The Queen from Provence (52 page)

Thus the legendary Society of the Old Man had built up a band of assassins.

Edward was feeling ill. It was June the seventeenth, and his thirty-third birthday. The heat was intense and he wore only a light tunic, and his head was without covering.

A messenger from the Emir of Jaffa with letters for him had arrived and was asking to present them to the lord Edward, he having been warned not to put them into other hands.

Edward said the man should be brought in.

The Mohammedan entered and gave Edward a letter. He bowed low and moved his hand as though to take another letter from his belt. Instead of this he drew out a dagger and aimed at Edward’s heart.

In less than a second Edward’s suspicions had been aroused by the man’s movements and as he lifted his arm to strike, Edward thrust the dagger aside. It missed his heart so saving his life but penetrated his arm.

Edward was strong. In a moment he had taken the dagger from his would-be assailant and killed him with it.

The man sank to the floor as Edward’s attendants, hearing the scuffle, rushed in to find their master covered in blood and the messenger dead on the floor.

One of Edward’s attendants picked up a stool and dashed out the assassin’s brains.

‘That’s folly,’ said Edward. ‘And shame on you for striking a dead man.’

With those words he fell back fainting on his bed. It was not long before it was discovered that the dagger was poisoned and Edward’s life in danger.

He was in agony. They did not think that he would live. The flesh around the wound was mortifying.

‘If we cannot remove the poison,’ said the doctors, ‘it will spread throughout his body.’

‘He will die,’ said Eleanor.

‘I fear so, my lady.’

She cried out: ‘It shall not be. I shall not allow it to be.’

They shook their heads.

‘Perhaps if we cut the flesh …’ They conferred together.

But Eleanor said: ‘First I will try.’ She sent for a bowl and placing her lips over the wound she sucked the poison from it, spitting the noisome matter into the bowl.

The doctors looked at her, shaking their heads. Edward through mists of pain was aware of her and comforted.

She was with child, he thought. He must not leave her in this alien place.

She lifted her head and smiled at him. The wound seemed cleaner now.

The doctors conferred together. It did indeed seem that the poison was removed, but an operation would be needed to remove the mortifying flesh. It would mean inflicting excruciating agony but there was hope now that it would be successful.

Eleanor wept bitterly contemplating the pain Edward would have to suffer.

‘It is necessary,’ she was told, and better that she should weep than that all England should do so.

The operation was successful and Edward recovered. Eleanor nursed him and he declared that if she had not been at hand and risked her life by sucking the poison from his wound, he would not be alive that day.

They needed comfort – and they found it in each other – for news reached them of the death of their son John. It was a great blow to Eleanor who was torn with regrets at having left him. Yet she knew that Edward needed her and the fact that she had saved his life – as they both believed she had – pointed to the fact that choosing between her husband and her children she had chosen wisely.

Shortly after Edward’s recovery, she gave birth to a daughter. She was named Joanna and because of her birthplace was ever after known as Joanna of Acre.

It was the month of November. Edward knew as soon as the messenger arrived. He had feared for some time for he had been warned of his father’s weakness. But when the news came he was struck with desolation. Dearly they had loved each other and it seemed the greatest tragedy of his life that his beloved father was no more.

Eleanor came to him. He took her hand and kissed it.

‘We must go home,’ he said. ‘I am needed there.’

She looked at him searchingly, and he answered: ‘You see before you the King of England.’

And they both wept for Henry.

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