The Hammer of the Scots Read online

  The Queen was a little sad, following his thoughts.

  ‘I shall pray for a boy, Edward,’ she said.

  He softened. ‘My dearest, if it is not then we shall have our boy later. We have our Alfonso. When he comes to the throne we shall have to change his name. You know what the English are. They would think he was not English enough if he had a Spanish name. What think you of Edward, eh? Edward the Second.’

  She frowned. ‘Please, Edward, do not speak of that day.’

  ‘Ah, you would be sorry to see me replaced.’

  ‘Please!’

  ‘I am sorry, little Queen. I am not going to die. See how strong I am.’ He stood before her in all his glory, his long legs astride – the most handsome king the country had ever known. King Stephen had been a good-looking man but what a weak one. Strength and handsome looks and stern, righteous character, that was what England needed and that was what she had. But she also needed an heir. There must always be an heir. For life could only serve a certain span and no kings however great live for ever. Nor did they know in these days of continual conflict when their last moment might come.

  The Queen must have another boy.

  Edward changed the subject. ‘I had come to speak to you about the prisoners. Now we have them both – brother and sister.’

  ‘You will keep them together.’

  ‘Indeed I shall not. How can I know what Almeric de Montfort will plot? Remember who he is, who his father was. Simon de Montfort! That is a name which must have been graven on my father’s heart. With my grandfather, King John, it was Magna Carta, with my father, King Henry, it was Simon de Montfort.’

  ‘And with you, my King, what will it be?’

  ‘I intend none. I shall be in command I hope and make England a stronger country than she was when I came to the throne. No charters, no reformers … that is what I shall aim for. That is why I shall be very careful with Almeric de Montfort. I have given orders that he shall be taken to Corfe Castle and there he shall remain … my prisoner. He shall live comfortably but I must make sure that he is not allowed his freedom.’

  ‘And his sister?’

  ‘I am having her brought to you. You will know how to look after her.’

  The Queen smiled. ‘I shall try to console her,’ she said.

  ‘Never forgetting that she is the daughter of my father’s great enemy and strives to be the wife of one of mine.’

  ‘I shall remember that and also that she is the daughter of your aunt. She is royal and must be treated as such.’

  ‘I know you will do what is best,’ said the King.

  ‘I shall always do what I think to be best … for you!’ she added.

  He smiled, knowing she spoke the truth.

  Eleanor de Montfort arrived at Windsor in a state of hopelessness. Ever since she had realised that the ship in which she was sailing had been taken by her cousin Edward’s subjects she believed that all hope of her marriage was doomed. She was in her twenty-fourth year and but for the fact that her family were in exile she would have been married eight or nine years ago. It had always been Llewellyn for her. She and the Welsh prince had fallen in love on first sight and she remembered still the ecstasy which they had shared when they knew they were to be betrothed. She had often heard of her mother’s stormy passage to marriage, how she and her father had married in secret and how they had to fly from the country when the King’s wrath was turned against them. That was romantic and exciting but so much could have gone wrong; and she had been so glad that her parents were in favour of this marriage she wanted.

  But how quickly life could change and when it was all set fair like a ship at sea a cruel wind could arise and the ship which had been sailing calmly onwards could be swept off its course and sometimes dashed to pieces on the wicked rocks.

  So it had seemed with her. All those years ago she was to have been married and events had turned against her. And now when she really believed she was on her way to happiness once more she was frustrated.

  And what would Edward do to her when she was handed over to him like a slave? She had heard that he was strong and ruthless. She knew that her brother Guy hated him. So did Almeric. Guy and Simon had murdered Henry of Cornwall. They would have liked to murder Edward.

  Edward would know this. She had heard that when news had been brought to him of Henry of Cornwall’s murder, he had been stricken with rage and grief and had vowed vengeance. She knew that only recently when he had become King, before he went to England to claim his crown, he had called on the Pope to ask for retribution for the murder of his cousin of Cornwall. Edward hated her family, so what could she and Almeric expect from him?

  She had been terrified when they had taken Almeric from her. She had clung to him and he had whispered to her: ‘Don’t break down. Remember you are of royal blood and best of all a de Montfort. Do not let them have the satisfaction of gloating over your grief.’

  But she had been treated with respect as though she, the King’s cousin, were paying a visit to him. Yet he was a ruthless man and she knew that he would remember how her father had once succeeded in taking his father from the throne, even if only for a brief period.

  And so they arrived at Windsor.

  The Queen, she heard, had given orders that she was to be taken to her.

  The Queen was in the nurseries. The Demoiselle saw a heavily pregnant woman with a gentle smile, by no means strikingly handsome but pleasant looking.

  The Demoiselle approached and sank to her knees.

  A hand touched her shoulder. ‘Rise, cousin,’ said the Queen. ‘The King told me you were coming.’ Kind eyes were studying her face, eyes which clearly showed the sympathy the Queen was feeling for the poor prisoner who had been snatched from her betrothed.

  ‘The King has put you in my charge,’ she said. ‘We are cousins and I hope we shall be friends.’

  The Demoiselle, who so far had held her head high and implied, she hoped, that they could do with her what they wished and she would not beg for their mercy, now felt her eyes filling with tears. Her lips quivered and the Queen said, ‘Come and sit with me, cousin. As you see I am not far from my time. I want you to meet my son and daughter.’

  ‘My lady,’ said the Demoiselle, ‘I know I am your prisoner.’

  ‘I like not that word,’ said the Queen. ‘I am going to make you forget it during your stay with us. Now, cousin, let us sit down and talk.’

  The Demoiselle awoke each morning to a sense of desolation. She longed to know what was happening in Wales and how Llewellyn had received the news of her capture. She found the Queen sympathetic. Like everyone else she drew comfort from that warm and kindly personality. The Queen would sit at her tapestry, for she loved to work on it. She it was who had started the fashion for hanging tapestries on walls and they certainly gave warmth and colour to an apartment. The Queen was growing larger every week and her time would soon come. She did not speak of her coming confinement in the Demoiselle’s presence for she feared it might bring home to the poor girl that she was being denied the sort of comfort which she herself enjoyed.

  The Queen Mother was less tactful. She made it clear that she did not approve of the Demoiselle’s being treated as an honoured member of the family. She had mentioned this to the Queen, who made one of her rare stands against her mother-in-law as she would occasionally when she thought some matter of kindness or sympathy to a bereaved person was involved.

  ‘My lady,’ said the Queen, ‘the Demoiselle is Edward’s cousin. You are her aunt by marriage. She is therefore a member of our family.’

  The Queen Mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘She is the daughter of the greatest enemy my husband ever had.’

  ‘She is also the daughter of his sister.’

  ‘If you could only know what we suffered through Simon de Montfort you would understand. It was her brothers who murdered dear Henry of Cornwall … Edward’s cousin and greatest friend.’

  ‘But she was not responsible.’

/>   ‘I cannot endure to look at her.’

  The Queen could only shake her head sadly. If the Queen Mother could not endure the sight of the Demoiselle then she must stay away from where the girl was.

  The Queen Mother raged. How different from the days when Henry was alive. Then the Demoiselle would have been sent away from Court. Nothing would have been allowed to offend Henry’s beloved Queen.

  The Queen was sorry that she had to disappoint her mother-in-law but she felt at this stage that the poor little Demoiselle was in greater need than that domineering lady who could, alas, only see life as it affected herself.

  The Queen Mother consoled herself by going to the schoolroom and spending a little time with her dear granddaughter – such an attractive girl – and darling Alfonso whom she loved, although he gave her such qualms of anxiety.

  She was, however, not going to allow the matter to rest, and she thought that it would be better for the Queen if she realised that her soft attitude towards the family’s enemies was not a good one and that she would be well advised at times to forget her ever-ready sympathy and listen to sound common sense.

  She waylaid Edward. He was not very easy to confront these days. He was very concerned with the Welsh matter. Llewellyn was incensed of course to have lost his intended bride and was out to make trouble. Edward had sent up a force in preparation, but he was very disturbed and it rankled with him that he could not be with his armies there, because affairs kept him for the time in London.

  ‘My dear son,’ she said, ‘do you think the Queen is at ease?’

  Edward looked startled. ‘She is well, is she not?’ he asked anxiously.

  She had aroused him from his Welsh concerns. He really cared about his wife. Such a meek woman! She would have thought he would hardly be aware of her except as a bearer of his children, but she supposed he, being of an overbearing nature, was glad to have a mild creature who could say nothing but yes, yes, yes. Oh for the spirited old days when her word had been law! Henry had had such good sense. He always grasped her point of view immediately.

  ‘Oh, the child is well enough I doubt not. I pray it will be a healthy boy. But perhaps she is a little uneasy about our … prisoner, which is natural. When you think of what the creature’s father did to yours …’

  Edward’s brow cleared. ‘Oh, the Demoiselle. The Queen is not concerned about her. She tells me she is a charming girl and she grows fonder of her every week.’

  ‘I have no doubt this Demoiselle has inherited a little of her father’s cunning. One as simple as the Queen …’ Edward frowned and she added quickly, ‘… and as tender-hearted … would see no wrong in anyone … not until it was brought home to her. Edward, the girl should be put into confinement. Why not send her to Corfe? Her brother is there …’

  ‘Dear Mother, this girl has done no wrong. She was sent for by Llewellyn and I have had the good fortune to intercept her. I have no quarrel with her. It is Llewellyn who is my enemy.’

  ‘And not the girl who would be his wife. Edward, surely you cannot mean that you do not see …’

  ‘I say what I mean,’ said Edward sternly, very much the King. More than six feet of splendid manhood looking down at her made her not so much quail as decide to change her tactics. In a way she was proud of him, as in a way he loved and admired her. But if it was a battle for power there was no doubt who was going to win. He had everything on his side now. He was the King and she knew him well enough to realise that the Demoiselle’s chances of remaining at the palace in the company of the Queen were now double those of what they would have been had she not interfered.

  She sighed. ‘Well, perhaps one day you will change your mind when …’

  He looked at her and that lid which fell over his eyes slightly and reminded her poignantly of his father could have added a sternness to his face but his mouth was tender.

  ‘If I have to change my mind, dear lady, because I am proved wrong, I should be the first to admit it.’

  He was strong. If only she could have guided him as she had Henry she would have been greatly reconciled to her life.

  She wanted to test his love for her.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘I fancy my days of usefulness are over. Perhaps I should do what ladies of my age so often do … go into a convent.’

  ‘You would not like that I am sure.’

  ‘Would you like it, Edward?’

  ‘Dear lady, you know how I and Eleanor like to have you here. You know how the children adore you. How could we want you to shut yourself away? But if it is your wish …’

  ‘Well, I will tell you this,’ she said. ‘I have considered taking the veil and have been to Amesbury to look at the place.’

  The King smiled. He could picture his mother entering the convent, becoming the abbess and setting up her rule there. ‘And you have decided against it?’

  ‘While they want to take my wealth, yes. I have no fancy to give up my possessions to a convent.’

  ‘Nay. You will have to get them to rescind that rule.’

  ‘Indeed I should before I entered such a place.’

  ‘In the meantime you will continue to bless us with your company?’

  ‘For as long as my health is good.’

  She saw the little lights of alarm in his eyes. She had never been one to complain about her health. She had rather thought that people who professed bad health were in some way to blame for such feebleness.

  Edward suddenly thought of his childhood when she had been the most important person in his life. She had been love, security … everything to him. He would never forget. He loved her deeply and nothing could change that love, and even though he would not brook her interference he could not love her any less for interfering any more than she could love him less for refusing to take her advice.

  She had suffered cruelly lately. The death of her two beloved daughters had been a great shock to her. She could be hurt most through her loved ones and whatever her faults she had been the most devoted of wives and mothers.

  He was at her side, taking her face in his hands, looking at her anxiously. Joy flooded her heart. Real concern. The Welsh forgotten, the Demoiselle of no importance. Even the Queen’s imminent confinement relegated to second place. There was nothing but fear for his mother.

  ‘My mother,’ he said quietly, ‘is there something you have to tell me? If you are ill … if you are keeping something back …’

  ‘My dear, dear son, I am getting old, that is all. Life has been cruel to me of late. Your father’s death killed half of me … and now God has taken my daughters. Two of them, Edward. How could He! What have I done to deserve that? But I have my sons … my most beloved King. If my old physician William were here I would see him. But no other … No, it is nothing … I am just an old woman who has suffered too much the pain of loss.’

  ‘Mother, I am going to send for William.’

  ‘Nay, son. He is in Provence I believe. It is too far. Let us forget this. I should never have mentioned it.’

  ‘I am sending without delay for the physician. He will be here just as soon as it is possible for him to be.’

  ‘Edward, my son, you have other matters with which to concern yourself.’

  ‘What could be of greater moment than my mother’s health?’

  Sweet words. Not entirely true but sweet nevertheless.

  And he was true to them. It was not long before the Queen Mother’s physician arrived from Provence.

  September had come and the birth of the Queen’s child was imminent.

  There was a hush over the palace. Everyone was expectant. It should be a boy. It must be a boy. The Prince Alfonso was a bright boy, but he had that all-too-familiar air of delicacy which had been John’s and Henry’s. A great deal of care was taken of him and the physicians said that if he could survive the first seven years of his childhood he could grow to a healthy man. They recalled his father’s infancy. It was difficult to believe now that Edward had ever been a sickly chi
ld. Alfonso was only two. It would be a great comfort if a really healthy boy were born.

  The Queen was a little sad, wondering if some fault lay in her. It seemed strange. She had had six children – this one would be the seventh. Three of them only lived. Perhaps one should not stress too much the little girl who had been born at Acre. The circumstances of her birth were against her. Joanna had lived and thrived though, and Eleanor was a fine healthy child. It was the boys whom it was so difficult to rear. Would she ever be able to forget little John and Henry? Never! Because she blamed herself for leaving them. And now Alfonso was not as strong as he should be. She had moved them from the Tower and Westminster to Windsor which she believed to be so much more healthy. But she had to admit that Alfonso had changed little since he had been at Windsor.

  She must pray for a boy – a healthy boy.

  In the afternoon her pains started while she stood calmly at her window looking to the forest where the leaves of the trees were already turning to bronze, for September had come.

  She calmly told one of the attendants to go to the Queen Mother’s apartment and ask her if she would come to her quickly. The woman departed with all speed and as soon as the Queen Mother looked into the face of the breathless woman she knew, and immediately went to the Queen’s apartment.