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

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MY FAIR LADY: A Story of Eleanor of Provence, Henry III's Lost Queen Page 21

by J. P. Reedman


  I rubbed my damp eyes. “How could you have treated me so, barred my entrance to the Tower? I might have been killed.”

  “I did not know there were rioters and ruffians waiting or I never would have refused your entrance. But wife, it was your stubbornness that caused that dreadful situation. I told you not to go. Do not defy me in such a manner again. It never ends well.”

  “I will not,” I promised—and I meant it. Never did I wish to undergo the terrible feelings I had experienced that night when I left the Tower. I was sure Henry had tired of me, and would shrug as the ravening mob took its revenge. Thanks be to God on high, I was wrong, so wrong.

  That night the King and Queen shared the same bedchamber.

  Several days later, Simon de Montfort summoned the barons to a great council. One of his chief supporters was given the Great Seal, and authorised to use it in Henry’s name, without conferring with the King. Worst of all, the seal was used almost immediately to summon Henry’s forces to attack Windsor, where Edward still held control.

  “It is monstrous, Eleanor!” Henry cried, almost purple in the face with rage. “Using the Seal thus, it makes it look as if I make war against my own son! What will become of us? What will become of Edward?”

  Seeing how the cards had fallen, Edward was furious but wise enough to know that resistance would only bring needless bloodshed. He could not win against such overwhelming odds, having only a small party of mercenaries with him. With heavy heart, he surrendered the castle, and sent his army back overseas.

  I refused to be beaten. I sent secret missives to Marguerite, and Louis contacted Henry on the sly. The King of France soon found a way to ease our woes and get us all out of England. When we agreed to the Treaty of Paris, this made Gascony a fiefdom of France. As Henry held Gascony, Louis could summon him to court at any time. And so he did, commanding us to come to Boulogne in September.

  Simon had no option but to let us go. He was angry but he had no choice. What he did to instead of trying to stop us was decide to accompany us on the journey. He had been friendly with Louis and Marguerite in the past, and such was the man’s overweening confidence, I dare say he thought he could easily turn them against us.

  He was in for an unpleasant surprise.

  When he entered King Louis’s great hall, the enraged Queen of France confronted him. Glaring, I stood beside her along with my mother, Beatrice, who began to berate him for all he had done. “You have shamed your King and shamed yourself!” she admonished. “You think men look up to you? No, most now see you only as a would-be usurper!”

  “Madame, it is not so!” De Montfort was flustered, not expecting to be attacked verbally by a woman, especially an older one like my indomitable mother. “I wish only for the King and Queen and their son the Prince to uphold the Provisions of Oxford, which they swore to!”

  “Which the Pope nullified, did he not?” My mother’s eyes narrowed.

  “No, Madame…”

  “Oh Simon…” Marguerite butted in; she was on first name terms with him from past days of greater amity. “We all know that you lied about that. The Pope agreed with Henry about the Oxford Provisions.”

  Simon’s visage was like a brooding thunderhead. “What I do is all for the people of England! They see the land given away to foreigners…”

  “Like you, Simon? Were you not born in France?” said mother lightly.

  Simon ignored her, blustered on, “And not only were lands and castles handed to foreigners and marriages forced on the English nobility, the treasury was spent unwisely on fripperies and frivolous behaviour…such as acquiring worthless foreign crowns!” He stared venomously at me, his dark brows drawn together, attempting to intimidate with his feral stare.

  My supporter, John Mansel, spoke up in great anger, pointing an accusatory finger at de Montfort. “You hypocrite. You confiscated my property, and what did you do with it, Simon, eh? Give it to the church, to the poor? No, you bestowed it on your monstrous brood of sons!”

  Simon’s lips moved; for once, he was speechless and unable to defend himself. He had given Mansel’s lands to his sons; he could not deny it.

  “I will not speak of this any longer,” he huffed, nostrils flaring like those of an angry bull. “I am tired of being chided by angry women and greedy churchmen.”

  Hands clenched, he stalked from the chamber, leaving us all staring at his back.

  I would have laughed had the situation not still been so dire.

  The Provencal women and the church were steadfast against Simon, but King Louis retained some sympathies for his old friend. He insisted that Henry return to England for the October sitting of parliament, as de Montfort ordered that he do. This was ill news for us. We had little time to drum up forces to take on Earl Simon or to convince the French King of the justness of our cause.

  Marguerite and I sat down in private to discuss what I should do next. “Louis still believes in the wisdom of much Simon has to say,” she told me. “I am sorry, Eleanor. But perhaps we can contrive a way between us. Maybe you and Edmund could remain in France, while Henry and Edward fare to England. I am sure de Montfort would be pleased if you were not with the King since he, and so many of the English, seem to think you have an evil influence.”

  “Evil influence!” I snorted. “They just know that I am not biddable and easily cowed, and will not let them sway the King into folly.”

  “So you will stay? We can write to my brother in law Alphonse and see if he has any ships he can lend us. There must be others willing to help too. Mother will assist with her diplomatic shrewdness; she has obtained many contacts over the years.”

  Grimly I nodded. “I will stay in Paris. And I will raise an army. I think there is no other way, Marguerite. Earl Simon has caused gross offence to my family and to me personally. I want him defeated utterly. I dare say…I want him dead.”

  Henry returned to England. I had convinced Edward to work on his father, encouraging him to face down de Montfort and reject his unacceptable terms. At the October parliament, when chaos descended in the council chamber and Simon thundered that the Oxford provisions must be observed, no matter what, Henry and Edward leapt up in wrath and pushed their way out into the night and freedom.

  Like a pair of furies, they rode madly for Windsor, with supporters joining them along the road. Edward had recently mollified some of the Welsh barons, and, thankfully, Richard’s son, Henry of Almain, decided to abandon de Montfort’s cause and join again with the King and Prince of Wales. His defection was as sweet as angelic music to my ears. It would be a hard blow to the Earl, and whispers said he was shocked and grieved to the very core—apparently, when young Henry had promised he would never bear arms against Simon, despite his renewed support for the crown, Simon had bitterly told him, “I cared not for your arms, but for the loyalty I thought you bore me. Go, and take your arms with you. I fear neither them nor you.”

  I laughed to hear the news, while sipping celebratory wine with Marguerite and mother, and tried to imagine Simon’s face as Henry of Almain walked away, his enemy…and now our friend. The confident and arrogant Earl would, I hoped, he shaken to the core by the young lord’s defection.

  Something must have touched him for the first time…fear? Uncertainty? As summer stretched into winter, de Montfort suddenly contacted King Louis asking him to arbitrate between him and my husband one more time. He swore on the Rood he would abide by whatever Louis decided.

  “I will speak to my husband, the King of France.” Margaret came to visit me in the solar. It was a sullen, dark day, the torches barely casting light about the room, their flickering flames sending sooty smudges up the painted walls. “I cannot promise he will listen to me, and he once called himself Simon’s friend, but he may.”

  “Do your best, my dearest sister,” I laid down the tapestry I had been working on. “I know you will.”

  By January, King Louis had made a decision. Henry had come to France to witness the ruling, and we rode to A
miens with trepidation to learn the hand fate had dealt us. Simon had remained in England, God be praised—his high-tempered stallion had thrown him and he had broken his leg, making him unfit to travel.

  “God is good, God is kind,” Edmund sniggered upon hearing the news of de Montfort’s injury. “We won’t have to put up with the presence of that pompous traitor!”

  Nervously we gathered in front of Louis’ throne. Servants brought a parchment roll to the King, and he unrolled it and read aloud, his voice carrying down the hall:

  “…by our ordinance we invalidate the Provisions of Oxford, and that which has arisen because of them. It is apparent that the Pope already declared them null and void, and we agree that Henry, King of England, and all others who agreed to take the oath to observe the Provisions, should be entirely free from observing them.”

  As he spoke the words, I could have danced for joy, but restrained myself as a Queen should. We had won, snatching our rightful positions back! Simon de Montfort had lost utterly; his cause was in ruins.

  Later, I heard a wicked tongued chronicler claim that it was I who led Louis astray and made him find against Simon; he called me ‘a serpent-like-fraud.” Nonsense, of course; I had no special influence over King Louis.

  I was not the serpent. That had been Simon, pretending to fight for the common man whilst pilfering John Mansel’s lands, Simon who lied about the Pope nullifying the provisions, when his Holiness had done no such thing. Louis had seen the truth and made a fair ruling in order to bring peace.

  But it was not to be.

  God help us.

  The French King’s peace brought us war.

  Simon was in shock…and then his men erupted in fury. “We will not accept the judgment of a foreigner!” they roared.

  Armed soldiers marched through the towns of England and the Cinque Ports fortified themselves against the return of their rightful King. London barricaded itself against Henry’s arrival and the citizens, including the justiciar Hugh le Depenser, sacked Richard’s manor at Isleworth. Wales burned by the hand of Llewellyn. The young men who followed Simon also began to show their true colours. De Montfort could not hold them back. Looting and burning began. Fields were laid waste and cattle carried off. Churches were torched and pillaged, even though de Montfort had vowed to execute any man found plundering a sacred place. Even peasants were not left unharmed; their hovels raided even to the straw of their miserable beds.

  Despite his growing age and lack of martial prowess, Henry was unusually stalwart in the face of such unrest. Edward was firmly at his right hand, a solid shield whose determination and fervour was infectious. In February, they sailed, despite Dover being shut to them, leaving Uncle Peter and me under instructions to muster any forces we could. Henry had also given me permission to sell the crown jewels, if necessary, in order to hire mercenaries and ships.

  At first, I kept my mind occupied by writing to our potential supporters, cajoling and bartering. I emptied my thoughts of what might be taking place in England. But once the forces were gathered and armies began to move, I was left in a frustrating position—I was far across the sea, and could only wait for news, good or ill.

  The first tidings that came filled my heart with gladness. Henry and Edward had ridden from their headquarters at Oxford to the town of Northampton. Simon de Montfort’s son was within and the gates barred against the King, but the Abbot of the Prior of St Andrews, never entirely loyal to the Earl, breached the town walls and allowed the King’s army to travel over the priory’s lands.

  The castle was not far away, standing like a stone giant beside the river Nene. The garrison rose to its defence, but the hotheaded Simon de Montfort the younger lost it for his father’s supporters. Filled with battle fury, he had the portcullis raised and launched an assault—his charge was so wild that he lost his footing and fell headlong into the stinking town ditch! He was taken captive and his men, seeing the hopelessness of the situation, all surrendered. While they were put in chains, Henry’s men sacked the town.

  “It will surely only be a matter of time,” I said to Uncle Peter. “When men see how easily Northampton fell, they will turn from Simon back to the King. They will know we will not be beaten.”

  Uncle Peter patted my hand; he looked weary, old. “I pray so, dear…but this trial is not over yet. Pray, Eleanor; it is the best thing we can do.”

  May. Blossom scent hung in the air, fresh in the morning. I walked in the Parisian garden, informally attired, just enjoying the tranquillity of the place, just as I had enjoyed my gardens at Winchester, Windsor and Clarendon. On such a sunny morn, it was easy to forget the troubles in the world outside.

  Suddenly I heard noises; voices raised. It was too early in the morning. Tension rose in my belly in a great wave. Could it be news from England? It had to be!

  Feet were clattering in the corridors that led to the garden door. Framed by the light of the burgeoning sun, I stood, a statue, as Uncle Peter approached me with an unknown man dressed in the King’s livery. The stranger’s hair was like thatching, his face scratched and bruised. His clothing bore tears and bloodstains.

  “Your Grace.” He fell on his knees before me.

  I glanced at Peter, suspicious, alarmed. “He is a messenger. I know of him. His goes by Roger of Abingdon. He is trustworthy.”

  “What has happened?” I asked, knowing instinctively the answer would not be the one I desired to hear. Bitter bile burned the back of my throat and for a moment, my head spun.

  “A battle had taken place at the town of Lewes, in Sussex,” said the messenger, Roger. “Nigh on three thousand men lay dead upon the field.”

  “And my husband and son?” I could feel blood drain from my face; my hands were shaking.

  “Alive….but they are taken. Simon De Montfort now holds England as if he were its king.”

  I fainted dead away.

  After I had recovered from the shock of the evil news, I had the messenger brought into the hall and, remembering courtesy, saw that he was fed and given drink, and had water to lave his hands and face.

  Remarkably composed despite the situation, I sat down in a seat of estate and gestured to the man. “Now that you have supped, you must tell me all about this battle. Tell it to me as a storyteller might, so that I can envision what befell my lord the King. Have you that skill, Roger of Abingdon? ”

  “I…I do not know, your Grace,” Roger stammered, “but I swear I will try my best.” Taking a deep breath, he began to tell the tale—at first haltingly and then with greater strength as his confidence started to grow.

  “After the King’s victory at Northampton, Simon de Montfort made to draw his Highness away from the middle shires. Jews were murdered in London—men, women, babes in arms. Simon attacked Rochester, burning the wooden bridge by the use of fire-ships. The castle held against the invaders so instead they stormed the cathedral, those sacrilegious beasts, stabling their horses in the cloisters. De Montfort could or would not halt them. The King marched to Rochester’s aid and Simon moved on. His Grace pursued, faring from Tonbridge to Battle and Herstmonceaux. Here, he caught up with the forces of Simon de Montfort.

  “The battle began shortly after dawn. Earl Simon crept through the forest around the town of Lewes with a rabble of men, some of whom he had pressed into service in London. He was mightily fearful of the greater numbers following the King and needed more recruits—he even took on young boys who had never fought before. He charmed them with talk of high deeds; assuming the nobility of a king or duke, he knighted them on Offham Hill where he had camped for the night.”

  “And Henry’s men? Where were they at this time?”

  Roger of Abingdon bowed his shaggy head. “Alas, Highness, the King’s men had grown overconfident after their victory in Northampton. They had lazed in their own encampment all evening, drinking until their heads were pounding and their limbs heavy. It was the Feast of St Pancras and the monks of the nearby abbey, deeply disturbed by their raucous beh
aviour, cast curses on them.”

  I groaned, angry at the folly of men.

  “Lord Edward acted decisively though, your Grace,” Roger told me eagerly, seeing my dismay at hearing of the dissolute actions of the army. “He rose from his battle couch, donned his armour at once, and rode out with banner flying to meet the front lines of de Montfort’s host. Earl Simon had ordered his unruly London rabble to go in first; they stormed over the hill like a bunch of scarecrows, clad in useless, outmoded armour and bearing rusted weapons! De Montfort had given them tabards with crosses on the breast like crusaders, but they were more like foolish children at play, being both undisciplined and untrained!”

  “What happened then?” I could not believe such a pitiful-sounding force could have overcome Edward.

  Roger gave a harsh laugh. “They saw the horses waiting to charge…they saw the banner of the Prince of Wales…they saw the Lord Edward on his courser, taller than all other men, with his great sword naked in his hand and flashing in the red dawn light. They ran for their lives!”

  For a moment, I laughed too, imagining the terror that my tall, proud, war-like son must have struck into them by his appearance alone. Then I remembered…he had lost. “What went wrong? It must have been something terrible. Tell me.”

  Roger stared at the toes of his boots; so worn his big toe was poking through the aged leather on one. I would see he was supplied with new boots for his good service. “The Lord Edward went after the Londoners. He should have let them go, let the rats flee back to their holes. But he wanted to destroy them, to grind their bones into the dust. He cried aloud to any who listened that he would destroy them for the threats they made towards you at London Bridge. He galloped after the Londoners, intent on their deaths, and his men ended up spread out for miles across Sussex.”

  Feeling suddenly weak and giddy, I placed my head in my hands. Edward had abandoned the field, leaving his father and Richard of Cornwall to lead the battle. They were both growing old, and Richard seemed to have lost his taste for warfare after going on his last crusade. Worse, Edward had gone on this rampage because he thought he was avenging me. I did not care about my treatment by the accursed Londoners; God would punish them! No matter what was in the past, Edward should have stayed near his father during the battle…

 

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