The Queen from Provence Read online

  The Queen from Provence

  Виктория Холт

  Marguerite, eldest daughter of the Count of Provence, had married a king of France – and now her sister Eleanor is determined to make just as grand a match.

  Good fortune and wily cunning bring her Henry of England. A good and generous husband but a weak king, he rules a nation that still remembers his cruel and foolish father, King John. As Henry showers gifts on his new bride his extravagance forces him to levy ever greater taxation on the land, and the spectre of revolt soon looms against him. For Simon de Montfort, the adventurer who will give England its first true parliament, the house of destiny is at hand.

  Jean Plaidy

  The Queen from Provence

  Chapter I

  IN SEARCH OF A BRIDEGROOM

  As Raymond Berenger, Count of Provence, and his friend, confidant and chief adviser, Romeo, Lord of Villeneuve, strolled together in the lush green gardens surrounding the castle of Les Baux, they talked of the future.

  Raymond Berenger had had a happy life; his beautiful wife was as talented as he was himself. Between them they had made their court one of the most interesting intellectually in the whole of France, and as a result poets, troubadours and artists made their way to Provence, sure of a welcome and appreciation. It was indeed a pleasant life and the Count and Countess wished it might go on for ever. They were not foolish enough to think it could. But no earthly paradise could be completely perfect and though, during their married life, they had prayed fervently for a son who would govern Provence beside his father for many years and afterwards preserve that ambience of gracious ease and luxurious comfort, they had produced only daughters.

  Even this they could not entirely regret, for dearly did they love their children and admitted that they would not have changed one of their girls for the son for whom they had petitioned so earnestly. Where in the world, Raymond Berenger asked his Countess, could be found girls who were as beautiful and talented as theirs? And the answer was: Nowhere.

  These girls were growing up now and the decisions which would have to be made were the subjects of the conversation between the Count and Romeo de Villeneuve.

  Marguerite, the eldest of the family, was nearly thirteen years old. A child, said the Countess, but she knew that outside her family, Marguerite would be considered marriageable. The search for a suitable husband could not be put off much longer; moreover there were the others to consider.

  ‘I confess, Romeo,’ the Count was saying, ‘these matters give me cause for the greatest concern.’

  ‘I am sure we shall find a solution as we have to so many of our problems,’ replied Romeo.

  ‘Many times have I put my trust in you, Romeo,’ sighed the Count, ‘and never found it misplaced. But how shall we find husbands for the daughters of an impoverished Count when they have little to offer but their grace, charm and beauty?’

  ‘And their talents, my lord. Do not let us forget they possess these in greater abundance than most girls whose fathers are looking for husbands for them.’

  ‘You seek to cheer me. I love my girls. They are beautiful and clever. But gold, silver and rich lands are considered to be more desirable than charm and education.’

  ‘Provence is not so insignificant that the Kings of France and England would not wish to have us as their friend.’

  ‘The Kings of France and England!’ cried the Count. ‘You must be jesting!’

  ‘Why so, my lord? The Kings of France and England are young men, both seeking brides.’

  ‘You cannot really be suggesting that one of my girls could become the consort of one of these Kings!’

  ‘Nay, my lord, not one but two.’

  The Count was aghast. ‘It is a wild dream.’

  ‘It would indeed be a great achievement if either of these projects came to pass, and, to start with, I do not see why a marriage between France and Provence should not be considered worthy of consideration in Paris.’

  ‘How so, my dear Romeo?’

  ‘We could bring a certain security to France. Oh, I know we are impoverished. We cannot offer a great dowry, but we have something which Blanche and her son Louis might consider worth having. Beaucaire and Carcassonne have recently come into their possession. On the other side of the Rhône is the Holy Roman Empire and we have lands there which we could bring to France. In view of their strategic position I think they could be called quite valuable, for if they were under the control of the King of France his position would be strengthened against the Holy Roman Empire.’

  ‘That’s true enough. But would such a matter impress the French?’

  ‘I am determined that they shall be impressed by it. I have not been idle. I have sent some of our songsters to the Court of France, and what do you think has been the burden of their song?’

  ‘Not the rich dowries of my daughters, I’ll swear.’

  ‘Nay. But their beauty and charm – unsurpassed in France.’

  ‘My dear friend, I doubt not your loyalty to this house, but I think your friendship for it has carried you far away into the realms of fancy. The Queen of France will select the wife for her son with the greatest care, and how many do you think are competing for that honour?’

  ‘Queen Blanche is a wise woman. She will consider carefully what she has been told.’

  The Count, laughing, shook his head, and said he would go into the castle and tell the Countess what Romeo was suggesting. She would doubtless laugh with her husband while at the same time she would agree with regard to the loyalty and good intentions of the lord of Villeneuve.

  * * *

  It was that hour when the four daughters of the Count and Countess of Provence were together in their schoolrooms. Thirteen-year-old Marguerite, the eldest, stitched at her tapestry. Eleanor, two years younger, sat writing at the table; Eleanor was constantly writing verses which she set to music, and she was now engaged on a long narrative poem, which her tutors said was an astonishing achievement for a girl of her age. Eight-year-old Sanchia was stitching with her eldest sister and Beatrice, the youngest, who was barely six, was looking over Eleanor’s shoulder as she wrote.

  All the girls had been endowed with their mother’s good looks; and because they had been brought up in a fashion unusual with families of their rank, theirs had been a happy childhood. They saw their mother each day and their father also when his commitments allowed him to remain in his home. Because they were girls it had not been necessary for them to go away to be brought up in some nobleman’s household where they must learn to face a hard and cruel world. The domestic life of the Count and Countess of Provence had in many ways been simple while at the same time all the girls were given the kind of education which was rarely bestowed on members of their sex. Although they were skilled in feminine arts – such as needlework, singing, dancing – they had been brought up to think, to express themselves lucidly, to have some knowledge of the events of the day and above all to love music and literature. The Countess Beatrice, their mother, the daughter of the Count of Savoy, was a musician and poet and she saw no reason to neglect these skills. She imbued her daughters with an appreciation of the matters nearest her heart and as a result the girls were not only beautiful but accomplished and on the way to becoming very well educated.

  The cleverest of the four was undoubtedly Eleanor. Marguerite was skilled at needlework and a good musician, but in everything except needlework Eleanor was superior. It was Eleanor whose poems were put to music and sung throughout the court, and Eleanor whom their tutors praised constantly.

  Because of her talents she was inclined to a certain arrogance which her parents noticed and deplored but thought was understandable. ‘She will grow out of it,’ s
aid the Count in his easy-going way. He liked everything to run smoothly and this attitude was suited to the comfortable tenor of life in Provence where brilliantly coloured flowers and rich green shrubs flourished without much attention and where the people loved to lie in the sun and listen to the strumming of the lute. There was poetry in the air in Provence; and the fact that Eleanor was a poetess already meant that she was a true daughter of her native land.

  Marguerite was of a sweeter nature. She was ready to stand aside for her younger sister; no one applauded Eleanor’s efforts more than Marguerite; and the result was that Eleanor was a little spoiled by the family. Eleanor looked for praise; she shared her sisters’ beauty – and many said surpassed it – but she was the clever one. She had seen the looks of wonder in her parents’ faces when she had shown them her poems. They insisted that she read them aloud to the family and when she had finished her parents would lead the applause and in Eleanor’s eyes no one was quite as important at the Court of Provence as she was.

  Sanchia the next sister followed her in everything, imitating her way of speech, her gestures, trying all the time, said Marguerite, to make herself another Eleanor. Eleanor herself merely smiled encouragingly. After all she could quite understand Sanchia’s desire to walk in her footsteps.

  Beatrice was too young as yet to have much character. As a six-year-old she had only recently joined them in the schoolroom.

  ‘How goes the poem?’ asked Marguerite pausing in her work and making a very charming picture, seated in the window with her work on a frame before her, her pretty hand daintily holding the needle while she lifted her brown eyes to smile across at Eleanor.

  ‘It goes well,’ replied Eleanor. ‘I shall read it to my lord and lady tomorrow, I doubt not.’

  ‘Let us hear it now,’ cried Sanchia.

  ‘Indeed not,’ retorted Eleanor.

  ‘It must be launched in a becoming manner,’ said Marguerite with a smile.

  Eleanor smiled complacently, already savouring the applause, the looks of admiration in her parents’ eyes, the wonder as they exchanged glances which betrayed the fact that they thought their daughter a genius.

  Marguerite had turned to the window. ‘We have visitors,’ she said.

  Eleanor and Beatrice immediately rose and went to the window. In the distance but making straight for the castle was a party of men. One of them carried a banner.

  The girls stood very still. Visitors to the castle always provided some excitement. There would be special feasting in the great hall which the girls would be able to attend; they would join in the singing and music though if the carousing went on into the night they would be sent to their chambers. Visitors were a great event in their lives and one to which they all looked forward.

  ‘They come from the Court of France,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘How do you know?’ asked little Beatrice admiringly.

  ‘Look at the standard. The golden lilies. That means France.’

  ‘Then they must be important,’ added Marguerite.

  Eleanor was thinking of what she would wear. She had a gown of silk with a tight-fitting bodice and long trailing skirt; the sleeves were fashionable, tight to the wrists where they widened so much that the trailing cuffs reached to the hem of her skirt. These cuffs were decorated with the silk woven embroidery which she herself had worked with the aid of her sisters. It was a most becoming gown. Her mother had given her a girdle which was decorated with chalcedony, that stone which was said to bring power and health to those who possessed it.

  She would wear her thick dark hair in two plaits and would refuse to cover it with either wimple or barbette which she had said to Marguerite were for older women or those who had not the luxuriant hair possessed by the sisters.

  ‘We shall soon hear doubtless,’ said Sanchia. ‘I wonder why they come?’

  ‘I trust it is not war,’ said little Beatrice, who had already learned that trouble in the neighbourhood could take their father away from them and make their mother anxious, and so disturb the peace of Les Baux.

  ‘We shall soon know,’ said Marguerite, putting aside her needlework.

  ‘Should we not wait in the schoolroom until we are summoned?’ asked Sanchia.

  ‘Nay,’ retorted Eleanor. ‘What if we were summoned to greet the visitors. I would be ready.’

  It was significant that the younger girls looked to Eleanor rather than Marguerite for directions.

  ‘Come,’ said the forceful sister, ‘let us prepare.’

  * * *

  The visitors were led by Giles de Flagy who had come from Queen Blanche on a special mission.

  When he heard what that mission was Raymond Berenger could scarcely believe his ears. It seemed that Romeo de Villeneuve was indeed a magician. Could it really be that the Queen of France was seeking a daughter of the Count of Provence to marry her son?

  In the Count’s private apartments Giles de Flagy discussed the matter with the Count, the Countess and Romeo de Villeneuve.

  The Queen Mother of France had heard much of the excellence of the Count’s daughters. She was well aware of the Count’s financial difficulties, but she had decided that these were not of major importance. The Count’s daughters were beautiful and had been well educated. These were the qualities she would look for in a Queen of France, and the last was of particular importance.

  Louis IX was twenty years of age. It was time he married and Blanche had decided that the daughter of the Count of Provence might suit him very well. Terms of the marriage could be gone into later, but the Queen was eager that not too much time should be lost. She understood the Count’s eldest daughter was thirteen years old – young but marriageable. The King of France was a young man of immense ability. He would not want a foolish wife; and the Queen believed that if a girl was to be trained to be a great Queen the training in the royal household could not begin too soon.

  Giles de Flagy hoped he would have an opportunity of meeting the Count’s daughters during his brief stay at Les Baux.

  The Count and Countess, beside themselves with excitement, assured him that he should see the girls.

  It was the Countess who sent for the two eldest, and Marguerite and Eleanor, deeply conscious of the air of tension throughout the castle, eagerly obeyed the summons.

  ‘We have a very important visitor,’ began the Countess.

  ‘From France,’ interrupted Eleanor. ‘I saw the lilies on the standard.’

  The Countess nodded. ‘You girls will be presented to him when we sup tonight. I want you to look your best, and to behave with your best manners.’

  Eleanor looked reproachful. ‘Of a certainty we shall,’ she said reprovingly.

  ‘My dear child,’ said her mother firmly, ‘I know it well. But this is a very important visitor and perhaps on this night it would be better for you to remain a little subdued. Speak only when spoken to.’

  Eleanor lifted her shoulders in a gesture of resignation and the Countess turned from her to her eldest daughter.

  ‘Now Marguerite, be discreet but ready with your answer should the conversation come your way. Be unobtrusive and yet at the same time …’

  Eleanor burst out: ‘Oh dear lady, what would you have us be … ourselves or puppets performing in a show?’

  ‘Perhaps I am wrong,’ said the Countess. ‘I should leave you to be your natural selves. But understand me. I do want you to make a good impression on the ambassador of the King of France. Now shall we decide what you shall wear?’

  ‘I have already decided on my blue and my girdle with the chalcedony,’ said Eleanor.

  The Countess nodded. ‘A good choice. It becomes you well. And Marguerite?’

  ‘Oh my grey and purple gown with my silver girdle.’

  The Countess nodded. ‘And I shall give you a diamond ring to wear, Marguerite. It will look well with the grey and purple.’

  ‘A diamond!’ cried Eleanor. ‘Diamonds are said to protect people from their enemies. What enemies have you
, Marguerite?’

  ‘None that I am aware of.’

  The Countess seemed suddenly overcome by emotion as she looked fondly at her eldest daughter. ‘I pray you never will have, but if you attain to a high position in the world there would assuredly be those who would not wish you well.’

  ‘Is that why you are giving her a diamond?’ asked Eleanor.

  ‘I give it to her because it will become her. She has pretty hands.’

  Eleanor looked at her own which were equally pretty. Why should Marguerite be especially selected? Was it because she was the eldest?

  Thirteen! It was a great age and she was but eleven. Could it really be that the ambassador from France had come with some proposition for Marguerite?

  Later it became clear that this was the case. Although they were both presented to Giles de Flagy it was on Marguerite that his eyes lingered.

  Eleanor could not help feeling somewhat piqued, particularly when she was not even asked to read her latest poem.

  Giles de Flagy rode away but the object of his visit and its success was soon made clear.

  The Count and Countess came to the schoolroom where the girls were working. Eleanor knew what it meant because their expression betrayed their feelings. There was pride, elation, wonder which showed that they scarcely believed what was happening to them and at the same time there was sorrow and regret.

  The girls all rose and curtsied.

  The Count came forward and took Marguerite by the hand.

  ‘My dearest child,’ he said, ‘the greatest good fortune has come to you. You are to be the Queen of France.’

  ‘Does it mean Marguerite will go away?’ asked Beatrice, her face beginning to pucker.

  Her mother drew the child to her and held her against her skirts.

  ‘You will understand what this means in time, my child,’ she said.

  The Count went on. ‘I would never have believed this could happen. King Louis is a young man of great qualities; he is clever, kind and good, determined to rule his country well. And he has decided that he will marry our Marguerite. My child, you must never cease to thank Heaven for your good fortune.’