The Hammer of the Scots

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘I shall keep you to that promise, my son.’

  ‘If Edward needs me, you can be sure I shall be at his side.’

  ‘Remember that, my dear son. It is well for families to hold together.’

  It was a sad day for her when he left. But she knew that it was good for him to go. He needed a wife. Perhaps it would have been better if Aveline de Fortibus had lived and inherited, but once again fate had been cruel to them.

  She travelled down to Windsor with the Queen who was certain that that would be the ideal place to make their chief residence. It was not so very far from Westminster where the King would have to be so often and the air was good. Perhaps she would have the new baby there.

  ‘The late King was so fond of Windsor,’ said the Queen Mother as they rode side by side. She was thinking that soon the Queen would not be in a condition to ride and she had taken the precaution of ordering that there should be a litter available so that if the journey became too much for the Queen she should ride in it.

  ‘I will say if I am tired of course,’ said the Queen, ‘or if I feel the strain.’

  ‘No, my dear,’ said the Queen Mother, ‘I shall say when you are to ride for I am sure you may well be less careful of your health than I.’

  It was typical of the Queen that she obeyed her mother-in-law and rode in the litter even when she had no inclination to do so.

  ‘Yes,’ went on the Queen Mother, ‘Henry was very fond of Windsor, though of course it was there that his father stayed when the barons behaved so badly and made him sign Magna Carta. Henry always said any reminder of that would be repugnant to him. All the same he made some wonderful additions. He enlarged the Lower Ward and added a most beautiful chapel. One would have thought that with all he did he and I would have been more fortunate. He was such a religious man.’

  The Queen was silent. She was too tactful to point out what Edward had told her, which was that his father – good and beloved by his family as he was – had had little idea of the best way to rule.

  The Queen marvelled at the beauty of the countryside – the green fields, the rich forest lands and the winding river Thames which flowed close by. This was the place she would choose for her children, and she fell to wondering if she might have saved little Henry had she brought him here.

  At Windsor the Queen Mother was stricken yet again. She knew as soon as the messengers arrived from Brittany. The Queen came hurriedly to her and found her prostrate with grief.

  It was as she had feared. Beatrice was dead. Weakened by the birth of a child from which she had never recovered and shattered by the news of her sister’s death, Beatrice had gone into a similar decline to that which had killed her sister, and in spite of her husband’s tireless efforts to make her well she had grown weaker every day.

  Every known remedy had been used; the best of the physicians had been at her bedside – all to no avail.

  Her body was being sent to England because that had been her wish. She had always wanted to be buried in the arch on the north wall of the choir in front of the altar in Christ Church in New Gate, that church which she herself had founded before her marriage.

  It should be done, said John her husband, and her body was sent to England, but her heart had been removed and was to be placed in the Abbey of Fontevraud where her great-grandfather and great-grandmother, Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine, lay together with the remains of her great-uncle, Richard Coeur de Lion.

  The Queen Mother was dazed with shock. She could not believe this had happened. So many deaths … such senseless deaths … in such a short time. It really did seem as though the hand of God was turned against her.

  She shut herself in her apartments and stormed against the Almighty. Then she remembered her beloved husband who had been a deeply religious man and she knew how distressed he would be if he could hear her. That sobered her. ‘If this is my cross,’ she said, ‘then must I bear it. But when You took him You took away the best part of my life, and now You seem intent on taking what is left to me.’

  It seemed as though God had taken heed of her railings and was indeed sorry for what He had done, for shortly after the funeral of Beatrice the Queen was brought to bed and to the joy of all she gave birth to a healthy son.

  There was great rejoicing throughout the Court. It was a good omen. Little John and Henry had gone but the Queen was young and bore children without difficulty. And here was the boy they all wanted.

  The Queen Mother came out of her mournful lethargy and began making plans for the child.

  Edward was so delighted that, when the Queen, who rarely expressed a desire which was not Edward’s, said she would like to call him Alfonso after her father, he agreed.

  The Queen Mother was astounded. ‘He should have been Edward. Is he not the heir to the throne? Alfonso! Do you think the English will ever welcome a King Alfonso?’

  ‘When he comes to the throne,’ said the King, ‘we shall have to give him a new name. In the meantime his mother particularly wants Alfonso and Alfonso it shall be.’

  And as Alfonso thrived so did the hopes of the family. They had ridden out the storm of ill luck which had brought death to so many of them; they were now set fair and the journey ahead looked full of promise.

  Chapter III

  THE WELSH PRINCE AND THE

  DEMOISELLE

  Trouble, as might have been expected, came from the Welsh border.

  Gilbert of Gloucester came riding in all haste to the King at Westminster to tell him the news. The King received Gilbert in one of the lavishly painted chambers in the palace which his father had restored.

  Edward knew at once that the news was bad.

  ‘Llewellyn?’ he said even before Gilbert had begun.

  ‘It was certain to happen, my lord. The Marcher Barons have been reporting trouble there. It seems that the Welsh have discovered some prophecy of Merlin’s which says that a man named Llewellyn shall reign not only over Wales but over England as well.’

  The King turned a shade paler. He was more afraid of prophecies than armies for he knew how deeply the people could be affected by them.

  ‘And this is the chosen Llewellyn are they saying?’

  ‘My lord, that is so.’

  ‘By God I will show this Llewellyn that he shall never be King of England while the true King lives.’

  ‘I thought you would say that, my lord.’

  ‘How dare he? What right has he? Is he descended from the Conqueror?’

  ‘He intends to ally himself with the Conqueror’s line, my lord.’

  ‘It is deeds not intentions he will need if he is to make fact of his dreams. How, pray, does he think he will become a member of our family?’

  ‘Through his wife.’

  ‘His wife! He is unmarried.’

  ‘But intends to marry ere long. You will remember that he was at one time betrothed to Eleanor de Montfort, she whom they call the Demoiselle.’

  ‘Her father agreed to the betrothal when he was raising the Welsh to fight against my father.’

  Gilbert nodded. ‘It is said that the pair became enamoured of each other then. It must be nearly ten years ago and the Demoiselle was a very young girl at that time, but her youth did not prevent her falling deeply in love.’

  Edward shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘My lord,’ said Gilbert, ‘this matter is not lightly to be dismissed. Forget not that the Demoiselle is royal through her mother – your father’s sister. She is your cousin and if he marries her, Llewellyn will feel that he is not without a claim to the English throne.’

  ‘Then he must be mad.’

  ‘He is mad with this dream of glory. He says he is going to make Merlin’s prophecy come true.’

  ‘And how will he do that?’

  ‘He will try to win England by conquest.’

  ‘And you think I shall idly stand by and let him?’

  ‘By God and all His angels, no. You will fight. You will show him who is master here. Poor Llew
ellyn, I could feel it in my heart to be sorry for him when I think of what you will do to him when he ventures out from the shelter of his Welsh mountains. But he intends to establish his link with the throne through marriage with the Demoiselle.’

  ‘Who is in exile with her mother and her evil brothers.’

  ‘This is the news, my lord. He has sent for the Demoiselle. They are to be married when she arrives in Wales.’

  ‘From France?’

  ‘He has sent a ship for her. She will soon be on her way. Then when he is married to her, he will do more than harry the Marcher country. The Welsh are with him to a man – and maybe others. Since it was put about that Merlin prophesied that a Llewellyn should be King of England people begin to believe it may be so.’

  Edward’s eyes were narrowed. He stood for a few seconds, long legs apart, staring into the distance. Then he smiled slowly.

  ‘You say the Demoiselle is to come out of exile to marry him, eh?’

  ‘That is so, my lord.’

  ‘Do you think she will ever reach him? I do not. The first thing we do, Gilbert, is to send out ships to intercept her. We are going to make sure that Llewellyn does not get his bride.’

  In a small château in the town of Melun which stands on the river Seine, Eleanor de Montfort, Countess of Leicester, lay dying. Beside her sat her daughter – a beautiful young woman of some twenty-three years – who was known even in her family as Demoiselle.

  The dying Countess was easier in her mind since the message had come to her a few days earlier, for she had been deeply concerned as to what would happen to her daughter if she should die. Now there was a chance that she would be happy. Llewellyn, the Prince of Wales, wanted to marry her. He had, explained the message, thought of her constantly through the years. He had never married because of his attachment to her and because he considered they were betrothed. What he longed for more than anything was for her to be his bride.

  Any day now the news of the ship’s arrival would come. The Countess knew that her daughter would not leave her while she lived, but was fully aware that there were not too many days left to her.

  She was ready to go. Hers had been a stormy life, and there had been plenty of opportunity to contemplate the past as she lay there on her sickbed. It was strange how well she remembered the days of her youth, and how much more vivid they seemed than what was happening around her now!

  But when she was gone her son Almeric would take his sister to Wales, and there her dear Demoiselle would become the wife of a man who loved her and would cherish her.

  So many terrible things had happened to her family that she feared the worst. Perhaps she should have expected violent happenings when she married the great Simon de Montfort. But she would never regret that. How often had she said to herself, looking back on all the tragedies which had followed that reckless marriage: And I would do it all over again.

  Simon de Montfort was a name which would be remembered with respect for ever. A strange man, a good man, a man of ideals, he had had her support even though he had stood against her own brother, King Henry. Poor Henry, she had loved him too. He had always been so kind, so eager for them all to love him, but he had ruled badly; his extravagance and that of his Queen had almost brought back the dreadful days of King John; and Simon had had to do what he did even though he believed that civil war was one of the greatest disasters which could befall a country; and when a woman’s husband was fighting against her brother that was indeed a tragedy. She recalled that time when her brother Henry and her nephew Edward had been brought to Kenilworth as her husband’s prisoners and put in her care. She had treated them with respect; she had wanted to shake her brother and say: ‘Why cannot you see what you are doing? Simon is right.’ Simon would have ruled wisely. It was Simon who had inaugurated the first parliament. Simon wanted a peaceful prosperous country. Henry might say he wanted this too and so he did, but Henry also wanted money … money and lands so that he could satisfy the demands of his rapacious wife. Yet she had loved them both – Henry, her brother, Eleanor of Provence, her sister-in-law. They had ruled badly; they had been her husband’s deadly enemies; yet she had loved them all.

  What a difficult problem life set, with war in the country and war in the family! Violence had bred violence. What they did to her husband and her son Henry at Evesham would haunt her for as long as she lived. She had nightmares about Evesham. That beloved body to be so treated! It was no wonder that her sons Guy and Simon had done what they did. They had revered their father. They had wanted revenge.

  And it had ended thus with the proud de Montforts in exile. Guy, a fugitive wanted for the murder of Henry of Cornwall which he with his brother Simon had committed in a church at Viterbo. It was a murder which had shocked the world because Henry of Cornwall had been killed while in prayer before an altar, and after he had been stabbed to death his body had been obscenely treated as Simon de Montfort’s had after Evesham. It was meant to be a grand revenge for what had happened to their father. Poor Guy! Poor Simon! They had chosen the wrong victim in one noted for his bravery and goodness; they should never have mutilated his dead body, and now young Simon was dead but none would ever forget the murder at Viterbo and she often wondered about what would happen to Guy in the end.

  So many promising children and they had come to this! She called to her daughter and took pleasure in looking at her. She was tall, graceful, a Plantagenet. Llewellyn would surely be pleased with his bride.

  ‘My child,’ she said, ‘it will not be long now.’

  The Demoiselle bent over her mother and asked if she would take a cooling beverage.

  ‘I am sinking fast, daughter,’ she said. ‘Nay, do not grieve. This is the end of my life – and it has been a rich one – but it is the beginning of yours. You will go happily to Llewellyn.’

  ‘Yes, Mother, I shall go happily to him.’

  ‘It was long ago when you saw him.’

  ‘Yes, but we both knew then … I am sure he has not changed and I know that I have not.’

  ‘Be happy, my child. When I was very young and scarcely out of the nursery they married me to an old man. When he died I thought I should never marry again. There was talk of going into a convent. Then your father came. To marry in love is the best thing that can happen to a woman.’

  ‘You and my father faced terrible odds.’

  The dying woman smiled. ‘A mésalliance. A king’s daughter and an adventurer, they said. Perhaps they are the best sort of marriages because the people who make them must want desperately to do so to defy everyone about them.’

  ‘You and my father wanted to marry very much, I know.’

  ‘Ah yes. What days they were! The excitement … the intrigue! I suppose I was one to flourish on intrigue. Now I look for peace. That is something we all come to. I want only to know that you are settled and on your way to Wales. Then I could die happy.’

  ‘I should never leave you, dear Mother.’

  ‘Bless you, but I shall not detain you long. When the ship comes for you you must go. Almeric shall take you. I have much to say to Almeric.’

  ‘Shall I send him to you, Mother?’

  ‘Yes, my child. Tell him to come.’

  Almeric de Montfort sat by his mother’s bedside and asked himself how long she could live, and wondered what future there was for him and his sister in Wales.

  He loved his mother; he had revered his father. It was a source of anger that the great man of his times – as he believed his father to have been – should have died ignobly. It was not so much that he had been killed in battle. That was an honourable way for a man to die. But what they had done to his body afterwards … How dared they! So to humiliate the remains of the great Simon de Montfort! And then they wondered why his brothers had done the same to Henry of Cornwall.

  ‘Are you there, Almeric, my son?’ asked the dying Countess.

  ‘I am here, Mother.’

  ‘You must leave for Wales as soon as the ship comes.’ />
  ‘We shall not leave you, Mother.’

  ‘’Twould be better for you to leave without delay.’

  ‘Do not fret about the matter. Rest assured all will be well.’

  ‘Take care of your sister.’

  ‘Trust me, dear Mother, to do that.’

  She closed her eyes as though in relief.

  She was right. They should leave as soon as the ship came. Messengers could be arriving at any moment to tell them they should set out. His sister would never agree to leave her mother though – nor would he.

  Ever since Evesham the family fortunes had been in decline. Oh how foolish of Guy and Simon to commit a murder which shocked the world! Guy had always been violent and he had hated his cousin Edward; he used to say Edward had everything in his favour. Perhaps in those days in the royal schoolroom they had all been a little envious of Edward. The Golden Boy, the King’s son, the heir to the throne. The one who gave himself airs and tried to rule them all – taller than any of them, the one who was selected for attention and homage even in those days. Guy had hated him and tried to turn them all against him. Henry of Cornwall had been one of those boys – the eldest – and he had been Edward’s staunch ally. Henry the noble boy, who led Edward along the path of virtue. Edward the future King, Henry the saint. It was small wonder that they had made Henry their victim. Almeric could imagine the vicious joy with which Guy had mutilated Henry’s body.

  Oh it was a foolish thing to have done. It had set the whole world against them. It had brought disrepute on the great de Montfort name. Now when people mentioned it they spoke of the murder rather than the great good which their father Simon de Montfort had brought to England.

  Almeric would never forget that time when he had been accused with his brothers of the murder. This was a great trial to him for not only had he been educated in the Church but he was innocent of the crime. It was easy for him to be arrested as he had been working in the university of Padua at the time. Thank God he had been able to prove that he had been nowhere near Viterbo when the murder had been committed and had in fact been desperately ill with a fever.