The Queen from Provence

by Jean Plaidy

  About the Book

  Marguerite, eldest daughter of the Count of Provence, had married a king of France – and now her sister Eleanor is determined to make just as grand a match.

  Good fortune and wily cunning bring her Henry of England. A good and generous husband but a weak king, he rules a nation that still remembers his cruel and foolish father, King John. As Henry showers gifts on his new bride his extravagance forces him to levy ever greater taxation on the land, and the spectre of revolt soon looms against him. For Simon de Montfort, the adventurer who will give England its first true parliament, the house of destiny is at hand.

  ‘It’s hard to better Jean Plaidy … both elegant and exciting as she steers a stylish path through the feuding Plantaganets’ Daily Mirror

  ‘Plaidy excels at blending history with romance and drama’ New York Times

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781446427040

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Arrow Books in 2008

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  Copyright © Jean Plaidy, 1978

  Initial lettering copyright © Stephen Raw, 2006

  The Estate of Eleanor Hibbert has asserted its right

  to have Jean Plaidy identified as the author of this work.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1979 by Robert Hale Ltd

  The Random House Group Limited

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780099510277

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title

  Copyright

  Praise for Jean Plaidy

  About the Author

  Available in Arrow Books by Jean Plaidy

  I: In Search of a Bridegroom

  II: A Journey through France

  III: The Queen of England

  IV: Married Bliss

  V: The Mad Priest of Woodstock

  VI: Birth of Edward

  VII: A Newcomer to Court

  VIII: A Sojourn in Provence

  IX: Queenhithe

  X: Ceremony at Beaulieu

  XI: The Sad Little Bride

  XII: The King and Simon de Montfort

  XIII: The Bride from Castile

  XIV: The Unhappy Queen of Scotland

  XV: My Son! My Son!

  XVI: Conspiracy in the Bedchamber

  XVII: The Passing of a Dream

  XVIII: London’s Revenge

  XIX: Evesham

  XX: Murder at the Altar

  XXI: The Poisoned Dagger

  Bibliography

  Praise for Jean Plaidy

  ‘A vivid impression of life at the Tudor Court’

  Daily Telegraph

  ‘One of the country’s most widely read novelists’

  Sunday Times

  ‘Plaidy excels at blending history with romance and drama’

  New York Times

  ‘It is hard to better Jean Plaidy … both elegant and exciting’

  Daily Mirror

  ‘Jean Plaidy conveys the texture of various patches of the past with such rich complexity’

  Guardian

  ‘Plaidy has brought the past to life’

  Times Literary Supplement

  ‘One of our best historical novelists’

  News Chronicle

  ‘An excellent story’

  Irish Press

  ‘Spirited … Plaidy paints the truth as she sees it’

  Birmingham Post

  ‘Sketched vividly and sympathetically … rewarding’

  Scotsman

  ‘Among the foremost of current historical novelists’

  Birmingham Mail

  ‘An accomplished novelist’

  Glasgow Evening News

  ‘There can be no doubt of the author’s gift for storytelling’

  Illustrated London News

  The Queen from Provence

  Jean Plaidy, one of the pre-eminent authors of historical fiction for most of the twentieth century, is the pen name of the prolific English author Eleanor Hibbert, also known as Victoria Holt. Jean Plaidy’s novels had sold more than 14 million copies worldwide by the time of her death in 1993.

  For further information about our Jean Plaidy reissues and mailing list, please visit

  www.randomhouse.co.uk/minisites/jeanplaidy

  Available in Arrow Books by Jean Plaidy

  The Tudors

  Uneasy Lies the Head

  Katharine, the Virgin

  Widow

  The Shadow of the

  Pomegranate

  The King’s Secret Matter

  Murder Most Royal

  St Thomas’s Eve

  The Sixth Wife

  The Thistle and the Rose

  Mary Queen of France

  Lord Robert

  Royal Road to Fotheringay

  The Captive Queen of Scots

  The Medici Trilogy

  Madame Serpent

  The Italian Woman

  Queen Jezebel

  The Plantagenets

  The Plantagenet Prelude

  The Revolt of the Eaglets

  The Heart of the Lion

  The Prince of Darkness

  The Battle of the Queens

  The Queen from Provence

  The Hammer of the Scots

  The Follies of the King

  The French Revolution

  Louis the Well-Beloved

  The Road to Compiègne

  Flaunting, Extravagant

  Queen

  Chapter I

  IN SEARCH OF A BRIDEGROOM

  As Raymond Berenger, Count of Provence, and his friend, confidant and chief adviser, Romeo, Lord of Villeneuve, strolled together in the lush green gardens surrounding the castle of Les Baux, they talked of the future.

  Raymond Berenger had had a happy life; his beautiful wife was as talented as he was himself. Between them they had made their court one of the most interesting intellectually in the whole of France, and as a result poets, troubadours and artists made their way to Provence, sure of a welcome and appreciation. It was indeed a pleasant life and the Count and Countess wished it might go on for ever. They were not foolish enough to think it could. But no earthly paradise could be completely perfect and though, during their married life, they had prayed fervently for a son who would govern Provence beside his father for many years and afterwards preserve that ambience of gracious ease and luxurious comfort, they had produced only daughters.

  Even this they could not entirely regret, for dearly did they love their children and admitted that they would not have changed one of
their girls for the son for whom they had petitioned so earnestly. Where in the world, Raymond Berenger asked his Countess, could be found girls who were as beautiful and talented as theirs? And the answer was: Nowhere.

  These girls were growing up now and the decisions which would have to be made were the subjects of the conversation between the Count and Romeo de Villeneuve.

  Marguerite, the eldest of the family, was nearly thirteen years old. A child, said the Countess, but she knew that outside her family, Marguerite would be considered marriageable. The search for a suitable husband could not be put off much longer; moreover there were the others to consider.

  ‘I confess, Romeo,’ the Count was saying, ‘these matters give me cause for the greatest concern.’

  ‘I am sure we shall find a solution as we have to so many of our problems,’ replied Romeo.

  ‘Many times have I put my trust in you, Romeo,’ sighed the Count, ‘and never found it misplaced. But how shall we find husbands for the daughters of an impoverished Count when they have little to offer but their grace, charm and beauty?’

  ‘And their talents, my lord. Do not let us forget they possess these in greater abundance than most girls whose fathers are looking for husbands for them.’

  ‘You seek to cheer me. I love my girls. They are beautiful and clever. But gold, silver and rich lands are considered to be more desirable than charm and education.’

  ‘Provence is not so insignificant that the Kings of France and England would not wish to have us as their friend.’

  ‘The Kings of France and England!’ cried the Count. ‘You must be jesting!’

  ‘Why so, my lord? The Kings of France and England are young men, both seeking brides.’

  ‘You cannot really be suggesting that one of my girls could become the consort of one of these Kings!’

  ‘Nay, my lord, not one but two.’

  The Count was aghast. ‘It is a wild dream.’

  ‘It would indeed be a great achievement if either of these projects came to pass, and, to start with, I do not see why a marriage between France and Provence should not be considered worthy of consideration in Paris.’

  ‘How so, my dear Romeo?’

  ‘We could bring a certain security to France. Oh, I know we are impoverished. We cannot offer a great dowry, but we have something which Blanche and her son Louis might consider worth having. Beaucaire and Carcassonne have recently come into their possession. On the other side of the Rhône is the Holy Roman Empire and we have lands there which we could bring to France. In view of their strategic position I think they could be called quite valuable, for if they were under the control of the King of France his position would be strengthened against the Holy Roman Empire.’

  ‘That’s true enough. But would such a matter impress the French?’

  ‘I am determined that they shall be impressed by it. I have not been idle. I have sent some of our songsters to the Court of France, and what do you think has been the burden of their song?’

  ‘Not the rich dowries of my daughters, I’ll swear.’

  ‘Nay. But their beauty and charm – unsurpassed in France.’

  ‘My dear friend, I doubt not your loyalty to this house, but I think your friendship for it has carried you far away into the realms of fancy. The Queen of France will select the wife for her son with the greatest care, and how many do you think are competing for that honour?’

  ‘Queen Blanche is a wise woman. She will consider carefully what she has been told.’

  The Count, laughing, shook his head, and said he would go into the castle and tell the Countess what Romeo was suggesting. She would doubtless laugh with her husband while at the same time she would agree with regard to the loyalty and good intentions of the lord of Villeneuve.

  It was that hour when the four daughters of the Count and Countess of Provence were together in their schoolrooms. Thirteen-year-old Marguerite, the eldest, stitched at her tapestry. Eleanor, two years younger, sat writing at the table; Eleanor was constantly writing verses which she set to music, and she was now engaged on a long narrative poem, which her tutors said was an astonishing achievement for a girl of her age. Eight-year-old Sanchia was stitching with her eldest sister and Beatrice, the youngest, who was barely six, was looking over Eleanor’s shoulder as she wrote.

  All the girls had been endowed with their mother’s good looks; and because they had been brought up in a fashion unusual with families of their rank, theirs had been a happy childhood. They saw their mother each day and their father also when his commitments allowed him to remain in his home. Because they were girls it had not been necessary for them to go away to be brought up in some nobleman’s household where they must learn to face a hard and cruel world. The domestic life of the Count and Countess of Provence had in many ways been simple while at the same time all the girls were given the kind of education which was rarely bestowed on members of their sex. Although they were skilled in feminine arts – such as needlework, singing, dancing – they had been brought up to think, to express themselves lucidly, to have some knowledge of the events of the day and above all to love music and literature. The Countess Beatrice, their mother, the daughter of the Count of Savoy, was a musician and poet and she saw no reason to neglect these skills. She imbued her daughters with an appreciation of the matters nearest her heart and as a result the girls were not only beautiful but accomplished and on the way to becoming very well educated.

  The cleverest of the four was undoubtedly Eleanor. Marguerite was skilled at needlework and a good musician, but in everything except needlework Eleanor was superior. It was Eleanor whose poems were put to music and sung throughout the court, and Eleanor whom their tutors praised constantly.

  Because of her talents she was inclined to a certain arrogance which her parents noticed and deplored but thought was understandable. ‘She will grow out of it,’ said the Count in his easy-going way. He liked everything to run smoothly and this attitude was suited to the comfortable tenor of life in Provence where brilliantly coloured flowers and rich green shrubs flourished without much attention and where the people loved to lie in the sun and listen to the strumming of the lute. There was poetry in the air in Provence; and the fact that Eleanor was a poetess already meant that she was a true daughter of her native land.

  Marguerite was of a sweeter nature. She was ready to stand aside for her younger sister; no one applauded Eleanor’s efforts more than Marguerite; and the result was that Eleanor was a little spoiled by the family. Eleanor looked for praise; she shared her sisters’ beauty – and many said surpassed it – but she was the clever one. She had seen the looks of wonder in her parents’ faces when she had shown them her poems. They insisted that she read them aloud to the family and when she had finished her parents would lead the applause and in Eleanor’s eyes no one was quite as important at the Court of Provence as she was.

  Sanchia the next sister followed her in everything, imitating her way of speech, her gestures, trying all the time, said Marguerite, to make herself another Eleanor. Eleanor herself merely smiled encouragingly. After all she could quite understand Sanchia’s desire to walk in her footsteps.

  Beatrice was too young as yet to have much character. As a six-year-old she had only recently joined them in the schoolroom.

  ‘How goes the poem?’ asked Marguerite pausing in her work and making a very charming picture, seated in the window with her work on a frame before her, her pretty hand daintily holding the needle while she lifted her brown eyes to smile across at Eleanor.

  ‘It goes well,’ replied Eleanor. ‘I shall read it to my lord and lady tomorrow, I doubt not.’

  ‘Let us hear it now,’ cried Sanchia.

  ‘Indeed not,’ retorted Eleanor.

  ‘It must be launched in a becoming manner,’ said Marguerite with a smile.

  Eleanor smiled complacently, already savouring the applause, the looks of admiration in her parents’ eyes, the wonder as they exchanged glances which betrayed the fac
t that they thought their daughter a genius.

  Marguerite had turned to the window. ‘We have visitors,’ she said.

  Eleanor and Beatrice immediately rose and went to the window. In the distance but making straight for the castle was a party of men. One of them carried a banner.

  The girls stood very still. Visitors to the castle always provided some excitement. There would be special feasting in the great hall which the girls would be able to attend; they would join in the singing and music though if the carousing went on into the night they would be sent to their chambers. Visitors were a great event in their lives and one to which they all looked forward.

  ‘They come from the Court of France,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘How do you know?’ asked little Beatrice admiringly.

  ‘Look at the standard. The golden lilies. That means France.’

  ‘Then they must be important,’ added Marguerite.

  Eleanor was thinking of what she would wear. She had a gown of silk with a tight-fitting bodice and long trailing skirt; the sleeves were fashionable, tight to the wrists where they widened so much that the trailing cuffs reached to the hem of her skirt. These cuffs were decorated with the silk woven embroidery which she herself had worked with the aid of her sisters. It was a most becoming gown. Her mother had given her a girdle which was decorated with chalcedony, that stone which was said to bring power and health to those who possessed it.

  She would wear her thick dark hair in two plaits and would refuse to cover it with either wimple or barbette which she had said to Marguerite were for older women or those who had not the luxuriant hair possessed by the sisters.

  ‘We shall soon hear doubtless,’ said Sanchia. ‘I wonder why they come?’

  ‘I trust it is not war,’ said little Beatrice, who had already learned that trouble in the neighbourhood could take their father away from them and make their mother anxious, and so disturb the peace of Les Baux.

  ‘We shall soon know,’ said Marguerite, putting aside her needlework.

  ‘Should we not wait in the schoolroom until we are summoned?’ asked Sanchia.