The Queen from Provence (27 page)

One of the greatest joys of Eleanor’s life was to be with her children and of all of them she could not help loving her firstborn best.

Whenever she could be with him, she was; and Henry shared her feelings. It was not so easy for him, of course. He had other duties to perform, but he never tried to persuade her to accompany him because he knew how she longed to be with their children.

When they were together they talked of Edward continually. Henry wanted to endow him with lands and castles, and even Eleanor laughed at him and said that would come later, the child was too young as yet.

One thing she did promise herself was that Edward should accompany her when she made the dedication of a new church in Beaulieu Abbey.

‘He cannot start too soon to show himself in public,’ she said. ‘And everywhere he goes people will love him.’

It was true that when the little boy accompanied his parents the populace showed a more kindly attitude towards them, and Henry thought it an excellent idea that his mother should take Edward to the dedication.

Her heart thrilled with pride as she stepped into the nursery and he bounded forward and threw his arms about her knees.

‘My darling, is this the way to greet the Queen?’ she asked.

Then she lifted him in her arms and covered his face with kisses.

‘How is my Edward this day?’

‘I am well,’ he answered.

She examined him intently. Were his hands a little feverish, his eyes a little too bright? Or was that due to the excitement of seeing his mother?

Robert Burnell, who was his chaplain and confidential servant, was hovering.

‘The Lord Edward has been suffering from slight rheum this last few days, my lady.’

Terror gripped her heart as it always did when any of the children suffered some ailment.

‘How has he been, Robert? Are you sure this is nothing serious?’

‘My lady, he is subject to these rheums.’

She did not like him to be subject to rheums. They frightened her.

‘I rode out with Henry this morning, my lady,’ said Edward. ‘My horse was faster than his.’

Oh God, were they letting him ride too fast? What if he fell? Should he not have been kept indoors with such a rheum?

She looked anxiously at Robert Burnell. ‘Lord Edward
will
vie with everyone and do his best to win,’ he told her.

‘And always does, my lady,’ declared Edward.

‘Not always, my lord,’ warned his mentor and religious instructor Burnell.

‘Well very often,’ said Edward stoutly.

His mother ruffled his hair.

‘I have messages from your father,’ she said. ‘The King wants to know whether you have been good in your manners and your lessons. What shall I tell him?’

‘That I am very good,’ said Edward.

‘Sometimes,’ added Burnell.

Eleanor wished Burnell would let the dear boy enjoy his triumphs in peace but of course she knew that it was good for him to be curbed and he could not have a better tutor than Robert Burnell.

‘My dearest, I am going to take you with me to Beaulieu Abbey.’

‘When?’

‘In a short while. We are going to be present at the dedication of the church.’

‘It will be a very solemn ceremony, my lord,’ said Burnell.

‘Oh, must I be solemn then?’ Edward coughed slightly, and Eleanor’s fears rose again.

‘It is a small cough, my lady,’ said Burnell. ‘It goes and comes.’

‘We must see that it goes and does not come,’ she answered tersely.

Were they caring for him? Did they realise how precious this child was? Oh, some might say, he had a brother and was not so important now. They were wrong, wrong. No one could ever mean to her what her beloved Edward did … not even Henry.

How proud she was of him riding by her side on his little white palfrey. His cousin Henry, four years his senior, rode on the other side of him – a handsome boy but in her eyes insignificant compared with the flaxen beauty of her own son.

He coughed a little as they rode and she became more and more uneasy as they approached Beaulieu; she felt almost angry with young Henry for being in such obvious good health.

The Abbey had been founded by Henry’s father, King John. It was one of his more laudable acts which he performed from time to time, more, Henry said, from a sense of placating Heaven than for his own virtuous inclinations. Set among beechwoods it was a beautiful sight and the Cistercian monks would be delighted at this sign of royal patronage with their Queen and their future King gracing the dedication of the newly erected church.

The tolling of the bells and the sombre-clad monks clearly fascinated Edward, but as his cough persisted his mother grew less and less interested in what was happening about her.

The monks filed into the church chanting as they came. The Queen with her son beside her and Henry and Edward’s knights seated behind – among them Robert Burnell – witnessed the ceremony of the dedication.

When it was over the Queen took her son’s hand and to her dismay found that it was burning hot.

She turned to Robert Burnell and said: ‘The lord Edward has a fever.’

‘It is the rheum, Madam,’ answered Burnell. ‘It would be a good plan to get back to the castle without delay.’

‘It is too dangerous,’ said the Queen. ‘He must not go out. He shall stay here and the doctors shall come to him. Please send for them at once.’

‘My lady, he cannot stay here. This is a very strict order.’

‘I care not how strict it be!’ retorted the Queen. ‘My son is to run no risks whatever the order.’

‘It will give great offence to the Abbot.’

‘Then pray let us give offence to the Abbot. Send for the doctors without delay. Then let a message be delivered to the King.’

Robert Burnell knew that it would be unwise not to obey the Queen when she was in such a mood. It was useless to remind her that the boy often suffered these fevers and that doubtless they were a childhood weakness that he would grow out of as he became older.

The monks who had heard what was going on immediately went to the Abbot to tell him. He came out without delay.

‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I hear you want to nurse the lord Edward here. The monks will care for him.’

‘I have sent for the King’s doctors.’

The Abbot bowed his head. ‘My lady, you may safely leave him in our care.’

‘Leave my son! Oh no, my lord Abbot. When my son is ill, I am the one who cares for him.’

‘My lady, women cannot stay in this abbey. The order is very strict.’

‘Then the order shall be changed,’ declared Eleanor imperiously. ‘I am not merely a woman, my lord Abbot, I am your Queen. You would be wise to show me more hospitality. Take me to a bed that my son may be made comfortable. And let me tell you this:
I
shall stay here until he is well enough to travel.
I
shall look after him, so you and your monks had better get accustomed to housing a woman in your abbey.’

The Abbot was nonplussed. He could not allow her to stay. It was unprecedented. The boy could be cared for, yes indeed, but the Queen must go.

He tried to explain but her fear for her son sent her into a raging fury. How dared this fool of an Abbot quibble about his Cistercian laws when the heir to the throne was sick and might die? The thought sent her into a frenzy.

‘I will hear no more,’ she cried. ‘Remember that you owe your existence to the favours of kings. My husband’s father founded this place. The Queen can as easily destroy it … ay, and she will if aught happens to her son through your negligence. I want every comfort for the lord Edward and that includes having his mother to nurse him.’

The Abbot knew himself beaten. It would go ill with them all if the boy was taken away and died. Everyone would say it was due to his action. So it was wise to waive rules and allow the Queen to stay with her son.

The doctors arrived and were a long time with Edward. The Queen said she insisted on knowing the truth which they assured her they had told her. The boy was suffering from a slight fever – nothing which good nursing could not cure. The Queen was unduly disturbed.

But she was taking no chances. She was at her son’s bedside for several days and nights and not until he had lost his fever did she sleep a little.

Then she gave thanks at the altar of the newly dedicated church for her son’s recovery and with great joy she rode back to the castle, though she insisted that her son be carried part of the way in a litter. Edward protested loudly at the idea of being carried. He was able to ride, he cried. He was the best rider of all the boys. People would laugh at him for being carried.

Very well, she said, he should ride awhile but if she saw the least hint of fatigue he should go into a litter.

She was so happy to have him beside her, the healthy colour back in his cheeks, his flaxen hair glinting in the sunlight while he chattered about his new horses and falcons.

The effect of Henry’s weak rule was beginning to be felt throughout the country. It had always been so. In the days of the Conqueror, England had been made safe for travellers simply because the Conqueror severely punished any man or woman who was caught stealing. No one thought a purse of gold worth the loss of ears, nose or eyes – or a foot or a hand. The punishment instigated by the Conqueror might have been harsh but it was effective. He had determined to make England safe for travellers and he had done so. In the reign of Rufus law and order disappeared but it was brought back by Henry I. Weak Stephen allowed it to lapse again and the robber barons sprang up. Travellers were waylaid, taken to the residences of the robber barons and held to ransom, robbed of everything they had, tortured for the barons’ amusement and that of their guests and lawlessness prevailed. Henry II was another such as Henry I and the Conqueror. He wanted a prosperous land which could only flourish within the law. The disaster of John’s rule had been felt far and wide but under the wise direction of William the Marshal and Hubert de Burgh the law had once more been enforced. Now it was lagging again and the signs of disruption were beginning to be seen throughout the land.

The country needed a strong King supported by strong men; and since Henry’s marriage, his one idea seemed to have been to bring his wife’s friends and relations into the country and lavish every favour upon them.

So bad were the roads becoming that when the King and Queen were travelling in Hampshire with a small retinue they were set upon by a band of robbers; much of their baggage was stolen and their lives were in danger. They were saved by the realisation of who they were for even robbers must be afraid of what could result if they murdered the King and Queen.

An example of how the authority of the law was fast waning was given by one man who, when summoned to appear before the King’s Bench, forced the King’s officer, who delivered the royal warrant, to eat it.

There was growing anxiety and it was becoming obvious that many of the barons were meeting to discuss the state of affairs and they were setting themselves against the King and what they called his foreigners. The conflict would have come to a head before but for the marriage of Richard of Cornwall with the Queen’s sister, for since that time his wife had subtly brought him round to her way of thinking which was of course to support the Queen and her relations.

But with or without Richard’s support the barons were beginning to feel that something would have to be done.

The people of London were the most vociferous and rebellious. They had a personal grudge against the Queen because of memories of the Queenhithe and whenever the royal pair needed money – which seemed to be all the time – it was to rich London that they looked to supply it.

Henry and Eleanor began to dread going to Westminster, for there they were made more aware of their unpopularity than anywhere else.

News came from France of the death of Henry’s mother Isabella of Angoulême. Her turbulent life had ended in the Convent of Fontevrault and it was a relief to everyone.

Henry’s mind was taken off the troubles in his kingdom when rebellion broke out in Wales. There was no money with which to conduct a campaign and Henry would have attempted to raise it from the Londoners. Richard saw that the citizens of the capital were getting towards the end of their patience and he himself supplied the means for conducting the campaign by pawning his own jewels.