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.’

There was a great deal of conferring for Edward was greatly feared. He was a formidable fighter – very different from his father and his grandfather – and Philip le Bel had no desire to anger him too much.

‘A younger girl!’ mused Philip. ‘Youth is adorable. Why should he not be pleased with you? You may not have Blanche’s high spirits but such can be uncomfortable at times. You are milder than Blanche and mild women can be very pleasant to live with. I would say old Edward is getting a very good bargain.’

Marguerite alone in her bedchamber was frightened. Then she consoled herself. He will never accept me, she assured herself. He will say he will not take me. Nothing will come of it.

But he did not say that. After expressing his fury at the perfidy of the King of France when it was suggested that the King’s infant daughter Isabella should be offered to Edward’s son, Edward agreed to take Marguerite.

‘He will be so disappointed in me,’ moaned Marguerite. ‘He will hate me for not being Blanche.’

Blanche was inclined to think this might well be, but she was quite content to depart for Austria instead of England, confident that wherever she went her exceptional beauty would be appreciated and bring her its dues.

Meanwhile Marguerite must prepare to leave for England for her future husband had said he would have no more delay.

So Blanche left for Austria and shortly afterwards Marguerite and her train made their way to the coast. It was a strange journey for one who had never been far from home. The sea was grey and rough and terrifying, and she was glad when land came into sight, although it brought her nearer to the bridegroom whom she was beginning to dread meeting.

At Dover many richly clad men and women were waiting for her and after spending a sleepless night in the castle there she set out for Canterbury where the King was waiting for her.

That moment was something she would never forget. He was so tall that he dwarfed other men. He was old … yes, very old, but she had been prepared for that. Although he had the bearing of a king and the impression he gave was one of stern strength, at the same time there was a kindliness about him which was reassuring.

‘So you have come at last,’ he said, smiling, taking her hand and kissing it.

He thought: How young she is! Little more than a child. Younger than my daughters … my wild Joanna, my beautiful Eleanor whom I shall never see again. Poor child. She looks frightened and no wonder. Sent overseas to an old man!

And she was pretty. Yes, she was very pretty. They had overlooked to tell him how pretty. They must have been bemused by the dazzling perfection of Blanche.

When he looked at this trembling child he was filled with tenderness.

He bent his head to hers. ‘All will be well,’ he said. ‘You must not be afraid.’

And from that moment she was ready to love him.


* * *

They were married at Canterbury by Archbishop Robert de Winchelsea. Marguerite was not yet seventeen and Edward was sixty. The people who had crowded into the streets and about the cathedral were enchanted by the fresh young bride, and so was Edward. He kept thinking of the wise words of his daughter Eleanor, and it was not difficult to persuade himself that the younger sister was perhaps after all the better choice.

She was so eager to please, so obviously apologetic because she was not Blanche, that he was determined to persuade her that he was not disappointed and in convincing her he convinced himself.

As for her, she admired his power and his regality; his great height would always be impressive and although his hair – once so fair – was now white, he emanated vitality. He was a king – a strong king – none could deny that. That he could be ruthless when dealing with his enemies was obvious, but the tenderness of his feelings for his family was in such strong contrast that he was lovable, and human in spite of his great power.

That tenderness was very much in evidence where his young wife was concerned. He had banished most of her fears and convinced her that far from being inadequate she pleased him greatly.

He was a gentle lover; he told her about the virtues of his first wife and how when she had died he had been desolate. They had been together for many years; she had accompanied him to the Holy Land; she had given him many children; and when she had died he had had crosses erected at every spot where her coffin rested on its way to London. He was going to love Marguerite as he had loved Eleanor and he knew that she would love him too.

‘I will,’ she told him earnestly.

‘My dear little Queen,’ he replied, ‘how glad I am that you came to me. Now we shall grow to know each other and our love for each other will grow likewise.’