Текст книги "The Queen From Provence"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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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.

Chapter IX

QUEENHITHE

There 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.’

On their way to the palace the monks were stopped by certain citizens who asked how they came to be in such a sorry state. They told how Boniface, the foreign Archbishop, had invaded the Priory and ill-treated them.

‘We will show this foreigner what it means to ill-treat our monks,’ cried one man. ‘We will get this Boniface. He will be less bonny of face when we have done with him.’

The monks went on to the palace.

The King was with the Queen in the nursery playing with the children when an attendant arrived to say that some monks who had been ill-treated by the Archbishop of Canterbury were asking for an audience with the King.

‘Ill-treated by my uncle!’ cried the Queen. ‘What nonsense is this?’

‘They have clearly been ill-treated, my lady,’ was the answer.

Henry turned to the man but Eleanor laid her hand on his arm.

‘Don’t see these monks,’ she whispered. ‘You know what this means. They are protesting against your choice of Archbishop. Didn’t they try to do that before?’

Henry looked at her. So they did.

‘You can depend upon it this is a trick. Tell them to go away.’

‘Tell them to go away,’ said Henry. ‘I shall not see them.’

The attendant bowed and retired.

Henry looked disturbed but Eleanor said: ‘Come and see how Edward throws this dice. I am sure he will be a real little gambler ere long.’

And Henry was glad to push the tiresome monks from his mind.

Meanwhile the people of London were gathering in the streets. Here was a chance to show their detestation of the foreigners. The monks had been ill-treated. Were they going to let this pass?

‘Where is the ruffian?’ they shouted. ‘Where is he who calls himself Archbishop and ill-treats our monks.’

It was a moment of horror for the Archbishop when, from the upper turret of the Priory, he saw the approaching mob.

He was armed and so were his followers but although they could defeat defenceless monks they might not stand such a good chance against an angry crowd bent on destruction.

‘Quick. We must get out of here,’ he shouted.

‘The river, my lord. Let us get down with all speed to the privy stairs.’

The man was right. There were several boats tied at the stairs, and in these there was room for everyone so the alarmed Archbishop accompanied by his servants managed to escape down the river.

At the palace he alighted and went at once to see the King and Queen.

Eleanor ran to him in some alarm.

‘All is well,’ he told her. ‘The monks of St Bartholomew’s should be reprimanded. Do you know they attacked me in their Priory.’

‘This is monstrous,’ cried the King.

‘I told them I would have none of their insolence and I taught the Sub Prior a lesson.’

‘Let us hope that he learned it well.’

‘I think he may do if you give him no pity. I feel sure that he and his fellows will come complaining to you of their illtreatment. I know your wisdom, nephew. You will give them short shrift.’

‘Henry will know how to deal with the rogues,’ declared Eleanor. ‘He knows they are telling him that they believe they should choose their Archbishop when all know it is the prerogative of the King.’

‘They will get no mercy or pity from me,’ said Henry firmly.

Eleanor laughed softly and slipped her arm through his.

Such incidents added to the gathering storm but neither the King nor the Queen seemed aware of this. When money was needed it seemed easy to inflict taxes. Henry indulged the Queen’s countrymen and women because it pleased her that he should. His personal extravagance was building. Architecture gave him a singular pleasure and he liked to plan new buildings and change old ones.

One of his favourite residences was Windsor. Here the countryside was particularly beautiful with the Thames winding its way through meadow and woodland. The very name owed itself to this for it was said by some that the Saxon name Windlesofra meant winding course. Others said that the name came from Wynd is Sore because on the high ground the wind in winter was fierce, while some insisted that Windsor meant Wind us Over and referred to the ferry boat with ropes and pole which was used to take people across.

However the name was derived Henry loved the place. Perhaps he had been drawn to it in the first place because his idol Edward the Confessor was reputed to have kept Court here. William the Conqueror had been there too. So, less happily, had Henry’s father John who had stayed here during that wretched period of his life when he had been forced to sign Magna Carta.

With his passion for building Henry had made alterations to the Castle. He had enlarged the Lower Ward and added a chapel of which he was very proud. He never tired of telling people that it was seventy feet long and twenty-eight feet wide and the wood roof had been lined and painted like stone and covered with lead.

He regarded Windsor as second in importance only to the Tower of London and it was much more pleasant to live in.

So to Windsor he came whenever he could and he and Eleanor both liked the children to be there because they considered it to be most healthy.

It was while they were riding through the streets of Windsor that they noticed a little girl begging by the roadside. Her clothes were tattered and her hair hung limply about her little white face.

The Queen turned to Henry who understood immediately what she meant and he threw a coin to the child. The Queen’s eyes softened as she saw the little creature catch it and the joy which illuminated her face.

In her own nursery while Eleanor gloated over her healthy children the face of the little beggar girl kept rising in her mind.

‘What is it?’ asked the King. ‘You are sad today.’

‘I was thinking of that child. She could not be much older than our Edward. To think that she is often hungry … so dirty and tattered. And there must be many like her.’

The King nodded.

‘There have always been beggars,’ he said.

‘I like not to see little children go hungry,’ replied the Queen.

And every now and then she would remember the little beggar girl and a certain melancholy would linger.

Then the King had an idea which he thought would please her. He came to her beaming with satisfaction.

‘What do you think I have just done, Eleanor?’ he asked, and as she could not guess, he told her.

‘I have sent out an order that all the poor children from the streets of Windsor and the surrounding villages shall be collected and brought into the castle. There in the great hall there shall be such a feast as they will remember all their lives.’

‘Henry,’ she clasped her hands and gazed at him in delight. ‘You are doing this for me,’ she added soberly.

‘What better reason could there be?’

‘You are so good, Henry. I never dreamed … so long ago it seems now … in Provence …’

He put his arm about her. ‘We shall be there,’ he said, ‘you and I, to see their pleasure. We shall sit at the high table and watch them. We’ll have the babies there.’

‘The girls will be too young to know what it is about.’

‘Edward then.’

She was thoughtful, visualising it. ‘The people must love you after this,’ she cried. ‘There has been so much unkindness … we have been so criticised.’

‘I was not thinking of it to please the people but to please you.’

‘I cannot tell you how it pleases me. But will anything please them?’

‘For a day, mayhap.’

The arrangements were made and it must have been the strangest sight the old hall had ever seen when the poor children of Windsor came crowding into it. They looked incongruous there among the grandeur which was the home of kings.

But Henry and Eleanor were delighted. They wore their crowns because they thought the children would expect it and indeed the most inspiring sights in that hall for most of the children were the two glittering figures at the high table. Eyes were fixed on them until the good things they were to eat were set on the trestle tables.

Eleanor had at the last moment been afraid to bring Edward down.

‘Such children might have some disease which could harm him,’ she decided.

No, the little boy was safe with his nurses although she agreed with Henry that it would have been a good experience for him to see how a monarch’s popularity should be courted.

The feast was a great success; and when the children had eaten the tables were cleared away and games were played.

Some of the children’s parents were allowed into the castle and to these Henry announced that his own children were to be weighed and their weight in silver would be distributed among the poor.

The people cheered and cried: ‘God Bless the King.’

And for a week whenever he and the Queen ventured out in the town of Windsor they were greeted with vociferous affection.

‘It was a very clever thing to do,’ said the Queen admiringly, ‘as well as a good one.’

Richard was happy in his marriage with Sanchia. The bond between the sisters was firm and because of this Richard found himself more and more with his brother and consequently giving him his support. This was noticed by the barons who had looked to him as their leader in their conflicts with Henry, and they viewed the situation with some dismay because Richard had seemed such a natural leader.

Through Richard’s first marriage with Isabella, who had been William Marshal’s daughter, he had been often in the company of the barons who were determined to uphold Magna Carta; and now his links with them were weakening; through Sanchia and her constant contact with her sister he was definitely veering towards the Court.

At the same time he was able to take a clearer view of the state of the country than Henry was, and there were often times when he was disturbed by the way in which everything was going.

Sometimes he visualised the barons rising once more against Henry as they had against John. That had been a dangerous precedent. It had been done once and could be done again. Once a king had been brought to his knees it was something which would never be forgotten.

There was a great deal to live down and sometimes he thought that Henry deliberately shut his eyes to this.

Richard knew that there was a great deal of dissatisfaction, particularly in the capital. He had his men placed in the taverns and along the water front that they might inform him of what was being said.

The constant cause of complaint was the Queen’s family … the foreigners. And of course the Queen’s family was Sanchia’s family.

He talked to Sanchia at times for he wondered if perhaps she might be the one to warn the Queen who would warn the King.

Sanchia was more reasonable than her sister; of a gentler nature than Eleanor she was ready to listen – particularly to Richard.

‘It is difficult to tell Eleanor anything she does not want to hear,’ she explained.

‘I know it well,’ replied Richard. ‘I am surprised that it should be so in one so intelligent.’

‘Eleanor always believed that she was capable of anything, and so much that she tries for she gets.’

‘We are dealing with a nation,’ he replied. ‘People can suddenly rise against their rulers. They endure a good deal and then something happens which may seem trivial … and that is the spark which starts the fire.’

‘And are you very anxious, Richard?’

‘I see trouble ahead. Not immediate perhaps … but on the horizon. This affair of your Uncle Boniface …’

‘Oh, that is over and forgotten.’

‘Forgotten. It will never be forgotten. The Londoners will store it up in their memories and it will be brought out at some later date. It is not forgotten, I assure you, and it was most unfortunate. Sanchia, when you get the opportunity try to make your uncles understand the English. They are not always what they seem. They accept something – appearing to be meek. Make no mistake. That is not meekness. It is a kind of lethargy, a disinclination to arise and do something … but depend upon it in due course the urge will come … and then when they rise up you see them in their true colours. They will go on fighting until they get what they want.’

‘I will do what I can.’

He nodded slowly. ‘One canker in the heart of the Londoners is Queenhithe. As long as that continues the discontent will grow. I have tried to explain to Eleanor that the people do not like it, that every time they pay their dues they curse her. They blame her more than the King. He is an Englishman. She is a foreigner. I think I will seize the first opportunity of speaking to her about the Queenhithe for it becomes more dangerous the longer it goes on.’

Sanchia said: ‘I can see that you really are concerned.’

He nodded. ‘I was too young to see what happened to my father, but Heaven knows it was drummed into me enough. Peter de Mauley and Roger d’Acastre explained it to me continually when I was at Corfe. I think they believed then that I might one day be King. The way my father went was the way not to go.’

‘You don’t think Henry is going that way, do you?’

‘Not so blatantly. Henry is a good man … a religious man, a faithful husband and a good father. He is not always wise in his kingship though and that is what I am afraid of. One step out of line and you can hear the whisper Magna Carta in the very air.’

‘What shall you do, Richard?’

‘Everything I can to keep him on the throne.’

Yes, that was it. A few years ago he would have been less loyal to his brother. He would have talked of these matters with Clare, Chester, any of his friends who were determined that the King should not have too much power. He was the King’s man now and his main object was to keep his brother on the throne.

He was often at Windsor because that was where the children were and his own son Henry was there. So far Sanchia had given him no children which was sad, but while he had Henry he could be grateful. Henry was a fine boy – bright, intelligent and handsome. He was now about ten years old and it was a joy to see him. What a son did for a man! And he owed Henry to Isabella.

The young Edward was growing up steadily although plagued by one or two minor ailments which sent his parents frantic with anxiety. The two little girls were pleasant and Henry seemed set fair to have a fine family.

If only he would be a little more discreet in welcoming his wife’s relations and when they came showering them with gifts, which had to be paid for by his subjects. It was folly. It might well be madness.

He found Eleanor working at her tapestry with several of her women. There was an air of smugness about her, he thought.

My God, he thought, I believe she is pregnant again.

‘My dear brother.’ Her welcome was genuine. She had always had a fondness for him since in a way she owed her presence here to him; and now that he was her sister’s husband he was doubly dear to her.

‘Dear lady,’ he murmured, kissing her hand.

He raised his eyebrows in a manner to indicate that he would like to speak to her alone and she immediately waved a hand to dismiss the women.

‘How is my sister?’ she asked.

‘Very well.’

‘It seems long since I saw her though I suppose it is not. I am so happy that she is in England.’

‘She is happy to be here.’

He seated himself on a stool close to her.

‘You seem particularly content this day,’ he said looking at her interrogatively.

‘Did you guess then?’

‘So it is indeed so. Henry is delighted, I know.’

‘He is beside himself with joy. It should be a boy this time.’

‘Ha, that will put young Edward’s nose out of joint.’

‘He said he would like a brother. He is a little contemptuous of two sisters. Your Henry is a great friend of Edward’s already.’