Виктория Холт: The Queen from Provence

As Raymond Berenger, Count of Provence, and his friend, confidant and chief adviser, Romeo, Lord of Villeneuve, strolled together in the lush green gardens surrounding the castle of Les Baux, they talked of the future.

Raymond Berenger had had a happy life; his beautiful wife was as talented as he was himself. Between them they had made their court one of the most interesting intellectually in the whole of France, and as a result poets, troubadours and artists made their way to Provence, sure of a welcome and appreciation. It was indeed a pleasant life and the Count and Countess wished it might go on for ever. They were not foolish enough to think it could. But no earthly paradise could be completely perfect and though, during their married life, they had prayed fervently for a son who would govern Provence beside his father for many years and afterwards preserve that ambience of gracious ease and luxurious comfort, they had produced only daughters.

Even this they could not entirely regret, for dearly did they love their children and admitted that they would not have changed one of their girls for the son for whom they had petitioned so earnestly. Where in the world, Raymond Berenger asked his Countess, could be found girls who were as beautiful and talented as theirs? And the answer was: Nowhere.

These girls were growing up now and the decisions which would have to be made were the subjects of the conversation between the Count and Romeo de Villeneuve.

Marguerite, the eldest of the family, was nearly thirteen years old. A child, said the Countess, but she knew that outside her family, Marguerite would be considered marriageable. The search for a suitable husband could not be put off much longer; moreover there were the others to consider.

‘I confess, Romeo,’ the Count was saying, ‘these matters give me cause for the greatest concern.’

‘I am sure we shall find a solution as we have to so many of our problems,’ replied Romeo.

‘Many times have I put my trust in you, Romeo,’ sighed the Count, ‘and never found it misplaced. But how shall we find husbands for the daughters of an impoverished Count when they have little to offer but their grace, charm and beauty?’

‘And their talents, my lord. Do not let us forget they possess these in greater abundance than most girls whose fathers are looking for husbands for them.’

‘You seek to cheer me. I love my girls. They are beautiful and clever. But gold, silver and rich lands are considered to be more desirable than charm and education.’

‘Provence is not so insignificant that the Kings of France and England would not wish to have us as their friend.’

‘The Kings of France and England!’ cried the Count. ‘You must be jesting!’

‘Why so, my lord? The Kings of France and England are young men, both seeking brides.’

‘You cannot really be suggesting that one of my girls could become the consort of one of these Kings!’

‘Nay, my lord, not one but two.’

The Count was aghast. ‘It is a wild dream.’

‘It would indeed be a great achievement if either of these projects came to pass, and, to start with, I do not see why a marriage between France and Provence should not be considered worthy of consideration in Paris.’

‘How so, my dear Romeo?’

‘We could bring a certain security to France. Oh, I know we are impoverished. We cannot offer a great dowry, but we have something which Blanche and her son Louis might consider worth having. Beaucaire and Carcassonne have recently come into their possession. On the other side of the Rhône is the Holy Roman Empire and we have lands there which we could bring to France. In view of their strategic position I think they could be called quite valuable, for if they were under the control of the King of France his position would be strengthened against the Holy Roman Empire.’

‘That’s true enough. But would such a matter impress the French?’

‘I am determined that they shall be impressed by it. I have not been idle. I have sent some of our songsters to the Court of France, and what do you think has been the burden of their song?’

‘Not the rich dowries of my daughters, I’ll swear.’

‘Nay. But their beauty and charm – unsurpassed in France.’

‘My dear friend, I doubt not your loyalty to this house, but I think your friendship for it has carried you far away into the realms of fancy. The Queen of France will select the wife for her son with the greatest care, and how many do you think are competing for that honour?’

‘Queen Blanche is a wise woman. She will consider carefully what she has been told.’

The Count, laughing, shook his head, and said he would go into the castle and tell the Countess what Romeo was suggesting. She would doubtless laugh with her husband while at the same time she would agree with regard to the loyalty and good intentions of the lord of Villeneuve.

It was that hour when the four daughters of the Count and Countess of Provence were together in their schoolrooms. Thirteen-year-old Marguerite, the eldest, stitched at her tapestry. Eleanor, two years younger, sat writing at the table; Eleanor was constantly writing verses which she set to music, and she was now engaged on a long narrative poem, which her tutors said was an astonishing achievement for a girl of her age. Eight-year-old Sanchia was stitching with her eldest sister and Beatrice, the youngest, who was barely six, was looking over Eleanor’s shoulder as she wrote.

All the girls had been endowed with their mother’s good looks; and because they had been brought up in a fashion unusual with families of their rank, theirs had been a happy childhood. They saw their mother each day and their father also when his commitments allowed him to remain in his home. Because they were girls it had not been necessary for them to go away to be brought up in some nobleman’s household where they must learn to face a hard and cruel world. The domestic life of the Count and Countess of Provence had in many ways been simple while at the same time all the girls were given the kind of education which was rarely bestowed on members of their sex. Although they were skilled in feminine arts – such as needlework, singing, dancing – they had been brought up to think, to express themselves lucidly, to have some knowledge of the events of the day and above all to love music and literature. The Countess Beatrice, their mother, the daughter of the Count of Savoy, was a musician and poet and she saw no reason to neglect these skills. She imbued her daughters with an appreciation of the matters nearest her heart and as a result the girls were not only beautiful but accomplished and on the way to becoming very well educated.

The cleverest of the four was undoubtedly Eleanor. Marguerite was skilled at needlework and a good musician, but in everything except needlework Eleanor was superior. It was Eleanor whose poems were put to music and sung throughout the court, and Eleanor whom their tutors praised constantly.

Because of her talents she was inclined to a certain arrogance which her parents noticed and deplored but thought was understandable. ‘She will grow out of it,’ said the Count in his easy-going way. He liked everything to run smoothly and this attitude was suited to the comfortable tenor of life in Provence where brilliantly coloured flowers and rich green shrubs flourished without much attention and where the people loved to lie in the sun and listen to the strumming of the lute. There was poetry in the air in Provence; and the fact that Eleanor was a poetess already meant that she was a true daughter of her native land.