Edward smiled faintly. Gilbert’s wife, Alice of Angoulême, was the niece of Alice of Lusignan who was Henry III’s half-sister.
‘You speak of my family, sir.’
‘And my own since I married into it. But truth is truth, and you, my lord, will be the first to recognise it as such.’
‘So you would divorce your wife and the Pope is proving intransigent, I’ll swear.’
‘You have guessed it. How easy it is to be trapped into marriage. I was a boy of ten. What can a boy of that age do but obey the wishes of his elders, and there he is saddled with a wife for the rest of his life.’
Edward laughed. His wife had been chosen for him, and yet had he had a chance to choose from the whole world he would have picked her. He was lucky. He must be sympathetic with poor Gilbert.
‘Best of good fortune,’ he said, ‘and when you are free, Gilbert, we’ll find a good wife for you.’
‘With my lord’s permission I will find my own,’ was the reply.
It was a very pleasant sojourn at Tonbridge. Gilbert, Earl of Gloucester, and the most powerful man in the country under the King, was with him.
Edward expressed his gratitude for the hospitality which had been given him; he implied his pleasure in the Earl’s support, while he was determined to keep a watch lest it should be diverted.
After Tonbridge, Reigate, where John de Warenne was waiting to receive the party.
Grandson of the great William Marshal and therefore belonging to one of the richest families in the country, as a boy John de Warenne had been one of the marriage bargains of the day; and Henry III had arranged a marriage for him with his half-sister, Alice de Lusignan, who was the aunt of Gilbert Clare’s wife. To the King it had seemed an ideal arrangement for, family man that he was, he was eager to setttle his impecunious relations as comfortably as he could. Edward had never had any reason to doubt the loyalty of this man who was so close to him through his family ties.
It was a very pleasant stay therefore at Reigate, marred only by the increasing fears of the Queen for young Henry.
‘It breaks my heart to see how he tries to hide his weakness,’ she told Edward when, after the long day’s meeting and festivities, they were alone together. ‘I know the child is far from well. He is so easily fatigued. Your mother said that little John was the same.’
‘Henry is young yet, my love. He will grow out of it.’
‘But we lost little John.’
‘We were not here then.’
‘Your mother would stand over him like a watch dog. She is devoted to the children, however …’ The Queen stopped short, but Edward laid a hand gently on her shoulder and smiled at her.
‘I think we understand my mother,’ he said. ‘There was never one more devoted to her family. Being clever and beautiful and delighting my father she has grown used to having her own way. She will unlearn …’
But the Queen was uneasy and she had passed on that anxiety to Edward. Their daughter Eleanor was in fine good health. So had Joanna been when they left her in Castile; and Joanna could have been said to have made a rather difficult entry into the world. Acre was not the most temperate place to make one’s appearance and there had been a considerable lack of comfort. Yet she had bloomed from the start. The other little one had died, but that may have been due to the hardships her mother had suffered before her birth. No, they could get healthy children. Eleanor was unduly disturbed because of John’s death and her conscience continued to trouble her, because she had been torn between leaving her children and her husband.
The next day the Queen continued downcast, although she tried to hide her feelings for she knew how her fears disturbed her husband.
But the King was aware of this, and he took her into the chapel at Reigate and summoning the priest told him of the Queen’s anxiety.
‘There is a shrine close by, I believe,’ said the King. ‘Let a wax image be made of my son and there burned in oil before the image of the saint. It may be that he will petition God and the Holy Virgin for his safety.’
The priest bowed and said it should be done, for it was a much practised custom to burn in oil a wax figure representing someone who needed special intercession with Heaven.
‘Now,’ said Edward firmly, ‘it is in the hands of the saints and do you doubt, my love, that they will turn deaf ears to the prayers of a mother as loving as yourself.’
He was so good to her, said the Queen. And she could almost believe that she had been foolishly concerned, but her little Henry was such a dear child and she did so long to see him as full of health as his sister was.
‘That will come, I promise you,’ said Edward.
And soon after they left Reigate for London.
Chapter II
EXIT HENRY ENTER ALFONSO
The whole country seemed to be converging on London for the coronation and Edward was sure that this was one of those occasions when it would be unwise to spare expense. The Queen Mother was in her element. She would have liked to take over all the arrangements and order what was to be done as she had during her husband’s lifetime.
Instead she must content herself with gathering together her family. It was wonderful to know that her daughter Margaret was on her way from Scotland and Beatrice, her other daughter, with her husband, John of Bretagne, would also be present. Then there was her son, Edmund, Earl of Lancaster, who would be with them. In fact every one of her living children would be there. If only her husband were alive she would need nothing more to make her completely happy.
Margaret was her very favourite daughter. Perhaps because when she was young she had suffered such anxieties about her and her strong motherly instincts had been called forth in all their fury because her darling daughter was being ill-treated by those barbarous Scots. Often now she thought of how the child had gone to Scotland, and how she had wept at the parting and clung to her mother and implored to be allowed to stay with her for ever. But they had had to send her and she and Henry had wept together and suffered for their child. And when they had heard that she was being kept a prisoner in that grim Edinburgh Castle and given nothing to eat but their loathsome oaten cakes and a messy mixture they called porridge, Henry, incited by his wife, had been ready to go to war even if it meant defying the barons and tearing up Magna Carta and throwing it in their faces, which, thought the Queen, was the best thing that could happen to that horrible document. They had gone to Scotland; they had rescued their daughter, and she was now reunited with her husband, Alexander, who at that time had been little more than a child himself. And mercy of mercies Margaret was now happy. Yes, she and Alexander were devoted to each other and they had three beautiful children to bless their union. The Queen Mother hoped they would be as happy as she and Henry had been. Margaret was of a gentler temperament than her mother and like the entire family she was indulgent of that overbearing maternal figure. She had a daughter who was very dear to the Queen Mother because the child had been born at Windsor, during that period when Margaret had visited her family and contrived to stay until it was difficult for her in her condition to go back to Scotland. The Scots were not too pleased that their Queen’s eldest child should be born out of Scotland. That it was but a daughter perhaps placated them a little. That child, Margaret after her mother, was now thirteen years old and she had inherited her mother’s beauty. Moreover Margaret had given birth to a son Alexander three years after Margaret’s birth – a beautiful boy and heir to the Scottish throne – and four years ago little David had been born.
How wonderful it would be to have all the grandchildren around so that she could pamper them a little and make sure that they loved their grandmother and at the same time assure herself that their parents were bringing them up in a manner of which she would approve. She loved to admonish them tenderly and they all listened to her and accepted her superior wisdom. Happy days were ahead in spite of her great bereavement.
Then there was Beatrice, her second daughter, who was greatly loved, the w
ife of John, Earl of Bretagne, a husband who adored her, and they had five beautiful children; Beatrice had accompanied her husband on the crusade and had been with Queen Eleanor at Acre when Joanna had been borne so the two had become as sisters, having shared the discomforts of the nomad life while at the same time they had condoled with each other over the terrible choice they had had to make whether to leave their children or their husbands. Now they would all be united; and there would be more grandchildren for the Queen Mother to take under her wing.
Edmund would also be there – her dear son, the Earl of Lancaster. He was not as popular with the people as his brother Edward was. Naturally, Edward was the King and he had those spectacular good looks. Edward was all Plantagenet – the golden young man with the long limbs of the Normans. People only had to look at him to realise that he was descended from the Conqueror. The English liked strong kings, or they did when they were dead. They had groaned under the harsh laws of the Conqueror, his son, Henry I, and his great-grandson, Henry II, while these kings lived, but when they were dead harshness was called justice, and they were revered. Even so early it seemed apparent that Edward would be a strong king. The Queen Mother’s lips turned out at the corners when she considered that. Edward had shown clearly that he was not going to take her advice. True, he listened to it gravely and sometimes implied that he would follow it; then he went away and did exactly what he wanted to.
Edmund was less tall, less blond, more Provençal than Norman. He suffered from a slight curvature of the spine which it had been impossible to disguise and it had in due course given his enemies the opportunity to call him Crouchback. How angry she had been about that, especially so since there was nothing she could do about it. She found frustration more maddening than anything else.
It had been a matter for congratulation when he had married Aveline de Fortibus, heiress of the Earl of Albemarle, because the marriage should have brought great wealth into the family and shortage of money was a constant complaint. Alas, Aveline had died before she could inherit the fortune and soon afterwards Edmund had taken the cross and gone with his brother to Palestine.
‘We must find a new wife for Edmund,’ she thought; and her energetic mind scoured the ranks of the wealthy.
The greatest joy of all was being with Margaret, and what a pleasure it had been to see her ride into the capital with her husband and her children, for Margaret’s entourage was grander than any. A lesson to Edward, thought the Queen Mother. Was he going to allow the King of Scots to outshine him?
She could not wait to carry Margaret off somewhere where they could be alone. There she embraced this most loved of her children – perhaps in the past she had been inclined to favour Edward. That was natural because he was the eldest and the son, but a mother could be closer to a daughter, and ever since Margaret’s experiences in Scotland when she had been a child bride, the young Queen of Scotland had had the notion that her parents were omnipotent and nothing could be more delightful than such a notion to Eleanor of Provence.
She took her daughter into her arms and examined her closely. Margaret looked a little too delicate for her mother’s comfort.
‘My dearest,’ said the Queen Mother, ‘do you still find the climate harsh?’
‘I grow accustomed to it. The children enjoy it.’
‘Your father was constantly worrying about you. Whenever he saw the snow he would say, “I wonder what is happening north of the Border and if our darling child is suffering from the cold.”’
‘My dear lady mother, you always worried too much about us.’
‘I could never be completely happy unless I knew you were all well and safe, and I shall never forget that dreadful time.’
‘It is all in the past. Alexander is indeed the King now. None would dare cross him.’
‘And he is a good husband to you, my darling.’
‘None could be better. He is as near to my dearest father as anyone could be.’
‘He was incomparable. Margaret, I cannot describe to you how I suffer.’
‘I know, I know. But he would not wish us to brood. He would be happy that Edward is such a fine man and that the people are with him as they never were …’
‘With your father? Oh they were wicked to him. They have been so mean … so parsimonious …’
‘Let us rejoice, Mother, that they seem to have forgotten their grievances. Let us hope that there will be no more uprising of the barons. People will always be ready to remember Simon de Montfort.’
‘That traitor!’
‘He opposed our father, my lady, but I do not think he ever meant to be a traitor. And his death at Evesham was … terrible. I must tell you of something strange that happened. Not long before I received tidings of Edward’s return and that we were to come south for the coronation, we were at Kinlochleven on the banks of the Tay. We were in the banqueting hall, the company talking, as such companies do, of their deeds and adventures, but I was melancholy as I have been since news of my father’s death and I had the wish to escape from their laughter and light chatter.
‘Then the name of Simon de Montfort was mentioned and one of my knights who had sometime since come from England talked of the battle of Evesham at which he had fought, and he boasted that he had struck the first blow which had killed de Montfort. I was weary of all the talk and I rose from the table and said that I would take a walk along by the river. My attendants came with me and among them was this knight. They saw that I was depressed for this talk of Simon de Montfort had reminded me of my father, and I kept thinking of that dreadful day when the news had come to me of his death. I fell into such melancholy that one of my women said they should play games to raise my spirits. So they did. The men wrestled together and there were contests of leaping and jumping and climbing the trees. Their antics were funny and I found myself laughing. The knight who had brought up the subject of Simon de Montfort was the winner of most of the sports, and one of my women said that I should bestow on him a mark of approval so I said I would give him my glove. They wanted a ceremony. He was to come and take it from me. As he stood beside me he looked down at his hands which were mudstained and he bowed low and said, “Gracious lady, I could not touch your hand in this state. Give me permission to go to the river and wash my hands.” I granted that permission. It was a sort of mock ceremony, you see. And when he bent over to wash his hands I signed to one of my women to push him into the river. This she did and there was much laughter. The knight turned to smile with us. “What care I?” he cried. “I can swim.” Then he began to show us all that he could be as skilled in the water as on land, and he cut all sorts of graceful figures as he moved away from the bank. We applauded and I called out that he was asking for further trophies. Then suddenly something happened. It was as though the waters were stirred by some invisible hand to form a whirlpool. He gave a wild cry and disappeared. His little page must have thought his master was calling for him and he ran down to the river and went in, swimming towards the spot where his master had disappeared. In a moment he too was out of sight.
‘“It is a game,” I said. “Our clever knight is trying to show us how clever he is.”
‘We waited, half laughing, expecting every second to see him rise and swim for the shore with his little page. It took us some time to realise that we should never see them again and to realise that our innocent frolic had ended in tragedy. We never discovered the body of the knight nor that of his page.’
‘My dear child, what a dreadful story! What was this whirlpool which suddenly appeared in the river?’
‘That we did not know, my lady. But I tell you this to let you know how the people – even of Scotland – remember Simon de Montfort. They said that Heaven was angry. That de Montfort was a saint and this was Heaven’s revenge on this knight because he had boasted of his part in the murder.’
‘There will always be those to attach significance in these matters. De Montfort was no saint. He was a traitor who rose against your father. That is so
mething for which I shall never forgive him.’
‘I was always fond of my Aunt Eleanor. I think she loved him dearly.’
‘I remember that marriage well. Conducted in secrecy. Your father was furious when he discovered that Simon de Montfort had married his sister.’
‘But he knew of the wedding. He attended it.’
‘Only because Simon had seduced your aunt and he thought it best in the circumstances.’
Margaret looked at her mother. That was not true, of course. King Henry had consented to the marriage because his sister had persuaded him into it, and afterwards, when he saw what a storm it aroused, he had pretended it was because Simon had seduced her first.
But her mother had always believed what she wanted to and contradiction on such matters displeased her.
‘I wonder where they are now,’ she asked.
‘Who? The de Montforts? In exile in France, I believe. They had better not try to come back here.’
‘You mean Simon’s wife and daughter? What of her sons?’
‘Young Simon is dead. He deserved to die the traitor’s death but God took him instead. He was guilty of murder with his brother Guy who is the worst of them all. You know how they most brutally murdered your cousin, Henry of Cornwall, in a church at Viterbo. Oh, that was wicked. It broke your Uncle Richard’s heart. He adored Henry and Henry was a good man, faithful and loyal to your father and to your brother Edward.’
‘I know, my lady. He and Edward were brought up together – with the de Montfort boys. I remember seeing them together in the days before my marriage.’
‘There has been much tragedy in our family, Margaret.’
‘I know, my lady. But now Edward is home and the people love him. Perhaps we shall live peacefully.’
‘There is perpetual trouble. I shall not feel happy while these de Montforts live.’
‘I am sorry to have reminded you of them.’
‘Saints indeed! There was never one less saintly than Simon de Montfort.’
The Hammer of the Scots Page 4