by Jean Plaidy
Then that for which they had longed came at last. The Demoiselle was with child.
This was the crowning of their love. Llewellyn was overcome by emotion. He liked to lie at her feet and make plans for the boy.
She laughed at him. ‘The boy. Always “the boy”! What if it should be a girl?’
‘If she is like her mother I ask nothing more.’
‘Welsh insincerity,’ she chided. ‘You are asking for a boy who looks like yourself.’
‘Well, which do you want?’
‘I shall want whatever I get.’
‘Oh, there speaks my wise Demoiselle.’
‘Since we have been together I have known so much happiness that I am content.’
‘If it is a boy we will call him Llewellyn. Why, he must be the one Merlin spoke of.’
She shook her head. ‘Nay. I do not want a warrior. I want my son to be the head of a happy family. I want him to have children who love and revere him – not subjects who fear him.’
‘Wise Demoiselle!’ he said, kissing her hand.
She was looking beyond him into the past, thinking, he knew, of her father – one of the greatest men of his age, they were beginning to say now. A man who had believed in the right and had for a time subdued a king. In time to come people would remember Simon de Montfort because he had lived and died violently. They would not remember the Demoiselle who had longed for peace and had brought happiness to a wild man of the mountains.
So they planned for the child to come.
One day Llewellyn’s brother Davydd called on them. Davydd had in truth come more satisfactorily out of the agreement with England than Llewellyn had. Because Davydd had gone over to Edward, the King had regarded him as an ally. Llewellyn had been the enemy.
Edward did not know Davydd. Davydd was a man who would fight on whichever side was the stronger.
There had been peace on the borders now for some time and Davydd was restless. He wanted to talk to his brother about the possibilities of regaining what had been lost.
The Demoiselle was uneasy when she greeted Davydd. She was sure his coming meant trouble. She did not want even the thought of war to be brought into their happy home.
Davydd sat long, talking with his brother.
‘Are you content then,’ he demanded, ‘to be the vassal of the English King? Where is your pride, Llewellyn?’
‘I have not been so happy before in the whole of my life.’
Davydd was sceptical. ‘A new husband. A new father-to-be. By the holy saints, Llewellyn, what will your son think of a father who was content to pass over his heritage to the English?’
Llewellyn was silent. When he was not with the Demoiselle he did sometimes think with shame of the peace he had made. What would his old grandfather have said? What of his father?
‘I was not strong enough against the English,’ he said. He frowned at Davydd. ‘I was surrounded by traitors.’
Davydd shrugged that aside. ‘If I had not gone to the English there would be nothing of Wales left to us.’
‘If you had stood beside me …’
‘It was not in me to be any man’s vassal … even my brother’s.’
‘Except of course the King of England’s.’
‘Not for long,’ said Davydd.
‘What mean you?’
‘I mean this: we should gather a force together and reclaim that which has been taken from us.’
Llewellyn thinking of the Demoiselle shook his head.
‘Have you forgotten the prophecy?’
‘It was clearly not meant for me.’
‘Certainly it was not for one who thrusts aside his opportunity of greatness. Llewellyn, you were meant to rule Wales … and, it may well be, England. Merlin may have meant that England was yours if you were bold enough to take it.’
There was a deep silence. That thought had more than once occurred to Llewellyn.
He said slowly: ‘I have never known such happiness as I have of late.’
Davydd was scornful. ‘You are newly married. You waited overlong. Your bride was snatched from you. Oh, it was so romantic. Dreams, dreams … and you are still in a dream. Think, Llewellyn. When you are an old man your children will say to you, “And what of Wales? What of your heritage? You threw it away for your romantic dreams.”’
‘It will be for them to go their ways, to learn life’s lessons for themselves, to ask what they would have – happiness such as I now enjoy, peace … joy … oh, I cannot explain to you. Davydd … that or war, bloodshed, misery, heartbreak.’
‘And the glory of Wales? Wales for the Welsh!’
‘You waste your time with me, Davydd.’
And at last Davydd saw that this was true.
He was thoughtful after Davydd had ridden away. The Demoiselle comforted him.
‘He thinks me a fool,’ he told her.
‘A wise fool,’ she answered. Then they talked of the baby to come and the beauty of the Welsh mountains.
Our mountains, she called them, and they with his happy marriage and his child to come were enough for him.
So they lived in their peaceful haven and the time grew near when the Demoiselle should be brought to her bed. The women came and shut her in away from him.
He sat outside her bedchamber and waited.
They had not reached the peak of their happiness yet. It would be different when the child came. She longed for the child, so did he.
A little boy. Llewellyn. That Llewellyn who was going to make Merlin’s prophecy come true. No, she would not want that. It would mean going out against Edward’s might. Perhaps Edward would be dead by the time this child grew up. Perhaps it would be Edward’s son whom the child would have to face.
Llewellyn smiled. That must be the answer. No man could stand against great Edward. It was something people knew instinctively. Even Merlin’s prophecy wilted and faded away in face of Edward.
The labour was long. The day faded. No sign yet. Is she suffering? That was more than he could bear. I should be with her. Oh no, my lord, they said. Better not. It would not be long now.
Oh, my Demoiselle, daughter of a great man and royal princess, what joy you have brought me. This cannot last. There must be no more children. You will say it is natural for a woman to bear children but I cannot endure this … torment.
He laughed at himself. His was the mental torment, hers the physical. The women were bustling back and forth. Grave faces and the perpetual cry: It will not be long now.
Then he heard the cry of a child.
He was at the door. ‘A girl, my lord. A lovely healthy little girl.’
He did not look at the child. He could only go to where the Demoiselle lay on her bed weak and exhausted.
He knelt by the bed and the tears flowed from his eyes. He could not stop them. He did not care that the women saw.
‘How he loves her!’ said the old midwife and she shook her head. There was infinite sorrow in her eyes.
‘A little girl,’ whispered the Demoiselle.
‘A beautiful child, my love,’ he answered.
‘You do not mind …’
‘I want only my Demoiselle. I care for nothing else …’
‘You must care for the child.’
They told him she must sleep now.
‘She is worn out with bearing your child,’ said the midwife.
So he went away and left her and he went to his room and prayed. He had forgotten to look at the child.
They were rapping on his door.
‘My lord, come quickly. My lady wishes to see you.’
He ran. He was at her bedside. She was looking at him with glazed eyes.
‘Llewellyn,’ she whispered his name. He knelt by the bed.
‘My Demoiselle, I am here.’
She said: ‘Take care … of the child …’
Then she closed her eyes.
One of the women came and stood beside him.
‘She has gone, my lord,’ she said.
‘Gone!’ he cried. ‘How dare you! Gone. She is here … She is here …’
He lifted her in his arms. He stood holding her lifeless body daring God to take her from him.
He was mad with grief. He had no wish to live.
‘There is the child,’ they told him.
He cared nothing for the child. He hated the child. Her coming had taken away the Demoiselle … a poor exchange. A tragic exchange. I should never have had a child. Oh God, how I wish I had never had a child. What do I want with a child … without her?
He was in a dream … a dream of despair. He cared for nothing. He shut himself in his chamber. He would not eat. He would see no one. He had lost everything he cared for.
They begged him to think of the child.
‘My lady said that she liked the name of Gwenllian. She said if the child is a girl I will call her that. My lord, shall she be given that name?’
They could give her any name they cared to. It was of no moment to him.
So the little girl who had cost her mother her life was named Gwenllian; and she was content with the wet nurse they had found for her, oblivious of what her coming had cost.
Llewellyn wandered in the mountains – as dark and dour as they could be when the sun was not there. And the sun had gone out of his life for ever. He cared not what became of him.
The Princess Eleanor was in her eighteenth year and it was generally wondered why she was not married. Her betrothed, Alfonso of Aragon, was now the Infant; he would one day be King of Aragon, but every time the matter of the marriage was broached the King was too busy to discuss it, or he found the project of sending his daughter away inconvenient for the time.
The Princess was delighted. She had no wish to go to Aragon. Why should she? She was perfectly happy in England. She had her dear family and the status of an heir to the throne.
Poor little Alfonso was now eight years old and people shook their heads over him. ‘He will never make old bones,’ they said.
As for the King, he loved all his children but he could not help being a little impatient with a boy who was so unlike himself. Alfonso was not going to have that fine physique inherited from the Normans; in fact he was very much a Castilian, dark-haired, soft-eyed and gentle. Admirable qualities in the Queen but hardly suitable for the heir of England. Moreover the King adored his eldest daughter. They rode together and talked together and he could not bear her out of his sight. She was a strong woman; she resembled her grandmother; and for this reason the Queen Mother’s love for the girl was almost as strong as that of the King.
She loved to have the Princess visit her. She had gone to Amesbury but only for brief visits. She was trying the place out before she finally settled there, and she certainly would not do that until the tiresome matter of the dowry had been sorted out. She was certainly not losing any of her wealth. She loved her money and possessions almost as much as she loved her family and she was not parting with one penny.
Moreover she loved life too much to shut herself away completely. Perhaps Heaven would be satisfied for the time being with a few brief sojourns in sanctity. After all she was in good health still so there were some years left in which to pay up in full.
Not that she believed she had a great deal to atone for. She had been a faithful wife to Henry; he and she had been as one; she had helped him govern his kingdom. No, she could not see that a great deal of recompense would be demanded from her.
She was fond of her daughter-in-law the Queen, but she found her a feeble creature. She was, however, what Edward wanted because he was an overbearing man – not like his dear father who would listen to counsel … from his wife. Edward would listen to no one – not even his mother. Edward believed he knew best.
Fortunately he was a great general. Men feared him; he was just, and as was to be expected from a son of hers and Henry’s, he was a faithful husband with a respect for family life. This was good for the nation, for subjects followed the fashions set by their King.
Now she welcomed her grand-daughter Eleanor with the greatest pleasure. She took an enormous interest in all her grandchildren, but Eleanor chiefly, and Mary of course, whom she had determined should go into a convent – Amesbury very likely, if it came up to her expectations.
‘My dear, dear child,’ she said and embraced the Princess. ‘How it delights me to see you! I have just come from Amesbury and the rest has done me good.’
‘You look well, my lady.’
‘I am, my dear. I should never have thought I could have been so well after your dear, dear grandfather died.’
‘Something in you died with him,’ said the Princess quickly before her grandmother said it.
‘How well you understand! I thank God for you, my child. You are such a comfort to your parents.’
Then they talked of the Queen. ‘I doubt not,’ said the Queen Mother, ‘that she will be pregnant again soon.’
‘Dear Mother! I think she should not bear so many children. It weakens her.’
‘It is too much. Edward should realise that it is hardly likely he will get a son now. His boys are never strong. I thought Alfonso looked very frail when I last saw him. He is such a darling boy. I have the widows doing vigil for him but what good does it do!’
‘It did nothing for the others,’ said the Princess.
‘It is my belief,’ said the Queen Mother conspiratorially, ‘that Alfonso will never come to manhood.’
The Princess nodded solemnly.
‘Well, we have you, my love.’
‘My lady, suppose poor Alfie …’
‘Dies?’ said the Queen Mother. ‘Alas, I think that very likely.’
‘And the Queen only has girls …’
‘I think that equally likely …’
‘And I …?’
‘My blessed child, you are the eldest daughter. I’ll swear you are every bit as good as a man. It has always maddened me … this desire for boys. As though they are cleverer than we are. Have you noticed that? Why, your grandfather used to say I was worth ten of his ministers.’
‘And so it proved.’
‘Your grandfather used to say I could have governed the country as well as he could.’
It would not have been politic to say: ‘And his was not very good government,’ and the Princess was excited because she saw that she had her grandmother’s support and everyone would agree that that was well worth having.
‘Then, my lady, if all this should happen, do you think that I could years and years hence become the Queen of England?’
‘It could come to pass, my child, and I believe that would not be such a bad thing for this country.’
‘But if I go to Aragon to marry this man …’
‘Ah, then, my dear, it would not be so. Your husband would want the crown and that is something the people would never have. No, you would have to be here … and you will have to show the people that you are strong and able. Secretly I believe the King thinks so. Look how he has honoured you.’
‘But this is what I want to talk to you about. There is news from Aragon. They want me to leave England at once. Oh, my lady, what am I going to do?’
‘It must be stopped,’ said the Queen Mother. ‘I will speak to your mother and the King.’
‘I could not bear it if I were sent away. Not to see you, my lady … and the others.’
The Princess was watching her grandmother closely. The old woman pressed her lips firmly together.
‘Certainly you must not go … yet. You are far too young.’
The absurdity of this did not matter to either of them. When the Queen Mother made a statement it must be true, however much the facts disagreed.
The King was quite ready to be persuaded that his daughter was too young to leave her home. Though he did cover himself by writing to the King of Aragon that it was ‘The Queen, her mother and our dearest mother who are unwilling to grant that she may pass over earlier on account of her tender age.’ He did, however, add that he agreed w
ith this.
The Aragonese were suspicious. To speak of the tender age of a bride-to-be who was in her eighteenth year when so many girls were sent to their bridegrooms at the ages of twelve and thirteen did seem rather strange.
A coolness sprang up between the ambassador of Aragon and the King’s Court which disturbed Edward and as conditions abroad necessitated the friendship of Aragon, he would have to be careful and not let them think that he wished to break off the contract.
Meanwhile the Queen had become pregnant once more.
Llewellyn continued to mourn. The baby was left to the care of nurses and he never wanted to see her. He would ride out into the mountains because he wanted to be alone with his wretchedness.
They said of him: ‘If he goes on like this he will die of melancholy.’
His brother Davydd, hearing of his state, came to see him again.
‘Do you not see how misguided it is to set store by such ephemeral joys?’ he asked.
‘Who would have thought she would have died?’ mourned Llewellyn. ‘We had so little time together. How could God have been so cruel?’
‘God is sometimes cruel to a man in order that he may fulfil his destiny.’
‘Destiny! what is my destiny without her!’
‘There was a prophecy by Merlin.’
‘A false prophet.’
‘Take care, Llewellyn. It is small wonder that Heaven strikes you such blows if you blaspheme in this way.’
‘Heaven can strike as many blows as it wishes. I cannot feel any more. I care nothing of what happens to me.’
‘You are not finished yet, Llewellyn. The future is before you.’
‘I care not for it. I shall never know happiness again.’
‘There is happiness to be found outside family life. Give yourself a chance to find compensation.’
‘You do not understand, Davydd.’
‘I understand full well. If you stay here brooding you will die of melancholy. Let me tell you, brother, I could raise an army. We could go against the English … together. Edward is lulled to a feeling of security. He thinks he has beaten us. Llewellyn, why do we not show him his mistake?’
