‘My comforter,’ he said fondly. ‘I knew you would be.’
He felt relieved and happy and determined that he would do everything possible to bring her husband out of captivity. It should carry some weight that he was ready to marry the younger sister of the King of France when he had been promised the elder.
How pleasant it was to be with her though the pleasure was marred by the twinges of anxiety he felt about her health. She had aged considerably since she had left England, which was small wonder since she had suffered so much. He had been so happy that she, married late, should have at last made a love match. But how cruel was fate to rob her of her husband so soon. Fortunately she had her dear children. How he loved his grandchildren and Eleanor’s in particular, simply because they were hers.
He must make the most of this visit.
She had brought for him as a present a leather case beautifully enamelled and fitted with a comb and mirror, and he had told her that he would treasure it as long as he lived.
That was a happy Christmas at Ghent. Margaret was there with her husband, and although she was scarcely happy in her marriage she seemed to be reconciled to it. He had heard that she had received several of her husband’s illegitimate children and treated them with kindness. Poor Margaret, she was in no position to protest he supposed, but he imagined what Joanna would have been like in such circumstances.
Elizabeth was present and he hoped she would make no more scenes about leaving him. Of course he was flattered that his girls loved him so well. It was a pity they had to grow up.
But his main concern was with Eleanor’s health. He was sure that she pretended she felt better than she did because she knew he was worried.
He must get her husband returned to her. Once he was married he would do it. That brought him back to the thoughts of marriage. Was he wise? He would soon be sixty. He was virile still. Of course he should have married four or five years ago; he should have considered it immediately after Eleanor’s death. No, he could not have done that. It would have seemed so disloyal. He needed more sons really. He had his beloved daughters and he would not have changed them for boys … but a king should have sons and he had only Edward.
Edward did worry him a little. He was not growing up quite as his father would have wished. He was clever enough but he would not apply himself, and he surrounded himself with companions of questionable reputation. He would grow out of that for he was young yet. He was tall and good-looking. That was an advantage. The people like a handsome king and above all a tall one. It was fitting for a king to tower above his subjects.
All would be well, and it was right that he should marry again and get more sons.
So he threw himself whole-heartedly into the celebrations that Christmas at Ghent. He was going to say goodbye when it was over to three daughters. He wished he had married them into English noble houses. But of course that was not good. Gilbert de Clare had been a man whom it was as necessary to placate as it was the members of royal houses. That was why he had been given Joanna. And now Joanna had married that Monthermer man. At least it left him a daughter at home. He could not count poor Mary.
When it was over he said goodbye to Eleanor with many fond assurances of his affection. He brooded after she had gone. She seemed so pale and wan, so different from the healthy young woman of whom he had always been so proud.
It was in March when he returned to England, and he had not been there very long when news was brought to him of his daughter Eleanor’s death.
He was prostrate with grief. It was true that he had been worried about her pale looks, but this was quite unexpected. He was filled with remorse. He should have insisted on her husband getting his freedom. He should have stopped at nothing … nothing …
He was weighed down with anxieties.
Trouble in France, trouble in Scotland. He could see that he would have to take drastic action above the border. And Eleanor, best loved of all his beloved daughters, was dead.
It was only in contemplating his coming marriage that he could lift himself out of his despondency.
It was with great consternation that Marguerite, sister of the King of France, heard that she was to marry the old King of England. Her sister, the beautiful Blanche, of whom the poets sang, used to laugh when she received his letters. She would read them aloud to her sister who marvelled that a great king who had never seen Blanche, should have become so enamoured of what he had heard of her.
Blanche had said it was understandable. There were so many songs written about her and Marguerite had known that people were amazed when they saw her.
Her brother too, the King, was very handsome. So much so that he was known as Philip le Bel. She, Marguerite, who might have been reckoned quite good-looking in any other family, was so overshadowed by her handsome brother and beautiful sister that she had come to be regarded as insignificant.
‘Never mind,’ her mother Queen Marie had said, ‘you can be good. You have a look of your grandfather and you know he was a great man and became known even during his lifetime as Saint Louis.’
Marguerite had certainly always given way to Blanche, who in any case was six years older than she was, and she could not remember a time when people had not remarked on her beauty.
Blanche had been very amused at the thought of what Edward was prepared to pay for her.
‘Our brother is highly amused,’ she said. ‘He begins to value me greatly. I am worth Gascony to the King of England. That is a great deal to be worth, little sister.’
‘The King of England must love you very dearly.’
‘He loves a woman he has never seen. And why? Because others think her beautiful. Our brother refers to me as our great prize, and he says the King of England is a lecherous old satyr who longs to have his bed warmed by a young woman.’
Marguerite shivered. ‘Poor Blanche …’ she began.
Blanche hated to be pitied and that her insignificant sister should attempt it angered her.
‘Poor indeed! I shall be the Queen of England. Have you thought of that? It is as good as being Queen of France.’
‘Well, as you are now a princess of France is that such an elevation?’
‘Serious little Marguerite. I expect you are right, but I do fancy having this old man – who is King withal – so eager for me that he gives our brother territory which the English had sworn never to relinquish.’
‘It must be wonderful to be so beautiful,’ said Marguerite.
And Blanche tweaked her sister’s long hair and laughed at her.
So Blanche had often talked of going to England and she was amused that the English King was kept dangling.
Then a strange thing had happened. Edward was not the only one who sought the hand of Blanche. The Duke of Austria wanted her and he was the son of the Emperor.
Their brother had discussed the matter at great length with his ministers. Gascony was in their hands, why should not Blanche go to Rudolph of Austria? There still remained Marguerite for the King of England.
She would never forget the day Philip summoned her to hear her fate.
‘You, sister, are to go to England in place of Blanche.’
‘But … sire …’ she had stammered. ‘How can I? They are expecting Blanche … It is Blanche … he wants.’
Philip threw back his handsome head and laughed.
‘Expecting Blanche he may be, but he is going to have a surprise. He will get Marguerite in exchange.’