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

by J. P. Reedman

  “At first, when he stumbled over de Montfort’s baggage train, we thought the Lord Edward’s charge might have been a good thing after all. Earl Simon, still limping from his broken leg, was rumoured to be riding in a chariot with the baggage. Edward doubtless hoped to meet him there and capture him…but he was gone. Three fat London burghers were bound in the cart instead of the Earl; they were prisoners, who had apparently been caught by Simon’s allies whispering about selling secrets. None knows if that tale was true or not. The burghers did not have chance to speak. In his rage at de Montfort’s absence, Lord Edward slew them, along with most of the men in the train.”

  I brushed aside the account of my son’s violence. He was a warrior. Even as a young boy, he sometimes showed excess cruelty.“What of the King? How did he fare? And his brother, Earl Richard?”

  “His Highness fought like a lion, Lady, against the might of the young Earl of Gloucester, Gilbert de Clare. Two horses were slain beneath him, yet he was not deterred. The King of the Romans, however…” he hesitated, flushed.

  “Yes, what is it? What of Richard of Cornwall?”

  “He lost his nerve entirely in the face of de Montfort’s advance. He abandoned his men to their fates and was later found hiding in a nearby windmill!”

  “For shame…” I hid my face again. To think, Richard had once been idealised in my youthful mind! No warrior was he…he was a fraud.

  “When they caught him, de Montfort’s men called him ‘the wicked miller’ and abused him with many taunts,” Roger continued. “In the meantime, the King’s division was pushed back into Lewes and fighting took place in the town’s streets. Blood swirled in the gutters and fiery arrows shot by Simon de Montfort’s archers set the roofs of the houses aflame. Eventually the King was driven back into the gateway of the abbey…and there the enemy took him. His bodyguard fought well, keeping him from harm and defending his body with the might of their arms…Sir Phillip Bassett took twenty wounds to protect his lord.”

  I cast down my eyes, sorrowing. “Poor Phillip. I know him well. Always loyal. If he should survive, he will be well rewarded.”

  “Richard of Cornwall was marched down the street by his captors, all white from the flour in the mill. Men continued to jeer at him, laughing at his appearance and at his title ‘King of the Romans’. He was dragged into the priory to be imprisoned along with the King.”

  “And how did they take Edward, my indomitable son?” I was nearly weeping now, trying to hold my emotions in check.

  “When he could not find Simon in the baggage train, Lord Edward eventually rode back to the battlefield. I believe he expected to see victory, for the King’s forces far outnumbered de Montfort’s. Instead, he saw ruin and death, the town burning and his father’s army scattered. He attacked his foes like a madman, trying to hew his way into the priory where his father was held, but then de Montfort’s men overwhelmed him, dragged him from his steed, and bound his limbs with chains. He was made a prisoner alongside Henry.”

  “At least he is unharmed,” I choked, tears sliding down my cheers. “By Christ, there will be a terrible vengeance for all that has befallen at Lewes.”

  Then I steeled myself, wiped the tears from my face. “Thank you for your tidings, messenger. You are dismissed. I now have much to do. I will prepare to fight…to free my husband and son.”

  The crown jewels were first to go. They brought in a thousand pounds. Mercenaries were promptly hired from all across Europe. Marguerite and Louis stood behind me as I appealed to the Pope to bear upon de Montfort to release Henry and Edward. A papal legate was sent to confer with Earl Simon; with his arrival, came the very real threat of Simon’s excommunication.

  I chaffed at the bit like a wild horse, tired of waiting, of talking, of useless, endless negotiations. I wanted only to invade. I was even willing to put aside my differences with Henry’s half-brothers, the Lusignans, who had escaped the aftermath of the terrible battle. They were, if nothing else, doughty warriors.

  Stalwartly, I contacted Uncle Gaston de Bearn, that fickle, martial man who loved war more than women or wealth, and with sweet words and promises convinced him to join my cause. Edward’s knights in Gascony were ordered to remember the service own to their lord and gather in the Low Countries, ready to disembark for England when called for. Mother travelled to Savoy and rallied troops there, while Uncle Peter financed their pay.

  “There will fight for you, Eleanor,” he told me. “Your army will be huge, unstoppable. And you will lead them. You will be like a Queen from old legend, riding before the troops on a white horse, inspiring them to victory.”

  I hoped it would be true. I was desperate and my desperation had given me the stomach to ride forth, in armour like a man, if the need was there.

  But it never happened.

  The papal legate sternly counselled me against war; he wanted a peaceful resolution and I was afraid to fall from his favour by opposing his will.

  But the main opposition was not from the Pope, it came from…Henry. Yes, my imprisoned husband Henry, King of England. He wrote to Louis, frantically begging him to stop my efforts as quickly as he might. He was convinced that should I proceed with an invasion, his life, and that of Edward, might be in peril.

  I had to think hard on his words; there was a chance he might be right. Simon could not be trusted; he could well react with violence if pushed. But how could I leave Henry and Edward imprisoned?

  Even though I am a woman, I have always acted decisively. If my mind were made up to follow a certain course, I would never waver in my aims. Here, I had to stall, my mind in turmoil, the choices before me great and dangerous. For the first time in my life, I was wavering in my plans, uncertain as to what would be the correct move.

  If I won, de Montfort and his allies might execute the royal hostages before my forces could reach them and free them.

  If I lost, de Montfort probably would kill them anyway, to teach me a lesson, and I might join them in death…or worse.

  I hesitated, waiting for a sign…from where I knew not. God? It seemed he had abandoned my family. I watched the skies by day, by night, seeking if not heavenly assurance, some sort of omen. The skies were ordinary, still.

  Months drifted by, long, lingering, painful to bear. I knew my chance was drifting by too, but I could not bring myself to give the orders for the invasion of England to commence. In Canterbury, the King and Edward had been forced to swear loyalty to the Government. When Henry protested at some of the terms, Earl Simon had openly snarled at him that he would do as he was bidden if he wished to hold onto his crown. De Montfort was threatening to depose him, perhaps even to murder him. Henry hastily acquiesced, and Edward did the same grudgingly.

  Unable to make any headway in all this madness, confounded by Simon’s stubbornness, the papal legate excommunicated the Earl then hastily returned to Rome to report his actions to the Pope. I was left with even less guidance than before.

  My army started to drift away. Winter was hurling in and the tides were turning. Soon it would be dangerous to sail, but my problems were worse than a perilous journey…I no longer had money to pay the mercenaries.

  They abandoned me and returned to their homes, first just one or two at a time, then a vast flood. I was left alone in France, for the first time ever without any plans at all.

  I could only listen to the rumours and tales the spies brought. De Montfort had used Henry’s Great Seal to bring in his beloved Oxford Provisions once more and expand them. Foreigners were barred from holding office and chased from their lands; such hypocrisy coming as they did from a Frenchman! The King was apparently treated well enough—fed, clothed and bathed—as the Earl towed him around the country, never out of his keen gaze. This vile display was ostensibly to show the people that the King was unharmed, but to any of intellect, it was clear it was to show his impotence, that his true powers were stripped from him. Henry was dangled before the populace like a puppet, impotent, toothless. Sing, Henry, Smile
, Henry. Pass a new law, Henry…

  From my sources, I learned that Edward, along with Richard of Cornwall and Henry of Almain, had been imprisoned in Richard’s former castle of Wallingford in Oxfordshire. Poor young Edmund, my sister Sanchia’s boy, was trapped there with them. They had their material needs met but were not allowed to wander outside the fortress, even in the bailey; the windows were barred and the gates permanently shut.

  Edward was in the keeping of one of Simons’s son, Henry de Montfort, an ardent youth who took his assignment of guarding the prisoner rather too seriously. He made himself deeply annoying to Edward, with whom he had once been close, following him whenever he walked down the hall, watching him as he ate his meals, checking on him as he slept, even trundling behind him when he used the castle privy. Edward was fuming over the indignity of it and half wanted to strangle him, cousin though Henry de Montfort was through my one-time friend Nell, but he dared not raise a hand or even a protest lest he risk his own or his father’s life.

  The messenger—Roger again—who told me the tales of my son’s incarceration tapped his nose slyly, however. “I would not worry too much, your Grace. Not everyone is happy with de Montfort’s enforced rule, or with seeing the young prince, God bless him, in captivity. There are rumours that supporters of the crown are going to try to break Lord Edward out of Wallingford.”

  “Really?” I could have kissed the man…save that he was sweaty from the road and smelled none too sweet. “Where are they gathered? Who are they? I must get a message to them.”

  “I daren’t tell you, Highness, I am sworn not to say anything…to anyone,” Roger said ruefully. “But I can tell you this; at the moment, they gather in Bristol. I can take a message if you wish, your Grace. I know who to look up.”

  “Yes, yes, please do; you will have my eternal gratitude.” I summoned a scribe, but took quill and parchment myself, sending the man away so that none would know my words. Hastily, I penned a note to the would-be rescuers of my son, commending them for their fidelity and bravery and telling them what I knew of the state of Wallingford castle. The walls of inferior thickness, and there were surprisingly few guards, considering the important prisoners held within; perhaps de Montfort thought his newly placed bars and gates would keep his prisoners secure. Or perhaps in his overbearing arrogance, he merely imagined that no one in England would dare try to break his highborn prisoner out.

  I watched as Roger departed, my message concealed within his jerkin, and hoped for a miracle. As he vanished on his horse into the distance, a cloud fell across the sun. Shivering, I turned away.

  Bad news came again. Roger of Abingdon was back in France, leaner and more wayworn than ever. “I am so sorry, your Grace,” he said, hanging his head. “I bear evil tidings once more. The rescue attempt failed.”

  “Tell me.” My voice was a crow’s croak through strained throat muscles.

  “Edward’s followers rode from Bristol in the dead of night, under a dark moon. They slept by day, travelled the roads after dark. At length they reached Wallingford castle, and as you described, Sovereign Lady, found it poorly manned and with weak walls. After the moon had set and all lay in complete darkness, they made their attack, valiantly ripping down part of the curtain wall and storming the inner bailey. Men fell before their onslaught, and it looked as though they might be victorious and free the prince but then…” He shook his head, knotted his grimy hands in sorrow. “Then the Lord Edward’s gaolers hauled the prince to the top of the keep, dragging him to the edge of the parapet with a dagger held to his throat. They shouted down to the rescuers that they would fasten him to a mangonel and catapult him over the walls if the attackers came any closer.”

  I groaned in misery. What a terrible threat! “What happened to my son the Prince after that? Can you tell me, good Roger?”

  Roger nodded. “De Montfort moved him, first to Kenilworth and then Hereford. Farther away from centres of rebellion.”

  I sat still, my hand pressed to my cheek. “Well, at least I was justified in not bringing a huge army to England. My fears would have proved true; they would have murdered him.”

  “Aye, your Grace, I deem you right. They are desperate men. And may become yet more desperate.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Roger glanced up suddenly, with a gap-toothed grin. “No all my tidings are dire. There is fracture in de Montfort’s party. Not all are happy with his rule, And then there is…Gilbert de Clare.”

  “Gloucester? What about him? Is he not de Montfort’s man? Didn’t he take Henry of Almain and Earl Richard prisoner at Lewes?”

  “He did, your Grace but they have since had a falling out. Earl Simon has not abided by the old rules of warfare. All of Earl Richard’s lands should, if custom were followed, go to de Clare. Earl Simon took them for himself. Same with the captives; they should have been placed in Gilbert’s charge and their ransoms paid to him. But, no, Simon has hold of them and any monies paid will fill his coffers. It caused a great row, and de Clare had now fled to join the Welsh lords of the March. De Clare is a powerful man, and influential; this is a great blow for Simon de Montfort. He had learned that not everyone loves what he has done…especially when their own interests are ignored.”

  It was time for me to do something. A full-scale invasion was impossible and dangerous but something smaller scale was not impossible. Taking horse, I headed to Gascony where I raised a force of men in Edward’s name. William of Valence brought men too; for the first time, I could have greeted that Lusignan with joy. Louis gave safe passage to all the soldiers and they sailed—not for England but for Wales. Once there, they met with Gilbert de Clare, who was now openly protesting against de Montfort’s rule, and with all the Welsh lords who remained loyal to Edward.

  Things were moving, but I, still trapped on foreign shores, could only wait. I grew thin with worry, could not settle to womanly arts, which seemed pitiful and meaningless, a waste of my time.

  I thought only of battle, and of revenge.

  Edward had escaped his captors.

  At last, God had smiled on us after long troubles. The tidings poured over the Channel, reaching eager ears all over France, Provence and Savoy.

  Edward had been imprisoned in Hereford, Henry de Montfort still sniffing behind him like some peevish guard dog, watching his every move. A band of other young de Montfort supporters was also billeted at the castle; one man amongst them was Thomas de Clare, the younger brother of Gloucester. A persuasive secret message had arrived for him from Gilbert, and on an impulse, he decided to turn his coat and join his brother’s cause.

  Decision made, Thomas bravely carried a message to Edward, telling him that my men and de Valence’s had arrived in Wales and that his own brother had defected from Earl Simon’s cause. Along with this message, he also brought a letter from Maud Mortimer of Wigmore. An ardent support of the King, Lady Maud suggested a ruse in which Edward might gain his freedom.

  Edward decided to attempt Maud’s plan, which was simple and yet dangerous should it fail. His gaolers were impatient young men, temperamental and fed up with lounging about a remote castle with little to do. “Come, lads,” he said to them, turning on the charm as he could do at will, “the day is fine and here we sit like withered greybeards! Let us go out of this reeking old castle, and do something amusing. If we do not see to our fitness, soon we will be fat and unable to fight!”

  “What do you propose?” Henry de Montfort asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

  “A race, a race on horses…up to the nearest line of tree, nothing more. Don’t worry, Cousin Henry, I know you are not stupid, I am not going to ask you to close your eyes while I run and hide in a game of Hoodman’s Blind!”

  The other youths had roared with laughter.

  “I do not know about this plan. My father might not approve.” Henry was still uncertain.

  “ ‘My father might not approve’!” Edward mocked. “God help us, how old are you, Henry? Ten? Or are you j
ust afraid of me?”

  Henry made to retort angrily, but the other young men, bored and restless, began to clamour in favour of Edward’s idea. “Come on, Henry! Do not spoil the day! Let us race; we have had enough of moping inside these four stone walls!”

  Grudgingly Henry gave in. “But my eyes will be locked on you,” he warned Edward.

  “First, I must find a decent horse,” said Edward. “You won’t object to that, will you, Henry? You, of course, can try out various horses too, if you wish. And the others.”

  “I have a fine horse already,” retorted Henry. “My father gave it to me. My men here also have swift, strong steeds; I have seen that they are well supplied.”

  “Well, it is only me who needs a horse then,” said Edward, “since mine was stolen from me at Lewes.”

  Seeking the stables, Edward began to test the stamina of various horses, galloping back and forth in the bailey, rejecting this one, that one, clambering onto another, checking the hooves, the mouth. The others joined him, galloping alongside him on their own coursers as he made to decide. “Come on, Edward,” Henry de Montfort sighed. “Choose. You waste the day.”

  Edward’s eyes swept over the horses. “That one then.” He pointed to a sleek bay that danced with nerves and with energy. “I wager that horse will be fastest of them all.”

  “You did not even try that beast!” snorted Henry. “It looks skittish to me.”

  “You didn’t give me the chance to try it! Nonetheless, I like its look best of all; it is the one I will have.”