Виктория Холт - The Queen from Provence

‘Is that why you are giving her a diamond?’ asked Eleanor.

‘I give it to her because it will become her. She has pretty hands.’

Eleanor looked at her own which were equally pretty. Why should Marguerite be especially selected? Was it because she was the eldest?

Thirteen! It was a great age and she was but eleven. Could it really be that the ambassador from France had come with some proposition for Marguerite?

Later it became clear that this was the case. Although they were both presented to Giles de Flagy it was on Marguerite that his eyes lingered.

Eleanor could not help feeling somewhat piqued, particularly when she was not even asked to read her latest poem.

Giles de Flagy rode away but the object of his visit and its success was soon made clear.

The Count and Countess came to the schoolroom where the girls were working. Eleanor knew what it meant because their expression betrayed their feelings. There was pride, elation, wonder which showed that they scarcely believed what was happening to them and at the same time there was sorrow and regret.

The girls all rose and curtsied.

The Count came forward and took Marguerite by the hand.

‘My dearest child,’ he said, ‘the greatest good fortune has come to you. You are to be the Queen of France.’

‘Does it mean Marguerite will go away?’ asked Beatrice, her face beginning to pucker.

Her mother drew the child to her and held her against her skirts.

‘You will understand what this means in time, my child,’ she said.

The Count went on. ‘I would never have believed this could happen. King Louis is a young man of great qualities; he is clever, kind and good, determined to rule his country well. And he has decided that he will marry our Marguerite. My child, you must never cease to thank Heaven for your good fortune.’

Sanchia was watching Eleanor for her cue. Beatrice was clearly miserable at the thought of her sister’s leaving them. Eleanor kept her eyes to the ground. This was the greatest honour which could befall them and it had come to Marguerite, not because she was more clever or more beautiful – she was neither – but simply because she was the eldest.

Marguerite herself was bewildered. She knew that she should be grateful. She was aware of the great honour done to her but at the same time it frightened her.

For thirteen years she had lived in the shelter of her parents’ love. Now she was to leave that to go to … she knew not what. To a great King who would be her husband. She looked at Eleanor, but Eleanor would not meet her gaze lest she betray the envy she was feeling.

It is only because she is older, was the thought which kept going round and round in her head.

‘You will be very happy, I know it,’ said the Countess. ‘Queen Blanche will be a mother to you and you will be under the protection of a great King. Now why are we looking so glum? We should all be rejoicing.’

‘I don’t want Marguerite to go away,’ said Beatrice.

‘No, my dear child, nor do any of us. But you see her husband will want her with him and he has first claim.’

‘Let him come here,’ suggested Beatrice smiling suddenly.

‘That could not be, baby. He has a kingdom to govern.’

‘We would help him.’

The Countess laughed and ruffled Beatrice’s hair. ‘We are going to have a great deal to do, Marguerite, I want you to come with me now. We must discuss your clothes and I shall have much to tell you.’

The Count said: ‘This is indeed a happy day for us. It is like a miracle. I should never have believed it possible.’

Eleanor raised her eyes and said: ‘I have written a poem.’

‘That is good,’ said her father.

‘May I read it to you now?’

‘Not now, my dear. Another time. With so much on our minds …’

‘Come, Marguerite,’ said the Countess.

The door shut on them and the three girls were alone.

Sanchia was watching Eleanor expectantly. Eleanor went to the table and took up the poem she had written and which she had so looked forward to reading to her parents. They were not interested now. All they could think about now was Marguerite’s wedding.

‘It is only because she is the eldest,’ she said. ‘If I had been, I should have been the one.’

Now Les Baux was given over to preparation. There was no other conversation but that of the coming marriage, whether in the great hall or in the rooms of the serving men and women. Les Baux was no longer the mere castle of the Count of Provence; it was the home of the future Queen of France. Marguerite, who had at first been apprehensive, was now radiant with expectation. The news she had of her bridegroom was that he was not only kindly and good but a man determined to do his duty and make France great.

Marguerite was passed from the hands of the dressmakers to her parents that she might be closeted with them and listen to advice that seemed interminable. When she considered what she must do and must not do, she told Eleanor, she got them hopelessly muddled so that it would have been better to have had no instruction at all.

Eleanor listened almost grudgingly. How she wished that all this fuss had been for her! If only she had been the eldest and was going to France, how excited she would be! Instead of which she would stay at Les Baux for several more years and then a husband would be found for her. Who would it be? Some Duke? Some Count? And she would have to pay homage to her sister for the rest of her life!

And had she been born the first she would have been the one.

It was bad enough to lose Marguerite whose company would be sadly missed, but that she should have this honour showered on her and be so much more important than the rest of them was even harder to take for someone of Eleanor’s temperament.

At first she remained aloof, but then her curiosity got the better of her and when Marguerite confessed that she was frightened and at times wished the whole thing could be forgotten, she scolded her and pointed out what great honour was being done to the family and that she should be rejoicing in her good fortune.

So the time passed and in due course the ambassadors of the King of France returned to Les Baux. They had come, they said, on the command of the King to take his bride to him without delay. So Marguerite was to leave with them, taking with her a few attendants and one of the minstrels from her father’s Court, and on the road she would be joined by the Bishop of Valence who would lead her to Sens where her bridegroom would be waiting for her.

She would be received by the Archbishop of Sens who would perform the ceremony and coronation, for Marguerite was to be crowned Queen of France at that same time as she was married to its King.

What excitement there was throughout Les Baux while the packhorses were laden with all the splendid garments which had been made for Marguerite. In her chamber the Countess was giving the last advice to her daughter, reminding her that she and the Count would be present at the wedding and would shortly be leaving in their daughter’s wake. Then a magnificently attired Marguerite, looking like a stranger with that aura of royalty already settling about her, was led out of the castle.

Eleanor forgot her jealousy in that moment as she embraced her sister, and Marguerite clung to her whispering that when she was Queen of France her dear sister who was closer to her than any of the others – even their dearest parents – should come to her Court and be her companion.

It was a comforting thought although Eleanor’s good sense told her that there was little likelihood of its coming to pass.

Then Marguerite rode off in the centre of the cavalcade, most carefully guarded for she had become very precious; and her father’s knights and those of her husband-to-be were ready to guard her with their lives. The golden lilies of France were fluttering ahead of her.