The Queen from Provence

Chapter XX MURDER AT THE ALTAR

Edward now had a little son whom they had named John and his wife was pregnant again. There was great rejoicing throughout the family for now the Queen was back and their delight in being together again was boundless. Henry was beside himself with joy and pride in his family. Eleanor had worked devotedly all through their separation and it was the brilliant tactics of his son Edward which had saved him from his enemies.

The battle of Evesham, though decisive and resulting in the death of Simon de Montfort, did not completely end the war.

Simon and Guy de Montfort, determined to avenge their father, kept bands of rebels together in various parts of the country. There were battles for the castles whose castellans had declared themselves against the King; but Edward was now a seasoned warrior and he was beginning to emerge as a general of great ability, a rival to his great uncle Richard Coeur de Lion.

Richard, King of the Romans, had married again, although the general opinion was that he might have been thinking of making his peace with God rather than starting a new life. Richard had suffered a great deal during his captivity and those periods when he had been listless and unable to work had increased. But his marriage to the beautiful young Beatrice of Falkenberg revived him and it was with great pride that he brought her to England to introduce her to his brother.

Edward meanwhile was clearing up the rebel patches throughout the country. He was fast becoming a hero to his fellow countrymen. His height and good looks made him immediately recognisable; he was clearly a man of great strength and while he could be affable there was no sign of his father’s weakness in him.

The fact that they had such an heir to the throne was one of the main factors in giving the country a feeling of security. They despised Henry who had brought so much trouble to the country through his folly; but they were inclined to forgive him and his arrogant avaricious queen because whatever they had taken, they had given them Edward.

In due course Edward had freed the country of the rebels. Young Simon and Guy de Montfort were in exile in France. Edward had added further to his aura of heroism by meeting in single combat the last of the rebels. This was Adam Gurdon, a man of almost superhuman strength whom no one had ever been able to overcome. Edward achieved what had seemed impossible; and when he had Adam at his mercy he continued in his noble role and gave him his life out of respect for his valour. Rounding off this romantic episode in the perfect manner, Adam asked to be able to serve Edward and as long as he lived acted as one of his closest servants and bodyguards.

It was incidents like this that were circulated about the heir to the throne which delighted the people. They forgot Simon de Montfort and his cries for justice and his introduction of a parliament of which the like had never been seen before.

The country was settling down.

Edward now had a daughter, Eleanor, after his wife, and that obliging lady was once more pregnant. In due course she gave birth to a son who was named Henry after his grandfather.

Henry was delighted. He imposed a fine of 25,000 marks on the Londoners, who surprisingly paid it, and the whole of it was put to the Queen’s use.

‘This is for you, my love, and only now can I begin to forgive those wicked people for their treatment of you.’

Eleanor was ready to be placated as the sum was so large. The people would always hate her – and in particular the Londoners – but she could shrug that aside in the pleasure she took in her family.

News came from France that Louis was contemplating going on a crusade. People were beginning to regard him as a saint and it seemed to the whole world that he was the most fitted to lead such a venture.

Edward reminded his father that they both had at times declared their intention of taking up the cross and now that the country was at peace and Henry was in good health, might be the time for Edward to keep their vow.

The more he talked of it the more the idea appealed to him. He had developed a great skill – and taste – for battle. How better could he use it than in the service of Christ?

The King and the Queen, while they would regret his absence, understood his desires and they believed that it would be good for him and the country if he were to strike a blow for Christendom.

Only his wife, Eleanor, was so stricken with grief and so insistent in her pleas to accompany him that he pointed out in great detail the dangers she would have to face.

‘I would rather face any danger than be without you,’ she said.

He was deeply touched and she went on to point out that other wives had accompanied their husbands. Louis’ own wife, Marguerite, many years ago had been with him on his crusade.

It was true, agreed Edward, but she had suffered great hardships. He would not wish to see his gentle Eleanor in such circumstances.

But his gentle Eleanor showed a sudden hitherto unsuspected strength.

‘If you will not take me as your wife I will disguise myself as one of your soldiers and you will not know I am in your company until we arrive. Then you will have to recognise me.’

He embraced her with fervour. ‘My dear good wife,’ he said, ‘plead no more. You shall come with me. In God’s truth, why did I ever think that I could go without you?’

So it was settled and Edward left for France with his cousin Henry, the son of Richard, for Henry had also taken the cross.

They would go to the Court of France and there make their plans.

It was good to be together. They had always been the closest friends from the days of their childhood when they had been brought up in a household of royal children.

Henry had many fine qualities and Edward would never forget that it was Henry who had shown him the folly of his ruthless cruelty to the boy who at his command had lost an ear. Henry had despised that act and taught Edward to do the same.

There was something quite noble about Henry.

‘God’s truth, cousin,’ said Edward, ‘I am glad you will be with me.’

Henry had recently married the daughter of the Viscount of Bearn – a beautiful girl named Constance. So there they were two happily married men, about to set out on an adventure together – one of which they had often talked in their boyhood when they had vied with each other in describing the valiant deeds they would perform.

They were received with honour at the Court of France but Edward had to plead poverty, for the recent civil war had had such an effect on the English exchequer that there was no money with which to support a crusade. It was agreed that Edward should travel as the Duke of Aquitaine which meant that he would be a vassal of the King of France. As such Louis would offer him financial aid.

This was agreed upon and the two young men returned to England to make their final preparations.

Then Edward and his wife said a farewell to their children and set sail for France.

A shock awaited him when he arrived at Tunis. Louis had died of a fever and sickness raged through the French camp. The new king Philip under the influence of his uncle Charles of Anjou had made a truce with the Saracens.

This changed their plans considerably. Edward was indignant.

‘By God’s blood,’ he swore, ‘though all my fellow soldiers and countrymen desert me, I will go to Acre with my groom only and keep my words and my oath to the death.’

But he was uneasy.

He talked long with Henry.

‘Who would have believed this could have happened? You look sad, Henry. Do you think I am wrong to go on?’

‘Nay. I think you are right. I was but thinking of my father. He lies sick. I have a feeling that I shall never see him again.’

Edward was thoughtful.

‘There is trouble in Gascony. My father will need help. Henry, I am going to ask you something. Will you go home. Tend to your father. I know he loves you as he loves no other. I have seen his eyes light up at the sight of you. We have a capability for loving our families, we Plantagenets. Perhaps it is because my grandfather was so ill-treated by his sons and there is much to make up for. Henry, I have a feeling that you should go back.’

‘Perhaps you too, Edward. This is an unexpected setback.’

‘Nay. I am determined to stay. I shall go on. I have made my vow and I shall keep it. You are young. You will have time yet. At this moment I feel that you must go back, Henry.’

Henry was thoughtful. He was greatly concerned about his father. He had known for some time that he had been ill; but of late his weakness had grown.

‘I will go,’ he decided, and the cousins took an affectionate farewell of each other. Edward went on to Palestine while Henry sailed away to the Mediterranean coast.

Henry had been sad to leave Edward but, as he travelled through Italy in the entourage of the King of France, he felt a great need to see his father.

He feared that Richard might die before he could reach him. Because of the strong bond between them he could not now stop thinking of his father. It seemed to him that his father was trying to reach him, that death was hovering and he wanted to see him while there was yet time.

As he rode Henry was going over memories of the times they had spent together. Richard had loved him, he knew, more than anyone else. He had had a certain passion for his wives – Sanchia had greatly attracted him for a while and it was the same with Beatrice. It must at one time have been so with his mother. But that was before he could remember. He fancied, looking back, that as a child he knew how his mother longed for his father to come to them, and how when he did come, although he showed the utmost affection for his son, he wanted to get away. And then later they had become great friends. They had fought together at Lewes; they had been the prisoners of Simon de Montfort.

Henry often thought of Simon. There was a great man who had dreamed of bringing justice to England. It was a pity that men like Simon de Montfort must die on the battlefield.

He knew that his two sons – Simon the younger and Guy – were now in Italy. They were exiled from England but Guy had married the only child of Count Aldobrandino Rosso dell’ Anguillara and had been made governor of Tuscany by Charles of Anjou. His brother Simon had joined him in Italy, so they could not now be far away.

He wondered whether he could see them, in which case he might bring about some reconciliation between them and the King and Edward.

He was sure that Edward would be ready to forget the trouble between them. After all they were his cousins. The King and Queen, whatever their faults, were not vindictive. King Henry was a man who liked to live in peace.

The thought excited Henry. As the party came into the town of Viterbo he decided that he would do all he could to find his cousins and, when he had, he would try to persuade them that they must bear no more resentment for the brutal murder of their father.

All enmity must be forgotten.

He was sure that the King and his son Edward would be prepared to let bygones be bygones.

It was Lent. The time for repentance and forgiveness.

Tomorrow he would go to church and pray for success.

As the party rode into the town of Viterbo two men were watching from a window of an alehouse.

They had come to this place in disguise for they wished to discover whether a certain man – whom they had reason to believe was a member of that party – was in fact of it.

They talked in low tones.

‘He is bound to be there. I know he left Edward and he would naturally return through Italy with the King’s party. The time is at hand, brother.’

Guy de Montfort nodded. ‘Never fear, Simon, his time is at hand.’

Simon de Montfort said: ‘I can see it still… that ribald crowd. And aloft they held his head. They jeered … they shouted obscenities … and when I think of him … that great man …’

Guy said: ‘Rest assured he shall not escape.’ His eyes glinted with an almost demoniac light. He had always been more bloodthirsty than his brother. He was thinking of those days in the royal courtyards when Henry of Cornwall had, with Edward, been a leader of them all. He had had a great influence on Edward and among all the boys was his greatest friend.

‘He was so virtuous,’ said Guy. ‘He was always right. Noble Henry! Ere long it will be a different story.’

‘I have heard that our father was murdered after Henry of Cornwall and his father were taken prisoner.’

‘It matters not. It was his men who did this foul deed and he must answer for it. Look. Who is that coming into the street?’

‘By God. Truth, it is he.’

Guy caught his brother’s arm. ‘So he is here then. Now all we have to do is wait for our moment.’

There was so much Henry wished to ask of God. His father’s health was uppermost; the success of Edward in the Holy Land; the continued peace at home; his future happiness with his beautiful bride.

In the early morning of that Friday which was to be fatal for him, Henry made his way to the church of San Silvestro. He had dismissed his attendants for he wished to be completely alone. He was in a strange mood that morning.

He knelt at the high altar. There was a deep silence about him and he felt suddenly at peace.

And as he knelt there the church door was thrown open. He did not turn even when the clatter of boots on the flagged floor broke the silence.

Suddenly he heard his name and turning he saw Guy de Montfort with his brother Simon at the head of a group of armed men.

‘This is the end for you!’ shouted Guy. ‘You shall not escape now.’

Henry saw murder in his cousin’s eyes. He began: ‘Guy …’

Guy de Montfort laughed harshly. ‘This is for what was done to my father.’

He lifted his sword. Henry clung to the altar and the sword all but cut off his fingers. Henry staggered to his feet.

‘Cousin …’ he cried. ‘Cousins … Have mercy … I did not harm your father …’

‘Nay. Nay,’ cried Guy, his eyes alight with demoniac glee. ‘He died did he not? Come. What are we waiting for?’

He lifted his sword. Simon was beside him. Henry fell fainting to the floor, his blood spattering the altar.

The de Montfort brothers looked at the dying man.

‘We have avenged our father,’ said Guy.

‘Nay, sir,’ spoke up one of his band. ‘Your father was not so respectfully dispatched.’

‘You speak the truth,’ cried Guy. ‘Come, what was done to my great father shall be done to this man.’

It was the signal. They dragged him from the church; they stripped him of his clothes. Then the gruesome work of mutilation was begun.

Richard of Cornwall, King of the Romans, was sick and weary. The lethargy which had dogged him all his life had increased. Looking back over his life he could not feel very pleased with it. He had rarely succeeded in what he undertook. The task of ruling the Roman Empire had proved beyond his strength and ability. He was married now to a beautiful woman but somehow she only served to call attention to the fact that he had grown old and feeble.

His brother Henry had been more fortunate. Henry could face disaster, pass through it, and behave as though it had never happened. He had always known this trait in his brother and despised it. Now he began to think that it was a virtue. He himself had had three wives. Isabella, Sanchia and Beatrice … all exceptionally beautiful women, yet none of them had really satisfied him.

The great achievement of his life had been the begetting of his sons. Henry and Edmund. He lived for them; and the one closest to him was Henry. Often he had marvelled that with his many imperfections he could have sired a son like Henry. Of course Henry had inherited his mother’s good qualities and Isabella had been a good woman. He often remembered now that he was ailing how badly he had treated her, and he regretted it.

Henry was coming home. He was glad of that. He had not liked the idea of his going to the Holy Land and had been haunted by the fear of his falling into the hands of the Saracens or dying of some fearful disease as so many of them did. It had been a relief to know he was on the way home.

Soon he would be in England. God speed the day.

There were arrivals at the castle. Letters perhaps from Henry and Edmund who was also on the Continent. He lived for news of his sons.

‘My lord, there is a man who would speak with you.’

‘Who is it?’

‘He comes from Italy.’

‘He will be from my son. Bring him in without delay.’

The man entered. He did not speak but stood before Richard as though seeking words.

‘You have brought me letters?’

‘Nay, my lord.’

‘Come you from my son?’

The man did not answer.

‘What ails you?’ cried Richard. ‘What has happened? Something is wrong.’

He had risen and as he did so he felt a sharp pain in his side. ‘Well, well, well?’ he shouted.

‘There has been a disaster, my lord.’

‘My son …’

The man nodded.

‘My son … Henry. He … he lives?’

The man shook his head.

‘Oh my God. Not Henry. What … How …’

‘My lord it was in a church at Viterbo. He was slain by cruel murderers.’

‘Henry! Slain! What harm has Henry ever done?’

‘His cousins, my lord, Simon and Guy de Montfort, have murdered him. They were heard to say that they did it to avenge their father.’

Richard tottered and the man dashed to him to prevent his falling.

‘My son,’ he whispered. ‘My beloved son.’

He lay in his chamber for a week and would take no food. He did not sleep. He lay staring before him, murmuring Henry’s name.

At the end of the week he bestirred himself and sent for certain of his squires. They must go to France at once and bring Edmund back. Who knew the murderers might try to do the same to him. He would not rest until Edmund was with him.

In due course Edmund arrived and when he embraced his son the tears fell from his eyes but he was a little better after that. But it was noticed how enfeebled he had grown.

He rarely ventured out; he was never seen to smile again. He could be heard talking to Henry although he was alone.

Henry’s body was brought to England and buried at Hayles; and one cold December day Richard’s servants discovered that he had not risen from his bed and when they went to him they found that he was unable to move or to speak.

It was the end – although he lingered for a few months in this sad state. In April of the following year he died. It was said that he had never recovered from the death of his son.

His body was buried at Hayles, that Cistercian Abbey which he had founded and which stood near Winchcombe in Gloucestershire. He lay – beside his beloved son and his second wife Sanchia. His heart though was buried in the Franciscan church in Oxford.