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

by J. P. Reedman

  My breath rushed through my teeth. And I thought I had been through a perilous situation in La Reole! I dared not ask what she had asked the knight to do with the newborn child had the gates fallen….

  Marguerite moved her hand dismissively. “But it is all over now. Damietta held, although at great personal cost to the crown, and Louis escaped with his life. Now, come, you must meet my older children, including Louis’s heir. Soon they must be introduced to their two cousins, Edward and Edmund…”

  Just before Christmas, we moved on to Paris. Beatrice, Sanchia and mother had now joined the royal party. My mother was her usual diplomatic self, pleasing all with her intelligence and grace. Sanchia was tearful, overwhelmed at our reunion, holding her boy Edmund by the hand as if only he, young as he was, could give her support.

  Despite the rumours about her allegiances, sister Beatte was pleasant enough, if a little distant from the rest of the group. All of us danced, feasted, and compared garments, and then feasted and danced some more. And chattered like magpies, not of serious things but of frivolities…but it was Christmas. A time of celebration and thanksgiving.

  Surprisingly, for old time enemies, Henry and Louis treated each other with almost brotherly amity, and had not fallen out once on any matter of policy since Chartres. They admired each other’s piety and were soon talking as if they were long time friends instead of foes.

  I watched them carefully, listening in as best I could as they conversed upon the royal dais. The French King’s drawn face brightened and he gestured to my husband with a hand that looked as frail as a stick. “My kinsman of England, you must come on a little journey with me. I have a great wonder to show you. A great building project, which will be pleasing, I pray, to the eyes of God.”

  “What is this project?” asked Henry, his eyes glistening like a fervent young boy’s. Henry loved to build—Clarendon and Westminster were testimonies to his talents. If he had his way, every cathedral and great abbey across England would be beautified for God and man alike. If his father had enjoyed hoarding gems and money, Henry enjoyed spending wealth on his various projects, even when the coffers were dangerously bare. That had brought him the admiration of Louis’s nobles; the were impressed that the English king, their former enemy, had paid for banquets over the festive season and given them gifts of plate and gold.

  Louis was rising from his gilded throne, looking almost like an ascendant angel as the torches behind him made a halo of his sparse blond hair. His thin limbs were fairly trembling with excitement. “I have dismantled the old chapel in the palace and built another, much finer, much more beautiful…the Sainte Chapelle. I must show you my work, my friend but first let me tell you about the wonders it holds. The Crown of Thorns is there, and fragments of the Holy Lance and the True Cross. I have the Image of Edessa…all purchased from Baldwin, Emperor of Constantinople.”

  “A wondrous collection,” breathed Henry, intrigued. “I am interesting in collecting relics of my own. I bid you show me at once, Louis, that we both might venerate these relics together, bound in our new friendship!”

  Our husbands headed for the glorious new chapel, surrounded by their retinues.

  Mother looked at me, smiling smugly. “Time for us to enjoy time together without interfering husbands, my ‘boys’,” she said, openly calling us by our collective childhood nickname that had irked so many who wished to damn her for producing no living sons.

  We all began to laugh, even demure Sanchia and the slightly reticent Beatte. Marguerite took hold of my hand. I felt like a young girl again, back in Aix-en-Provence.

  Henry and I finally departed Louis’s court in January. Marguerite kissed me warmly upon our departure and presented me with a stunning gift—a bowl wrought into the semblance of a peacock, with coloured gems in green and blue to match the hues in the feathers of the actual bird. The eyes were made from pearls, and more sprays of pearls augmented the rim of the bowl.

  But my sister’s leaving gift paled besides Louis’. The French king, for all his piety, could still on occasion be extravagant.

  He sent us neither jewels nor plate.

  Louis sent us a live elephant for the Tower menagerie.

  The only elephant west of the Alps!

  Chapter Six

  Edmund needed a crown. His brother was set to be King of England but there was nothing for my younger son. I was not happy with that prospect, if for no other reason than I did not wish for the situation to become as fraught as it was between Henry and his brother Richard, with Henry ever fearing what his brother might do, and the brother chaffing at the bit for power of his own.

  I had my mind set on Sicily.

  This little kingdom in Italy was in need of a ruler. The throne had been vacant for several years, following the death of King Conrad, who died of a fever. Conrad was infamous, a wicked man who had poisoned his half-brother, Henry, a boy of fifteen, in order to strengthen his claim to the throne. This grieved my husband deeply as the murdered Henry was the son of his own sister, Isabella, but before he could mount any action towards Conrad, the usurper had died of illness, and the Emperor Frederick II’s bastard Manfred marched into Sicily and seized power himself, holding grimly onto the region with contingents of imported Saracen troops. The pope’s forces had tried to oust Manfred’s paynim mercenaries from Sicily, but the infidels had slaughtered them with their curved, lethal blades. And so the Mamluks—and the covetous bastard Manfred—remained.

  The pope had offered the Sicilian crown to Richard once, but despite his burning desire for kingship, he had refused it as too great an expense; he had no wish (and no money) to lead an army abroad, especially against Saracens. Slightly miffed, the Pope had swiftly withdrawn his offer and instead made approaches to Louis’s brother, Charles of Anjou, who also declined the crown, being ‘too busy’ with Louis’s unfortunate crusade.

  I thought Sicily might be fitting for Edmund; with relations between England and France improved, perhaps we could drum up enough support for a massive invasion to unseat Manfred…although Richard might prove a problem, rather than a support in our endeavours. For all that he had rejected the foreign crown himself, he might well resent a ten-year-old boy assuming what could have been his in different circumstances. I had grown to know Richard’s mind well throughout the years. He was not quite the brave, selfless Arthurian figure the twelve-year-old Eleanor had imagined.

  But, even putting Richard’s lack of interest in Sicily aside, Edmund would be the better choice, for all his tender years. It need not be all about bloodshed. A peace treaty with Manfred, who had a young daughter of marriageable age, could stop the fighting altogether.

  But could Richard be mollified if he was unhappy about his nephew’s accession? We needed to have him at our backs if our plan for Edmund was to succeed. Needed his support, his soldiers, and whatever money he could offer…

  “I am to be King of Sicily!” Edmund raced down the halls of Westminster, skidding on the ornate tile floors and veering around servers, courtiers, and heralds who tried desperately to avoid the energetic young prince. “Bow to me, you all should bow to me!”

  I gestured to Edmund’s frantic, harassed-looking nurses, who were trailing in their charge’s wake, their faces red with exertion as they tried to exhort him to behave with promises of more barley sugar sticks. Unfortunately, he had grown a bit beyond bribery with sweet fancies.

  “Stop him.” I was frowning. “This roughness is not acceptable. See that the prince behaves with more decorum.”

  The nurses did not reach him, however. His elder brother got there first, towering over Edmund like a threatening giant, his visage stern and his hands placed firmly on his hips. His legs were like tall trees, rising up and up. “What is all this noise about? You embarrass yourself, Edmund, shouting and racing about like an ill-mannered street urchin!”

  “I am going to be king of Sicily!” Edmund repeated, facing up to his older brother with a fierce look in his eyes.

  “Well, on
e day, I will be King of England!” returned Edward.

  “But that will be many long years yet!” piped Edmund cheekily. “While I will be king soon and hence mightier than you!”

  “Well, you’re not King yet, and as I am your elder and out father’s heir, there is nothing to stop me from twisting your arm until you admit to being a horrid, uppity brat who embarrasses our family.”

  Edward reached out and grabbed Edmund’s arm, yanking it behind the smaller boy’s back as hard as he could. Edmund struggled in his grip and began to howl. Everyone in the palace stopped and stared while the frantic nurses wrung their hands, wanting to take control of their charge but fearful of interrupting Edward’s chastisement of his brother.

  “I have had enough…from both of you!” I snapped. “Edward, you are old enough to walk away from such foolishness. Edmund, you are to go to your chambers with your nurses and I will send the chaplain to you, and you are to get down on your knees and pray for forgiveness for your presumptuous and arrogant behaviour!”

  Glowering, both boys leapt apart. Edmund began striding away, his anger and humiliation shrouding him like a cloud.

  “Bye bye, little King!” Edward called mockingly after him.

  I rolled my eyes. I prayed there would not be rivalry between my sons forever…as there was between Henry and Richard.

  Predictably, Richard did object when he heard that Henry wished for Edmund to take the crown of Sicily. A special emissary of the pope has arrived from Rome and an investment ceremony scheduled to be held in Westminster Abbey. All the nobles of the land were expected to attend, including the Earl of Cornwall.

  Glum and glowering, Richard stood with Sanchia, his brow knitted in a black frown while my sister was pale as snow and casting him nervous glances as if she feared he might suddenly strike out in wrath at those nearest him.

  Down the great nave, to the thunder of the organ, traipsed young Edmund, wearing the native costume of Sicily, which the King had imported for the occasion.

  “A fop! They dress the boy as a fop! And he does not even have a crown as yet!” Richard’s broken, spiteful whisper echoed through the vast caverns of the abbey church.

  Several nobles turned around to stare, several choked back unseemly laughter; I noticed Sanchia nudge her husband with her elbow, obviously warning him to silence. She looked as if she might faint or be ill.

  Henry was walking down the aisle, his robes trailing on the newly laid Cosmati tiles, seemingly unaware of the hostility and disbelief amongst many of the attending lords, not just Richard of Cornwall. Reaching the altar at the Confessor’s chapel, he went on his knees alongside Edmund, a small figure almost like an oversize doll in his outlandish, parti-coloured Sicilian wear.

  Unsmiling, the pope’s representative took a great ring, carved and emblazoned with an insignia, and ceremoniously slipped it on Edmund’s small white finger. A ring declaring his new position as ruler of Sicily…after Manfred was deposed, or paid off, of course, and his Mamluks sent packing back to their hell-hot countries.

  “In the name of St Edward the Confessor,” cried my husband, staring up towards the Rood, with its magnificent screen. Vermilion and gold flashed down at him; the ruby and sapphire of new glass set in the pointed windows cast showers of colour over the floor, over the kneeling King and the child who was the would-be Sicilian monarch. “I will send a mighty army in the name of my son, Prince Edmund, to defeat the usurper Manfred. May God smile eternally upon Edmund, King of Sicily!”

  “He is not King yet!” I heard Richard’s harsh rasp again; a murmured, frightened retort from Sanchia. “And Henry will not get one mark from me to support this folly!”

  In the days that followed Edmund’s investiture, Richard continued to make his displeasure known. He told Henry to his face that he disagreed with a military campaign for such a fractious, far-flung kingdom, and then, his rage rising and boiling over into cruelty, he turned on Sanchia and berated her before the court. “And as for you, Madame…What is wrong with your acquisitive family? You all push for this boy’s prominence before mine, although I am a man grown and more deserving. Bah, the lot of you are all the same, springing from modest blood but seeking crowns and positions at the expense of your betters! Why is this foolishness tolerated?”

  Henry reacted with anger at his harsh words; for although they were directed at Sanchia, they clearly were also aimed at me…and at Henry. “Go from me, Richard!” he stormed. “Go to your lands in Cornwall or wherever else you might wish, as long as it is far from me. I will do without your cursed money, which you love beyond all else! Ah, the grief of it…that my own flesh and blood attack me!”

  “I attack only my brother the King’s unwise decisions, not his royal person,” said Richard icily, and he swept from the hall, leaving a humiliated Sanchia behind. He did not glance back at her, nor did he send for her when his entourage marched from London that eve.

  I took Sanchia into my apartments, where she burst into tears. “Forgive me, Eleanor,” she said, “and please, speak with the King and beg his forgiveness for what has occurred. Do not let him come to blows with Richard!”

  “Why is your husband so thorny in his moods?” I handed her a kerchief to wipe away her tears. “Why does he speak ill of our family? Our family that is now also his!”

  “He burns with the desire for a crown. It eats at him like a cancer. And…” she bowed her head, “he has grown tired of me. He loves me not.”

  “How could he not love you, Sanchia? He was mad for you when he first saw you at our parents’ castle and would have no other. He beamed with pride to hear the troubadours sing that you were of beauty beyond compare. His eyes were locked on you at your wedding feast; it was as if any other woman was invisible.”

  “That is long ago,” she sighed. “He has grown tired of me now.”

  “But you are still beautiful. And you have given him a fine, healthy son.”

  “Whom he ignores, Eleanor. He has no care for his second son, just the first, Henry, who is twenty years old and can ride and drink and wench with him.”

  “It is a pity you have no daughter to be at your side.” Little Edmund lived in the royal nurseries with his cousins, according to the old custom. It must have been quite lonely for my sister without him. “Pray to God that you might have another child.”

  “It is unlikely I shall have any more children, Eleanor,” said Sanchia mournfully. “Richard seldom comes to my bed. He prefers the company of mistresses…and harlots. He even has a child with one, Joan de Valletort. He thinks I don’t know, but I am not stupid—I do.”

  I hung my head, unable to meet my sister’s tormented gaze. It was no secret that Richard had been equally inconstant with his former wife, the long-deceased Isabella Marshal. He had moved heaven and earth to wed her, despite disapproval over the difference in their ages…then within a few short years, he lost interest in her, replacing her with easy women. As she lay dying, he virtually abandoned her and went about his own business.

  “Have you any joys, sister?” I patted Sanchia’s cold hand. For the first time I noticed how thin she was, her beautiful features like whittled alabaster.

  “Oh yes,” she said, and though her smile was wry, her face lit from within. “My abbey at Hailes. Do you remember it, Eleanor?”

  I nodded. The King and I had attended a grand celebration at its opening, accompanied by thirteen bishops.

  “Richard founded it in gratitude for surviving an ill-fated sea crossing,” Sanchia continued. “It was one of the most joyous days of my life when I first walked in the choir and the ambulatory and stepped inside the chapter house. The memory brings me much joy even now. I only wish Richard would find solace in such simple pleasures, and less in sinful pastimes and gaining money.”

  “I will pray for him and for you, sister,” I said softly, although, in truth, I knew that Richard of Cornwall would never change his ways. He was, perhaps, more like his father John than Henry was—John had been a rapacious womani
ser and stolen the very rings off his baron’s fingers. How lucky I was to have married the King I did, for all that some disloyal men called him ‘weak.’ One sister had married a saint and the other an inconstant, fickle prince. Beatrice’s marriage secrets, I knew not, for we seldom communicated.

  I honestly did not think God would listen to my pleas for poor, neglected Sanchia…but pray I did, for I had promised to do so.

  And a miracle happened.

  To everyone’s surprise, not least of all mine, Richard was offered a crown in Europe. This time, he did not waver, did not hesitate while counting his coins. With a little bit of bribery, and some help from the sisters of Provence, who approved his claim on Sanchia’s behalf, he won the election for the title.

  Richard had been elected as a ruler in Germany, and with his kingdom came a dramatic and impressive title.

  Richard of Cornwall would be King of the Romans, and my sister Sanchia would be his Queen.

  I was glad for Sanchia, and hoped Richard’s new, much-wanted crown would keep him occupied and away from the affairs of England.

  I had my own worries to attend to.

  I feared greatly for the health and well-being of my own daughter, Margaret, sent as a child to be the Queen of Scotland. In the intervening few years, the letters between us had dwindled to nothing, my missives going unanswered. Even Margaret’s governess, Matilda de Cantilupe, seldom responded to queries about the Queen of Scotland’s health, and then only with flat, useless words that meant nothing and unlocked no secrets. //The Queen is hale and sends her greetings//

  For some reason, the silence from Meggie filled my heart with dread. I did not wish to lose my daughter. Already I was terrified for my youngest, Katharine. At birth, she had by far been the fairest of my children, but as she grew, her nurses noticed something unusual about her.