The Queen From Provence - Plaidy Jean - Страница 39

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‘Do you think,’ said Eleanor, ‘that he is already dead?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Our mother would warn us first. She would think it would lessen the shock.’

They stared blankly at each other. It was a long time since Eleanor had seen her father but her memories of him were still very fresh and in their minds both she and Sanchia could easily slip back into those happy days of their childhood.

‘It is so difficult to imagine it without him,’ said Eleanor. ‘Our poor mother will be desolate. I shall bring her over here.’

Sanchia was silent thinking of what Richard had said about the people of England and their attitude to the Queen’s relations.

‘There is still Beatrice left,’ said Sanchia.

‘Our father will not be able to find a husband for her now. Romeo will help.’

‘Poor Beatrice, how sad for her.’

While they talked another messenger arrived at the castle.

It was as Eleanor had feared. The Count was dead.

Eleanor was mildly irritated when she heard that her father had left everything to his unmarried daughter Beatrice.

‘He had forgotten that he had four daughters,’ she said with some asperity.

‘Oh no,’ replied Sanchia. ‘Marguerite and you and I are happily married to rich husbands. Beatrice has yet to find one.’

‘There will be no dearth of offers for her now.’

The matter of the inheritance took the edge off Eleanor’s mourning, and when she heard suitors were arriving in Provence every day she was cynically amused.

The Countess however did not consider any of them of sufficient merit and Henry came to her one day in great excitement because he had received news that Jaime, the King of Aragon, had besieged the town of Aix which he determined to hold until the Countess of Provence gave her daughter Beatrice in marriage to his son Pedro.

What a romantic situation! It was worthy of one of the poems she used to write. And Beatrice was at the centre of the drama – all because she was the youngest one and unmarried, still at home and had therefore received her father’s inheritance.

There was a letter from Marguerite to her sisters.

They must not be alarmed on Beatrice’s account. It was true that the King of Aragon was invading Provence in the hope of winning Beatrice. They called him the Conqueror because of his victories, but Louis had decided to step in.

The fact was that Louis’ brother Charles of Anjou had a great desire to marry Beatrice and had always believed that he would in due course. Therefore Charles was riding into Provence to send the so-called Conqueror Jaime about his business.

It was very exciting and each day she and Sanchia waited for news of the battle for Beatrice.

In the meantime Eleanor was brought to bed. What rejoicing there was when this time she produced a bonny boy.

They called him Edmund and this addition to their nursery so delighted the King and Queen that Eleanor forgot her resentment at being cut out of her father’s will. News came of the victorious campaign waged by Charles of Anjou. It had been an almost foregone conclusion that the King of Aragon – Conqueror though he might call himself – could not win against Charles of Anjou who had the support of his mighty brother.

In due course the wedding of Beatrice and Charles was celebrated in Paris. There was now a new Count of Provence – Beatrice’s husband.

One of the greatest joys of Eleanor’s life was to be with her children and of all of them she could not help loving her firstborn best.

Whenever she could be with him, she was; and Henry shared her feelings. It was not so easy for him, of course. He had other duties to perform, but he never tried to persuade her to accompany him because he knew how she longed to be with their children.

When they were together they talked of Edward continually. Henry wanted to endow him with lands and castles, and even Eleanor laughed at him and said that would come later, the child was too young as yet.

One thing she did promise herself was that Edward should accompany her when she made the dedication of a new church in Beaulieu Abbey.

‘He cannot start too soon to show himself in public,’ she said. ‘And everywhere he goes people will love him.’

It was true that when the little boy accompanied his parents the populace showed a more kindly attitude towards them, and Henry thought it an excellent idea that his mother should take Edward to the dedication.

Her heart thrilled with pride as she stepped into the nursery and he bounded forward and threw his arms about her knees.

‘My darling, is this the way to greet the Queen?’ she asked.

Then she lifted him in her arms and covered his face with kisses.

‘How is my Edward this day?’

‘I am well,’ he answered.

She examined him intently. Were his hands a little feverish, his eyes a little too bright? Or was that due to the excitement of seeing his mother?

Robert Burnell, who was his chaplain and confidential servant, was hovering.

‘The Lord Edward has been suffering from slight rheum this last few days, my lady.’

Terror gripped her heart as it always did when any of the children suffered some ailment.

‘How has he been, Robert? Are you sure this is nothing serious?’

‘My lady, he is subject to these rheums.’

She did not like him to be subject to rheums. They frightened her.

‘I rode out with Henry this morning, my lady,’ said Edward. ‘My horse was faster than his.’

Oh God, were they letting him ride too fast? What if he fell? Should he not have been kept indoors with such a rheum?

She looked anxiously at Robert Burnell. ‘Lord Edward will vie with everyone and do his best to win,’ he told her.

‘And always does, my lady,’ declared Edward.

‘Not always, my lord,’ warned his mentor and religious instructor Burnell.

‘Well very often,’ said Edward stoutly.

His mother ruffled his hair.

‘I have messages from your father,’ she said. ‘The King wants to know whether you have been good in your manners and your lessons. What shall I tell him?’

‘That I am very good,’ said Edward.

‘Sometimes,’ added Burnell.

Eleanor wished Burnell would let the dear boy enjoy his triumphs in peace but of course she knew that it was good for him to be curbed and he could not have a better tutor than Robert Burnell.

‘My dearest, I am going to take you with me to Beaulieu Abbey.’

‘When?’

‘In a short while. We are going to be present at the dedication of the church.’

‘It will be a very solemn ceremony, my lord,’ said Burnell.

‘Oh, must I be solemn then?’ Edward coughed slightly, and Eleanor’s fears rose again.

‘It is a small cough, my lady,’ said Burnell. ‘It goes and comes.’

‘We must see that it goes and does not come,’ she answered tersely.

Were they caring for him? Did they realise how precious this child was? Oh, some might say, he had a brother and was not so important now. They were wrong, wrong. No one could ever mean to her what her beloved Edward did … not even Henry.

How proud she was of him riding by her side on his little white palfrey. His cousin Henry, four years his senior, rode on the other side of him – a handsome boy but in her eyes insignificant compared with the flaxen beauty of her own son.

He coughed a little as they rode and she became more and more uneasy as they approached Beaulieu; she felt almost angry with young Henry for being in such obvious good health.

The Abbey had been founded by Henry’s father, King John. It was one of his more laudable acts which he performed from time to time, more, Henry said, from a sense of placating Heaven than for his own virtuous inclinations. Set among beechwoods it was a beautiful sight and the Cistercian monks would be delighted at this sign of royal patronage with their Queen and their future King gracing the dedication of the newly erected church.

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