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

by J. P. Reedman

  Richard was striding away, leaving the King and me in the garden. Our attendants stood still as statues, shocked by the shouting and dishonourable behaviour.

  “I want my brother punished!” Henry stamped his foot on the ground, more like an angry child than an angry king. “He cannot walk away from me like that and get away with it.”

  But Richard did.

  Henry was not going to let it lie, however. He remained furious at his younger brother. Summoning a couple of unsavoury rogues he found lurking in the castle stables, he paid them from his own purse to go capture Richard and throw him into the deepest dungeon in Bordeaux. On borrowed horses, they galloped off in a cloud of dust, laughing like loons and swigging from a wine skin.

  Worry gripped me; Richard had behaved disgracefully, if somewhat understandably in the circumstances, but I wanted no harm to come to him…not least of all, for the sake of my sister Sanchia. She was rather old to still be unmarried—seventeen! I did not want her to fret for years while her betrothed rotted in some foetid dungeon.

  As it turned out, Richard had soon realised he was being pursued by Henry’s hired thugs and took refuge in a church, barring the doors against his assailants. The priests helped him hold out against the mercenaries; while Henry stewed on hearing that his plans were thwarted.

  My husband’s wrath did not last long, however. As days dragged out, he started to reconsider his actions. “Richard was rash in speech and manners,” he said, “but he’s always been like that ever since boyhood. I understand his disappointment. I want to be reconciled with him. This siege at a church…it’s unwholesome, unholy. I’m going to call my men off…and seek to repair our friendship.”

  “But he won’t get Gascony?” I said sharply. “That is for our son alone?”

  “He won’t get Gascony.”

  A reconciliation of sorts took place. With assurances that he would meet with no ill, Richard emerged from the church where he had taken sanctuary. Coming back to face Henry, he went down on his knees and begged forgiveness for his behaviour in a voice that I thought didn’t sound very regretful at all. But no mind. The words of apology were said. Henry seemed happy enough, and apologised himself for sending his hired thugs; he then fawned on his brother, handing him jewels and embracing and kissing him. Richard, begging leave, was granted it, this time, and he headed in all haste for the nearest port.

  We lingered, despite not being entirely comfortable in Bordeaux. Henry did not want to return to England just yet. The barons were still muttering, and he remembered what had become of his father at their hands.

  “We will wait for Sanchia,” I said, trying to make him feel we had a purpose in Bordeux. “It would be most gracious of the King to meet her and my mother before proceeding to England.”

  Sanchia and my mother Beatrice arrived in May, having journeyed with much personal danger through war-torn lands. I had not seen them for nigh on seven years, and my heart swelled with excitement.

  As their entourage arrived at Bordeaux castle, I waited anxiously, clad in my most stylish gown, fashioned of rich blue sindon, with its borders stitched in silver thread, and designs of lilies and butterflies upon the skirts. My hair was confined in a pearl hair tressure imported from Paris and a necklace of tear-shape rubies lay upon my breast. I prayed I would look queenly enough, and that my kinswomen would not look askance at Henry and me because of our recent misfortunes in war.

  A trumpet blared, then another—a cacophony of brazen noise. I almost jumped in fright as a herald announced ‘Beatrice Countess of Savoy and the Lady Sanchia’. As my mother swept into the hall, she shocked me at first—she looked much older than I remembered, her face a little thinner, a few lines beneath her beautiful eyes. However, she was dressed in the most stylish russet bliaut with a flared skirt and dangling sleeves, and she held herself upright and dignified… She had not grown fat like the dreaded Aunt Gersende.

  Sanchia, my little sister…she was a wonder. Rumours had spread across Europe of her burgeoning beauty, and they were true. The little girl I remembered was gone, replaced by a slender young woman with flowing black hair and greenish eyes beneath a fringe of long, curling lashes. In some ways, she resembled me, as one might expect in two sisters sharing similar blood, but only in appearance, not in her mannerisms. She was much shyer than I, hesitant to speak. She blushed and looked down at the floor frequently, not with coyness but with real shyness. This inborn timidity gave her a slightly softer appearance to mine, as did her frequent blushes. Some men might find that appealing; others, I suspected, might find it irritating after a time. A lack of sophistication.

  I frowned a little; such meekness might not be to her advantage when wed to a strong figure like Richard of Cornwall. I would try and advise her if I could.

  Rising from my seat, I approached my kinswomen, and they folded in deep, respectful curtseys. Reaching out to them, I raised them with my hands, my mother with my right, and my sister with the left.

  “I am so pleased to see you; it has been so long,” I said, as my throat suddenly closed and tears sprang unbidden to my eyes. I had not foreseen such a rush of emotion! Eleanor, proud queen, trying to affect a regal air, yet reduced to tears by the sight of much-loved family and memories of a youthful life in Provence. “Come…come to the solar with me. We will speak in private there—so much to talk of! I cannot wait for you to travel to England with me…Mother, you shall be most proud of your grandson, the Lord Edward, and the other children too. I named my youngest for you. I wish father were here also…How is father?”

  “Afflicted by the little ailments that plague us all as we get older but well enough” said my mother, with a thin smile, but I noticed a little flicker of uneasiness within her eyes.

  “I will pray for him every night…I will have a hundred priests pray for him,” I said fervently. “Now let us seek some privacy, and you can tell me about the everyday happenings in Provence! Tell me everything! I miss home so much sometimes…the warmth, the grape vines, the colours of the distant mountains at twilight!”

  “Is Richard here?” asked Sanchia timorously, glancing around the chamber.

  “No.” I shook my head. I would not tell her of the recent violent argument over Gascony if she had not already heard of it. It would only worry her, and besides, Henry was no longer at loggerheads with his brother—at least for the moment. “I beg you, Sanchia, do not look so crestfallen! He has returned to England to prepare for your arrival. He is most enamoured of you, my sister, and no wonder…you have grown so beautiful. I’ll wager you are indeed the most beautiful woman in Europe!”

  “Beside you, I am but a little mouse,” said Sanchia, with a brittle, scared-sounding laugh. “Grey and uninteresting!”

  In truth, she might have been a little fairer of face than I, especially as I had been ill—her skin blooming, rose-petal soft; her face sculpted, not knowing the strains of childbirth; her eyes big and docile and expressive, but in one way Sanchia’s statement was indeed true…in her manner, she was mouse-like.

  “If you are but a mouse, sister, then you must learn to squeak loudly,” I told her with firmness. “You would not want to be so small and quiet you got crushed under foot!”

  Henry departed for Portsmouth, taking the rag-tag remains of his army and leaving me to catch up with my mother and sister for a month or two. In November, we finally sailed to Dover, watching the white cliffs loom up as we stood in the prow, just as I had done when I travelled over from Calais to marry Henry.

  As we stepped ashore, we saw that the port was decorated with banners and garlands of wintertime greenery, and that all the onlookers wore their best festive dress. Lit tapers glimmered in the November gloom, and the church bells pealed and pealed, their clangs echoing from townhouse to church to the bastions of the great castle on the cliff. Atop the castle’s ancient lighthouse, a beacon was burning brightly like a second sun.

  A horn blared out, and the castle gates gaped, and Richard of Cornwall rode forth on his de
strier to greet his bride. I saw his eyes rake over her with delight; she had only been thirteen when he first met her, and in the interim, a pretty and winsome young maiden had grown into a stunning woman. I hoped he would remain faithful to my sister, as Henry seemed to be with me…but I knew Richard had a weakness for women and had kept many mistresses throughout his first marriage. Never mind, whatever the case, Sanchia had to adapt, for such was the way of many men. Sinful, but natural.

  Richard bowed his head and kissed her hand; she blushed beneath the sweep of her raven hair, worn loose beneath a circlet to proclaim her maidenly status, and in the streets of Dover men whispered that she was ‘beautiful beyond compare.’

  With great fanfare and even greater joy, the wedding party then moved on from Dover to London, where I was reunited with my husband and children, who had been brought in garlanded carriages from Windsor castle. Little Edward, already so tall, flung himself at me, grasping my gown with his strong little fists, till his nurses pried him away and settled him.

  Within the week, I was once again reunited with my Uncle Thomas, who had come from Flanders for the wedding, and watched with happiness as he met with mother and they gave each other fond kisses, and she lovingly teased him and called him by his Savoyard name, Tommaso. “I feel like a little girl again!” she said.

  In the spacious vault of Westminster Abbey, with gladdened hearts we watched as my sister wed the King’s brother in a lavish ceremony where no expenses had been spared. I wore a rich, ruby-red gown made of fabric embellished with gold, which had been a gift from Uncle Thomas upon his arrival; he had presented my mother and Sanchia with similar. Sanchia, however, was dressed in a blue gown of imported Araby silks, with a silver-hued train that was so long she had to have six women carry it.

  After the ceremony was completed, we processed in splendour to Westminster Hall, where three thousand souls were served at the wedding feast. Porpoises, eels, bream in foil were carried in on gilded dishes; silvered pies with decorations of crowns on top graced every trestle table. Roe deer and wild boar festooned with sprinkled ginger, and spiced chicken covered with egg yolk were amongst the first courses, while pomegranates, almond tarts and plums stewed in rosewater followed. Finally there were the ever-popular subtleties that included jellies made into family crests and a giant castle with sugared turrets.

  My mother was busy about her usual statecraft, speaking earnestly to Simon de Montfort’s wife, Henry’s sister Eleanor. She had managed to soften Henry a little regarding the Earl, and was allowed to return to England, despite de Montfort’s disrespectful words to the King during his fruitless campaign. Simon himself however had not been permitted to attend Richard’s wedding feast.

  Mother, finishing her conversation with Eleanor de Montfort, then sidled over to Henry himself. “My dearest son in law, dread King of England...” She cast him a radiant smile, curtseyed most delicately. I knew she wanted something then…and looking at Henry’s beatific, drink-flushed face, I thought there was a good chance she would get it. “I have had the most delightful conversation with your sister, the Lady Eleanor. I doubt not her husband the Earl of Leicester would be a most stalwart aid to you, if all ill events of the past were forgiven, and Eleanor could truly be welcomed back within the family fold, despite her misdeeds. A happy family is one that is not fractured; it is also a safe family for those of high estate. A wall of relatives can be as unbreakable as that of the stoutest castle.”

  “But de Montfort insulted me, madam, ” Henry slurred, rather deep in his cups. “Likened me to Charles the Simple! Can you imagine that? The impudence!”

  Mother held up a graceful hand sparkling with rings. “Your Grace…it was a wicked thing to say…but perhaps he spoke foolishly when under pressure. Which of us has not, at one time or another? He regrets his rash talk, but is too prideful to say so. Lady Eleanor told me this herself.”

  “Truly?” Looking interested, Henry tried to prop himself upright in his high seat. “He needs to lose that pride then.”

  “True,” mother inclined her head, “but perhaps he would be more sweetened if he felt truly part of your family, your Grace. As it stands, he does not. I am sure he would change in his outlook if he did. Since coming to England with my daughter Sanchia, I feel as if you are indeed all my kin, and I will weep when I must leave again, though leave I must. If Earl Simon were made as welcome as I have been, being the husband of your own blood sister…”

  Henry looked thoughtful. “Perhaps you are right, Countess Beatrice. Perhaps I should be less harsh on De Montfort. His conduct with my sister was disgraceful, but I played a part in it, I must admit, when I was persuaded to let them use my own chapel for their forbidden marriage. Anyway, what’s done is done. No use in mulling over the past. Maybe I should build a bridge with de Montfort rather than attempting to destroy all ties. The Bible says to forgive; maybe I should. One more time.”

  “I implore you to try the way of forgiveness, your Grace,” said mother, nodding emphatically “Loyal friends and family are more valuable than gold and gems.”

  Later on, mother wandered up near my high seat and I beckoned her over to my side. “Why that speech to my husband the King?” I whispered in her ear. “Did the Lady Eleanor really so enchant you? I must tell you, I do not much like Simon de Montfort. His is hard-minded…and men fellow him.”

  “I do not like him much either, from what I know, though he seems to have a certain…attraction” said mother. “However, I think it would not do well to alienate him further. I would rather see him serving his King than opposing him.”

  “You are wise, mama,” I laughed, completely informal. “I see I still have much to learn.”

  “Another thing…” She leaned in even closer, her lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Think on it…Richard is a powerful man, and from what I have heard is often at odds with Henry. He has royal blood; history tells us that bad things can happen amongst feuding brothers. You might need Simon on one side as a shield.”

  “Richard and Henry may fight but surely you do not believe…” I said, aghast.

  She gave a small shrug. “I will be blunt. Your husband the King is a generous and decent man, it seems. But he is not a warrior. Nor does he seem inclined to statecraft. His main loves are building and grand ceremony…and you, my dear. He has few real friends, the Savoyards at court are tied to you, and his Lusignan half-brothers…Ugh, that lot use him for their own ends. His barons are never satisfied… Now Richard…” she nodded toward her new son-in-law, seated above the salt with Sanchia glowing like a dark ruby at his side, “he is clearly more gifted in these arts of war and politics, though not much more, truth be told. The Barons might well turn to him, with no other choice before them. Kings have been replaced before now. Think on this, Eleanor. Think hard.”

  I did.

  The very next day I invited Henry’s sister Eleanor to walk out into the gardens with me. I found out she was actually quite pleasant, and that her nickname was Nell. For all that I felt uneasy around Simon, she clearly adored him; spoke of him as if he were some kind of god. I would have to look at him again, with new eyes, I swore to myself; find something to like, even if I found it difficult.

  I told Henry of our new friendship, and saw his face fill with pleasure. After listening to mother’s advice, he wanted the rifts in his family sewn up. Several weeks later, he cleared some of Nell and Simon’s debts and gave them 500 marks to live upon. In a sudden burst of magnanimity, he even presented the mighty fortress of Kenilworth to Simon as a gift. It seemed my husband had decided after all to forget being likened to Charles the Simple and let bygones be bygones!

  My mother’s visit to England ended in sorrow, alas. An urgent message arrived from Provence; my father was gravely ill, Beatrice must come at once. Mother took ship from Dover as fast as she could, taking with her considerable monies gifted by Henry for the military protection of Provence. Sanchia and I prayed for our father Raymond Berengar’s wellbeing, lit candles, put offering
s on the altar.

  Side by side, unified by our love for our family, we two sisters stood staring into the grey mists of morning where mother had departed.

  My father’s condition worsened. Many Provencal and Savoyard lords began to fare to England, fearful of the developing situation abroad, with the French threat looming alongside the decline of the Berenger’s strength. I welcomed them and so did Henry, caring not that the Barons grumbled about expenses paid and favouritism. They were just jealous, those sullen old lords; the court was much brighter and more urbane with my kin to bring cheer and fashion and knowledge.

  My Uncle Boniface was one such arrival; Henry had promoted him to the See of Canterbury. I thought him a splendid choice for archbishop…but almost immediately, he had fallen out with the King over the election of the Bishop of Chichester. Henry had favoured a man named Passelewe, a harsh judge despised by most of the local populace, while Boniface put forward the saintly scholar, Richard Wych. Henry’s man was discarded, and the King grew very wroth that his wishes had been ignored.

  I preferred Wych myself; I had met the man on many occasions and was impressed by his intellect and piety, but knew not if my uncle had the authority to appoint him and discard Henry’s man. Boniface was greatly disturbed by the King’s anger, so, at his prompting, I sought to bring up the subject with Henry.

  Gingerly, I approached the King in his closet, where he was busily sealing documents. “Yes?” he barked, not glancing up; his mood was clearly foul.

  “Your Grace,” I said. “I must speak to you. “About Uncle Boniface.”