MY FAIR LADY: A Story of Eleanor of Provence, Henry III's Lost Queen

by J. P. Reedman

  But Blanche’s ambassadors liked what they saw in my elder sister, and soon the deal was struck. Marguerite would fare to France and marry the young King Louis. My parents were thrilled, for the marriage would bring protection for Provence, and a rise in their status before the greats of Europe.

  “I am worried though,” I heard mother whisper to my father. I was skulking in the hall outside their chamber, eavesdropping, occasionally peering through a crack in the door. “Blanche is over protective of her boy, king though he may be. I heard she is the true ruler of France, and he does her bidding. She may resent our Marguerite, even though she knows her son must have a wife.”

  “Marguerite must learn how to win Louis from the hold of Blanche,” retorted father. “A man must leave his mother; it is the natural order of things. But fear not, Beatrice, we will journey with Marguerite to Lyon and see that the marriage treaty is properly signed and that she is treated with the respect due her.”

  Mother bit her under lip, clasped her hands in her lap. I had never seen her look so worried. “Can I ask a boon of you, lord husband?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “For the rest of her journey, and for the wedding, can my two brothers, William and Thomas, accompany her? If anything goes wrong, they are doughty lords who can support her and they are well-versed in politics and diplomacy.”

  “Nothing will go wrong.” Father smiled gently at her. “But you are a most admirable mother, Beatrice, guarding your children like a lioness guards her cubs! Yes…yes, of course you may send William and Thomas to France with Marguerite.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She took his ring-adorned hand, kissed it.

  I slid away into the dark corridors that riddled our castle, lit by only the pale torches flickering in brackets high above my head. My jealousy of Marguerite’s new position was abating as the awful truth hit me…Marguerite, who was my best friend, my playmate, would be going many leagues away, and leaving me alone….

  I began to cry, childish tears that I wiped from my blue eyes with my knuckles. And then Marguerite herself was there, comforting me. She did not seem the least upset herself, her cheeks rosy, flushed with excitement. “Why do you cry, sister? You have not been your usual merry self even since Queen Blanche’s men came to see father.”

  “Oh Marguerite…” Words tumbled out. “At first I was wicked, I was jealous of you! Louis is a powerful king and handsome too, and I, as yet, have no suitor for my hand. But that unworthiness has faded from my heart…Now I weep that you will leave and we will never play as sisters in our parents’ castles again.”

  “It is time for us to wed; we are no longer little children.” She clasped my cold hand, squeezed. “I am sure a goodly lord will come for you soon, Eleanor—you are even fairer than I. And I swear, even if we must live apart, as good wives must with out esteemed husbands, we will always remain best of friends as well as sisters. Do you agree? Best of friends.”

  I sniffled; the torches were blurry in my vision. “I do, Marguerite, of course I do. Always friends.”

  Then her nurses came and guided her away to her chambers, and there was a new respect amongst them, a reverence, because she would soon be Queen of France.

  Watching, a pang of unworthy jealousy needled me again. My sister was my friend…but I desperately wanted the honour Marguerite had.

  After Marguerite had gone from Aix-en-Provence, I moped for many months. My smaller sisters Sanchia and Beatrice were too youthful for the kind of play I desired. Instead, I threw myself into my studies in both crafts suitable for highborn ladies and into the study of Holy Scripture. I was a voracious reader and, hidden in the shady side of the castle garden, would read one or more of mother’s romances, stolen from the vast castle library. The Arthurian myths intrigued me most—the tragedy of Guinevere and Arthur, Lancelot the greatest Knight, Galahad who attained the Grail…then died. I scribbled my own stories and poems about these great personages and invented heroes of my own—a great warrior from Cornwall, named Sir Blandin, who slew giants by the score and killed all his foes single-handedly, yet was courteous and devoted to his ladylove, the Princess Briende.

  I was intrigued by England, that misty and fabled land lying just a short skip across the fierce waves of the Channel, and found especial interest in Cornwall, where King Arthur was rumoured to have been born on a rocky promontory called Tintagel. I began to fantasise about visiting England one day…but the only way I could do that would be to marry the English King!

  Due to my youth, I dared not even voice such a desire, not even to my dear, indulgent parents, but being a girl who listened to the talk of men at table, I was aware that King Henry of England was still unwed, despite being long past the usual age of marriage. He would need a wife and soon….

  How could I attract his attention? I was mad with frustration, thinking of Marguerite in her glorious court, feted and admired, while I cooled my heels at home, a captive child with no present prospects.

  It was Helewise, one of my nursemaids, who gave me an idea. She was reading my poetic efforts about my invented Cornish hero, scrawled on a scrap of pilfered parchment in my own childish hand. “Could this not be sent to England?” she said.

  “Don’t be silly, Helewise. A King would not read a Provencal maiden’s scribbling!” I said contemptuously.

  “Maybe not…but perhaps others might. Your poem—and marvellous it is, my lady—is about a Cornish hero….and the King’s brother Richard is a man very like this, a hero and a crusader. He just happens to live on the very rock where King Arthur was born. At Tintagel in Cornwall.”

  Lightness of being flooded me; my heart soared. Yes, yes, I knew this would be the way! Snatching the parchment from Helewise’s hands, I flew to seek my tutor, to beg him to intercede with my parents on my behalf. Please, please let them humour my girlish fancies, and send my humble poem to the great Lord Richard of Cornwall, the English King’s brother!

  The decision came swiftly, and it was the one I wanted.

  My poem about Cornwall went over the stormy sea.

  One day, some months later, I was called before my parents in the great hall. I could tell by their expressions that they were both excited and uneasy at the same time. A hard little bud of excitement began to bloom in my belly. I deduced immediately that they had summoned me for news about my future.

  “Eleanor,” said mother, “God has smiled on us yet again. An ambassador is coming to look for a suitable bride for his lord…”

  “Who is his lord, lady mother?” I asked. I prayed it would not be some dull old lord of little worth or power.

  “A King…Henry, King of England!” she replied.

  I could have danced on the spot, save that it would be unseemly. This was a high match indeed, even if not quite matching the glory of Marguerite’s. My poem must have been read, perhaps even finding its way into the hands of the King himself!

  “I should be most obliging towards this match, Madame!” I cried.

  “You are a good girl, Eleanor,” my mother said, reaching out to put a hand upon my head. “But you must contain yourself. Before anything is decided the English Ambassador must meet you, and decide if you are suitable as a bride for his King.”

  “Why would I not be suitable?” I cried with all the arrogance of a cosseted child. My cheeks were burning.

  My father Raymond stifled a laugh with his big, sword-calloused hand. “No reason at all, my beautiful one, but it is part of the formalities of the marriage game. Go now, and prepare yourself to meet the English King’s brother.”

  “His brother!” I gasped. The man to whom I had sent my fantastical poem! I had not expected that!

  “Aye, the very same. The Lord Richard was so charmed by your words he said he wanted to come and meet you himself.”

  Hastily, I was washed, scented and dressed by my tiring women. My chosen dress was a pale sky-blue gown with long, dagged sleeves shot through with green silk, while my hair was brushed down to my waist, where it
curled like tendrils of moving shadow. A silver circlet studded with tiny sapphires to match my eyes was placed reverently upon my brow.

  “You are so beautiful, lady!” Helewise said, breathlessly…and I knew I was. But would it be enough?

  There was no more time to worry. My tutor beckoned to me, guiding me to the great hall, where my parents had feasted Lord Richard of Cornwall, the English King’s brother.

  The great man was seated on a high chair of estate alongside father’s. My eyes raked over him, trying to get the measure of him. He was of middling height with broad shoulders and curling brown hair. Unlike many men of the court, he shaved his chin clean, which made him look quite young. I thought that if Henry looked like his brother I would be not be unhappy.

  “Our daughter, Eleanor,” smiled my mother, as I dropped the lowest curtsey I could muster.

  Richard of Cornwall stared, silent; I tried not to sweat, not even to breathe, fearing his disapproval. Then, suddenly, he smiled and I knew I had won.

  “Later,” he said, “I would like to speak with her ladyship, if it may be permitted.”

  In the cool of the early evening, we met in the castle gardens, with my chaperones gliding nonchalantly behind us, and the leaves rustling on the vines that climbed the walls and trellises. “I received your poem, Lady,” Richard said, walking slowly beside me, a golden goblet in his hand. I studied that hand; strong, manly, a ring winking on every finger. “An intriguing honour…but why?”

  “I long to see England, my lord Richard,” I said immediately. “I have read about it in the tales of King Arthur. It seems a land of kings and heroes.”

  He turned and gazed at me, his eyes appraising. His eyes were blue but not like mine; they were paler, with a grey hint, stormy. His brown hair, curling, was damp on his neck; he was obviously not used to the heat of Provence. His hand reached up, pushed the wet hair aside.

  I felt a rush of heat of my own that was not altogether seemly for a virtuous maiden, but in my tender years, I did not understand it. I knew I was blushing and hated that I was out of control in this manner.

  “There say you are named for the Lionheart,” I said, still seeking to flatter. “I would wager you are much like him.”

  Richard laughed; his pale eyes flashed in the dappled shadows. “He was my uncle….but I fear we are not much alike, at least in looks. The rest…I cannot say. Coeur de Lion was big and bluff, with tawny red-gold hair like a lion’s mane. I take my darker colouring from my mother, and my father, John…” He suddenly became solemn, seemed to be thinking of past memories, perhaps not altogether pleasant ones. Then he glanced at me and smiled again. “But luckily I am not as short or fat round the middle as my father was!”

  I laughed, my earlier embarrassment fading. “My aunt Gersende is fat. I pray I will not grow like her…I swear I will not, as such rondure might not please my future husband!”

  “And has anyone yet spoken for your hand, Lady Eleanor?” Richard gazed away from me, out into the garden. The hills were distant, in a blue heat haze paling to purple as twilight encroached; he seemed to be watching the little birds darting over the high walls to seek their nests in the castle rock.

  “No, my lord Richard,” I said. “Not yet. I…” I knew I was forward here, almost shamefully so, but the chaperones were just out of earshot. “I must have a hero, Lord Richard. Like those great lords who reside in England.”

  “Aye, little Lady Eleanor, I would agree with you there.” Richard of Cornwall said softly, a little smile playing on his mouth. “I think England is a place where you should come. I will see what I can do for you.”

  He rode away. From the topmost turret of the castle, I watched Richard of Cornwall’s party depart until they were no more than specks in the distance, lost in a cloud of dust. Fervently I prayed Richard would arrive safely in England and speak well of me to King Henry.

  I grew restive and fitful upon his departure. With keen ears, I listened in on snatches of conversation between my parents while in their chamber…It was audacious of me, but I was clever and curious. And naughty.

  “The Lord Richard seemed most taken with our daughter.” That was my father, Raymond.

  “Yes. I do hope it was the right thing to do.” Mother’s sigh was audible.

  “Henry is a King, a great King!”

  “Yes…but England is far from Provence, and I do not know the English king’s character. Remember his father, John? An evil man. He brought Interdict to his country; he hung boys from the walls of his castles and starved prisoners of war instead of ransoming them. He murdered his nephew, Arthur of Brittany. He was full of lust, stealing a twelve year old girl from her rightful betrothed and casting off his first wife to marry her…”

  “The girl—Isabella of Angouleme—did not seem to mind overmuch,” said Raymond dryly. “She seemed to match King John in every way. ‘Tis said they would romp neath the sheets till nigh on noon when the King should have been up attending to business! She also diddled her own daughter out of a husband; while as a dowager she sought a match for her child, but decided she fancied the prospective bridegroom and married him herself! As if that was not bad enough…he was the son of her original betrothed! It was virtually incest!”

  “Raymond!” My mother’s voice was shocked.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Beatrice! I speak nothing but truth!”

  “Then I do not want my Eleanor marrying their son, king or no. I have heard Henry is not so fair of face anyway; he has a squint, his eyelid droops.”

  Father laughed. “A man is not his parents, my love, and as far as I have heard, he seems untainted by his parents’ malice. As for the squint…well, he is not some court fop, some troubadour. He is a king. It does not matter.”

  “If you are happy with such a match, then I, too, will be happy.” Mother’s voice was resigned. “By your leave, lord husband, I will have my brothers William and Amadeus go to England and speak on Eleanor’s behalf. They are shrewd negotiators and William has done much for Marguerite. The seneschal Romeo can go, too; he is also skilled in negotiation, especially where dowries are concerned.”

  I pressed my ear closer against the door, hoped my nursemaids would not catch me. I was not impressed by the sound of Henry’s rumoured squint but Richard, his brother, had been more than comely enough. As for the infamous John and his wife…ha, they were people from a time past. King John was long dead, having gorged on unfit peaches, and Queen Isabella had departed England for the lands of Hugh de Lusignan, the young man she had pinched from under her daughter’s nose.

  Henry would be different from his troublesome parents. If he turned out to be boorish, I would surely be able to influence him and make him different…

  That is, if he wanted me.

  Time marched on. I began to fret and then to despair.

  Maybe I had been wrong about the way the king’s brother viewed me.

  Maybe Richard had really thought me forward, unseemly for a girl my age.

  Maybe the English had different standards of beauty and he found me ugly but was, of course, too polite to say so.

  Maybe…maybe…maybe….

  Then, one morning, a party of ambassadors arrived from Henry of England, riding up across the drawbridge through the morning mists, their banners slapping against the azure heaven…though, sadly, Earl Richard had not come in person this time. Richard le Gras and John of Gatesden had come instead.

  But it seemed the Earl had spoken kindly of me to his elder brother…Henry wanted me. He wanted me!

  Unfortunately, he had also wanted a certain girl called Joan of Ponthieu, and pledged himself to her by the verba de presenti. This pledge, made by a man and women of free consent and legal age, was binding and must end in marriage unless some impediment was discovered that would make such a union void. In Henry and Joan’s case, they were in fact related within the prohibited degrees…but the Pope had been asked to grant a dispensation.

  My heart sank at this news. What game wa
s the English King playing?

  Henry’s envoy, John of Gatesden, smiled and tried to comfort me; my expression must have been doleful indeed. “Do not fear, Lady Eleanor,” he whispered conspiratorially. “King Henry no longer wishes to wed Joan. He has ordered his servants in Rome not to proceed with acquiring the dispensations from the Holy Father.”

  I clapped my hands, then blushed; I was lacking decorum. I curtseyed to the envoys and fled to my chambers. Oh, how I wished to know that John of Gatesden’s words were indeed true and King Henry no longer wanted to wed my rival Joan!

  It turned out it was true, although some doctors of religion still grumbled about the possibility that any other marriage for the English king would be of dubious legality. I was less worried than they. Without the dispensations from the Pope, the actual marriage was unlikely to go ahead, and since Henry had ordered his servants to stop seeking them, he obviously no longer desired the match. Even if some claimed Joan was Henry’s true wife because of the verbal agreement to wed, the marriage could be easily annulled due to non-consummation.

  I suspected it would never get as far as that.

  I was just thrilled that Henry was more interested in me than Lady Joan, who was a rich heiress and had much more money.

  But I still had to wait for an outcome…and I was bad at waiting.

  An offer came in October of that year, when the nights were cooling and the leaves withering on the bough, and the Provencal sky filled with cold white stars like the glittering snow on the heads of the distant Alps.