The Queen from Provence

by Jean Plaidy

  Henry was disconsolate. He was beginning to see how foolishly he had acted with Simon. He had dismissed the very man who, with support, would have held Gascony for him. Now there was nothing he could do but take out an army led by himself.

  What was so upsetting was the fact that Eleanor was pregnant and could not accompany him.

  When he told her what had happened she shared his dismay. To be separated was what they most dreaded.

  ‘I must come with you, Henry,’ she said.

  ‘Nay,’ he replied, ‘I could not permit it. Think of the crossing alone, which could be rough. I should not have a moment’s peace if I thought you were over there in danger. No, you must stay at home with the children. I shall have to be content with that. It will be better than the continual anxiety.’

  ‘Henry, when the child is born I shall come out to you.’

  He embraced her. ‘That is the answer. Have the child and when it is safe for you to travel you must come. The hardest thing I have to face in my life is doing without you and the children.’

  He delayed as long as he could but finally was forced to leave. The Queen with her sister Sanchia and Richard of Cornwall and all the royal children accompanied the King to Portsmouth.

  Henry took a tender farewell of them all and it was most touching when it came to Edward’s turn to embrace his father, for the boy broke down into bitter weeping.

  ‘Edward my dear son,’ cried the King, ‘you must not. You unnerve me.’

  ‘My place is with you, father,’ said Edward. ‘I want to fight beside you … to protect you … I want to make sure that you are safe.’

  ‘Oh my son,’ said the King, ‘this is the happiest and saddest moment of my life. Beloved boy, take care of your mother. I leave her in your hands. Soon we shall be together. Rest assured that at the earliest moment I shall send for you.’

  They stood there watching the ship sail.

  The King was on the deck, his eyes fixed on his family. He told himself that he would carry the memory of Edward’s tears to his grave.

  The Queen was compensated for the loss of her husband by the Regency. Power was hers. She had often secretly thought that Henry was too lenient with his subjects and did not exert his royal power enough. It was true the people groaned under taxation but as she said to Sanchia, they must have had the money otherwise they would not have been able to pay it.

  Sanchia agreed. She was happy to be in England and to settle under the domination of her elder sister just as she had as a child. She now had a little boy, Edmund. Her firstborn had died a few months after his birth but Edmund was a sturdy child. Richard was devoted to him but she suspected none could compare with his son by his first wife, Isabella. Henry was indeed a noble boy and a great friend of the heir to the throne. He and Edward went everywhere together.

  Sanchia worried a little about the Queen’s unpopularity which was manifested every time they rode out into the streets. They were accustomed to sullen looks but now and then there would be a hostile cry and when the guards looked for the offenders they could never find them. Sometimes Sanchia wondered if they tried very hard. She had an uneasy feeling that they did not like the Queen very much either.

  Richard had said once or twice that much of the unpopularity directed against the King was due to the Queen.

  ‘One of these days …’ he began.

  But Sanchia laughed. ‘Eleanor always had her own way when we were children. She will continue to get it all her life.’

  Richard was uneasy. He had been annoyed when Henry had bestowed Gascony on young Edward. That seemed a stupid thing to do. Edward was after all only thirteen. How much more sensible it would have been to bestow it on him, Richard. The quarrel with de Montfort was stupid also. There was a man Henry should have kept on his side.

  Now Richard was co-Regent with the Queen and his main task was to keep Henry supplied with arms and money which he needed for the campaign – not an enviable task for it meant imposing taxes and that was about the most unpopular thing a ruler could do.

  Richard had momentary bouts of an undefined illness. He had no idea what is was – nor had the doctors, but every now and then he would be overcome by such lethargy that he did not care to bestir himself. It would pass and his old energy would be back with him.

  At this time he did not feel inclined to support Simon de Montfort although his common sense told him he should be on the side of his brother-in-law. Now he should take a firm hand with the Queen and explain to her the mood of the country. Sanchia could not see it any more than the Queen could. They seemed to have the idea that anything that their family did must be right. Eleanor was supreme – the one they all bowed to. They appeared to think that any injustice Eleanor cared to impose would pass simply because Eleanor had imposed it.

  There will be trouble, thought Richard. People will be taking sides.

  And which shall I be on? Before his marriage there could have been no doubt. The barons had looked to him then but he believed that now they had their eyes on Simon de Montfort.

  The King was writing from Gascony. He was finding the task of subduing the Gascons almost impossible. Gaston de Bearn was a traitor. He was trying to get Alfonso of Castile as his ally. ‘If he does,’ wrote the King, ‘that could be disaster. I have sent to Simon de Montfort, who knows the country and the people, and commanded him to come to my aid.’

  Richard shook his head.

  Henry would never be a great soldier. He would never be a great King.

  But if Simon de Montfort was ready to forget his grievances and help the King, there was a hope of victory.

  The hatred between the Queen and the citizens of London was mutual. She must raise money. The King needed money for his campaign. She needed money for her wardrobe and household expenses. There was never enough money, but the merchants of London knew how to make it.

  First of all she revived the aurum reginae – the Queengold which was a percentage of the fines which had been paid to the kings for their good will. This had been reasonable enough in small sums, but as the King had inflicted heavy fines to pay for his campaign abroad, the citizens were furious when Eleanor demanded a payment on these.

  The citizens stood firm. They would not pay. Eleanor imperiously ordered that the sheriffs should be sent to the Marshalsea Prison.

  A deputation presented itself to Richard of Cornwall. The Queen must be told that the City of London was separate from the rest of the kingdom. It had its own laws and dignities and it would not submit to the Queen’s orders. The sheriffs should be released at once or the entire city would rise up and free them. It would not see its ancient privileges swept away by foreigners.

  Richard talked to the Queen.

  ‘You must understand,’ he said, ‘that the City stands apart. If you offend the City you have a strong enemy at your throat. Queen Matilda was never crowned Queen of England but she might well have been if she had not offended the City of London.’

  ‘So I must release these men?’

  ‘You must indeed and without delay. If you do not the City will be on the march. Heaven knows where that would end. Henry would be overcome with anxiety, for the country would be in danger and so would you.’

  ‘It angers me to give way to them.’

  ‘There are times, Eleanor, when we all have to give way.’

  She saw his point and trouble was averted.

  But the Londoners’ hatred of the Queen was intensified, and even when she gave birth to her child at Westminster it did not abate. The baby was a little girl and because she was born on St Katharine’s Day the Queen called her Katharine.

  There was a letter from Henry.

  Simon de Montfort had come to his aid and he had subdued Gascony. One of the reasons for this was that he had formed a new ally in Alfonso of Castile.

  It had been necessary to cultivate this friendship, for if he had not done so Gaston de Bearn would have made Alfonso his friend. Gaston had promised Alfonso lands and castles but Henr
y had been able to offer more.

  ‘It is time our son had a wife,’ he wrote. ‘Oh, he is young yet but this was necessary if I was going to hold Gascony. I know you will agree with me, my dearest wife, when I tell you that there was nothing to be done but to agree to a betrothal between him and the half-sister of Alfonso of Castile. She is a beautiful girl. Her father was Ferdinand III and her mother that Joanna of Pontheiu whom I thought I would marry until I knew of the existence of the only Queen for me. She is very young and docile. I think she will suit Edward very well. I hope you will be pleased but remember it was this betrothal or the loss of Gascony. Alfonso insists that Edward comes out here and marries her. He will not hear of her coming to England until after the ceremony. I have agreed to his request. Now, my dearest, it is for you to tell Edward what I have arranged for him and to bring him out here. How I long to see you.’

  Eleanor was excited. Katharine was old enough to be safely left. She would take the other children with her. How she wished Margaret was with them. She was a little uneasy about Margaret and yearned for news of her. Scotland was so far away and by all accounts a cold and desolate country. Sanchia should come too. How wonderful it would be if they could travel to Provence and see her mother, or to the Court of France.

  It was exciting. She needed new gowns … beautiful gowns. Henry would expect her to look magnificent and she must not fail him. Foreigners must never say the Queen of England lacked the money to buy herself fine clothes.

  To be with Henry again. How delighted the family would be! But she was selfish, keeping the news to herself. She would go and tell them all that they were going to join their father.

  There was of course a little more to tell Edward.

  He was to have a wife as well.

  Chapter XIII

  THE BRIDE FROM CASTILE

  Edward was now fifteen years old. Lusty, healthy, he was a natural leader. That had been obvious from the time he was five years old. He it was who had taken on the role among his playmates. His cousin Henry, son of Richard of Cornwall, was a brave boy who excelled at all sport, but he was more thoughtful than Edward, more fond of his books. Edward could have been a scholar; he had the ability to learn and did to a certain extent, but there was so much out of doors to tempt him. He wanted to ride the fastest, to shoot an arrow farther than anyone else; his falcons must be the best. He must devise the games they played and take the principal part.

  That he was the King’s eldest son and heir to the throne was a fact which must weigh with everyone. Already men were subservient to him and women eager to please. He knew that the Queen could scarcely bear him out of her sight; he knew that his father loved him better than his other children and he was a devoted father to them all. He was the centre of the Court and he could not help but be constantly aware of it.

  His de Montfort cousins were constantly urging him on to daring. They were very conscious of the quarrel between their father and the King and the fact that the King disliked him. They were always trying to show how much bolder they were than other boys. It was as though the more unpopular their father became with the King the more eager they were to prove their royalty.

  Sober Henry of Cornwall was constantly keeping them in order, a fact which they resented and consequently there was always a certain amount of tension between the boys.

  The elder Henry noticed that Edward was often led into acts of folly through his de Montfort cousins. They would urge him to do something which Edward really had no desire to do and indeed left to himself might have been ashamed of doing, but the de Montforts somehow made it appear that to forgo the deed would be weakness.

  Thus during this period Edward was often led into mischief of some sort and the more Henry tried to remonstrate the more daring the de Montfort boys became and they were determined that Edward should share their adventure, for if he did not, they implied, he was lacking in daring.

  Since he had been given his own establishment Edward had taken to riding through the countryside with some two hundred followers and when they passed through villages they would make sport with the people, overturning waggons, stealing horses, taking off the girls; and what had begun as high-spirited games often became cruel despoliation; and when it was discovered that the young heir to the throne was at the head of the band, people shook their heads with dismay and asked themselves what sort of a King would he make. They remembered King John who had behaved in a similar fashion. They would not have another such as he was. The King was weak; he was extravagant; he favoured foreigners, but at least he was a deeply religious man, a good husband and father and not given to violence.

  With the King out of the country and the Queen and Richard of Cornwall co-Regents, Edward seemed to give himself up more and more to this wanton and foolish behaviour.

  When his cousin Henry tried to remonstrate with him he told him to be silent. ‘If you do not wish to accompany us, pray stay behind,’ was his comment.

  Henry took advantage of this and often stayed behind.

  It began to be said that after Edward had passed through a village it was as though a horde of invading soldiers had come to it or the place had been struck by the plague and deserted by all its inhabitants.

  On one occasion the disorderly band broke into a priory where the monks were sitting at their frugal meal; they drove them out, ate their food and beat their servants.

  At the time it seemed a great joke, but when he told his cousin Henry about it, Edward was angered to see that Henry despised such conduct.

  ‘It was good sport,’ Edward murmured.

  ‘What? For the monks?’

  ‘Monks! They have such dull lives. That was excitement they will remember for the rest of their days.’

  ‘With the utmost ill feeling I’ll warrant. Edward, you are the heir to the throne. You should remember that. You should take your position seriously.’

  ‘And you should remember who I am and not tell me what I should do.’

  ‘I tell you because I fear for you. Do you want the people to hate you before you are their King?’

  Edward laughed. ‘What matters it to me? It is not for them to pass judgement on me.’

  ‘All men pass judgement on each other but never so severely as they do on kings.’

  ‘You always wanted to spoil the sport,’ cried Edward angrily and slunk away.

  A few days later his cousin was one of the party and rode beside him. His criticism was still festering. Edward had tried to forget his words but had found it impossible. They kept coming back to him and worrying him. This made him irritated with Henry. Henry had no right to set himself up in judgement. Henry was self-righteous. Henry was a spoil-sport. Henry pretended to be so wise simply because he was four years older than Edward.

  As they came along the road a young boy appeared. He could only have been a year or so older than Edward himself. He saw the party of riders; hesitated and recognised them for who they were. He stood still in the middle of the road unable to move, so frightened was he. Edward and his followers were the terror of the countryside and this boy had been walking along deep in his own thoughts when suddenly he was in the middle of them.

  ‘What do you here, boy?’ shouted Edward.

  The boy was too frightened to answer.

  ‘Does he not have a tongue then?’ cried Guy de Montfort. ‘If he does not know how to use it he deserves to lose it.’

  ‘Do you hear, boy?’ shouted Edward.

  But the boy still could not speak or did not know how to answer.

  ‘Seize him!’ said Edward.

  Two of his men had leaped from their horses.

  ‘See how he stares at me,’ cried Edward. ‘Insolent boy.’

  ‘He should lose his eyes for his insolence,’ said a voice.

  Henry cried: ‘No. Let the boy go. He does no harm.’

  ‘He displeases me,’ retorted Edward, irritated and determined to ignore Henry’s advice.

  One of the men had lifted the boy’s hair. ‘He
has two ears, my lord,’ he said.

  Then he took out his sword and held it aloft.

  ‘Shall I remove one of them, my lord, since they appear to be of little use to him?’

  ‘Oh cruel …’ murmured Henry.

  Edward was angry suddenly. ‘Shall I be told by Henry what I am to do?’ he asked himself. ‘Henry is a weak man … afraid of losing the goodwill of the people. I’ll show him.’

  ‘I’ll have his ear,’ he shouted.

  The sword came down. The boy fell fainting to the ground. The man with the sword was bowing before Edward, holding a piece of bloodstained flesh in his hands.

  ‘By God,’ cried Henry, ‘I’ll be no part of this.’ Then he leaped from his horse and picked up the boy.

  He murmured to him: ‘Fear not. I will take you to your home. No more harm shall come to you.’

  There was silence in the group as Henry walked away carrying the boy in his arms.

  ‘Ride on!’ shouted Edward.

  When they had gone one horse remained patiently awaiting for the return of his master.

  Sickened by what had happened and the lighter by his purse which he left with the boy’s family, Henry rode slowly back to the palace.

  Henry scarcely looked at his cousin. He could not bear to. He felt nauseated when he did.

  He would never forget holding the quivering body in his arms and contemplating the wanton cruelty of what had happened.

  He would ask his father to let him go abroad. He no longer wished to be of Edward’s company. He believed he would never be able to look at him again without seeing that boy’s mutilated head.

  When Edward returned to the castle, he wanted to be alone. When he was he sat on his bed and buried his head in his hands.

  Why should he feel thus? he asked himself. Why could he not shut out of his mind the memory of that boy’s bleeding head and the look of contempt in Henry’s eyes?

  Then he thought of the boy. He would carry his mutilation with him throughout his life and when people asked about it he would say: Edward did that.