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

by J. P. Reedman

  Two more men arrived from the court of Henry Plantagenet; their names were Robert de Mucegros and John Fitz Phillip. Henry would wed me, they said…but there was the matter of my marriage portion to be decided.

  Seated on his chair of estate, my father Raymond looked a little green in the face at the mention of the portion; my mother Beatrice’s visage was impassive as a stone. As ever, we had no real money, we had barely enough to pay our servants and keep the borders of Provence safe. If the King was insistent on a huge sum, our plans were doomed.

  Six letters were produced by John Fitz Phillip and handed over to father with much aplomb. In each was written a different sum of money, the highest far beyond our means, the lowest much more modest and reasonable, though it still would mean scraping and scrimping and less food on the banqueting table at Christmas.

  Raymond jumped at the lower sum immediately. “This…this is good…this is more than acceptable. It shall be done.”

  Fitz Phillip smirked as the necessary parchments were signed and sealed with wax. “Our Lord the dread King Henry is so entranced by the rumours of his beautiful bride, he told us this before we rode hence…’If the Count Raymond Berengar is destitute, it matters not. Even should there be no marriage portion at all, Eleanor of Provence must come to England.’ King Henry will have his wife, even if she comes with naught but the clothes on her back.”

  Within a few weeks, I had been sent to Tarascon and made my vows to Henry using the verba de presenti. Henry’s ambassador, Robert de Mucegros, stood in for my future husband. De Mucegros was obese and red-faced, and had his hair cut into a bowl-shape; I strove not to giggle as he solemnly spoke the King’s pledge of marriage to me. He looked so silly, with a button on his bright crimson tunic about ready to pop open. My real husband would not be so gauche, I was sure.

  Then my goods were neatly packed up, and my dresses, my jewels, my beloved books (my mother had granted me several of her tomes to begin my own library in England) set upon carts. I took to my caparisoned palfrey, with a grand retinue around me, filled with servants and soldiers.

  Solemnly, my parents, who had come as far as Tarascon, came to bid me adieu. “Be a wise girl, Eleanor!” said Beatrice. “You can make him love you, value you. Do not forget that. Make us proud of you.”

  “I will. I will be a perfect helpmeet and give King Henry healthy sons who will be the glory of England,” I retorted, and then the trumpets were blown and the banner of Provence unfurled, and I rode away from all I had ever known, out into a grey November day with the winds skirling cold from the distant mountains.

  I journeyed to Vienne, standing by the sluggish deep waters of the mighty Rhone, and there I met with my Uncle William, my mother’s brother, who was dean of Vienne’s cathedral of St Maurice.

  He kissed me warmly, welcomed me to his home alongside the church. “It is so good to see you, niece. Your mother sent a message to tell me of your forthcoming nuptials. She has also asked me to accompany you on your long journey to England’s shores, and I am most honoured to do so. But for now, rest here, in Vienne, while the final preparations for the marriage are made ready.”

  On December 15, not so long before the blessed nativity of our Lord, the marriage contract between Henry and me was ratified in Vienne cathedral, before the high altar. There was no going back now. Beyond the shadow of a doubt, I would be England’s new Queen, bringing hope to a country who’s King had been a bachelor much too long already.

  Once this formality was over, my retinue set out on the road once more—now containing Uncle William’s men, the numbers had swelled to over three hundred riders. William rode proudly next to me in his long churchman’s robes and we began the long trek through Champagne and then through France, where Louis and my sister Marguerite sent greeting by swift courier and assured us of safe-passage in their territories.

  Finally, the entourage reached Calais. The wind was up and clouds scudding across the grey dome of the sky. The sea was rippled and the gulls screaming and diving about fishing boats in the harbour and about the masts of the tall ships we would take. Squinting, I could just about make out the distant bulk of England far out across the frothing waves—or at least I thought I did.

  I had never ridden in a boat before and was beginning to feel a little nervous although I tried to hide it when I saw ships rock and riggings vibrate as the wind and waves buffeted them. “Uncle…” I tugged on William’s sleeve, “you know far more of the world than I. It is December and great gales can come up all of a sudden and founder ships. The wind is strong now…Are we safe to travel?”

  He smiled down at me, calm, reassuring. “The Channel is always a rough crossing, my dear. Do not be afraid. This is calmer than usual, can you believe! In fact, it is so calm, I would say God has smiled down and decided to make smooth passage for Eleanor to join her husband, King Henry.”

  I knew he was merely trying to soothe me, but his intentions were good. Head held high, to the accompaniment of the cheers of the locals, I boarded the ship with my ladies gathered around me.

  In the early evening, we set sail for England. Surrounded by my women, I stood on deck, watching the shores of France drop away into the gloom. Above, the clouds parted; a star shone out. My favourite lady in waiting, Willelma d’Attalens, chosen by my mother from amongst all the noblewomen of Savoy, pointed to it. “An omen, your Grace,” she said. “A good omen. Your star is ascendant, Eleanor!”

  In the red dawn, we sailed into the harbour at Dover. Wrapped in a thick cloak lined with miniver, I gazed out at the white cliffs, now tinted a shade of pale red. Before them the waters had gone still, the winds dying, although I noted the air was much colder than I was used to. Above on the cliff, the adamant walls of Dover castle rose to touch the faded sky. I could see archers marching back and forth upon them and torches burning on poles, their greasy smoke trailing off into the lightening sky.

  A welcoming party was waiting on the dock, great lords surrounded by servants bearing more torches.

  Waiting for me, their new mistress, and their Queen.

  Disembarking, I walked along the bird-haunted quay, wearing my voluminous golden wedding gown, my ladies holding my train out of rain-puddles and a tangle of salt-rimed nets. Then I was placed into a chariot painted with heraldic designs and draped with cloth of gold; the arms of England gleamed on the side. Surrounded by my entourage, and by dozens of my husband’s men in full armour, we rode on toward Canterbury where the King was waiting for me.

  The city, one of England’s greatest, was large and sprawling, surrounded by walls with ‘bars’—gateways—set at strategic locations. A grey, squat castle stood forlornly on a low motte, but it looked rather old-fashioned and neglected; Uncle William informed me that it had fallen out of favour when the old King Henry, my Henry’s grandfather, built the stern keep at Dover. Beyond its sullen walls, the airy spires of the famous cathedral speared the air, glowing gold against a clear winter sky.

  Excitement gripped me. I would soon meet my groom.

  The cobbled streets all around were filled with onlookers and well-wishers, waving flags and holding up their children to see. Horns blared, music played, and there was dancing and celebration.

  Proudly I gazed from the chariot, waving to the gathered throng every now and then when I remembered. Stone and timbered houses rose up and rolled by, followed by an ancient hospital, where the poor clustered, and the houses of the Franciscans and Dominicans thronging with curious monks.

  Entering the cathedral close, the entourage halted abruptly. Gazing out of the window of the chariot, I found myself viewing a large stone building adjacent to the cathedral precinct.

  “The Bishop’s Palace.” Uncle William trotted up on his horse to inform me of our location. “The King will be awaiting you there, little Eleanor.”

  I was handed down from the chariot, and with some trepidation approached the palace doors. Men were bowing, the doors were opening. Winter sunlight glinted on pikes and armour. My heart
was thudding now, despite all my attempts at decorum.

  What if he found me somehow unacceptable? Rejected me?

  Or, just as important, what if I found him utterly odious? Repudiation by the King would bring me eternal shame, but revulsion on my part would ensure that the rest of my life was an endless, lonely misery…

  I was ushered by a welcome party of English lords into the Palace’s Great Hall, one of the largest I had ever seen, its roof hung with heraldic shields and its mighty windows filled with expensive stained glass. I blinked against the blue smoke of the central fires and tried to focus at the man seated at the far end, in an ornate chair upon a dais.

  It was he! It was my husband, surrounded by all his magnates and by men of the cloth.

  As I approached, trying to look eager but not too eager, gracious but not pretentious, Henry leapt up and rushed towards me in a way that filled me with alarm, for it was most unexpected and not altogether mannerly.

  Without any niceties or introductions, he flung his arms around me and embraced me, hugging me to him while I flopped weakly like a fish, trying to gain my equilibrium.

  “Ah!” he cried. “My little bride. At last! Greatly pleased am I to see such a paragon of virtue, an angel possessed of unparalleled beauty. Now I have seen her, I do most gladly accept her. Yes, happily I accept Eleanor of Provence as my wife!”

  I should have been glad but my cheeks flamed, and I scarcely dared to breathe. I did not know how to respond to such unexpected ardour—and men claimed the English were cold!

  Henry must have realised that his fervour embarrassed me in that high company, for suddenly he dropped his arms and stepped back a pace.

  Now I had time—and space—to view my new husband. He was quite old, in his late twenties, but I had known that all along. He was of middling height and neither large nor small in build, with a neatly cut beard that held a reddish hue. His eyes were pale blue, different to his brother’s, and to me they seemed kindly enough. His face was not of great beauty, nor was it unpleasant…save for one eyelid. It drooped a little, giving him a weary look on that side. He was not as attractive as I’d found his brother Richard…but he was King. And my husband.

  “Did you have a gentle journey, my dearest?” he asked in a breathless rush. “I am so glad you have arrived unharmed, Eleanor! Ah, I am the happiest man in England on the well-starred day!”

  I curtseyed, hopefully with grace and poise. “Your Grace, I am just as happy to meet my esteemed husband.”

  “Then let us be properly married at once!” Henry clapped his hands, delighted as a child. “We shall be wed before the church doors and nuptial mass said!”

  I was a wife. After Mass, we returned to the Bishop’s Palace with the Archbishop Edmund to spend the night in a great chamber with a huge bed topped by a silk canopy designed to keep bugs from dropping onto the clean linen sheets. The Archbishop wandered in, swinging a censer, and sprinkled Holy Water upon the bed, speaking words to bless our union and make it fruitful.

  Then we were alone. My mother had spoken to me of what was expected. She was an educated and intelligent woman, and did not fill me with fearful tales such as I heard amongst the maids in my parents’ castle. Whatever came, it was my duty to endure.

  And I liked Henry and wanted to please him.

  It was funny to see his face when at last his raucous companions were driven from the room and we were left alone together, the fire burning redly on the hearth, casting a sensuous glow over the tapestries, the cold stone ceiling. Outside the wintry winds were beating the stout shutters, but I felt quite warm and safe.

  “Eleanor, I do not want to frighten you…you are very young yet,” he said uneasily as his two remaining squires unfastened his fine robes and then discreetly left the chamber. Their footsteps clattered away, down the corridor, into the distance.

  “Why should I be afraid of my husband, my lord King?” I said bravely, lying naked under the fine quilt, my skin sweetened by fresh rose water. There were doves broidered upon the quilt, pecked out in silver thread; I tried to concentrate on them rather than look at Henry. I heeded my mother’s wise words and knew my duty, but I was a little afraid nonetheless. Just a little. I had of course never seen a man unclothed before.

  “I promise you, my precious little one, you have nothing to fear,” he said, and then he blew out the thick taper beside the bedside and pulled the coverlet away.

  We were in London, great bustling London, where great wealth rubbed shoulders with great poverty. A huge wide river ran through the city, coiling like a spitted eel; upon the muddy banks loomed beer houses, docks, while many ships sailed back and forth on the endless swell. Bells were tolling from the religious houses and local churches, sending birds flying up from the river in fright, their wings white and flashing against the slate hued January sky.

  We stayed for a few nights in the stronghold of the Tower of London, as was customary; never before had I beheld such a stern fortress, its keep rising to touch the clouds, the gates frowning and its moats impassable…but I was treated like the Queen I was by the household, and then moved on to Westminster for my Coronation.

  It was January 20th. The grey skies parted and the sun shone with weak but welcome yellow light. Together Henry and I walked from the palace toward the great Abbey, its pale towers made radiant by the burgeoning sunshine.

  A blue ream of cloth was laid down, stretching out beneath our feet like an azure road towards the Abbey doors. Henry walked before me, accompanied by the chancellor, the treasurer with the paten, and three earls who bore aloft the mighty swords of state. A purple silk canopy borne aloft on silver lances shaded Henry, and he wore his full Coronation robes.

  Behind him, I walked in slow cadence, holding my head high with pride. A silver canopy trimmed with tinkling silver bells also stretched over me, and bishops and other churchmen processed at my side. My hair flowed free to my waist from beneath a glimmering golden circlet, a dark river lifted by the breeze. I could hear the onlookers whispering, declaring that England had never had such a beautiful young queen.

  The open doors of the abbey, gaping like an entrance into heaven itself, parted as we approached. On the front of the church, I could see carvings of angels and saints soaring to heaven. The smell of incense wafted out of the shadowy interior, its cloying perfume rising around me as the coronation procession wound its way into the abbey.

  We halted almost at once amid the coiled candle smoke and sweet, rising fragrance. Edmund of Abingdon, Archbishop of Canterbury moved forward, his robes floating about his thin frame, his mitre tall as a tower, and his high, clear voice rolling out the words of the first prayer. Once the prayer was done, the entourage moved forward again, through the endless cavern of the nave, up to the holy of holies at the high altar.

  The members of my party, including the King, drew aside. The huge hall of God was hushed, expectant. Now I was truly on my own, a young girl and yet a Queen. On that day, I must acquit myself well in my husband’s eyes and in the eyes of his people.

  As gracefully and reverently as I could, I walked up to the altar, my shoes making tiny clicking noises upon the tiles. I then lay down upon the ground, humble in the sight of God. The archbishop of Canterbury towered over me, arms outstretched, silk vestments falling in a pale waterfall, while he chanted another prayer over my inert form.

  Once the final words of the prayer had faded away, I assumed a kneeling position, still bowing my head in reverence. The golden band was carefully removed from my hair, and the Archbishop anointed me with the sacred oil. I could feel its warm smoothness on my skin, could feel its holy powers seeping into me, imbuing me with my rightful Queenship, a kind of holiness in itself. I was no longer just a girl, just Eleanor of Provence. I was an anointed Queen, made sacred in God’s eyes.

  The Archbishop was now blessing the ring I would wear, symbolic of my marriage to the King and to my people and to God. He slipped it onto my finger; as small as I was, it fit perfectly, as if I had a
lways been destined to wear it. Then a shadow darkened my head, cut off the light from the painted glass windows high above. Flicking my gaze slightly upwards, I saw the crown, the Queen’s crown, heavy with jewels, decorated with lilies.

  Down it came, as if descending from heaven, settling upon my brow, fitting snugly, though with a certain weightiness that made me sway on my knees a moment, for I was only slight and small. A crown heavy with responsibility. Fervently I prayed I would live up to that high responsibility.

  I got up and turned toward the gathered congregation, and bursting forth came the singing of the monks, rising through the roof-arches, reaching to heaven—Christus Vincit, Christus Regnat, Christus imperat!

  With my sceptre now placed in my hand, I returned to the door of Westminster Abbey, a Queen.

  I remembered only a little of the banquet that followed at Westminster Hall. I was too filled by joy and wonder to take in much more than a swirl or colour, a blare of noise, a hubbub of happy voices. There were musicians and entertainers, dancers and stilt walkers. There was a rude jester in parti-coloured hat. The food was sumptuous, eels in cream and bream in foil, a swan and a peacock still bearing their feathers, and a huge bloated porpoise lying on an engraved silver dish. Jellies wobbled before me, coloured vividly with sandalwood and saffron. A subtlety crafted into a castle portcullis glittered on the table before the high seat, near a saltcellar fashioned into a sailing ship.

  That all became a blur as the night progressed and the torches were lit along the walls and the courtly dances began.

  What I remembered most, though, were the actions of one man, Simon de Montfort, a Frenchman who had long dwelt in England. His father, another Simon, was infamous for his persecution of the Cathars; he had burned villagers alive and gouged out heretics’ eyes. In the end, he had died when hit by shot from a mangonel, fired, as it happened, by vengeful girls and women on the walls of the town he was besieging. Although heretics were certainly not to be encouraged, Simon had taken his crusade against the Cathars to cruel extremes, and I thought God had spoken in his embarrassing demise.