‘I see I shall have a very forceful wife.’

They were too moved to say much and they rode silently through the forest.

They came upon a chapel there and it was Eleanor who said they should alight, tether their horses and go inside to pray at the altar to thank God for His goodness to them and ask for His continued help.

‘We may need it,’ commented Simon.

So they went inside the chapel and at the altar they knelt together. And as Eleanor raised her eyes they came to rest on the crucifix and she was transported back to a time when she had knelt in a bedchamber side by side with Edmund the Archbishop of Canterbury.

She could not control the trembling which came over her. She had said on that occasion that she would take a vow of chastity. Oh, but she had spoken lightly. She had felt that that was what she had meant then, but she had not at the time met Simon.

It was not binding. It was nothing. She must not think of it.

They rose from their knees and as Simon took her arm to lead her from the chapel he said: ‘Why, you are trembling.’

She answered: ‘It was cold in the chapel.’

And that was all.


* * *

It was a cold January day when Eleanor stood beside her brother who gave her away, after commanding the priest to swear to secrecy, and she was married to Simon de Montfort.

She could not believe her happiness, but she wished all the same she could rid herself of that niggling fear which had come to her in the chapel.

Again and again she reminded herself that the words she had spoken to Edmund had not been seriously meant. He could not take them in the nature of a vow … or could he?

She thought of that stern aesthetic face. People who subjected themselves to great self-sacrifice could be very harsh on others.

It was foolish of her to allow her happiness to be spoiled when Henry had given his consent and had actually given her away. But then he did not know of that scene between herself and Edmund. And when Edmund did …

She would refuse to think of it.

As they came out of the chapel, Henry looked rather worried.

He had begun to believe that he might have acted rashly. He had been so anxious for his sister to be happy and it had given him a deep satisfaction that he could provide that happiness; but now that the ceremony was over, he was asking himself whether he had acted wisely.

He said sharply: ‘None must know. You must keep your secret for a while.’

Eleanor took his hand and kissed it fervently.

‘Dearest brother, most noble King, I shall never forget what you have done for me.’

That satisfied Henry. Until he began to be uneasy again.


* * *

As the weeks passed the cold was intense. The wind whistled through the castle rooms and even great wood fires could not keep the inhabitants warm.

Joan’s cough grew worse and when Alexander sent messages to Westminster to know why she did not return she was very depressed, but she made her preparations.

Eleanor spent a great deal of time with her. Joan was one who knew of her marriage. It was pleasant, as Eleanor told Simon, to be able to talk to someone; and Joan was so pleased that they were happy.

Poor Joan! If only she could have known this bliss. Of course Alexander was not like Simon. It amused Eleanor to contemplate that Joan’s would be said to be a good marriage, whereas hers … well, it was most unsuitable. Oh, but happy, thought Eleanor. How wonderful life was!

She sat talking with Joan in the cold room, Eleanor seated on a stool and Joan lying on a pallet covered by a fur rug because she could not get warm.

‘You cannot leave yet,’ said Eleanor. ‘You will have to wait until the weather is better.’

‘Alexander grows very impatient. I should have gone before the winter started.’

‘Nonsense. Why should you not visit your family?’

‘It has been a wonderful visit. It has made me so happy to see Henry and you contented in marriage.’

Though mine is to be kept secret for a while.’

‘You like that. Confess! Does it not give a zest to it all?’

‘It did not need it,’ replied Eleanor.

‘May you always be as happy as you are now, dear sister.’

‘I intend to be,’ replied Eleanor. ‘When we have our castles you will come and be with us often.’

‘I should like that.’

Joan began to cough and could not stop, and Eleanor was distressed and frightened. When one of these paroxysms seized her sister, Eleanor was afraid she would choke.

Joan lay back on her cushions. Eleanor saw the blood and shivered.

‘Dearest Joan, is there anything I can get for you?’

‘Sit by me,’ said Joan.

Eleanor sat until darkness fell. And she was thinking of poor Joan’s going far away to Lusignan to a husband she had never seen, loving him, and losing him.

Joan said suddenly: ‘Eleanor, are you there?’

‘Yes, sister. What can I get you?’

‘Bring Henry, will you?’

‘Henry!’

‘Please … I think he should be here.’

Eleanor went out. It was half an hour before she could find her brother and bring him to the bedchamber.

They came carrying lighted candles; and the sight of their sister lying on her cushions filled them with deep foreboding.

Henry knelt by the bed and took her hand.

‘Dear brother,’ said Joan.’ You know this is the end, do you not?’

‘Nay,’ declared Henry. ‘We shall keep you here. You shall not go back to Scotland. My doctors will cure you.’

Joan shook her head and said: ‘Eleanor … sister.’

‘I am here, Joan.’

She took her sister’s hand and held it.

‘God bless you both,’ she said. ‘Be happy.’

‘We shall all be happy,’ Henry assured her.

‘Help me up a little,’ said Joan; and Henry put his arm about her and held her thus.

‘I … am happy to be with you … here in England … I am glad … to have come home to die.’

Both Henry and Eleanor could not speak; they averted their eyes from their dying sister.

‘Henry, I should like to lie in Dorset … in the nunnery of Tarent …’

‘When the time comes so shall you,’ said Henry with a sob in his throat. ‘But it is far off, sister.’

She shook her head and smiled.

For some time there was silence; then Henry looked into her face and slowly released her.

‘She has gone,’ said Eleanor, and she put a hand over her eyes to hide the tears.


* * *

It was impossible to keep the marriage of Eleanor and Simon de Montfort secret for long.

When Richard of Cornwall heard of it – and that it had taken place with the consent of the King – he was furious.

He himself was growing more and more dissatisfied with his own marriage. Every time he saw Isabella she seemed to have aged a few years. He did not realise that she understood that he no longer cared for her and this gave her sleepless nights and days of anxiety.

Simon de Montfort was one of the most unpopular men in court circles. He was a foreigner and Henry had always had a tendency to favour foreigners, more so now that his wife was bringing in her friends and relations, and favours which should have gone to Englishmen were going to them.

The barons were beginning to gather round Richard. He had a fine son, young Henry, and the King was, so far, childless. Henry did not have the power to attract men to him. There was a certain weakness in him which they detected and which made him act sometimes most unjustly when at others he was over eager to please.

Richard came to the King and gave way to vociferous indignation.

He would like to know why Henry should have given his consent to a marriage which was clearly displeasing to many of the most important people in the country, who should have had some say in choosing a husband for the King’s sister.

‘It was unnecessary for others to choose,’ said Henry. ‘I gave permission. That was enough.’

‘Clearly it is not! It was important that you should have brought the matter to light. Instead you join in the secrecy.’

‘Know this, brother,’ cried Henry, ‘I shall do as I please.’

‘That’s what our father said.’

This was the kind of remark which had been flung at Henry ever since he came to the throne. It never failed to enrage him because it frightened him.

‘Have a care, Richard,’ warned Henry.

‘It is you who must have a care. There are rumblings of discontent throughout the kingdom.’

‘There always have been and always will. There are too many men who seek riches for themselves and will make trouble hoping to get them.’

‘It is no help to your cause to act like this. Our sister is a royal ward. You know what that means.’

Henry burst out: ‘I had my reasons.’

‘What reasons could there be for giving our sister to an … adventurer?’

‘I will tell you this. He had seduced our sister. I thought it better to set this matter to rights by giving her to him in marriage.’ Henry had turned pale. It was a lie. But if it were true – and who knew it might be? – none could blame him for getting them married.

‘The scoundrel!’ cried Richard, who had seduced many women in his not very long but somewhat full amatory life.

‘She wished for the marriage,’ continued Henry. ‘Let us hope he will make her a good husband.’

‘I shall seek out Simon de Montfort,’ cried Richard.

‘Pray do. Eleanor will not bless you. She is extremely happy with the fellow.’