The Hammer of the Scots

by Jean Plaidy

  The Queen was serene. The birth of a seventh child is not like the first. She knew what to expect and she had always given birth without much discomfort.

  The energetic Queen Mother gave orders sharply. Soon there was great activity in the royal apartments.

  As expected the labour was not arduous, but the result was disappointing.

  The Demoiselle chose a moment when the Queen Mother was absent to come into the Queen’s bedchamber to see the baby.

  ‘What a dear little girl!’ she said.

  The Queen smiled. ‘Yes, a dear little girl.’

  ‘But you wanted a boy.’

  ‘Now I have seen her, she is the one I want.’

  ‘The King will love her.’

  ‘The King loves all his children.’

  The Demoiselle nodded, her eyes were misty. Poor child, thought the Queen, she dreams of the children it seems she will never have.

  ‘I have heard she may be called Margaret,’ said the Demoiselle, noting the pity in the Queen’s eyes.

  ‘It is what the Queen Mother wishes,’ said the Queen. ‘In memory of the Queen of Scotland.’

  The Demoiselle nodded and remembered that life was sad for others as well as herself.

  She asked if she might hold the baby and the Queen, smiling, gave her permission. After a while the Queen said, ‘The children will want to see her. They are being brought in.’

  The Demoiselle put the baby in the cradle and was prepared for flight in case the Queen Mother came with the children.

  She did and the girl slipped away. The Queen Mother frowned but the children were exclaiming loudly.

  ‘Oh, she is only little!’ cried Alfonso in a disappointed tone.

  ‘Well,’ retorted the Queen Mother, ‘what did you expect her to be? Big like yourself? You are two years old remember. She is but two weeks.’

  ‘They said we were to have a brother,’ said the Princess Eleanor rather reproachfully.

  ‘God sent us a girl instead,’ the Queen answered.

  ‘Which,’ commented Eleanor, ‘was rather unkind of Him when He knew what my father wanted.’

  ‘Well, we all have to have what is sent us,’ said the Queen Mother brightly.

  ‘You don’t, my lady,’ retorted the Princess. ‘You have what you want.’

  The Queen Mother loved Eleanor. What a bright child. If the worst came to the worst Edward would have to make her his heir. She would speak to him about it some time … perhaps not yet. It was a little tactless while Alfonso lived, but the boy did have an air of delicacy and he was so like little Johnny had been at his age; and very soon Henry had begun to go like it.

  Oh what a pity this child was not another boy!

  As soon as he could, Edward came to his wife.

  She lay in her bed looking at him appealingly.

  ‘Edward, I’m sorry.’

  He laughed aloud. He was not going to let her know how disappointed he was.

  ‘Why, she is a beautiful child, and Margaret, eh? That was my mother’s choice and you agree with it.’

  ‘It pleases her so to honour the Queen of Scotland.’

  ‘And you, dear good soul that you are, will agree for her sake. God bless you, my Queen.’

  ‘I am so glad that you are not angry.’

  ‘What sort of man should I be if I were angry with you? By God, we’ll have sons yet. You were made to be a mother of them and I a father. Don’t fret, sweet wife. We have had seven to this time. There’ll be another seven you’ll see and if among them there are a stalwart boy or two I’ll be satisfied.’

  She smiled and thought she was indeed blessed with such a husband.

  A few weeks after the child’s birth there was alarming news from Wales. Ever since the capture of the Demoiselle, as was to be expected, Llewellyn had been making raids into England with some success. Edward had sent an army to deal with him, and had expected news of success. It had been delayed rather longer than he had thought it would.

  Then came the news. The English army had been defeated at Kidwelly.

  Edward was dismayed. The Queen was anxious. The Queen Mother was furious. And the Demoiselle could not completely hide her satisfaction.

  Edward stormed into the Queen’s apartment. There was nothing for it. He would have to get together the best of his armies. If a job had to be well done there was only one who should do it and that was oneself.

  ‘Edward,’ said the Queen, ‘it is only a skirmish he has won. Need you go into danger? Cannot your soldiers let him know that he must keep the peace?’

  ‘If it were not for this prophecy of Merlin’s I might agree with you. He must not win … even a skirmish. His little victories will be sung into big ones. You know the Welsh and their songs. Verses not deeds make their heroes. It may be that this prophecy of Merlin’s was made by a poet and sung of until people believed it for truth. Nay, I must teach Llewellyn a lesson. I shall not be long away. I must drive this man back to his mountains. It is the only way.’

  The King made his preparations to leave and before he went the Queen was able to tell him that she was once more pregnant.

  The Demoiselle was white with misery. It was hard for her to keep believing in Merlin’s prophecy when she lived close to the power of the great English King.

  Edward marched up to Wales and they waited for news. The Queen grew large with child.

  ‘This time,’ she said, ‘it must be a boy. What wonderful news that would be to send to the King.’

  The Demoiselle sat with the Princess Eleanor and they worked on their tapestry together.

  ‘You are sad,’ said the Princess, ‘because my father is going to kill your lover.’

  ‘What if my lover killed your father?’ replied the Demoiselle.

  ‘No one could kill my father. He is the King.’

  ‘Llewellyn has been promised the crown by Merlin.’

  ‘He lived long ago. He does not count now,’ said the Princess, placidly stitching. ‘Do you like this blue silk?’

  ‘I do,’ said the Demoiselle.

  ‘Tell me about Llewellyn,’ said Eleanor. ‘Is he beautiful?’

  ‘He is the most beautiful man in the world.’

  ‘That is my father. So you lie.’

  ‘He is beautiful for me as your father is for you.’

  ‘But you said the most beautiful.’ Eleanor cried out. She had pricked her finger. ‘Do you think my mother will have a boy?’ she asked.

  ‘That is in God’s hands.

  ‘And God is not very kind, is He? He took my two brothers and my aunts Margaret and Beatrice. My grandmother is very cross with Him.’ She shivered. Obviously she was sorry for anyone with whom her grandmother was cross. ‘I’ll tell you a secret, Demoiselle, if you promise to tell no one.’

  The Demoiselle looked eager. She was always hoping to learn something about Llewellyn and she knew that news about him was kept from her.

  ‘I will tell no one.’

  ‘I was glad Margaret was a girl. I hope this one will be a girl.’

  ‘But why? Don’t you know how much they want a boy?’

  The Princess nodded gravely. ‘I heard them talking about Alfonso. They were saying he was like John and Henry. Then one of them said: “It may well be that the King would make Princess Eleanor” – that is myself – “heir to the throne.” You see, Demoiselle, if there were no boys and Alfie went the way of … the others … I should be the one. I, the Princess. Princesses can become queens you know. Real queens – not like my mother and grandmother who just married kings, but The Queen.’

  The Demoiselle looked shocked. ‘You should not say such things,’ she said. ‘They are not … becoming.’

  ‘I know. That is why they are secret. You don’t have to be … becoming … in secret.’

  The Demoiselle studied the ambitious little girl who kept her ears and eyes open. She supposed there was a possibility of her realising her ambition.

  Poor child, she had yet to learn the trials of
wearing a crown.

  As the months passed and the Queen’s confinement drew near there was little news from Wales.

  Then less than a year after the birth of little Margaret, another child was born to the Queen.

  There was general despondency. Another girl! They called her Berengaria because of a fancy the Queen had, and when a short while afterwards the child grew more and more sickly it was said that it was an unlucky name to have given a child. It recalled the sad queen of Richard Coeur de Lion. He had never loved her; he had neglected her; and she had been an unhappy woman, a barren woman. Poor soul, said the Queen Mother, she rarely had an opportunity to be anything else for everyone knew of the King’s preference for fighting crusades and for handsome people of his own sex. A man to sing of rather than to live with.

  Berengaria. It was a doomed name.

  The Queen was sad, eagerly awaiting news from the Welsh border, but not more eagerly than the Demoiselle.

  But the Princess Eleanor had a light in her eyes which showed she was not altogether displeased by the turn of events.

  Gloom settled over Windsor. The King was on the Welsh border with his forces but it was not easy to gain the victory he sought. It was the Welsh mountains which defeated him time after time.

  The Demoiselle was like a grey ghost in the palace. She longed for news yet dreaded it. She prayed for Llewellyn; she did not care whether Merlin’s prophecy came true or not. It was not a King of England she wanted; she could have been completely happy with a Prince of Wales … and peace.

  The Queen Mother was so hostile to her that she wondered why she did not force her to leave Windsor. But the gentle Queen would be firm about that. It was after all the King’s wish that although she was a prisoner she should not be treated as one. Sometimes she would dream of how different her life would have been if the ship which was taking her to Wales had not been intercepted by the English. She and Llewellyn together with perhaps a little son or daughter. She would not have minded which. Oh how different it would have been from this weary waiting, this never-ending anxiety. Every time a messenger came to the castle she was in terror of what news he would bring. So was the Queen. She feared for Edward as the Demoiselle feared for Llewellyn.

  The Queen had discovered how Almeric was faring in Corfe Castle and had assured the Demoiselle that he was being well treated. ‘In spite of everything,’ said the Queen, ‘the King does not forget that you are cousins.’

  Edward was just, and the Demoiselle did not think he would be unduly cruel unless he found it expedient to be so. He was not like her grandfather King John who had taken pleasure in inflicting pain.

  It was circumstances rather than individuals that had decided on her cruel fate.

  The Queen Mother had received the Provençal physician William who assured her that her ailments were only those of encroaching age and that as she was usually healthy, there were many years left to her. That made good hearing and she rejoiced that Edward had sent for him. William was to stay in England – those were the King’s commands – and he must be given certain privileges which the Queen Mother would decide on.

  That was very satisfactory. If Edward could only settle that tiresome business in Wales and they could send the Demoiselle to Corfe to join her brother, and Edward could come home and get his wife with a child who would prove a boy, and if little Alfonso would show a little more vitality, all would be as well as it could be without the late King.

  Meanwhile Edward had begun the Welsh invasion and was at Chester when one of his men-at-arms came to tell him that a messenger from the Welsh was asking to see him.

  ‘I will see this man,’ said Edward.

  The man hesitated. He was obviously thinking of another occasion when Edward had received a messenger in his tent in the Holy Land.

  Edward acknowledged the man’s concern and gave him a friendly nod. ‘Bring him in,’ he said.

  He stood before the King, a tall proud figure.

  Edward knew him at once; he had been a prominent member of the Welsh party at a meeting when a truce had been made between the English and the Welsh.

  ‘Davydd ab Gruffydd,’ he said. ‘What brings you to me?’

  ‘I have come to offer my services to you.’

  The King narrowed his eyes. He did not like traitors and that Llewellyn’s brother should come to him thus aroused his suspicions. He knew that there was conflict between the brothers. He knew that the elder brother Owain had with Davydd fought against Llewellyn and it was because Llewellyn had been victorious that he was looked upon as the ruler of the principality. It was one matter for Welshmen to fight against Welshmen but to fight on the side of the English against the Welsh was quite another.

  Of course there was a long record of treachery among these people. All the more reason, thought Edward, not to trust him. Still, if he was well watched he could be an asset. It would be good for those who believed in Merlin’s prophecy to know that even Llewellyn’s brother was fighting with the English against him.

  Edward said, ‘I accept your offer.’

  ‘I will show you how to conquer my false brother. I know his weaknesses.’

  ‘I know them too,’ said Edward. ‘Well, Davydd ab Gruffyd, you shall be my ally. If you work with me, then I shall reward you. If you play the traitor to me I will make it so that you wish you had never been born rather than have to face what I shall inflict on you.’

  ‘My lord, I will serve you faithfully, until such time as you see fit to reward me.’

  Davydd was smiling triumphantly. This would show Llewellyn that brother though he might be he was ready to go to the enemy rather than submit to a minor role in Welsh affairs.

  When Llewellyn heard that his brother had gone to the English he was very melancholy. It seemed that he was being persecuted from all sides. He believed that had his Demoiselle been brought safely to him it would have been a sign that Heaven was on his side, and all his followers would have seen it as such. Superstitious as they were they had already begun to doubt Merlin’s prophecy and he knew how dangerous that was. He had appealed to the Pope to take the English to task for capturing and imprisoning his bride, but the Pope was not likely to support an unimportant prince against the growing might of the King of England. He had had his success in those skirmishes but they were not serious war and now great Edward himself had come to march against him. With the King was his brother, Edmund of Lancaster, returning from France with his new bride Blanche, daughter of Robert of Artois, De Lacy, Roger Mortimer, the Earl of Hereford and all the flower of Edward’s army. Clearly he had come up this time to conquer.

  Llewellyn knew that his real ally was the mountainous country, and but for that he would be a beaten man.

  He wondered if she were thinking of him now, if she often remembered that day when they had been betrothed and had believed that before long they would marry. If he failed now, what would become of her? Would they find a new husband for her? After all she was the King’s cousin. Dear Demoiselle, so gentle, so beautiful. He knew that she would be thinking of him, praying for him. It must come to pass that they marry. There must be truth in Merlin’s prophecy.

  Even then news was brought to him of a debacle in South Wales where Edmund of Lancaster was advancing and there was nothing left for Llewellyn to do but protect what was left to him.

  The ships from the Cinque Ports were now in the Menai Straits; Anglesey was cut off from Snowdon. It would be a simple matter to starve out the Welsh. That this was Edward’s intention became clear for instead of advancing and thereby running the risk of losing some of his men in battle, he set about consolidating his position and strengthening those castles he had captured. With fury Llewellyn learned that he was not only working on the fortifications but beautifying them, as though he already owned them.

  Those were dreary months. There was Llewellyn with those of his followers who were faithful and continued to believe in Merlin’s prophecies, knowing full well that they would have to give up in time bec
ause the King’s intentions were to starve them until they surrendered.

  Llewellyn spoke to his men.

  ‘Rest assured the prophecy will come true. Llewellyn shall reign over all England and then he will not forget his faithful friends. But it may well be that the time has not yet come. We must perforce suffer long and fight for this great prize.’

  To fight was well enough. To starve was different.

  There came a message from Edward. He would have Llewellyn know that he wished him no ill. All he wanted from him was his loyalty. He must indeed do homage for the lands of Wales, and he would be left to rule over them in peace as long as he did nothing to offend the laws of the King of England. Edward was ready to come to some agreement with Llewellyn. He would restore his bride to him, for he had no wish to hold her against her will and that of Llewellyn. All Llewellyn had to do was swear allegiance to the King of England and accept him as his sovereign lord.

  It was a great deal to ask, but there was so much to be gained.

  The outcome was that they met at Conway – that great fortress on which Edward had already set his men to work.

  Edward was strong, stern, but not without a certain benignity. He had no wish to continue in a war which Llewellyn knew full well he had already lost. Nor did he wish to be unduly harsh. Because of this he had sent for the Demoiselle to come to Worcester and there if Llewellyn agreed to his terms they should all meet to sign the treaty after which the marriage would be solemnised.

  From despair Llewellyn was raised to hope. All he had to do was submit to Edward, declare himself his vassal, pay certain monies, give certain concessions and his Demoiselle would be his.

  ‘I will send to you’, wrote Edward, ‘your brother Davydd who had the good sense you lacked when he joined me. He will lay my terms before you and when all is settled we will proceed to Worcester for the signing and there your marriage shall take place.’

  Receive Davydd, the traitor brother! How could he! Yet he understood Edward’s motive. Edward wanted peace … peace between the brothers as well as between England and Wales. Llewellyn had no alternative but to receive Davydd and he did so.