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

by J. P. Reedman

  My heart hammered against my ribs, then sank; I had rarely seen Henry so enraged and de Montfort always filled me with unease.

  “You!” Henry shouted at the nobleman. “You dare to show your face here…you, and my whorish sister!”

  Eleanor de Montfort, Simon’s wife and Henry’s sister, made a low curtsey and then tried to assuage her brother. “Your Grace, why are you so wroth? We come in love for you and the Queen. I believed any misdoings on our part had long been forgiven by my beloved brother, our dread King.”

  He glared at her, looking as if he might explode, his fists curling dangerously. “You presume, Madame. I do not know if I can ever truly forgive your unseemly and shameful behaviour in marrying this odious man!”

  De Montfort’s face was stunned, colour burning on his cheekbones. He could say nothing to defend himself, dared not. “You…your Grace!” he managed to stammer. “I do not understand. You allowed us to use your chapel, you made me steward, you made me the Prince’s godfather …”

  “You are a miscreant!” Henry roared at him. “Not content with seducing my sister, you are a debtor too. Yes, I know about your debt, de Montfort! A huge debt that you owe. But what care have I about your finances, you might ask?” He was almost screaming in Simon’s face now, spittle flying from his lips. “Well, I will tell everyone in Westminster Palace, shall I?” You used my name as surety against that debt, you wily knave. My name! How dare you, you presumptuous bastard!”

  De Montfort began to stammer out an excuse, while his wife Eleanor gasped in horror, staring wildly between her brother the King and her red-faced husband. Henry raised a hand as if to strike Simon; horrified, the Archbishop, reached up and grabbed the King’s sleeve, a dangerous motion even for a man of such high standing. “Your Grace, you must not do this violent act! Not on the day of the Queen’s purification!”

  “I will do as I must!” yelled Henry. “Get you gone from my sight, de Montfort, and you my sister too—you fickle wanton carved in the image of our inconstant mother! Stay here at your peril.”

  De Montfort began to look as angry as the King, his eyes crackling fire and his nostrils flaring like those of a maddened bull; his wife Eleanor clung desperately to his tunic, dragging him out of Henry’s presence and toward the hall door. “We will go, brother!” she cried over her shoulder. “I swear we will trouble you no more. We will go from England’s shores, go far, far away!”

  Together the disgraced couple left the hall and the iron-bound doors clanged behind them. In silence courtiers, barons and servants stared after their departing forms.

  Henry’s anger began to abate as soon as the couple were out of his sight. He clapped his hands and gestured to the musicians clustered in the gallery. “Play!” he shouted. “Come on, minstrels—play! Play a sweet song for my beautiful Queen, Eleanor! Let us forget this ugliness as best we can!”

  The feast in honour of my churching proceeded, but I could not relax, thinking of my husband’s suffused face and de Montfort’s own red-eyed glare before he stormed out of the room. The day got even worse when a Fool waddled in wearing cap and bells and wittering about cuckolds. Henry, losing his temper once more, accused him of an inappropriate jest, then tore up his cap and threw him bodily into the gutter outside the palace. My churching, my special day, had been marred; there were no two ways about it.

  Two days later, a messenger arrived with the news that Simon de Montfort and Eleanor had indeed sailed for France. Relief flooded me. With luck, they would settle and never come back.

  If they did, the Tower would surely await them. I saw Henry’s father, King John, in the depths of his son’s angry eyes.

  Henry worried for months over Simon de Montfort’s departure. He was fearful he might brew up troubles with the French. I tried to reassure him. “With my sister as Queen, you need not fear overmuch. Marguerite will have Louis’s ear, she will not allow de Montfort to ease himself in like some gnawing worm.”

  “I pray you are right, wife,” murmured Henry, staring down at the floor. He was stalking around our apartments like a captive beast, thoroughly miserable. “He could bring me so much trouble. Already I have lost so many lands in France, and have no aid from my she-devil of a mother, Isabella. She is so entranced by the brood of brats she spawned with young Lusignan, that she has forgotten her children of England.”

  I was glad I had not met his infamous mother. I imagined her with horns and a tail; a lustful succubus like the she-demon Lilith.

  I tried to lighten my husband’s mood. “Did you hear? My uncle Thomas of Savoy is coming to court!” I said brightly. “I will be so glad to see some of my kinsmen once again.”

  “Yes, yes,” mumbled my husband, obviously not the least bit interested. “It will be a joyous occasion for you, Eleanor.”

  Indeed it was. In private, I fell upon Uncle Thomas with a squeal of joy. We retreated to my garden and he told me all about my parents and how they fared. “They are so proud of you and of Marguerite,” he reassured me. “Your marriages have brought them great status.”

  “And what of my two younger sisters, Beatrice and Sanchia?” I asked. “I wager I’d not recognise them now!”

  “Probably not. Both are very fair to behold, just like their elder sisters. Hopefully, they too, will make worthy marriages one day.”

  “And you, how are you, Uncle Thomas?”

  “Struggling, as ever.” He held out his hands. “Even though I am a count. You know how it is, money is ever short. So short.”

  “You will not have to worry. I will make certain of it,” I said reassuringly, kissing his cheek.

  He beamed at me. “You were always a dear girl, Eleanor….”

  I went to Henry. He was still so elated with me because I had borne him a prince that he was ready to grant me anything I asked for. Five hundred marks soon found their way into Uncle Thomas’s purse. He was also granted a tax on English wool entering his territories in Flanders.

  Uncle Thomas was elated and so was I. The English barons, however, were furious. They even refused to accept my husband’s seal upon the documents pertaining to the tax.

  Henry would not be swayed by such discontent. The money was his to give; after all, he was the King! With a curt hand wave, he dismissed the grumbling protestors from their offices and had them driven from the hall.

  “How dare they rail against me?” he said to me later, when we were alone in his private closet. “Who do they think they are? The money is mine to give to loyal kinsmen. Don’t you agree, Eleanor?”

  “Of course, my lord husband,” I said. I had no qualms about giving the wool taxes to Uncle Thomas, but the way Henry gained the 500 marks brought a vague disquiet. The treasury was rather bare, as ever, so Henry had gone to the Jews of London—not for a loan, but to levy a punishing tax on them.

  “Will the Jews accept this tax in silence?” I asked. “It is heavy.”

  “Yes,” said Henry arrogantly. “They have no choice; I have threatened them with expulsion from England if they do not pay up.”

  “Is that wise?”

  He gave me a stern look. “They are only Jews. They are here on sufferance. What I have done is for the benefit of your family, Eleanor. Remember that.”

  I did, and seeing Thomas’s joy and my husband’s satisfied face made me soon forget the plight of the Jews.

  Richard of Cornwall’s wife was dead. The news reached us by fastest courier. Henry and I glanced at each other. Richard had made an unusual, not altogether fitting marriage many years ago, despite much protest from his family. He had married Isabella, the widow of Gilbert de Clare, a woman much older than he, though still beautiful to gaze upon. She had borne six living children to Gilbert, but unfortunately produced only stillborn babes with Richard, save for one boy, his heir Henry, aged five.

  In bearing one more, final, child Isabella lost her life, and the infant died with her.

  Richard sent her heart to Tewkesbury, since she had written in her will that she wanted to
lie in the abbey there, next to her long-dead husband Gilbert—rather a reproach to Richard, who had, truth be told, neglected her, leaving her on her own in the shabby castle of Berkhamsted. He had loved her deeply once, men whispered, but had swiftly grown tired of her, and so he dallied with other women and harlots, and even tried in vain to get an annulment.

  Now he needed no such decree, for she was dead, but Richard had another problem. He was about to go off on crusade, and his son had no mother to care for him. He asked if he might send young Henry to join his uncle’s court.

  I was delighted at the thought. If I did not quicken again soon and produce another son, this young boy might be a good childhood companion for my Edward. It would be better to forge ties with cousins and have them stoutly at ones’ back than have them distant and possibly troublesome.

  “Let us have Henry here at court,” I said to the King. “It could work out well for all of us.”

  Richard sent the child a few weeks after that, rolling up to Windsor in a painted chariot with Richard’s dark eagles blazoned on the side. Young Henry was a handsome boy who resembled his father, with curling brown hair and bright eyes. He was dressed in deep blue silk and a short damson cloak and bowed before me like a little courtier, despite his youthful age. Whatever flaws his mother Isabella may have had, she had trained him well in manners.

  “Welcome to our Court, Henry.” I beckoned him closer so that I could get a good look at him and him at me. “I am your Aunt Eleanor.”

  “You are the Queen!” he said, awestruck.

  “I am that as well, little Henry!” I laughed.

  “You are very beautiful, Madame,” he said in a hushed, reverent voice.

  Sitting next to me, Henry burst into laughter. “You have an admirer, that is clear, my Lady wife. A little flatterer. He has scarcely noticed me—his uncle the King.”

  Young Henry immediately went down on his knees before his Uncle’s seat. “I hope I have not been rude, Uncle…King Henry.”

  “No, you are not rude, my young namesake. You are correct. The Queen is indeed beautiful.”

  “Would you like to meet you cousin, the Lord Edward?” I asked. “I hope you and he will become good friends when he is a little older.”

  Henry nodded solemnly. I made a gesture and the child’s nurses took Henry’s hands, and we left the King’s presence and retired to the royal nursery. Inside, amidst a cavalcade of hangings, silks, rich carpets and imported toys, Edward lay in his tall, carved cradle, wrapped, as was custom, in swaddling.

  My healthy son once again entranced me, his burgeoning curls forming a silver-white halo, his small round face breaking out into a toothless smile as his nurses lifted him up for inspection. His only flaw was a drooping eyelid…but at least none could ever deny he was his father’s son with such a distinguishing mark.

  “He is much smaller than me,” said young Henry dubiously.

  “Yes, for now, but not for long. In a few years, hopefully you can play together, train together to be warriors. “

  Henry walked briskly to the nurses carrying Edward, and to my surprise bowed courteously before his cousin, before grasping the baby’s hand and kissing it. Edward gurgled with delight.

  I laughed. My son the prince was already building up his army of loyal followers.

  I was pregnant again, just as I had wished. In the warm month of September, when the tips of the trees’ leaves were frosted with first gold, I gave birth, easily and swiftly to a daughter. Henry and I named her Margaret—the English form of Marguerite—as a tribute to my sister, the Queen of France.

  My churching passed without incident this time, and as a gift, Henry gave me an expensive candle to carry at the ceremony—a token of his gratitude for producing another healthy child, albeit a girl. Later in the year, shortly before the Christmas celebration, he presented gold purses to little Margaret and me as a further sign of his esteem.

  My Christmas was made complete by the arrival of Peter, another of my Savoyard Uncles. Like my mother Beatrice, Peter was affable and intelligent, with a handsome face that drew maids and goodwives alike. He was clever too—as a younger son, he had been destined for the religious life, for which he had no taste. On his own, he had managed to wrangle a propitious marriage for himself instead and hence escape the monastic confines.

  Henry took to Uncle Peter immediately, and knighted him along with many other goodly young men that winter season. He then proceeded to shower him with honours and with lands. I was thrilled that Peter got on so well with Henry, but men began to mutter that the king should not be so free with his wealth, especially to foreigners. They also whispered about how angry Earl Richard would be, when he returned from his crusading.

  Peter was intelligent; he had his ear to the ground where the rumours were concerned. He knew he had been rewarded more than was perhaps wise. When news reached England that Richard was soon to return, Peter began handing some of his newly acquired castles back to Henry.

  But when Richard returned, to everyone’s surprise, the expected confrontation never happened. The Earl of Cornwall seemed quite preoccupied with other matters. With his wife Isabella dead and only one living son, he had turned his mind to remarriage.

  And that remarriage was very personal to me.

  On his way to the holy land, he had acquired safe passage through the lands of my father, Raymond Berenger, and as kin by marriage, had been invited to a feast at one of my parents’ castles. There, he had seen my younger sister, Sanchia, and become smitten by her. She was betrothed to Raymond VII, an alliance no one much liked, as Raymond was a violent and unappealing man, but which had been deemed necessary to ensure stability in the region. However, there was still time to call the union off.

  Richard pushed for it, promised many things to my parents. It did not take long for them to decide against Raymond VII, an old enemy, and plump for Richard instead.

  Sanchia would marry the Earl of Cornwall, and so two royal brothers would wed two Provencal sisters, and my father’s blood would be forever mingled with that of the royal house of Plantagenet.

  I was most pleased by the news about my sister and the Earl. To have one of my close kinswomen residing in the same country would please me very much. So much shared history to talk about, so much good companionship to be gained. I would endeavour to bring many of my kin as possible to England, and strengthen its ties with Provence and Savoy and vice versa. The barons and their ilk might grumble, but it would be for the good in the end. My family were clever, determined people, not afraid of hard work. Yes, they would need lands and manors befitting their stations, but they would work hard for them.

  I knew I was doing the right thing.

  A few months later, I found I was with child yet again. I did not feel so well this time round and spent much time in the privy with my head hanging over the edge and my concerned ladies fluttering around me, laving my brow and dabbing at my mouth as I retched. When not being ill, the rest of the time was spent abed, which irked me, as I knew matters of great importance were afoot and I hated to be left out, woman though I was.

  There was going to be a campaign to Poitou. Henry would be fighting against the French…and hence my own sister Marguerite. This filled my heart with great grief, but there was no helping it; my allegiance had to be firmly with my husband’s cause.

  Everything had gone wrong in Poitou. Once an English territory, King John lost it due to his ineptitude; it then became a fiefdom, which both England and France claimed. In the past summer, King Louis’s mother, the fearsome termagant Blanche, had insisted Louis knight his own younger brother, Alphonse, and make him count of Poitou.

  It was unacceptable. There was a count already—Richard of Cornwall. The move to raise Alphonse to the position of count had been shrewd and deliberate; Blanche and Louis knew Richard was far away on crusade and could not defend his territory.

  Henry and Richard’s mother, Isabella, who so seldom took interest in her English children, threw herself into
the fray at the insult to her son…and the perceived injury to herself.

  That was not all she had thrown… After the feast held when the new count and his wife arrived in Poitou, she had taken every pot, pan, plate, chair—everything touched by the French—and hurled it out the window of her chamber into the castle moat!

  “The French are vile miscreants!” she had reportedly screamed as she watched the luxuries sink into the foetid water. “They looked upon me with scorn! I am a Queen! They made me stand before them like some sorry kitchen wench! They did not let me sit beside King Louis, as is my right! Shame on them, they who have stolen my son’s lands!”

  Her young husband, Hugh de la Marche, had been mortified by her behaviour. First, he tried to comfort her, without success, and then, when that failed, to restrain her from throwing more valuables about in a frenzy.

  Her response was not altogether unexpected, knowing Isabella’s character. “Leave me be, you wet sop of a man!” she had screamed at Hugh, and flung a heavy gem-encrusted goblet straight at his head.

  While he nursed a bleeding cut and howled in agonised rage, Isabella stormed from the castle, leapt astride a horse and rode like the devil to her own castle in Angouleme, where she barricaded the door against her husband. Head bound with bandages, he followed her and ended up waiting outside the gatehouse for nigh on a week before she decided to ‘forgive him’ and let him in. She seemed to have forgotten she had struck him, not the reverse, and, strangely enough, so had Hugh.

  Once all was forgiven, the pair descended to plotting against their true enemies, the French, and when Alphonse held his first court, Isabella burst through the doors with her armed guard and flew into his presence like some Greek harpy, shrieking, “Usurper! Usurper! Get out of Poitou!”