The picture which emerges is of Eleanor as a queen who carved out a unique and important role in the administrative side of government, which she pursued with vigour and considerable focus. With that important and fulfilling job available to her, and with constant additions to an already sizeable family materialising, as well as the necessary formalities of queenship, she had neither need nor time to expend much effort on other aspects of the traditional role of queen. So far as power was concerned, she had it in her financial autonomy and the influence on her husband which was well established and needed no advertisement to those around them. She therefore saw no need to adopt all the conventions of queenly behaviour. Eleanor did not simply accept the role of queen; instead she made her queenship in her own image.
11
The Queen and Her Interests
So far, we have seen the circumstances which took Eleanor to her thirty-third year and to her coronation as queen. This tells us much about the situations which formed her views and tastes. In addition, the preceding account of her work gives a better idea of her abilities and one of her major interests as a queen. But to date there has been no sensible place to stop and ask what Eleanor was like. What would those who actually knew her have told us about her?
The natural starting point is her looks. Here, one might imagine that the answer should be simple and that with all the commemorative statues of Eleanor one would be spoilt for choice. Sadly however, life is never that simple. We get very little assistance from the cross effigies; we cannot be sure that any real portraiture was even intended. Furthermore, they were not made by the most senior artist involved, Torel, but by more junior stone carvers. In addition, those which survive have been so affected by the passage of time that very little can be seen. So too with the stonework head supposed to be of Eleanor at Lincoln Cathedral; this has been restored from a degraded original.
The primary source to which one is driven, therefore, is the London tomb effigy by Torel. This gives some assistance, but it must be carefully weighed. One cannot take it that the effigy which we have of her is a true resemblance, since portraiture was not an established art. However, nor are tomb effigies completely anonymous. So, just as Edward’s forceful chin seems to make it into just about every contemporaneous sketch of him, one can tell that some attempt at resemblance was made by effigy artists; for example, the slight droop of Henry III’s eye which is contemporaneously reported is just about discernible in his effigy, also by Torel. At St Denis, Isabelle of Aragon’s tomb effigy has softly dimpled hands, and Charles of Anjou’s nose and massive forehead seem unlikely to be accidental. What is more, it appears likely that Eleanor visited Torel before her death, providing an opportunity for working sketches to be made from life. One can therefore expect that the figure who appears on Eleanor’s tomb is not dissimilar from Eleanor as she was known to those around her. The question is of the extent to which particular aspects of the depiction can be trusted. This is a question which can be answered by comparing aspects of the image to other sources.
The face on the tomb is almost a pure oval, but with a rounded chin just breaking the symmetry slightly. There is a lively pair of sketches of Edward and Eleanor found in a document in the British Library (the Cotton Manuscript), each of which show clearly Edward’s drooping eye, inherited from Henry, and they therefore appear to be a real attempt at portraiture. Eleanor’s sketch in this document agrees with the tomb effigy on the shape of her face. There is therefore a case for accepting that this detail is from life. Interestingly, this facial shape also appears in the depiction of the elegant ‘hunting lady with dogs’ in the Alphonso Psalter. Although the book cannot be definitively traced to a commission by Eleanor, its origin in the London Dominican priory, which she favoured, and its purpose, for the marriage of her son Alphonso, raise a strong presumption that she was the commissioner of the work. If so, and given that Eleanor was a keen huntress and favoured hunting with dogs despite Edward’s own preference for falconry, this is a picture which might well attempt some resemblance to Eleanor.
The effigy’s mouth is small and somewhat secretive, but upturned, showing resemblance to the Cotton Manuscript sketch; and, again suggesting portraiture, the sketch of Edward suggests a straight or even downturned line for his mouth. Once again, the psalter illustration provides a match. Together with the chin it suggests a face that would be charming when smiling, and even more so when laughing.
On all depictions, Eleanor’s nose is long, straight and slim. It is noticeably a slimmer nose than that of Henry III, or that shown on Eleanor of Provence’s likely image in Westminster Abbey’s Muniment Room (and hilariously more elegant than Charles of Anjou’s effigy nose). Again, this suggests an element of real portraiture. Another point of interest is that there is considerable similarity as regards Eleanor’s nose to that of Eleanor of Aquitaine, as depicted on her tomb at Fontevrault. In both sketch and tomb depiction and in the psalter there is a fairly high forehead, well-arched brows and large, almond-shaped eyes, not tilted upwards at the end but more sleepy in their setting.
As for colouring, this is always difficult to judge, since the chroniclers, only seeing the queens formally if at all, would never see their hair colour. The only occasion on which a decent queen’s hair might be shown in public was on the occasion of coronation, and few of the commentators whose works survive (being generally monks) ever viewed a coronation. Eleanor’s coronation was, of course, described by the chroniclers, but among the many wonders of the day the colour of her hair does not seem to have been reported back to the writers. One may infer, however, that if Eleanor had been the possessor of breathtaking blonde tresses it would have been considered worth mentioning. In fact with Eleanor, her own colour choices make it almost certain that her colouring was dark; as will be seen, she favoured reds and greens, colours which no blonde would be likely to choose but which are very becoming to brunettes. In relation to hair, the cross images are perhaps at last of some use: those which are not veiled show thick, wavy hair, worn long.
In terms of overall appearance, therefore, we can envisage a fine-looking Spanish lady, whose eyes and hair were probably her greatest beauty, with a determined chin and a winning smile. But, as we have already noted of the younger Eleanor, there is no sense that she was considered a notable beauty or that she presented herself to people as a woman remarkable for her looks.1
This obviously brings us to the question of the kind of person Eleanor was. On this point, little emerges openly from the records which we have; again Eleanor lurks in the shadows. Parsons concluded that the household records indicate a number of close ties and therefore no lack of affection and a person who was able to interact in a congenial way with those around her. However, rather more than this can be said. The records show us that Eleanor was plainly very much alive to the needs and wishes of the people who surrounded her. They repeatedly show small acts of kindness – paying for medical expenses, making provision for people’s children, lending her valuable books to members of her household, giving her ladies leave to visit their families even when she herself was unwell, going out of her way to visit a friend who was sick, putting aside her own illness to honour a humble wedding among her servants. She was kind and considerate to those around her and those with whom she had direct contact, and that consideration was not limited to the more distinguished members of her acquaintance: servants and tradesmen could be assured of considerate treatment from her. What she was not was overtly or indiscriminately charming. There are no references (as there are with Eleanor of Provence) to her ‘debonairité’.
For all her kindness, however, the records show also a very different streak in her character, which most commentators have found difficult to reconcile with her traditional reputation as a sweet and merciful queen, and with the kind of documented details described above.
A good deal of this material comes from the evidence about Eleanor’s work, and she was certainly somewhat hardnosed when it came to matters of business. The othe
r evidence, substantially from two letters from Archbishop Pecham – one to Eleanor and one to a person involved in dealings with her – suggest rather more than this.2
The first letter runs as follows:
My lady, the saints teach us that women are naturally greater in pity and more devout than men are, and scripture therefore says ‘he that hath no wife will wander about mourning’. And because God has given you greater honour than to others of your lordship it is right that your pity should surpass the pity of all men and women in your lordship. We therefore ask you for God’s sake and our Lady’s that you will incline the heart of our Lord the king towards our dear brother, the bishop of Winchester … my lady we require you for God’s sake that you will do so in this matter that those who say that you cause the king to use severity may see and know the contrary … My lady, for God’s sake, let pity overcome you and our Lord keep you, body and soul, forever…
This letter shows two important things. Firstly, Eleanor was perceived by the archbishop (who knew her fairly well) as being somewhat deficient in empathy or pity. Secondly, there was a view, presumably among those quite close to the royal family or the lords of the Church, being Pecham’s likely focus groups, that she encouraged the king to harshness rather than acting as peacemaker and pacifying his wrath as she was exhorted to do in the coronation oath and by her confessors.
The second letter is one from 1279 to the nuns at Hedingham. This convent had refused to admit a lady whose application was supported by the queen. Pecham warned them in no uncertain terms that they would be ill advised to contest the matter: ‘If you know what is good for you, you’ll admit her’ (‘si bene sapuessitis’). The implication is clear; Eleanor was known to be highly intolerant of having her will contradicted and to be the kind of foe you do not want to have.
Two further letters, mentioned in Chapter 10, reinforce this impression, albeit indirectly. In May 1283, Bishop Godfrey Giffard of Worcester advised the prior of Deerhurst to present the queen’s chaplain to a church, warning against incurring royal wrath. While it is not explicitly Eleanor’s wrath which is mentioned, that is the plain implication. Equally, it is implied that, if Eleanor decided she wanted her way, Edward would almost certainly support her; thus the closeness of the marriage and everyone’s knowledge of that closeness is again glimpsed in this sidelight.
In another similar case, very possibly a precursor to one of the letters to Eleanor quoted above, Pecham warned the Bishop of Winchester against the dangers of failing to appoint Eleanor’s Spanish physician to a living. Although the indignation there mentioned is the king’s, it again seems plain, particularly in the light of the plea in mitigation Pecham later addressed to Eleanor on behalf of the imprudent bishop, that it is actually Eleanor’s wrath which is feared – and which duly followed.
As if this were not sufficient material, two other examples can be given. The first is a letter from the Count of Bigorre in 1283, reporting that he is regrettably unable to fall in with a request of Eleanor’s, and asking to be excused and sheltered from her displeasure at his failure. The second is the exchange in 1285 when the people of Southampton sought to get Eleanor of Provence to intercede for them with Edward, in relation to Eleanor’s exactions from them. It is apparent that Edward did not press the matter, but effectively ‘shopped’ Eleanor’s tenants and his mother to her instead; Eleanor writes in great displeasure to Edmund of Cornwall, telling him to make sure the townspeople pay up.3
There are two interesting points which emerge from this. The first is the complete contrast between the picture of Eleanor traditionally portrayed – gently submissive, pacific – and the woman who had bishops and abbots across the country shaking in their shoes. Indubitably Eleanor was no mouse but a formidable and sometimes terrifying woman. What is also interesting to note is that Eleanor was plainly capable of losing her temper quite dramatically and did so at least occasionally when crossed. This conjures up again Alfonso’s injunctions for the raising of a queen: a princess should be prevented ‘from yielding to anger for … it is the one thing in the world which most quickly induces women to commit sin’; and it reinforces the inference that it was written with Eleanor in mind. Secondly, it shows that she kept this facet of her personality well hidden from the wider public; neither the abbey nor the convent – nor even the Bishop of Winchester, who was one of the major princes of the Church – had grasped what those who regularly featured in Eleanor’s witness lists and hence knew her better were aware of: that it was foolish to cross her.
How do these two sides of Eleanor reconcile themselves? Some have seen this as impossible, but in my own view the answer is not particularly surprising. Very few real people fall simply on one side of the good/bad dichotomy. Eleanor, like any person we meet in real life, had good qualities and bad ones. It seems quite plain that she had, when roused, a sharp temper which impressed itself on those about her. It is equally plain that, like many executives or professionals performing high-pressure jobs, she liked to have things done her way and was intolerant of those who did not accommodate her. However, outside her professional sphere, she would switch off and concentrate on the more pleasant aspects of life. In this realm, it would appear, she was almost always a kind and considerate person to deal with.
A tantalising question is whether this fiery personality entirely confined itself to Eleanor’s business doings, or if it sometimes made itself felt in the domestic environment. My own suspicion is that it did, albeit probably rarely. The facts which suggest this are indirect, and derive from the rather tempestuous behaviour of the royal princesses and Edward’s somewhat surprising acceptance of such behaviour. Thus Joan once refused to accept any money from her own wardrobe keeper after a row, and ran up considerable debts as a result; Edward did not, as one might expect, make her face the consequences, but paid the debts. Joan (again) refused to get married until she had an equal number of servants as her sisters; Edward hired the requisite number on a ‘temp’ basis until her wedding day. Elizabeth threw a tantrum when certain jewels due to be prepared for her wedding were not ready on time – leading to generous monetary compensation from her father. She then flatly refused to leave England once married, leading to Edward himself losing his temper and throwing some of her jewels into the fireplace – but she got her way. Of course, the princesses’ tempers may simply have been inherited from Edward; but, given the evidence of the letters, one suspects not. All in all, one may at least suspect that on occasion even Edward learnt to purchase peace on Eleanor’s terms.4
Having said that, there seems no reason to suspect that anyone but Edward wielded ultimate authority in the royal household. All Eleanor’s work was done very much under his aegis, with him assisting in providing funds both for purchases of and works at her properties. Eleanor’s work came to a grinding halt repeatedly when it came up against the exigencies of Edward’s own priorities. Furthermore, while an example can be found of Edward trying to intercede with Eleanor unsuccessfully on a matter of minor moment to him, there is at least one example of Edward putting his foot down when Eleanor sought to influence him in her favour. During the Gascon stay, Eleanor had word from one of her debtors, Geoffrey de Southorpe, that he had sold his manor of Southorpe to Stephen de Cornhill, who had (colluding with the Abbot of Peterborough) conveyed it to the king’s clerk, Elias de Bekyngham. Southorpe was, as he reminded Eleanor, deliciously close to her existing manors of Torpel and Upton. Eleanor duly went to Edward, demanding that the manor be taken into his hands, with the intent that he would then grant it to her. But the abbey had despatched their own advocate, who said that the abbey were merely trying to buy the land through Bekyngham’s agency. Edward is said to have told Eleanor that ‘he would do nothing contrary to right’ – a doubtless trying reminder of her own family’s theory of kingship. He then ordered an inquisition into the facts. Southorpe was put into debtors’ prison by Eleanor, and obtained his release by conveying to her some of his remaining lands. Peterborough Abbey obtained the land onl
y after Eleanor’s death, and the seller had to endow an anniversary service for the queen.5
As for the lighter side of Eleanor’s personality, humour is, of course, something which is particularly hard to capture. But we can be almost certain that Eleanor had a very lively sense of humour. For one thing, she actually employed two fools, Robert and Thomas. Both seem to have been highly esteemed: Thomas received a horse from her executors and Eleanor bought Robert’s wife an expensive furred robe. Furthermore, it is plain that humour of a fairly broad type was alive and well at the court generally. Some of these jokes will appear as the chronological story progresses but a few examples set the tone. The first is the story of the post-Lenten ambush. After forty days of abstinence, Edward, seeking to rejoin Eleanor in her bed, would every year be held hostage by her ladies until he paid them a sizeable ransom. The humour here is frankly racy – it is plain to everyone that Edward is madly keen to be back in bed with his wife, and it seems hilariously funny to them all for her ladies to pin him down, struggling, until he pays up.
Similarly slapstick is the story of Edward’s bet with the laundress that she could not ride his horse, which has the woman leaping onto the mettlesome horse and galloping off, leaving him red faced. One might also think of the laughs involved in the riding of horses into the post-coronation feast, and a later party in Wales where the royal circle danced until the floor gave way. It is unlikely that any of this would have taken place if Eleanor did not enter into the fun also. She was therefore a person who was ready to laugh and to share a joke. There is also, as we shall see, evidence of Eleanor’s humour manifesting itself in the books which she commissioned, and sometimes in little touches of wordplay or architecture; in passing, glimpses of ‘in jokes’ peek out at us. All in all, we can be sure that Eleanor was far from sober or implacable in her daily dealings with those close to her. She liked a joke, and liked a household which was full of jokes. Indeed, the evidence suggests that Eleanor enjoyed making her friends laugh in turn.6
Eleanor of Castile: The Shadow Queen Page 32
