The Queen from Provence Read online

  Sanchia was watching Eleanor for her cue. Beatrice was clearly miserable at the thought of her sister’s leaving them. Eleanor kept her eyes to the ground. This was the greatest honour which could befall them and it had come to Marguerite, not because she was more clever or more beautiful – she was neither – but simply because she was the eldest.

  Marguerite herself was bewildered. She knew that she should be grateful. She was aware of the great honour done to her but at the same time it frightened her.

  For thirteen years she had lived in the shelter of her parents’ love. Now she was to leave that to go to … she knew not what. To a great King who would be her husband. She looked at Eleanor, but Eleanor would not meet her gaze lest she betray the envy she was feeling.

  It is only because she is older, was the thought which kept going round and round in her head.

  ‘You will be very happy, I know it,’ said the Countess. ‘Queen Blanche will be a mother to you and you will be under the protection of a great King. Now why are we looking so glum? We should all be rejoicing.’

  ‘I don’t want Marguerite to go away,’ said Beatrice.

  ‘No, my dear child, nor do any of us. But you see her husband will want her with him and he has first claim.’

  ‘Let him come here,’ suggested Beatrice smiling suddenly.

  ‘That could not be, baby. He has a kingdom to govern.’

  ‘We would help him.’

  The Countess laughed and ruffled Beatrice’s hair. ‘We are going to have a great deal to do, Marguerite, I want you to come with me now. We must discuss your clothes and I shall have much to tell you.’

  The Count said: ‘This is indeed a happy day for us. It is like a miracle. I should never have believed it possible.’

  Eleanor raised her eyes and said: ‘I have written a poem.’

  ‘That is good,’ said her father.

  ‘May I read it to you now?’

  ‘Not now, my dear. Another time. With so much on our minds …’

  ‘Come, Marguerite,’ said the Countess.

  The door shut on them and the three girls were alone.

  Sanchia was watching Eleanor expectantly. Eleanor went to the table and took up the poem she had written and which she had so looked forward to reading to her parents. They were not interested now. All they could think about now was Marguerite’s wedding.

  ‘It is only because she is the eldest,’ she said. ‘If I had been, I should have been the one.’

  * * *

  Now Les Baux was given over to preparation. There was no other conversation but that of the coming marriage, whether in the great hall or in the rooms of the serving men and women. Les Baux was no longer the mere castle of the Count of Provence; it was the home of the future Queen of France. Marguerite, who had at first been apprehensive, was now radiant with expectation. The news she had of her bridegroom was that he was not only kindly and good but a man determined to do his duty and make France great.

  Marguerite was passed from the hands of the dressmakers to her parents that she might be closeted with them and listen to advice that seemed interminable. When she considered what she must do and must not do, she told Eleanor, she got them hopelessly muddled so that it would have been better to have had no instruction at all.

  Eleanor listened almost grudgingly. How she wished that all this fuss had been for her! If only she had been the eldest and was going to France, how excited she would be! Instead of which she would stay at Les Baux for several more years and then a husband would be found for her. Who would it be? Some Duke? Some Count? And she would have to pay homage to her sister for the rest of her life!

  And had she been born the first she would have been the one.

  It was bad enough to lose Marguerite whose company would be sadly missed, but that she should have this honour showered on her and be so much more important than the rest of them was even harder to take for someone of Eleanor’s temperament.

  At first she remained aloof, but then her curiosity got the better of her and when Marguerite confessed that she was frightened and at times wished the whole thing could be forgotten, she scolded her and pointed out what great honour was being done to the family and that she should be rejoicing in her good fortune.

  So the time passed and in due course the ambassadors of the King of France returned to Les Baux. They had come, they said, on the command of the King to take his bride to him without delay. So Marguerite was to leave with them, taking with her a few attendants and one of the minstrels from her father’s Court, and on the road she would be joined by the Bishop of Valence who would lead her to Sens where her bridegroom would be waiting for her.

  She would be received by the Archbishop of Sens who would perform the ceremony and coronation, for Marguerite was to be crowned Queen of France at that same time as she was married to its King.

  What excitement there was throughout Les Baux while the packhorses were laden with all the splendid garments which had been made for Marguerite. In her chamber the Countess was giving the last advice to her daughter, reminding her that she and the Count would be present at the wedding and would shortly be leaving in their daughter’s wake. Then a magnificently attired Marguerite, looking like a stranger with that aura of royalty already settling about her, was led out of the castle.

  Eleanor forgot her jealousy in that moment as she embraced her sister, and Marguerite clung to her whispering that when she was Queen of France her dear sister who was closer to her than any of the others – even their dearest parents – should come to her Court and be her companion.

  It was a comforting thought although Eleanor’s good sense told her that there was little likelihood of its coming to pass.

  Then Marguerite rode off in the centre of the cavalcade, most carefully guarded for she had become very precious; and her father’s knights and those of her husband-to-be were ready to guard her with their lives. The golden lilies of France were fluttering ahead of her.

  There was a sombre atmosphere in the castle that night, yet a strange one. The family had risen in prestige through their new connection with the royal house of France, naturally, but how they missed Marguerite!

  Then they were caught up in more bustling preparations for now the Count and Countess must leave for Sens to be the proud witnesses of their daughter’s wedding and coronation.

  * * *

  It was galling to have to remain behind, to be considered a child. Yet, thought Eleanor, I am the eldest now. The next time suitors come to the castle they will come for me.

  But what marriage could there be to compare with that of the King of France!

  ‘When I marry,’ she told Sanchia, ‘my marriage must be every bit as grand as that of Marguerite.’

  ‘Then you must have a King, sister,’ said Sanchia.

  ‘I know. Nothing less will I take.’

  ‘What King will it be?’

  Eleanor was thoughtful. ‘There is a King of England,’ she said. ‘I suppose he will be the one.’

  In due course their parents returned and there was great rejoicing in the castle that night. Everything was even more satisfactory than they had dared hope.

  They told the children how happy their sister was. Her bridegroom had fallen in love with her on sight and she with him.

  ‘And small wonder,’ said the Countess. ‘The King of France is the most handsome man in his kingdom. His hair is so fair that it shines like a golden halo in the sunshine. His eyes are blue and his skin so delicately coloured that men marvel at him. But what pleased us most is his obvious goodness. They say France is a happy country to have such a King.’

  ‘And a Queen,’ put in the Count smiling.

  ‘I wish you could have seen her at her coronation,’ went on the Countess.

  ‘I wish it too,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘Her mantle was lined with vair, her gown of blue velvet trimmed with sable and ermine,’ continued the Countess. ‘I have never seen Marguerite look as beautiful as she did at her coronat
ion. The people in the streets cheered and cheered. The King was so happy and before the crowd he took her hand and kissed it tenderly to show them all how pleased he was with his bride and he was of course telling them so they must be too. Your father will tell you how I could not stop my tears as I watched them.’

  The Count was nodding happily.

  ‘Her golden crown – given her by the King – cost fifty-eight livres. He has showered gifts on her. Beautiful furs and golden ornaments. Was not her diadem beautiful?’ demanded the Countess and the Count assured them that it was indeed.

  ‘There was a gold cup made for them and we saw them drink from it at the banquet. He held it to her first and then put his lips where hers had been. It was most touching. Oh, this has been a happy year.’

  Eleanor listened.

  Oh fortunate Marguerite! She was more determined than ever that no one less than a king would do for her.

  * * *

  The marriage had changed the family. Marguerite, though absent, was its most important member. She was the subject of constant comment and accounts of her life as the Queen of France became a daily recital.

  It was good, Eleanor knew, that they should have become so important. There were more callers at the castle now, and there had been one never-to-be-forgotten time when the King himself had visited them with Marguerite. The King was certainly an ideal bridegroom. All the praises Eleanor had heard of him had not been exaggerated as far as she could see. He was undeniably handsome; he had delicate but beautifully chiselled features; his complexion was so fresh and his skin so clear that had he been a woman it would have seemed he had painted it so, but this was seen to be pure natural freshness. He had blond hair which was abundant and glossy; and he and Marguerite made such a handsome pair that for their looks alone they delighted the people who came out of their houses to cheer them as they passed by. And what delighted the Count and Countess most was the obvious evidence that this love between the royal pair was no myth. Louis, it was said, had become more serious since his marriage; he was determined to be a good husband and a good king. As for Marguerite she was in such a state of bliss that she no longer seemed like their sister. Eleanor was filled with an even greater determination to do as well for herself as her sister had done. But how could she?

  The King of France had brothers but Eleanor had no great desire to be the bride of a younger son; if she married one of the King’s brothers – and it seemed very likely that in a year or so this proposition might be considered – she would always be subservient to her sister. Not that Marguerite would ever stress the fact that she was the superior. That was unimportant. She would be.

  A year had passed and Eleanor was getting nearer and nearer to the day when a husband would be found for her and she was restive.

  There was only one King that she knew of who, by marrying her, could give her equal standing with her sister and that was the King of England. He remained unmarried although it seemed unlikely that he would be so for long. He was much older than Marguerite’s husband being twenty-seven years old – and wives were usually found for kings long before they reached that age.

  She determined to find out all she could about the King of England and the most likely member of her father’s Court to supply the information would naturally be Romeo de Villeneuve.

  She made opportunities to talk to him and he was nothing loath. He was very proud of having played a part in arranging Marguerite’s marriage; and she knew that he would like to do equally well for her; so he was a good ally. She had heard him say that the brilliant marriage of the eldest sister would pave the way for the others. There were many who would hesitate to take the daughter of the Count of Provence, but few would not consider marriage with the sister of the Queen of France a good one.

  Eleanor pinned her hopes on Romeo.

  She had learned a great deal about the English King. He had been on the throne nearly twenty years, for his father had died when he was nine years old. England had been occupied by the father of the present King of France who had been invited there because the barons had so loathed Henry’s father King John, that they had thought a foreign ruler would be better than he was. When John died Henry had been hastily crowned with his mother’s throat collar, the crown jewels having recently been lost in the Wash when King John’s army was crossing that stretch of water.

  So he had been King when he was younger than she was. He had had good advisers – always essential, said Romeo with a twinkle in his eye and so calling attention to his own worthiness, which she would be the last to deny. Because of these advisers, the French had gone back to France and Henry continued to reign in peace – entirely due to these strong men whose advice he took.

  ‘What sort of man is the King, Romeo?’ she asked. ‘Is he like the King of France?’

  ‘I doubt anyone is like the King of France, but Henry is a great King and if he is wise could be more powerful than Louis.’

  That made her eyes sparkle. That was what she wanted. Henry to be more powerful than Louis – that was if she married him.

  But what wild dream was this. There had been no emissaries from England asking for her hand. How infuriating that it was the man who must ask for his bride and not the bride for the groom!

  But her questions about England had set Romeo’s mind working. She knew that. And he was thinking, as she was, what an admirable state of affairs would be brought about if while one of the Count of Provence’s daughters was the Queen of France, the other was the Queen of England.

  She was impatient for action. But what could she do? Romeo could not send minstrels to the Court of England to sing of her charms. And she was only twelve years old. If only she had been the eldest.

  She became obsessed by England. She discussed that country with Romeo. She already knew how it had been conquered by William of Normandy and that Henry was a descendant of his. She knew that because of the folly of King John very few possessions were left to the English Crown.

  ‘They will attempt to regain them,’ said Romeo, ‘and the King of France will do all in his power to hold them.’

  It was an interesting situation.

  She found solace from her impatience in writing and it was natural that she should write about England. She liked the ancient legends which had come down over the years and took one of these on which to base a narrative poem.

  This was about a certain Blandin of Cornwall and Guillaume of Miremas who fell in love with two sisters, the Princess Briende and Irlondë. To win these ladies the two knights must perform deeds of great daring. Eleanor glowed with pride and passion as she invented the seemingly impossible tasks. And in her imagination she was the beautiful Briende.

  When the poem was completed her parents summoned several members of the Court that they might hear their daughter read it, for in addition to her literary talents she had a beautiful voice and could sing where singing was required and then break into impassioned recitation.

  It was a superb performance, and when it was finished Eleanor, flushed with triumph, looked up to find the eyes of Romeo fixed not upon her but staring into space as though his thoughts were far away.

  She was piqued and angry. It was clear that he had not paid attention to the reading.

  Her mother was embracing her.

  ‘It is your greatest achievement,’ she said. ‘You are indeed a poet, daughter.’

  ‘Romeo did not appear to think so,’ she said curtly.

  Romeo was immediately on his feet. ‘Indeed, my lady Eleanor,’ he declared, ‘you are wrong. I thought it a remarkable piece of work. I was thinking what a pity it was that the whole world could not know of your talent.’

  ‘Eleanor is happy to delight her family, I know,’ said the Count fondly.

  It was later that day when leaving the castle for a walk in the grounds with Sanchia, she met, as though by chance, the Lord of Villeneuve.

  She was astute enough to know that this was no chance meeting and when he implied in the most discreet way
that he wished to speak to her alone she sent Sanchia into the house to get a wrap for her and bring it to the shrubbery, deciding that whether or not she was in the shrubbery when Sanchia returned depended on the importance of what Romeo had to say and the time it would take.

  Romeo came straight to the point. ‘Your poem impressed me greatly. You did not think so because I was carried away by a thought which had struck me as to how the poem could be used to good advantage.’

  ‘What is this ?’ said Eleanor.

  ‘The poem is set in Cornwall. Did you know that the Earl of Cornwall is at this time at Poitou?’

  ‘I did not,’ she said, and added though she knew very well, ‘Is he not the brother of the King of England?’

  ‘He is indeed. And at this time he is planning to go on a crusade. That is why he is in Poitou. It has occurred to me that as the poem is set in Cornwall, the Earl would be pleased to see it.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘That you send it to him with a charming letter in which you modestly say that you have written the poem and hearing he was near and it was set in his dominion, you thought it might interest him.’

  ‘What does my father say?’

  ‘Your father would doubtless consider it an unusual action, as he did when I sent a minstrel to the Court of France to sing of your sister’s beauty and talents.’

  ‘And you think because of that …’

  ‘No. But it helped. Young, beautiful, well educated … those are the qualities which Kings of this day look for in their brides.’

  ‘But Richard …’

  ‘Is the brother of the King, who will shortly be returning to England where the King is thinking of marriage. He must be because it will be his duty to marry and he has left it long.’

  ‘So … if I send the poem … ?’