Simon and his followers gathered in the city of Oxford, making a city of learning bristle with spears and swords, and insisted that the Provisions of Oxford must be reinstated immediately and the oaths renewed. Any who refused to adhere to the regulations would be exiled, their lands stripped from them. The hardest hit were my relatives, a deliberate move by de Montfort. The castles of Savoyards were attacked and looted, and they were thrown from their houses into the streets. A bishop was dragged from before the altar of Hereford cathedral and hurled into a Gloucester dungeon. Carts of plunder trundled down the streets and the cries for mercy from both men and women were ignored. “To the ports with you or perish!” they were told by Simon and his cohorts.
With the King, Edward, and Richard, I retreated to the Tower of London and together we prepared for a potential siege. De Montfort was coming for us, with baronial support. Archers marched on the tower walls, keeping guard, and ships protected the Watergate. Soldiers marched in the streets, making sure there were no disturbances, and the bridges were blocked and barricaded, with only the locals allowed to cross.
Messages arrived in London from de Montfort’s approaching host: Support the Provisions of Oxford or resist at your peril! Swiftly the Londoners, those turncoat cowards, began to join with de Montfort’s rebels. Rioting took place, and our soldiers were pushed back to safety within the Tower walls.
High in Bishop Gundulf’s keep, Henry and I conferred. Richard was with us, advocating that we try to reconcile with our great enemy—doubtless, he feared for the safety of his misguided son. I counselled war—I was furious, and Edward, of my temperament more than his father’s, backed me up. Torn, wavering, Henry sat on his chair, his head buried in his hands, worn-out with the strain of all that had befallen in recent months.
“We must fight them, father!” Edward whirled on his heel in sudden agitation and slammed his fist down on the nearest table, causing the goblet set there to tumble, spilling wine like blood. “Do you wish to be a laughing stock, a puppet king? That’s what de Montfort and his rabble will do to you if…” his visage darkened, “even worse does not befall you. Well might de Montfort take one step further and dethrone a king.”
“He would not dare…” murmured Henry.
“Would he not?” Edward’s brows rose. “I am not so sure of it.”
“What should we do?” I asked. “All of us, shut in here like prisoners. We need to break free, and we need money too, to pay for soldiers to aid our cause.”
Edward looked thoughtful, and suddenly a crooked grin spread over his face. “I have an idea. Gather round, all of you. It is a long shot, and not without risk but I think I must try.”
We gathered round the table, as candles burned low and our shadows stretched long upon the flagstones.
Edward stole out the Tower, disguised in unmarked dress, with a party of sell-swords close around him. In the twilight hours he hastened to the Temple, where the Templars guarded the wealth of London’s elite. He told the Master he had arrived to retrieve some of my jewels for an appearance I would soon make, and although the man eyed him suspiciously, he was admitted to the inner chambers. Once inside the main hall, however, he and his companions drew their swords and produced hammers, smashing into the locked boxes that contained the coin of noblemen and merchants.
Purses bulging with money (I am only borrowing it! he told me he had shouted over his shoulder as he left), he galloped like a madman for Windsor, seeking to head off Simon de Montfort’s army. While his brother hastened to the castle, Edmund marched for Dover to control the port and bring in men and supplies from France. Some of our most stalwart supporters, such as John Mansel and my Uncle Boniface, hated with a passion by de Montfort, began to move towards Dover also, eager to take sail for their own protection. In their train they carried all their possessions, as well as a gaggle of noblewomen from Provence and Savoy who feared what their fate would be should the rebels defeat the King.
Getting wind of this ploy, Simon de Montfort sent Richard’s erring son Henry to attack the party on the road to the coast. However, I had placed my own spies in the trees and bushes along the route, and they gave Edmund word of Henry of Almain’s approach. My son sent out a huge contingent of soldiers from Dover, and, to his mortification, Henry was captured by his cousin and bundled onto a ship bound for France, where upon arrival he was imprisoned in the nearest castle.
Henry and I were jubilant, with our sons holding two of England’s main castles, but Richard was, quite naturally, distraught when he heard that his Henry languished in a foetid dungeon somewhere near Paris.
He looked twenty years older as he sought out Henry and sank to his knees, wringing his hands in distress. “I beg you, brother—have mercy,” he said, voice cracking. “Henry is young and foolish; by now he will surely have learned from his errors! Jesu, how will he survive in a dungeon? Henry, for the sake of the blood we share, forgive him his errors! Release him and sit down to the bargaining table with de Montfort and let us try to make an end to this unrest!”
“I am sorry…” I interrupted before Henry could open his mouth to answer the so-called King of the Romans. I had seen the look of uncertainty, of pity on my husband’s visage. Sometimes he was not as hard as he needed to be. I was firm in his place. “It cannot happen. Not yet, at any rate. There will be no more attempts to reconcile with traitors.”
Sadly, the King overrode my words within days. He could not bear Richard’s pleading or the thought of his nephew imprisoned. He grew fretful and did not eat or sleep, pacing around his throne. Eventually, without conferring with me, he went to Richard and promised young Henry’s immediate release. He also promised he would speak to Earl Simon, and as a token of good faith advise Edmund to hand over Dover castle to de Montfort’s waiting men.
I went mad with anger; never had I been so furious with the King. “What is wrong with you, Henry? Have you gone mad?” I shouted, uncaring that I sounded like some riverside fishwife. “We held Dover—the port! Edward is still in charge at Windsor. There was no reason to capitulate! None!”
“I am afraid, Eleanor.” At one time Henry would have been angry at my outburst. Now, in the wake of his recent illness, he seemed timid and meek, crouched down before me like an old greybeard. “London is hostile; our enemies are encircling the Tower, cutting us off….”
“And what of it, husband?” I flashed. “This is the Tower of London. The mightiest fortress in the land! We have adequate supplies—we could hold out here for a year or more should our foes besiege us!”
Henry hung his head, wiping at his brow with a shaking hand. “I can bear this conflict no more, Eleanor. This horrible stalemate. I will speak truth to you. Not only have I released Henry of Almain and relieved Edmund of his duties in Dover…I have agreed to abide by the Provisions of Oxford once again. I know you will not be pleased, but I truly believe it is the only sensible thing to do. I…I do not want to end up as my sire did.”
“You are mad!” I flushed hot and then cold. “You are handing your own kingdom away. Our son Edward’s birthright. Ah, I cannot bear this folly….”
I stormed to the nearest window, stared out. Below me, the castle bailey was heaving with soldiers; further afield, past the jut of the huge walls, the citizens of London looked like a milling hive of ants. The hot July air shimmered, and stink rose from the sluggish, sunken Thames. July, hateful month, ruled by the pestilence-bearing lion and the scorching dog-star!
I felt like a captive animal myself…and that is when I reached an important decision. I could not stay here with Henry. I had to leave. Now. This very moment.
“I am going,” I said abruptly, whirling away from the window embrasure.
“Going? Going where?” Henry looked alarmed now. He clutched at my hanging sleeve; I snatched my arm away as if I could not bear for him to touch me. In that moment, I could not.
“Away from here. To Edward in Windsor. To someone who will fight for his own country and not be cowed like a timid shee
p!”
Henry’s eyes flared with anger. “How dare you insult me, wife! You have gone too far yet again! I am the King!”
“Are you?” I said, with insolence. “I wonder.”
Henry sputtered with rage, banged his curled fist against the wall. A tapestry fell, curling to the floor; he cursed and clutched his wounded hand, knuckles bleeding. “If you leave now, Eleanor, do not expect the gates to be opened again for you if you do not like what lies beyond.”
“If that is your will, so be it,” I said. “I will be on my way.”
“God curse you, Eleanor!” he screamed at me, more impassioned that I had seen him in years, and although the thought of any curse made a little ripple of fear dance up my spine, I was not going to be dissuaded from my path.
I left the King’s chamber and called for my ladies-in-waiting to bring me my travelling clothes. I was going to my brave son in Windsor. To tell him to hold against de Montfort no matter what his father said or did.
At twilight I went down to the Watergate. The last vestiges of faded sunlight glimmered on the sucking, slopping waters of the Thames and the air was full of the squawks of milling seagulls. Carefully, my gown lifted by the two women I’d chosen to attend me, my younger damsels Roberga and Christiana, I alighted onto a small and, I hoped, innocuous barge.
Pulling away under the portcullis in the mouth of the gate, the craft slipped out into the turgid flow of the great river, the rancorous lifeblood of London.
At first, the journey was uneventful. The sun died behind the spires on the skyline and the heavens turned violet, speckled with stars like rows of glittering eyes. Fires appeared on the riverbanks, where men had gathered; London, men said, never slept.
Ahead, the dark bulk of London Bridge reared through the deepening gloom. At its terminals, the severed heads of traitors and miscreants reared on pikes, silhouetted horribly against the darkling sky. Gulls were still wheeling about them, pecking off strips of flesh. Beyond the heads, the shops that lined the bridge’s long span were shuttered for the night, locked against thieves and rogues, but I could see torches flickering at their feet. Dozens of people were wandering about on the bridge, passing hither and thither fitfully. Their voices were a dull roar, mingling with the churning of the river.
The barge sailed onwards, gliding toward the bridge’s central arch. Growing increasingly uneasy, I sat in silence, staring upwards. Too many people above… Had word got out that I had fled the Tower? Had someone turned their coat and betrayed me to the Londoners, who were never my friends and ever eager for my downfall?
A sudden shout from above confirmed my worst fears. “There she is, the foreign harridan! Show her what we think of her!”
The torches bobbed and dipped as the hordes on London Bridge swarmed to the railings. They heaved and clambered on the stonework, roaring menacingly. A missile flew, striking the water before the barge. Another followed it, this time landing on the barge itself. Horse dung sprayed all over us, and Roberga and Christiana squirmed and shrieked.
The barge sailed closer to the arch, the master determined to pick up speed and get us out of the bridge’s ominous shadow. Stones and ordure rained down, rotten fruit tumbled through the air. A dead cat flew by, struck the barge, bounced off and went spinning away on the swell.
The onslaught grew stronger, more frenetic; the falling objects became larger and more deadly. A thrown chamber pot struck one of the crew upon the shoulder; he fell with a scream, his arm shattered by the impact.
We were so close to our assailants now, I could see their hostile, fire-lit faces, distorted by hatred, the countenances of monsters. And I could hear the words they shouted, “Get the ladders! Get her as she comes through on the other side. We’ll make the bitch pay for her crimes against us!”
The barge’s master heard the threatening words too; sweat ran down his pallid face. “Highness, I dare not go forward!” he said to me with urgency. “They will drop down upon us from the other side of the bridge and we will be lost. I cannot risk it. We must go back or perish.”
I knew he spoke truth. Above us, the railing was black with the twined bodies of angry men. Stones were still falling, rocking the barge. I wondered how long before arrows might sail down to strike us.
“Yes, yes, you are right,” I said. “We must return to the Tower at once.”
Relieved, the captain hollered at his men to reverse and row as fast and hard as they might. The crowds on the bridge, seeing that their prey was making to escape, began to scream and surge forward, many of them almost falling into the river in their eagerness for vengeance. Torches were flung, tails of fire burning the sky, before they were extinguished in the muddy water.
Suddenly a small boat appeared, rowed swiftly through the gathering gloom. I started with fear, thinking my enemies had come upon me but then recognised the fur-lined red gown, hat and chain of office of the Mayor of London. He stared up at the seething mob on London Bridge and raised his hand on high. “Halt!” he cried in a booming voice. “Cease this outrageous folly! I demand it!”
The crowd paused, surprised to see the Mayor below, and at that instant, a contingent of the Mayor’s soldiers rushed onto the bridge with naked swords in hand. Fighting began as rioters sparred with the Mayor’s guards.
The Mayor climbed from his small craft onto the barge, surrounded by armed soldiers. “I am Sir Thomas FitzThomas, your Grace. I will take you under my protection,” he told me. “Anyone who comes near you, must come through me first. Rest assured, all who have participated in this foul act will be punished, severely punished.”
The barge began to glide back towards the grey ghost of the Tower, FitzThomas standing before me, hiding me from the view of any miscreant who might be watching from the riverbank.
Before long, we saw the portcullis of the Watergate. It was down, the murky waters making slapping sounds as they sucked at the rusting metal.
“Open the way!” the barge master shouted up angrily at the unlit tower windows. “We return with the Queen!”
No answer came from within the turrets that flanked the gate, though there were pale lights burning within. Someone was on guard; there always was.
The captain held out his hands in helpless fury.
My own anger kindled to life. Standing up, I shouted with all my strength, “Guard! Ignore me at your peril. It is, I, Eleanor, by Grace of God Queen of England. Open at once to me. Our party has been sore abused this night and we seek safety!”
A helmeted head appeared over the parapet. “Your Grace, forgive me, but I am under strict orders not to open the gate. To anyone.”
“Are you mad, fellow? I am the Queen!”
The guard’s voice was trembling. “His Grace sent word that no one was to be allowed inside the Tower after dark. Even Her Grace the Queen.”
I stood trembling, in shock. My ladies-in-waiting began renewed weeping and the bargemen looked stunned.
Sir Thomas, bless him for his compassion and cool head, took control of the situation. He held out a hand to me. “Your Grace, do not despair. I promised to see you to safety. I mean to hold true to that. We will moor the barge on the riverside and I will personally take you to the Bishop of London’s home.”
Silently I nodded my assent and the barge rocked off to a small dock further down the river, where we disembarked. Shocked into silence by my husband’s callousness, I let myself be guided by Mayor FitzThomas to Fulham Palace, where the old ailing Bishop lay on his deathbed. As the Palace gates clanged behind me, I wondered if I would ever come out safe and sound, caught here with a dying man and with hostile foes in the streets around me.
Not a week had passed before Simon de Montfort arrived in London, to hysterical cheering and celebrations from his followers. England was his.
We had lost.
Henry sent a company of armed guards for me; they straggled into the gates under a bombardment of abuse from the hostile Londoners. In silence, I took up my meagre chest of clothes, and went wit
h them. “Where am I being taken?” I asked the captain of the guards dully as we marched away from the Bishop’s abode. My husband’s device gleamed on his surcoat, but Jesu knows I would not have been surprised if Heny was sending me to imprisonment or other punishment after our bitter quarrel.
“Westminster, your Grace,” the man replied, but he would not meet my eyes.
Surprised, I raised my brows. “Indeed? With Simon de Montfort at the helm of government in England?”
The man cleared his throat. “I have heard the Earl is permitting you and his Grace the King to reside there.”
A cold sensation ran down my spine. We would be as good as prisoners, even if not confined in some sour dungeon! Sure enough, when my party reached the Palace I saw, instead of our men, the soldiers of de Montfort ringing the building. Hundreds upon hundreds of them, mailed and heavily armed. Together the King and I were permitted to take up residence in Westminster Palace, under watchful scrutiny.
As I entered the hall, the first sight I saw was Simon’s banner, blazoned Per pale indented argent and gules. Bile scored my throat. “Your Grace…” Henry’s steward swept up to me, looking haggard and worn.
“Get away from me, man,” I said bitterly. “If you mean to take me to the King, I do not wish to see him! Take me to my quarters.”
Still angry at being barred from the Tower while in peril for my life, I would not speak to my husband, had no desire to see his face.
However, finally, the coldness in my heart thawed, and I went to him, dressed simply, my anger suddenly turning to sorrow. Henry looked as miserable as I, and in a fit of remorse, I ran to him and wept bitterly upon his gold-clad knee. “Henry, Henry…I cannot bear how it has gone wrong between us!”
I felt his hand touch my hair. “I cannot bear it either, Eleanor.”
MY FAIR LADY: A Story of Eleanor of Provence, Henry III's Lost Queen Page 20