The Queen from Provence

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘I doubt not that you could have wished for a mother-in-law who was not ever present.’

  Marguerite was silent, not wishing to speak ill of Queen Blanche.

  ‘The King’s mother is ever alive to his interests,’ she said.

  ‘I doubt it not,’ replied Richard. ‘I see how often he is in her company.’

  ‘He came to the throne when he was only a boy. She had to be there then to guide him.’

  ‘He would seem to be a King who knows which way he is going and needs no guidance now.’

  ‘He will do as he thinks best, but he loves her dearly and he is always sad when it is necessary to go against her will.’

  ‘And you?’ asked Richard. ‘Do you not find her sometimes taking him from you?’

  Marguerite was silent and Richard thought of what he would say to Eleanor when he returned to England.

  There was another matter in which Eleanor had been more blessed than her sister: Eleanor had a son; Marguerite only a daughter – and even then the child had to be called Blanche.

  In a way, mused Richard, it seemed that Eleanor had made the more fortunate marriage. But this was not entirely so. Richard was looking into the future. The strong character of Louis IX, the determination to rule well, the clever logical calm mind … these were the making of a great King. Louis would have the reins of government firmly in his hands.

  Richard wondered then if there might come a day when the barons decided they would rise once more in England as they had under King John, when they would tire of a King on whom they could not rely. How would Henry stand the strain? And Eleanor? Did she realise that the people were murmuring against her, that they could not forgive her for bringing her family and friends to England and keeping their pockets well filled?

  There could be no doubt who was the greater King; and if Marguerite had a forceful mother-in-law and so far only a girl child – who could not inherit the throne because of the Salic law which existed in France – perhaps her position was after all more secure than that of her sister Eleanor.

  ‘It has been wonderful to have news of my sister,’ said Marguerite. ‘I often think of the days when we were all together in the nursery – the four of us. How happy we were! Then I went away and the three of them were left. There will only be Sanchia and Beatrice now.’

  ‘I remember too when I went there and saw the three beautiful princesses. That was after I had read Eleanor’s poem.’

  ‘Yes, that was so romantic. But for her poem … she might not now be Queen of England. She must be ever grateful to you for I know she is very happy.’

  ‘Her uncles have been to England to see her,’ said Richard, his mouth tightening a little.

  ‘How contented she must have been!’

  He did not say that the people of England had been a good deal less content.

  ‘Eleanor was always devoted to the family,’ went on Marguerite, ‘as we all were.’

  ‘Do they not visit you in France? They are much nearer to you.’

  ‘They come. But they do not stay long.’

  Wise Louis! thought Richard. He has more sense than to spend his country’s revenues on his Queen’s impecunious uncles.

  ‘They stay in England,’ said Richard.

  ‘I have heard that the King is very generous to them.’

  ‘More generous than he can afford to be, I fear.’

  ‘Oh dear! Still, generosity is a fine quality. I think Eleanor must be very happy. And the little boy?’

  ‘Edward flourishes. Yes, I should say that your sister is happy in her marriage. As for the King, he adores her.’

  Marguerite clasped her hands together.

  ‘I am so pleased for them.’ She laid her hand on his arm. ‘You should go and see my parents as you pass through Provence.’

  Richard remembered that easy-going Court – the charming Count and his Countess, the beautiful daughters, the songs and the ballads; the balmy climate, the lush woods and gardens and he felt a sudden desire to be there.

  He would return to England in due course and talk to the Queen of his meeting with her sister. How amusing it would be to tell her that he had rested awhile at her father’s Court.

  It was pleasant to sit in the gardens of Les Baux and listen to the songs of Provence. How beautiful were the daughters of Count Raymond Berenger! Only two of them left now, Sanchia and Beatrice.

  Sanchia was just as beautiful as her sister Eleanor and sixteen was such a charming age. She was not as dominating as Eleanor – she was more gentle, rather of Marguerite’s temperament, which was an advantage.

  Charmingly she sang songs of her own composing.

  ‘Of course,’ she said when he complimented her, ‘they cannot compete with Eleanor’s. None of us is as clever as she is.’

  ‘I find you delightful,’ Richard told her.

  He kept comparing her with poor sad Isabella. How she had aged in the last few years of her life. In comparison, Sanchia was so adorably young.

  He had intended to stay but a few days, but the visit lengthened. He was closely watched by the Count, the Countess and their chief adviser Romeo de Villeneuve.

  ‘What think you of what we see?’ asked the Countess.

  Romeo replied: ‘The Earl of Cornwall is undoubtedly enamoured of the Lady Sanchia.’

  ‘The others married kings,’ said the Countess.

  ‘The two greatest marriages in Europe!’ Romeo replied complacently, reminding them both of the part he had played in bringing about these desirable alliances. ‘But where shall we find a third king for Sanchia … and a fourth for Beatrice.’

  The Count shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nowhere,’ he said.

  ‘Then I reckon we could not do better than marry Sanchia into England. Eleanor would be delighted. Imagine … two sisters for two brothers. The influence they would wield! Already Eleanor has seen that much good has come to the house of Savoy.’

  The Countess nodded in agreement. ‘My brothers are delighted with the match.’

  ‘So should they be, my lady. Think what benefits have come to them through their visits to England.’

  ‘And more will yet, my brothers tell me. William almost gained the See of Winchester. Alas …’

  ‘Let us hope that it may go to Boniface,’ said Romeo.

  ‘Boniface!’ cried the Countess. ‘That would indeed be a blessing. Eleanor has done her duty by us. I would not be averse to a marriage between Sanchia and the Earl.’ She looked earnestly at her husband.

  He replied: ‘I am in agreement, but I should like Sanchia to want this marriage of her own free will.’

  ‘He is so indulgent,’ said the Countess looking fondly at her husband.

  ‘Nay, I merely want to see my children happy.’

  ‘She seems happy enough in the Earl’s company,’ commented Romeo.

  ‘I know she is,’ said the Countess. ‘She conceived a romantic feeling for him when he came here after Eleanor had sent him her poem. She has never forgotten him.’

  ‘The King of England’s brother! They say he is one of the richest men in England. If anything should happen to Henry …’

  ‘There is Edward,’ said the Countess sharply, ‘our grandson.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ replied Romeo. ‘But it is always wise to be prepared for anything that might happen.’

  ‘I think we are agreed,’ said the Count. ‘Let us wait for a few days and see if Richard speaks to us of Sanchia. The sun … the music … our little girl’s beautiful eyes … all these are having their effect on him. He is falling in love with her … and she with him. I want to see her happy.’

  The Countess exchanged glances with Romeo; then she went to the Count and took his arm.

  ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that ere long we shall be losing our daughter.’

  ‘Soon,’ said Richard, ‘I shall have to leave Provence. Already I have delayed too long.’

  ‘My parents will be sad when you go,’ replied Sanchia.

  ‘And you, Sanch
ia, how will you feel?’

  ‘I shall be sad too.’

  He reached out and took her hand.

  ‘Will you think of me while I am away fighting the Saracen?’

  ‘Every day.’

  ‘I would to God I need not go.’

  ‘I wish it too.’

  ‘I could spend my life here in these beautiful gardens … with you.’

  It was not true of course. He was a man who must be moving forward all the time. He was ambitious and if sometimes he wearied of that ambition before he had time to carry it out, still he would go on making plans for his own advancement.

  ‘I love you, Sanchia,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she answered.

  ‘What shall we do about it?’

  ‘We could ask my parents.’

  ‘I am a free man now. Would you marry a man who has already had a wife?’

  ‘If I loved him.’

  ‘And do you love me, Sanchia?’

  ‘I have loved you ever since you came to thank Eleanor for her poem.’

  ‘You are a dear sweet child. We will marry when I return from the Holy War. You will be older then, sweet Sanchia, and ready for marriage.’

  She clasped her hands together. ‘You will soon return from the Holy Land.’

  ‘Would I had not vowed to go. I would stay here with you and teach you how to love me.’

  ‘Such lessons would not be necessary since I do already.’

  ‘You are young and innocent. I am much older than you. I had a wife for nine years, and I have a son who is nearly six years old and very dear to me.’

  ‘He shall be dear to me, too.’

  ‘Oh, what a happy day when I came to the Court of Provence! And there will not be another happy day for me until I ride back and claim my bride.’

  He rose and taking her hands kissed both of them.

  ‘I shall go to your father now and ask him for your hand.’

  There was great rejoicing at Les Baux. The Count embraced his prospective son-in-law. He was delighted, he said; nothing could have pleased him more. Though naturally he wanted great marriages for his daughters, their happiness meant more to him than anything else, and if the two objects could be combined he was indeed content. He had noticed the rapture of Sanchia these last days and he knew that in addition to the joy she would find in her husband she would have the comfort of living near her sister Eleanor.

  There was a great feast on the night before his departure – a bitter sweet occasion for Sanchia who was romantically in love and while she was so happy because of her betrothal she was sad because he had to leave her.

  They sat side by side, he feeding her with the titbits from his platter which she felt too emotional to eat.

  It was very moving when the minstrels sang of lovers.

  The next morning Richard and his company left Les Baux and Sanchia settled down to wait for his return.

  When Eleanor heard of her sister’s betrothal to Richard she was overcome with joy. Henry listened indulgently, delighted to see her pleasure.

  ‘You know what this means to me, Henry,’ she said. ‘I shall have my sister near me. We were always closer to each other than any of the others. And now she is to marry Richard! Is that not wonderful news?’

  ‘If it makes you happy it is indeed good news.’

  ‘I hope he will be a good husband to her.’

  ‘He was scarcely that to his first wife.’

  ‘I shall insist, Henry.’

  ‘Ah, my dearest, even you could not do that. Richard is over fond of women, I believe. Let us hope that this marriage will sober him.’

  ‘I could not hope that he will be as good a husband as his brother,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘My dearest, he could not have such a wonderful wife. Even your sister cannot compare with you.’

  ‘Sanchia is a beautiful girl but …’

  ‘Do not say it. I know. You were the beauty of the family and the clever one. No, I won’t ask you to confirm that. No confirmation is needed. I know it.’

  ‘When they are married we must have entertainment worthy of my sister and your brother.’

  ‘We shall.’

  ‘I want her to know what a wonderful country she is coming to. We must give her the greatest welcome we have ever given to anyone.’

  ‘Of course we shall. Is she not your sister?’

  ‘Oh, Henry. You are so good to me.’

  ‘And mean to be more so,’ he answered.

  Eleanor chafed against the delay. She was longing to show Sanchia how fortunate she was.

  There was news from abroad which gave Henry the opportunity to prove to Eleanor how much he wished to please her.

  Edmund, the old Archbishop of Canterbury, who had been in conflict with the state for some time, and was a very uncomfortable man since he was recognised as a saint, had left England. He was very old; he was a disappointed man; he deeply deplored the trouble which he saw brewing in England and he thought he would like to end his days in peace. That end he was sure was not far off.

  Two of his great predecessors, St Thomas à Becket and Stephen Langton, had both sought refuge in Pontigny when they found life in England intolerable and it was to Pontigny that Edmund decided to make his way. He rested there for a while and tried to come to terms with himself and see if there was a solution which would bring peace between the Church and the State.

  He was in very poor health and it was not long before it became obvious that his end was near. He was visiting Soisy when it became obvious that he was in such a state that he should have taken to his bed, but being Edmund he refused to go. He had rarely slept in a bed, preferring to sleep fitfully fully dressed usually on his knees, or perhaps occasionally allowing himself the luxury of sitting.

  Even now, when his life was ebbing away, he sat on his couch with his head resting on his hand.

  And so he died. He was taken to Pontigny for burial and immediately miracles were said to take place at his tomb.

  When the news reached England Henry felt relieved. He hated to be in conflict with the Church and would have preferred a more comfortable man than Edmund as his Archbishop. How he had longed to give the See to William de Valence! Eleanor had said nothing he could have done would have pleased her more.

  And how he wanted to please Eleanor! He wanted to astound her with his generosity. He wanted to show her how fortunate she was, how much more beloved than her sister Marguerite Queen of France!

  He had an idea.

  He told her of Edmund’s death. ‘So the old man is gone at last then,’ she said.

  ‘He was said to be a saint. Miracles are taking place at his tomb.’

  ‘People imagine there are miracles. I shall never forget how unhappy he made your poor sister simply because he had forced her into taking a vow of chastity.’

  Henry agreed with her. He had almost forgotten his quarrel with Simon de Montfort, the result of which had been to drive Simon and his wife from the country.

  ‘The See of Canterbury is vacant,’ he said. ‘This time I am going to place it in the right hands. Your Uncle Boniface shall come here and be our next Archbishop.’

  Eleanor threw her arms about him.

  ‘Oh Henry, how good you are to me!’

  ‘I think, do you not, my dear,’ he said, ‘that he will be a very good choice.’

  It was a great joy to Henry when Eleanor became pregnant once more. They had the adorable Edward but a royal nursery should be well stocked, for even the healthiest children could suddenly take sick and die. There had been one or two alarms concerning Edward’s health. He was at Windsor which his parents thought would be more healthy for him than London under the care of Hugh Giffard, a man whom they trusted completely, and there had been several times when messages had come to them that there was anxiety in the nursery. Then they would leave everything to go to Windsor; nor could they be induced to leave until they were assured of their child’s recovery.

  Thus it was a great delig
ht to contemplate that there was to be another child.

  Eleanor was absorbed by the prospect which was well because there was some irritation throughout the country over the election of Boniface.

  First, as was to be expected, there was opposition. The monks of Christchurch wanted to resist the King’s choice but remembering the recent mulcting of the Jews in London they hesitated, and while they hesitated were lost.

  They were not bold enough to resist.

  However there was a further delay. There was a vacancy at the Vatican for the new Pope had not yet been elected and, until he was, there could be no confirmation of Boniface’s election from Rome.

  Thus there was a delay and Boniface chafed against it and wrote continually to his niece urging her to use all her influence with the King to end it.

  But there was nothing she could do until the Pope gave his sanction and as at the moment there was no Pope, Boniface must needs wait.

  She became absorbed in preparations for the birth. Henry and she talked of little else. He fretted about her health and was absent-minded with his ministers.

  ‘There will be no sense from him until the child is born,’ they said, and while they applauded his husbandly virtues they deplored his inattention to state matters.

  In due course Eleanor gave birth to a child. They were a little disappointed that it should be a girl, but Henry was so delighted that Eleanor came safely through the ordeal and that she had produced another child fairly soon after the birth of Edward, that he declared he could not have been more pleased.

  Eleanor said: ‘We will call her after my sister, the Queen of France.’

  Henry agreed that was an excellent idea, but instead of giving her the French version of Marguerite, she should have the English Margaret.

  Several months passed, with the doting parents happy in their nursery. Edward was now two years old. Handsome and bright, the perfect child. As for his baby sister Margaret, they adored her too.

  Even those who were highly critical of the King for his weaknesses and the Queen for bringing the foreign harpies into the land, admitted that it was a pleasant sight to witness the conjugal bliss of the royal family.