The Queen from Provence

Chapter VIII A SOJOURN IN PROVENCE

The King accompanied Richard to Dover where on a hot June day he set sail for the Continent. Among those who left with him was Peter de Mauley who had been his old tutor and governor in the days of his childhood at Corfe Castle. Many distinguished knights, eager to win honours and a remission of their sins in the Holy War, formed his company. So it was an impressive party that left the castle to take ship for France.

The King watched the departure with mixed feelings. He could not in honesty say that he wished he were going with them. The thought of leaving Eleanor and their son filled him with horror. Of course Eleanor might have accompanied him as his grandmother Eleanor of Acquitaine had once gone with her first husband to the Holy Land and created such a scandal there that it had never been forgotten. But little Edward could certainly not have gone and one of the great joys of Henry’s life was to slip away into the nursery and gaze at that wonderful child with the perfect limbs and the healthful looks – his son, who would one day be King of England.

Moreover he was glad to have Richard out of the country. He knew that Richard disapproved of much that he did and that chiefly he objected to the favour he showed to foreigners – foreigners being Eleanor’s relations and retainers.

As if they were foreigners! Dear Uncle William now dead. How Eleanor had loved him! He was glad he had been able to show his appreciation to him before he died. And he was going to do all he could for Uncle Thomas and it was now being suggested that her Uncle Boniface would come over to England too.

She was delighted. The uncles had been a part of her childhood. Little gave her as much pleasure as to receive them in England and show them how happy she was in her marriage. And since it delighted her, he also was delighted.

But some of the killjoys in his kingdom wanted to spoil that – and he feared Richard was one of them. He had said before he left that the Bishop of Reading was deeply disturbed by the intrusion of the Queen’s relations and had urged him not to leave England at this time.

‘Why not? Why not?’ Henry demanded.

‘Because,’ Richard had said, ‘he fears that the barons are growing more and more displeased by these foreigners coming here.’

‘Why should they not come here?’ Henry had asked. ‘They are my wife’s relations.’

‘If they merely came that would give little offence. The point is that when they are here they proceed to fill their pockets and take that which by rights belongs to Englishmen. If they leave – as in the case of the Bishop Elect of Valence – they certainly do not go empty-handed.’

‘I am surprised,’ Henry had said piously, ‘that you can speak ill of the dead.’

‘I trust I speak the truth of anyone … dead or alive,’ had been Richard’s retort.

He had gone on the crusade though and Henry was not going to let himself be disturbed by the vague murmurings of the barons. It was a great pity they had ever been allowed to produce Magna Carta which had given them too high an opinion of their own power.

He returned to London where Eleanor was awaiting him and together they went to the nursery to gloat over Edward.

‘I am not sorry he has gone,’ said Henry. ‘He is full of apprehension about the future. He talks continually of the barons’ displeasure. One would think they ruled this country.’

‘Perhaps now he will find a suitable wife and settle down. That is what he needs.’

Henry slipped his arm fondly through hers.

‘I believe you have a fondness for Richard,’ he said.

‘Naturally, but for him you and I would never have been brought together.’

‘Well, for that I will forgive him a great deal,’ said the King.

Arrived in France Richard began his journey across the country and when he reached Paris he was greeted by the King of France, his wife and mother who gave him a very royal welcome.

He was impressed by the young King – as indeed all must be, for his was a character of great distinction and there was a nobility in his face, bearing and manner of which none could be unaware.

His mother adored him; she had worked for him as tirelessly as she had for his father and although Louis IX had shown himself very capable of governing his kingdom – far more so than his father had ever done – she still seemed to be under the impression that she was needed.

Richard was interested to meet Marguerite, the sister of Henry’s Eleanor. A beautiful woman but lacking Eleanor’s forceful nature. Richard wondered what would have happened if they had changed roles and Eleanor gone to France and Marguerite to England. Queen Blanche would not have had the easy victories over Eleanor that she clearly had over Marguerite.

Marguerite was eager to talk to him. She wanted to know all the news of England and how Eleanor lived there. She plied him with questions and talked about her own life and how fortunate she was to have such a husband as Louis.

‘I doubt not that you could have wished for a mother-in-law who was not ever present.’

Marguerite was silent, not wishing to speak ill of Queen Blanche.

‘The King’s mother is ever alive to his interests,’ she said.

‘I doubt it not,’ replied Richard. ‘I see how often he is in her company.’

‘He came to the throne when he was only a boy. She had to be there then to guide him.’

‘He would seem to be a King who knows which way he is going and needs no guidance now.’

‘He will do as he thinks best, but he loves her dearly and he is always sad when it is necessary to go against her will.’

‘And you?’ asked Richard. ‘Do you not find her sometimes taking him from you?’

Marguerite was silent and Richard thought of what he would say to Eleanor when he returned to England.

There was another matter in which Eleanor had been more blessed than her sister: Eleanor had a son; Marguerite only a daughter – and even then the child had to be called Blanche.

In a way, mused Richard, it seemed that Eleanor had made the more fortunate marriage. But this was not entirely so. Richard was looking into the future. The strong character of Louis IX, the determination to rule well, the clever logical calm mind … these were the making of a great King. Louis would have the reins of government firmly in his hands.

Richard wondered then if there might come a day when the barons decided they would rise once more in England as they had under King John, when they would tire of a King on whom they could not rely. How would Henry stand the strain? And Eleanor? Did she realise that the people were murmuring against her, that they could not forgive her for bringing her family and friends to England and keeping their pockets well filled?

There could be no doubt who was the greater King; and if Marguerite had a forceful mother-in-law and so far only a girl child – who could not inherit the throne because of the Salic law which existed in France – perhaps her position was after all more secure than that of her sister Eleanor.

‘It has been wonderful to have news of my sister,’ said Marguerite. ‘I often think of the days when we were all together in the nursery – the four of us. How happy we were! Then I went away and the three of them were left. There will only be Sanchia and Beatrice now.’

‘I remember too when I went there and saw the three beautiful princesses. That was after I had read Eleanor’s poem.’

‘Yes, that was so romantic. But for her poem … she might not now be Queen of England. She must be ever grateful to you for I know she is very happy.’

‘Her uncles have been to England to see her,’ said Richard, his mouth tightening a little.

‘How contented she must have been!’

He did not say that the people of England had been a good deal less content.

‘Eleanor was always devoted to the family,’ went on Marguerite, ‘as we all were.’

‘Do they not visit you in France? They are much nearer to you.’

‘They come. But they do not stay long.’

Wise Louis! thought Richard. He has more sense than to spend his country’s revenues on his Queen’s impecunious uncles.

‘They stay in England,’ said Richard.

‘I have heard that the King is very generous to them.’

‘More generous than he can afford to be, I fear.’

‘Oh dear! Still, generosity is a fine quality. I think Eleanor must be very happy. And the little boy?’

‘Edward flourishes. Yes, I should say that your sister is happy in her marriage. As for the King, he adores her.’

Marguerite clasped her hands together.

‘I am so pleased for them.’ She laid her hand on his arm. ‘You should go and see my parents as you pass through Provence.’

Richard remembered that easy-going Court – the charming Count and his Countess, the beautiful daughters, the songs and the ballads; the balmy climate, the lush woods and gardens and he felt a sudden desire to be there.

He would return to England in due course and talk to the Queen of his meeting with her sister. How amusing it would be to tell her that he had rested awhile at her father’s Court.

It was pleasant to sit in the gardens of Les Baux and listen to the songs of Provence. How beautiful were the daughters of Count Raymond Berenger! Only two of them left now, Sanchia and Beatrice.

Sanchia was just as beautiful as her sister Eleanor and sixteen was such a charming age. She was not as dominating as Eleanor – she was more gentle, rather of Marguerite’s temperament, which was an advantage.

Charmingly she sang songs of her own composing.

‘Of course,’ she said when he complimented her, ‘they cannot compete with Eleanor’s. None of us is as clever as she is.’

‘I find you delightful,’ Richard told her.

He kept comparing her with poor sad Isabella. How she had aged in the last few years of her life. In comparison, Sanchia was so adorably young.

He had intended to stay but a few days, but the visit lengthened. He was closely watched by the Count, the Countess and their chief adviser Romeo de Villeneuve.

‘What think you of what we see?’ asked the Countess.

Romeo replied: ‘The Earl of Cornwall is undoubtedly enamoured of the Lady Sanchia.’

‘The others married kings,’ said the Countess.

‘The two greatest marriages in Europe!’ Romeo replied complacently, reminding them both of the part he had played in bringing about these desirable alliances. ‘But where shall we find a third king for Sanchia … and a fourth for Beatrice.’

The Count shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nowhere,’ he said.

‘Then I reckon we could not do better than marry Sanchia into England. Eleanor would be delighted. Imagine … two sisters for two brothers. The influence they would wield! Already Eleanor has seen that much good has come to the house of Savoy.’

The Countess nodded in agreement. ‘My brothers are delighted with the match.’

‘So should they be, my lady. Think what benefits have come to them through their visits to England.’

‘And more will yet, my brothers tell me. William almost gained the See of Winchester. Alas …’

‘Let us hope that it may go to Boniface,’ said Romeo.

‘Boniface!’ cried the Countess. ‘That would indeed be a blessing. Eleanor has done her duty by us. I would not be averse to a marriage between Sanchia and the Earl.’ She looked earnestly at her husband.

He replied: ‘I am in agreement, but I should like Sanchia to want this marriage of her own free will.’

‘He is so indulgent,’ said the Countess looking fondly at her husband.

‘Nay, I merely want to see my children happy.’

‘She seems happy enough in the Earl’s company,’ commented Romeo.

‘I know she is,’ said the Countess. ‘She conceived a romantic feeling for him when he came here after Eleanor had sent him her poem. She has never forgotten him.’

‘The King of England’s brother! They say he is one of the richest men in England. If anything should happen to Henry …’

‘There is Edward,’ said the Countess sharply, ‘our grandson.’

‘Yes, yes,’ replied Romeo. ‘But it is always wise to be prepared for anything that might happen.’

‘I think we are agreed,’ said the Count. ‘Let us wait for a few days and see if Richard speaks to us of Sanchia. The sun … the music … our little girl’s beautiful eyes … all these are having their effect on him. He is falling in love with her … and she with him. I want to see her happy.’

The Countess exchanged glances with Romeo; then she went to the Count and took his arm.

‘I think,’ she said, ‘that ere long we shall be losing our daughter.’

‘Soon,’ said Richard, ‘I shall have to leave Provence. Already I have delayed too long.’

‘My parents will be sad when you go,’ replied Sanchia.

‘And you, Sanchia, how will you feel?’

‘I shall be sad too.’

He reached out and took her hand.

‘Will you think of me while I am away fighting the Saracen?’

‘Every day.’

‘I would to God I need not go.’

‘I wish it too.’

‘I could spend my life here in these beautiful gardens … with you.’

It was not true of course. He was a man who must be moving forward all the time. He was ambitious and if sometimes he wearied of that ambition before he had time to carry it out, still he would go on making plans for his own advancement.

‘I love you, Sanchia,’ he said.

‘I know,’ she answered.

‘What shall we do about it?’

‘We could ask my parents.’

‘I am a free man now. Would you marry a man who has already had a wife?’

‘If I loved him.’

‘And do you love me, Sanchia?’

‘I have loved you ever since you came to thank Eleanor for her poem.’

‘You are a dear sweet child. We will marry when I return from the Holy War. You will be older then, sweet Sanchia, and ready for marriage.’

She clasped her hands together. ‘You will soon return from the Holy Land.’

‘Would I had not vowed to go. I would stay here with you and teach you how to love me.’

‘Such lessons would not be necessary since I do already.’

‘You are young and innocent. I am much older than you. I had a wife for nine years, and I have a son who is nearly six years old and very dear to me.’

‘He shall be dear to me, too.’

‘Oh, what a happy day when I came to the Court of Provence! And there will not be another happy day for me until I ride back and claim my bride.’

He rose and taking her hands kissed both of them.

‘I shall go to your father now and ask him for your hand.’

There was great rejoicing at Les Baux. The Count embraced his prospective son-in-law. He was delighted, he said; nothing could have pleased him more. Though naturally he wanted great marriages for his daughters, their happiness meant more to him than anything else, and if the two objects could be combined he was indeed content. He had noticed the rapture of Sanchia these last days and he knew that in addition to the joy she would find in her husband she would have the comfort of living near her sister Eleanor.

There was a great feast on the night before his departure – a bitter sweet occasion for Sanchia who was romantically in love and while she was so happy because of her betrothal she was sad because he had to leave her.

They sat side by side, he feeding her with the titbits from his platter which she felt too emotional to eat.

It was very moving when the minstrels sang of lovers.

The next morning Richard and his company left Les Baux and Sanchia settled down to wait for his return.

When Eleanor heard of her sister’s betrothal to Richard she was overcome with joy. Henry listened indulgently, delighted to see her pleasure.

‘You know what this means to me, Henry,’ she said. ‘I shall have my sister near me. We were always closer to each other than any of the others. And now she is to marry Richard! Is that not wonderful news?’

‘If it makes you happy it is indeed good news.’

‘I hope he will be a good husband to her.’

‘He was scarcely that to his first wife.’

‘I shall insist, Henry.’

‘Ah, my dearest, even you could not do that. Richard is over fond of women, I believe. Let us hope that this marriage will sober him.’

‘I could not hope that he will be as good a husband as his brother,’ said Eleanor.

‘My dearest, he could not have such a wonderful wife. Even your sister cannot compare with you.’

‘Sanchia is a beautiful girl but …’

‘Do not say it. I know. You were the beauty of the family and the clever one. No, I won’t ask you to confirm that. No confirmation is needed. I know it.’

‘When they are married we must have entertainment worthy of my sister and your brother.’

‘We shall.’

‘I want her to know what a wonderful country she is coming to. We must give her the greatest welcome we have ever given to anyone.’

‘Of course we shall. Is she not your sister?’

‘Oh, Henry. You are so good to me.’

‘And mean to be more so,’ he answered.

Eleanor chafed against the delay. She was longing to show Sanchia how fortunate she was.

There was news from abroad which gave Henry the opportunity to prove to Eleanor how much he wished to please her.

Edmund, the old Archbishop of Canterbury, who had been in conflict with the state for some time, and was a very uncomfortable man since he was recognised as a saint, had left England. He was very old; he was a disappointed man; he deeply deplored the trouble which he saw brewing in England and he thought he would like to end his days in peace. That end he was sure was not far off.

Two of his great predecessors, St Thomas à Becket and Stephen Langton, had both sought refuge in Pontigny when they found life in England intolerable and it was to Pontigny that Edmund decided to make his way. He rested there for a while and tried to come to terms with himself and see if there was a solution which would bring peace between the Church and the State.

He was in very poor health and it was not long before it became obvious that his end was near. He was visiting Soisy when it became obvious that he was in such a state that he should have taken to his bed, but being Edmund he refused to go. He had rarely slept in a bed, preferring to sleep fitfully fully dressed usually on his knees, or perhaps occasionally allowing himself the luxury of sitting.

Even now, when his life was ebbing away, he sat on his couch with his head resting on his hand.

And so he died. He was taken to Pontigny for burial and immediately miracles were said to take place at his tomb.

When the news reached England Henry felt relieved. He hated to be in conflict with the Church and would have preferred a more comfortable man than Edmund as his Archbishop. How he had longed to give the See to William de Valence! Eleanor had said nothing he could have done would have pleased her more.

And how he wanted to please Eleanor! He wanted to astound her with his generosity. He wanted to show her how fortunate she was, how much more beloved than her sister Marguerite Queen of France!

He had an idea.

He told her of Edmund’s death. ‘So the old man is gone at last then,’ she said.

‘He was said to be a saint. Miracles are taking place at his tomb.’

‘People imagine there are miracles. I shall never forget how unhappy he made your poor sister simply because he had forced her into taking a vow of chastity.’

Henry agreed with her. He had almost forgotten his quarrel with Simon de Montfort, the result of which had been to drive Simon and his wife from the country.

‘The See of Canterbury is vacant,’ he said. ‘This time I am going to place it in the right hands. Your Uncle Boniface shall come here and be our next Archbishop.’

Eleanor threw her arms about him.

‘Oh Henry, how good you are to me!’

‘I think, do you not, my dear,’ he said, ‘that he will be a very good choice.’

It was a great joy to Henry when Eleanor became pregnant once more. They had the adorable Edward but a royal nursery should be well stocked, for even the healthiest children could suddenly take sick and die. There had been one or two alarms concerning Edward’s health. He was at Windsor which his parents thought would be more healthy for him than London under the care of Hugh Giffard, a man whom they trusted completely, and there had been several times when messages had come to them that there was anxiety in the nursery. Then they would leave everything to go to Windsor; nor could they be induced to leave until they were assured of their child’s recovery.

Thus it was a great delight to contemplate that there was to be another child.

Eleanor was absorbed by the prospect which was well because there was some irritation throughout the country over the election of Boniface.

First, as was to be expected, there was opposition. The monks of Christchurch wanted to resist the King’s choice but remembering the recent mulcting of the Jews in London they hesitated, and while they hesitated were lost.

They were not bold enough to resist.

However there was a further delay. There was a vacancy at the Vatican for the new Pope had not yet been elected and, until he was, there could be no confirmation of Boniface’s election from Rome.

Thus there was a delay and Boniface chafed against it and wrote continually to his niece urging her to use all her influence with the King to end it.

But there was nothing she could do until the Pope gave his sanction and as at the moment there was no Pope, Boniface must needs wait.

She became absorbed in preparations for the birth. Henry and she talked of little else. He fretted about her health and was absent-minded with his ministers.

‘There will be no sense from him until the child is born,’ they said, and while they applauded his husbandly virtues they deplored his inattention to state matters.

In due course Eleanor gave birth to a child. They were a little disappointed that it should be a girl, but Henry was so delighted that Eleanor came safely through the ordeal and that she had produced another child fairly soon after the birth of Edward, that he declared he could not have been more pleased.

Eleanor said: ‘We will call her after my sister, the Queen of France.’

Henry agreed that was an excellent idea, but instead of giving her the French version of Marguerite, she should have the English Margaret.

Several months passed, with the doting parents happy in their nursery. Edward was now two years old. Handsome and bright, the perfect child. As for his baby sister Margaret, they adored her too.

Even those who were highly critical of the King for his weaknesses and the Queen for bringing the foreign harpies into the land, admitted that it was a pleasant sight to witness the conjugal bliss of the royal family.

Richard was still away from England, and little Margaret was a year old when a situation arose which could not be ignored even though it threatened to take the King from his happy domesticity.

Henry’s stepfather, the Count of La Marche, wrote to him telling him that if he would come to his aid now he could promise him the help of not only the Gascons and Poitevins but also the King of Navarre and the Count of Toulouse. If Henry was ever to regain the possessions which his father had lost this was the time to do it.

There was also a letter from Henry’s mother in which she told him she thought of him often and longed to see him. She wanted very much for the family to be reunited; and it seemed that they could serve each other by remembering their family ties.

The fact was that the Count of La Marche (through his wife who governed him) had quarrelled with the King of France, because Louis’ brother Alphonse, who had been promised to the daughter of the Count, had married Joan of Toulouse; moreover he had been created Count of Poitier and the Count and Countess La Marche were therefore called upon to pay homage to him. This was something they could not stomach. Hence the desire to go to war.

Henry was nonplussed. He was asked to make war on the husband of Eleanor’s sister. Yet, here was the opportunity for which he had been waiting ever since he had come to the throne. Always he was overshadowed by the sins of his father; everyone seemed to be waiting for him to display the same follies. What glory it would be if he were to regain all that his father had lost in France.

He went to Eleanor first and showed her the dispatches from his stepfather.

‘You see, Eleanor,’ he said, ‘it is natural for the Kings of France and England to be enemies. Ever since great Rollo with his Norsemen forced his way into France so that the King was obliged to give him Normandy the French wanted to regain what had been given away. When William of Normandy came to England, England and Normandy were under one sovereign and the French want us out of France. My father lost so much that was ours. It has always been my dream to regain it. I would not hesitate but for one factor: the Queen of France is your sister.’

Eleanor was thoughtful. ‘Henry,’ she said, ‘I want you to be the greatest king on earth. You can only do that by regaining what your father lost. I love my sister – but this is not our quarrel. With so many allies it will be easy for you to regain what is lost. You must go.’

‘What of us? We shall have to be separated.’

She was thoughtful for a while. Then she said: ‘I could not let you go alone. You would need me with you. I will come with you, Henry.’

‘My dearest love. Oh how blessed I am!’

‘Alas,’ she said, ‘we shall have to leave the babies in England.’

Richard had landed at Acre. He was not enthusiastic about this crusade. Crusades were always so exciting to plan when one was exalted by religious fervour and the belief that one was expiating one’s sins, but the reality was often less enticing when one had to contend with sand storms, flies – and worse, poisonous insects – dysentery and the realisation that the Saracen was not a savage, not a heathen but a man of high principles and deep religious feeling – the only difference being that he followed other doctrines.

Moreover Richard wanted to marry. Had it not been for the crusade he would be married to Sanchia by now. Perhaps she would be pregnant with a son. And here he was at Acre, attempting to drive the Saracen from the Holy Land – a task which mighty warriors, his uncle Coeur de Lion among them, had failed to do. Could he hope to?

Simon de Montfort, who had decided to join the crusade, arrived at Acre and Richard was pleased to greet his brother-in-law. Once he had recovered from the shock of his marrying his sister, Richard had decided that Simon would be a good ally, and both of them appeared to have forgotten the antagonism which had existed between them at the time of Simon’s marriage.

Richard discussed his plans and how he intended to return home as soon as possible.

‘That is what I should like to do,’ said Simon, ‘but as you know the King was incensed against me.’

‘Henry’s anger soon passes,’ Richard assured him, ‘though it can be dangerous when it arises. He would have had you in the Tower and God knows what would have happened to you if we hadn’t acted promptly.’

‘For which I have to thank you.’

‘Well, are we not brothers-in-law?’

Richard busied himself in Acre, first by offering to take into his ranks all those pilgrims who wished to go home and had not the means to do so. He marched to Ascalon where he reconstructed the fortifications of that city, and made a treaty with the Sultan of Krak which brought about the release of many prisoners. He went on to Gaza where many Christians had been slain and roughly buried. He had their bodies dug up and given Christian burial.

He considered then that he had done his duty, earned the remission of his sins and was now justified in returning home.

He had reached Sicily when he heard from the King that his presence was needed at home without delay as Henry was planning an expedition to France.

Richard arrived in London in time to take part in the arrangements for the expedition. He told Henry that their brother-in-law de Montfort should be ordered to join them in Poitou.

‘He will be pleased to do so,’ said Richard, ‘and it will be a fitting end of your quarrel if he acquits himself well in your service, which I am sure he will.’

Henry agreed to this.

In view of the situation the marriage with Sanchia would have to be delayed for a while, but that was inevitable because of the war. When Henry had regained his possessions he, Richard, would be an even more desirable husband.

It was a warm May day when the fleet sailed from Portsmouth. The King was accompanied by the Queen, Richard and seven other earls, and three hundred knights. The King had also brought with him thirty casks of money. He was in high spirits so sure was he of success. There was only one sorrow. He had had to part from his children.

They were in the best of hands, of course, as was the Kingdom in the hands of the Archbishop of York. There was no Archbishop of Canterbury yet. He was awaiting the election of the Pope for the installation of Boniface.

He held Eleanor’s hand as they watched the coast of England fade away.

‘When we return,’ he told her, ‘I shall have shown the French the stuff of which I am made. And the barons at home too. When I have regained that which my father lost they will have to think twice before comparing me with him. This is not only a war against the French, my dearest. It is a war against my own barons.’

She nodded. She was imagining victory. The greatest King in the world. She would be kind and gentle with Marguerite, the wife of the conquered. ‘My dear sister,’ she would say, ‘rest assured no harm shall come to you. Henry would never do anything that would make me unhappy. You are safe.’

And so they came to France.

What a different story it was from that which they had been led to expect.

The King’s mother Isabella de Lusignan greeted him with an affection which was surprisingly warm and emotional considering she had not seen him for more than twenty years and had during that time seemed to have ceased to remember his existence.

Bitter disillusion was to await Henry. The French were by no means unprepared. Louis was ready for him; moreover Henry had been misled by his mother who unknown to her husband had misrepresented the situation.

It was a disillusioned King who retreated before the French, as the realisation that he was not the one who was to win the victory was brought home to him. He had been used by his mother whose feud with the Queen Mother of France would take her to great lengths – and which would in time result in her self-destruction.

In the meantime there was nothing for Henry and his army to do but retreat to Bordeaux and there hope to make some truce with the French.

There was one incident to lighten their melancholy.

Since they had left England, the Queen had once more become pregnant, and at Bordeaux she gave birth to another daughter.

‘I will call her Beatrice after my mother,’ declared Eleanor.

The little girl was beautiful and healthy and the King was able to forget his failure. He ordered that there should be great rejoicing and feasting in the castle of Bordeaux in spite of the fact that much of his treasure had gone in waging this unfortunate war.

When he returned, he said, he would impose a tax on all those who had not accompanied him to France. It was only right that they should pay for the privilege of staying at home.

He would find money somewhere.

And there were always the Jews.

Now that the war was over and a treaty made with Louis it was time for Sanchia to come to England that she might be married to the Earl of Cornwall.

Eleanor was beside herself with delight for Sanchia had sent a message to say that her mother had decided to accompany her.

‘That makes you pleased, my love,’ said Henry. ‘You will have your sister and your mother at the same time.’

‘Oh Henry, I am longing to show them our babies. I want them to know how happy I am.’

‘I tell you this,’ replied Henry. ‘There are going to be such celebrations, such rejoicing that never was seen before.’

Eleanor threw her arms about him and told him he was the kindest and best of husbands in the world.

He was complacently happy. With such a wife it was easy to forget recent humiliations in France.

The arrival of Eleanor’s mother and sister absorbed him. It must indeed be an occasion which would be remembered for ever. No expense must be spared, but where was the money coming from? Already there was grumbling throughout the land. No more taxes, said the citizens of London. No more poor and needy foreigners to be brought into England to live off the fat of the land provided by Englishmen.

‘It will have to come from the Jews,’ said Henry.

And from the long-suffering Jews it came.

Groaning over the iniquitous laws of taxation yet they paid, for they feared expulsion and going from bad to worse.

Not very long ago the tallages levied on them were fifteen thousand marks – a sum which would have been expected to cripple them. Yet they had paid, worked harder and continued to amass more money. Two years later the taxation had been raised to eighteen thousand marks.

‘What can we do?’ they asked each other. It was either pay or expulsion. And they could expect little sympathy from their less industrious neighbours. If they did not want to be exploited they should work less; they should not be so concerned with making money. If they hadn’t got it they couldn’t pay it.

The next imposition had been a third of their worldly goods and even after that they were called on to raise twenty thousand marks.

It was heart-breaking for these people who while they loved work, loved even more the rewards it brought and must see this frittered away by the King on the friends and relations of his wife. It would have been intolerable if they had no alternative but to endure it.

Moreover, few had any sympathy for them. ‘The Jews!’ was the comment accompanied by a shrug of the shoulders. ‘They have it. Let them pay it.’

So it was the Jews who must finance the enormous amount needed for the wedding celebrations of the Earl of Cornwall.

The King quickly forgot how the money had been raised, so happy was he in the Queen’s pleasure.

‘To have my mother and my sister here completes my joy,’ she told Henry. ‘I must be the happiest woman in the world.’

‘’Tis not more than you deserve,’ he told her solemnly.

Beatrice of Provence was as delighted to be with her daughter as Eleanor was to be with her.

How they discussed the old days! Little Beatrice was the only one left at home now.

‘There is talk of one of Louis’ brothers for her,’ said the Countess.

‘Then she will be near Marguerite as Sanchia will be near me.’

‘It is a very happy state of affairs. I could not have wished for better,’ declared the Countess.

‘My only regret is that dear Father is not here.’

‘I have something to tell you, Eleanor,’ said the Countess. ‘I had not done so before for fear of spoiling your happiness. Your father has been ailing for some time.’

‘Oh, Mother, is he really ill?’

The Countess hesitated. ‘The doctors think they can save him.’

‘Oh dear, dear Father.’

‘He is happy because you girls are so well settled. He talks of you continually, Eleanor … even more than Marguerite. Of course at one time we thought that Marguerite had made the grandest of all marriages, but now we realise that you were always the clever one.’

‘Marguerite is happy with Louis, is she not?’

‘Oh yes. But she does not rule with him, as you do with Henry. Having seen you two together I believe that he would never do anything that did not please you.’

‘I think that is so.’

‘Marguerite is in no such position. Neither the King nor his mother would ask her opinion or listen to it if she gave it. This seems to suit Marguerite. Oh, she is not of your nature, Eleanor!’

‘Nor ever was.’

‘Nay, you were the leading spirit in the nursery. You always were. You have made yourself indispensable to the King. It is easy to see how he dotes on you. And your firstborn a son. Little Edward!’

‘He is four years old now, Mother. Is he not the most adorable creature you ever saw?’

‘I found you girls as lovely. But Edward is indeed a beautiful child and Margaret and Beatrice are adorable. It made me very happy that you should call the child after me.’

‘It was my idea and Henry of course agreed. He only wants to see me happy. And I am … Mother, oh I am. Of course it was a pity we did not succeed in France …’

Eleanor looked sideways at her mother wondering how she felt about that, for victory for one daughter could have meant defeat for the other.

‘Henry should never underestimate Louis,’ she said slowly. ‘Louis is a great King.’

‘He is very serious I know, deeply concerned with state matters.’

‘It leaves him less time to indulge his wife,’ said Beatrice, ‘but it is good for the Kingdom.’

‘Oh, his mother insists. I believe she rules him still!’

‘From what I hear, Eleanor, Louis rules himself as he rules his kingdom. Marguerite thinks he is some sort of saint, I believe.’

Eleanor grimaced. ‘Saints don’t usually make good husbands.’

Beatrice took her daughter’s hand. ‘You have been fortunate. You have a husband who loves you dearly. You have three wonderful children and the eldest a boy!’

‘And Marguerite only has girls – Blanche and Isabella.’

‘She will have her boy in due time, I doubt not. But it is always agreeable when the firstborn is a boy.’

Eleanor indulged herself by extolling the wonders of her son and Beatrice listened indulgently.

Thus they passed the time happily together and the day came when at Westminster Richard married Sanchia with more pomp and splendour than had been seen in London for many years.

‘The King is determined to honour his wife’s family,’ said the people.

‘At whose expense?’

‘Oh, it is chiefly the Jews.’

As long as it was chiefly the Jews they could shrug aside the expense and revel in the decorated streets. They could line those streets and shout their greetings to the bride and groom.

So – apart from the Jews – people were happy on the wedding day of Sanchia and Richard of Cornwall.

Now that Sanchia was married the Countess Beatrice was ready to return to Provence.

It had been a wonderful occasion, one she would never forget. ‘Such splendid entertainment,’ she declared to Eleanor. ‘The King did indeed honour us. Now I must return to your father. Poor Provence! We are very poor, Eleanor. Even more so than we were in the days of your childhood. Not that you ever realised that. Your father and I always kept that from you.’

Eleanor embraced her mother and replied that she trusted there was enough money to provide her father with what he wanted.

The Countess shook her head and looked sad. ‘But I must not worry you with our problems. We are content because you have so much. So has Marguerite, but the French are parsimonious. They would give little away.’

Eleanor said quickly: ‘I am going to speak to Henry. I am sure if I ask him he will not allow you to go back empty-handed.’

Nor did he. When the Countess left she took with her four thousand marks for the use of her husband.

What tears of sadness flowed when they said good-bye. The Countess must leave her two beloved daughters behind, but at least they had each other.

‘Your father will weep with joy when he knows how happy you are. It will do him more good than anything else possibly could. Henry, my beloved son, how can I ever thank you for the happiness you have brought my daughter.’

Henry was deeply touched. He had been a little anxious about giving her the four thousand marks from his depleted exchequer, but it was worth it. Everything was worth it to please Eleanor and win the approval of her family.