The Queen From Provence

This must not go wrong as all his projects had before.

He must have Eleanor. He pictured her – the perfect wife – beautiful, talented, enchanting. All would envy him his bride and none more than his brother Richard.

There were many qualities which made the prospect enticing and not the least of Eleanor’s attractions was Richard’s clear appreciation of her charms.

No one could deny that a marriage between the King of England and the sister of the Queen of France was a good proposition, so Henry had no difficulty in persuading his ministers that in changing brides he was scoring a political advantage. It was true that not only had he made overtures to the Count of Ponthieu but he was also in the process of getting a dispensation from the Pope as in royal marriages there was always the question of consanguinity to be reckoned with. However, he was determined. So he sent messengers to Ponthieu and to Rome to cancel those negotiations and summoning the Bishops of Ely and Lincoln to him he told them that he wished them to leave at once for Provence with the Master of the Temple and the Prior of Hurle and there lay his proposals before the Count of Provence.

The Bishops, aware of the political significance of the proposed match, were eager to set out at once; but when they heard that Henry would want a large dowry with his bride they were dubious as to his obtaining this.

‘The Count of Provence is greatly impoverished, my lord. It will not be possible for him to raise the dowry for which you ask.’

‘It is surprising what a father can do for his daughter when the marriage is as grand as this will be.’

‘If he has not the means … my lord …’

‘Doubtless he will find a way. I should enjoy being there to see his delight when he knows your mission.’

‘It will be great, but when he hears what you ask it may well be that he will have to refuse your proposal on his daughter’s behalf.’

‘I am eager to have Eleanor as my bride, but I see no reason why I should allow her father to elude his obligations.’

‘We will put your proposals to him, my lord.’

‘When can you leave?’

‘This day.’

‘I am glad of that. I eagerly await the outcome. I want it known throughout the land that I am to be married. There will be great rejoicing.’

He watched the embassy depart and prayed for a good wind that there might be no delay crossing the sea.

His brother Richard came to him smiling secretly.

He had arranged this, he told himself. Young Eleanor, if she was crowned Queen of England, would owe her crown to him.

There was great excitement in Les Baux when the embassy from England arrived.

Eleanor watching them could scarcely wait until her parents summoned her. She had recognised the visitors as coming from England but having heard that arrangements between the King of England and the Count of Ponthieu were progressing, she could not believe that the visit concerned her.

When she was summoned to her parents’ chamber her heart was beating wildly. It could not be. Perhaps she had been mistaken. Perhaps the visitors had not come from England after all. They were not from the Court of France – that much she did know.

Her mother took her into her arms and embraced her, while her father watched with tears in his eyes.

‘My dear daughter,’ he said; ‘this is a great day for us.’

She looked eagerly from one to another.

‘Is it something that concerns me?’ she asked.

‘It is,’ said her father. ‘An offer of marriage.’

‘We never thought there could be anything to compare with Marguerite’s … but it seems there is.’

‘England?’ she whispered.

Her mother nodded. ‘The King of England is asking for your hand in marriage.’

Her head was whirling. It had worked then. Richard of Cornwall and the poem! It was incredible.

Romeo had come into the room. He was smiling complacently. No wonder. Once again they would owe their good fortune to him.

She could not entirely believe it. It was like a dream coming true. It was too neat. Marguerite Queen of France. Herself Queen of England. And largely because of the clever juggling of Romeo de Villeneuve. If she had not written that poem … if she had not – on Romeo’s advice – sent it to the Duke of Cornwall … No, it was too much to believe. It was what she had wanted more than anything. Marriage with England was the only one which could possibly compare with Marguerite’s. And it had come to pass.

‘You may well be bewildered,’ said the Count. ‘I confess I feel the same.’

‘But,’ she stammered, ‘I had heard he was betrothed to Joa

‘A marriage is no marriage until it has been solemnised. Everything is over between England and Ponthieu. Negotiations have ceased, the offer has been withdrawn. The King’s messengers, and they are men of great standing, tell me that he is so eager for this match that he wishes there to be no delay.’

‘What does it mean?’ said Eleanor. ‘That I shall leave at once? Should I prepare?’

‘My dearest, are you so eager to leave us?’ asked her mother almost reproachfully.

‘Oh no, dear Mother. But I would know what is expected of me.’

‘You are not afraid …’

‘Afraid? Ever since Marguerite went I knew that I should. I doubt she was ever so happy before her marriage as she was after – although no one could have had a better home.’

‘It’s true,’ agreed the Count. ‘And that is how I would have it. If you find the happiness at the Court of England that Marguerite has at the Court of France, I shall be content.’

‘I shall. I know I shall.’

‘Well, my dear,’ said the Count, ‘we came to prepare you. We now have to talk of the terms which are a necessary part of contracts like this. But we wanted you to know at once what this mission is about, so that you can prepare yourself for a new life.’

Her mother took her into her arms and kissed her tenderly.

‘I am proud of my girls,’ she said.

When she had left her parents she went straight to the schoolroom where her sisters were awaiting her.

They looked at her expectantly as she entered. That something very important had happened was obvious and Sanchia who remembered Marguerite’s departure was very apprehensive.

‘What is it?’ she cried, as soon as her sister came in.

‘It is an embassy from England. The King of that country is asking for my hand in marriage.’

‘Eleanor!’

Her sisters stared at her with wondering eyes and she was silent for a moment savouring their admiration.

‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘I think he must have heard of me through his brother.’

‘Richard, Earl of Cornwall, the most handsome man I have ever seen,’ sighed Sanchia. ‘Wouldn’t you rather marry him, Eleanor?’

‘He is not a King.’

‘He would be if his brother died.’

‘Oh Sanchia, don’t be so … young. The King of England is not going to die. I am going to marry him and be the Queen. It is every bit as good to be the Queen of England as it is to be the Queen of France.’

‘It’s better really,’ said Sanchia, ‘because Richard will be your brother.’

Eleanor laughed with happiness and excitement.

‘I shall have such a grand wedding … There has never been a wedding as grand as the one I shall have. I shall be a Queen. You have seen Marguerite in her crown; mine will be bigger, more glittering … full of stones that are far more precious.’

‘How do you know?’ demanded Beatrice.

‘Because I do. I wanted to marry the King of England and although he was almost married to someone else … all that changed and I am to be his Queen. It’s like magic. It is magic. And yet I pla

They were looking at her expectantly and she took their hands and led them to the window seat.