The Queen from Provence

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 fact 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.

‘Nay,’ retorted Eleanor. ‘What if we were summoned to greet the visitors. I would be ready.’

It was significant that the younger girls looked to Eleanor rather than Marguerite for directions.

‘Come,’ said the forceful sister, ‘let us prepare.’

The visitors were led by Giles de Flagy who had come from Queen Blanche on a special mission.

When he heard what that mission was Raymond Berenger could scarcely believe his ears. It seemed that Romeo de Villeneuve was indeed a magician. Could it really be that the Queen of France was seeking a daughter of the Count of Provence to marry her son?

In the Count’s private apartments Giles de Flagy discussed the matter with the Count, the Countess and Romeo de Villeneuve.

The Queen Mother of France had heard much of the excellence of the Count’s daughters. She was well aware of the Count’s financial difficulties, but she had decided that these were not of major importance. The Count’s daughters were beautiful and had been well educated. These were the qualities she would look for in a Queen of France, and the last was of particular importance.

Louis IX was twenty years of age. It was time he married and Blanche had decided that the daughter of the Count of Provence might suit him very well. Terms of the marriage could be gone into later, but the Queen was eager that not too much time should be lost. She understood the Count’s eldest daughter was thirteen years old – young but marriageable. The King of France was a young man of immense ability. He would not want a foolish wife; and the Queen believed that if a girl was to be trained to be a great Queen the training in the royal household could not begin too soon.

Giles de Flagy hoped he would have an opportunity of meeting the Count’s daughters during his brief stay at Les Baux.

The Count and Countess, beside themselves with excitement, assured him that he should see the girls.

It was the Countess who sent for the two eldest, and Marguerite and Eleanor, deeply conscious of the air of tension throughout the castle, eagerly obeyed the summons.

‘We have a very important visitor,’ began the Countess.

‘From France,’ interrupted Eleanor. ‘I saw the lilies on the standard.’

The Countess nodded. ‘You girls will be presented to him when we sup tonight. I want you to look your best, and to behave with your best manners.’

Eleanor looked reproachful. ‘Of a certainty we shall,’ she said reprovingly.

‘My dear child,’ said her mother firmly, ‘I know it well. But this is a very important visitor and perhaps on this night it would be better for you to remain a little subdued. Speak only when spoken to.’

Eleanor lifted her shoulders in a gesture of resignation and the Countess turned from her to her eldest daughter.

‘Now Marguerite, be discreet but ready with your answer should the conversation come your way. Be unobtrusive and yet at the same time …’

Eleanor burst out: ‘Oh dear lady, what would you have us be … ourselves or puppets performing in a show?’

‘Perhaps I am wrong,’ said the Countess. ‘I should leave you to be your natural selves. But understand me. I do want you to make a good impression on the ambassador of the King of France. Now shall we decide what you shall wear?’

‘I have already decided on my blue and my girdle with the chalcedony,’ said Eleanor.

The Countess nodded. ‘A good choice. It becomes you well. And Marguerite?’

‘Oh my grey and purple gown with my silver girdle.’

The Countess nodded. ‘And I shall give you a diamond ring to wear, Marguerite. It will look well with the grey and purple.’

‘A diamond!’ cried Eleanor. ‘Diamonds are said to protect people from their enemies. What enemies have you, Marguerite?’

‘None that I am aware of.’

The Countess seemed suddenly overcome by emotion as she looked fondly at her eldest daughter. ‘I pray you never will have, but if you attain to a high position in the world there would assuredly be those who would not wish you well.’

‘Is that why you are giving her a diamond?’ asked Eleanor.

‘I give it to her because it will become her. She has pretty hands.’

Eleanor looked at her own which were equally pretty. Why should Marguerite be especially selected? Was it because she was the eldest?

Thirteen! It was a great age and she was but eleven. Could it really be that the ambassador from France had come with some proposition for Marguerite?

Later it became clear that this was the case. Although they were both presented to Giles de Flagy it was on Marguerite that his eyes lingered.

Eleanor could not help feeling somewhat piqued, particularly when she was not even asked to read her latest poem.

Giles de Flagy rode away but the object of his visit and its success was soon made clear.

The Count and Countess came to the schoolroom where the girls were working. Eleanor knew what it meant because their expression betrayed their feelings. There was pride, elation, wonder which showed that they scarcely believed what was happening to them and at the same time there was sorrow and regret.

The girls all rose and curtsied.

The Count came forward and took Marguerite by the hand.

‘My dearest child,’ he said, ‘the greatest good fortune has come to you. You are to be the Queen of France.’

‘Does it mean Marguerite will go away?’ asked Beatrice, her face beginning to pucker.

Her mother drew the child to her and held her against her skirts.

‘You will understand what this means in time, my child,’ she said.

The Count went on. ‘I would never have believed this could happen. King Louis is a young man of great qualities; he is clever, kind and good, determined to rule his country well. And he has decided that he will marry our Marguerite. My child, you must never cease to thank Heaven for your good fortune.’

Sanchia was watching Eleanor for her cue. Beatrice was clearly miserable at the thought of her sister’s leaving them. Eleanor kept her eyes to the ground. This was the greatest honour which could befall them and it had come to Marguerite, not because she was more clever or more beautiful – she was neither – but simply because she was the eldest.

Marguerite herself was bewildered. She knew that she should be grateful. She was aware of the great honour done to her but at the same time it frightened her.

For thirteen years she had lived in the shelter of her parents’ love. Now she was to leave that to go to … she knew not what. To a great King who would be her husband. She looked at Eleanor, but Eleanor would not meet her gaze lest she betray the envy she was feeling.

It is only because she is older, was the thought which kept going round and round in her head.

‘You will be very happy, I know it,’ said the Countess. ‘Queen Blanche will be a mother to you and you will be under the protection of a great King. Now why are we looking so glum? We should all be rejoicing.’

‘I don’t want Marguerite to go away,’ said Beatrice.

‘No, my dear child, nor do any of us. But you see her husband will want her with him and he has first claim.’

‘Let him come here,’ suggested Beatrice smiling suddenly.

‘That could not be, baby. He has a kingdom to govern.’

‘We would help him.’

The Countess laughed and ruffled Beatrice’s hair. ‘We are going to have a great deal to do, Marguerite, I want you to come with me now. We must discuss your clothes and I shall have much to tell you.’

The Count said: ‘This is indeed a happy day for us. It is like a miracle. I should never have believed it possible.’

Eleanor raised her eyes and said: ‘I have written a poem.’

‘That is good,’ said her father.

‘May I read it to you now?’

‘Not now, my dear. Another time. With so much on our minds …’

‘Come, Marguerite,’ said the Countess.

The door shut on them and the three girls were alone.

Sanchia was watching Eleanor expectantly. Eleanor went to the table and took up the poem she had written and which she had so looked forward to reading to her parents. They were not interested now. All they could think about now was Marguerite’s wedding.

‘It is only because she is the eldest,’ she said. ‘If I had been, I should have been the one.’

Now Les Baux was given over to preparation. There was no other conversation but that of the coming marriage, whether in the great hall or in the rooms of the serving men and women. Les Baux was no longer the mere castle of the Count of Provence; it was the home of the future Queen of France. Marguerite, who had at first been apprehensive, was now radiant with expectation. The news she had of her bridegroom was that he was not only kindly and good but a man determined to do his duty and make France great.

Marguerite was passed from the hands of the dressmakers to her parents that she might be closeted with them and listen to advice that seemed interminable. When she considered what she must do and must not do, she told Eleanor, she got them hopelessly muddled so that it would have been better to have had no instruction at all.

Eleanor listened almost grudgingly. How she wished that all this fuss had been for her! If only she had been the eldest and was going to France, how excited she would be! Instead of which she would stay at Les Baux for several more years and then a husband would be found for her. Who would it be? Some Duke? Some Count? And she would have to pay homage to her sister for the rest of her life!

And had she been born the first she would have been the one.

It was bad enough to lose Marguerite whose company would be sadly missed, but that she should have this honour showered on her and be so much more important than the rest of them was even harder to take for someone of Eleanor’s temperament.

At first she remained aloof, but then her curiosity got the better of her and when Marguerite confessed that she was frightened and at times wished the whole thing could be forgotten, she scolded her and pointed out what great honour was being done to the family and that she should be rejoicing in her good fortune.

So the time passed and in due course the ambassadors of the King of France returned to Les Baux. They had come, they said, on the command of the King to take his bride to him without delay. So Marguerite was to leave with them, taking with her a few attendants and one of the minstrels from her father’s Court, and on the road she would be joined by the Bishop of Valence who would lead her to Sens where her bridegroom would be waiting for her.

She would be received by the Archbishop of Sens who would perform the ceremony and coronation, for Marguerite was to be crowned Queen of France at that same time as she was married to its King.

What excitement there was throughout Les Baux while the packhorses were laden with all the splendid garments which had been made for Marguerite. In her chamber the Countess was giving the last advice to her daughter, reminding her that she and the Count would be present at the wedding and would shortly be leaving in their daughter’s wake. Then a magnificently attired Marguerite, looking like a stranger with that aura of royalty already settling about her, was led out of the castle.

Eleanor forgot her jealousy in that moment as she embraced her sister, and Marguerite clung to her whispering that when she was Queen of France her dear sister who was closer to her than any of the others – even their dearest parents – should come to her Court and be her companion.

It was a comforting thought although Eleanor’s good sense told her that there was little likelihood of its coming to pass.

Then Marguerite rode off in the centre of the cavalcade, most carefully guarded for she had become very precious; and her father’s knights and those of her husband-to-be were ready to guard her with their lives. The golden lilies of France were fluttering ahead of her.

There was a sombre atmosphere in the castle that night, yet a strange one. The family had risen in prestige through their new connection with the royal house of France, naturally, but how they missed Marguerite!

Then they were caught up in more bustling preparations for now the Count and Countess must leave for Sens to be the proud witnesses of their daughter’s wedding and coronation.

It was galling to have to remain behind, to be considered a child. Yet, thought Eleanor, I am the eldest now. The next time suitors come to the castle they will come for me.

But what marriage could there be to compare with that of the King of France!

‘When I marry,’ she told Sanchia, ‘my marriage must be every bit as grand as that of Marguerite.’

‘Then you must have a King, sister,’ said Sanchia.

‘I know. Nothing less will I take.’

‘What King will it be?’

Eleanor was thoughtful. ‘There is a King of England,’ she said. ‘I suppose he will be the one.’

In due course their parents returned and there was great rejoicing in the castle that night. Everything was even more satisfactory than they had dared hope.

They told the children how happy their sister was. Her bridegroom had fallen in love with her on sight and she with him.

‘And small wonder,’ said the Countess. ‘The King of France is the most handsome man in his kingdom. His hair is so fair that it shines like a golden halo in the sunshine. His eyes are blue and his skin so delicately coloured that men marvel at him. But what pleased us most is his obvious goodness. They say France is a happy country to have such a King.’

‘And a Queen,’ put in the Count smiling.

‘I wish you could have seen her at her coronation,’ went on the Countess.

‘I wish it too,’ said Eleanor.

‘Her mantle was lined with vair, her gown of blue velvet trimmed with sable and ermine,’ continued the Countess. ‘I have never seen Marguerite look as beautiful as she did at her coronation. The people in the streets cheered and cheered. The King was so happy and before the crowd he took her hand and kissed it tenderly to show them all how pleased he was with his bride and he was of course telling them so they must be too. Your father will tell you how I could not stop my tears as I watched them.’

The Count was nodding happily.

‘Her golden crown – given her by the King – cost fifty-eight livres. He has showered gifts on her. Beautiful furs and golden ornaments. Was not her diadem beautiful?’ demanded the Countess and the Count assured them that it was indeed.

‘There was a gold cup made for them and we saw them drink from it at the banquet. He held it to her first and then put his lips where hers had been. It was most touching. Oh, this has been a happy year.’

Eleanor listened.

Oh fortunate Marguerite! She was more determined than ever that no one less than a king would do for her.

The marriage had changed the family. Marguerite, though absent, was its most important member. She was the subject of constant comment and accounts of her life as the Queen of France became a daily recital.

It was good, Eleanor knew, that they should have become so important. There were more callers at the castle now, and there had been one never-to-be-forgotten time when the King himself had visited them with Marguerite. The King was certainly an ideal bridegroom. All the praises Eleanor had heard of him had not been exaggerated as far as she could see. He was undeniably handsome; he had delicate but beautifully chiselled features; his complexion was so fresh and his skin so clear that had he been a woman it would have seemed he had painted it so, but this was seen to be pure natural freshness. He had blond hair which was abundant and glossy; and he and Marguerite made such a handsome pair that for their looks alone they delighted the people who came out of their houses to cheer them as they passed by. And what delighted the Count and Countess most was the obvious evidence that this love between the royal pair was no myth. Louis, it was said, had become more serious since his marriage; he was determined to be a good husband and a good king. As for Marguerite she was in such a state of bliss that she no longer seemed like their sister. Eleanor was filled with an even greater determination to do as well for herself as her sister had done. But how could she?

The King of France had brothers but Eleanor had no great desire to be the bride of a younger son; if she married one of the King’s brothers – and it seemed very likely that in a year or so this proposition might be considered – she would always be subservient to her sister. Not that Marguerite would ever stress the fact that she was the superior. That was unimportant. She would be.

A year had passed and Eleanor was getting nearer and nearer to the day when a husband would be found for her and she was restive.

There was only one King that she knew of who, by marrying her, could give her equal standing with her sister and that was the King of England. He remained unmarried although it seemed unlikely that he would be so for long. He was much older than Marguerite’s husband being twenty-seven years old – and wives were usually found for kings long before they reached that age.

She determined to find out all she could about the King of England and the most likely member of her father’s Court to supply the information would naturally be Romeo de Villeneuve.

She made opportunities to talk to him and he was nothing loath. He was very proud of having played a part in arranging Marguerite’s marriage; and she knew that he would like to do equally well for her; so he was a good ally. She had heard him say that the brilliant marriage of the eldest sister would pave the way for the others. There were many who would hesitate to take the daughter of the Count of Provence, but few would not consider marriage with the sister of the Queen of France a good one.

Eleanor pinned her hopes on Romeo.

She had learned a great deal about the English King. He had been on the throne nearly twenty years, for his father had died when he was nine years old. England had been occupied by the father of the present King of France who had been invited there because the barons had so loathed Henry’s father King John, that they had thought a foreign ruler would be better than he was. When John died Henry had been hastily crowned with his mother’s throat collar, the crown jewels having recently been lost in the Wash when King John’s army was crossing that stretch of water.

So he had been King when he was younger than she was. He had had good advisers – always essential, said Romeo with a twinkle in his eye and so calling attention to his own worthiness, which she would be the last to deny. Because of these advisers, the French had gone back to France and Henry continued to reign in peace – entirely due to these strong men whose advice he took.

‘What sort of man is the King, Romeo?’ she asked. ‘Is he like the King of France?’

‘I doubt anyone is like the King of France, but Henry is a great King and if he is wise could be more powerful than Louis.’

That made her eyes sparkle. That was what she wanted. Henry to be more powerful than Louis – that was if she married him.

But what wild dream was this. There had been no emissaries from England asking for her hand. How infuriating that it was the man who must ask for his bride and not the bride for the groom!

But her questions about England had set Romeo’s mind working. She knew that. And he was thinking, as she was, what an admirable state of affairs would be brought about if while one of the Count of Provence’s daughters was the Queen of France, the other was the Queen of England.

She was impatient for action. But what could she do? Romeo could not send minstrels to the Court of England to sing of her charms. And she was only twelve years old. If only she had been the eldest.

She became obsessed by England. She discussed that country with Romeo. She already knew how it had been conquered by William of Normandy and that Henry was a descendant of his. She knew that because of the folly of King John very few possessions were left to the English Crown.

‘They will attempt to regain them,’ said Romeo, ‘and the King of France will do all in his power to hold them.’

It was an interesting situation.

She found solace from her impatience in writing and it was natural that she should write about England. She liked the ancient legends which had come down over the years and took one of these on which to base a narrative poem.

This was about a certain Blandin of Cornwall and Guillaume of Miremas who fell in love with two sisters, the Princess Briende and Irlondë. To win these ladies the two knights must perform deeds of great daring. Eleanor glowed with pride and passion as she invented the seemingly impossible tasks. And in her imagination she was the beautiful Briende.

When the poem was completed her parents summoned several members of the Court that they might hear their daughter read it, for in addition to her literary talents she had a beautiful voice and could sing where singing was required and then break into impassioned recitation.

It was a superb performance, and when it was finished Eleanor, flushed with triumph, looked up to find the eyes of Romeo fixed not upon her but staring into space as though his thoughts were far away.

She was piqued and angry. It was clear that he had not paid attention to the reading.

Her mother was embracing her.

‘It is your greatest achievement,’ she said. ‘You are indeed a poet, daughter.’

‘Romeo did not appear to think so,’ she said curtly.

Romeo was immediately on his feet. ‘Indeed, my lady Eleanor,’ he declared, ‘you are wrong. I thought it a remarkable piece of work. I was thinking what a pity it was that the whole world could not know of your talent.’

‘Eleanor is happy to delight her family, I know,’ said the Count fondly.

It was later that day when leaving the castle for a walk in the grounds with Sanchia, she met, as though by chance, the Lord of Villeneuve.

She was astute enough to know that this was no chance meeting and when he implied in the most discreet way that he wished to speak to her alone she sent Sanchia into the house to get a wrap for her and bring it to the shrubbery, deciding that whether or not she was in the shrubbery when Sanchia returned depended on the importance of what Romeo had to say and the time it would take.

Romeo came straight to the point. ‘Your poem impressed me greatly. You did not think so because I was carried away by a thought which had struck me as to how the poem could be used to good advantage.’

‘What is this ?’ said Eleanor.

‘The poem is set in Cornwall. Did you know that the Earl of Cornwall is at this time at Poitou?’

‘I did not,’ she said, and added though she knew very well, ‘Is he not the brother of the King of England?’

‘He is indeed. And at this time he is planning to go on a crusade. That is why he is in Poitou. It has occurred to me that as the poem is set in Cornwall, the Earl would be pleased to see it.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘That you send it to him with a charming letter in which you modestly say that you have written the poem and hearing he was near and it was set in his dominion, you thought it might interest him.’

‘What does my father say?’

‘Your father would doubtless consider it an unusual action, as he did when I sent a minstrel to the Court of France to sing of your sister’s beauty and talents.’

‘And you think because of that …’

‘No. But it helped. Young, beautiful, well educated … those are the qualities which Kings of this day look for in their brides.’

‘But Richard …’

‘Is the brother of the King, who will shortly be returning to England where the King is thinking of marriage. He must be because it will be his duty to marry and he has left it long.’

‘So … if I send the poem … ?’

Romeo nodded. ‘With a charming note … the sort a young girl might write on impulse. Who knows … ?’

‘I will do it,’ said Eleanor.

‘Without delay,’ warned Romeo.

She nodded. He left her then and she sped to the shrubbery where Sanchia was impatiently waiting with her wrap.

All his life Richard, Earl of Cornwall, had been reminded of his uncle after whom he had been named – Coeur de Lion. The greatest soldier of his day who had already become a legend in his country – the fearless fighter whose very name had struck terror into the Saracen. In spite of the military skill and courage of Richard the Lion Heart, he had not succeeded in capturing Jerusalem, although it was said he would eventually have done so if his life had not been cut short by an archer outside the walls of Chaluz castle.

For a young man who, in spite of all his efforts to deny this, was not physically strong, such a heritage could be a handicap. It could be said that Coeur de Lion had been troubled by periodic attacks of the ague, but once they were over he was full of vigour. His nephew’s disability was less easy to define and manifested itself in a general lassitude rather than any obvious symptom.

Richard had always known that sooner or later he would have to go on a crusade. It was expected of him; and now seemed a good time. He was, in truth, heartily tired of his marriage. He had been foolish when only twenty-two years of age he had married a woman a good deal older than himself. It was a reckless and impetuous act. He had been warned – even by the lady herself – that it could not be satisfactory and how right they had all been.

Isabella was the daughter of old William Marshal, one of the most important – it could be said the most important – men in England at the time of King John’s death, for if William Marshal had not supported Henry he would not have been accepted by the people.

What a fool he had been to marry the widow of Gilbert de Clare who had already borne her husband six children. He must have been mad. Of course Isabella was an exceptionally beautiful woman and at that time he had thought her seniority piquant. He had told himself he wanted no young girl. A mature woman was much more to his taste. So he had married and what had happened? She who had given her previous husband six children had so far given him only one son, and because his visits to her became less frequent she had grown melancholy so that his great desire was to get away from her.

What a situation! Henry would say ‘I told you so.’ Henry was very good at that. He had not been so fortunate in his matrimonial affairs after all. It was time he married. A King had his duty to the State. But Henry seemed to be unlucky. It really looked as though – King that he was – no one was very eager to marry him. He had already sent feelers out to Brittany, Austria and Bohemia – without result. Then of course he had tried for a Princess of Scotland but as her sister had already married Hubert de Burgh – the King’s chief minister after the death of William Marshal – it was considered inadvisable for the King and his minister to marry sisters. It was said that Hubert, being anxious that none of these marriages should take place, had set rumours in motion that the King of England had a squint, was of a lewd and generally unpleasant character being deceitful and a coward; it was even whispered that he was a leper. Of course poor old Hubert was now in decline being hounded by his enemies who were ready to bring any charge against him however ridiculous. Richard did not believe that of old Hubert. No, Hubert was a good man. Of course he had his eyes on the main chance, and wanted to gather as much land and money as he could … (well, who did not?) but Hubert was honourable … as men went. And Richard refused to believe the tales of his enemies.

The fact remained that Henry was no longer very young and still had no bride. He was a little humiliated by this and wanted to marry. He did, however, show very little sympathy for Richard’s predicament. Richard had behaved like a fool was his judgement, and must take the consequences.

But Richard was not a man to accept his fate. He had already sent feelers to Rome with the usual plea of consanguinity, but the Pope was not sympathetic; so at this stage Richard, being married to a woman who no longer pleased him, could view with interest a crusade to the Holy Land.

Such a project needed a great amount of preparation and it would be some time before he could leave, probably a year or more; in the meantime he could enjoy the preparation.

He was surprised when a messenger arrived from Les Baux with a package for him and he was amused and somewhat intrigued when he discovered the letter written in a good hand, but obviously by a young person which explained that the narrative poem was a gift to him from the daughter of the Count of Provence. She sent it because she had set her scene in Cornwall, a land which fascinated her and she knew that it belonged to him so it seemed to her that because of this he might consider her work with kindness.

Puzzled he questioned the messenger.

‘It was given to you by the Count’s daughter?’

‘That is so, my lord.’

Richard smiled. ‘I believe the Count has several daughters.’

‘He has four, my lord.’

‘And one, not so long ago became the Queen of France. It was the second eldest who gave you this?’

‘The Lady Eleanor, my lord.’

‘She is a young girl –’

‘Very young, my lord.’

‘So must she be for the Queen of France is but a child and the Lady Eleanor is younger.’

‘By some two years I believe, my lord.’

Richard nodded and dismissed the man to his servants that he might be refreshed after his journey. Then he read the poem.

It was good. It showed a style which was mature and the adventures of the knights were told with a verve and authenticity which was really amazing coming from a girl who could not be more than thirteen and had never set eyes on the terrain of which she wrote. An unusual girl, one might say a brilliant girl. Richard pictured an ardent little scholar peering at her books.

He must write a gracious note of thanks and compliment her on her skill. Skill! For a girl of that age to write such a poem about a land she could never have seen was little short of genius.

He sent for the messenger and when the man came to him he said: ‘Tell me about the Lady Eleanor. Is she handsome?’

‘My lord, she is said to be the most handsome of all the sisters and I doubt a more good-looking family could be found in France.’

‘Is that so?’ mused Richard.

‘My lord, it is. The lady is called Eleanor la Belle. Yet her sisters are beautiful girls also.’

‘The lady has done me much honour. I should welcome the chance of thanking her in person. Ride back to Les Baux and tell the Count of Provence that I shall be passing through his land and should feel honoured if I might call at the castle.’

‘The Count will be overjoyed, my lord, I doubt not.’

‘Then when you are refreshed ride off. I doubt not I shall be close behind.’

Eleanor saw the messenger returning and hurried down to question him.

‘What said the Earl of Cornwall when he saw what the package contained?’ she demanded.

‘He wishes to come here in person to thank you.’

She was elated. She turned and went without delay to search for Romeo.

She found him with her father and she felt that there was no time for delay, so she blurted out what the messenger had said.

‘The Earl of Cornwall,’ cried the Count. ‘We must give him a good welcome. But how did this come about?’

Eleanor looked at Romeo who said: ‘The lady Eleanor sent her poem to the Earl. It seemed it would please him since it was set in his country.’

The Count looked from her to Romeo in disbelief.

‘It was on my advice,’ said the Lord of Villeneuve quickly. ‘I saw no reason why the Earl of Cornwall, being in the neighbourhood, should not be made aware of the lady Eleanor’s talent.’

The Count gave a short laugh. ‘My dear Romeo, is this another of your schemes?’

Romeo opened his eyes wide and said: ‘But it seemed so natural. The poem is set in Cornwall. The Earl of Cornwall is close at hand. I am sure he was delighted. He will be able to tell you, my lady, whether your descriptions of his country were good.’

Eleanor was looking from the minister to her father. The Count looked vaguely uneasy. Of course she was thinking Richard was not Henry, but he was his brother and soon he would be returning to England. It was a way in. It appealed to her nature to do something – however wild – rather than to do nothing at all.

The Count said: ‘The Countess must be told without delay. It will be necessary to make preparations for the brother of the King of England.’

She was a beautiful child, thought Richard, for child she was in spite of the fact that she was so self-possessed. Eleanor la Belle indeed! And when he considered her poem which he had at first thought he must skim through and then had become excited about, he was astonished. She was not only beautiful but clever.

She made him feel more and more dissatisfied with his marriage. By God’s eyes, he thought, were I not already married I would ask for her myself.

There was a banquet in the great hall given especially for him and he expressed himself so enchanted by the Count’s daughter that he asked that he might be presented to the others.

Sanchia and Beatrice, with Eleanor, were a charming trio; and if perhaps Eleanor surpassed her sisters in beauty and poise the others were not far behind.

He made himself very agreeable and talked to them of Eleanor’s poem about Cornwall which he said amazed him by the manner in which it expressed the atmosphere of the place.

Then he told them about Corfe Castle where he had spent much of his early life and how he had been most strictly brought up under the care of stern tutors. He spoke of Cornwall – that most westerly part of England which tapered into a bony ridge of land pushing its way far out into the ocean. He told of the moors and the rugged coast so treacherous to ships and the queer brooding mystery of the land where in the past so many strange deeds had taken place. He believed that King Arthur and his knights had roamed those moors.

He turned to Eleanor. ‘With your imagination, dear lady, you would find much to write of in my land of Cornwall. You would find many such as the brave knight Blandin. I would I could show it to you.’

‘How I long to see it,’ cried Eleanor.

‘Mayhap you will one day,’ replied Richard; and he looked at her so intently that the colour came into her cheeks and she cast down her eyes lest he should read her thoughts.

‘I should like to come too,’ said Sanchia, who was too young to hide her admiration for their guest.

‘Let us hope that in some way this will come to pass,’ said Richard. ‘Why should I not invite you all?’

‘It is so far,’ said Sanchia. ‘Over the sea.’

‘I should like to go on a boat,’ put in Beatrice. ‘You came on one, my lord.’

‘’Tis true I did and the sea was so unkind to us that more than one of my men wished himself dead.’

‘But you did not,’ said Sanchia.

‘I am a tolerable sailor,’ he answered, ‘which is a mercy for in my family we used to spend our lives crossing the sea. It may well be that we shall return to the habit.’

Eleanor was the only one who knew that he was referring to the regaining of the lost possessions. She was silent because her whole attention was centred on what he had to tell. She wanted to hear more and more of England, and hearing of England meant hearing of its King.

‘My brother, as you know, has been a King for a long time. He is only slightly older than I. Just think. Had I been born fifteen months sooner and he fifteen later it would be the King of England who sat talking to you now.’

‘You would not be here then,’ Eleanor pointed out.

‘Why should I not be? I tell you this. If my brother knew of the talents and beauty of the daughters of the Count of Provence he would be unable to resist a visit.’

‘When a King comes travelling to France,’ Eleanor pointed out, ‘there would be many to suspect his reasons. He could not do so merely to see my father’s daughters.’

‘I see you are wise indeed. No, the King could not come here without much pomp and noise. There would be suspicions that he was asking the Count’s help against the King of France.’

‘He is our brother-in-law,’ piped up Beatrice.

‘So you see, my dear ladies, that there would be consternation if he came. How fortunate I am that I am merely his brother for I may come and go as I please. But rest assured I shall tell my brother of my visit here. I shall make him envy me … for once.’

By which he betrays, thought Eleanor, that he has envied the King more than once.

Then she begged him to tell her of England and she learned much of the Court and its ceremonies and how the ladies were so eager to show their hair that although they had elaborate head-dresses they often carried them in their hands; the gowns worn by the ladies were of similar fashion to those worn in Provence, for fashions passed from country to country; the nobles wore brocade and velvet, silk and fine linen and the poorer people spun their own cloth from wool flax or goat’s hair just as in Provence. The King was very interested in architecture and for this reason buildings were springing up all over the country. The King was a man who greatly enjoyed music and literature.

‘I shall show him your poem when I return to England,’ said Richard to Eleanor. ‘I know he will admire it very much.’

Again Eleanor blushed and lowered her eyes. Triumph indeed. How wise Romeo was! This was the way.

‘Perhaps you will show it to his Queen as well as to him,’ she said.

‘My brother has no Queen.’

‘But very soon he will have one I doubt not.’

‘He must. It is his duty. Though while he has not I am heir to the throne you know.’

Eleanor was alert. Here was a very ambitious man. Then would it not be to his interests to keep his brother unmarried? Oh no, he could not do that. It would not be permitted. Moreover, surely Henry as King would be the one to decide when he would marry.

Richard went on: ‘Yes, I think he will eventually marry. In fact that day may come soon.’

‘He is affianced?’ asked Eleanor.

‘Not exactly, but I believe negotiations are going afoot.’

Her heart was beating fast. Too late. It was too late. She saw this prize – the only remaining prize – slipping through her fingers.

She felt a great sympathy with Richard of Cornwall. They had both been born too late.

Richard started to tell them about the Court; the banquets that were given, the games that were played. Questions and commands was one of the favourites and also roy-qui-nement, the King does not lie, in which questions were asked and the answers given must be the truth; chess was played a great deal and without asking he knew that the girls were experienced at the game for to play well was considered a necessary part of the education of well brought up girls and boys; then there was a game called tables in which two people played draughtsmen, the moves being determined by throwing a dice; there was vaulting, tumbling, juggling and of course dancing and music.

‘And does the King ride through the country in royal progress?’

‘Indeed he does. My brother has a love of splendour. And this of course is reflected in his Court. The people like it.’

‘It is how a King should be,’ said Eleanor.

‘Lavish entertainments are arranged for him in the castles he visits. We have the jongleurs of course who come with songs and dances. Some of the jongleurs are women; they dance well and can sing; they are good mimics; they act little plays. I can tell you there is no lack of gaiety at my brother’s Court. He favours most the musicians though and the poets and those who perform a certain kind of dance. He was always more studious than I. I think he loves his books almost as much as his kingdom.’

‘Who is the lady who will share his throne?’

‘It is Joanna, the daughter of the Earl of Ponthieu.’

The Earl of Ponthieu! thought Eleanor. She was of no higher rank than the daughter of the Count of Provence. And for her a crown! Oh, they should have acted sooner.

‘When … when will the betrothal take place?’

‘I doubt there will be any delay. My brother feels he has waited too long … and so do his ministers. I believe the proposals may already have gone to my brother. I know he is eagerly awaiting them.’

Eleanor seemed to have lost heart. It could have worked. But it was too late.

When Richard rode away the three girls stood with their parents waving him farewell.

He looked back and thought what a charming group they made. Certainly the reports of the girls’ beauty had not been exaggerated. Eleanor was very gifted; Sanchia was charming – so young and appealing; and even little Beatrice was going to be a beauty when she grew up.

He carried with him the poem. It was quite a work of art.

He turned in his saddle and called: ‘We shall meet again. I promise it to myself.’

Then he rode away.

Sanchia clasped her hands and murmured: ‘He is the most beautiful man I ever saw.’

Her parents laughed at her tenderly. Eleanor was silent. Too late, she was thinking. But a few weeks too late.