The Queen from Provence (9 page)

‘They will say no such thing, because this is not going astray. I shall marry Eleanor of Provence. I am determined on it.’

‘But what of the dowry?’

‘I have made up my mind. I shall ask for no dowry … only Eleanor. I shall summon Hubert and tell him this. I want Eleanor sent to me without delay.’

Richard smiled.

‘You won’t regret this,’ he said. ‘I promise you.’

What excitement at Les Baux when the messengers arrived from England.

The King was weary of correspondence. He wanted his bride. As for the dowry that was a matter which need not delay them. What he was eager for was the wedding.

Sanchia said it was like being on a see-saw. Up one moment, down the next.

‘Nay,’ cried Eleanor. ‘This time I am going to stay up.’

It seemed she was right. Messengers from England told of the King’s impatience. Just a short while before he was insisting on the dowry, now he demanded the immediate departure of his bride.

‘We must leave without delay,’ said Uncle William Bishop Elect of Valence; and to the delight of the Count and Countess he declared his intention of accompanying Eleanor to England.

The Count decided that he and the Countess with their two daughters should go with Eleanor to Paris which would give them an opportunity of seeing Marguerite. It was a gay cavalcade which set out on that autumn day. The sun was still warm though there was a certain chill in the morning. The leaves were still thick on the limes and birches but a few of the fallen ones made a carpet on the grass as a warning that summer was fading. Eleanor was aware of the lush green countryside which she might be seeing for the last time, for although her family assured her that she would come back, the sea would separate her from her childhood home and the new country over which she was to reign as Queen.

Surrounded by her family, she felt almost gay although it would be sad leaving them. Sanchia was ready to burst into tears at the thought and Beatrice would do the same.

Sanchia said it seemed so much more important than Marguerite’s marriage had been, perhaps because of all the fuss there had been about it.

‘Or perhaps we were younger then,’ she added sagely.

Eleanor told them that when she was Queen of England she would insist that they come to stay with her.

‘What if the King does not want us?’ asked Sanchia.

‘I shall tell him it is my wish,’ was the reply.

Perhaps she would do even that, thought Sanchia. Eleanor had always been the one to get her way.

As they came to the borders of Champagne they were met by its Count who was notorious throughout France as the Troubadour King. Some said he was the greatest poet of the age.

He offered them lavish hospitality and rode to his castle with them between the Count and Countess of Provence, at the head of their cavalcade.

There was something attractive about Thibaud de Champagne, which was scarcely due to his appearance. He was so fat as to be almost unwieldy. But he had a merry good nature and when he spoke it was said his voice was silver and when he sang it was golden.

Even as he rode along he could not refrain from breaking into song and all listened with admiration.

Moreover the songs he sang were of his own creation; he excelled with both words and music.

He was enchanted by Eleanor. He whispered to her that her husband would love and cherish her. He had read one of the poems she had written and thought she had a fine talent.

‘I am a poet and of some merit they tell me. But as you see, my looks do not match the beauty of my words. How different it is with you. You have been doubly endowed, my lady Eleanor, and your husband will love you so dearly that he will not be able to deny your smallest wish.’

Such talk delighted Eleanor; she felt that she was living in a haze of glory.

To Thibaud’s castle they went, there to rest awhile and give him an opportunity to entertain them.

This he did in a royal fashion for he was eager for all to remember that he was the great grandson of Louis VII and if his grandmother had been a boy instead of a girl he could have been King of France.

The men-at-arms stationed at the keep made a feint of challenging the party as it arrived, but this of course was merely a formality. Everyone in the castle was ready to receive them for the watch whose task it was to sit at the top of the tower and scan the horizon for the sign of any rider, had long since seen them, recognised his master and knew that he brought with him the Count of Provence and his family who were to be royally entertained.

Spectacles had been arranged for them.

Young Beatrice was wildly excited but Sanchia could not forget the imminent parting with her sister. It was not only that she would miss Eleanor but she would then step into place as the eldest daughter at home and very soon her turn would come to say good-bye to the parental home.

The castle was built after the style familiar to all, the great staircase being one of its most important features, for on it the guests liked to take their fresh air when the weather was warm. At the top of this staircase was a platform which was used by the lord of the castle as a kind of court where he met his vassals and meted out justice when it was required. When the lord of the castle was entertaining he and his guests sat on chairs on this platform to watch the jousting and games which took place at the foot of the staircase; and the steps were used as seats by those who watched the joust.

The family of Provence, of course, had their places of honour on the platform beside the Count of Champagne and many people came from the neighbouring villages to watch the performances but chiefly to see the Princess who had been chosen by the King of England to be his bride.

Inside the castle opening from the top of the staircase was the great hall, and if the nights were chilly a fire would be lighted in the centre and round it the guests would cluster and listen to the minstrels and either watch or take part in the dancing.

The hall was vast – at one end was the dais and on this was the high table which overlooked the low table and it was at this high table that Eleanor and her family sat with the Count of Champagne as his guests of honour.

Each day the stone-flagged floor was strewn with fresh rushes and, again in honour of the guests, sweet-smelling herbs and flowers.

It was a wonderful experience and best of all was the night when darkness fell and the tables on their trestles were removed from the hall, and the Count sang his love songs to them.

He was a romantic figure in spite of his size for many of his songs were of unrequited love; and there was one lady of whom he sang continually. Eleanor wondered who she was.

They stayed for five days and nights at the castle and during that time she found an opportunity of asking him.

It was growing late; the logs burning in the centre of the great hall glowed red; many of the guests were nodding drowsily, sitting on stone seats which here and there formed part of the wall, or on the oak chests which contained some of the Count’s treasures but which served as seats on occasions such as this.

Eleanor said to the Count: ‘You sing of one lady always do you not? Or perhaps there are several. But you sing always of her fair looks and her purity and remoteness. Is there just one, or do you sing to an ideal?’

‘To one and to an ideal,’ he answered.

‘So she does indeed exist.’

‘Yes she does.’

‘And she does not love you?’

‘She does not love me.’

‘Perhaps one day she will.’

‘She will never glance my way. She is a great lady. She is far from me … and always will be.’

‘Who is she? Is it a secret?’

He looked at her quizzically. ‘You believe that you could lure a man to betray himself, do you not?’

‘I had not thought of it,’ she denied.

‘Ah, you have charm enough, my lady. Look at me. I am not a romantic figure, am I? Do you know what one poet wrote of me? I’ll tell you. You see I was sighing for my love, yearning to clasp her in my arms and this is the song that was written:

‘“Sir, you have done well.

To gaze on your beloved;

Your fat and puffy belly

Would prevent your reaching her.”’

Eleanor began to laugh.

‘There, you see,’ he murmured. ‘You, too, mock me.’

‘Nay,’ she cried. ‘That is not so. I think your lady might love you for the words you write of her. You give her immortal life for she will be known for ever through your songs.’

‘She is one who does not need my songs for that. She will live through her deeds.’

‘So she is a lady of high rank.’

‘The highest.’

‘You mean the Queen.’

‘God help me, yes. The Queen.’

Eleanor blushed scarlet. Marguerite! she thought.

He read her thoughts at once and cried: ‘No. No. It is not the young Queen. She is but a child. It is Blanche … the incomparable Blanche … the White Queen with her gleaming fair hair and her white skin and her purity.’

‘She must be very old. She is the mother of the King of France.’

‘Beauty such as hers is ageless,’ murmured the Count.

Then he strummed on his lute and once again began to sing softly of his lady.

Eager as she was for her marriage, Eleanor was sorry to leave Champagne. Thibaud insisted on joining the party and accompanying it to the French frontier. So with much pomp and extravagance they set out. The people from the villages came out of their cottages to gape at the magnificence which they would remember ever after. In due course they were at the French frontier and there Thibaud took his leave of them.

Eleanor regretted his going but the excitement of meeting her sister made her soon forget him. For there was Marguerite – changed since her childhood in Provence, the Queen of France and beside her King Louis.

The Count and Countess were overcome with emotion at the sight of their beautiful daughter and her husband. They were indeed a handsome pair. Marguerite, no longer the very young girl who had left her home, had grown into a queen. There was an air of regality about her which deeply touched her parents and made them very proud.

Eleanor noticed it and rejoiced that life was giving her a role as exalted as her sister’s.

As all must be she was deeply impressed by Louis and could not help wondering if Henry would be like him. He towered above his companions and as he was also very slender he appeared to be even taller than he actually was. His very fair hair made him conspicuous; and although he did not dress as magnificently as Thibaud had done, he yet seemed to be every inch the King.

The Count thanked him for all the happiness he had given his daughter to which Louis replied in most gracious terms that his thanks were due to the Count for having given him Marguerite.

It was thrilling to ride alone with the King and Queen of France – the golden lilies carried before them.

Louis quickly realised that Eleanor had a bright alert mind as her sister had, and he enjoyed talking to her. He talked about England, admitting that he had never been there, but his father had, and he had on one or two occasions talked to him of that country.

‘So often,’ said Louis, ‘our countries have been at war, but with two sisters as their Queens that should make us friends.’

Eleanor said she could never be an enemy of her dear brother and sister, to which Louis answered gravely: ‘We will remember it.’

Eleanor was inclined to think that Louis was rather solemn. She intended to find out whether Marguerite thought this and if she would have preferred someone more fond of the gaiety of life.

On their way to Paris they were entertained in a similar manner to that they had enjoyed with the Count of Champagne. Marguerite hinted that she was a little tired of all the jousting and tilting which was put before them. Eleanor, however, had had less of it and as it was done in honour of her, it had a special appeal.