The Queen from Provence (19 page)

It had been a great grief to Henry that he had not been able to give the See of Winchester to Uncle William de Valence. He had always promised himself that in time he would do so. He was not going to be dictated to by the people; that much they must learn.

The City of London was out of love with him. There was constant mention of Magna Carta. How he hated that document which had curbed the power of the throne and was always held up as a symbol.

His constant need of money was always worrying him. He wanted to shower gifts on his Queen and her family. He so much enjoyed hearing himself compared with Louis IX who was far less generous to his wife’s relations. Louis would rather give money to some educational or building project than to his favourites. Whether Louis had any favourites was debatable. There were times – as Eleanor said – when Louis appeared to be excessively dull.

‘Poor Marguerite,’ she would murmur sometimes; and as he knew she was comparing her sister’s fate with hers he would glow with satisfaction.

Small wonder that he wished to show his generosity to her family. It had not been easy to find the money for the Count of Flanders, but he had been determined to do so.

He had raised the five hundred marks from the Jews. Members of this race had made their home in the City of London which was the natural place for them because it was where business could prosper more easily than anywhere else. A quiet people, eager only to be left to develop their remarkable business ability and to practise their own religion, on account of their industry and talents they had become the richest section of the community. This had at first irritated and then angered their neighbours who did not care to work so hard and consequently lacked the ability to prosper as certainly as the Jews, so Henry felt that in demanding taxes from the Jewish community he was acting wisely.

The Jews had the money; a little gentle persuasion could extort it; and since the natives of London would not be asked to contribute they would not be displeased.

Thus he gathered the five hundred marks for the Count of Flanders by threatening the Jews with expulsion if they did not provide it.

The Jews paid up but the Londoners were alert, wondering where the next demand would be levied; but since it was only the Jews who were penalised, the matter was swiftly settled. Eleanor was delighted; Uncle Thomas declared that it had been a happy day for the house of Savoy when one of their family had married into England; and Henry enjoyed the role of benefactor which pleased him as much as any.

To raise five hundred marks was easier than to procure the See of Winchester, but he had not given up hope.

Then William de Valence, who had been ailing for some time, fell ill and Eleanor was stricken with grief. She loved her uncles dearly and had been very sad when he had been obliged to leave the country – even though he had taken such quantities of treasure out of it.

At the beginning of the autumn the condition of William de Valence weakened. The King’s doctors attended him but there was little they could do. He missed the warmer climate of his native land but he said it had been worth a little discomfort to be with his niece. He had certainly gained more than the discomfort and was richer than he could ever have hoped to be had he stayed in Savoy. Moreover, until this time when he had become so ill, he had never given up hope of the See of Winchester.

Now Eleanor knelt by his bed and she talked to him of the days in Provence when he had visited her father’s castle and there had been feasting in the great hall. He would remember how she was brought forward to read her latest poem to him, and how his praise meant so much to her.

Henry sat with her, suffering with her because of his love for her; and when the last rites had been administered and William de Valence had closed his eyes for ever, he led her from the death chamber and in their own he sought to comfort her.

She wept bitterly, talking of her dear Uncle William, and Henry said that he would always regret his inability to give him what he knew he had craved for: the See of Winchester.

‘Rest assured, my love,’ he told her, ‘that Winchester shall one day go to your Uncle Boniface. I swear it. I will not be provoked by my own subjects. But there has always been this conflict between Church and State.’

She was not listening. She was thinking of her beloved Uncle William who was no more.

There was nothing he could do to comfort her, until he went to the nursery and took the child from its cradle.

The bright blue eyes regarded him with interest and he put his lips to the flaxen hair.

‘Beloved child, my Edward,’ he murmured, ‘you alone can comfort your mother in her grief.’

So he took the child and put him into her arms.

She smiled, laid her cheek against his face and was comforted.

Chapter VII

A NEWCOMER TO COURT

I
sabella, Countess of Cornwall, knew that the birth she was expecting would be a difficult one. The last years of her life had been sad and lonely; and she was fully aware of her husband’s boredom with her society and the regrets he felt for his marriage.

It should never have been. How often had she said that to herself. She had told him from the start that a widow who had already borne her first husband six children was no fit wife for a man such as Richard of Cornwall.

He had refused to listen and perhaps she had not been as insistent as she should have been, because she had been in love with him and believed in miracles. For a year or so it seemed that that miracle had happened, but then reality took over from dreams. His visits were less frequent; and when he did come he was clearly in a hurry to get away.

Desperately he wanted a child – what ambitious man did not? – and during the first four years although she had borne children they had not lived. At last their son had been born. Sometimes she could believe that made everything worth while. Young Henry – named after his uncle the King – was indeed a boy to be proud of. And proud Richard was.

His visits were more frequent, but he came to see the boy, of course.

Young Henry was bright, intelligent and handsome – everything one could wish for. At least she had given Richard his son.

But Richard was young, lusty, fond of female society; he had the glamour of royalty; there had been a time when it had seemed that Henry and Eleanor might not have children, and Richard was looked upon as the heir to the throne. He had but to beckon and most women came readily enough. It was small wonder that his visits were rare and when he did come it was obvious that his main desire was to see the boy.

It was so cold in the castle at Berkhamsted – as cold as the fear in her heart. The draughts seemed to penetrate even the thick walls and Isabella found it difficult to keep warm in spite of the great fire.

Her women said it was her condition. They tried to comfort her by telling her that her child would almost certainly be a boy. But even if it was and Richard was temporarily pleased, what would that do to bolster up their marriage? The existence of young Henry – much as his father loved him – had failed to do that.

No, here she was an ageing woman whose husband was weary of her. He had tried to find an acceptable reason for divorcing her, but having failed must now be praying for her death.

A wretched state for a sensitive woman to come to. Perhaps she had been happier with Gilbert de Clare – a marriage which had been arranged for her by her mighty father. Gilbert had been his prisoner when, immediately after the death of King John, Gilbert had supported the Prince of France and William Marshal, her father, had been determined to set Henry on the throne. Gilbert had been a worthy husband for the Marshal’s daughter, so, without consulting that daughter the marriage had been arranged. It had been a not entirely unsatisfactory marriage and when he had died she had mourned him sincerely with her three sons and three daughters. Then she had fallen in love with Richard of Cornwall and had married him romantically half believing in his protestations of undying love because she wanted to while her common sense warned her that such a man was unlikely to remain faithful to any woman let alone one so many years older than he was.

So the unsatisfactory marriage had gone on for nine years and during those years she had produced one son – their now five-year-old Henry. And it was to see Henry that Richard came to Berkhamsted now and then, for the child was the only reason that Richard did not entirely deplore his folly in marrying her.

Now here she was – an ageing woman, about to be delivered of a child, uneasily feeling that all was not going well with the birth and a premonition coming to her that she might be living through her last days on earth.

Through the windows she could see the snow fluttering down, whipped to a blizzard by the bitter north winds. Young Henry, rosy-cheeked, was sitting at her feet playing with a board and dice – a game which was called ‘tables’. Two should have played it but because his nurse had said no one must disturb Lady Isabella and she seemed to find comfort from the society of her son, Henry who was a resourceful child was playing the game against himself.

She watched him tenderly. He was indeed a handsome child.

He looked up at her and seeing her eyes on him, he said: ‘My lady, will my father come?’

She was so weak that she could not resist the tears which came to her eyes.

‘I am not sure, my dearest.’

‘Are you crying?’ he asked wonderingly.

‘Oh no.’

‘You look as if you’re crying. Is it because something hurts you?’

‘No, no. Nothing hurts. I am happy because you are with me.’

‘He,’ said Henry, pointing to the other side of the board, ‘is losing and I am winning.’

He laughed, forgetting his momentary alarm.

He bent over the board and chuckled as he threw the dice.

The pain seized her suddenly and she said: ‘Henry, go now and tell them to come to me at once.’

He stood up, the dice still in his hand. ‘I have nearly won,’ he said reproachfully.

‘Never mind, my love. Go now.’

He hesitated, glanced at her and was suddenly frightened to see her face distorted in pain. Then he ran out of the room shouting to her attendants.

Her child was dead and she was dying. Richard had come but she was only vaguely aware of him. He was sitting at her bedside, and the priest was there too, holding the cross before her eyes.

So it was over – this brief life. Richard would have his freedom and he would have Henry too. Thank God Henry was a boy and Richard had always wanted a boy. No matter whether he married again Henry would always be his firstborn. He would remember that and do his best for their son.

She wanted to be buried at Tewkesbury beside Gilbert de Clare. He had been her first husband and he had cherished her. It was fitting that she should lie beside the father of her three sons and three daughters.

She had made her wishes clear. There was nothing left now but to die.

She was aware of Richard at her bedside. He was weeping as were her attendants. Richard in tears? Crocodile tears? He must be inwardly rejoicing. He had tried to divorce her and had been angry and frustrated when the Pope had refused to accept his case. Now Death was giving him what the Pope had denied him.