A Memory of Love (36 page)

E
leanor of Provence, queen of England, had lived five and a half decades. She was still a beautiful woman, with silver-streaked auburn hair and amber eyes that missed little. In her youth she, and her equally comely sisters, had been considered the most beautiful women in Europe. Her eldest sister, Margaret, had married King Louis IX of France. Her younger sister, Sanchia, was married to her brother-in-law, Richard of Cornwall, king of the Romans. Her youngest sister, Beatrice, was the wife of Charles of Anjou, the king of Naples and Sicily. Eleanor's mother, Beatrice of Savoy, and her father, Raymond Berenger V, count of Provence, had reigned over a brilliant court renowned for its patronage of the troubadours. The count himself was one of the last of the great Provençal poets.

At the age of nineteen Eleanor had traveled to her sis-ter's court in France, and from there across a winter sea to marry King Henry III of England. From the moment the couple laid eyes upon one another, it had been a love match. The queen had borne her husband six sons and three daughters. Two sons and two daughters had reached adulthood. While there were some who resented her Savoyard kinsmen—who, along with the king's French half brothers, had come to England to seek their fortunes—the queen's chief care was for her family. Now her husband was slowly dying. She nursed him devotedly. Their kingdom was prosperous and secure. England was not involved in any wars. Their life was peaceful. And then there came from that rebellious Welsh prince a letter that the queen knew was going to cause difficulties.

She sat with the king in their dayroom. About them her ladies sat tending to various small tasks, their sewing and mending, the repair of a small tapestry. The queen's eyes scanned the letter, and she swore ever so softly beneath her breath. This caught the attention of her husband who lay upon his daybed, resting from the exertions of his morning bowel movement.

“What is it?” the king asked his wife weakly.

“Do you remember last year when Edward de Beaulie returned home from Acre? His wife was alleged to have died, and he requested that she be declared dead so he might remarry?”

The king nodded.

“Well, she isn't dead. The prince of the Welsh's daughter appeared home this spring to find her husband no longer her husband, and his new wife full with a child. ap Gruffydd is outraged that his daughter has been so insulted. The prince requests justice for his child, but says she will not have de Beaulie back now, for she would not put the stain of bastardy upon his newborn son. Now isn't this a nice kettle of fish, Henry? Rhonwyn uerch Llywelyn will come to Westminster at Lammastide for your justice. What are we to do?”

“What does ap Gruffydd want?” the king asked cannily.

“His daughter's dower back from de Beaulie. A new husband for the girl. And a penalty levied upon de Beaulie for the affront. The Welsh prince suggests that some of Haven Castle's lands be given to his daughter to recompense her for the insult,” the queen replied.

“It seems fair,” the king said slowly.

“There is more to this than meets the eye, Henry,” the queen told him astutely. “For one thing, what happened to the lady rhonwyn that she became separated from her husband and our son's forces? We must send to Haven. Edward de Beaulie should be allowed to speak for himself in this matter. Even if he believed his wife dead, he did remarry again in a rather hasty manner.”

“Agreed,” the king said.

“According to the Welsh prince, his daughter was declared dead. That oversight can be rectified immediately, but the rest will have to wait until we can hear a fuller story from both sides in this dispute.”

Again the king nodded his agreement. His wife took a cool cloth and wiped his forehead, which was beaded with perspiration. Henry grew weaker each day, and every small task he must perform was difficult for him now. She had recently heard from their son Edward. He had only narrowly escaped an assassination attempt in Acre, and he was discouraged. The crusade had literally fallen into disarray. Mounting an expedition to retake Jerusalem was proving impossible. He was, Edward wrote, planning to return home with his wife shortly, after Eleanor recovered from the rigors of her recent childbirth. The baby, a little girl who had already been baptized Joan, was strong and healthy, unlike the infant who had been born and died the year before. They would come via Sicily and Provence, visiting relatives along the way. The queen was relieved, for while she knew she could hold England for her son, once Henry died her life would have little meaning. She was of a mind to retire to the Benedictine convent in Amesbury for the remainder of her life.

“I will send off messages to both Edward de Beaulie at Haven Castle and to the lady Rhonwyn, who is with her aunt, the abbess of Mercy Abbey, in Wales,” the queen told her husband, and again he nodded his assent.

Edward de Beaulie was outraged to receive the royal summons to Westminster. “How dare the vixen complain to the king!” he said angrily.

“What did you expect?” his brother-in-law Rafe said. “While I am delighted that Katherine is your wife and the mother of your heir, you did marry her in some haste, cousin.”

“I do not recall hearing you complain about my haste at the time,” Edward replied dryly. “You could hardly wait for your sister to become the lady of Haven Castle.”

“Our families have always hoped for the union,” Rafe responded. “I was pleased that it was to be a reality at long last. You did not say how the lady Rhonwyn
died
, Edward. I did not press the issue because I believed her loss pained you or that possibly you had killed her yourself for her high spiritedness. Only the fact that the lady is generous has prevented my sister from being burdened with a terrible shame. What if Lady Rhonwyn demanded from the church that your marriage to Kate be declared null and void under the circumstances? Your son would then have been declared a bastard. A vindictive woman would have taken great delight in revenging herself on you for what you did.”

“She cannot appeal to the church under the circumstances of her adventures,” Edward said in assured tones. “Do you think the church would restore her to my side when she so merrily whored for another man?
An infidel?
When I expose her perfidy, she will be lucky they do not burn her at the stake for her adultery.”

Rafe de Beaulie looked closely at his cousin. “Do you love her then so much that you would destroy her, cousin?”

“I do not love her,” Edward said honestly.

“Do you love my sister?” Rafe probed.

“Aye, I do. Kate is the perfect wife for me. I want no other,” he said. “She is sweet natured and obedient to my will, as well as a good breeder. Look at our wee Neddie. What a fine lad he is.”

“If you are happy with Kate,” her brother replied, “then why does your anger burn so hot toward the lady Rhonwyn?”

“Because she betrayed me!” he said coldly. “Because she would destroy the happiness I now have.”

“She believes you betrayed her,” Rafe countered. “ 'Tis an interesting conundrum, Edward. I will go with you to Westminster in order that you do not cost my sister and her child too much by your ire.”

“I will tell the king the truth,”
de Beaulie said stonily.

“You must tell the king the entire truth,” the abbess counseled her niece. “It will not be easy, but it will save you from Edward's outrage. In the end it will all boil down to the fact that while you struggled to overcome great odds and return home to your husband, your husband hurried home and contracted another marriage.”

“You cannot believe that my judges will overlook the fact I spent over a year in the harem of the caliph of Cinnebar,” Rhonwyn replied in practical tones.

“Nay, they will not. They will declare great shock and indignation that a good Christian noblewoman, a prince's daughter, could have found herself in such a position and not ended it all in the name of our dear Lord Jesus,” the abbess said dryly. “But you did not have to return home, yet you did. That will be what confounds them, my child, and that will be what gains you redress from Edward de Beaulie. I will be by your side, speaking in your defense if necessary, Rhonwyn. Unless the archbishop of Canterbury himself speaks for de Beaulie, and as there is no profit in it, Boniface will not, we will win.”

“You are so damned worldly for an abbess,” Rhonwyn noted, and then she laughed. “Aunt, I should rather have you on my side than all of God's good angels!”

“The angels are in heaven, my child,” the abbess answered her.
“I am here.”

They departed for Westminster on a warm and hazy summer's day. The prince of the Welsh had sent a fully mounted and armed troop to escort his sister and his daughter into England. Oth and Dewi were by Rhon-wyn's side, as was Glynn ap Llywelyn, who would testify to his part in the affair. The trip had been carefully planned, and each night they sheltered at either a convent or a monastery. Their progress was slow but steady, and on the thirty-first of July they arrived in London, where the two women were welcomed at the convent of St. Mary's-in-the-Fields, near the palace of Westminster. The men were invited to make their encampment in a meadow outside the convent walls.

Rhonwyn and her aunt had, in the weeks they were together at Mercy Abbey, worked to sew a gown worthy of a prince's daughter. The gown, or cotte, fell gracefully to the floor. It had long tight sleeves. It was made of fine silk and was a spring green in color. Her over-robe, which was sleeveless, was fashioned from cloth-of-gold on darker green silk brocade. The gilt girdle, which sat just below Rhonwyn's narrow waist, was made of small rounds, decorated with a swirl of Celtic design.

Rhonwyn's hair had been parted in the center, two delicate plaits braided with cloth-of-gold ribbons and strands of tiny pearls and falling on either side of her face, with the main mass of her hair flowing behind her, amid strands of pearls. Atop her head a delicate filigreed circle held her sheer cloth-of-gold gauze veil. Her only jewelry was a brooch of emeralds set in Irish red gold. Her shoes did not show, but they followed the shape of her foot and were of gilded leather.

“You are magnificent,” her aunt said quietly as she looked over their handiwork. “You are every inch the prince of the Welsh's daughter, my child.”

“I have never had anything quite this fine,” Rhonwyn admitted.

“You are regal, but have not the look of a worldly woman,” said the abbess. “That is the effect we have been striving for, Rhonwyn. Some ladies of the court paint their faces and dye their hair. You are fresh looking. Even though you will admit to your indiscretions, your appearance is one of innocence. The church will condemn you, but they will find it impossible to believe you willingly betrayed your husband.” Gwynllian smiled, well pleased. “You must remember not to lose your temper with de Beaulie. Let him rant and rave. You will weep, and that will cause the hardest heart to soften toward you.”

“Is that not dishonest, aunt?” Rhonwyn said mischievously.

“This, child, is war. The object of a battle is to win it,” the abbess advised with a twinkle in her brown eyes. “That is what your father would do. Will you allow yourself to be beaten by these English? Do not let it ever be said that ap Gruffydd's daughter was not as brave as he.”

“I should far rather challenge Edward to trial by combat,” rhonwyn answered. “There I could absolutely beat him.”

“I am certain of it,” the abbess responded, “but it would certainly shock the king and give credence to de Beaulie's charges. Come, it is time for us to go now. Mother Superior Margaret Joseph and a half a dozen of her sisters will escort us to the palace. It is but a short walk.”

“I am to be surrounded by a bevy of nuns?” Rhonwyn laughed. “Oh, aunt, you are shameless.”

The abbess chuckled, but did not reply.

The king's hall in Westminster Palace was very beautiful. The floor was set with wide square tiles. The walls were painted in red, blue, and gold. The windows soared high, allowing in the light. Henry III had made the effort to personally appear at the hearing. He was a shell of the man he once was, but his white hair and beard were neat. His blue eyes looked interested, though he slumped pale upon his throne, his queen at his side. On his right, sitting on a row of benches, were the clergy. The de Beaulies and Rhonwyn's party sat on the left, carefully separated by several men-at-arms. The hearing, set for the hour immediately following the office of Tierce, began most promptly.

“Tell us your side of this dispute, Edward de Beaulie, lord of Haven Castle,” the king said in a stronger voice than his appearance would have represented.

“The woman given to me as a wife, Rhonwyn uerch Llywelyn, was never a true wife to me,” Edward began.

The abbess squeezed her niece's hand hard.

“She denied me my husbandly rights except on rare occasions. She preferred the company of soldiers and playing with arms to being a good chatelaine. At her insistence I allowed her to accompany me on crusade. At Carthage, where we were encamped, many, including myself, grew ill with fever and dysentery. It was during my illness that my wife raced off into battle, deserting me. Of course she was taken prisoner. I sought for her for some days, but found no trace at all of either her or my knight who had followed after her in a brave attempt at rescue. I finally traveled to Acre, but the illness that had lain me low in Carthage returned, never having really been cured. Prince Edward sent me home.

“I am not a young man, sire. I had no legitimate heirs of my body. When you chose me to husband the prince of the Welsh's daughter, I had no previous commitments, although my family had always hoped I would wed my cousin Katherine. Now believing myself widowed, I wed her. Within ten months of our marriage, Katherine, who is dutiful, gave me a son. Just before he was born, Rhonwyn uerch Llywelyn appeared at Haven as if nothing was amiss. She claimed to have been imprisoned within a harem and boasted of how another man had unleashed her passions as I never had. When she saw how it was, she threatened me and left Haven. I am outraged that she should demand redress from me.
For what?
'Tis she who should make amends to me for her desertion and her bold adultery.” Edward de Beaulie bowed to the royal couple and then the clergy before sitting back down again.