The Queen from Provence

by Виктория Холт

  Is there something wrong with me? he had asked himself.

  Looking in his mirror he could find nothing that should stand in the way of marriage. He was not exactly handsome and yet by no means ill favoured. He was of medium height and had a good strong body. It was true that one eyelid drooped so that the eye beneath it was hidden and this gave him an odd look which might to some seem a little sinister, but in some ways it suggested an air of distinction. He was no tyrant. He reckoned that he was liberal minded and a benevolent man – except in rare moments when his anger was aroused. He was known as a patron of the arts and a man of cultivated taste. But it was not only these gifts he had to offer a bride. He was the King of England and the woman he married would be a Queen.

  It was therefore astounding that he should have remained so long unmarried. Before this he had made three attempts and none of them had come to fruition.

  He was growing a little suspicious.

  He sent for Hubert de Burgh. Hubert was back in favour but the relationship between them would never be the same as it had been. Once when he was but a boy he had idolised Hubert, for Hubert – with William Marshal – had given him his crown. He had been but a boy of nine, the French in possession of the key towns of England, his mother recently free from the prison in which his father had placed her, when Hubert and William Marshal had set him on the throne, rallied the country and made it possible for him to be a King.

  Such a deed should have made Hubert a friend for life, and when William Marshal had died Hubert became his Chief Justiciar and adviser. Henry had listened to Hubert, had believed in Hubert, but as Hubert grew more and more influential he had become richer and had taken advantage of every situation to enhance his own power and that of his family. He had even married the sister of the King of Scotland. Hubert’s enemies then began to pour the venom of envy into Henry’s ears and he had believed it. After all there must have been some truth in what they suggested. Old Hubert had been hounded from his posts, his life placed in danger, and Henry himself had come near to killing him with his sword on one occasion. Something he regretted later for he was not by nature a violent man. But what he could not bear – and it had been so particularly at that time – was anyone to suggest that he was young, inexperienced and incapable of making decisions. He had had to endure too much of that when he was very young, surrounded as he had been by advisers who fancied themselves so wise.

  But now Hubert was taken back into favour. His lands and honours were restored to him; and to show his contrition Henry tried to behave towards him as though that terrible time when he had been hounded from sanctuary and come very near to violent death had never taken place.

  Hubert arrived and came straight to the King’s apartment.

  Poor Hubert, he had aged considerably. He had lost that buoyancy which had been a characteristic of his; his brow had become very furrowed and his skin had lost its freshness. Moreover there was a look of furtiveness in his eyes as though he were watchful and would never trust those about him again.

  This was understandable. He might so easily have ended up a prisoner in the Tower of London to emerge only to suffer the traitor’s death. It had happened swiftly and suddenly and in Hubert’s mind without reason. He would never rid himself of the fear that it could come again.

  ‘Ah, Hubert.’ The King held out his hand and smiled warmly.

  Hubert took it and bowing low, kissed it. So he was safe for today, he thought with relief. The King was concerned but Hubert was not to be held responsible for what was troubling him. Hubert softened a little. Henry was not to be blamed entirely. He had been led away by malicious men who had been determined to destroy Hubert de Burgh, a man whose possessions and standing with the King they envied. But that was in the past. By great good fortune from Hubert’s point of view, Edmund the sainted Archbishop of Canterbury had deplored the influence Hubert’s arch enemy, Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester, was gaining over the King. He had not been alone in this and backed by powerful barons the Archbishop had threatened the King with excommunication if he did not dismiss the Bishop.

  Henry, whose religious instincts were strong, had been impressed by the saintliness of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and in due course dismissed Peter des Roches. Thus the way had been paved for Hubert’s return to favour.

  But there must be tensions between them which could never be overcome. Hubert could not forget that the King had turned against him and only extreme good luck had prevented his enemies from destroying him; Henry would always remember the rumours he had heard of Hubert. They would never again entirely trust each other.

  Peter des Roches had left England taking with him much of his wealth which he had placed at the service of the Pope who was engaged in war with the Romans. But his memory lingered on and the harm he had done to Hubert would never completely be eliminated.

  All this they both remembered as they faced each other.

  ‘The messengers are long in returning from Ponthieu,’ said Henry.

  ‘My lord, there is much for them to settle. When they return the contracts will have been agreed and your bride will be making her preparation to come to England.’

  ‘I trust she is as comely as we have heard, Hubert.’

  ‘She is young and I doubt not that she is also comely.’

  ‘This time,’ said Henry, ‘I shall make sure that nothing prevents my marriage.’

  ‘I see no reason, my lord, why it should.’

  For a moment Henry regarded the Justiciar through half-closed eyes. Was it true or malicious talk that Hubert had been responsible for stopping the negotiations for those other matches? No, he did not believe Hubert would behave so. Moreover, what point would there have been?

  ‘The Count of Ponthieu is eager for the match,’ went on Hubert, ‘and so I believe is his daughter. In fact, my lord, I have it on the best authority that they cannot believe their good fortune.’

  ‘This does not surprise me,’ answered Henry complacently. ‘Ponthieu is of no great moment when compared with England. It will be a grand match for the girl.’

  He smiled. He would enjoy being kind to his bride, showing her what a fine match she had made, letting her know that in every way he was her superior. How she would love him for showering such benefits upon her!

  ‘Hubert,’ he said, ‘I want you to press ahead with this marriage. There has been too much delay.’

  ‘It was my intention to do so, my lord,’ replied Hubert. ‘Rest assured that within a few weeks your bride will be here.’

  * * *

  When Richard had returned to England his first duty was to present himself to his brother. Even as they had greeted each other they were both aware of the caution which had crept into their relationship. They had lost the trust they had once had. Since that day when Henry had quarrelled with Richard and had even thought of making him a prisoner, and Richard had gathered together some of the chief barons to side with him, Henry had been wary of his brother. From the very day he had ascended the throne in the manner of every baron about him had been the implication that he must remember what had happened to his father. Runnymede! The very word held a grim warning. It happened to King John; it could happen to you. The barons would never again let any King of England forget what a power they were. And when a King had an ambitious brother who had already shown himself capable of standing against him, he must indeed be cautious.

  Richard would never forget that, urged on by the Justiciar, Henry had once been on the point of arresting him and but for the loyalty of some of his servants and his own prompt action he might have found himself the King’s prisoner. He had been forced to arouse those barons who were watchful of the King and ready to side with him before he was able to feel free again. And although he and the King had become friends afterwards, such incidents left their mark.

  Richard was intensely aware of the rivalry between them. He himself could never forget that it was only the timing of their birth which had placed Henry in the superior po
sition and he naturally thought that he would have made the better King. Henry was aware of his feelings and this did not endear him to his brother.

  Still, because of their close relationship they both knew that outright animosity between them would be uncomfortable for both of them.

  Henry was irritated because his matrimonial adventures had failed but at the same time pleased because Richard’s adventure in that direction, although positive, was far from satisfactory.

  ‘So, how did you fare?’ the King asked.

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘And you make progress with your preparation? When shall you be leaving for the Holy Land?’

  ‘There is much yet to be done. It could be two years at least.’

  ‘So long! Well, you will have a little time with your wife before you go.’ The faint smile, the glance from under the drooping lid irritated Richard. There was no need for Henry to gloat. Richard knew he had made a mistake. But at least he had married and had a son to show for it.

  ‘The boy flourishes,’ he said with a hint of malice. Henry flinched. How he would have loved to have a son. ‘You must see him, Henry. After all he is named for you.’

  ‘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 cultiva
ted 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.