The Queen from Provence (43 page)

‘There could not be a greater comfort in the world,’ said Margaret.

On a snowy February day in Windsor Castle Margaret gave birth to her first child. It was a girl and she was called Margaret after her mother.

There was great satisfaction and rejoicing through the castle.

‘You cannot make the journey back until the late spring or summer,’ said the Queen. ‘Your father would never allow it.’

And Margaret settled down to make the most of the time.

Chapter XVII

THE PASSING OF A DREAM

M
argaret had returned to Scotland. It had been heart-rending to say farewell to her and the Queen was plunged into deeper melancholy when messengers came to her from Berkhamsted to tell her that her sister Sanchia was ill and asking for her.

Eleanor left with all speed and when, arriving at the castle she was taken immediately to her sister, she was shocked by the sight of her. Sanchia had not been in good health for some time but she had not expected to see her so obviously ill.

‘Thank God you sent for me,’ she said. ‘You should have done so before.’

‘I would have done so, but I knew you had much to occupy you. I would not have asked you to come now but I feared if I did not I might never see you again.’

‘What nonsense. You are soon going to get well. I shall see that you do.’

‘The Queen commands,’ said Sanchia with a smile.

‘’Tis so. What ails you?’

Sanchia touched her chest. ‘It is difficult to breathe … often.’

‘How long has this been going on?’

‘Oh some time … but it is worse now.’

‘Does Richard know?’

‘Oh, Richard has much with which to occupy him.’

‘His wife’s health should be the first of his concerns.’

‘We are not all as fortunate as you, Eleanor. Ah, how lucky you have always been. You had the perfect marriage, the perfect husband, the perfect children …’

‘Oh come. You were happy with Richard.’

‘Richard is not Henry, Eleanor. I don’t think he was meant to be a husband. Henry was, of course. That is why he is the perfect one.’

‘You sound bitter. Tell me, has Richard been unkind to you?’

‘No … not that. Neglectful, yes. He has had so much to occupy him. He is a King now.’

‘And has made you a Queen.’

‘Perhaps the title does not mean so much to me. I should have liked a husband who loved me as Henry loves you. You found that – and a crown as well.’

‘Oh, Henry is a good husband and I have the children. But you have your son, Sanchia.’

‘Yes, I have my son. He is a good boy … ten years old. But no one means as much to Richard as his son Henry. Edmund knows this. Richard is rarely with us you know.’

‘I’m sorry, Sanchia.’

‘How I dreamed … after you left. It was so romantic was it not? The poem and the way Richard came to Les Baux and what grew out of it! I used to imagine his coming back … and when he did it seemed like a dream come true. I expected too much.’

‘No one expects too much, for it is expecting and believing first that makes good things happen. Providing one does everything in one’s power to make them.’

‘You speak for yourself, Eleanor. You were always sure of yourself. You knew what you wanted; you determined to get it … and you did.’

‘Things do not always go smoothly, Sanchia.’

‘No, but you are always in command. And you made your husband love you and your children adore you. It is your right. I admit it. But the less successful of us should be forgiven for being a little envious now and then.’

‘You are talking nonsense, Sanchia. You have been very happy with Richard. You know you have.’

‘When we have been together sometimes … but I always knew that there were others. It wasn’t quite what I had dreamed at Les Baux. But never mind. It is the end now.’

‘The end! I won’t have you talk such nonsense. I shall stay here until you have recovered.’

In spite of her assurance the Queen was worried. Sanchia had grown very thin and there were violet shadows under the eyes. She was listless and when the paroxysms of coughing seized her, Eleanor was afraid.

She sat by her bed, and as the days passed she scarcely left her for it was clear that Sanchia was growing weaker.

They talked of Les Baux and their childhood; Eleanor sang some of the poems she had set to music and she knew that as Sanchia lay with her eyes closed she was back in the hall of the old castle and that the old days were more real to her than this bedchamber.

If only the weather were better, thought Eleanor. If only it was spring or summer, then I could take her into the gardens and it would indeed be like Les Baux. But it was dismal November; the days were short and dark, the mist penetrated the castle and hung about in patches. As the days grew darker, Sanchia became weaker and at length Eleanor was forced to admit that her sister was dying.

It was a terrible blow to her. Greatly she loved her family, and that this sister, younger than herself, would shortly leave the world filled with her melancholy.

She sat in the window-seat looking out across a landscape which reflected her mood. The branches of the trees denuded of their leaves stretched up to the greying sky. Across the field to the marshy land the reeds looked like red parchment and the woolly seed heads of the thistles were everywhere. There was no sign of spring and there was a deep sadness in Eleanor’s heart.

Each day Sanchia’s condition weakened. Eleanor stayed with her.

She was at her bedside when she died which she knew gave her sister great comfort.

She was buried with the usual ceremony at which her Uncle Boniface presided. Richard did not attend, although he was in England. He had business in London.

Eleanor was very anxious that all honour should be paid to her sister and that no expense should be spared in giving her a funeral worthy of a sister of the Queen of England.

When she intimated this to Henry he agreed with her. No expense must be spared and as it seemed unlikely that Richard would agree to such extravagance, Henry would pay for it.

Chapter XVIII

LONDON’S REVENGE

T
he state of affairs between the King and the barons had deteriorated and the King had found it necessary to fortify the Tower and Windsor Castle against attack which he feared might take place at any moment.

He was accused of having violated the Provisions of Oxford which was the reform laid down by that Parliament which had been called the Mad and which had been held in Oxford in 1258. The members of that parliament had drawn up reforms for the Church and the royal household, which meant that the King’s extravagant spending must be curbed. Later another clause had been added which was designed to exclude foreigners from entering the country and to drive out those who were already there and who were considered responsible for the King’s continual need to tax his people in order to replenish his exchequer.

The fact that the King ignored these rules and was indeed spending more and more, and often on the foreigners, had given rise to such discontent that the leading barons, under Simon de Montfort, were determined that the position should not be allowed to endure.

Henry was depressed. He could not ride out without an armed guard. The barons were turning his subjects against him, he said.

He remembered how his grandfather had, in the depth of his melancholy, caused a picture to be painted of an eagle in a nest with the young eaglets attacking him. Henry represented the eagle, the eaglets his sons. His was not quite such a sorry case. He could imagine nothing as bad as having a man’s own family turn against him. Thank God, that had not happened and that unfortunate matter with Edward had been resolved and had been proved to be due to malicious Gloucester’s envy of Simon de Montfort. Edward was his very good son and if he wanted proof of his family’s affection he only had to think of how Margaret had deceived her husband and his ministers because of her great desire to come to England and be with her family.

Now it was the people who were traitors to their King – the barons led by that man who had menaced his peace of mind for so long – Simon de Montfort.

He went to pray in the Abbey of Westminster and when he was returning to the palace he passed one of the monks who was painting a picture of the Abbey. He paused to admire it. It was exceedingly clever how the monk had caught the gleam of the stone.

‘A fine picture, William,’ he said.

The man bowed his head in pleasure.

‘You are indeed an artist.’

‘God has been good to me,’ said William. ‘All that I have comes from Him.’

‘That’s true. But that He has chosen you as His instrument redounds to your credit.’

The King stood for a few moments studying the picture.

‘You shall paint one for me, my good monk,’ he said. His eyes narrowed. ‘You shall depict me with my subjects who are endeavouring to tear me to pieces; but I shall be rescued … rescued by my own dogs. Would you do that then, good William?’

‘My lord, I could paint a picture no matter what the subject.’

‘Then here is a subject for you. It will show future generations what I had to endure from those who should have served me best. Rest assured, you will be paid well.’

The monk bowed his head and the King passed on. As he continued to paint the picture of the Abbey William was thinking that the King was overwrought and small wonder if rumours he heard were true. There was trouble brewing, and when a King’s subjects were restive and ready to rise against him it needed only one little spark to set the conflagration going.

The King would forget he did not doubt and he was surprised when the following day he was summoned to appear before him. That very day the picture was begun.

When it was finished, the King declared himself well pleased. There was no mistaking the meaning there.

Henry said: ‘It shall be placed in my wardrobe here in Westminster. I come here when I wash my head and I shall never fail to look at it and marvel at the ingratitude of those men whose duty it is to obey me. I have commanded my treasurer Philip Lovel to pay you for your work. You have done well.’

So the picture was hung and for several weeks the King would look at it every morning when he came into his wardrobe. After a while he forgot, for Simon de Montfort, realising that the country was as yet unripe for rebellion, left for France.