The Queen From Provence

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?