“When Richard went, I thought I had nothing to live for.”
“I know he was always your favorite. In the nursery we thought it was natural that this should be so. There was something magnificent about Richard.”
I could scarcely bear to speak his name, and she knew it and reproached herself for reminding me, but I told her she was not the one who had reminded me, for he was always in my thoughts.
“I am so happy to be with you, my dear,” I said. “I think of all my children you have been the most fortunate.”
“I have a good husband. We live happily here in Castile. And then there are the children, of course.”
“I want to get to know them well while I am here. It might be that I shall never see them again.”
“Dear Mother, you must visit us and next time stay ... stay a long time.”
“The years are creeping up on me. Sometimes it is hard to remember how old I am.”
“Then forget it, for, dear Mother, you can never be old.”
“Ah, if only that were true.”
So the days passed and I spent hours with my granddaughters.
Urraca was a charming girl, but it was Blanca in whom I was more interested.
Blanca was beautiful—not more so than her sister, but she glowed with an inner light. Was it intelligence or character? I was not sure. All I knew was that Blanca had some special quality. There was a determination in her nature, an alertness; she loved music, and she was quick to reply in discussion and very often right on the point. Perhaps I am a vain old woman but I thought I saw something of myself in Blanca; and as the days passed I began to realize that she was the one I must take with me as the future Queen of France.
It was difficult explaining to her parents. They had planned that it should be Urraca. They had prepared her for the part she must play. They had impressed on her what a great honor it was to be chosen. There could be few such grand titles as Queen of France in the whole world.
But in my heart I knew it had to be Blanca.
I broached the matter with my daughter.
“It will have to be Blanca, you know,” I said. Eleanor looked at me in astonishment.
“She has all the qualities,” I went on.
“For what, dear Mother?”
“For marriage with Louis of France.” My daughter was silent with shock.
“I know,” I went on, “that we have thought of Urraca, but I am convinced it will have to be Blanca.”
“But we cannot change now.”
“Why not? I am to take back one of my granddaughters, and I say that one must be Blanca.”
“What of Urraca? She is the elder.”
“You will find a good husband for her, particularly if her sister is to be the future Queen of France.”
“Dear Mother, for what reason?”
It was difficult to explain. I supposed she loved both her daughters dearly and perhaps could not see the bright jewel she had in Blanca.
I sought to explain. It was not that there was anything wrong with Urraca. It was just that Blanca was endowed with very special qualities ... a strength which I recognized clearly, as I had it myself, courage, resourcefulness. I said: “The French would never like a woman called Urraca.” My daughter looked at me disbelievingly.
I elaborated the theme. “No. They would never get used to it. She would be a foreigner to them all her life.”
“You mean because of her name ...”
“Whereas Blanca,” I said, “...that will become Blanche. That is a very beautiful name. The French will love it. My dear, don’t look so taken aback. One of your daughters will be Queen of France. What does it matter which one?”
“Blanca,” she murmured. “I hadn’t thought of Blanca. She is younger than Urraca.”
“That is no obstacle. She is twelve, is she not? Old enough to go to her future husband. I shall take Blanca.”
My daughter was silent. She remembered from the old days that people did not argue with me. When I said something should be so, it was.
The girls were amazed, of course. Urraca, who had been very apprehensive about going to France, was now dismayed because she was not going. Blanca was surprised, but she took the announcement as I knew she would. She hated to displace her sister but could not fail to be excited by the brilliant prospect which was opening before her.
We spent a good deal of time together. I talked a great deal about the Court of France as it had been when I had been its Queen.
“You will mold it to your ways,” I told her. “I am going to call you Blanche from now on. That is the name by which you will be known in France. It is merely a version of your own name and this one is prettier, don’t you think, Blanche? It suits you.”
So we were often together and played the lute and sang. I was delighted by her elegant manners, her quiet wit and her budding beauty. I was glad I had made the journey. Otherwise they would have sent Urraca instead; and my instinct told me that Blanca—Blanche as she now was—was the one destined to be Queen of France.
After the initial surprise at the substitution, there was no resistance to my suggestion, and the time came to say goodbye to the pleasant Court of Castile. I traveled in a litter for quite long stages of the journey, for I grew very tired if I stayed too long in the saddle.
My granddaughter rode beside the litter. I always liked to have her in sight. She was a great joy to me. I gloried in her beauty and her intelligence and love grew quickly between us. We stayed at castles and inns on our journey and I would always have her sleeping in my room or even in my bed. I talked to her a great deal. I wanted her to be prepared. The fact that I, too, had traveled from my home to become a Queen of France had made a great bond between us. I drew myself back into those long-ago days and as I talked of them memories came flooding back.
I told her of my grandfather’s Court and the manner in which he had abducted Dangerosa and carried her off to his castle. I remembered the legends sung in ballads by the jongleurs. I would often sing them to her. It was amazing how the memories of them came flooding back and I could remember the words of romanticized adventure as well as the music.
“How strange,” I said, “that my husband was Louis VII of France and yours will be Louis VIII. My Louis was a good, religious man, but good men at times can be tiresome ... and so can the other kind. I had a taste of both, so I am well qualified to judge.” And I would tell her about Henry, the great Plantagenet, her own grandfather who had been so different from Louis. “We should have been good together,” I said wistfully. “But he could never be faithful. Women were his weakness.” I did not add that I thought it odd that his son Richard should have been so different.
I realized how much my granddaughter had done for me. There had been hours when I had forgotten to grieve for Richard.
We came to Bordeaux. It was comforting to be in my own castle. Here our ways divided: there was one road to Paris, the other to Fontevrault. I was feeling exhausted. Even the exhilaration I drew from my granddaughter could not disguise it. Fontevrault offered complete peace; there I could rest my weary limbs for a short time and shut myself away from all the burdens which I knew were waiting to fall upon my shoulders.
I sent for the Archbishop of Bordeaux. I told him that I had brought my granddaughter from the kingdom of Castile, and I wished him to take her to Paris and present her to the King, who was expecting her. I had just undertaken a long journey and I thought I could not go much farther. I would entrust him with the task of taking the future Queen of France to her prospective husband.
I was touched to see Blanche’s dismay when she knew I was not going with her to Paris.
“All will be well,” I assured her. “They will welcome you in Paris. The Archbishop will take good care of you.”