“It is not the time for warlike action, we must try for reconciliation.” Richard glanced nervously at the barons, many of them de Montfort’s supporters. They shuffled uncomfortably, eyeing each other, eyeing the King. Some looked shocked, others disapproving, others eager for affray. “We will talk of this later, your Grace. Later.”
“May I go?” De Montfort’s hard voice sounded again, taut with impatience.
“Yes, go, go, Goddamn you!” Henry shouted, flapping a hand at the halberdiers who parted instantly to allow de Montfort passage. He strode into the corridors of the Tower, wearing his arrogance and fury like a cape.
Henry looked wrathful but also relieved as his rival’s footsteps faded into the distance.
Richard gazed down at his brother. “We will talk, in private. Her Grace the Queen too.”
We met in the Tower Gardens as dusk fell over London and the sky turned a twilit purple. A thin, fingernail-paring moon ascended the sky, slashing at the turrets projecting from the massive walls. The leaves on the pear trees Henry had recently ordered to be planted around the Garden Tower fluttered in the wind, while the smell of mint and lavender drifted from the herb beds. Far in the distance, the beasts in the King’s menagerie were roaring for their dinner, the lion, the camel, the buffaloes, and the bear gifted us by the King of Norway, their cries strangely surreal in the gloaming, echoing and bouncing off the pockmarked stone that contained them.
The King shuffled over to Richard, holding up the hem of his long overgown as if he feared he would trip on it; two brothers but so unalike, my husband short and compact, Richard taller and more spare. Both men were growing old, the lines of care and worry increasing almost daily on their faces. Two Kings, two sets of problems. Richard’s German kingdom was increasingly violent and unfriendly towards their new ruler; he and Sanchia had near enough fled from the depredations of their bloodthirsty subjects on their recent visit. Further plans to become emperor, a position dangled before him by the conniving pope, had dissolved like smoke from a quenched fire. And to add to the misery, Sanchia was ill, lying bedridden in Berkhamsted castle, traumatised by the terrifying circumstances of their travels abroad…and, I feared, by her husband’s lack of care.
“Well, Richard, what advise can you give me that my other counsellors cannot give me?” Henry asked bluntly.
“Good sense, I hope,” said the Earl of Cornwall. “I know you long to bring Simon de Montfort down…”
“With justification!”
“Indeed…but it is my belief that the more you rail against him in public, the more it hardens his heart and those of his loyal followers. So my counsel is this…do nothing. Keep quiet.”
“What kind of advice is that?” sneered Henry. “Do nothing!”
“Simon is an arrogant and covetous man. However, men flock to him, for he is charismatic and appears strong and just. But after a while, they will see him for what he is…and then he will fall. Let him hang himself, brother. It will happen, I swear it.”
“You are suggesting I let this man rule my kingdom and hope for the best?” Henry shook his head with ferocity. “You are mad, Richard! Even if Simon were eventually destroyed by his own ambition, someone else in his treacherous fold would step up to fill his shoes. No…men have often accused me of inaction, but they will no more. I will go the Pope about my troubles, and I will raise an army.”
“Henry, think carefully about this,” Richard warned.
“My mind is made up. If you will not support me, let it be at your peril.” Henry gathered his robes about him and strode from the garden. The night swallowed him.
I remained with Richard in the descending night. Moths were flittering about our heads making false crowns; they ducked and swayed around the flambeaux burning throughout the mighty bailey. Taking a deep breath, I faced my brother-in-law. “Where will your loyalties lie, Richard?”
“With the King of course,” he retorted, shocked. “How low you must think me, Eleanor, to believe otherwise!”
“How is she, Richard?” I breathed, my voice barely about a whisper
“Who?”
“Precisely,” I said with bitterness.
Turning from the Earl, I pursued the King back into the Tower. Only shadows followed me.
We prepared for conflict. Henry and I made the Tower of London our permanent retreat, setting uncounted guards upon the entrances and walls. No barons, save those known to be unquestioningly loyal to Henry, were permitted into the city at all, and all citizens over the age of twelve were required to attend special sessions where they swore fealty to their sovereign. In secret, we conferred with those known to be faithful to us, and sent John Mansel the younger to the Pope, in order to extricate documents from him that could free us from the oaths adhering is to the Oxford Provisions.
“I am going to have to do something you won’t like, Eleanor,” Henry said to me one evening, as we stood on the Tower battlements, unaccompanied save for four archers and the gulls soaring in off the Thames to squabble over old bones and bits of detritus on the Tower roof.
Nervously my fingers knotted together. “And what might that be, husband?” Henry was not as shrewd as many men, and I ofttimes feared his decisions, which were seldom as well thought out as my own. But his will, naturally, must take precedence over mine…
“My brothers…Aymer, William, Guy…”
I pursed my lips. The accursed Lusignans again! “Yes, what about them?”
“I am going to ask them to return to England. I know you have no love for them, Eleanor, but they will support me unquestioningly and bring large armies with them.”
Folding my arms, I let out a deep, troubled sigh. The wind felt fresh off the river, making me shiver atop that great height. “I understand why you feel you need them, but I cannot agree to this happily unless…”
“Unless what, wife?” A muscle jumped in Henry’s cheek. I could tell by his voice, he was not pleased that I was trying to impose conditions on his decision. But on this matter, I would, must, remain firm…
“Unless they apologise to me for their behaviour in the past, and swear they will not stand in my way or interfere with my business. They need to show me the respect due to me as Queen!”
Henry began to laugh. “Is that all, wife? I think that can be arranged. They won’t like it…they are proud men…but to get their feet under an English table once more, I believe they will do whatever I ask.”
“They must do it. And there is something else, Henry. Edward.”
Henry rolled his eyes. “I know you don’t like the influence of my kinsmen on our son, but he is a man grown and married. He will choose his own friends. I would just be glad he is seemingly weaned off Simon and his cronies.”
“It is not that so much. It is his absence! He plays too much these days instead of learning statecraft! Where is he now? France! Not on a pilgrimage or mission of diplomacy, but gallivanting around in a tournament. He must return home at once, and cease his foolish enjoyments in French jousts. I know he wishes to show his prowess to his hordes of admirers, but now is not the time. He is needed in England…the country wants to see a strong prince.” Especially now that the King is getting older and weaker, I thought, but dared not say.
“You are right.” Henry leaned on a crenel, staring into the gloomy sky. “I will see he travels home immediately, in the company of my brothers.” Henry made sure I knew the brothers would definitely be coming, whether I liked it or not… though at least the apology they must make was confirmed.
I turned to face the dusk; there were storm clouds on the horizon, their tiered edges limned by fiery light, casting a surreal glamour over London’s teeming streets. The wind suddenly dropped to nothing; a strange silence descended—it was as if the great city held its breath in expectation.
A shudder rippled down my spine. Things would be put to rights when Edward returned and Henry’s forces were swelled…wouldn’t they?
Joy filled London; the bells boomed from church tower and priory. News
had reached us that Edward and the Lusignan brothers had returned to England, bringing with them a new ally, the war-like Count St Pol, who commanded a huge force of mercenaries. Outnumbered, realising that his days of liberty might well be numbered, Simon de Montfort surrendered up his control of the government and fled pell-mell for France.
Mansel had returned from Rome; before crowds of watching men, he held up a parchment bearing the Pope’s seal so that all might see and witness. The Oxford provisions had been repealed; a papal bull absolved Henry and I of our oaths to follow its strictures. We were free of its oppression at last.
No longer fearful for our freedom, perhaps our very lives, we abandoned the confines of the Tower to meet our eldest son in Winchester. How wonderful it was to ride the roads in a new spring, seeing blossoms deck the trees and the gentle sunlight playing upon the many streams that criss-crossed the land. It was as if a new day had dawned at last, one where we could be at peace, and rule as kings and queens were meant to, without interference from power-hungry lords.
Once we reached Winchester, the great hall was prepared for our guests—the great hall where once King Arthur might have sat in counsel, his company of valorous knights seated around him at the Round Table. The flagstones were polished, mats and imported carpets laid down, candelabrum brought in, sweet pomanders hung from the beams.
In person, I rode out to greet Edward and his companions as they arrived at the town gates. After embracing the prince before all watchers, I made great show out of being reconciled to the Lusignan brothers, who hung their heads and muttered apologies for their former treatment of their Queen. I was benevolent, forgiving; I smiled sweetly (with just the slightest hint of sarcasm) and gave them gold and silver. St Pol was also gifted with rings and jewels to show our gratitude for supporting our cause.
That night, after a huge feast, we met with Edward and walked with him in my herb garden. He gazed at us solemnly, hands clasped behind his back. “It is good that de Montfort is gone,” he said at length. “Although at one time I almost fell under his spell, I now truly see that I was in error. He wanted power for himself; he would have undermined me, if not worse, the moment we clashed over policy. I swear I will never stray so far from the family fold again. Father…” he turned to Henry, a huge figure in his shimmering blue silk tunic, a lordling as imposing at those Arthurian knights who dwelt at Winchester long ago, “you need never fear my loyalty again. The past is done. Never shall I support those who do not have the Plantagenet interests at heart.”
I smiled; with Edward back at our side, the dark times were surely over, even if poor Edmund was no longer in line for a crown. We would find our younger son something else to amuse him, I was sure.
A letter had come, borne by a messenger wearing a badge of the Scottish Lion. A letter from my daughter, Margaret! I read it with burgeoning excitement. She would be journeying to England with her husband, King Alexander.
In Windsor, I waited impatiently for the royal arrivals, stalking around my apartments in excited distress while my ladies tried to find pursuits and fancies to distract me. Gowns, veils, and jewels were laid out; I would consider them, reject them, and then toss them to Willelma or Margaret Biset, asking to see others. I could not rest, could not keep from an almost girlish excitement at the homecoming of my eldest daughter.
At last, an outrider arrived, informing the King that the royal party from Scotland was processing through Windsor town. With Henry at my side, I rode out to meet the cavalcade, both of us wearing our crowns. I had chosen a red damask gown covered in gilt quatrefoils and a deep blue cloak lined in white fur.
When I saw Margaret, my eyes brimmed with maternal tears. She had matured so much, from the frightened child who wed a foreign prince in York and the unhappy girl that I had met at Wark Castle, to a beautiful and confident woman. Slender and upright like her brother Edward, the hair confined by her headdress was a dark golden brown, glowing in the watery sunlight. Gazing ahead, her eyes were clear and calm…and thankfully, happy.
We greeted each other with all the formalities that were expected, but when we were at last alone in my apartments, it was another story. “Oh Meggie, you look so well now; there are roses blooming in your cheeks!” Margaret had removed her austere headdress and her hair hung down in long waves, nearly to her waist. “Indeed, you are blooming all over; you have put on much weight since last we met. Those dour Scots must be feeding you adequately at last.”
Margaret glanced at me with a secret little smile. “Ah, I bloom indeed, mother, but not just because there is more food upon the royal table!”
I let out a gasp. Margaret ran to me and pressed her finger to my lips. “I must bid you be silent on this matter, mother. The Scots do not know, even Alexander does not know! They would have never let me travel so far if they had realised I carry Scotland’s heir beneath my girdle!”
“Meggie, Meggie, I do not know whether to be angry or overjoyed! You have taken a great risk journeying so far…but I cannot deny I am glad to see you. Would it not be wonderful if you could stay in England until the babe arrives? I am sure the child would be more likely to thrive in English climes than in the cold winds of Scotland.”
“I agree with you,” said Margaret. “This is a warmer and more welcoming place for a baby to be born. I would love to bear my child with you and father near at hand but of course, the Scots will want the child born on Scottish soil. If they find out I am enceinte, they will demand Alexander and I return to Scotland at once.”
I glanced at my daughter, gaze raking her from top to toe. “When I was carrying you and Edward, I scarcely looked pregnant until I was gone six months. I hid everything beneath my skirts. You seem of similar build to me, though taller; maybe it will be the same for you.” I took her hands, squeezed them. “We can play a game, if you wish, Meggie. A game devised between us to keep you in England until the heir to Scotland is born.”
Margaret laughed, embraced me as if she were still an excitable little girl. “I would gladly play this tricksy game…but Alexander will find out about my condition before long. He will want to…ah…visit my chambers, and after a few more months, it will not be possible for him to do so. I have already been…sinful in holding the truth from him.”
“That is a problem,” I said thoughtfully, “though perhaps, if we are clever, a minor one. When he finally discovers the truth, we can tell him that you are too fragile to travel such a distance. He will surely not want to risk the life of his prospective heir, even if all the lords of Scotland demand that you return home!”
“I pray your ploy will work, mother.” Margaret let her hand drift to her still-flat belly. She gazed out the window into the gardens of Windsor, with the misted trees standing like rows of sentinels in the Great Park. “I want to stay here, at Windsor with you.”
And so we set out to deceive King Alexander, in the nicest possible way. I admired the young Scottish king very much, even to the point of viewing him as another of my sons. He could be witty and amusing, and was deeply solicitous and respectful of Meggie. Being a man, he was somewhat simple regarding women’s matters, and seemed blind to any changes in his wife. When we finally could not hide her condition any further, Margaret finally called him aside, sat him down, and told him with demure sweetness that soon Scotland would, God willing, have a new prince or princess.
Alexander’s face whitened and then turned blood-red, matching the fiery tones in his curls. He sputtered in amazement, as if it were a wonder he had done this thing. “This…this is wonderful news!” he cried. “I must write to my government and tell them. Then we must hurry home so that you can give birth in Scotland.”
Margaret passed a hand over her forehead, looking like a languid maiden on the verge of a faint. “My lord, I shake with fear at the thought of such a perilous ride. My first babe…and I am expected to ride hundreds of miles over rought terrain? So dangerous….”
Alexander bit his lip in consternation. “You are correct, wife, it would be
dangerous. A litter will be found for you, with comfortable cushions.”
Margaret shook her head sadly, wrung her white hands. “The road would still be bumpy and long, my lord. I would worry the whole journey, fearing inclement weather and possible attacks of brigands. We all know the forests of the north are full of fearsome outlaws. Such worry…they say worry is not good for the health of an unborn child.”
Alexander frowned. “I have heard that too…I think. No harm must be allowed to come to my heir, no matter what my great council wants. My will supersedes theirs. I deem it best, Margaret, if you stay here at Windsor to birth the child, with your parents’ permission, naturally.”
“Yes.” I had been hovering in the back of the chamber, ready to intervene if necessary. “I believe she should stay at Windsor, too. A journey would be too much for her, especially as it is her first child—look at her, my lord, see how fearful she is to go travelling? She must stay. I swear that she will have the best physicians and midwives in the land.”
“But I still must tell the Scottish court,” said Alexander uneasily.
“Of course you must,” I smiled. “They have a right to know such glad news!”
“But…” he shifted uncomfortably, “they will insist upon Margaret’s return to Scotland to birth the babe!”
“Let them insist!” I waved my hand airily. “Who is the King?”
“Yes, Alexander,” Margaret chimed in. “Who is the King?”
“I am,” he said, his voice flat.
“Then they must obey you,” I said, with a curt nod.
The Scots roared and complained when they heard the news about Margaret’s pregnancy. As expected, they wanted her to return to Edinburgh immediately. Letters came, vaguely threatening in tone, demanding that the royal party head for home at once.
The constant stream of missives annoyed even Alexander. “How dare they imply that we are somehow held prisoners in Windsor!” he cried, as he hurled yet another unread parchment upon the fire. “I shall not budge one inch, not until Margaret is delivered of the child and all is accounted well for both of them. The lords can go hang for all I care!”
MY FAIR LADY: A Story of Eleanor of Provence, Henry III's Lost Queen Page 18