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

by J. P. Reedman

  But the son! Hopefully not as cruel as his sire, but just as forceful in getting his own way, it seemed. He had been most strenuous in asserting his right to be Henry’s steward on the occasion of my Coronation. Earl Roger Bigod, who deemed it was his right, had protested with vehemence, his face blood-red and angry, his voice raised in a harsh shout, almost ruining the occasion with his inappropriate rage.

  Simon, who had pretensions to the earldom of Leicester, quickly out-talked his rival, his forthright coolness making Bigod look a loud-mouthed lout, and he was duly granted the position he sought. He would be King Henry’s steward, Bigod be damned.

  I gazed at de Montfort from the raised throne beside my husband, as the Earl held out a golden bowl that the King might lave his hands; a tall, well-made man with sharp cut features and a mass of wild dark hair. There was a dangerous look about him, an unpredictability. A strange, cold sensation chilled me to the heart; at the same time, intrigue took hold. I did not know how I truly felt about this man. Apprehensive, certainly, and suddenly I wished that Roger Bigod, for all his unseemly yelling, had been granted the position instead of Simon de Montfort.

  But I dared not saying anything to Henry, at least not here. My position was too new and women did not interfere in politics, not openly and not when they were young, foreign girls, queens or no.

  When I retired, alone, to my apartments, leaving the King still celebrating with his companions, in my mind’s eye I could see De Montfort standing slightly apart from the others, hands on hips, thumbs hooked in his ornamented belt, looking as imperious as a king himself. Pleased with himself, that he had won the honour of stewardship over Earl Bigod.

  Chapter Two

  Months passed as months do, and I became accustomed to England…though not to its winter climes! That first year it rained incessantly, turning all the fields to mud and making roads impassable; old men, superstitious, spoke of God’s anger. I prayed and lit candles for better weather; I did not want anyone to connect an angry Almighty with the arrival of their new Queen.

  Henry doted on me and made sure I had anything I desired: silks, brocade, miniver, samite, necklaces, rings. My Uncle William was still in England, and I begged the King that other members of my retinue should stay as well.

  Henry had sighed, knotting his lean hands with their sprinkling of rings. “I do not know, Eleanor. The people would probably be happier if your court was not full of foreigners. They might think you spurned them, did not love them.”

  “It is not true though, husband!” I insisted. “It is only that I wish to have some family and old time companions near me. They are good, hard-working people who will bring no shame! And most of all, they are dear to me!”

  Henry sighed again and took my hand. He raised it to his lips, kissed every finger, then worked his mouth down to the pulse in my wrist—above the silver and gold bracelets he had just presented me. “When have I ever denied you, my Eleanor? They may stay.”

  We moved from London to the mighty royal castle at Windsor, with its grey drum tower soaring to the sky. I was quite glad to move from London, for at Windsor we could hunt and ride in the spacious park beyond the adamant walls. The air was sweeter than in London, and the river far quieter, with the only boats that passed by there on the King’s business.

  Henry seemed quite excited when we reached the castle. “I have something to show you,” he said.

  Leading me to the Queen’s apartments, he brought me into the bedchamber. On the wall above the canopied bed, was a wide window that allowed in copious daylight. The window itself was wrought of painted glass that had been crafted by great artisans—it showed the Tree of Jesse, with a white-bearded, patriarchal Jesse lying sprawled upon the twisted roots and forty-three generations sprouting from him, including those of the wise Kings David and Solomon. At the very top, the Blessed Virgin holding the infant Christ gazed down benignly amidst a spray of golden rays.

  I blushed. It was clear that the reference of the Jesse Window was to the continuation of the royal family tree. I had not fallen pregnant yet and I knew Henry was eager for an heir. My personal doctor, Nicholas Farnham, had been summoned, and he said with great reassurance that there was no need to worry, that my lack of fertility was due to my youth, and it was probably better if a few years passed before I conceived. There was no need to call for relics to bring a child just yet.

  Henry gave me other gifts instead of a babe, a garland dotted with pearls in silver, an enamelled goblet, gowns trimmed with gold wire, chemises, veils and a horde of shoes—both dainty slippers and stouter goatskin boots to battle the English weather. He told me he wanted to make sure I felt desired and had all the accoutrements of queenship, so that men would marvel at my appearance. We travelled together frequently, and side by side gave offerings at the shrine of Edward the Confessor, which had a special meaning for my husband. The Confessor was by far his favourite King of yore. Henry had proposed that the Confessor be made a saint, for miracles had occurred near his tomb, and at the same time, the great abbey of Westminster be remodelled and beautified, with space made for Henry’s future tomb and the tombs of all his heirs (and mine) down the long ages.

  Dr Farnham, who was a theologian as well as a doctor, taught me all about Edward the Confessor and I came to share Henry’s devotion. I was sure the shrine my husband intended to build to his eternal glory would gather pilgrims from near and far.

  At Westminster Palace, once we were back in residence after our sojourn at Windsor, Henry ordered many of the walls decorated with scenes from the life of the Confessor. My own rooms, however, were much more secular, complete with a ghostly white figure that represented wintertime painted above the carven fireplace. As with so many of my husband’s decorative arts, there was symbolism here: cold winter would never be allowed to flourish in our warm, happy home. It was also a nod to his realisation that I found the English winter harsh after the milder climes of Provence.

  A little chill did strike my heart, however, when Uncle William suddenly decided to leave England. A wise man, he had been a high-ranking counsellor to the King and seemed to be making his fortune. “Why must you go, Uncle?” I asked plaintively, calling him to me. “Are you not happy here? Surely Henry has treated you well?”

  “Very well, your Grace…my little Eleanor,” he said with a sad smile, “but guilt grows within me. I have left my own lands and house unattended for too long. And the Pope has spoken of new offices for me—offices too great to turn down. Do not be afraid, your other Uncle Thomas of Savoy is eager to see England, and make sure you want for naught.”

  “Yes, that may be so,” I sighed, “but you, Uncle William, are my favourite.”

  He kissed me then, as if I was just a little girl and not a great Queen, and then he took horse to Dover. Sadly, I was never to see him again; he died not so long after his departure from England, without ever receiving those precious offices from the Pope.

  I tried to immerse myself in court life in the months that followed. I found it a hot bed of rumour and sometimes full of sinfulness that shocked me; men entangled with women not their wives, and sometimes men entangled with other men. My father’s household had been so quiet, so moral in comparison.

  One day, Henry flew into my Westminster chamber stuttering in rage, his face crimson and his eyes wild, almost starting from his head. Grabbing a crystal vial from the table, he hurled it across the room. It shattered on the wall, sending glittering shards flying across the newly-swept flagstones. My ladies, settled at their embroidery, stifled little shrieks with their hands and dropped their needles.

  Henry glared at them, his visage now nigh on purple, and made an angry gesture with his hand, waving them out of the room. Throwing down their work, they clutched up their long skirts and fled, tripping in their haste. The door slammed behind them.

  I stood alone, pale-cheeked, not sure how to comfort my husband, for I was not certain what ailed him. I had heard tales of how his sire had rolled on the floors and bitten
the rushes when in a fit of rage, and I had no guarantee Henry would not do the same—although he had been of mild temper throughout most of our marriage so far.

  “I cannot believe it, Eleanor!” he cried at last, regaining some semblance of composure. “The court is wild and full of defiance and contempt for their King. They insult me …Insult me, I tell you!”

  “What has happened, your Grace, my dearest Henry?” I guided him to a stool, hoped he would be comfortable. “Who has upset you so?”

  “Lots of people. Simon de Montfort, for one.”

  I nodded, shivering for reasons unknown as I recalled that tall, stern-face warrior and his hard bargaining to be steward at my Coronation feast.

  “And my sister. My sister, who bears your sweet name, Eleanor, but who I wish had even half your goodness!”

  “Eleanor! Did you not give permission for her to marry Earl Simon?”

  “I did, but what a fool I was! Eleanor had sworn an oath of chastity after the death of her first husband, William Marshal…and she swore it before Archbishop Edmund Rich himself. I tried to appease my sister, get her out of a foolish vow she took in the throes of grief, and now I am being harried.”

  “Harried? By whom?”

  “By Richard, my damn brother Richard!” He thumped his fist on the table, making the glass fruit bowl up-end. Apples rolled over the oak wood, fell bouncing to the flagstones. “And the other lords are fully behind him, bemoaning the fact that de Montfort is lowly in status compared to Eleanor and bewailing that I allowed them to wed in secrecy within my own private chapel.”

  “Maybe that was not wise, Henry,” I said softly.

  “You dare to criticise me too?” Henry yelled and he swung towards me, his usually mild, almost sleepy eyes black with rage. I stepped back, a little afraid, for the first time ever…

  Heart racing, I thought, this is how his ill-named father John must have looked.

  Almost immediately, he quietened, gaining control of his own wild emotions. “Richard is in rebellion!” he said. “I cannot believe it…my own brother. And men flock to him.”

  I thought of Richard of Cornwall, who had come to Provence to meet me. For whom I had written a poem about the English. Aye, I could see why men might follow him. He was a prince of the blood and had been a crusader; he also had a healthy baby son. Henry had never fought a battle, and as yet we had no children…

  “What are we to do? What do you counsel?”

  “The Tower is safest. Strongest. We will fare there as swift as we may and barricade ourselves inside. With enough food supplies, we can hold out for years!”

  Nausea gripped me; my head felt like it might burst The idea of being shut up for untold months within the Tower of London, even with my beauteous rose-painted chambers, did not appeal in the least. It would feel like a prison….

  “Surely, surely, some arrangement can be made and Richard and his allies pacified,” I murmured weakly.

  “I do not know! Start packing your things, Eleanor, without delay…We go to the Tower of London!”

  Feeling ill to my stomach, I lay in my bed in my rose-painted chamber in the Tower. Would Richard try to usurp Henry’s crown? Such things were well known amongst kings and their jealous brothers. What did he really want, if not that? Just to tear Simon de Montfort and Eleanor Marshal’s unseemly marriage apart? As angered as Richard might be by the actions of his sister, and by Henry abetting her wishes, sure rebellion was not the answer?

  I stared out the small window above me, a chink in the adamant wall; the sky brooded beyond. It was going to rain again; maybe there was even a storm coming. I felt like crying, and suddenly felt very young and alone too.

  Everything was so cramped, with all of Henry’s faithful piled inside Gundulf’s Tower, and I had heard ugly, ugly whispers that had not been meant for my ears but reached them nonetheless. Nasty, malicious whispers on the stairs, in dark corners. They were calling Henry a bad King, weak-willed and weak-minded; they seemed to favour Richard as their new ruler. And me…they were whispering that I was haughty, and that I was barren. Barren! As if I were an old, dried up woman.

  My tears began to fall; my ladies glanced in my direction but only faithful old Willelma dared to move, handing me a pretty kerchief broidered with daisies…marguerites. They reminded me of my sister, Marguerite, and I began to cry harder. Oh, if only I could see her…if only I would get with child. But the doctor just reaffirmed I must be patient, that it would take time, and I must eat more (and not worry about becoming as fat as Aunt Gersende with her triple chins and mighty bosom.)

  Suddenly there was a flutter of activity in the corridor outside my bedchamber, the sound of footfall on bare stone. The door banged open and the King flew in, and by his wide grin, I knew that the news was good, for once.

  Sitting up on my bed, I hastily wiped my tears and tried to affect a regal expression.

  “Excellent tidings, my dearest Eleanor!” Henry clasped my hands. “We have no more to fear.”

  “What has happened to Richard?” I said warily, surprised that this revolt had ended so swiftly. There had been no attack on London, or the Tower…just rumours and more rumours, and the oppressive, endless waiting. “Is he captured? Imprisoned?” As much as I had enjoyed Richard of Cornwall’s company once, he must not be allowed to assert himself in a way he was not entitled to.

  “Of course not!” Henry spoke to me as if I had just uttered the most foolish words ever. “He is content now, and will not bother us.”

  “Content? How…after he stirred up all the magnates of this land? How can he be content?”

  Henry glanced away from me but his voice remained cheerful. “He was happy enough when I paid him. He didn’t care much about our sister’s honour when coin was placed in his hand!”

  “You paid him!” Words broke from my lips unbidden; suddenly I flushed red. I knew I had overstepped the mark. Overstepped it by rather a lot.

  Henry’s lips narrowed to thin white lines. “Yes, I did, my Lady, paid him to leave us be and go abroad on some crusade or other. I presume you will not argue with me—you, who are scarcely more than a child? You are my wife and must remember your place, Eleanor. I don’t want a nagging shrew of a woman. Remember that all you have is through me.”

  He whirled on his heel and stormed out of the Queen’s apartments, slamming the door behind him with a resounding crash that echoed through all the corridors in the Tower. I returned to my weeping again, feeling more wretched than ever. The problems with Richard of Cornwall were over for the moment, but his disloyalty had now caused a rift between Henry and me. The King would not be coming to my bed tonight, that much I guessed.

  I would never get with child at this rate. Never. And without a babe, my position would be very precarious. Once again, I recalled Henry’s father, King John, who had cast aside his first wife, his cousin Hadwisa of Gloucester, to marry Isabella de Angouleme, citing both consanguinity and her barrenness to be rid of her.

  Henry was not an angry man in the manner of his father; he was forgiving, hated strife, and soon he sent me gifts as a form of peace-making. We spoke no more of our quarrel and with Richard out of England on some kind of exploit, life seemed much more peaceful and serene.

  As late summer engulfed London, drying up the great Thames, and casting heat shimmers over the towers and rooftops, Henry decided we could leave the Tower and move to Woodstock in Oxfordshire. “The heat here in London is too overwhelming!” he stated. “I fear there might be plague, and the humours from the river cannot be good for your health. The palace at Woodstock will be much more comfortable, and I can enjoy myself hunting while we are in residence.”

  I was glad to get out of London. Although the daily heat did not bother me, the stench of the Thames and the ordure-filled streets offended my nostrils and burned my eyes. I desired to see some green countryside, maybe even to do some riding. It would take my mind off the hard fact that my belly was still flat and that people talked. It did not help that
my sister Marguerite was known to have no children either; cruel tongues wagged, saying that we both were barren (although others whispered that Queen Blanche kept Louis from Marguerite’s bed deliberately since she hated any other woman near her son.)

  As our entourage approached Woodstock, I felt my heart lift and soar. Trees swayed in the wind and the forest of Wychwood was a green, inviting blur beyond the palace precincts. A stout wall built by Henry I surrounded Woodstock, separating house and park, and above its broad top thrust pointed turrets and spires with banners flapping.

  Passing through the main gate, where locals had gathered to cheer us, we were suddenly accosted by a sinister figure in a ragged robe. The robe was a priest’s cassock but the man looked most unholy, with a begrimed face and wild, staring eyes. I could smell the foul sweaty stink of him even from the back of my palfrey, which rolled its eyes in fear and fought against the bit.

  The strange man flung himself on the path before Henry, waving his arms in wild abandon. “You are not fit to be King!” he roared, pointing. “You, the weak son of Lackland and his pilfered bride! Give up your throne to one more fitting! I would be a better king than you. Cede your pretty gilt throne to me!” He clutched his middle, laughing in a maniacal fashion, as spittle flew from his lips.

  Henry’s soldiers rushed forward, pikes at the ready. “My lord!” cried one of the entourage, his face flushed with fury at this unexpected intrusion. “Shall we give this miscreant a good beating?”

  Henry was surprisingly unaffected by the disrespectful tirade. “The man is clearly mad, that is apparent to all. He spouts the foolish words of the insane, words that are foul but also nonsensical. Move him on; have him set upon the road leading from Woodstock. I do not wish any more hardship on one who is already afflicted in mind. God has already given this madman a burden; I will not add to it as long as he leaves in peace.”