Текст книги "The Queen From Provence"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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The Count was nodding happily.

‘Her golden crown – given her by the King – cost fifty-eight livres. He has showered gifts on her. Beautiful furs and golden ornaments. Was not her diadem beautiful?’ demanded the Countess and the Count assured them that it was indeed.

‘There was a gold cup made for them and we saw them drink from it at the banquet. He held it to her first and then put his lips where hers had been. It was most touching. Oh, this has been a happy year.’

Eleanor listened.

Oh fortunate Marguerite! She was more determined than ever that no one less than a king would do for her.

The marriage had changed the family. Marguerite, though absent, was its most important member. She was the subject of constant comment and accounts of her life as the Queen of France became a daily recital.

It was good, Eleanor knew, that they should have become so important. There were more callers at the castle now, and there had been one never-to-be-forgotten time when the King himself had visited them with Marguerite. The King was certainly an ideal bridegroom. All the praises Eleanor had heard of him had not been exaggerated as far as she could see. He was undeniably handsome; he had delicate but beautifully chiselled features; his complexion was so fresh and his skin so clear that had he been a woman it would have seemed he had painted it so, but this was seen to be pure natural freshness. He had blond hair which was abundant and glossy; and he and Marguerite made such a handsome pair that for their looks alone they delighted the people who came out of their houses to cheer them as they passed by. And what delighted the Count and Countess most was the obvious evidence that this love between the royal pair was no myth. Louis, it was said, had become more serious since his marriage; he was determined to be a good husband and a good king. As for Marguerite she was in such a state of bliss that she no longer seemed like their sister. Eleanor was filled with an even greater determination to do as well for herself as her sister had done. But how could she?

The King of France had brothers but Eleanor had no great desire to be the bride of a younger son; if she married one of the King’s brothers – and it seemed very likely that in a year or so this proposition might be considered – she would always be subservient to her sister. Not that Marguerite would ever stress the fact that she was the superior. That was unimportant. She would be.

A year had passed and Eleanor was getting nearer and nearer to the day when a husband would be found for her and she was restive.

There was only one King that she knew of who, by marrying her, could give her equal standing with her sister and that was the King of England. He remained unmarried although it seemed unlikely that he would be so for long. He was much older than Marguerite’s husband being twenty-seven years old – and wives were usually found for kings long before they reached that age.

She determined to find out all she could about the King of England and the most likely member of her father’s Court to supply the information would naturally be Romeo de Villeneuve.

She made opportunities to talk to him and he was nothing loath. He was very proud of having played a part in arranging Marguerite’s marriage; and she knew that he would like to do equally well for her; so he was a good ally. She had heard him say that the brilliant marriage of the eldest sister would pave the way for the others. There were many who would hesitate to take the daughter of the Count of Provence, but few would not consider marriage with the sister of the Queen of France a good one.

Eleanor pinned her hopes on Romeo.

She had learned a great deal about the English King. He had been on the throne nearly twenty years, for his father had died when he was nine years old. England had been occupied by the father of the present King of France who had been invited there because the barons had so loathed Henry’s father King John, that they had thought a foreign ruler would be better than he was. When John died Henry had been hastily crowned with his mother’s throat collar, the crown jewels having recently been lost in the Wash when King John’s army was crossing that stretch of water.

So he had been King when he was younger than she was. He had had good advisers – always essential, said Romeo with a twinkle in his eye and so calling attention to his own worthiness, which she would be the last to deny. Because of these advisers, the French had gone back to France and Henry continued to reign in peace – entirely due to these strong men whose advice he took.

‘What sort of man is the King, Romeo?’ she asked. ‘Is he like the King of France?’

‘I doubt anyone is like the King of France, but Henry is a great King and if he is wise could be more powerful than Louis.’

That made her eyes sparkle. That was what she wanted. Henry to be more powerful than Louis – that was if she married him.

But what wild dream was this. There had been no emissaries from England asking for her hand. How infuriating that it was the man who must ask for his bride and not the bride for the groom!

But her questions about England had set Romeo’s mind working. She knew that. And he was thinking, as she was, what an admirable state of affairs would be brought about if while one of the Count of Provence’s daughters was the Queen of France, the other was the Queen of England.

She was impatient for action. But what could she do? Romeo could not send minstrels to the Court of England to sing of her charms. And she was only twelve years old. If only she had been the eldest.

She became obsessed by England. She discussed that country with Romeo. She already knew how it had been conquered by William of Normandy and that Henry was a descendant of his. She knew that because of the folly of King John very few possessions were left to the English Crown.

‘They will attempt to regain them,’ said Romeo, ‘and the King of France will do all in his power to hold them.’

It was an interesting situation.

She found solace from her impatience in writing and it was natural that she should write about England. She liked the ancient legends which had come down over the years and took one of these on which to base a narrative poem.

This was about a certain Blandin of Cornwall and Guillaume of Miremas who fell in love with two sisters, the Princess Briende and Irlondë. To win these ladies the two knights must perform deeds of great daring. Eleanor glowed with pride and passion as she invented the seemingly impossible tasks. And in her imagination she was the beautiful Briende.

When the poem was completed her parents summoned several members of the Court that they might hear their daughter read it, for in addition to her literary talents she had a beautiful voice and could sing where singing was required and then break into impassioned recitation.

It was a superb performance, and when it was finished Eleanor, flushed with triumph, looked up to find the eyes of Romeo fixed not upon her but staring into space as though his thoughts were far away.

She was piqued and angry. It was clear that he had not paid attention to the reading.

Her mother was embracing her.

‘It is your greatest achievement,’ she said. ‘You are indeed a poet, daughter.’

‘Romeo did not appear to think so,’ she said curtly.

Romeo was immediately on his feet. ‘Indeed, my lady Eleanor,’ he declared, ‘you are wrong. I thought it a remarkable piece of work. I was thinking what a pity it was that the whole world could not know of your talent.’

‘Eleanor is happy to delight her family, I know,’ said the Count fondly.

It was later that day when leaving the castle for a walk in the grounds with Sanchia, she met, as though by chance, the Lord of Villeneuve.

She was astute enough to know that this was no chance meeting and when he implied in the most discreet way that he wished to speak to her alone she sent Sanchia into the house to get a wrap for her and bring it to the shrubbery, deciding that whether or not she was in the shrubbery when Sanchia returned depended on the importance of what Romeo had to say and the time it would take.

Romeo came straight to the point. ‘Your poem impressed me greatly. You did not think so because I was carried away by a thought which had struck me as to how the poem could be used to good advantage.’

‘What is this ?’ said Eleanor.

‘The poem is set in Cornwall. Did you know that the Earl of Cornwall is at this time at Poitou?’

‘I did not,’ she said, and added though she knew very well, ‘Is he not the brother of the King of England?’

‘He is indeed. And at this time he is planning to go on a crusade. That is why he is in Poitou. It has occurred to me that as the poem is set in Cornwall, the Earl would be pleased to see it.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘That you send it to him with a charming letter in which you modestly say that you have written the poem and hearing he was near and it was set in his dominion, you thought it might interest him.’

‘What does my father say?’

‘Your father would doubtless consider it an unusual action, as he did when I sent a minstrel to the Court of France to sing of your sister’s beauty and talents.’

‘And you think because of that …’

‘No. But it helped. Young, beautiful, well educated … those are the qualities which Kings of this day look for in their brides.’

‘But Richard …’

‘Is the brother of the King, who will shortly be returning to England where the King is thinking of marriage. He must be because it will be his duty to marry and he has left it long.’

‘So … if I send the poem … ?’

Romeo nodded. ‘With a charming note … the sort a young girl might write on impulse. Who knows … ?’

‘I will do it,’ said Eleanor.

‘Without delay,’ warned Romeo.

She nodded. He left her then and she sped to the shrubbery where Sanchia was impatiently waiting with her wrap.

All his life Richard, Earl of Cornwall, had been reminded of his uncle after whom he had been named – Coeur de Lion. The greatest soldier of his day who had already become a legend in his country – the fearless fighter whose very name had struck terror into the Saracen. In spite of the military skill and courage of Richard the Lion Heart, he had not succeeded in capturing Jerusalem, although it was said he would eventually have done so if his life had not been cut short by an archer outside the walls of Chaluz castle.

For a young man who, in spite of all his efforts to deny this, was not physically strong, such a heritage could be a handicap. It could be said that Coeur de Lion had been troubled by periodic attacks of the ague, but once they were over he was full of vigour. His nephew’s disability was less easy to define and manifested itself in a general lassitude rather than any obvious symptom.

Richard had always known that sooner or later he would have to go on a crusade. It was expected of him; and now seemed a good time. He was, in truth, heartily tired of his marriage. He had been foolish when only twenty-two years of age he had married a woman a good deal older than himself. It was a reckless and impetuous act. He had been warned – even by the lady herself – that it could not be satisfactory and how right they had all been.

Isabella was the daughter of old William Marshal, one of the most important – it could be said the most important – men in England at the time of King John’s death, for if William Marshal had not supported Henry he would not have been accepted by the people.

What a fool he had been to marry the widow of Gilbert de Clare who had already borne her husband six children. He must have been mad. Of course Isabella was an exceptionally beautiful woman and at that time he had thought her seniority piquant. He had told himself he wanted no young girl. A mature woman was much more to his taste. So he had married and what had happened? She who had given her previous husband six children had so far given him only one son, and because his visits to her became less frequent she had grown melancholy so that his great desire was to get away from her.

What a situation! Henry would say ‘I told you so.’ Henry was very good at that. He had not been so fortunate in his matrimonial affairs after all. It was time he married. A King had his duty to the State. But Henry seemed to be unlucky. It really looked as though – King that he was – no one was very eager to marry him. He had already sent feelers out to Brittany, Austria and Bohemia – without result. Then of course he had tried for a Princess of Scotland but as her sister had already married Hubert de Burgh – the King’s chief minister after the death of William Marshal – it was considered inadvisable for the King and his minister to marry sisters. It was said that Hubert, being anxious that none of these marriages should take place, had set rumours in motion that the King of England had a squint, was of a lewd and generally unpleasant character being deceitful and a coward; it was even whispered that he was a leper. Of course poor old Hubert was now in decline being hounded by his enemies who were ready to bring any charge against him however ridiculous. Richard did not believe that of old Hubert. No, Hubert was a good man. Of course he had his eyes on the main chance, and wanted to gather as much land and money as he could … (well, who did not?) but Hubert was honourable … as men went. And Richard refused to believe the tales of his enemies.

The fact remained that Henry was no longer very young and still had no bride. He was a little humiliated by this and wanted to marry. He did, however, show very little sympathy for Richard’s predicament. Richard had behaved like a fool was his judgement, and must take the consequences.

But Richard was not a man to accept his fate. He had already sent feelers to Rome with the usual plea of consanguinity, but the Pope was not sympathetic; so at this stage Richard, being married to a woman who no longer pleased him, could view with interest a crusade to the Holy Land.

Such a project needed a great amount of preparation and it would be some time before he could leave, probably a year or more; in the meantime he could enjoy the preparation.

He was surprised when a messenger arrived from Les Baux with a package for him and he was amused and somewhat intrigued when he discovered the letter written in a good hand, but obviously by a young person which explained that the narrative poem was a gift to him from the daughter of the Count of Provence. She sent it because she had set her scene in Cornwall, a land which fascinated her and she knew that it belonged to him so it seemed to her that because of this he might consider her work with kindness.

Puzzled he questioned the messenger.

‘It was given to you by the Count’s daughter?’

‘That is so, my lord.’

Richard smiled. ‘I believe the Count has several daughters.’

‘He has four, my lord.’

‘And one, not so long ago became the Queen of France. It was the second eldest who gave you this?’

‘The Lady Eleanor, my lord.’

‘She is a young girl –’

‘Very young, my lord.’

‘So must she be for the Queen of France is but a child and the Lady Eleanor is younger.’

‘By some two years I believe, my lord.’

Richard nodded and dismissed the man to his servants that he might be refreshed after his journey. Then he read the poem.

It was good. It showed a style which was mature and the adventures of the knights were told with a verve and authenticity which was really amazing coming from a girl who could not be more than thirteen and had never set eyes on the terrain of which she wrote. An unusual girl, one might say a brilliant girl. Richard pictured an ardent little scholar peering at her books.

He must write a gracious note of thanks and compliment her on her skill. Skill! For a girl of that age to write such a poem about a land she could never have seen was little short of genius.

He sent for the messenger and when the man came to him he said: ‘Tell me about the Lady Eleanor. Is she handsome?’

‘My lord, she is said to be the most handsome of all the sisters and I doubt a more good-looking family could be found in France.’

‘Is that so?’ mused Richard.

‘My lord, it is. The lady is called Eleanor la Belle. Yet her sisters are beautiful girls also.’

‘The lady has done me much honour. I should welcome the chance of thanking her in person. Ride back to Les Baux and tell the Count of Provence that I shall be passing through his land and should feel honoured if I might call at the castle.’

‘The Count will be overjoyed, my lord, I doubt not.’

‘Then when you are refreshed ride off. I doubt not I shall be close behind.’

Eleanor saw the messenger returning and hurried down to question him.

‘What said the Earl of Cornwall when he saw what the package contained?’ she demanded.

‘He wishes to come here in person to thank you.’

She was elated. She turned and went without delay to search for Romeo.

She found him with her father and she felt that there was no time for delay, so she blurted out what the messenger had said.

‘The Earl of Cornwall,’ cried the Count. ‘We must give him a good welcome. But how did this come about?’

Eleanor looked at Romeo who said: ‘The lady Eleanor sent her poem to the Earl. It seemed it would please him since it was set in his country.’

The Count looked from her to Romeo in disbelief.

‘It was on my advice,’ said the Lord of Villeneuve quickly. ‘I saw no reason why the Earl of Cornwall, being in the neighbourhood, should not be made aware of the lady Eleanor’s talent.’

The Count gave a short laugh. ‘My dear Romeo, is this another of your schemes?’

Romeo opened his eyes wide and said: ‘But it seemed so natural. The poem is set in Cornwall. The Earl of Cornwall is close at hand. I am sure he was delighted. He will be able to tell you, my lady, whether your descriptions of his country were good.’

Eleanor was looking from the minister to her father. The Count looked vaguely uneasy. Of course she was thinking Richard was not Henry, but he was his brother and soon he would be returning to England. It was a way in. It appealed to her nature to do something – however wild – rather than to do nothing at all.

The Count said: ‘The Countess must be told without delay. It will be necessary to make preparations for the brother of the King of England.’

She was a beautiful child, thought Richard, for child she was in spite of the fact that she was so self-possessed. Eleanor la Belle indeed! And when he considered her poem which he had at first thought he must skim through and then had become excited about, he was astonished. She was not only beautiful but clever.

She made him feel more and more dissatisfied with his marriage. By God’s eyes, he thought, were I not already married I would ask for her myself.

There was a banquet in the great hall given especially for him and he expressed himself so enchanted by the Count’s daughter that he asked that he might be presented to the others.

Sanchia and Beatrice, with Eleanor, were a charming trio; and if perhaps Eleanor surpassed her sisters in beauty and poise the others were not far behind.

He made himself very agreeable and talked to them of Eleanor’s poem about Cornwall which he said amazed him by the manner in which it expressed the atmosphere of the place.

Then he told them about Corfe Castle where he had spent much of his early life and how he had been most strictly brought up under the care of stern tutors. He spoke of Cornwall – that most westerly part of England which tapered into a bony ridge of land pushing its way far out into the ocean. He told of the moors and the rugged coast so treacherous to ships and the queer brooding mystery of the land where in the past so many strange deeds had taken place. He believed that King Arthur and his knights had roamed those moors.

He turned to Eleanor. ‘With your imagination, dear lady, you would find much to write of in my land of Cornwall. You would find many such as the brave knight Blandin. I would I could show it to you.’

‘How I long to see it,’ cried Eleanor.

‘Mayhap you will one day,’ replied Richard; and he looked at her so intently that the colour came into her cheeks and she cast down her eyes lest he should read her thoughts.

‘I should like to come too,’ said Sanchia, who was too young to hide her admiration for their guest.

‘Let us hope that in some way this will come to pass,’ said Richard. ‘Why should I not invite you all?’

‘It is so far,’ said Sanchia. ‘Over the sea.’

‘I should like to go on a boat,’ put in Beatrice. ‘You came on one, my lord.’

‘’Tis true I did and the sea was so unkind to us that more than one of my men wished himself dead.’

‘But you did not,’ said Sanchia.

‘I am a tolerable sailor,’ he answered, ‘which is a mercy for in my family we used to spend our lives crossing the sea. It may well be that we shall return to the habit.’

Eleanor was the only one who knew that he was referring to the regaining of the lost possessions. She was silent because her whole attention was centred on what he had to tell. She wanted to hear more and more of England, and hearing of England meant hearing of its King.

‘My brother, as you know, has been a King for a long time. He is only slightly older than I. Just think. Had I been born fifteen months sooner and he fifteen later it would be the King of England who sat talking to you now.’

‘You would not be here then,’ Eleanor pointed out.

‘Why should I not be? I tell you this. If my brother knew of the talents and beauty of the daughters of the Count of Provence he would be unable to resist a visit.’

‘When a King comes travelling to France,’ Eleanor pointed out, ‘there would be many to suspect his reasons. He could not do so merely to see my father’s daughters.’

‘I see you are wise indeed. No, the King could not come here without much pomp and noise. There would be suspicions that he was asking the Count’s help against the King of France.’

‘He is our brother-in-law,’ piped up Beatrice.

‘So you see, my dear ladies, that there would be consternation if he came. How fortunate I am that I am merely his brother for I may come and go as I please. But rest assured I shall tell my brother of my visit here. I shall make him envy me … for once.’

By which he betrays, thought Eleanor, that he has envied the King more than once.

Then she begged him to tell her of England and she learned much of the Court and its ceremonies and how the ladies were so eager to show their hair that although they had elaborate head-dresses they often carried them in their hands; the gowns worn by the ladies were of similar fashion to those worn in Provence, for fashions passed from country to country; the nobles wore brocade and velvet, silk and fine linen and the poorer people spun their own cloth from wool flax or goat’s hair just as in Provence. The King was very interested in architecture and for this reason buildings were springing up all over the country. The King was a man who greatly enjoyed music and literature.

‘I shall show him your poem when I return to England,’ said Richard to Eleanor. ‘I know he will admire it very much.’

Again Eleanor blushed and lowered her eyes. Triumph indeed. How wise Romeo was! This was the way.

‘Perhaps you will show it to his Queen as well as to him,’ she said.

‘My brother has no Queen.’

‘But very soon he will have one I doubt not.’

‘He must. It is his duty. Though while he has not I am heir to the throne you know.’

Eleanor was alert. Here was a very ambitious man. Then would it not be to his interests to keep his brother unmarried? Oh no, he could not do that. It would not be permitted. Moreover, surely Henry as King would be the one to decide when he would marry.

Richard went on: ‘Yes, I think he will eventually marry. In fact that day may come soon.’

‘He is affianced?’ asked Eleanor.

‘Not exactly, but I believe negotiations are going afoot.’

Her heart was beating fast. Too late. It was too late. She saw this prize – the only remaining prize – slipping through her fingers.

She felt a great sympathy with Richard of Cornwall. They had both been born too late.

Richard started to tell them about the Court; the banquets that were given, the games that were played. Questions and commands was one of the favourites and also roy-qui-nement, the King does not lie, in which questions were asked and the answers given must be the truth; chess was played a great deal and without asking he knew that the girls were experienced at the game for to play well was considered a necessary part of the education of well brought up girls and boys; then there was a game called tables in which two people played draughtsmen, the moves being determined by throwing a dice; there was vaulting, tumbling, juggling and of course dancing and music.

‘And does the King ride through the country in royal progress?’

‘Indeed he does. My brother has a love of splendour. And this of course is reflected in his Court. The people like it.’

‘It is how a King should be,’ said Eleanor.

‘Lavish entertainments are arranged for him in the castles he visits. We have the jongleurs of course who come with songs and dances. Some of the jongleurs are women; they dance well and can sing; they are good mimics; they act little plays. I can tell you there is no lack of gaiety at my brother’s Court. He favours most the musicians though and the poets and those who perform a certain kind of dance. He was always more studious than I. I think he loves his books almost as much as his kingdom.’

‘Who is the lady who will share his throne?’

‘It is Joanna, the daughter of the Earl of Ponthieu.’

The Earl of Ponthieu! thought Eleanor. She was of no higher rank than the daughter of the Count of Provence. And for her a crown! Oh, they should have acted sooner.

‘When … when will the betrothal take place?’

‘I doubt there will be any delay. My brother feels he has waited too long … and so do his ministers. I believe the proposals may already have gone to my brother. I know he is eagerly awaiting them.’

Eleanor seemed to have lost heart. It could have worked. But it was too late.

When Richard rode away the three girls stood with their parents waving him farewell.

He looked back and thought what a charming group they made. Certainly the reports of the girls’ beauty had not been exaggerated. Eleanor was very gifted; Sanchia was charming – so young and appealing; and even little Beatrice was going to be a beauty when she grew up.

He carried with him the poem. It was quite a work of art.

He turned in his saddle and called: ‘We shall meet again. I promise it to myself.’

Then he rode away.

Sanchia clasped her hands and murmured: ‘He is the most beautiful man I ever saw.’

Her parents laughed at her tenderly. Eleanor was silent. Too late, she was thinking. But a few weeks too late.