The Queen from Provence Page 17

  Yes, that was it. A few years ago he would have been less loyal to his brother. He would have talked of these matters with Clare, Chester, any of his friends who were determined that the King should not have too much power. He was the King’s man now and his main object was to keep his brother on the throne.

  He was often at Windsor because that was where the children were and his own son Henry was there. So far Sanchia had given him no children which was sad, but while he had Henry he could be grateful. Henry was a fine boy – bright, intelligent and handsome. He was now about ten years old and it was a joy to see him. What a son did for a man! And he owed Henry to Isabella.

  The young Edward was growing up steadily although plagued by one or two minor ailments which sent his parents frantic with anxiety. The two little girls were pleasant and Henry seemed set fair to have a fine family.

  If only he would be a little more discreet in welcoming his wife’s relations and when they came showering them with gifts, which had to be paid for by his subjects. It was folly. It might well be madness.

  He found Eleanor working at her tapestry with several of her women. There was an air of smugness about her, he thought.

  My God, he thought, I believe she is pregnant again.

  ‘My dear brother.’ Her welcome was genuine. She had always had a fondness for him since in a way she owed her presence here to him; and now that he was her sister’s husband he was doubly dear to her.

  ‘Dear lady,’ he murmured, kissing her hand.

  He raised his eyebrows in a manner to indicate that he would like to speak to her alone and she immediately waved a hand to dismiss the women.

  ‘How is my sister?’ she asked.

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘It seems long since I saw her though I suppose it is not. I am so happy that she is in England.’

  ‘She is happy to be here.’

  He seated himself on a stool close to her.

  ‘You seem particularly content this day,’ he said looking at her interrogatively.

  ‘Did you guess then?’

  ‘So it is indeed so. Henry is delighted, I know.’

  ‘He is beside himself with joy. It should be a boy this time.’

  ‘Ha, that will put young Edward’s nose out of joint.’

  ‘He said he would like a brother. He is a little contemptuous of two sisters. Your Henry is a great friend of Edward’s already.’

  ‘He is a good diplomat, my Henry.’

  ‘Oh Edward has the sweetest nature.’

  ‘Madam, I know from Henry that you are blessed with the paragon of all children.’

  She laughed. ‘Come, Richard,’ she said, ‘you have a very good opinion of your son Henry.’

  ‘What fortunate people we are to possess such children! I wish we could go on talking of them all through the day for I swear we should never get tired of the subject. But there is something else I have come to say.’

  ‘Say on, Richard.’

  ‘It is easier to talk to you …’ A little flattery did no harm and she was very susceptible to it. ‘I am concerned.’

  ‘On what?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘There is a lot of dissatisfaction throughout the country … and particularly in London.’

  ‘The Londoners are always making trouble.’

  ‘They are a proud people.’

  ‘They think London is England, and that no city in the country compares with theirs.’

  ‘Nor does it, my lady, for trade, for riches, for importance. We have to remember that these people who are murmuring are the merchants … the traders … important to the wealth of the country.’

  ‘The Jews perhaps.’

  ‘Perhaps the Jews.’

  ‘They have no right to be here. They should pay for the privilege.’

  ‘If we lost them we should lose a great deal besides. But I have not come to talk to you of the Jews. There is this matter of the Queenhithe which is causing such dissatisfaction in London.’

  ‘Oh I know. They grumble every time they pay their dues. The dues at Queenhithe have always been the perquisite of the Queens of England.’

  ‘With this difference,’ insisted Richard, ‘that you have induced Henry to command that all the richest cargoes are landed at Queenhithe and that the price of the dues has been considerably raised.’

  ‘It is no more than they owe me.’

  ‘They do not see it as such. It is one of those seemingly unimportant matters which can be the beginning of big trouble.’

  ‘Do you want me to go to the people and say I am sorry. I should never have taken these dues?’

  ‘No. But I will buy Queenhithe from you.’

  ‘You, Richard! It would be very costly.’

  ‘I am not poor. I am very serious on this. I believe that if something is not done about this matter the next we hear will be of rioting.’

  ‘The rioters will be punished.’

  ‘It is not as easy as that, Eleanor. The mob can be terrible. It is never wise to arouse it for once it is there one can never be certain where it will end.’

  She was silent. He would have to pay a large sum for the Queenhithe. He could do so, for it was true that he was very rich. One rarely heard of his being short of money, which was Henry’s continual complaint. Richard was different from Henry. He lacked his generosity. Uncle Boniface had asked him for money and Richard had said that he could not give it but would lend it, if he wished.

  Uncle Boniface had not wished.

  Henry would have given the money generously, to please her.

  To give up Queenhithe! Well, it would be a test. There was constant complaint. When she rode out into the streets people whispered it. She knew it was a matter which caused great displeasure.

  She would sell. Richard should take over Queenhithe. Then he would see that the venom of those grasping merchants was turned on him.

  Once it was in Richard’s hands he let it to the Mayor of London for a rent of fifty pounds a year. The Mayor could deal with it as he thought fit; and if the London merchants did not like what he did the matter was between them and their mayor.

  He had lifted the royal family out of the quarrel.

  Chapter X

  CEREMONY AT BEAULIEU

  While Eleanor was awaiting the birth of her baby there was sad news from Provence.

  Her father was very ill.

  Sanchia immediately came to Windsor where Eleanor was at this time. The sisters embraced and Eleanor took Sanchia to her private chamber where they might be alone together.

  ‘Our mother said how ill he was when she came for your wedding,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘Yes, I know. He wanted to come … oh how he wanted to come, but he was too feeble.’

  ‘Do you think,’ said Eleanor, ‘that he is already dead?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Our mother would warn us first. She would think it would lessen the shock.’

  They stared blankly at each other. It was a long time since Eleanor had seen her father but her memories of him were still very fresh and in their minds both she and Sanchia could easily slip back into those happy days of their childhood.

  ‘It is so difficult to imagine it without him,’ said Eleanor. ‘Our poor mother will be desolate. I shall bring her over here.’

  Sanchia was silent thinking of what Richard had said about the people of England and their attitude to the Queen’s relations.

  ‘There is still Beatrice left,’ said Sanchia.

  ‘Our father will not be able to find a husband for her now. Romeo will help.’

  ‘Poor Beatrice, how sad for her.’

  While they talked another messenger arrived at the castle.

  It was as Eleanor had feared. The Count was dead.

  Eleanor was mildly irritated when she heard that her father had left everything to his unmarried daughter Beatrice.

  ‘He had forgotten that he had four daughters,’ she said with some asperity.

  ‘Oh
no,’ replied Sanchia. ‘Marguerite and you and I are happily married to rich husbands. Beatrice has yet to find one.’

  ‘There will be no dearth of offers for her now.’

  The matter of the inheritance took the edge off Eleanor’s mourning, and when she heard suitors were arriving in Provence every day she was cynically amused.

  The Countess however did not consider any of them of sufficient merit and Henry came to her one day in great excitement because he had received news that Jaime, the King of Aragon, had besieged the town of Aix which he determined to hold until the Countess of Provence gave her daughter Beatrice in marriage to his son Pedro.

  What a romantic situation! It was worthy of one of the poems she used to write. And Beatrice was at the centre of the drama – all because she was the youngest one and unmarried, still at home and had therefore received her father’s inheritance.

  There was a letter from Marguerite to her sisters.

  They must not be alarmed on Beatrice’s account. It was true that the King of Aragon was invading Provence in the hope of winning Beatrice. They called him the Conqueror because of his victories, but Louis had decided to step in.

  The fact was that Louis’ brother Charles of Anjou had a great desire to marry Beatrice and had always believed that he would in due course. Therefore Charles was riding into Provence to send the so-called Conqueror Jaime about his business.

  It was very exciting and each day she and Sanchia waited for news of the battle for Beatrice.

  In the meantime Eleanor was brought to bed. What rejoicing there was when this time she produced a bonny boy.

  They called him Edmund and this addition to their nursery so delighted the King and Queen that Eleanor forgot her resentment at being cut out of her father’s will. News came of the victorious campaign waged by Charles of Anjou. It had been an almost foregone conclusion that the King of Aragon – Conqueror though he might call himself – could not win against Charles of Anjou who had the support of his mighty brother.

  In due course the wedding of Beatrice and Charles was celebrated in Paris. There was now a new Count of Provence – Beatrice’s husband.

  One of the greatest joys of Eleanor’s life was to be with her children and of all of them she could not help loving her firstborn best.

  Whenever she could be with him, she was; and Henry shared her feelings. It was not so easy for him, of course. He had other duties to perform, but he never tried to persuade her to accompany him because he knew how she longed to be with their children.

  When they were together they talked of Edward continually. Henry wanted to endow him with lands and castles, and even Eleanor laughed at him and said that would come later, the child was too young as yet.

  One thing she did promise herself was that Edward should accompany her when she made the dedication of a new church in Beaulieu Abbey.

  ‘He cannot start too soon to show himself in public,’ she said. ‘And everywhere he goes people will love him.’

  It was true that when the little boy accompanied his parents the populace showed a more kindly attitude towards them, and Henry thought it an excellent idea that his mother should take Edward to the dedication.

  Her heart thrilled with pride as she stepped into the nursery and he bounded forward and threw his arms about her knees.

  ‘My darling, is this the way to greet the Queen?’ she asked.

  Then she lifted him in her arms and covered his face with kisses.

  ‘How is my Edward this day?’

  ‘I am well,’ he answered.

  She examined him intently. Were his hands a little feverish, his eyes a little too bright? Or was that due to the excitement of seeing his mother?

  Robert Burnell, who was his chaplain and confidential servant, was hovering.

  ‘The Lord Edward has been suffering from slight rheum this last few days, my lady.’

  Terror gripped her heart as it always did when any of the children suffered some ailment.

  ‘How has he been, Robert? Are you sure this is nothing serious?’

  ‘My lady, he is subject to these rheums.’

  She did not like him to be subject to rheums. They frightened her.

  ‘I rode out with Henry this morning, my lady,’ said Edward. ‘My horse was faster than his.’

  Oh God, were they letting him ride too fast? What if he fell? Should he not have been kept indoors with such a rheum?

  She looked anxiously at Robert Burnell. ‘Lord Edward will vie with everyone and do his best to win,’ he told her.

  ‘And always does, my lady,’ declared Edward.

  ‘Not always, my lord,’ warned his mentor and religious instructor Burnell.

  ‘Well very often,’ said Edward stoutly.

  His mother ruffled his hair.

  ‘I have messages from your father,’ she said. ‘The King wants to know whether you have been good in your manners and your lessons. What shall I tell him?’

  ‘That I am very good,’ said Edward.

  ‘Sometimes,’ added Burnell.

  Eleanor wished Burnell would let the dear boy enjoy his triumphs in peace but of course she knew that it was good for him to be curbed and he could not have a better tutor than Robert Burnell.

  ‘My dearest, I am going to take you with me to Beaulieu Abbey.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In a short while. We are going to be present at the dedication of the church.’

  ‘It will be a very solemn ceremony, my lord,’ said Burnell.

  ‘Oh, must I be solemn then?’ Edward coughed slightly, and Eleanor’s fears rose again.

  ‘It is a small cough, my lady,’ said Burnell. ‘It goes and comes.’

  ‘We must see that it goes and does not come,’ she answered tersely.

  Were they caring for him? Did they realise how precious this child was? Oh, some might say, he had a brother and was not so important now. They were wrong, wrong. No one could ever mean to her what her beloved Edward did … not even Henry.

  How proud she was of him riding by her side on his little white palfrey. His cousin Henry, four years his senior, rode on the other side of him – a handsome boy but in her eyes insignificant compared with the flaxen beauty of her own son.

  He coughed a little as they rode and she became more and more uneasy as they approached Beaulieu; she felt almost angry with young Henry for being in such obvious good health.

  The Abbey had been founded by Henry’s father, King John. It was one of his more laudable acts which he performed from time to time, more, Henry said, from a sense of placating Heaven than for his own virtuous inclinations. Set among beechwoods it was a beautiful sight and the Cistercian monks would be delighted at this sign of royal patronage with their Queen and their future King gracing the dedication of the newly erected church.

  The tolling of the bells and the sombre-clad monks clearly fascinated Edward, but as his cough persisted his mother grew less and less interested in what was happening about her.

  The monks filed into the church chanting as they came. The Queen with her son beside her and Henry and Edward’s knights seated behind – among them Robert Burnell – witnessed the ceremony of the dedication.

  When it was over the Queen took her son’s hand and to her dismay found that it was burning hot.

  She turned to Robert Burnell and said: ‘The lord Edward has a fever.’

  ‘It is the rheum, Madam,’ answered Burnell. ‘It would be a good plan to get back to the castle without delay.’

  ‘It is too dangerous,’ said the Queen. ‘He must not go out. He shall stay here and the doctors shall come to him. Please send for them at once.’

  ‘My lady, he cannot stay here. This is a very strict order.’

  ‘I care not how strict it be!’ retorted the Queen. ‘My son is to run no risks whatever the order.’

  ‘It will give great offence to the Abbot.’

  ‘Then pray let us give offence to the Abbot. Send for the doctors without delay. Then let a m
essage be delivered to the King.’

  Robert Burnell knew that it would be unwise not to obey the Queen when she was in such a mood. It was useless to remind her that the boy often suffered these fevers and that doubtless they were a childhood weakness that he would grow out of as he became older.

  The monks who had heard what was going on immediately went to the Abbot to tell him. He came out without delay.

  ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I hear you want to nurse the lord Edward here. The monks will care for him.’

  ‘I have sent for the King’s doctors.’

  The Abbot bowed his head. ‘My lady, you may safely leave him in our care.’

  ‘Leave my son! Oh no, my lord Abbot. When my son is ill, I am the one who cares for him.’

  ‘My lady, women cannot stay in this abbey. The order is very strict.’

  ‘Then the order shall be changed,’ declared Eleanor imperiously. ‘I am not merely a woman, my lord Abbot, I am your Queen. You would be wise to show me more hospitality. Take me to a bed that my son may be made comfortable. And let me tell you this: I shall stay here until he is well enough to travel. I shall look after him, so you and your monks had better get accustomed to housing a woman in your abbey.’

  The Abbot was nonplussed. He could not allow her to stay. It was unprecedented. The boy could be cared for, yes indeed, but the Queen must go.

  He tried to explain but her fear for her son sent her into a raging fury. How dared this fool of an Abbot quibble about his Cistercian laws when the heir to the throne was sick and might die? The thought sent her into a frenzy.

  ‘I will hear no more,’ she cried. ‘Remember that you owe your existence to the favours of kings. My husband’s father founded this place. The Queen can as easily destroy it … ay, and she will if aught happens to her son through your negligence. I want every comfort for the lord Edward and that includes having his mother to nurse him.’

  The Abbot knew himself beaten. It would go ill with them all if the boy was taken away and died. Everyone would say it was due to his action. So it was wise to waive rules and allow the Queen to stay with her son.

  The doctors arrived and were a long time with Edward. The Queen said she insisted on knowing the truth which they assured her they had told her. The boy was suffering from a slight fever – nothing which good nursing could not cure. The Queen was unduly disturbed.