The Queen from Provence (4 page)

Eleanor listened.

Oh fortunate Marguerite! She was more determined than ever that no one less than a king would do for her.

The marriage had changed the family. Marguerite, though absent, was its most important member. She was the subject of constant comment and accounts of her life as the Queen of France became a daily recital.

It was good, Eleanor knew, that they should have become so important. There were more callers at the castle now, and there had been one never-to-be-forgotten time when the King himself had visited them with Marguerite. The King was certainly an ideal bridegroom. All the praises Eleanor had heard of him had not been exaggerated as far as she could see. He was undeniably handsome; he had delicate but beautifully chiselled features; his complexion was so fresh and his skin so clear that had he been a woman it would have seemed he had painted it so, but this was seen to be pure natural freshness. He had blond hair which was abundant and glossy; and he and Marguerite made such a handsome pair that for their looks alone they delighted the people who came out of their houses to cheer them as they passed by. And what delighted the Count and Countess most was the obvious evidence that this love between the royal pair was no myth. Louis, it was said, had become more serious since his marriage; he was determined to be a good husband and a good king. As for Marguerite she was in such a state of bliss that she no longer seemed like their sister. Eleanor was filled with an even greater determination to do as well for herself as her sister had done. But how could she?

The King of France had brothers but Eleanor had no great desire to be the bride of a younger son; if she married one of the King’s brothers – and it seemed very likely that in a year or so this proposition might be considered – she would always be subservient to her sister. Not that Marguerite would ever stress the fact that she was the superior. That was unimportant. She would be.

A year had passed and Eleanor was getting nearer and nearer to the day when a husband would be found for her and she was restive.

There was only one King that she knew of who, by marrying her, could give her equal standing with her sister and that was the King of England. He remained unmarried although it seemed unlikely that he would be so for long. He was much older than Marguerite’s husband being twenty-seven years old – and wives were usually found for kings long before they reached that age.

She determined to find out all she could about the King of England and the most likely member of her father’s Court to supply the information would naturally be Romeo de Villeneuve.

She made opportunities to talk to him and he was nothing loath. He was very proud of having played a part in arranging Marguerite’s marriage; and she knew that he would like to do equally well for her; so he was a good ally. She had heard him say that the brilliant marriage of the eldest sister would pave the way for the others. There were many who would hesitate to take the daughter of the Count of Provence, but few would not consider marriage with the sister of the Queen of France a good one.

Eleanor pinned her hopes on Romeo.

She had learned a great deal about the English King. He had been on the throne nearly twenty years, for his father had died when he was nine years old. England had been occupied by the father of the present King of France who had been invited there because the barons had so loathed Henry’s father King John, that they had thought a foreign ruler would be better than he was. When John died Henry had been hastily crowned with his mother’s throat collar, the crown jewels having recently been lost in the Wash when King John’s army was crossing that stretch of water.

So he had been King when he was younger than she was. He had had good advisers – always essential, said Romeo with a twinkle in his eye and so calling attention to his own worthiness, which she would be the last to deny. Because of these advisers, the French had gone back to France and Henry continued to reign in peace – entirely due to these strong men whose advice he took.

‘What sort of man is the King, Romeo?’ she asked. ‘Is he like the King of France?’

‘I doubt anyone is like the King of France, but Henry is a great King and if he is wise could be more powerful than Louis.’

That made her eyes sparkle. That was what she wanted. Henry to be more powerful than Louis – that was if she married him.

But what wild dream was this. There had been no emissaries from England asking for her hand. How infuriating that it was the man who must ask for his bride and not the bride for the groom!

But her questions about England had set Romeo’s mind working. She knew that. And he was thinking, as she was, what an admirable state of affairs would be brought about if while one of the Count of Provence’s daughters was the Queen of France, the other was the Queen of England.

She was impatient for action. But what could she do? Romeo could not send minstrels to the Court of England to sing of her charms. And she was only twelve years old. If only she had been the eldest.

She became obsessed by England. She discussed that country with Romeo. She already knew how it had been conquered by William of Normandy and that Henry was a descendant of his. She knew that because of the folly of King John very few possessions were left to the English Crown.

‘They will attempt to regain them,’ said Romeo, ‘and the King of France will do all in his power to hold them.’

It was an interesting situation.

She found solace from her impatience in writing and it was natural that she should write about England. She liked the ancient legends which had come down over the years and took one of these on which to base a narrative poem.

This was about a certain Blandin of Cornwall and Guillaume of Miremas who fell in love with two sisters, the Princess Briende and Irlondë. To win these ladies the two knights must perform deeds of great daring. Eleanor glowed with pride and passion as she invented the seemingly impossible tasks. And in her imagination she was the beautiful Briende.

When the poem was completed her parents summoned several members of the Court that they might hear their daughter read it, for in addition to her literary talents she had a beautiful voice and could sing where singing was required and then break into impassioned recitation.

It was a superb performance, and when it was finished Eleanor, flushed with triumph, looked up to find the eyes of Romeo fixed not upon her but staring into space as though his thoughts were far away.

She was piqued and angry. It was clear that he had not paid attention to the reading.

Her mother was embracing her.

‘It is your greatest achievement,’ she said. ‘You are indeed a poet, daughter.’

‘Romeo did not appear to think so,’ she said curtly.

Romeo was immediately on his feet. ‘Indeed, my lady Eleanor,’ he declared, ‘you are wrong. I thought it a remarkable piece of work. I was thinking what a pity it was that the whole world could not know of your talent.’

‘Eleanor is happy to delight her family, I know,’ said the Count fondly.

It was later that day when leaving the castle for a walk in the grounds with Sanchia, she met, as though by chance, the Lord of Villeneuve.

She was astute enough to know that this was no chance meeting and when he implied in the most discreet way that he wished to speak to her alone she sent Sanchia into the house to get a wrap for her and bring it to the shrubbery, deciding that whether or not she was in the shrubbery when Sanchia returned depended on the importance of what Romeo had to say and the time it would take.

Romeo came straight to the point. ‘Your poem impressed me greatly. You did not think so because I was carried away by a thought which had struck me as to how the poem could be used to good advantage.’

‘What is this ?’ said Eleanor.

‘The poem is set in Cornwall. Did you know that the Earl of Cornwall is at this time at Poitou?’

‘I did not,’ she said, and added though she knew very well, ‘Is he not the brother of the King of England?’

‘He is indeed. And at this time he is planning to go on a crusade. That is why he is in Poitou. It has occurred to me that as the poem is set in Cornwall, the Earl would be pleased to see it.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘That you send it to him with a charming letter in which you modestly say that you have written the poem and hearing he was near and it was set in his dominion, you thought it might interest him.’

‘What does my father say?’

‘Your father would doubtless consider it an unusual action, as he did when I sent a minstrel to the Court of France to sing of your sister’s beauty and talents.’

‘And you think because of that …’

‘No. But it helped. Young, beautiful, well educated … those are the qualities which Kings of this day look for in their brides.’

‘But Richard …’

‘Is the brother of the King, who will shortly be returning to England where the King is thinking of marriage. He must be because it will be his duty to marry and he has left it long.’

‘So … if I send the poem … ?’

Romeo nodded. ‘With a charming note … the sort a young girl might write on impulse. Who knows … ?’

‘I will do it,’ said Eleanor.

‘Without delay,’ warned Romeo.

She nodded. He left her then and she sped to the shrubbery where Sanchia was impatiently waiting with her wrap.

All his life Richard, Earl of Cornwall, had been reminded of his uncle after whom he had been named – Coeur de Lion. The greatest soldier of his day who had already become a legend in his country – the fearless fighter whose very name had struck terror into the Saracen. In spite of the military skill and courage of Richard the Lion Heart, he had not succeeded in capturing Jerusalem, although it was said he would eventually have done so if his life had not been cut short by an archer outside the walls of Chaluz castle.

For a young man who, in spite of all his efforts to deny this, was not physically strong, such a heritage could be a handicap. It could be said that Coeur de Lion had been troubled by periodic attacks of the ague, but once they were over he was full of vigour. His nephew’s disability was less easy to define and manifested itself in a general lassitude rather than any obvious symptom.

Richard had always known that sooner or later he would have to go on a crusade. It was expected of him; and now seemed a good time. He was, in truth, heartily tired of his marriage. He had been foolish when only twenty-two years of age he had married a woman a good deal older than himself. It was a reckless and impetuous act. He had been warned – even by the lady herself – that it could not be satisfactory and how right they had all been.

Isabella was the daughter of old William Marshal, one of the most important – it could be said the most important – men in England at the time of King John’s death, for if William Marshal had not supported Henry he would not have been accepted by the people.

What a fool he had been to marry the widow of Gilbert de Clare who had already borne her husband six children. He must have been mad. Of course Isabella was an exceptionally beautiful woman and at that time he had thought her seniority piquant. He had told himself he wanted no young girl. A mature woman was much more to his taste. So he had married and what had happened? She who had given her previous husband six children had so far given him only one son, and because his visits to her became less frequent she had grown melancholy so that his great desire was to get away from her.

What a situation! Henry would say ‘I told you so.’ Henry was very good at that. He had not been so fortunate in his matrimonial affairs after all. It was time he married. A King had his duty to the State. But Henry seemed to be unlucky. It really looked as though – King that he was – no one was very eager to marry him. He had already sent feelers out to Brittany, Austria and Bohemia – without result. Then of course he had tried for a Princess of Scotland but as her sister had already married Hubert de Burgh – the King’s chief minister after the death of William Marshal – it was considered inadvisable for the King and his minister to marry sisters. It was said that Hubert, being anxious that none of these marriages should take place, had set rumours in motion that the King of England had a squint, was of a lewd and generally unpleasant character being deceitful and a coward; it was even whispered that he was a leper. Of course poor old Hubert was now in decline being hounded by his enemies who were ready to bring any charge against him however ridiculous. Richard did not believe that of old Hubert. No, Hubert was a good man. Of course he had his eyes on the main chance, and wanted to gather as much land and money as he could … (well, who did not?) but Hubert was honourable … as men went. And Richard refused to believe the tales of his enemies.