The Queen from Provence (24 page)

‘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.

Chapter IX

QUEENHITHE

T
here was good news from Rome. Innocent IV had become Pope and soon after his installation in the Vatican he confirmed the appointment of Boniface of Savoy as Archbishop of Canterbury.

Henry joyfully took the news to Eleanor who embraced him warmly. This was indeed a triumph. The greatest office in the country – outside that of the King – to go to her uncle.

Boniface lost no time in setting out for England where he was warmly welcomed by the King and Queen. He was not so happily received by the people who asked themselves how many more foreigners the Queen would introduce into the country to the detriment of its natives.

Eleanor was in fact becoming very unpopular. She was unhappy about this while pretending to ignore it; but when she rode out there were sullen looks cast in her direction and the King was only cheered when he was not with her.

She refused to be overawed by their dislike. She told herself that if she wanted to bring her friends to England, she would.

It was the city of London which was particularly aroused against her. There had been too many taxes to be paid by them to raise money for the Queen’s dependents and they blamed her for the King’s extravagance.

They disliked her haughty manners and there was one thing for which they could never forgive her and that was what had come to be called Queenhithe. Her uxorious husband who was always considering ways in which he could win her approval and show his affection had allowed her to insist that all vessels carrying the valuable cargoes of wool or corn must unload at the quay he had given her. She made it an offence for them to land their goods elsewhere, thus making sure of receiving heavy dues.

There was a great deal of murmuring in the streets about Queenhithe as they called this tax and there was many a dispute about it.

‘It was a bad day for England,’ it was said, ‘when the thieving foreigners were brought to our shores.’

The arrival of Boniface did much to aggravate this situation, and although he was received at Canterbury it was with no good grace. He had come attended by a retinue of his own countrymen and naturally places had to be found for them in Canterbury.

Both Henry and Eleanor seemed to be quite unaware of their growing unpopularity which was largely concentrated on Eleanor because of the increasing number of foreigners she brought into the country. Boniface was haughty and appeared to believe that since his niece was the Queen of England that entitled him to behave as though the entire country belonged to her. London had always stood aloof from the rest of the country. It was the capital and centre of trade, and therefore determined to have a say in England’s affairs. London had always to be won over if it were to give its support to the Sovereign. It was London that had refused to give Matilda a crown and passed it to Stephen. Wise monarchs remembered that. John had been far from wise and it seemed that his son Henry, out of besotted devotion to his wife, forgot it also. At least neither the King nor the Queen thought to remind Boniface that he must go carefully with the citizens of London.

It was not long after the inauguration of Boniface that the Archbishop visited the Priory of St Bartholomew in London which was in the diocese of the Bishop of London.

This visit should not have been made except in the company of the Bishop or at least on his invitation and when the new Archbishop – so clearly a foreigner – arrived at the Priory there was some consternation.

The monks conferred together and decided that since he held the office of Archbishop of Canterbury – although he was not of their choosing – they should show respect to him and they proceeded from the Priory in solemn procession to pay him homage.

The Archbishop told them in a somewhat haughty way that this was not merely a formal visit; he wished to see how the Priory was run and whether it met with his approval. This was too much for the monks and the Sub Prior stepped forward.

‘My Lord Archbishop,’ he said, ‘you are newly come to this country and know not our customs. We have our revered Bishop of London whose place it is – and his alone – to come in this way.’

Boniface was incensed. He was aware of the sullen looks which followed him in the streets. He knew that his niece was resented. In a sudden temper he lifted his hand and struck the Sub Prior across the face with such strength that the man fell against a pillar and slipped to the ground.

Seeing him thus the Archbishop strode to him, tore the cape from his shoulders and stamped on it. He was about to turn on the Sub Prior who had risen shakily to his feet when one of the monks shouted: ‘Save the Sub Prior.’ And in a body they surrounded Boniface.

They realised then that beneath his robes Boniface was in armour and had clearly come ready for battle. Moreover he gave a shout to his followers, who threw off their outer garments and stood exposed in sword and armour ready for battle.

‘Go to then,’ shouted Boniface. ‘Show these English traitors what happens to those who withstand me.’

Whereupon Boniface’s armed men fell upon the defenceless monks, beat them, kicked them, tore off their garments and trampled on them.

Four of the monks escaped and went in all haste to the Bishop’s Palace. He was horrified to see them and even more so when he heard what had happened.

‘The arrogant foreigner,’ he cried. ‘Go at once to the King. Show him your wounds and tattered garments. Tell him what has happened. Only if he sees you thus can he realise the indignity you have suffered.’