‘Even his sister?’
‘I will sound him.’
It was Christmas time and they were at Westminster. The King was very busy with preparations, eager to show his new queen how lavish they could be.
Eleanor hesitated to approach him because if he would not help her he could make it impossible for her to marry Simon. Possibilities occurred to her. He could even imprison Simon, have him mutilated, murdered … Not that Henry had ever showed any signs of behaving in such a cruel manner. He was not like their father. Henry was more of a man of peace. And yet she was taking a risk. Talking to Simon, she had felt so bold and brave; when she was not with him she found herself facing realities.
She made up her mind that there was one person whom she could safely consult and that was her sister Joan who had been with the court since September when she had gone on a pilgrimage to Canterbury with the King and her husband Alexander. Alexander had now returned to Scotland but Joan had made an excuse to stay on in England for a few weeks longer. That stay had extended.
So to Joan went Eleanor and contrived that they should be alone together.
Concerned as she was with her own affairs, Eleanor could not help noticing how wan her sister looked. Poor Joan seemed to be wasting away. She made excuse after excuse to stay in England and so far she had remained. She had spent several weeks in her bedchamber when the weather was cold and seemed to be better for it, but she dreaded returning to Scotland.
Beside her Eleanor looked blooming, knew it, and was a little ashamed of it.
She asked with tenderness after her sister’s health.
‘It is better,’ Joan told her. ‘It is always so in England.’
‘Poor Joan.’ Eleanor was thoughtful. No matter where Simon went she would gladly follow. Joan clearly did not feel the same about Alexander.
‘I want to talk to you, Joan. It is secret … very secret. I want your advice.’
Joan smiled at her sister. ‘I shall be pleased to help if I can, you know.’
Eleanor nodded. ‘I am in love and want to marry.’
Joan looked concerned. ‘It so much depends with whom. Is he what would be considered suitable?’
‘To me he is the only one who could possibly be suitable.’
‘That is not what I mean, Eleanor.’
‘I know it and I suppose he is what would be called completely unsuitable.’
‘Oh, my poor sister.’
‘Not so, Joan. I refuse to be called poor when Simon loves me.’
‘Simon?’
‘Simon de Montfort’
Joan wrinkled her brows. ‘Is he not the son of the General who fought the Albigensians?’
‘He is the same. We are going to marry – no matter what anyone says. If we have to go to France, if we have to escape … we shall do so to be together.’
Eleanor raised her eyes to her sister’s and saw that Joan’s were shining with admiration.
‘You are right, Eleanor,’ she said. ‘If you love … and he loves you … then let nothing stand in your way. You married once for state reasons. Now freedom of choice should be yours.’
Eleanor went softly to her sister and took her in her arms. She felt uneasy because of Joan’s frailty.
‘I did not think you would understand,’ she said.
‘I do understand, Eleanor,’ answered Joan. ‘I loved once … I am glad that I did, although it did not bring me happiness.’
‘You, Joan …!’
‘It was long ago, oh, long long ago it seems.’
‘You were sent away when you were a child. Sent to Lusignan.’
‘To the man who was to be my husband,’ said Joan. ‘I was frightened and I learned not to be. I grew to know him. He was so good … so kind.’
‘You loved him!’ cried Eleanor. ‘And he married our mother.’
‘Do you remember her, Eleanor?’
‘But little.’
‘She had some allure. I cannot explain it. I never saw it in any other woman. It was a kind of magic. Not good, not kind, but she bewitched people with it. She bewitched Hugh. So I came back and married Alexander.’
‘My poor, poor Joan!’
‘Oh, it is too long ago now to talk of, and here I am the Queen of Scotland.’
‘A poor compensation, you are telling me, Joan.’
Joan held out her thin hands on which blue veins were painfully visible.
‘I am telling you that if you have a chance of happiness you should take it. You do not want to spend your life regretting.’
‘So that is your advice, Joan?’
Joan’s answer was to put her arms about her sister and kiss her gently on the brow.
‘Sound our brother,’ she said. ‘But carefully. It may be that at this time he will feel tender towards lovers.’
Henry regarded his sister with mild affection. He was very contented with his marriage. His bride was very young, the second daughter of the Count of Provence; and her elder sister was already the bride of Louis IX of France. Not only was she beautiful, she was accomplished too. She was noted for the verses she wrote and she could sing and dance in a manner which was enchanting.
Henry was particularly delighted because his brother Richard had made the acquaintance of the Princess of Provence on his travels and had been charmed by her bright intelligence and her beauty; Henry knew he would have liked to marry her himself. No hope of that. He had his ageing Isabella, whom he had insisted on marrying. So this was one of the occasions when Henry could score over his brother.
When Eleanor came to him he was in a state of some euphoria and she, in her newly found wisdom and her awareness sharpened by her desperate need, began by telling him how delighted she was by his happiness and how enchanting the new Queen was, and how fortunate he had been to wait awhile before hurrying into marriage. Whereupon Henry began enlarging on the perfections of his queen and the joys of the married state which made it easier for Eleanor.
‘Ah, I would I had the good fortune to know such happiness!’ she sighed.
‘My poor sister, you were married to old William Marshal. How different that must have been from that state in which I find myself!’
‘My fortunate brother! None could wish you greater happiness than I. I know that, understanding so much, you would, if it were in your power, help me to attain a similar joy.’
Henry smiled expansively. ‘Dear Eleanor, I would the whole world could be as happy as I am.’
‘I could be so … or almost, I think, if only it were possible …’
Henry was looking at her questioningly and she went on: ‘Henry, I am in love. I want to marry and I implore you – understanding so well – to help me in this.’
‘My dear sister, what can I do? Who is this man?’
‘He is Simon de Montfort.’
Henry was silent for a few seconds, while Eleanor suffered agonies of doubt and plans for immediate escape from England began to form in her mind.
Then Henry slowly smiled. ‘He’s a bold fellow. I always knew it. But I did not know how bold.’
Eleanor caught his hands and cried: ‘Henry, you who have achieved such happiness … can you deny it to me, your sister, who has already suffered one unwelcome marriage and years shut away from your court?’
Henry embraced her. ‘I will help you,’ he said. ‘It will have to remain secret for a while … No one must know.’
‘My dearest, dearest brother, if you consent, that is all I ask!’
Henry, smiling benignly, told her that she should have her wish. He would arrange it. But for the time being she must remember … secrecy.