The Queen from Provence

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.

Henry was right. It was a stupid, senseless act of cruelty. It brought no good to him and terrible suffering to that boy and his family. And all because he had seen the look in the eyes of his de Montfort cousins – ready to sneer at him, as far as they dared, ready to call him a coward.

They hated Henry because in a way they were jealous of him. Henry’s father was the great Richard of Cornwall, brother to the King, one of the most powerful men in the country. They would do anything to discountenance him, but that was difficult. Henry, because of his high principles, was aloof from them – as he was from them all.

Edward had always looked up to Henry. He wanted Henry’s good opinion. Ever since they were babies in the same nursery Henry had been as the elder brother.

Now Henry despised him.

He had to talk to Henry. He wanted to explain. He would find out where the boy lived and send some compensation. It seemed as though he had suddenly grown up and saw how silly he had been. His behaviour had not been that of a man who was learning to be a great ruler.

He decided to go to his cousin’s chamber without delay. He must talk to him.

Henry was not in his chamber.

‘Where is my cousin?’ he asked one of the servants.

‘My lord, he left this morning early.’

‘Left? He did not tell me.’

Edward stared ahead of him.

He knew that he would have no peace of mind until he had seen Henry.

Henry found his father at Westminster where he had been since the departure of the King for Gascony. As co-Regent it was necessary for Richard to be at the centre of affairs.

When he saw his son his eyes lit up. More than anything on earth he loved this boy – more than power, wealth or Sanchia. He was a son to be proud of. Tall and strong, Richard could never look on him without being reminded of the boy’s mother for he was very like her. She had been one of the great beauties of her day, poor Isabella. He did not really want to be reminded of her, for he was a little ashamed of his treatment of her. That marriage had been doomed from the first. Still it had brought him Henry and no man could ask for a finer son.

Henry was not only brave and manly, he was good. He was a man whom others would follow because of that essential honesty and integrity which were obvious to all who knew him. He was grandson on his mother’s side of great William Marshal, one of the finest men who had ever lived. William Marshal was a man who had never once stepped aside from the paths of honour and duty. Henry was such another. Yes, he must be grateful to Isabella. On his father’s side he had King John, Henry II and back to the Conqueror. And that produced this son of his.

He clasped him in his arms.

‘Welcome, my son. It does me good to see you.’

‘How fare you, Father?’

‘Oh well enough. There is much to occupy me as co-Regent with the Queen. It is never easy to work with another. It would be so much simpler to stand alone. You are troubled I can see.’

‘I have come for your advice.’

Richard glowed with pleasure. There was nothing more gratifying than to know this beloved son came first to him when he was in difficulties.

‘What is it, my son?’

‘I would like to leave Edward’s service.’

‘Oh. What is it? A quarrel?’

‘I find I can no longer stomach his behaviour.’

‘Rough riding through the country. That boy is growing into a fool.’

Henry gave his father an account of the boy who had lost his ear.

‘My God,’ said Richard. ‘What a fool he is! He is like his mother. He does not realise that the people in the end decide on whether he shall keep his throne. And you were there.’

‘I tried to remonstrate, but I knew that advice from me makes him act more violently. It has happened in the past. I took the boy to his home and gave the family a purse.’

Richard nodded. He knew that Henry would take the right action.

‘I feel that I can no longer serve him. I want to go abroad.’

‘To go abroad. That means to Gascony to serve with the King.’ Richard frowned. ‘I would not have that. And to leave Edward! One day he will be King, you know.’

‘If he is going to be like our grandfather I would have no wish to serve him.’

‘I understand that well. If he is going to be like his grandfather he will not long be King. Henry, you could stay with me. Nothing would delight me more. Edward will want to know why you have left him.’

‘He would know. He is fully aware of my disgust. Father, I can no longer ride out with him when cruel senseless disgusting acts are likely to take place at any moment. I will not, Father.’

‘Nor shall you. By God, you are as royal as he. But for the fact that his father was older than I by a few months you would be the heir to the throne. What a happy thing for England that would be! So, as my son, you need not serve your cousin if you do not wish to. But I could not agree to your going abroad, Henry.’ Richard hesitated. ‘You are no longer very young. You must know what is happening. The Queen grows more and more unpopular and the King is not loved by his people. This matter of Simon de Montfort’s quarrel with the King has been watched by the barons. There could come a day when they will takes sides as they did in the days of your grandfather. Henry, you should be here. You should learn what is happening.’

‘I have learned a little,’ Henry answered. ‘I have seen the people’s sullen looks when the Queen rides by. I have heard the whispers and now and then the shouts.’

‘It is not a healthful state of affairs. I do not see enough of you. Stay here for I see no reason why you should remain in Edward’s household if you have no wish to do so.’

It was not long before Edward arrived at Westminster. He had come, he said, in search of his cousin Henry and would speak with him.

When they were alone together Edward grasped his hands.

‘Henry, you left me,’ he cried reproachfully.

‘Yes,’ said Henry.

‘It was on account of that wretched boy.’

‘Wretched boy indeed … now and all his life. Think what you have done.’

‘I have thought of little else since it happened. I shall never forget the sight of you picking him up in your arms.’

Henry said: ‘I shall stay with my father.’

‘I want you to come back with me.’

‘I prefer to stay here.’

‘You forget your place, Henry. I am your lord.’

‘Oh, what will you do if I refuse to come back? Cut off my ears?’

‘Henry, we have always been good friends. It was always the two of us. We were the ones. I want it always to be like that. We used to make plans together, talk of what we would do when we grew up. It was always good fun.’

‘We were children then. Perhaps you have still to grow up since you find pleasure in roaming the countryside tormenting people.’

‘I want to stop all that.’

‘What? Give up your games! Give up your sport!’

‘It was no real sport. This is why I want you to come back. I want to go to that boy’s home. I want to show him my remorse. I want to give him money …’

‘I doubt money could compensate for the loss of an ear.’

‘I will do something for him. I am going to take a vow, Henry. If you come back with me I will change. Yes, I will. I am not a boy any more. I suddenly saw how silly it all was. One day I shall be King. I want to be a good King. I want to be like the great Conqueror. He could not have gone around the country making cruel sport with the people.’

‘He would never have become the great ruler he was if he had.’

‘You are right, Henry. You have always been right. Oh, I listened to Henry, Simon and Guy de Montfort. I think they wanted to lessen me in people’s eyes. I was foolish. I listened to them. No more, Henry. You will see. So come back with me and our first task shall be to recompense that poor boy.’

Henry hesitated. ‘Do you mean this, Edward?’

Edward held up his hand as though making a vow.

‘I swear it. From now on I change my ways. From now on I shall begin my training. I am going to be a great King, Henry, when my time comes. My name shall be spoken with those of the greatest of my ancestors.’

Henry took his cousin’s hand.

‘I will come back with you,’ he said.

Two days later the Queen came to her son in a state of great excitement.

‘I have heard from the King,’ she cried. ‘We are to prepare to join him. Edward, he has a bride for you.’

The royal party set out from Portsmouth on a warm May day, and the Queen was in a state of high excitement at the prospect of being reunited with her husband. Edward’s feelings were mixed. The prospect of marriage did not displease him and the reports of his bride were promising. Henry was staying behind with his father who, with the departure of the Queen, assumed the entire Regency.

Sanchia was with them. She was sorry to leave her husband but she had the compensation of her sister’s company and she could not forgo the opportunity of seeing her family once more.

Henry was impatiently waiting at Bordeaux for their arrival, in a fever of anxiety lest disaster should befall them; and when he saw his Queen he was wild with joy.

It was his happiest moment since he had left her, he told her. They embraced fervently; then he turned to the rest of the company.

In the castle a great feast had been prepared. Never had he felt more like celebrating anything, said the King. He wanted to hear what the family had been doing and how baby Katharine fared. Poor darling, what a pity it was that she was too young to join them!

Later he explained the position to the Queen and Edward.

This marriage was necessary if they were to keep Gascony. King Alfonso, who had come to the throne on the death of his father Ferdinand III, was being very firm in laying down his conditions.

The little Eleanora of Castile, the bride-to-be, was very young. She was the daughter of Ferdinand by Joanna Countess of Ponthieu – that lady whom Henry had churlishly treated in order to marry Queen Eleanor. Joanna, after being jilted by Henry, had married Ferdinand who had already had Alfonso by a previous marriage. Thus the young Eleanora was the new King’s half-sister and he was in control of her destiny.

He had offered her to young Edward and Henry had seized on it as the only way out of the predicament he found himself in after his quarrel with Simon de Montfort, which could have lost him Gascony.

Once the marriage ceremony was performed, Gascony would be safe for Henry.

It had to be admitted that Alfonso was a little cynical regarding the intentions of the King of England.

This was not to be wondered at. Young Eleanora’s mother had been badly treated by Henry who after being betrothed to her had abruptly broken off his contract. Moreover the young girl’s grandmother had been that Princess Alice who had been sent to England as the bride-to-be of Richard Coeur de Lion, and had been seduced by Richard’s father when she was a child and kept by him as his mistress so that the marriage she had come to England to make had never taken place.

Nothing of this nature was going to happen to his half-sister, Alfonso determined; therefore she should not go to Edward but Edward should come to her; he should travel to Burgos and if he did not arrive by a day which Alfonso would appoint, the contract would be broken and he would invade Gascony.

Henry said: ‘You see what a position we are in.’

‘What an arrogant fellow!’ cried the Queen.

‘He is indeed, my dearest. But we are in his hands. If we are to keep Gascony, Edward must be in Burgos before the date expires.’

‘He shall be there,’ said the Queen.

No time was lost, as soon as the contracts were signed and agreed on, Eleanor and Edward set out for Burgos. Henry’s presence was needed in Bordeaux so he could not accompany them.

Travelling across the Pyrenees was hazardous, but at least it was summer, and the Queen’s determination was well known.

Michaelmas day marked the end of the period allowed them.

They arrived on the fifth day of August, thanks to the indefatigable efforts of the Queen; and there was great rejoicing in Burgos.

The young Infanta Eleanora saw the arrival of the cavalcade with the Queen riding at the head of it, her son beside her.

This was Edward – who was to be her husband.

Her heart leapt with excitement for he was very handsome. She knew at once who he was because of his bright flaxen hair. There was a distinction about him. He was very young – not much older than herself; and she thought that since she had to marry and leave her home she would rather it was with this Edward than any other.

Her home had never been the paradise enjoyed by the Queen of England and her sisters. In the first place her mother had not been her father’s first wife. Ferdinand had never been very interested in her; his favourite child had naturally been Alfonso, son of a previous marriage, and Alfonso had shown very clearly, since he had become King, that he ruled them all.

Alfonso had little time for his half-sister and regarded her merely as a pawn in his political game. But she was very useful at this time, he admitted; and he would be glad to see her a potential Queen of England.

His interests were divided between politics and astronomy, and he was reckoned to be very clever. In fact he had invented tables concerning the heavens which were known as the Alfonsine Tables of Astronomy. He was known as The Wise, and his knowledge of the stars had brought him great prestige.

So he had little time for his stepmother Joanna and his half-sister Eleanora, except when they could be of use to him.

Joanna, who had herself been buffeted from one bridegroom to another, had told her daughter that this was what an Infanta must expect; but the King of England was notoriously devoted to his wife and it seemed likely that his son would be the same with his.

Therefore the little Infanta, having lacked the happiness in childhood that some had had, at least had the compensation that it was no great wrench to leave her home.

Down to the courtyard. Her mother held her by the hand. And there he was, the flaxen-haired boy, his eyes eagerly scanning those assembled until they came to rest on her.

Then he smiled and she blushed a little.

Her heart leaped with pleasure for she read in his looks that he was not ill-pleased.

They were married. She did not have much time to speak to him before the ceremony but he did let her know that he was happy to be her husband. He spoke a little of her language and she had been taught his so it was not hard to communicate.

She thought he was the most handsome young man she had ever seen – and not only handsome, but different from any other.

She was a little in awe of her mother-in-law, who was very beautiful and clearly determined to have her own way. They had the same name – or almost. The Queen’s had been made Eleanor instead of her native Eléanore; and Eleanora, which the Infanta was called now, would, the Queen told her, doubtless be changed to Eleanor when she was in England, for the English thought their way of doing everything – even spelling names – was better than anyone else’s.

The Infanta told the Queen that she did not mind how they changed her name as long as they liked her.

At which the Queen grunted and said they were a difficult people and in particular the Londoners.

However Edward was more reassuring. The people would love her, he told her, because she was pretty and moreover gentle. He liked her gentleness too. In fact he was very pleased with his marriage.

Alfonso was eager to show the English Queen that he could give her as good entertainment in Burgos as she had in England and there was a rich feast and a festival which was more stately than those held in England. Edward was most impressed but most of all he liked to sit beside his little wife and let her explain her country’s customs to him.

Alfonso knighted Edward and the little Infanta was moved to see handsome Edward kneel before her half-brother.

As the bride was so young – she was only just ten years old – there was to be no consummation of the marriage. That, said Alfonso, could wait.

The Queen replied that the best way was to allow these things to settle themselves naturally; and in any case the little girl must finish her education first and this should have the Queen’s personal supervision, which she had given to her own children.

This was all arranged to the satisfaction of Alfonso and in due course the party set out for Bordeaux and this time the little bride rode with them.

How delighted was the King to see them. He embraced the Queen, his son, and the little bride.

‘My dear little daughter,’ he said, ‘how glad I am to welcome you into this family!’

Eleanora was delighted. It was such a pleasant family. The King loved them all so dearly and her mother had told her how important he was. He ruled a big country. The Queen was kind provided one did exactly what she wanted. And Edward was so gallant and rode with such skill and was so distinguished that she glowed with pride to watch him. Then there was the Queen’s sister, the Lady Sanchia, and Edmund who was her own age and Beatrice who was a little older. It was a wonderful family and what she had missed most – although she had not realised this until now – was a family life.

The King was determined to welcome her warmly and his way of doing this was to give a grand banquet in her honour. There was a good deal of grumbling about the cost of this and the Infanta heard it said that it had cost three hundred thousand marks which was a very large sum of money.

‘We’ll find means of raising it,’ said Henry, cheerful as he always was when the spending of money was concerned; it was only when the need to find it arose that he lost his temper and became irritable.

They stayed at Bordeaux until the end of the summer and as more brilliant festivals were devised to celebrate the marriage, the King’s friends grew more and more restive when contemplating the cost.

Henry continued to shrug all that aside and finally decided that they would leave Bordeaux and start their journey home. First though he and the Queen would make a pilgrimage to the shrine of St Edmund, who had been his Archbishop of Canterbury until he died and been buried in Pontigny. Edmund had always been an uncomfortable man, being such a saint who, while he did continual penance for his own sins, had a habit of magnifying those of others.

Having paid their homage to the dead St Edmund they felt considerably better about all the money they had been spending and travelled on to Fontevrault where Henry commanded that the body of his mother be removed from the grave in the cemetery there and put in the church. He ordered a tomb to be placed over it.

By this time he was feeling very virtuous.

The Queen was overcome with joy when messages arrived from the King of France to the effect that he would take it amiss if the party did not come to Paris and give him the pleasure of entertaining them.

Now the Queen was to experience the greatest pleasure because at the Court of France she would be with her three sisters.

There was great rejoicing when the party arrived in Paris and, to please his wife, Louis insisted on giving the English party the finest lodging at his disposal. This happened to be the Temple which was the headquarters of the Knights Templar in France and was a magnificent palace.

It was a wonderful moment when Eleanor was greeted by her sister Marguerite, recently returned from the Holy Land where she had accompanied her husband; and with her was Beatrice, now the Countess of Anjou, having married Louis’ brother Charles.

To add to their joy the Countess of Provence, hearing that Eleanor and Sanchia were to be in Paris, had decided to join them. So that the four sisters and their mother were together.

‘There is only one missing,’ said Marguerite. ‘Our dear father.’

‘We must not grieve,’ said the Countess of Provence. ‘He would rejoice to see us thus, and perhaps he can. Let us, while remembering him, be happy in each other.’

Henry, determined to court popularity – and also to let the French know that he was a rich King – spent his first morning in Paris distributing alms to the poor. This ensured his popularity and meant he was cheered wherever he went.

‘I know how happy you are, my dearest,’ he said to Eleanor, ‘and I am going to give a grand banquet to which I shall invite all the nobility of France. It will show the world how I honour your family.’

‘You are the best husband in the world,’ cried Eleanor. ‘The more I see of the men my sisters have married the more blessed I know myself to be.’

This was the sort of remark which delighted Henry and Eleanor was adept at making such. She was implying criticism of Louis and Charles of Anjou and of Richard of Cornwall, her sisters’ husbands. Of course he and Louis were the Kings and therefore desirable and he was a little piqued by hearing the compliments which seemed to be showered on Louis and to witness how his people seemed to revere him when he rode out.

‘His people are more demonstrative than they are at home,’ he said. ‘My people are not so affectionate towards me.’

‘Louis has just returned from a crusade,’ replied Eleanor. ‘That makes the people regard him as a saint.’

But it was not only that. There was a humility about Louis IX which, coupled with a dignity, set him apart. There was compassion in him. This was a King who cared for his people. He would never harry them with taxes for his own needs. Louis set little store by the splendour of his rank; he did not care greatly for festivals. He cared about the people, what they were thinking, how he could better their lot.

It was rather trying, Eleanor thought, when her sister Marguerite talked to her of him. Marguerite was completely devoted to her saint and continually singing his praises, when it was clear to Eleanor that Louis did not dote on her in the same way that Henry did on his Queen.

The four sisters sat together, they walked together, they shared the tapestry which Marguerite was making and they talked and were transported back in their thoughts to Les Baux.

It was like being young again and it was amazing how they slipped back into their roles of subservience to Eleanor.

‘Do you remember …’ The phrase was constantly occurring and they would talk of the old days, laughing, being young again.

Then they talked of the present, and the change in their lives since the days in Provence. Marguerite had adventured most for she had been with Louis to the Holy Land.

‘I would not let him go alone,’ she said. ‘I insisted. His mother did not want him to go. No one wanted him to go. They thought he should stay at home and govern his kingdom. I remember the day he was so ill that we thought he was dead. I remember how he lay on his bed and one of the women wanted to draw the sheet over his face because she thought he was dead. But I would not let them. I would not believe that he was dead. I forbade them to cover up his face. I cried: “There is life in him yet,” and then he spoke … in a strange hollow voice as though he were far away. He said: “He, by God’s grace, hath visited me. He who comes from on High hath recalled me from the dead.” Then he sent for the Bishop of Paris and said to him: “Place upon my shoulder the cross of the voyage over the sea.” We knew what this meant. His mother and I looked at each other and although she tried to shut me out and I did not like her, for I feared that she resented his love for me and wanted him all for herself, we were at one in this for we knew what Louis meant. He was going on a crusade. We begged him to make no vows until he was well, but he would take no food until he had received the cross. I remember how his mother mourned. Her face was blank and she was as one who has the sentence of death on her. He took the cross and kissed it and when she had drawn me from the chamber, she said to me: “I must mourn him now as though he were dead for soon I shall lose him.” She meant of course that if he went on a crusade she would die before he returned.’

‘You did not like her overmuch,’ said Eleanor. ‘She was always determined to shut you out.’

‘At first I resented her. But later I understood. She loved him so much … could not bear that anyone should come before her with him. He was her life. It had no meaning for her if she lost him.’

‘And then he went away,’ said Sanchia, ‘and you went with him.’

‘It was not until three years after that, but I knew it was in his mind. He used to talk to me about it. He had had a vision when he was lying close to death and he believed he had been sent back to Earth to fulfil a purpose. He had to go to the Holy Land, because it was ordained by God.’

‘They say he is a saint,’ said Sanchia.

‘They are right,’ replied Marguerite.

‘I would prefer to be married to a man,’ retorted Eleanor.

‘Louis is a man,’ replied Marguerite. ‘Doubt it not. He can fly into a rage but it is mostly over injustice. He does not want to hurt anyone. He wants to make people good and happy …’

Eleanor yawned slightly. She began to tell them about the wonderful feasts Henry had given at Bordeaux to celebrate the marriage of Edward and the little Infanta.

Beatrice whose husband had gone on the crusade with Louis brought the subject back to the great crusade and said how happy they had all been when it was over.

‘It was a frightening time,’ Marguerite told them. ‘Often I thought we should all be killed. Louis was torn between his need to take part in the crusade and to govern his country. He said that his grandfather had felt the same when he went to the Holy Land with his Queen.’

‘She had some gay adventures, I believe,’ said Eleanor. ‘I was always interested in her because we shared the same name.’

‘Eleanor of Aquitaine,’ murmured Beatrice.

‘My husband’s grandmother,’ added Eleanor. ‘I think I should enjoy going on a crusade.’

‘It is so exciting when you plan to go,’ said Marguerite. ‘Less so when you arrive.’ She shivered. ‘I hope Louis never decides to go again. I shall never forget his mother’s anguish when he left. She knew she would never see him again. It was a premonition. I can hear her voice now and see her blue eyes, usually as cold as ice, misty then soft with love for him. She said: “Most fair son, my tender boy, I shall never see you more. Full well my heart assures me of this.” Nor did she. Four years later she died and we were still there. It was because of her death that we came home. Louis knew that that was where his duty lay. He thought it was a sign from God that he should return home.’

‘And all the time you were there, poor Marguerite, Sanchia and I were living comfortably in England.’

‘It is wonderful that the two of you are together,’ said Marguerite.

‘Is it not like some fateful pattern?’ demanded Beatrice. ‘Two sisters for two brothers, and two more sisters for two more brothers. I wonder if it has ever happened before in families?’

‘We elder ones had the Kings,’ said Eleanor.

‘Romeo used to say that he would have Kings for all of us,’ Beatrice reminded them.

‘Romeo was boastful,’ said Sanchia.

‘Well, we can all congratulate ourselves,’ put in Eleanor, ‘for after all we were very poor were we not and had little to recommend us but our beauty and our brains.’

‘Not only,’ said Beatrice, ‘did you two marry Kings but those Kings loved you and have been faithful husbands. That is what seems strange to me. One does not expect a King to love his wife and be faithful to her.’

‘Louis is a saint,’ said Marguerite.

‘And Henry will tell you that I am the perfect woman,’ added Eleanor lightly.

Then they started to talk of their men; Marguerite of Louis’ piety; Eleanor of Henry’s devotion to her and his family; Sanchia of Richard’s lethargy which would suddenly beset him and as suddenly depart leaving him eager for some action which would probably be defeated by a return of the lethargy; Beatrice of her husband’s temper which was sudden and violent. Marguerite nodded. It was clear that she did not greatly like Beatrice’s husband. Eleanor suspected that Sanchia’s husband was not always faithful and she marvelled that the two who had made the most brilliant marriages should also have made the most happy ones.

But she could not help feeling a sense of rivalry with Marguerite. She wanted the King of England to shine more brilliantly than the King of France. She wanted his feasts and banquets to be the more extravagant. She knew that they would be because she would convey this to Henry and he would do everything to please her. Moreover Louis had no great regard for splendour.

Oh, it was wonderful to be with her sisters, to talk and talk over the old days, the present and the future.

And as ever it seemed that Eleanor was the brilliant one, the one who had her way.

In spite of their marriages and all their experiences, they still looked up to Eleanor, the most beautiful and the cleverest member of the family.

Edward was happy. He had ceased to think of the mutilated boy. If he did it was to regard him as a burning beacon in his life. Through him he had seen the folly of his ways. He was going to begin a new life, learn to be a great King. He had a little wife who was beginning to adore him. She was only a child and he was glad of that because her youth made him seem mature and splendid in her eyes. He was kind and gentle to her; he was chivalrous, courteous, all that a knight should be to his lady. He rode beside her, ready to defend her, make sure that she was treated with the utmost courtesy; he talked to her of England and how he would care for her and told her how she would never have anything to fear with him to look after her.

The little Infanta had never been so cherished. It was small wonder that she was in love with her handsome bridegroom.

Henry and Eleanor were delighted and Henry told the child that she was now a member of their family which was the finest family in the world because everyone in that magic circle was loved by everyone else.

The Queen was less effusive but she showed quite clearly that she doted on Edward and that if Edward was fond of his little wife and was happy with her, then the Queen would be fond of her too.

It was a wonderful revelation for the little girl.

As for Edward he wanted to talk incessantly of the crusade. He admired the King of France, not because of the stories he heard of his goodness to his people, but because he had taken up the cross and been to the Holy Land.

He begged the King to tell him of the crusade and Louis would sit with him or walk with him in the gardens of the palace and talk.

He told Edward how, after having received the oriflamme, the scrip and the staff at St Denis, he took leave of his mother and went to Aigues Mortes where his fleet was assembled and how he set sail arriving first at Cyprus which was the meeting place for the forces of the expedition. His ship was the Mountjoy and on this flew that banner of red silk split into points and borne on a gilt staff which was the oriflamme – the royal standard of France. They set sail and the gales were so violent that many of the ships were dispersed. It was June – one year after he had left France – when they arrived before Damietta. ‘All the leaders came aboard the Mountjoy,’ said Louis, ‘and there I spoke to them. They looked to me as a leader because I was the King of France and I told them I was but a man, as vulnerable as they were. It might be that God would choose to take me in this struggle. It could as easily be me as any man. “If we are conquered,” I said, “we shall win our way to Heaven as martyrs and, if we are conquerors, men will celebrate the glory of God. We fight for Christ. It is Christ who will triumph in us, not for our sake but for the blessedness of His Holy name.”’

‘And you made war on the Saracens and you won the battle. You brought great glory to France.’

‘I came back,’ said Louis. ‘But it was no great victory. Men leave for the Holy Land full of good intentions. Often they are surprised by what they find. Great suffering has to be endured. Victory is elusive. I have heard disappointed men say that it seems God fights on the side of the Saracens not on that of the Christians.’

‘Pray, my lord, tell me more.’

‘I see you have adventure in your eyes, my lord Edward. Ours was no glorious victory for Christianity. We took Damietta with the utmost ease. We should have moved on. We had tarried too long in Cyprus and now we waited at Damietta. I believed more crusaders would join us. There was a great deal of revelry. Those who had helped to take Damietta wanted to rest there. They feasted, they lived on the booty they had taken. They took the women and the riches of the city. I protested but they would not heed me. Soldiers who have fought and won a victory demand their rewards. That is what the soldiers did at Damietta. By the time we were ready to march the Musselmans were ready for us. There was a battle at Mansourah – some twenty leagues from Damietta. My brother Robert, Count of Artois, led the advance forces.’

Louis put his hands over his eyes and turned away.

‘Pray go on, my lord,’ urged Edward.

‘But you do not want to hear these sorry tales, I am sure. They are not valiant hearing.’

‘I do want to know,’ said Edward, ‘I long to hear of your crusade.’

‘At first my brother had an easy victory. Alas, he was overconfident. I ordered him to wait for me with the rest of my forces, but he was impatient. He went on in pursuit of the enemy, but the Saracens had re-formed and rallied and they had been joined by others. My brother was surrounded. He fell pierced with wounds. He had ever been impetuous. And so I lost a brother.’

‘But you beat the Saracens.’

Louis shook his head. ‘We managed to defend ourselves … nothing more. We had to retreat and give up Damietta. It was no glorious victory. My men were sick and dying. There was news from France. My kingdom was in danger from the English. If I left the Holy Land many Christians who were living there would be in danger. So I asked those who were with me what decision they thought I should make.’

‘You are the King. You make the decisions,’ said Edward.

‘I have always felt that those who shared my defeats and victories should have their say. But their opinion was divided as was my own and in the end I made up my mind to stay a little longer. It was my great dream to win back Jerusalem to Christianity. So I stayed, and for four years I passed along the coasts of Palestine and Syria and I made it my task to succour the sick and make life possible for the population there. All I was doing was keeping the Christian stronghold. My dream of capturing Jerusalem passed me by as it did your great uncle Richard Coeur de Lion who came very near to bringing it to Christianity and just failed. Then news came to me that my mother had died and I knew then that I must return to France.’

‘My lord,’ said Edward, ‘I am going on a crusade.’

‘It is the dream of many a young man.’

‘For me it will be a dream fulfilled,’ said Edward fervently; and it was as though he had taken a vow.