The Queen From Provence - Plaidy Jean. Страница 52

How delighted was the King to see them. He embraced the Queen, his son, and the little bride.

‘My dear little daughter,’ he said, ‘how glad I am to welcome you into this family!’

Eleanora was delighted. It was such a pleasant family. The King loved them all so dearly and her mother had told her how important he was. He ruled a big country. The Queen was kind provided one did exactly what she wanted. And Edward was so gallant and rode with such skill and was so distinguished that she glowed with pride to watch him. Then there was the Queen’s sister, the Lady Sanchia, and Edmund who was her own age and Beatrice who was a little older. It was a wonderful family and what she had missed most – although she had not realised this until now – was a family life.

The King was determined to welcome her warmly and his way of doing this was to give a grand banquet in her honour. There was a good deal of grumbling about the cost of this and the Infanta heard it said that it had cost three hundred thousand marks which was a very large sum of money.

‘We’ll find means of raising it,’ said Henry, cheerful as he always was when the spending of money was concerned; it was only when the need to find it arose that he lost his temper and became irritable.

They stayed at Bordeaux until the end of the summer and as more brilliant festivals were devised to celebrate the marriage, the King’s friends grew more and more restive when contemplating the cost.

Henry continued to shrug all that aside and finally decided that they would leave Bordeaux and start their journey home. First though he and the Queen would make a pilgrimage to the shrine of St Edmund, who had been his Archbishop of Canterbury until he died and been buried in Pontigny. Edmund had always been an uncomfortable man, being such a saint who, while he did continual penance for his own sins, had a habit of magnifying those of others.

Having paid their homage to the dead St Edmund they felt considerably better about all the money they had been spending and travelled on to Fontevrault where Henry commanded that the body of his mother be removed from the grave in the cemetery there and put in the church. He ordered a tomb to be placed over it.

By this time he was feeling very virtuous.

The Queen was overcome with joy when messages arrived from the King of France to the effect that he would take it amiss if the party did not come to Paris and give him the pleasure of entertaining them.

Now the Queen was to experience the greatest pleasure because at the Court of France she would be with her three sisters.

There was great rejoicing when the party arrived in Paris and, to please his wife, Louis insisted on giving the English party the finest lodging at his disposal. This happened to be the Temple which was the headquarters of the Knights Templar in France and was a magnificent palace.

It was a wonderful moment when Eleanor was greeted by her sister Marguerite, recently returned from the Holy Land where she had accompanied her husband; and with her was Beatrice, now the Countess of Anjou, having married Louis’ brother Charles.

To add to their joy the Countess of Provence, hearing that Eleanor and Sanchia were to be in Paris, had decided to join them. So that the four sisters and their mother were together.

‘There is only one missing,’ said Marguerite. ‘Our dear father.’

‘We must not grieve,’ said the Countess of Provence. ‘He would rejoice to see us thus, and perhaps he can. Let us, while remembering him, be happy in each other.’

Henry, determined to court popularity – and also to let the French know that he was a rich King – spent his first morning in Paris distributing alms to the poor. This ensured his popularity and meant he was cheered wherever he went.

‘I know how happy you are, my dearest,’ he said to Eleanor, ‘and I am going to give a grand banquet to which I shall invite all the nobility of France. It will show the world how I honour your family.’

‘You are the best husband in the world,’ cried Eleanor. ‘The more I see of the men my sisters have married the more blessed I know myself to be.’

This was the sort of remark which delighted Henry and Eleanor was adept at making such. She was implying criticism of Louis and Charles of Anjou and of Richard of Cornwall, her sisters’ husbands. Of course he and Louis were the Kings and therefore desirable and he was a little piqued by hearing the compliments which seemed to be showered on Louis and to witness how his people seemed to revere him when he rode out.

‘His people are more demonstrative than they are at home,’ he said. ‘My people are not so affectionate towards me.’

‘Louis has just returned from a crusade,’ replied Eleanor. ‘That makes the people regard him as a saint.’

But it was not only that. There was a humility about Louis IX which, coupled with a dignity, set him apart. There was compassion in him. This was a King who cared for his people. He would never harry them with taxes for his own needs. Louis set little store by the splendour of his rank; he did not care greatly for festivals. He cared about the people, what they were thinking, how he could better their lot.

It was rather trying, Eleanor thought, when her sister Marguerite talked to her of him. Marguerite was completely devoted to her saint and continually singing his praises, when it was clear to Eleanor that Louis did not dote on her in the same way that Henry did on his Queen.

The four sisters sat together, they walked together, they shared the tapestry which Marguerite was making and they talked and were transported back in their thoughts to Les Baux.

It was like being young again and it was amazing how they slipped back into their roles of subservience to Eleanor.

‘Do you remember …’ The phrase was constantly occurring and they would talk of the old days, laughing, being young again.

Then they talked of the present, and the change in their lives since the days in Provence. Marguerite had adventured most for she had been with Louis to the Holy Land.

‘I would not let him go alone,’ she said. ‘I insisted. His mother did not want him to go. No one wanted him to go. They thought he should stay at home and govern his kingdom. I remember the day he was so ill that we thought he was dead. I remember how he lay on his bed and one of the women wanted to draw the sheet over his face because she thought he was dead. But I would not let them. I would not believe that he was dead. I forbade them to cover up his face. I cried: “There is life in him yet,” and then he spoke … in a strange hollow voice as though he were far away. He said: “He, by God’s grace, hath visited me. He who comes from on High hath recalled me from the dead.” Then he sent for the Bishop of Paris and said to him: “Place upon my shoulder the cross of the voyage over the sea.” We knew what this meant. His mother and I looked at each other and although she tried to shut me out and I did not like her, for I feared that she resented his love for me and wanted him all for herself, we were at one in this for we knew what Louis meant. He was going on a crusade. We begged him to make no vows until he was well, but he would take no food until he had received the cross. I remember how his mother mourned. Her face was blank and she was as one who has the sentence of death on her. He took the cross and kissed it and when she had drawn me from the chamber, she said to me: “I must mourn him now as though he were dead for soon I shall lose him.” She meant of course that if he went on a crusade she would die before he returned.’

‘You did not like her overmuch,’ said Eleanor. ‘She was always determined to shut you out.’

‘At first I resented her. But later I understood. She loved him so much … could not bear that anyone should come before her with him. He was her life. It had no meaning for her if she lost him.’