The Queen from Provence

Chapter VI BIRTH OF EDWARD

The Queen believed that that night there had been a miracle. In Rosamund’s Bower there had come to her the desire to stay there, and so they had while a madman tried to kill them and would certainly have done so if they had been asleep in their own bed. And when she discovered that she was indeed pregnant, she was certain of the miracle.

This was happiness indeed. There was only one irritation and that was the rejection of her Uncle William and the inability of Henry to force his acceptance at Winchester. Moreover Uncle William was not in very good health which was a great concern to her.

But the fact that she was to have a child superseded all minor irritations. Henry was beside himself with delight. He agreed with her that there had been a miracle that night and although they could not be absolutely sure that their child had been conceived in Rosamund’s Bower, that mattered little now. It had actually happened.

Henry cosseted her more than ever. He regarded her with a kind of wonder; he admitted that he had feared they might never have a child but so much did he love her that even that had not made him regret the marriage.

She became very friendly with her sister-in-law Eleanor de Montfort. Eleanor was herself the proud mother of a boy – Henry – and was therefore knowledgeable about pregnancies, having just emerged from one.

The Princess was happy in the Queen’s company because she was missing her husband who had gone to Rome to get a dispensation regarding their marriage.

The two found great pleasure in sitting together stitching and embroidering – and it was their joy to make garments for their children. The Queen dismissed her attendants and set them to work in another chamber so that she and the Princess could talk more intimately.

They had a great deal in common – two contented wives. The Queen thought it strange that the Princess had found happiness in marrying beneath her when she, the Queen, had found hers in the grandeur of her marriage. She could never have been content, as the Princess was, with the lowering of her status.

Yet there were compensations she realised. Simon de Montfort was a strong man; a forceful and ambitious man. Could it be that he had married the Princess because she was the King’s sister?

Henry was a weak man; she knew that. But he made up for his weakness in the strength of his passion for her.

The Princess talked as they stitched; Simon would be home soon, she believed. It was her fault that he had had to go away. ‘I should never have made that foolish vow,’ she added.

Then she told the Queen how when she had been very young she thought she would like to go into a convent and Edmund the saintly Archbishop of Canterbury had made her take a vow to embrace the vestal life.

‘And you made this vow?’ asked the Queen.

‘Well, I did not really take it seriously. I was staying with poor Isabella – Richard’s wife – at the time; and I knew how unhappy she was and I thought: So that is married life. I want none of it. And with Edmund almost forcing me, I suppose I did agree.’

‘And then you married Simon.’

‘Yes, I married Simon. I was determined to. For me no one else would do … nor any other life. And you see how right I was. I have my little angel Henry now … and soon Simon will be back with his dispensation and that will silence old Edmund.’

‘I doubt anything would silence him. What a trial saints can be.’

The Princess agreed. ‘Oh how fortunate we are in our marriages,’ she cried. ‘I often wonder if you realise it. Henry adores you. In his eyes you are the perfect Queen. He has changed since you came.’

The Queen nodded in agreement.

‘You have made him so happy,’ went on Eleanor the Princess. ‘When I think of Richard’s marriage … Well, that was why I decided I would never marry. Of course I had been married to William Marshal … if you could call that a marriage. I was a child and only sixteen when he died. Perhaps I should have accepted my life if he had lived, but now that I have met Simon I realise what I would have missed.’

So they stitched and talked and the Queen told the Princess of Richard of Cornwall’s arrival in Provence and how the poem she had written had brought her to Henry’s notice; and the Princess told of poor sad Isabella who had borne six children to her first husband and had given Richard only one.

‘Of course he dotes on young Henry. A fine boy he is too. I think Richard loves him more than anything else in the world. He is fond of women though and has a host of mistresses, I hear. Isabella knows it. It breaks her heart. She always said she was too old for him and she was right.’

So they talked of poor Isabella at length because talking of her brought home to them more clearly their own happy state.

And while they stitched they each looked into the future. The Princess for the return of her husband with the dispensation from the Pope because of the vow she had carelessly made, and the Queen for the birth of her child.

Simon returned with the dispensation and the Princess was happy. The Queen had to wait a little longer for her contentment. On a hot June day her child was born in the Palace of Westminster.

There was great rejoicing throughout the land, for the child was a healthy boy.

Henry could not tear himself away from the nursery. The child must be brought to him, examined, and embraced. He was overcome with anxiety lest it might not have the best of attention. Nothing must be spared in the rearing of this important boy.

The Queen pouted and declared he had transferred his affections from her to their son. Seriously he assured her that this was not so at which she laughed and said she shared his adoration for that wonderful little creature who was so entirely theirs and could quite understand his feelings.

What should they call him?

There was one name above all others which the King preferred. His greatest hero had been Edward the Confessor – that King who had been more of a saint than a King. Henry had always been a deeply religious man; some of his courtiers had likened him to the Confessor with the comment that it was all very well to be a saint when there was not a kingdom to be governed but that it was kings who made the best leaders, not saints.

‘So,’ said the Queen, ‘you would have the child named Edward.’

‘That is my wish,’ replied the King.

So the little Prince was christened Edward, and at his baptism Simon de Montfort, newly returned from Rome, stood as godfather and acted as High Steward.

London went wild with joy, for the citizens had begun to fear that the Queen was barren. Now they had an heir – a boy – and as was sometimes the case, when a Queen started bearing children she often continued.

Many presents were sent to the King for the child, but Henry spoilt the occasion by sending back those which he did not consider grand enough and demanding better of the donors, so that they ceased to be free gifts and were an imposition.

The people grumbled. ‘God gave us this infant,’ they said, ‘and the King would sell him to us.’

But in spite of that England rejoiced in its little Prince.

It could hardly be expected that Richard of Cornwall was as delighted with the birth of the baby as some. He, like others, had begun to believe that the Queen was barren in which case he was next in succession to the throne. Now he had been displaced and if the Queen had more children the farther away would be his hopes of the crown.

He grew more disgruntled with his own marriage, while it was impossible not to admit that this was his own fault. Then he saw his sister and Simon de Montfort revelling in their mésalliance and felt that he was the only one who seemed to be called on to answer for his follies.

Thus the marriage of Simon and Eleanor had angered him considerably. Henry, he told himself and others, had no right to give his consent to it. Henry was a fool – always so firm in the wrong cause; so weak when he should be strong. One would have thought he would be grateful to his brother, but for whom he would never have had his Queen.

If he had a chance to discountenance Henry he would seize it. He liked to prove him wrong and to show how much more wisely he would have acted if he had been in his brother’s place.

Richard had always had an ear and an eye alert for what was happening on the Continent and he had been wondering for some time how it was that Simon de Montfort had been able to acquire the dispensation with such speed.

He discovered how it had happened. Those about the Pope were not averse to a little bribery and Simon had bought his way to favour. But Simon was not a rich man, so how had he been able to manage this? The answer soon became clear. He owed debts on the Continent and he had given as his sponsor the name of the King of England.

The month of August had set in hot and sultry. The churching of the Queen was to take place at Westminster on the tenth day of the month and Simon and his wife came riding into London from Kenilworth on the ninth.

Richard called a few days earlier to see the King and after he had paid his respects to the Queen and admired the baby he found himself alone with Henry.

‘De Montfort stands in high favour with you, brother,’ he said.

‘Is he not now our brother?’ replied the King.

‘Alas, due to this mésalliance.’

‘Perhaps not so. Our sister is happy. And Simon now has the earldom of Leicester.’

‘And the confidence of his King … which some might say he does not deserve.’

‘Why say you so?’

‘I have learned how he so speedily acquired his dispensation. He offered bribes.’

‘Well, ’tis done often enough.’

‘By those who have the means mayhap. Simon does it in your name.’

‘What say you?’ cried the King.

‘Oh, he is your brother-in-law now. He uses your name. He is royal. Has he not been accepted into our family? His son could be an heir to the throne. He is proud of this.’

‘Heir to the throne! How could that be?’

‘A few deaths … That is all.’

‘That’s nonsense. But what is this about using my name?’

‘I can prove it to you. You may well find bills presented to you. It may be that you will be asked to pay for the bribes which gave Simon the dispensation.’

Henry’s face was crimson with anger. His anger was the greater because Richard had brought him this news and once more proved himself to be more cognisant of what was going on than he was himself.

When the King came face to face with Simon de Montfort his fury overwhelmed him and he was quite unable to control it.

Eleanor, beside him, waiting for the ceremony of churching to begin, laid her hand on his arm but for once he was less aware of her than his anger against this man.

Simon had made him look a fool. It was something he could not forgive.

‘You adventurer!’ he cried. ‘How dare you come back here? How dare you come into this church? Do you think I am not aware of what you are? So you have offered bribes, have you? This is how you repay my friendship to you! Where is the money to pay for those bribes? You think I shall pay them, do you?’

‘My lord,’ stammered Simon, taken completely by surprise, for at the baptism of little Prince Edward the King had shown him the utmost friendliness, ‘I understand you not …’

Henry laughed loudly and unpleasantly. The silence in the church was intense but he seemed to be unaware of the place and the unseemliness of conducting this family quarrel at the churching of his wife.

‘Nay, you understand not,’ he cried, and his voice echoed eerily. ‘Take care, Simon de Montfort who call yourself the Earl of Leicester. Yes, take care that that which has been given you may not be taken from you.’

‘Pray tell me, my lord,’ said Simon recovering a little from his surprise and dismay, ‘what tales have you heard? You have been good to me, giving me your sister’s hand in marriage … making a brother of me …’

‘You know why I consented to the marriage,’ interrupted Henry. ‘It was a mésalliance was it not? A Princess, a sister of the King given to a penniless adventurer. Why so? Why so? Many of my barons have asked that question. Now I shall give them the answer. Here in this holy place. You shamed my sister. You seduced her. You made her unfit for marriage to any other man. That is the only reason why I consented to this marriage.’

‘It is a lie,’ shouted Simon.

‘It is no surprise to me that even in a holy place you have little respect for the truth.’

‘It is you …’ began Simon.

His wife was laying a hand on his arm. ‘Let us go,’ she said. ‘Let us not stay here to be insulted.’

‘Yes, go,’ cried Henry. ‘Go … go … and never let me see your face again.’

Henry’s own face was scarlet with rage; his drooping eyelid completely covered the pupil. There was a twitch at the side of his face.

Many barons in the hall were remembering when he had drawn his sword on Hubert de Burgh, who had served him faithfully, and how he might have killed him had not the Earl of Chester stepped between them.

Perhaps it was the Queen who delayed him giving full vent to his anger then. She swayed a little and the thought that she might faint turned Henry’s thoughts momentarily from Simon. He caught her in his arms.

The Princess meanwhile was pulling at her husband’s arm.

‘Come away,’ she said, ‘while there is time.’

Simon turned and strode out of the church, his wife and their few attendants following him.

The ceremony was concluded, but back in the palace the King’s anger flared up again against Simon de Montfort. He knew that he had made an unfair accusation. The man might be an adventurer; he had undoubtedly bribed his way to the dispensation with very little to meet his commitments, but there was no evidence whatsoever that he had seduced Eleanor and Henry knew it. Yet ever since he had been reproached for consenting to the marriage, and even being present at it, he had had to have an excuse for his own conduct. He had fabricated this one and because it seemed a sound enough reason for his giving his consent he had stuck to it and even soothed his vanity by believing it now and then.

Simon made him uneasy, so he hated him; he wanted to be rid of him.

He decided to arrest Simon.

Richard, who had been present at the churching, came immediately to his brother’s apartments.

‘Henry,’ he cried, ‘that was an unpleasant scene in the church.’

‘When we have unpleasant people about us there will be unpleasant scenes,’ retorted Henry.

‘There are many who are saying that it was no place in which to conduct it.’

‘Who says this? Who dares pass judgement on the King?’

‘Brother, subjects have always passed judgement on their kings. What of our father … ?’

‘Pray spare me that. I am sick unto death of having my father’s mantle thrown about my shoulders.’

‘Simon de Montfort could be a dangerous man, Henry.’

‘That I know. That is why I shall have him under restraint.’

‘What of our sister?’

‘She committed the folly of marrying him. She must pay for it.’

‘It will not be wise, Henry.’

‘And who are you, pray, to tell me what is wise and what not wise? They have repaired to the inn where they were staying, I know. I shall give an order to have de Montfort taken to the Tower and that without delay.’

‘Henry, as one who serves you as a subject and a brother, I beg of you do not act rashly.’

Henry turned away impatiently and losing no time Richard made his way to the inn where he knew his sister and brother-in-law were staying.

He found them distraught, discussing the strange conduct of the King.

‘You should lose no time,’ said Richard. ‘Henry is determined to send Simon to the Tower.’

‘His temper gets quite out of control,’ cried Eleanor. ‘I never saw such an unkingly display. He has maligned me. I shall not quickly forgive him for that.’

‘My dear sister, it is not a matter of whether you forgive him or not. If you value your freedom get away immediately. There is a boat on the river now which will take you to the coast. Lose no time. At any minute the King’s guards may be here.’

‘You really think he means what he says …’ asked Simon.

‘He does. He may well relent in time. Remember Hubert de Burgh. Henry’s temper is such that if he feels he has been slighted it breaks into unthinking fury. He has too much power to make it wise to stand in the way of that rage. Come. Be gone. Farewell, sister. I’ll warrant it will not be a long exile.’

He went with them to the boat and took an affectionate farewell of them.

It was just in time. The King’s guards had arrived at the inn.

Henry was secretly relieved that his sister and brother-in-law had escaped; but when they reached France he was mildly uneasy. He had many enemies over there and Simon de Montfort would not easily forget the insults which had been flung at him.

Richard had hinted that it was unwise to make enemies of men such as Simon de Montfort. What was he doing now? Perhaps making contact with the King of France. Well, Louis should be Henry’s friend as his wife was Eleanor’s sister; but he would know, of course, that Henry would one day have to conquer all those possessions which his father had lost. His mother had remarried. He had believed that she and her husband Hugh de Lusignan would have stood for him; but he had been very disappointed in that, for the Queen Mother of France was a wily woman and she had made contracts and treaties which it had been advantageous for his mother and her husband to accept. So Isabella had forgotten her maternal feelings for the sake of advancement; and as she had a large family now from her second marriage she seemed entirely to have forgotten the children she had had by John.

For the moment he was going to forget the harm de Montfort might be doing in France. He was going to revel in his happy home life which now seemed to be dominated by that flaxen-haired wonder in his cradle.

Eleanor came to him in a state of great excitement. With her was a tall handsome stranger.

‘My dearest husband,’ cried Eleanor, ‘my uncle the Count of Flanders has come.’

Henry held out his hands and took those of the newcomer.

‘I have written so much of my happiness here in England that the whole of my family yearns to come here,’ she said.

The King glowed with pleasure and Thomas of Savoy, Count of Flanders, beamed on his niece and her husband. Eleanor had not exaggerated when she had told them how the King doted on her and how he would be ready to extend his generosity to them also.

They must drink wine together; Eleanor must hear all that was happening in Provence. She thought of them often. Dearest Sanchia and Beatrice, their parents. Were they missing her?

Indeed they were, her uncle told her, but their sadness was lightening by the glowing accounts of her life in England and they were happy for her sake. And now that she had her darling Edward her contentment was complete.

‘How are my sisters?’ she asked.

‘They are well and happy.’

‘They have not yet found a husband for Sanchia then?’

‘There is talk of a marriage into France.’

‘But whom would she marry there? One of Louis’ brothers, I dareswear.’

‘Nothing has been settled yet. You two elder girls made the two greatest marriages in Europe. Your father never tires of speaking of it.’

‘And Marguerite?’

‘Happy and well. A little plagued by her mother-in-law, I fancy.’

‘And Louis is very solemn, I believe.’

‘He is a good king and takes his duties seriously.’

‘I confess,’ said Eleanor, to Henry’s delight, ‘that I found him a little too stern. He believes that there is something wrong in fine garments and I daresay that means other pleasures. I am thankful that we do not think that way in England.’

‘Oh, it is easy to see who has made the happier marriage.’

And indeed it was, for neither Louis nor Blanche would allow Marguerite’s relations to come to their court to enjoy the pickings.

Louis might be a good husband but lacked the uxorious qualities of Henry. Marguerite was loved but she was not indulged as Eleanor was.

It was soon clear that Henry, seeing his wife’s delight in her newly arrived uncle, was determined to please her more by giving him what pleased him best.

He made a present of five hundred marks and for extra measure gave him a tax on English wool.

Little could have incensed the barons more. In fact at first the necessary seal on the document granting the concession was refused. Henry’s reply was to dismiss the men who had protested.

Having seen his conduct towards Simon de Montfort, they who had demurred decided that it would be better to give way; but although that seemed like an easy victory for the King, the murmurings of discontent had begun again.

It had been a great grief to Henry that he had not been able to give the See of Winchester to Uncle William de Valence. He had always promised himself that in time he would do so. He was not going to be dictated to by the people; that much they must learn.

The City of London was out of love with him. There was constant mention of Magna Carta. How he hated that document which had curbed the power of the throne and was always held up as a symbol.

His constant need of money was always worrying him. He wanted to shower gifts on his Queen and her family. He so much enjoyed hearing himself compared with Louis IX who was far less generous to his wife’s relations. Louis would rather give money to some educational or building project than to his favourites. Whether Louis had any favourites was debatable. There were times – as Eleanor said – when Louis appeared to be excessively dull.

‘Poor Marguerite,’ she would murmur sometimes; and as he knew she was comparing her sister’s fate with hers he would glow with satisfaction.

Small wonder that he wished to show his generosity to her family. It had not been easy to find the money for the Count of Flanders, but he had been determined to do so.

He had raised the five hundred marks from the Jews. Members of this race had made their home in the City of London which was the natural place for them because it was where business could prosper more easily than anywhere else. A quiet people, eager only to be left to develop their remarkable business ability and to practise their own religion, on account of their industry and talents they had become the richest section of the community. This had at first irritated and then angered their neighbours who did not care to work so hard and consequently lacked the ability to prosper as certainly as the Jews, so Henry felt that in demanding taxes from the Jewish community he was acting wisely.

The Jews had the money; a little gentle persuasion could extort it; and since the natives of London would not be asked to contribute they would not be displeased.

Thus he gathered the five hundred marks for the Count of Flanders by threatening the Jews with expulsion if they did not provide it.

The Jews paid up but the Londoners were alert, wondering where the next demand would be levied; but since it was only the Jews who were penalised, the matter was swiftly settled. Eleanor was delighted; Uncle Thomas declared that it had been a happy day for the house of Savoy when one of their family had married into England; and Henry enjoyed the role of benefactor which pleased him as much as any.

To raise five hundred marks was easier than to procure the See of Winchester, but he had not given up hope.

Then William de Valence, who had been ailing for some time, fell ill and Eleanor was stricken with grief. She loved her uncles dearly and had been very sad when he had been obliged to leave the country – even though he had taken such quantities of treasure out of it.

At the beginning of the autumn the condition of William de Valence weakened. The King’s doctors attended him but there was little they could do. He missed the warmer climate of his native land but he said it had been worth a little discomfort to be with his niece. He had certainly gained more than the discomfort and was richer than he could ever have hoped to be had he stayed in Savoy. Moreover, until this time when he had become so ill, he had never given up hope of the See of Winchester.

Now Eleanor knelt by his bed and she talked to him of the days in Provence when he had visited her father’s castle and there had been feasting in the great hall. He would remember how she was brought forward to read her latest poem to him, and how his praise meant so much to her.

Henry sat with her, suffering with her because of his love for her; and when the last rites had been administered and William de Valence had closed his eyes for ever, he led her from the death chamber and in their own he sought to comfort her.

She wept bitterly, talking of her dear Uncle William, and Henry said that he would always regret his inability to give him what he knew he had craved for: the See of Winchester.

‘Rest assured, my love,’ he told her, ‘that Winchester shall one day go to your Uncle Boniface. I swear it. I will not be provoked by my own subjects. But there has always been this conflict between Church and State.’

She was not listening. She was thinking of her beloved Uncle William who was no more.

There was nothing he could do to comfort her, until he went to the nursery and took the child from its cradle.

The bright blue eyes regarded him with interest and he put his lips to the flaxen hair.

‘Beloved child, my Edward,’ he murmured, ‘you alone can comfort your mother in her grief.’

So he took the child and put him into her arms.

She smiled, laid her cheek against his face and was comforted.