The Queen from Provence Read online

  Of course Marguerite was Queen of France and wherever she went she was treated with great respect; homage was paid to her every moment of the day. Louis quite obviously loved her. But he obeyed his mother and if that meant being parted from his wife he accepted it.

  In the castle of Pontoise, Eleanor had an opportunity of talking to her sister about her marriage and gradually it seemed she gained the ascendancy which had been hers in Les Baux in spite of Marguerite’s status.

  She wanted to hear about the wedding and the coronation ceremonies, what Louis expected of her and whether she was truly happier than she had been in her parents’ home.

  Marguerite was reticent about what happened in the bedchamber. That, she said, with a certain smugness which irritated Eleanor, was what she would have to find out, and what she would accept because it was her duty to do so. Louis it seemed was a paragon of virtue. She could not ask for a kinder, more loving husband, if only …

  There. She had betrayed herself. If only what? Eleanor wanted to know.

  ‘If only we could be alone more often. She is always there.’

  ‘You mean Queen Blanche?’

  ‘Of course she is his mother, and he thinks that she is wonderful. You see he was only twelve when his father died and she made a King of him, he says. He always listens to her. I know she is very clever and it is right that he should do so. But she tries to separate us. Sometimes I think that she is jealous of me.’

  ‘Of course she is. She wants her beautiful son all to herself. Thank Heaven Henry has not a mother living at the Court.’

  ‘She is far away and from what I hear she leads her new husband a dance. Yes, you should be thankful, Eleanor, that Isabella of Angoulême will not be living at your Court. Though it would please us mightily if she decided to leave Lusignan for England.’

  ‘We shall see that she remains in Lusignan. I would not endure what you do, Marguerite. If I were you and sure that Louis loved me, I would say it was time for his mother to retire into the background.’

  ‘You would not,’ said Marguerite, ‘if your mother-in-law was Queen Blanche.’

  ‘So your Louis is afraid of her.’

  ‘No, no. But he is so kind, he would never hurt her. He listens to her but if he does not agree with her he goes his own way. He is greatly respected. He is so eager to govern well. He will be a better king than even Philip Augustus. He cares about the people. He gives much to the poor. Sometimes, after Mass, he goes into the woods and there sits on the grass and asks any, however humble, to talk to him and tell him what they think. He listens to what they have to say. He wants to hear if they consider there are injustices in France. I have seen him do this even in Paris in the gardens of our palace there. He does not greatly care about his dress. I have often seen him in a coat of that stuff I hate … half wool, half cotton. They call it tyretaine. He goes hatless, too. He says that he wanted to make the people see him as a man … not a king.’

  ‘That is not the way to win the people’s respect.’

  ‘He thinks it is and they do respect him. What do you think he said to me when I complained that he did not look like a king?’

  ‘He said he would dress richly to please you, I doubt not.’

  ‘He said something of the sort … but with a difference. Everything Louis does is not what is expected. “To please you, Marguerite,” he said, “I will dress in extravagant garments. But if I dress to please you you must dress to please me. That means that you will wear simple garments and give up your splendour.”’

  ‘And that I see you declined to do.’

  ‘’Tis clear is it not?’

  ‘At least he does not command you to cast off your silks and jewels.’

  ‘Louis would never command that. He likes people to have freedom. I tell you, Eleanor, there is no man like him in the whole world. France is fortunate to be ruled by such a King.’

  ‘Who is ruled by his mother.’

  ‘That is not true. But she is clever … and she would be beside him.’

  ‘In your place?’

  Marguerite was silent.

  ‘When I reach England,’ said Eleanor, ‘I shall govern with my husband.’

  ‘If he will allow you to do so.’

  ‘I shall make sure that he does,’ vowed Eleanor.

  Marguerite looked at her steadily. Knowing Eleanor she believed that she would.

  Chapter III

  THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND

  The crossing was stormy but Eleanor discovered with relief that she was not a bad sailor. It would have been undignified to have arrived in her new country wracked by the seasickness which had affected some of the company. Her uncle was beside her as they stood on the deck watching as the ship approached England. The cliffs rose white and stark out of that frothy grey sea and there could not have been a land more different from Provence. Uncle William put his hand over hers as though to reassure her, but she did not need his comfort. She was excited. Grey seas and cool winds were unimportant. So long she had wanted this marriage; ever since Marguerite had left them to be the bride of the King of France she had wanted the crown of England as the only one to compare with that of Marguerite, and having seen Marguerite, dominated by her mother-in-law, she no longer envied her. That was why she could stand beside her uncle at the approach to England with the utmost confidence in her future.

  Now they had come so close to land that she could see the bold grey towers of that castle perched high on the hill, menacing, formidable, defiant. It had been graphically called the Key to England, and she thought the name apt. That key was being given to her; and she would employ soft words and subtle manners until this land was hers to command. Everything depended on her husband, and she would shortly discover what manner of man he was and whether her task would be easy.

  ‘You are on the threshold of a new life, my child,’ said Uncle William. ‘So much will depend on you. I trust you realise what this means.’

  ‘I do,’ replied Eleanor.

  ‘You will have me to guide you.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I shall do that whatever the opposition,’ he went on.

  ‘You expect opposition?’

  ‘There is always opposition in Courts. So much depends on the King.’

  Now the castle was taking on definite shape. The great keep which had been built by the bridegroom’s grandfather dominating the great pile of stones. It was impossible not to be impressed by all that magnificence of Kentish rag mingled with that Caen stone which had been brought from Normandy by the same Henry II. As she gazed at those great buttresses rising into turrets, Eleanor could not help but be moved, for they symbolised the might of England. They had arrived.

  Henry had decided that he would greet his bride at Canterbury where the Archbishop would be waiting to perform the marriage ceremony. He was beside himself with excitement at the prospect of at last having her with him. So much had gone wrong with his previous attempts that he had begun to believe fate had decided against his marrying; but on this occasion his bride was actually in England and in a short time would be with him.

  Everyone was delighted. It had been a source of some dismay that he having reached the age of twenty-eight should not have married so far. He should have had a nursery full of sons by now. Never mind. It was going to happen at last. His bride was very young, only fourteen years of age; but that was not too young for a royal bride. It was a great pleasure – and a change to do something that gratified both himself and the people at the same time.

  Yes, it was indeed true that everyone was delighted that he was to marry. Hubert de Burgh thought it time and that since the eldest daughter of the Count of Provence was the wife of the King of France it was no bad thing that his second daughter should be Queen of England. Even old Edmund, Archbishop of Canterbury, believed that the marriage was necessary for state reasons. As for Henry’s brother Richard, he regarded himself as the one who had brought it about (which indeed he had been) so therefore he, seeing himself a
s a policy maker, was all in favour of it.

  There was no dissenting factor in whichever direction he looked and with a light heart Henry set out to greet his bride.

  She rode on a white palfrey and her hair fell about her shoulders; on her head was a diadem to proclaim her royalty. She was dressed in blue with touches of gold thread, and her long semicircular cloak was fastened by jewelled buckles held together by a golden chain. Henry looked at her and his heart leaped with exultation. Eleanor la Belle was aptly named.

  He thought: She is indeed the most beautiful girl in the world – and she is my Queen.

  In that moment he knew that well worth while were the long wait, the disappointments and frustrations during that time when he had thought that Fate had decided he should never have a bride.

  He took her hands in his and kissed them.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘My heart swells with delight at the sight of you.’

  No words could have made her happier or more sure of herself.

  She said: ‘I am happy to come.’

  She studied her husband-to-be. He was not tall, but neither was he short. He did not look in the least delicate; in fact he was more robust than his brother Richard and bore some resemblance to him. She noticed that distinguishing feature which she had never seen in any other: his eyelid falling over one eye so as to conceal the pupil might have given him a look which could have been sinister if he were angry. But at this time, when it was clear that he was filled with delight, it was merely interesting. By her standards he was quite old; this did not displease her, because his maturity but called attention to her charming youth.

  Riding between the King and Uncle William she rode into Canterbury. It was one of those occasions when it seemed to be the most delightful prospect in the world to be a King and Queen. In the streets banners fluttered; the people had gathered everywhere to see them pass. They called loyal greetings; they smiled and cheered.

  Eleanor could not quite understand them but Henry told her: ‘They are amazed by your beauty.’

  Richard was there to greet her warmly as an old friend.

  ‘What a good day for England when you decided to write a poem about my country,’ he whispered.

  ‘You think that but for that it would never have happened?’

  ‘I am sure of it,’ he answered, determined that she should remember and be grateful to him.

  He looked at her longingly. How enchanting with the dew of youth on her; with that perfection of feature and those serene eyes where intelligence was as clear to see as all their beauty.

  Richard was envious. This fair young girl for Henry and for him an ageing wife. He did not grow to love his Isabella more as the years passed; and the Pope would not allow him to put her from him. Life was unfair. He reminded himself that he had his adorable son, Henry after his royal uncle, and Isabella was his mother. Yes, he had Henry, but that did not prevent his grudging Henry this lovely girl.

  The King was much aware of his envy; it delighted him. As for Eleanor he could not take his eyes from her. He had already given her jewels of such magnificence as she had never seen in Provence and even Marguerite’s could not compare with these.

  She was going to be happy here. She was ready to love this man with those strange-looking eyes who was already doting on her when so far she had done nothing but look beautiful which was the easiest thing in the world to do.

  She had brought several of the women from Provence with her, though her father had warned her that often when brides married into foreign lands their husbands dismissed their attendants and supplied others of his choice.

  She would keep hers with her, she promised herself. She was not going to speak English all the time, though she had a fair knowledge of it and because she could pick up languages easily she would learn quickly. Sometimes, though, she would want to speak her native Provençal and recall memories of her childhood with those who shared them. Perhaps that would be the first battle between her and Henry. She would welcome it because it would give her an insight into how much she would be able to lead him.

  The marriage was to take place immediately in Canterbury and the ceremony would be conducted by the Archbishop of Canterbury; afterwards she and her husband would ride to London for the festivities.

  In her apartment in the Archbishop’s palace her Uncle William came to see her. She could see by the brilliance of his eyes and colour in his face that he was excited.

  He took her into his arms and held her against him for some seconds before he said with emotion: ‘I am proud of you.’

  ‘Why, Uncle, what have I done?’

  ‘You have enchanted the King. I see that.’

  ‘Is that not what is to be expected?’ she asked.

  ‘It is to be hoped for – and rarely does it happen as it has this day. I can see that he loves you already. Oh, my child, this is a good day for the House of Savoy.’

  ‘And for England I hope,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘Aye, for England. Tomorrow you will be a Queen – and after this ceremony here in the great Cathedral, you will go to Westminster for your crowning. My child. I never thought this could be possible. We rejoiced at Marguerite’s good fortune … and now you. Two Queens …’

  ‘Romeo de Villeneuve told Father that he would make each of his daughters a queen.’

  ‘Let us be thankful that his prophecy has come true for two of them.’

  ‘Poor Sanchia and Beatrice! I’ll warrant they are envying me. My parents will be telling them now of our stay in Champagne and at the Court of France. I can picture it.’

  ‘Let us concern ourselves with your future, my dear.’

  ‘That is a matter in which I have great interest.’

  ‘I believe the King will be guided by you … if you are clever.’

  ‘I am clever, Uncle. It is my cleverness which brought me here.’

  ‘Oh, I know the story of the poem, and I know well your skill with words and music. But I was thinking of other skills. We have yet to discover whether you possess those.’

  ‘If I do not now, I soon will, Uncle.’

  ‘Like the King, I rejoice in you. Moreover I have taken a liking to this land, Eleanor.’

  ‘That pleases me since it is to be mine.’

  ‘You realise, do you not, that your husband can play a very big part in the history of Europe. I want it to be a part which brings good to England … to Provence and to Savoy. For that reason I should like to be here to guide you … both.’

  ‘You mean you do not wish to go home.’

  He looked at her steadily. ‘I want to stay here, Eleanor. You will need me. I want to look after you. You are a clever girl. Oh, I know that well, but you are so young and cleverness is often no good substitute for experience. No more of this now. It may be that you will have some influence with your husband, and if you do …’

  ‘I have formed the opinion that my husband will wish to please me,’ she said.

  William Bishop Elect of Valence smiled. He felt that was enough for the moment.

  On the evening before her wedding Eleanor had sat beside Henry at table in the palace and he had talked to her of his country and his interests and they were delighted to find hers were similar. He was a great admirer of the poets and he told her that he had read again and again the magnificent epic she had written and sent to his brother of Cornwall. He would never forget that it had, in some measure, brought her to him.

  He could not take his eyes from her. He told her that he had not lived until he saw her, that he rejoiced that he had waited for marriage until now – although he had been tempted to undertake it before. The fates had saved him for this, because he had known as soon as he had set eyes on Eleanor, no one else would suit him.

  All this was intoxicating, as was the admiration of his courtiers, and her contentment added to her beauty. She could talk freely with Henry for he spoke her native Provençal. Then she tried her English which he declared was enchanting and he wanted to issue a law that
all the English should speak their tongue as she did.

  There was only one who was not susceptible to her charm and that was the old Archbishop of Canterbury. Much did she care. Poor old man. He was supposed to be a saint and all knew how dull they were. It was said that he ordered monks to beat him with horsehair thongs; that knotted rope cloth was tied about his body where best it could torment it; that he never went to bed but spent nights sitting in meditation or on his knees.

  A most uncomfortable man and one she hoped she would see little of.

  But he was the Archbishop of Canterbury and it was he who married them in the great Cathedral – Henry told her that this most impressive edifice and Westminster Abbey were the first two churches to be built by the Normans in England. How solemn was the ceremony. Eleanor was deeply conscious of her uncle William and remembering what he had said to her, was overwhelmed by the importance of what was happening and when they went to the palace for the wedding banquet she was somewhat grave. So was Henry, but none the less loving.

  She sat beside him and he fed her the best pieces of the food which had been put on his platter. He was very tender and assured her that his greatest wish was that she should be happy.

  She told him that as soon as she had heard he had chosen her for his bride she had felt exalted, and then a little fearful that she might not please him. Now that he had shown her that she did, she could experience only happiness.

  The next day they were to leave for London where the real celebrations would begin.

  ‘The people of London are jealous of their privileges,’ he explained. ‘The marriage of course should take place in Canterbury and be celebrated by our premier churchman. But it is London which will decide whether it is going to love you or not.’

  ‘What do I have to do to make it?’ she asked.

  ‘All you need to do, my Queen, is to sit on your white horse and smile at them.’

  ‘They are easily pleased,’ she replied.