Free The Queen from Provence by Jean Plaidy Page B

approached England. The cliffs rose white and stark out of that frothy grey sea and there could not have been a land more different from Provence. Uncle William put his hand over hers as though to reassure her, but she did not need his comfort. She was excited. Grey seas and cool winds were unimportant. So long she had wanted this marriage; ever since Marguerite had left them to be the bride of the King of France she had wanted the crown of England as the only one to compare with that of Marguerite, and having seen Marguerite, dominated by her mother-in-law, she no longer envied her. That was why she could stand beside her uncle at the approach to England with the utmost confidence in her future.
    Now they had come so close to land that she could see the bold grey towers of that castle perched high on the hill, menacing, formidable, defiant. It had been graphically called the Key to England, and she thought the name apt. That key was being given to her; and she would employ soft words and subtle manners until this land was hers to command. Everything depended on her husband, and she would shortly discover what manner of man he was and whether her task would be easy.
    ‘You are on the threshold of a new life, my child,’ said Uncle William. ‘So much will depend on you. I trust you realise what this means.’
    ‘I do,’ replied Eleanor.
    ‘You will have me to guide you.’
    She nodded.
    ‘I shall do that whatever the opposition,’ he went on.
    ‘You expect opposition?’
    ‘There is always opposition in Courts. So much depends on the King.’
    Now the castle was taking on definite shape. The great keep which had been built by the bridegroom’s grandfather dominating the great pile of stones. It was impossible not to be impressed by all that magnificence of Kentish rag mingled with that Caen stone which had been brought from Normandy by the same Henry II. As she gazed at those great buttresses rising into turrets, Eleanor could not help but be moved, for they symbolised the might of England. They had arrived.

    Henry had decided that he would greet his bride at Canterbury where the Archbishop would be waiting to perform the marriage ceremony. He was beside himself with excitement at the prospect of at last having her with him. So much had gone wrong with his previous attempts that he had begun to believe fate had decided against his marrying; but on this occasion his bride was actually in England and in a short time would be with him.
    Everyone was delighted. It had been a source of some dismay that he having reached the age of twenty-eight should not have married so far. He should have had a nursery full of sons by now. Never mind. It was going to happen at last. His bride was very young, only fourteen years of age; but that was not too young for a royal bride. It was a great pleasure – and a change to do something that gratified both himself and the people at the same time.
    Yes, it was indeed true that everyone was delighted that he was to marry. Hubert de Burgh thought it time and that since the eldest daughter of the Count of Provence was the wife of the King of France it was no bad thing that his second daughter should be Queen of England. Even old Edmund, Archbishop of Canterbury, believed that the marriage was necessary for state reasons. As for Henry’s brother Richard, he regarded himself as the one who had brought it about (which indeed he had been) so therefore he, seeing himself as a policy maker, was all in favour of it.
    There was no dissenting factor in whichever direction he looked and with a light heart Henry set out to greet his bride.
    She rode on a white palfrey and her hair fell about her shoulders; on her head was a diadem to proclaim her royalty. She was dressed in blue with touches of gold thread, and her long semicircular cloak was fastened by jewelled buckles held together by a golden chain. Henry looked at her and his heart leaped with exultation. Eleanor la Belle was aptly named.
    He