There was a sombre atmosphere in the castle that night, yet a strange one. The family had risen in prestige through their new connection with the royal house of France, naturally, but how they missed Marguerite!

Then they were caught up in more bustling preparations for now the Count and Countess must leave for Sens to be the proud witnesses of their daughter’s wedding and coronation.

It was galling to have to remain behind, to be considered a child. Yet, thought Eleanor, I am the eldest now. The next time suitors come to the castle they will come for me.

But what marriage could there be to compare with that of the King of France!

‘When I marry,’ she told Sanchia, ‘my marriage must be every bit as grand as that of Marguerite.’

‘Then you must have a King, sister,’ said Sanchia.

‘I know. Nothing less will I take.’

‘What King will it be?’

Eleanor was thoughtful. ‘There is a King of England,’ she said. ‘I suppose he will be the one.’

In due course their parents returned and there was great rejoicing in the castle that night. Everything was even more satisfactory than they had dared hope.

They told the children how happy their sister was. Her bridegroom had fallen in love with her on sight and she with him.

‘And small wonder,’ said the Countess. ‘The King of France is the most handsome man in his kingdom. His hair is so fair that it shines like a golden halo in the sunshine. His eyes are blue and his skin so delicately coloured that men marvel at him. But what pleased us most is his obvious goodness. They say France is a happy country to have such a King.’

‘And a Queen,’ put in the Count smiling.

‘I wish you could have seen her at her coronation,’ went on the Countess.

‘I wish it too,’ said Eleanor.

‘Her mantle was lined with vair, her gown of blue velvet trimmed with sable and ermine,’ continued the Countess. ‘I have never seen Marguerite look as beautiful as she did at her coronation. The people in the streets cheered and cheered. The King was so happy and before the crowd he took her hand and kissed it tenderly to show them all how pleased he was with his bride and he was of course telling them so they must be too. Your father will tell you how I could not stop my tears as I watched them.’

The Count was nodding happily.

‘Her golden crown – given her by the King – cost fifty-eight livres. He has showered gifts on her. Beautiful furs and golden ornaments. Was not her diadem beautiful?’ demanded the Countess and the Count assured them that it was indeed.

‘There was a gold cup made for them and we saw them drink from it at the banquet. He held it to her first and then put his lips where hers had been. It was most touching. Oh, this has been a happy year.’

Eleanor listened.

Oh fortunate Marguerite! She was more determined than ever that no one less than a king would do for her.

The marriage had changed the family. Marguerite, though absent, was its most important member. She was the subject of constant comment and accounts of her life as the Queen of France became a daily recital.

It was good, Eleanor knew, that they should have become so important. There were more callers at the castle now, and there had been one never-to-be-forgotten time when the King himself had visited them with Marguerite. The King was certainly an ideal bridegroom. All the praises Eleanor had heard of him had not been exaggerated as far as she could see. He was undeniably handsome; he had delicate but beautifully chiselled features; his complexion was so fresh and his skin so clear that had he been a woman it would have seemed he had painted it so, but this was seen to be pure natural freshness. He had blond hair which was abundant and glossy; and he and Marguerite made such a handsome pair that for their looks alone they delighted the people who came out of their houses to cheer them as they passed by. And what delighted the Count and Countess most was the obvious evidence that this love between the royal pair was no myth. Louis, it was said, had become more serious since his marriage; he was determined to be a good husband and a good king. As for Marguerite she was in such a state of bliss that she no longer seemed like their sister. Eleanor was filled with an even greater determination to do as well for herself as her sister had done. But how could she?

The King of France had brothers but Eleanor had no great desire to be the bride of a younger son; if she married one of the King’s brothers – and it seemed very likely that in a year or so this proposition might be considered – she would always be subservient to her sister. Not that Marguerite would ever stress the fact that she was the superior. That was unimportant. She would be.

A year had passed and Eleanor was getting nearer and nearer to the day when a husband would be found for her and she was restive.

There was only one King that she knew of who, by marrying her, could give her equal standing with her sister and that was the King of England. He remained unmarried although it seemed unlikely that he would be so for long. He was much older than Marguerite’s husband being twenty-seven years old – and wives were usually found for kings long before they reached that age.

She determined to find out all she could about the King of England and the most likely member of her father’s Court to supply the information would naturally be Romeo de Villeneuve.

She made opportunities to talk to him and he was nothing loath. He was very proud of having played a part in arranging Marguerite’s marriage; and she knew that he would like to do equally well for her; so he was a good ally. She had heard him say that the brilliant marriage of the eldest sister would pave the way for the others. There were many who would hesitate to take the daughter of the Count of Provence, but few would not consider marriage with the sister of the Queen of France a good one.

Eleanor pinned her hopes on Romeo.

She had learned a great deal about the English King. He had been on the throne nearly twenty years, for his father had died when he was nine years old. England had been occupied by the father of the present King of France who had been invited there because the barons had so loathed Henry’s father King John, that they had thought a foreign ruler would be better than he was. When John died Henry had been hastily crowned with his mother’s throat collar, the crown jewels having recently been lost in the Wash when King John’s army was crossing that stretch of water.

So he had been King when he was younger than she was. He had had good advisers – always essential, said Romeo with a twinkle in his eye and so calling attention to his own worthiness, which she would be the last to deny. Because of these advisers, the French had gone back to France and Henry continued to reign in peace – entirely due to these strong men whose advice he took.

‘What sort of man is the King, Romeo?’ she asked. ‘Is he like the King of France?’

‘I doubt anyone is like the King of France, but Henry is a great King and if he is wise could be more powerful than Louis.’

That made her eyes sparkle. That was what she wanted. Henry to be more powerful than Louis – that was if she married him.

But what wild dream was this. There had been no emissaries from England asking for her hand. How infuriating that it was the man who must ask for his bride and not the bride for the groom!

But her questions about England had set Romeo’s mind working. She knew that. And he was thinking, as she was, what an admirable state of affairs would be brought about if while one of the Count of Provence’s daughters was the Queen of France, the other was the Queen of England.