Archbishop of Canterbury yet. He was awaiting the election of the Pope for the installation of Boniface.

  He held Eleanor’s hand as they watched the coast of England fade away.

  ‘When we return,’ he told her, ‘I shall have shown the French the stuff of which I am made. And the barons at home too. When I have regained that which my father lost they will have to think twice before comparing me with him. This is not only a war against the French, my dearest. It is a war against my own barons.’

  She nodded. She was imagining victory. The greatest King in the world. She would be kind and gentle with Marguerite, the wife of the conquered. ‘My dear sister,’ she would say, ‘rest assured no harm shall come to you. Henry would never do anything that would make me unhappy. You are safe.’

  And so they came to France.

  What a different story it was from that which they had been led to expect.

  The King’s mother Isabella de Lusignan greeted him with an affection which was surprisingly warm and emotional considering she had not seen him for more than twenty years and had during that time seemed to have ceased to remember his existence.

  Bitter disillusion was to await Henry. The French were by no means unprepared. Louis was ready for him; moreover Henry had been misled by his mother who unknown to her husband had misrepresented the situation.

  It was a disillusioned King who retreated before the French, as the realisation that he was not the one who was to win the victory was brought home to him. He had been used by his mother whose feud with the Queen Mother of France would take her to great lengths – and which would in time result in her self-destruction.

  In the meantime there was nothing for Henry and his army to do but retreat to Bordeaux and there hope to make some truce with the French.

  There was one incident to lighten their melancholy.

  Since they had left England, the Queen had once more become p
regnant, and at Bordeaux she gave birth to another daughter.

  ‘I will call her Beatrice after my mother,’ declared Eleanor.

  The little girl was beautiful and healthy and the King was able to forget his failure. He ordered that there should be great rejoicing and feasting in the castle of Bordeaux in spite of the fact that much of his treasure had gone in waging this unfortunate war.

  When he returned, he said, he would impose a tax on all those who had not accompanied him to France. It was only right that they should pay for the privilege of staying at home.

  He would find money somewhere.

  And there were always the Jews.

  Now that the war was over and a treaty made with Louis it was time for Sanchia to come to England that she might be married to the Earl of Cornwall.

  Eleanor was beside herself with delight for Sanchia had sent a message to say that her mother had decided to accompany her.

  ‘That makes you pleased, my love,’ said Henry. ‘You will have your sister and your mother at the same time.’

  ‘Oh Henry, I am longing to show them our babies. I want them to know how happy I am.’

  ‘I tell you this,’ replied Henry. ‘There are going to be such celebrations, such rejoicing that never was seen before.’

  Eleanor threw her arms about him and told him he was the kindest and best of husbands in the world.

  He was complacently happy. With such a wife it was easy to forget recent humiliations in France.

  The arrival of Eleanor’s mother and sister absorbed him. It must indeed be an occasion which would be remembered for ever. No expense must be spared, but where was the money coming from? Already there was grumbling throughout the land. No more taxes, said the citizens of London. No more poor and needy foreigners to be brought into England to live off the fat of the land provided by Englishmen.

  ‘It will have to come from the Jews,’ said Henry.

  And from the long-suffering Jews it came.

  Groaning over the iniquitous laws of taxation yet they paid, for they feared expulsion and going from bad to worse.

  Not very long ago the tallages levied on them were fifteen thousand marks – a sum which would have been expected to cripple them. Yet they had paid, worked harder and continued to amass more money. Two years later the taxation had been raised to eighteen thousand marks.

  ‘What can we do?’ they asked each other. It was either pay or expulsion. And they could expect little sympathy from their less industrious neighbours. If they did not want to be exploited they should work less; they should not be so concerned with making money. If they hadn’t got it they couldn’t pay it.

  The next imposition had been a third of their worldly goods and even after that they were called on to raise twenty thousand marks.

  It was heart-breaking for these people who while they loved work, loved even more the rewards it brought and must see this frittered away by the King on the friends and relations of his wife. It would have been intolerable if they had no alternative but to endure it.

  Moreover, few had any sympathy for them. ‘The Jews!’ was the comment accompanied by a shrug of the shoulders. ‘They have it. Let them pay it.’

  So it was the Jews who must finance the enormous amount needed for the wedding celebrations of the Earl of Cornwall.

  The King quickly forgot how the money had been raised, so happy was he in the Queen’s pleasure.

  ‘To have my mother and my sister here completes my joy,’ she told Henry. ‘I must be the happiest woman in the world.’

  ‘’Tis not more than you deserve,’ he told her solemnly.

  Beatrice of Provence was as delighted to be with her daughter as Eleanor was to be with her.

  How they discussed the old days! Little Beatrice was the only one left at home now.

  ‘There is talk of one of Louis’ brothers for her,’ said the Countess.

  ‘Then she will be near Marguerite as Sanchia will be near me.’

  ‘It is a very happy state of affairs. I could not have wished for better,’ declared the Countess.

  ‘My only regret is that dear Father is not here.’

  ‘I have something to tell you, Eleanor,’ said the Countess. ‘I had not done so before for fear of spoiling your happiness. Your father has been ailing for some time.’

  ‘Oh, Mother, is he really ill?’

  The Countess hesitated. ‘The doctors think they can save him.’

  ‘Oh dear, dear Father.’

  ‘He is happy because you girls are so well settled. He talks of you continually, Eleanor … even more than Marguerite. Of course at one time we thought that Marguerite had made the grandest of all marriages, but now we realise that you were always the clever one.’

  ‘Marguerite is happy with Louis, is she not?’

  ‘Oh yes. But she does not rule with him, as you do with Henry. Having seen you two together I believe that he would never do anything that did not please you.’

  ‘I think that is so.’

  ‘Marguerite is in no such position. Neither the King nor his mother would ask her opinion or listen to it if she gave it. This seems to suit Marguerite. Oh, she is not of your nature, Eleanor!’

  ‘Nor ever was.’

  ‘Nay, you were the leading spirit in the nursery. You always were. You have made yourself indispensable to the King. It is easy to see how he dotes on you. And your firstborn a son. Little Edward!’

  ‘He is four years old now, Mother. Is he not the most adorable creature you ever saw?’

  ‘I found you girls as lovely. But Edward is indeed a beautiful child and Margaret and Beatrice are adorable. It made me very happy that you should call the child after me.’

  ‘It was my idea and Henry of course agreed. He only wants to see me happy. And I am … Mother, oh I am. Of course it was a pity we did not succeed in France …’

  Eleanor looked sideways at her mother wondering how she felt about that, for victory for one daughter could have meant defeat for the other.

  ‘Henry should never underestimate Louis,’ she said slowly. ‘Louis is a great King.’

  ‘He is very serious I know, deeply concerned with state matters.’

  ‘It leaves him less time to indulge his wife,’ said Beatrice, ‘but it is good for the Kingdom.’

  ‘Oh, his mother insists. I believe she rules him still!’

  ‘From what I hear, Eleanor, Louis rules himself as he rules his kingdom. Marguerite thinks he is some sort of saint, I believe.’

  Eleanor grimaced. ‘Saints don’t usually make good husbands.’

  Beatrice took her daughter’s hand. ‘You have been fortunate. You have a husband who loves you dearly. You have three wonderful children and the eldest a boy!’

  ‘And Marguerite only has girls – Blanche and Isabella.’

  ‘She will have her boy in due time, I doubt not. But it is always agreeable when the firstborn is a boy.’

  Eleanor indulged herself by extolling the wonders of her son and Beatrice listened indulgently.

  Thus they passed the time happily together and the day came when at Westminster Richard married Sanchia with more pomp and splendour than had been seen in London for many years.

  ‘The King is determined to honour his wife’s family,’ said the people.

  ‘At whose expense?’

  ‘Oh, it is chiefly the Jews.’

  As long as it was chiefly the Jews they could shrug aside the expense and revel in the decorated streets. They could line those streets and shout their greetings to the bride and groom.

  So – apart from the Jews – people were happy on the wedding day of Sanchia and Richard of Cornwall.

  Now that Sanchia was married the Countess Beatrice was ready to return to Provence.

  It had been a wonderful occasion, one she would never forget. ‘Such splendid entertainment,’ she declared to Eleanor. ‘The King did indeed honour us. Now I must return to your father. Poor Provence! We are very poor, Eleanor. Even more so than we were in t
he days of your childhood. Not that you ever realised that. Your father and I always kept that from you.’

  Eleanor embraced her mother and replied that she trusted there was enough money to provide her father with what he wanted.

  The Countess shook her head and looked sad. ‘But I must not worry you with our problems. We are content because you have so much. So has Marguerite, but the French are parsimonious. They would give little away.’

  Eleanor said quickly: ‘I am going to speak to Henry. I am sure if I ask him he will not allow you to go back empty-handed.’

  Nor did he. When the Countess left she took with her four thousand marks for the use of her husband.

  What tears of sadness flowed when they said good-bye. The Countess must leave her two beloved daughters behind, but at least they had each other.

  ‘Your father will weep with joy when he knows how happy you are. It will do him more good than anything else possibly could. Henry, my beloved son, how can I ever thank you for the happiness you have brought my daughter.’

  Henry was deeply touched. He had been a little anxious about giving her the four thousand marks from his depleted exchequer, but it was worth it. Everything was worth it to please Eleanor and win the approval of her family.

  Chapter IX

  QUEENHITHE

  There was good news from Rome. Innocent IV had become Pope and soon after his installation in the Vatican he confirmed the appointment of Boniface of Savoy as Archbishop of Canterbury.

  Henry joyfully took the news to Eleanor who embraced him warmly. This was indeed a triumph. The greatest office in the country – outside that of the King – to go to her uncle.

  Boniface lost no time in setting out for England where he was warmly welcomed by the King and Queen. He was not so happily received by the people who asked themselves how many more foreigners the Queen would introduce into the country to the detriment of its natives.

  Eleanor was in fact becoming very unpopular. She was unhappy about this while pretending to ignore it; but when she rode out there were sullen looks cast in her direction and the King was only cheered when he was not with her.