‘So should they be, my lady. Think what benefits have come to them through their visits to England.’

‘And more will yet, my brothers tell me. William almost gained the See of Winchester. Alas …’

‘Let us hope that it may go to Boniface,’ said Romeo.

‘Boniface!’ cried the Countess. ‘That would indeed be a blessing. Eleanor has done her duty by us. I would not be averse to a marriage between Sanchia and the Earl.’ She looked earnestly at her husband.

He replied: ‘I am in agreement, but I should like Sanchia to want this marriage of her own free will.’

‘He is so indulgent,’ said the Countess looking fondly at her husband.

‘Nay, I merely want to see my children happy.’

‘She seems happy enough in the Earl’s company,’ commented Romeo.

‘I know she is,’ said the Countess. ‘She conceived a romantic feeling for him when he came here after Eleanor had sent him her poem. She has never forgotten him.’

‘The King of England’s brother! They say he is one of the richest men in England. If anything should happen to Henry …’

‘There is Edward,’ said the Countess sharply, ‘our grandson.’

‘Yes, yes,’ replied Romeo. ‘But it is always wise to be prepared for anything that might happen.’

‘I think we are agreed,’ said the Count. ‘Let us wait for a few days and see if Richard speaks to us of Sanchia. The sun … the music … our little girl’s beautiful eyes … all these are having their effect on him. He is falling in love with her … and she with him. I want to see her happy.’

The Countess exchanged glances with Romeo; then she went to the Count and took his arm.

‘I think,’ she said, ‘that ere long we shall be losing our daughter.’

‘Soon,’ said Richard, ‘I shall have to leave Provence. Already I have delayed too long.’

‘My parents will be sad when you go,’ replied Sanchia.

‘And you, Sanchia, how will you feel?’

‘I shall be sad too.’

He reached out and took her hand.

‘Will you think of me while I am away fighting the Saracen?’

‘Every day.’

‘I would to God I need not go.’

‘I wish it too.’

‘I could spend my life here in these beautiful gardens … with you.’

It was not true of course. He was a man who must be moving forward all the time. He was ambitious and if sometimes he wearied of that ambition before he had time to carry it out, still he would go on making plans for his own advancement.

‘I love you, Sanchia,’ he said.

‘I know,’ she answered.

‘What shall we do about it?’

‘We could ask my parents.’

‘I am a free man now. Would you marry a man who has already had a wife?’

‘If I loved him.’

‘And do you love me, Sanchia?’

‘I have loved you ever since you came to thank Eleanor for her poem.’

‘You are a dear sweet child. We will marry when I return from the Holy War. You will be older then, sweet Sanchia, and ready for marriage.’

She clasped her hands together. ‘You will soon return from the Holy Land.’

‘Would I had not vowed to go. I would stay here with you and teach you how to love me.’

‘Such lessons would not be necessary since I do already.’

‘You are young and innocent. I am much older than you. I had a wife for nine years, and I have a son who is nearly six years old and very dear to me.’

‘He shall be dear to me, too.’

‘Oh, what a happy day when I came to the Court of Provence! And there will not be another happy day for me until I ride back and claim my bride.’

He rose and taking her hands kissed both of them.

‘I shall go to your father now and ask him for your hand.’

There was great rejoicing at Les Baux. The Count embraced his prospective son-in-law. He was delighted, he said; nothing could have pleased him more. Though naturally he wanted great marriages for his daughters, their happiness meant more to him than anything else, and if the two objects could be combined he was indeed content. He had noticed the rapture of Sanchia these last days and he knew that in addition to the joy she would find in her husband she would have the comfort of living near her sister Eleanor.

There was a great feast on the night before his departure – a bitter sweet occasion for Sanchia who was romantically in love and while she was so happy because of her betrothal she was sad because he had to leave her.

They sat side by side, he feeding her with the titbits from his platter which she felt too emotional to eat.

It was very moving when the minstrels sang of lovers.

The next morning Richard and his company left Les Baux and Sanchia settled down to wait for his return.

When Eleanor heard of her sister’s betrothal to Richard she was overcome with joy. Henry listened indulgently, delighted to see her pleasure.

‘You know what this means to me, Henry,’ she said. ‘I shall have my sister near me. We were always closer to each other than any of the others. And now she is to marry Richard! Is that not wonderful news?’

‘If it makes you happy it is indeed good news.’

‘I hope he will be a good husband to her.’

‘He was scarcely that to his first wife.’

‘I shall insist, Henry.’

‘Ah, my dearest, even you could not do that. Richard is over fond of women, I believe. Let us hope that this marriage will sober him.’

‘I could not hope that he will be as good a husband as his brother,’ said Eleanor.

‘My dearest, he could not have such a wonderful wife. Even your sister cannot compare with you.’

‘Sanchia is a beautiful girl but …’

‘Do not say it. I know. You were the beauty of the family and the clever one. No, I won’t ask you to confirm that. No confirmation is needed. I know it.’

‘When they are married we must have entertainment worthy of my sister and your brother.’

‘We shall.’

‘I want her to know what a wonderful country she is coming to. We must give her the greatest welcome we have ever given to anyone.’

‘Of course we shall. Is she not your sister?’

‘Oh, Henry. You are so good to me.’

‘And mean to be more so,’ he answered.

Eleanor chafed against the delay. She was longing to show Sanchia how fortunate she was.

There was news from abroad which gave Henry the opportunity to prove to Eleanor how much he wished to please her.

Edmund, the old Archbishop of Canterbury, who had been in conflict with the state for some time, and was a very uncomfortable man since he was recognised as a saint, had left England. He was very old; he was a disappointed man; he deeply deplored the trouble which he saw brewing in England and he thought he would like to end his days in peace. That end he was sure was not far off.

Two of his great predecessors, St Thomas a Becket and Stephen Langton, had both sought refuge in Pontigny when they found life in England intolerable and it was to Pontigny that Edmund decided to make his way. He rested there for a while and tried to come to terms with himself and see if there was a solution which would bring peace between the Church and the State.

He was in very poor health and it was not long before it became obvious that his end was near. He was visiting Soisy when it became obvious that he was in such a state that he should have taken to his bed, but being Edmund he refused to go. He had rarely slept in a bed, preferring to sleep fitfully fully dressed usually on his knees, or perhaps occasionally allowing himself the luxury of sitting.

Even now, when his life was ebbing away, he sat on his couch with his head resting on his hand.

And so he died. He was taken to Pontigny for burial and immediately miracles were said to take place at his tomb.