The Hammer of the Scots

by Виктория Холт

  He frowned. Then he said gruffly: ‘Very well. You shall remain until then. And when I leave,’ he went on sternly, ‘you will have to remain with your husband.’

  She was disobedient like her sister Joanna, but they loved him and he was pleased that she so hated to leave him.

  He longed to be in Ghent where, he trusted, Eleanor, the dearest of all his daughters, would be with him. Dear Eleanor, who was herself in such a tragic situation. He would be able to talk to her of his coming marriage. She would understand.

  * * *

  At last he had arrived and she was there waiting for him. He forgot all ceremony at the sight of her, his dearest child.

  ‘My sweet child,’ he said, embracing her.

  ‘Oh dear Father, how I have longed to see you.’

  ‘You are unhappy, I know.’

  ‘There is no news of him.’

  ‘We must bring about his release.’

  ‘Oh Father, if only you could. I and the children long for his return.’

  He would do everything within his power, he told her. He thought that after his marriage he might be able to do something.

  ‘Eleanor, my child,’ he said, ‘you do not think I am wrong to marry again?’

  ‘I have often wondered why you did not before,’ she answered. ‘You are a man who loves a family life and it has been hard for you since our mother died.’

  He had known she would understand. Eagerly he told her of his hopes for Blanche and how the King of France had deceived him and was offering Marguerite.

  Eleanor shuddered. ‘The King of France is a ruthless man,’ she said. ‘I have reason to know that. They say the first thing that one notices about him is his handsome looks. Then one realises that he is harsh, cruel, vindictive … and ambitious.’

  ‘I have learned that he is not to be trusted and I shall remember that.’

  ‘Dear Father, it may well be that you will be happier with Marguerite than with this renowned beauty, whose praises have been sung throughout Europe. That could well have made her a little conceited. Marguerite in her shadow may well be the wife for you. You remember how gentle and kind our mother always was. My grandmother had a reputation for great beauty, and although we loved her dearly we all knew how she thought it always right that she should have her own way. I have heard my mother say that she could never compete in looks with her mother-in-law. But we know, dear Father, how sweet was her disposition.’

  ‘My comforter,’ he said fondly. ‘I knew you would be.’

  He felt relieved and happy and determined that he would do everything possible to bring her husband out of captivity. It should carry some weight that he was ready to marry the younger sister of the King of France when he had been promised the elder.

  How pleasant it was to be with her though the pleasure was marred by the twinges of anxiety he felt about her health. She had aged considerably since she had left England, which was small wonder since she had suffered so much. He had been so happy that she, married late, should have at last made a love match. But how cruel was fate to rob her of her husband so soon. Fortunately she had her dear children. How he loved his grandchildren and Eleanor’s in particular, simply because they were hers.

  He must make the most of this visit.

  She had brought for him as a present a leather case beautifully enamelled and fitted with a comb and mirror, and he had told her that he would treasure it as long as he lived.

  That was a happy Christmas at Ghent. Margaret was there with her husband, and although she was scarcely happy in her marriage she seemed to be reconciled to it. He had heard that she had received several of her husband’s illegitimate children and treated them with kindness. Poor Margaret, she was in no position to protest he supposed, but he imagined what Joanna would have been like in such circumstances.

  Elizabeth was present and he hoped she would make no more scenes about leaving him. Of course he was flattered that his girls loved him so well. It was a pity they had to grow up.

  But his main concern was with Eleanor’s health. He was sure that she pretended she felt better than she did because she knew he was worried.

  He must get her husband returned to her. Once he was married he would do it. That brought him back to the thoughts of marriage. Was he wise? He would soon be sixty. He was virile still. Of course he should have married four or five years ago; he should have considered it immediately after Eleanor’s death. No, he could not have done that. It would have seemed so disloyal. He needed more sons really. He had his beloved daughters and he would not have changed them for boys … but a king should have sons and he had only Edward.

  Edward did worry him a little. He was not growing up quite as his father would have wished. He was clever enough but he would not apply himself, and he surrounded himself with companions of questionable reputation. He would grow out of that for he was young yet. He was tall and good-looking. That was an advantage. The people like a handsome king and above all a tall one. It was fitting for a king to tower above his subjects.

  All would be well, and it was right that he should marry again and get more sons.

  So he threw himself whole-heartedly into the celebrations that Christmas at Ghent. He was going to say goodbye when it was over to three daughters. He wished he had married them into English noble houses. But of course that was not good. Gilbert de Clare had been a man whom it was as necessary to placate as it was the members of royal houses. That was why he had been given Joanna. And now Joanna had married that Monthermer man. At least it left him a daughter at home. He could not count poor Mary.

  When it was over he said goodbye to Eleanor with many fond assurances of his affection. He brooded after she had gone. She seemed so pale and wan, so different from the healthy young woman of whom he had always been so proud.

  It was in March when he returned to England, and he had not been there very long when news was brought to him of his daughter Eleanor’s death.

  He was prostrate with grief. It was true that he had been worried about her pale looks, but this was quite unexpected. He was filled with remorse. He should have insisted on her husband getting his freedom. He should have stopped at nothing … nothing …

  He was weighed down with anxieties.

  Trouble in France, trouble in Scotland. He could see that he would have to take drastic action above the border. And Eleanor, best loved of all his beloved daughters, was dead.

  It was only in contemplating his coming marriage that he could lift himself out of his despondency.

  * * *

  It was with great consternation that Marguerite, sister of the King of France, heard that she was to marry the old King of England. Her sister, the beautiful Blanche, of whom the poets sang, used to laugh when she received his letters. She would read them aloud to her sister who marvelled that a great king who had never seen Blanche, should have become so enamoured of what he had heard of her.

  Blanche had said it was understandable. There were so many songs written about her and Marguerite had known that people were amazed when they saw her.

  Her brother too, the King, was very handsome. So much so that he was known as Philip le Bel. She, Marguerite, who might have been reckoned quite good-looking in any other family, was so overshadowed by her handsome brother and beautiful sister that she had come to be regarded as insignificant.

  ‘Never mind,’ her mother Queen Marie had said, ‘you can be good. You have a look of your grandfather and you know he was a great man and became known even during his lifetime as Saint Louis.’

  Marguerite had certainly always given way to Blanche, who in any case was six years older than she was, and she could not remember a time when people had not remarked on her beauty.

  Blanche had been very amused at the thought of what Edward was prepared to pay for her.

  ‘Our brother is highly amused,’ she said. ‘He begins to value me greatly. I am worth Gascony to the King of England. That is a great deal to be worth, little sister.’

 
; ‘The King of England must love you very dearly.’

  ‘He loves a woman he has never seen. And why? Because others think her beautiful. Our brother refers to me as our great prize, and he says the King of England is a lecherous old satyr who longs to have his bed warmed by a young woman.’

  Marguerite shivered. ‘Poor Blanche …’ she began.

  Blanche hated to be pitied and that her insignificant sister should attempt it angered her.

  ‘Poor indeed! I shall be the Queen of England. Have you thought of that? It is as good as being Queen of France.’

  ‘Well, as you are now a princess of France is that such an elevation?’

  ‘Serious little Marguerite. I expect you are right, but I do fancy having this old man – who is King withal – so eager for me that he gives our brother territory which the English had sworn never to relinquish.’

  ‘It must be wonderful to be so beautiful,’ said Marguerite.

  And Blanche tweaked her sister’s long hair and laughed at her.

  So Blanche had often talked of going to England and she was amused that the English King was kept dangling.

  Then a strange thing had happened. Edward was not the only one who sought the hand of Blanche. The Duke of Austria wanted her and he was the son of the Emperor.

  Their brother had discussed the matter at great length with his ministers. Gascony was in their hands, why should not Blanche go to Rudolph of Austria? There still remained Marguerite for the King of England.

  She would never forget the day Philip summoned her to hear her fate.

  ‘You, sister, are to go to England in place of Blanche.’

  ‘But … sire …’ she had stammered. ‘How can I? They are expecting Blanche … It is Blanche … he wants.’

  Philip threw back his handsome head and laughed.

  ‘Expecting Blanche he may be, but he is going to have a surprise. He will get Marguerite in exchange.’

  There was a great deal of conferring for Edward was greatly feared. He was a formidable fighter – very different from his father and his grandfather – and Philip le Bel had no desire to anger him too much.

  ‘A younger girl!’ mused Philip. ‘Youth is adorable. Why should he not be pleased with you? You may not have Blanche’s high spirits but such can be uncomfortable at times. You are milder than Blanche and mild women can be very pleasant to live with. I would say old Edward is getting a very good bargain.’

  Marguerite alone in her bedchamber was frightened. Then she consoled herself. He will never accept me, she assured herself. He will say he will not take me. Nothing will come of it.

  But he did not say that. After expressing his fury at the perfidy of the King of France when it was suggested that the King’s infant daughter Isabella should be offered to Edward’s son, Edward agreed to take Marguerite.

  ‘He will be so disappointed in me,’ moaned Marguerite. ‘He will hate me for not being Blanche.’

  Blanche was inclined to think this might well be, but she was quite content to depart for Austria instead of England, confident that wherever she went her exceptional beauty would be appreciated and bring her its dues.

  Meanwhile Marguerite must prepare to leave for England for her future husband had said he would have no more delay.

  So Blanche left for Austria and shortly afterwards Marguerite and her train made their way to the coast. It was a strange journey for one who had never been far from home. The sea was grey and rough and terrifying, and she was glad when land came into sight, although it brought her nearer to the bridegroom whom she was beginning to dread meeting.

  At Dover many richly clad men and women were waiting for her and after spending a sleepless night in the castle there she set out for Canterbury where the King was waiting for her.

  That moment was something she would never forget. He was so tall that he dwarfed other men. He was old … yes, very old, but she had been prepared for that. Although he had the bearing of a king and the impression he gave was one of stern strength, at the same time there was a kindliness about him which was reassuring.

  ‘So you have come at last,’ he said, smiling, taking her hand and kissing it.

  He thought: How young she is! Little more than a child. Younger than my daughters … my wild Joanna, my beautiful Eleanor whom I shall never see again. Poor child. She looks frightened and no wonder. Sent overseas to an old man!

  And she was pretty. Yes, she was very pretty. They had overlooked to tell him how pretty. They must have been bemused by the dazzling perfection of Blanche.

  When he looked at this trembling child he was filled with tenderness.

  He bent his head to hers. ‘All will be well,’ he said. ‘You must not be afraid.’

  And from that moment she was ready to love him.

  * * *

  They were married at Canterbury by Archbishop Robert de Winchelsea. Marguerite was not yet seventeen and Edward was sixty. The people who had crowded into the streets and about the cathedral were enchanted by the fresh young bride, and so was Edward. He kept thinking of the wise words of his daughter Eleanor, and it was not difficult to persuade himself that the younger sister was perhaps after all the better choice.

  She was so eager to please, so obviously apologetic because she was not Blanche, that he was determined to persuade her that he was not disappointed and in convincing her he convinced himself.

  As for her, she admired his power and his regality; his great height would always be impressive and although his hair – once so fair – was now white, he emanated vitality. He was a king – a strong king – none could deny that. That he could be ruthless when dealing with his enemies was obvious, but the tenderness of his feelings for his family was in such strong contrast that he was lovable, and human in spite of his great power.

  That tenderness was very much in evidence where his young wife was concerned. He had banished most of her fears and convinced her that far from being inadequate she pleased him greatly.

  He was a gentle lover; he told her about the virtues of his first wife and how when she had died he had been desolate. They had been together for many years; she had accompanied him to the Holy Land; she had given him many children; and when she had died he had had crosses erected at every spot where her coffin rested on its way to London. He was going to love Marguerite as he had loved Eleanor and he knew that she would love him too.

  ‘I will,’ she told him earnestly.

  ‘My dear little Queen,’ he replied, ‘how glad I am that you came to me. Now we shall grow to know each other and our love for each other will grow likewise.’

  Alas, this tender period was brought to an abrupt end. The news from Scotland was alarming. Always he had been aware of the trouble that could come from that quarter. Baliol had been deposed. Rarely had a man less capable of being there sat on a throne. Edward was the overlord and he was determined to remain so. He was going to govern Scotland because he saw that until he did there would be trouble there; and if he were going to keep his place in France he could not have an enemy waiting to stab him in the back.

  If Baliol had been a strong man, yet one ready to work under his rule, all would have been well. But Baliol was weak; he had no talent for governing and, worse still, no will for it.

  There was one man who had come into prominence who gave the King great cause for concern. That was William Wallace. This man had some magnetic power. He was the kind of man of whom a king must be wary. He had a talent, this William Wallace, for drawing men to his standard. He knew how to inspire them.

  Edward had set English lords over various provinces in Scotland to keep order for him and to remind the Scots, should they need reminding, that they owed allegiance to him.

  It was natural that there should be constant trouble between the Scots and their English overlords. Forays had frequently broken out and several English had been murdered. But this was inevitable.

  What was to be deplored was that the Scots had found a leader in this man Wallace.

&nb
sp; It was not a question of a minor uprising. Wallace had collected an army.

  Moreover he had put the English to flight at Stirling Bridge and had dared cross the Border and had harried the people of Cumberland and Westmorland. It was intolerable that this could go on. He had taken advantage of Edward’s absence in France.

  Well, now Edward was home. He had made a truce with France. He had married the French King’s sister and he could live in peace – temporary perhaps – with his enemies across the Channel. But he must turn his attention to Scotland, where they had wriggled free from the yoke he had set upon them. He was going to march north. He was going to hammer those Scots into obedience. He had vowed to add Scotland to his crown as he had Wales and nothing – not even his new marriage – was going to prevent his going into action without delay.

  He explained to his bride of a week that he must leave her.

  ‘So it is with kings, little one. My first wife Eleanor accompanied me on my journeys. It was her wish to do so. Wherever I went she was not far behind. I would not take her into the heat of battle – though she would have accompanied me – God rest her soul! No, she was close to me. She even bore my daughter in Acre. I trust you will want to be close to me at all times.’

  ‘Oh, I shall,’ said Marguerite fervently.

  ‘I know it,’ he cried. ‘Now I must go. You will follow me in due course, but with less haste than I must go. I want you now to go to London and stay there awhile in your lodging at the Tower. There the people will see you. They will wish it. We must always consider the will of the people … and the people of London in particular. When the time is right I will send for you. Will you come?’

  ‘With all my heart, my lord.’

  He kissed her tenderly. ‘You are a sweet wife,’ he said, ‘and I am glad you are mine. I could wish I were forty years younger and even then I should be older than you, sweet child. I tell you what I dearly hope. Perhaps it is too much to wish for. I hope that you may already be with child.’

  ‘I hope it too,’ answered Marguerite.