The Queen from Provence (7 page)

‘I am happy to know all is well with him. I trust that ere long he will have a boy cousin.’

‘Ah, so the marriage plans are going ahead.’

‘We are still waiting for the return of the embassy. When they arrive I shall lose no time.’

‘I understand well. You have waited over long.’

‘Did you see Joanna when you were in Ponthieu?’

‘I did.’

‘And you thought her beautiful?’

Richard hesitated and he saw the anxiety dawn in Henry’s face.

‘Oh fair enough,’ he said.

‘Fair enough,’ cried Henry. ‘Fair enough for whom … for what?’

‘One cannot ask too much of a bride in a state marriage, can one. If she was born in the right bed and the marriage brings the desired terms, what matters it whether the lady be fair?’

There was a silence, while Henry’s looks grew darker. Then Richard laughed. ‘Oh, brother, I but tease. She is comely …’

‘Enough?’ added Henry.

‘To tell the truth I compared her with one other whom I met rather by chance.’

‘Oh have you fallen in love again then?’

‘I could well be on the way to it. She is the daughter of the Count of Provence. I believe I have never seen a more beautiful girl. She is clever too. A poet … a musician … a girl who has been unusually well educated. This is obvious in her manner … her speech … and of course her poetry.’

‘You are not speaking of the Queen of France?’

‘Nay. I did not meet her. ’Twas hardly likely that I should have been received with much friendship at the Court of France. The girl who so impressed me was her sister, Eleanor. You would enjoy the Court of Provence, brother. They set great store by music. The conversation sparkles with wit. Troubadours come from all over France sure of appreciation. I can tell you it is a paradise. The Count has four beautiful daughters. One you know became the Queen of France. That left Eleanor, Sanchia and Beatrice.’

‘And the one who enchanted you?’

‘They all did, but Eleanor is thirteen years old. It’s a delightful age – particularly in one as talented as Eleanor.’

‘And how does she compare with Joanna of Ponthieu?’

Richard shrugged his shoulders and lowered his eyes.

‘Come,’ said the King sharply, ‘I would know.’

‘Joanna is a comely girl … a pleasant creature …’

‘But Eleanor surpasses her?’

‘The comparison is unfair. There is none who could compare with Eleanor. When I read her poem I did not believe one so young could have written it. I determined to see her, then …’

‘What poem is this?’

‘I will show you. She wrote a long poem set in Cornwall and since I was nearby she most graciously sent it to me. Once I had read it, I must see its author and that was how I came to spend those delightful days at the Court of Provence.’

‘Let me see this poem,’ said Henry.

‘I have brought it for you. Read it at your leisure. I am sure with your own poetic gifts you will realise the talent of this girl.’

‘Your voice grows soft at the mention of her name. I do believe you are enamoured of her.’

Richard looked sadly ahead of him. ‘You know the situation in which I find myself.’

‘In which you placed yourself,’ Henry corrected. ‘It was your reckless nature that put you where you are today … married to an old woman. I could have told you you would regret it. And the Pope refusing a divorce.’

‘It may be that I shall persuade the Pope one day.’

Henry looked impatient. ‘Tell me more of Provence.’

‘The Count is proud of his daughters. Who would not be? Having secured the King of France for one of them he will look high for the others.’

‘And how does Eleanor compare with Marguerite?’

‘I heard it said in the castle that she was even more beautiful. In truth because of this she was always called Eleanor la Belle.’

‘Give me the poem. I will read it.’

‘Then I will leave you to it, Henry. I shall be interested to know what you think of it.’

‘Rest assured I shall tell you.’

As soon as he was alone the King glanced at the poem. The handwriting was exceptionally good and only slightly childish. It was written in the Provençal dialect and through their mother Henry and his brother and sisters had some knowledge of this so he was able to read it with ease.

It was charming, delightful, fresh … and full of feeling. It was true, the child was a poet.

Richard admired her. He was regretting his marriage more than ever. Had she been of more lowly birth he would have done his best to make her his mistress. Henry knew Richard. But of course that was something the Count of Provence would never allow.

She was beautiful – golden haired with brown eyes. He pictured her clearly. Soft skin, fine features, her youthful figure perfect in every detail. Richard was a connoisseur of women and he had thought her the most beautiful child he had ever seen. Her sister was already Queen of France. That was an interesting situation.

Why had he not heard of Eleanor before he had gone into negotiations with Ponthieu?

Still, he was not yet bound to Joanna. There was still time.

The idea obsessed him. Eleanor la Belle. The delectable thirteen-year-old child. He wanted a young girl, someone whom he could mould to his ways. He would have been afraid of a mature woman. Most kings of his age would have had several bastards scattered about the country by this time. Not Henry. He was shy with women; he did not want wild amorous adventures. He wanted a wife whom he could love; someone who would look up to him, and he felt this was certain to be a young girl; he wanted children; fine sons. That was necessary to the well-being of the nation. Richard might think that the succession was safe through him but that was not what Henry wanted. His own son must follow him and this beautiful young wife would provide that son.

He was already disliking Joanna and half in love with Eleanor.

But it is not too late, he told himself.

He sent for Hubert.

‘I have changed my mind,’ he said. ‘Have the messengers returned from Ponthieu?’

‘Not yet, my lord,’ replied Hubert.

‘I have decided against the marriage.’

‘My lord!’ Hubert looked aghast.

‘It is unsuitable and I have found the bride I want. She is Eleanor, daughter of the Count of Provence.’

Hubert found refuge in silence. He was thinking of the negotiations which had been going on with Ponthieu and the difficulty of breaking them; but he said nothing; the memory of the occasion when he had attempted to warn the King for his own good was too vivid. He would never fall into that trap again.

‘She is cultivated and beautiful. Her sister is the Queen of France. You will see, Hubert, that that fact alone makes the marriage desirable.’

‘It makes an interesting situation, my lord.’

‘And a politically strong one.’

‘It could be of great service in our dealing with France, my lord.’

‘So thought I. I want a message to be sent to the Count of Provence without delay.’

Hubert nodded. ‘And the embassy to Ponthieu, my lord?’

‘We will deal with that in due course. In the meantime let us consider the Count of Provence.’

‘We shall tell him of your desire and ask what his daughter’s dowry will be.’

‘That will take time.’

‘Such matters always do.’

‘There is no need to tell me that. I am well aware of the delays in other negotiations.’

‘Which, my lord, you will now be glad did not come to fruition.’

Henry laughed, friendly again. ‘You are right, Hubert. I hear that Eleanor of Provence is … incomparable. Now, we will make ready, with as much speed as possible. You understand me.’

‘Perfectly, my lord,’ said Hubert.

Before the day was out courtiers were on their way to Provence. Henry waited in an agony of impatience.

This must not go wrong as all his projects had before.

He must have Eleanor. He pictured her – the perfect wife – beautiful, talented, enchanting. All would envy him his bride and none more than his brother Richard.

There were many qualities which made the prospect enticing and not the least of Eleanor’s attractions was Richard’s clear appreciation of her charms.

No one could deny that a marriage between the King of England and the sister of the Queen of France was a good proposition, so Henry had no difficulty in persuading his ministers that in changing brides he was scoring a political advantage. It was true that not only had he made overtures to the Count of Ponthieu but he was also in the process of getting a dispensation from the Pope as in royal marriages there was always the question of consanguinity to be reckoned with. However, he was determined. So he sent messengers to Ponthieu and to Rome to cancel those negotiations and summoning the Bishops of Ely and Lincoln to him he told them that he wished them to leave at once for Provence with the Master of the Temple and the Prior of Hurle and there lay his proposals before the Count of Provence.

The Bishops, aware of the political significance of the proposed match, were eager to set out at once; but when they heard that Henry would want a large dowry with his bride they were dubious as to his obtaining this.

‘The Count of Provence is greatly impoverished, my lord. It will not be possible for him to raise the dowry for which you ask.’

‘It is surprising what a father can do for his daughter when the marriage is as grand as this will be.’

‘If he has not the means … my lord …’

‘Doubtless he will find a way. I should enjoy being there to see his delight when he knows your mission.’

‘It will be great, but when he hears what you ask it may well be that he will have to refuse your proposal on his daughter’s behalf.’

‘I am eager to have Eleanor as my bride, but I see no reason why I should allow her father to elude his obligations.’

‘We will put your proposals to him, my lord.’

‘When can you leave?’

‘This day.’

‘I am glad of that. I eagerly await the outcome. I want it known throughout the land that I am to be married. There will be great rejoicing.’

He watched the embassy depart and prayed for a good wind that there might be no delay crossing the sea.

His brother Richard came to him smiling secretly.

He had arranged this, he told himself. Young Eleanor, if she was crowned Queen of England, would owe her crown to him.

There was great excitement in Les Baux when the embassy from England arrived.

Eleanor watching them could scarcely wait until her parents summoned her. She had recognised the visitors as coming from England but having heard that arrangements between the King of England and the Count of Ponthieu were progressing, she could not believe that the visit concerned her.

When she was summoned to her parents’ chamber her heart was beating wildly. It could not be. Perhaps she had been mistaken. Perhaps the visitors had not come from England after all. They were not from the Court of France – that much she did know.

Her mother took her into her arms and embraced her, while her father watched with tears in his eyes.

‘My dear daughter,’ he said; ‘this is a great day for us.’

She looked eagerly from one to another.

‘Is it something that concerns me?’ she asked.

‘It is,’ said her father. ‘An offer of marriage.’

‘We never thought there could be anything to compare with Marguerite’s … but it seems there is.’

‘England?’ she whispered.

Her mother nodded. ‘The King of England is asking for your hand in marriage.’

Her head was whirling. It had worked then. Richard of Cornwall and the poem! It was incredible.

Romeo had come into the room. He was smiling complacently. No wonder. Once again they would owe their good fortune to him.

She could not entirely believe it. It was like a dream coming true. It was too neat. Marguerite Queen of France. Herself Queen of England. And largely because of the clever juggling of Romeo de Villeneuve. If she had not written that poem … if she had not – on Romeo’s advice – sent it to the Duke of Cornwall … No, it was too much to believe. It was what she had wanted more than anything. Marriage with England was the only one which could possibly compare with Marguerite’s. And it had come to pass.