‘I have a husband whom I love. I do not think God would consider that a sin.’
‘You have broken your vow to Him. Every time you lie with this man you commit a sin against Holy Church.’
‘I do not think so.’
‘You … a foolish girl!’
‘Nay,’ said Eleanor with spirit, ‘a proud and happy wife.’
Henry could not help admiring her. Of course he must respect such a saint, but Eleanor did not seem to care whether or not she offended God. He almost expected the Almighty to show His displeasure by striking her dumb or blind … or barren perhaps. He could not tell about the last but she certainly escaped the first two.
‘You give God … and us … great cause for sorrow.’
‘There are so many nuns,’ said Eleanor, ‘and not so many happy wives.
‘You are without shame,’ cried the Archbishop.
‘Am I?’ said Eleanor.
‘You must have a care, sister,’ Henry warned her mildly. He wanted an end of the scene so he went on before the Archbishop could speak again. ‘What must my sister do, my lord? She is married. We cannot unmarry her. Pray give your advice.’
‘A plea for dispensation must be sent to the Pope with all speed.’
‘That shall be done,’ said Henry.
The Archbishop regarded Eleanor coldly.
‘There is only one who should be sent to His Holiness to make the plea. That is, you will agree, Simon de Montfort.’
How she hated the saintly old man. He could not unmarry them, but he could separate them … for a while.
It was not a bad solution, Henry decided, for with the bridegroom away, the barons could forget their discontent with the marriage.
Eleanor was angry. That could not be helped. She must expect to pay some price for her unconventional behaviour. She had the husband of her choice and in due course he would come back.
Eleanor’s sorrow in the temporary loss of her husband was somewhat alleviated by the knowledge that she was pregnant. Moreover the Pope, seeing that the marriage had already been celebrated, was of the opinion that there was no other alternative but to grant the dispensation.
In due course Simon returned and Eleanor’s son was born in Kenilworth Castle. Eleanor decided to call him Henry after her brother, which delighted the King.
In fact Henry himself was in a state of excitement over his wife’s pregnancy, and when his son – whom he called Edward – was born, he was overjoyed.
To show that Eleanor was completely forgiven he invested Simon with the Earldom of Leicester.
Alas, there was some trouble of a debt Simon had incurred during his stay abroad and as Simon could not meet the payment the account was sent to the King.
Then Henry was enraged. It seemed to him that his sister was using him. She flattered him when she wanted something – Richard had suggested as much. Her husband so took advantage of his elevation into the royal family that he ran up bills he could not meet. He was going to show them that he was aware of their chicanery.
He made an attack on Simon in the company of several of the dignitaries who had gathered together for the churching of the Queen, accusing him of seducing Eleanor before their marriage, and bribing the Pope for the dispensation and then failing to meet his debts.
‘If you do not remove yourself from my sight this moment you will be in the Tower before the night is out,’ he declared.
Simon was bewildered. It seemed to him that Henry was behaving in a manner such as his father often did.
But he and Eleanor left the court without delay.
‘He will have recovered from his ill temper in the morning,’ said Eleanor.
‘What if he does not?’ asked Simon. ‘I did not care for the look in his eyes.’
‘What then?’ asked Eleanor.
‘Get the child. We will leave the country for a while. It is safer so. I see that he will always remember this accusation against me and use it when it best suits him.’
Eleanor sighed; but she knew that he was right and as long as they were not separated she was reconciled to anything that had to be. A week later they arrived in France.
Isabella, Countess of Cornwall, was an unhappy woman. She knew that Richard was seeking an excuse to be rid of her. He should have listened to her when she had told him that she was too old to please him. She missed Eleanor and often envied her her happiness with Simon de Montfort. Dear Eleanor, she deserved to be happy at last; and she would be because there was a certain strength about her which Isabella admired the more because she knew she herself did not possess it.
Richard rarely came to see her now. He made an effort to be affectionate but it did not deceive her, for she knew that he was seeking means to be rid of her, and although the Pope had decided against that dispensation five years ago, Richard had not given up hope.
Sometimes she felt very much alone in the world. Her great father long since dead; her brother on whom she had relied now gone. All she had was her son Henry – and he was a delight to any mother’s heart – but how long before he would be taken away from her? Nobly born boys were never allowed to grow up in their own homes. He would be sent away to be educated that he might become what they would call a man – the tender care of a mother being considered a handicap in such a training.
She was again with child, though – her one consolation, although during this pregnancy she had become easily exhausted and often felt ill.
She was fortunate to be surrounded by good servants. Those close to her knew of the sadness her husband’s neglect had brought her. It was touching to see how they tried to make up for his lack of care by lavishing their attentions on her, with something more than could be expected from the best of servants.
In due course her time came and to her delight she gave birth to a son.
Richard arrived at Berkhamsted a few days after the birth.
He looked young and vital as he sat by her bed; she felt old and tired and she knew that she looked it.
‘It was good of you to come to see our son,’ she said to him.
‘Naturally I should come to see the boy … and you.’
‘Even more good of you to come to see me … when it is against your inclination.’
He shifted uneasily on his stool.
‘You are not looking well, Isabella,’ he said. ‘Are they caring for you? I must speak to them.’
They give me loving care, Richard. You can imagine how I appreciate that.’
‘I am glad of it,’ he said.
He sat in silence and she wondered whether he was thinking that she looked so ill that she might never rise from this bed.
It would save him a lot of trouble, she thought, and me a great deal of heartbreak.
It was, said her servants, almost as though she were willing herself to die.
He spoke to the most devoted of those who were with her night and day.
‘Your mistress seems lifeless,’ he said. ‘Is she very ill?’
The old woman bridled a little and faced him coldly. Such women he knew cared for no one, however high in rank, and would fight an army of kings for the sake of their beloved charges.
‘It has been an unhappy time for her, my lord,’ was the brusque answer.
‘A difficult pregnancy, I know.’
‘Did you know, my lord? You have seen little of it.’
‘But I know such things are.’
‘This was aggravated by my lady’s melancholy state.’ The old woman bobbed a curtsey and turned away muttering: ‘I must see to my lady.’
He went to see the child which lay quiet in its cradle. White and still, eyes closed, it reminded him of Isabella.
He called to the wet nurse.