The Queen from Provence

Chapter XVII THE PASSING OF A DREAM

Margaret had returned to Scotland. It had been heart-rending to say farewell to her and the Queen was plunged into deeper melancholy when messengers came to her from Berkhamsted to tell her that her sister Sanchia was ill and asking for her.

Eleanor left with all speed and when, arriving at the castle she was taken immediately to her sister, she was shocked by the sight of her. Sanchia had not been in good health for some time but she had not expected to see her so obviously ill.

‘Thank God you sent for me,’ she said. ‘You should have done so before.’

‘I would have done so, but I knew you had much to occupy you. I would not have asked you to come now but I feared if I did not I might never see you again.’

‘What nonsense. You are soon going to get well. I shall see that you do.’

‘The Queen commands,’ said Sanchia with a smile.

‘’Tis so. What ails you?’

Sanchia touched her chest. ‘It is difficult to breathe … often.’

‘How long has this been going on?’

‘Oh some time … but it is worse now.’

‘Does Richard know?’

‘Oh, Richard has much with which to occupy him.’

‘His wife’s health should be the first of his concerns.’

‘We are not all as fortunate as you, Eleanor. Ah, how lucky you have always been. You had the perfect marriage, the perfect husband, the perfect children …’

‘Oh come. You were happy with Richard.’

‘Richard is not Henry, Eleanor. I don’t think he was meant to be a husband. Henry was, of course. That is why he is the perfect one.’

‘You sound bitter. Tell me, has Richard been unkind to you?’

‘No … not that. Neglectful, yes. He has had so much to occupy him. He is a King now.’

‘And has made you a Queen.’

‘Perhaps the title does not mean so much to me. I should have liked a husband who loved me as Henry loves you. You found that – and a crown as well.’

‘Oh, Henry is a good husband and I have the children. But you have your son, Sanchia.’

‘Yes, I have my son. He is a good boy … ten years old. But no one means as much to Richard as his son Henry. Edmund knows this. Richard is rarely with us you know.’

‘I’m sorry, Sanchia.’

‘How I dreamed … after you left. It was so romantic was it not? The poem and the way Richard came to Les Baux and what grew out of it! I used to imagine his coming back … and when he did it seemed like a dream come true. I expected too much.’

‘No one expects too much, for it is expecting and believing first that makes good things happen. Providing one does everything in one’s power to make them.’

‘You speak for yourself, Eleanor. You were always sure of yourself. You knew what you wanted; you determined to get it … and you did.’

‘Things do not always go smoothly, Sanchia.’

‘No, but you are always in command. And you made your husband love you and your children adore you. It is your right. I admit it. But the less successful of us should be forgiven for being a little envious now and then.’

‘You are talking nonsense, Sanchia. You have been very happy with Richard. You know you have.’

‘When we have been together sometimes … but I always knew that there were others. It wasn’t quite what I had dreamed at Les Baux. But never mind. It is the end now.’

‘The end! I won’t have you talk such nonsense. I shall stay here until you have recovered.’

In spite of her assurance the Queen was worried. Sanchia had grown very thin and there were violet shadows under the eyes. She was listless and when the paroxysms of coughing seized her, Eleanor was afraid.

She sat by her bed, and as the days passed she scarcely left her for it was clear that Sanchia was growing weaker.

They talked of Les Baux and their childhood; Eleanor sang some of the poems she had set to music and she knew that as Sanchia lay with her eyes closed she was back in the hall of the old castle and that the old days were more real to her than this bedchamber.

If only the weather were better, thought Eleanor. If only it was spring or summer, then I could take her into the gardens and it would indeed be like Les Baux. But it was dismal November; the days were short and dark, the mist penetrated the castle and hung about in patches. As the days grew darker, Sanchia became weaker and at length Eleanor was forced to admit that her sister was dying.

It was a terrible blow to her. Greatly she loved her family, and that this sister, younger than herself, would shortly leave the world filled with her melancholy.

She sat in the window-seat looking out across a landscape which reflected her mood. The branches of the trees denuded of their leaves stretched up to the greying sky. Across the field to the marshy land the reeds looked like red parchment and the woolly seed heads of the thistles were everywhere. There was no sign of spring and there was a deep sadness in Eleanor’s heart.

Each day Sanchia’s condition weakened. Eleanor stayed with her.

She was at her bedside when she died which she knew gave her sister great comfort.

She was buried with the usual ceremony at which her Uncle Boniface presided. Richard did not attend, although he was in England. He had business in London.

Eleanor was very anxious that all honour should be paid to her sister and that no expense should be spared in giving her a funeral worthy of a sister of the Queen of England.

When she intimated this to Henry he agreed with her. No expense must be spared and as it seemed unlikely that Richard would agree to such extravagance, Henry would pay for it.