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

by J. P. Reedman

  “Louis didn’t have me at his side then, did he?” Edward interjected with overweening confidence. He tossed his head arrogantly. “Those foreign dogs shall submit or perish.”

  “What about your wife, your children?” I tried to prick his conscience, make him think about Eleanor of Castile. And of the children they had produced after such a long wait, all still small.

  “That is all decided,” he said. “The children shall remain here, but Eleanor will travel with me. She is as eager to go as I am.”

  I stared at my hands. Henry, silent next to me, looked sick at heart but said nothing.

  “Will you not at least give me your blessing?” Edward’s temper began to rise; he clearly noticed our lack of enthusiasm.

  “I would rather you stayed here and assisted with the running of the realm,” said Henry at length. “I am old, my son, and weakened by the injuries received at Evesham and Lewes…”

  “Both years ago now! You will live, father!” Edward snapped. “I cannot believe you both want me to remain here, frittering away my time in pointless tourneys between dull castles full of dull courtiers, when I could be riding into battle on God’s business! How could you not support my just cause?”

  “I support you!” My heart sank as my second son, Edmund, stepped up to his brother and clasped his hand in amity. Edmund had always been in his brother’s huge, tall shadow; robbed of the crown of Sicily, he was looking to make his own mark in some way.

  Edward clapped his sibling on the shoulder, obviously pleased. “Then we shall do it. Our cousin Henry of Almain is eager to come to the Holy Land too. We shall ride out and make the unrighteous quail before us.”

  Henry and I kept silent. We could not dissuade our hotheaded sons. They were not boys any more, easy to command; they were stern men with wills as hard as the steel they wielded.

  With their companies of knights, they rode for the town Northampton, where, along with Henry of Almain, they took the Cross in the church of All Souls. Then they were on their way to Louis’ Crusade, leaving England and their families behind him.

  Neither of my sons ended up fighting for Louis in the end.

  Disaster befell. The French king sailed to African shores and marched towards the ancient city of Carthage, with its primeval columns jutting out like broken spears from amidst newer fortifications. He camped on the swampy plain outside its sprawling walls, and in the terrible heat of that accursed land, foul humours arose and brought plague and pestilence to his army.

  Jean Tristan, born all those years ago on his sire’s earlier Crusade, sickened and died almost immediately, while the Crown Prince fell ill but fought through. Lords died, retching into the fetid desert soil, common foot soldiers fell and never rose again. Priests collapsed too, prayers shrivelling on dusty, parched lips; even the attending papal legate died, choking in his own bile as the pestilence took hold.

  Louis himself sickened. His bowels and belly heaved. He was weak already and aged; his doctors knew he would not survive. Feeling his demise near, he called for a special bed to be prepared, strewn with grey ash to signify the transience of mortal flesh. His heir Phillip, weak, stumbling and thin as a skeleton from his own sickness, came to kneel at his bedside and be given his blessing and final words about how to be a good King to the people of France.

  Then Louis placed his emaciated hands together, raised his eyes to heaven, and cried, “I will worship in Thy Holy Temple. O Jerusalem! Jerusalem!” And with that, he expired, his body worn beyond mortal endurance by illness, sorrow, and regret.

  Edward and Edmund arrived in Tunisia long after King Louis’ death and found Charles of Anjou in control, and turning the situation with Emir Mohammed to his advantage. The French, glad to abandon the campaign of death and destruction, were already pulling out of the country and making for Sicily.

  Edward, Edmund and Henry of Almain decided to go with them, for they had little other choice…and misfortune chased them like a living entity, with Death firmly towed in hand.

  First, a storm battered all the crusaders’ ships, sinking many even as they reached the shelter of the Sicilian harbour. Isabelle of France’s husband, the Navarrese king Theobald, died in port, overcome by illness. Isabelle herself began the arduous journey home almost right away but succumbed to the rigours of the road shortly after. Isabella, the pretty and heavily pregnant young wife of the new French king, Phillip, also died on the journey back to France. In a mountainous region of Calabria, she was flung from the saddle when her mount stumbled on stony ground and her spine snapped in the fall. She gave birth to a dead child upon her own deathbed.

  Unwilling to have journeyed so far for nothing, Edward decided to continue the crusade despite the bereaved French returning home. He would go to Acre with Edmund. He released Henry of Almain from his service, however, asking him to seek Gascony and tend it in his absence. And it was there, when Henry paused at Viterbo to pray within a church, that Guy and the younger Simon de Montfort, who had joined forces with Charles of Anjou, fell upon their cousin unawares, intent on terrible revenge.

  Before the high altar, while he was on his knees, they stabbed him with long daggers, and his life-blood slid across the tiles, a crimson banner, and fouled all that was holy. Then Guy, the more vicious of the two brothers, grabbed Henry by the hair and dragged his lifeless body from the church, leaving a trail of blood like a beacon to his unforgivable sin, and he threw the body onto the dusty ground and mutilated it horribly in revenge for his father….

  The word of Henry’s murder came to Richard of Cornwall while he was at court. His face turned the colour of driven snow and he clutched at his heart; I thought he would fall and die before our very eyes.

  Wine was brought and the Earl was escorted to a bench. “Oh Christ, no…my son, my son!” he moaned. “How could they kill him with such dishonour? And after young Simon was extricated from Kenilworth, to think I begged for clemency for him! The de Montforts are serpents, murderers, assassins…and defilers of God’s House.”

  Grabbing a nearby vase, he hurled in against the wall; it shattered as his heart had shattered at the news of Henry’s murder. Then, his angry outburst done, he began to weep. “What shall I do? My heir is dead! Henry is dead…”

  “My lord,” I said to him gently, “this is indeed a great tragedy but do not forget, you have another son.”

  “Eh?” Richard gazed up at me blearily, with reddened eyes. It was as if he had forgotten young Edmund, his son with Sanchia, altogether.

  “Edmund,” I said softly, thinking of the pious, good-natured young lad, so like my dead sister in looks and temperament.

  “Oh, yes…yes, Edmund. The boy…” Richard wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “I must go, make arrangements for Henry’s coffin to be brought to England. He will be buried in our church at Hailes, God assoil him.”

  Inconsolable, Richard staggered unsteadily to his chambers, supported by his squires.

  Henry and I could offer no comfort, just hope such a fate did not come to either of our sons, both making their way into the steaming deserts of the Holy Land.

  Henry of Almain was buried in Hailes Abbey in a tomb beside that of Sanchia. A fine alabaster effigy was set atop it; the young man in prayer. Before burial, his heart had been removed and sent to Westminster for special interment there.

  Richard never recovered from the shock of his eldest son’s murder. He fell into melancholy and drank too much, day in and day out. He grew thin and haggard, and his hair whitened. He took another wife, the renowned beauty Beatrice of Falkenburg, which surprised everyone, but his health seemed so poor, I would not be surprised if the union was never properly consummated.

  In December, he attempted to celebrate Christmas with a splendid feast. As the revellers dug in and the entertainment began, he suddenly stopped eating at table and stared dazedly ahead, as if he saw ghosts or visions. He could not move or speak and his mouth drooped; it was as if the right side of his face was candle wax, melting.

  An
apoplectic fit the physics said, brought on by his grief; the ailment the country folk called ‘elf-stroke’ for its awful, sudden devastation to the body.

  He never recovered. Four months later, he passed into the care of God, his final trials over. After his heart was removed and sent to the Oxford Greyfriars, he was buried at Hailes, alongside his beloved son Henry and my poor, gentle sister Sanchia, of so little import in the scheme of things that the people of England even got her name wrong.

  The King was unwell too, his maladies worsened by the death of his brother, whom he loved despite all their quarrels. He was like a great oak with its limbs gradually being lopped off. He never recovered wholly from the injuries taken at Evesham and he walked with a marked limp. He had agues and griping of the bowels and strange aches and pains that made him breathless. He was terrified of renewed rebellion, and for the welfare of both our sons. He wrote to them, in spidery, shaking hand, and begged them to return, “for I am ill, and not like to last much longer, being five and sixty and sore pressed with many griefs.”

  Eventually a letter came from Edward. Short. Abrupt. “I must carry on with what I have sworn to do, lord father. God be with you in your trials, and I pray you kneel at the Confessor’s shrine and ask him that he may assist with mine.”

  Henry cast the terse letter on the fire, bowed over like a willow tree, full of sorrow. “I am an old man, and failing, Eleanor,” he said. “And my own sons hate me.”

  “They do not hate you,” I chided.

  “I need the doctor to be summoned.” Henry pressed his yellow, spotted hand to his belly. “I am unwell, Eleanor…unwell.”

  Henry did not recover. He lay in his bed, drugged with calming droughts, and stared at the gilded ceiling. He was dying, I knew it.

  I tried to keep his condition secret, in fear of uprisings in the kingdom, but servants’ tongues flapped all too often, and soon reports reached me of fighting in the streets, of petty lords building illegal castles and stealing others’ goods and lands.

  As November rolled around, with its harsh, screaming gales and sunless skies, I feared the end for my dear husband was near. We were at Westminster, and outside the Palace the Londoners rioted, burning our effigies in the streets, bursting with wrath because of the strictures we had placed upon them long ago. I dared not show my face nor move to quell the troubles lest I inflame them more. I could not risk another London Bridge.

  The priests gathered round the King, ready to give final unction. Barons clustered in the halls, awaiting the passing of their monarch in strained silence. Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, was foremost amongst them, and surprisingly kind; upon bended knee, he swore to uphold Henry’s last wishes and to help quell the unrest in the realm when he is gone.

  Soon it would be time for me to leave the room, to leave my husband of so many years to the mercy of God.

  Gently I placed my hand on Henry’s clammy brow, gazed into the pallid face and suddenly, as a shaft of light fell through the window casement, it seemed wondrous, as if all his lines and wrinkles were melting away, and he was becoming a young man again.

  “Eleanor…” he whispered, his voice a broken rasp over flaking lips. His eyelids flickered…and then he was gone.

  Outside, beyond the palace precinct, the rioters screamed and howled like demented animals. I could hear glass shattering and women screeching…and then, drowning the ruckus out, the passing bell began to toll, slowly, sadly, endlessly.

  My time as Henry’s Queen was over.

  He was buried in Westminster, that place he loved so and had rebuilt in such splendour. I did not attend, as crowned heads do not attend the funerals of other crowned heads, but I was told of the funeral in detail. First, he was laid in state, wearing a funeral crown and his coronation robes; men poured in to see, and weep, and wonder. Never had Henry looked so magnificent, so kingly; and his quiescent face bore a peace that it had not borne in life, the wrinkles and cares smoothed out in death. Gilbert de Clare attended him, along with John de Warenne and Humphrey de Bohun; as the King was laid to rest, these great magnates all knelt to swear an oath of fealty to Edward, their new King. Edward, first of that name.

  Edward, who was far away, in the blazing heat of Acre, with his brother Edmund at his side.

  Grieving, clad in widow’s weeds, I went to my castle of Windsor and waited for my sons’ return from crusade. I suspected the wait would be long, and I was lonely, although I did have my grandchildren with me at the castle in the royal nursery. After her long delay in conceiving, Eleanor of Castile had produced two living children. There was little Henry, nicknamed Hal, a frail and sickly little boy who was now heir apparent after the loss of another son, John, who died in 1271. I loved him dearly; perhaps he reminded me, sweet and fair and doomed, of my lost daughter Katharine. His sister, pretty clever Eleanor, who we called Leonor, was in residence with him, along with their cousin John, child of my daughter Beatrice of Brittany, who we called by his pet name—Brito.

  The children gave me great joy, and my prayers were answered in one respect—the younger of my sons had returned home, sunburned and sorrowing, but hale. I greeted him with great joy and many tears.

  “I thought I might not see you again, Edmund,” I told him. “So little news came, and after the devastation that overtook the French….I scarcely dared hope you would return unscathed.”

  “God smiled on us, and hopefully will continue to do so on my brother, the King, who serves Him in Acre still.” Edmund, who had been somewhat frivolous and light-minded as a boy, now seemed truly mature, a grown man of gravity and stature. He had gained the epithet ‘Crouchback’ while on his travels in the east; not for any perceived deformity but because of the Cross he wore upon his back while on crusade.

  I glanced at him shrewdly. “Now that you are home, it is time you set up proper household with Aveline, the wife your father and I chose for you. She is now of an age for the marriage to be consummated. You are a wealthy man since de Montfort and his allies were crushed at Evesham; you hold his earldom of Leicester and the honour of Lancaster.”

  “And the earldom of Derby,” Edmund added, a smirk on his face.

  “Yes, how could I forget Derby?” Aye, how could I? The earl of Derby, Robert de Ferrers, had twice betrayed King Henry, and been held prisoner at Windsor for his crimes. Edmund was custodian of his lands during his time in gaol. When de Ferrers was freed, he was granted back his lands, but only as long as he paid an immediate fine of £50,000. He was unable to do so, for no man had such vast wealth to distribute freely and instantly, and his earldom passed to its keeper, Edmund. Men whispered that Edmund had gained this earldom by cruel deception…but I saw de Ferrers as receiving his just desserts, and so did Edmund and the new King.

  “I have so many lands and titles now I can almost forgive you for not getting me the crown of Sicily,” said Edmund, leaning in the window embrasure and staring out into the gardens where his nephews and niece were playing with their nurses in attendance.

  “You wouldn’t have wanted it anyway, Edmund,” I told him, laying down the needlework I had absently been picking at. “It was a poisoned crown, always fought over. Charles of Anjou holds it now but still there is controversy. He had to fight hard to obtain it from Conradin…the Boy.”

  “Oh yes, I’ve heard of the Boy. A sixteen-year-old warrior, wasn’t he? But he was defeated; he lost his head, executed as a traitor. I am sure I could have beheaded him as easily as Charles.”

  “It wasn’t easy from what I’ve been told,” I said, “but let us not talk of crowns that can never be. We must talk of Aveline.”

  Edmund grinned. “What is there to talk of? She is my wife and by now I hope she has grown from the wan little flat-chested creature I wed before you and father in Westminster!”

  “Edmund!” I chided him for his rude speech. “You will do your duty by her, no matter her appearance. She is the granddaughter of my friend the Dowager countess of Devon, and we paid much money for her as she is
a very wealthy young heiress.”

  “I shall, I shall,” he said. “You know me, mother, ever dutiful—whether to my parents or to God.”

  “And fear not, I have heard she has grown very comely indeed.”

  Edmund grinned again. “Good. I shall look forward to seeing her.”

  “Well, if that is settled, I will attend to my own needs. I am growing a bit weary of Windsor; perhaps I shall retire for a short time to the royal palace at Guildford. It is quieter there.”

  Edmund was suddenly serious; he laid his hand on my shoulder. “You look weary, mother, as I have never seen you before. It concerns me. I think you should definitely go to Guildford and recover your strength.”

  “I will, and I shall take my grandchildren as company.”

  Guildford Palace was beautiful, set hard against the wall of the castle with its upright keep of golden stone. The great hall had painted glass and the walls were adorned with images of Lazarus rising from the dead. The royal apartments were coloured a deep, forest green and embellished by gold and silver stars; my chamber windows had been enlarged and the window-arches supported by fluted columns of Purbeck marble. There were several chapels and a great cloister, leading to gardens filled with roses, white and red, and sweet-smelling herbs in intricate interwoven beds that formed vast patterns.

  Here I waited for Edward’s return from crusade with my grandchildren at my side. Leonor and Brito were bright, lively children, eager and ofttimes headstrong, but Hal, quiet and withdrawn, continued to fail to thrive. While Leonor danced and sang for my entertainment and Brito was engaged in rough and tumble sports with other noble boys and with the dogs from the kennel, poor Hal sat with me in the garden, shivering even when the day was warm, clutching the hand of his loyal nurse, Amicia de Derneford.