by Jean Plaidy
As they came near to Windsor, Alexander sent messengers ahead of them to herald their approach and so it happened that both the King and Queen with a royal party came to meet them.
What joy there was in the reunion! The Queen must study her daughter, to see if she was plump enough, well enough, happy enough.
Margaret laughed. ‘Dearest lady,’ she cried, ‘how could I fail to be happy when we are together!’
So they rode through the forest to the castle. Oh beautiful, noble castle, beloved of the family because the King had had it refurnished when he had married the Queen.
Into the great chamber they went.
‘Nothing is changed,’ cried Margaret. ‘It is as it always was. Dear Father, how is your grassplat?’ She ran to the window and looked out. There was the grassy rectangle which he had designed and of which he had always been so proud. Margaret turned and threw her arms about him. ‘Oh let everything stay the same.’
Alexander was looking at her in some surprise. She did not care. The Scots rarely showed their feelings, but Alexander knew something of the perfections of her parents and the happy childhood she had spent with them so that nothing that ever happened afterwards could compare with it.
‘Oh, it is so wonderful to be home!’ she cried.
Henry could not hide his delight, even though he felt it must be rather disconcerting for Alexander. But then he must not expect to give Margaret the happiness she had found with her incomparable parents.
Margaret was longing to be alone with her mother so that she could tell the secret. How they would laugh together. But first of course there must be certain formalities. After all she was a Queen and Scotland was by no means unimportant if only because it could cause so much trouble on the border.
There were the usual festivals which Henry so loved to give in honour of his family and which the people so hated to pay for. This was just another instance of the extravagance incurred by the royal family.
Already the people were grumbling.
‘They grudge us a little happiness,’ said the Queen.
‘How wonderful it is to be alone together, dear lady,’ said Margaret.
‘I am so happy that you are here, my dearest.’
‘I have thought of nothing since I left England but the joy I should find in coming back.’
‘Alexander is kind to you?’
‘Yes, he is kind.’
‘A good husband.’
‘I suppose you would say so, but you see I compare him with my dear father and no one could compare with him, could they?’
The Queen agreed that this was so.
‘See what you do,’ said Margaret. ‘You make us all love you so much that we have not much room for anyone else.’
It was not in Eleanor’s nature not to be delighted by such a revelation though she told her daughter that she had prayed that she would find the greatest happiness of her life in her marriage.
‘It will be different, my darling, when you have children.’
‘Dear mother, I have something to tell you.’
Eleanor took her daughter’s face in her hands and looked into her eyes. Margaret nodded, laughter in her eyes and her upturned lips.
‘You have just learned …’
‘I knew before. You are the first I have told.’
‘Margaret! Alexander …’
‘He will know all in good time.’
‘But why this secrecy?’
‘You do not know what they are like up there. I should never have been allowed to travel if they had known I was with child.’
Eleanor began to laugh, but she was quickly serious.
‘We shall have to take good care. My dear, how soon?’
‘It should be in February …’
‘A long time yet. They are right, you know, about your travelling. We shall have to see that you leave in good time. We must take great care.’
‘I am going to take great care, dear Mother, that when the time comes for us to go it will be too late for me to travel. You will help me, won’t you? This is our secret … as yet. Tell no one … but my father. He may know. Let it be our secret. Then when it is too late … we shall tell.’
‘My dear child, what a schemer you are!’
‘If you knew how I longed to be with you. I will not have my visit cut short. I am going to make it as long as I can. Please, dearest Mother, help me.’ Eleanor took her daughter into her arms and laughed.
They clung together until Margaret was almost hysterical with laughter.
Then Eleanor said: ‘We will tell the King. It will amuse him. He has had much of late to frustrate him. Let us tell him something to make him laugh.’
Together they went to the King’s chamber. The Queen signed to him that she wished to speak to him alone and he dismissed everyone. When the three of them were alone together Eleanor said: ‘Shall you tell him or shall I?’
They began to laugh and Henry looked from one to the other in a state of happy bewilderment.
‘Please, my darlings, may I share the joke?’
‘Go along. Margaret, you tell him.’
‘Please, my lady, I had rather you did.’
‘Margaret is with child. It is a secret between us three. The Scots do not know. Nor does she wish them to. She feared they would stop her coming and that she could not endure. She is going to keep the secret and only when it would be unsafe for her to travel back shall it be known.’
The King smiled slowly. Then he too was laughing.
How happy he was. While he had this dear family he could not be seriously disturbed by the troublemakers in his realm.
All would come right. In the meantime there was this delicious secret – shared by the three of them.
It was such a joy to be in England. Wherever the Court was there were Margaret and Alexander.
‘How good it is for the relationship between our two countries,’ said Margaret.
Alexander agreed on this and he had to admit that they could not have been made more welcome.
‘We shall have to think of returning soon,’ he said.
‘We must not leave too soon. That would offend my father,’ Margaret pointed out.
‘Perhaps then we should stay a little longer.’
When she sensed that he was about to broach the matter again she told him she was feeling a little unwell and her mother wished her to see the royal physician.
When she had done this her parents summoned Alexander to her bedchamber and there they played out the little farce which they had arranged between them.
The Queen said: ‘Margaret is with child, Alexander. It is one of those unusual pregnancies. It is only just apparent. It seems that the child is due in February and in view of this the doctors feel that it would be unwise for her to travel.’
Alexander was taken aback.
‘Naturally,’ said the King, ‘this has been a great surprise to you, but an agreeable one, I am sure. The doctors have told us that Margaret will be perfectly all right if great care is taken. I would wish my physicians to care for her. Her mother will not hear that she leaves.’
Alexander, still bewildered, said: ‘It is the custom for the heir to the throne to be born in Scotland.’
‘Of course, of course … but better for the heir to be born in England than no heir at all … and perhaps danger to the mother, who is my daughter.’
Alexander must agree with this. He embraced Margaret and told her how happy he was that at last they were to have a child. He was uncertain about staying in England, though.
Henry laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Do not fret, my son,’ he said. ‘Leave this to the Queen and myself.’
Alexander realised at length that there was nothing else he could do; and in due course he returned to Scotland leaving his wife in her mother’s care.
They were very happy months. There was Christmas at Windsor. What fun they had, for Eleanor said this must be a very special Christmas, since they had the Queen of Scotland with them.
They were together all the time and Eleanor constantly congratulated Margaret on her clever manoeuvre. She certainly had showed herself to be a true daughter of her mother.
Messages came from Alexander. There was great anger and resentment in Edinburgh, he said. It was even hinted that the Queen must have known of her condition before she left and it was suggested that she had deliberately concealed it.
Margaret showed her mother this letter and they laughed together. ‘They are not entirely foolish then,’ said Eleanor. ‘But what matters it? Let them think what they will. All that matters is that your child will be born here and I shall be at hand to make sure all is well.’
‘There could not be a greater comfort in the world,’ said Margaret.
On a snowy February day in Windsor Castle Margaret gave birth to her first child. It was a girl and she was called Margaret after her mother.
There was great satisfaction and rejoicing through the castle.
‘You cannot make the journey back until the late spring or summer,’ said the Queen. ‘Your father would never allow it.’
And Margaret settled down to make the most of the time.
Chapter XVII
THE PASSING OF A DREAM
Margaret had returned to Scotland. It had been heart-rending to say farewell to her and the Queen was plunged into deeper melancholy when messengers came to her from Berkhamsted to tell her that her sister Sanchia was ill and asking for her.
Eleanor left with all speed and when, arriving at the castle she was taken immediately to her sister, she was shocked by the sight of her. Sanchia had not been in good health for some time but she had not expected to see her so obviously ill.
‘Thank God you sent for me,’ she said. ‘You should have done so before.’
‘I would have done so, but I knew you had much to occupy you. I would not have asked you to come now but I feared if I did not I might never see you again.’
‘What nonsense. You are soon going to get well. I shall see that you do.’
‘The Queen commands,’ said Sanchia with a smile.
‘’Tis so. What ails you?’
Sanchia touched her chest. ‘It is difficult to breathe … often.’
‘How long has this been going on?’
‘Oh some time … but it is worse now.’
‘Does Richard know?’
‘Oh, Richard has much with which to occupy him.’
‘His wife’s health should be the first of his concerns.’
‘We are not all as fortunate as you, Eleanor. Ah, how lucky you have always been. You had the perfect marriage, the perfect husband, the perfect children …’
‘Oh come. You were happy with Richard.’
‘Richard is not Henry, Eleanor. I don’t think he was meant to be a husband. Henry was, of course. That is why he is the perfect one.’
‘You sound bitter. Tell me, has Richard been unkind to you?’
‘No … not that. Neglectful, yes. He has had so much to occupy him. He is a King now.’
‘And has made you a Queen.’
‘Perhaps the title does not mean so much to me. I should have liked a husband who loved me as Henry loves you. You found that – and a crown as well.’
‘Oh, Henry is a good husband and I have the children. But you have your son, Sanchia.’
‘Yes, I have my son. He is a good boy … ten years old. But no one means as much to Richard as his son Henry. Edmund knows this. Richard is rarely with us you know.’
‘I’m sorry, Sanchia.’
‘How I dreamed … after you left. It was so romantic was it not? The poem and the way Richard came to Les Baux and what grew out of it! I used to imagine his coming back … and when he did it seemed like a dream come true. I expected too much.’
‘No one expects too much, for it is expecting and believing first that makes good things happen. Providing one does everything in one’s power to make them.’
‘You speak for yourself, Eleanor. You were always sure of yourself. You knew what you wanted; you determined to get it … and you did.’
‘Things do not always go smoothly, Sanchia.’
‘No, but you are always in command. And you made your husband love you and your children adore you. It is your right. I admit it. But the less successful of us should be forgiven for being a little envious now and then.’
‘You are talking nonsense, Sanchia. You have been very happy with Richard. You know you have.’
‘When we have been together sometimes … but I always knew that there were others. It wasn’t quite what I had dreamed at Les Baux. But never mind. It is the end now.’
‘The end! I won’t have you talk such nonsense. I shall stay here until you have recovered.’
In spite of her assurance the Queen was worried. Sanchia had grown very thin and there were violet shadows under the eyes. She was listless and when the paroxysms of coughing seized her, Eleanor was afraid.
She sat by her bed, and as the days passed she scarcely left her for it was clear that Sanchia was growing weaker.
They talked of Les Baux and their childhood; Eleanor sang some of the poems she had set to music and she knew that as Sanchia lay with her eyes closed she was back in the hall of the old castle and that the old days were more real to her than this bedchamber.
If only the weather were better, thought Eleanor. If only it was spring or summer, then I could take her into the gardens and it would indeed be like Les Baux. But it was dismal November; the days were short and dark, the mist penetrated the castle and hung about in patches. As the days grew darker, Sanchia became weaker and at length Eleanor was forced to admit that her sister was dying.
It was a terrible blow to her. Greatly she loved her family, and that this sister, younger than herself, would shortly leave the world filled with her melancholy.
She sat in the window-seat looking out across a landscape which reflected her mood. The branches of the trees denuded of their leaves stretched up to the greying sky. Across the field to the marshy land the reeds looked like red parchment and the woolly seed heads of the thistles were everywhere. There was no sign of spring and there was a deep sadness in Eleanor’s heart.
Each day Sanchia’s condition weakened. Eleanor stayed with her.
She was at her bedside when she died which she knew gave her sister great comfort.
She was buried with the usual ceremony at which her Uncle Boniface presided. Richard did not attend, although he was in England. He had business in London.
Eleanor was very anxious that all honour should be paid to her sister and that no expense should be spared in giving her a funeral worthy of a sister of the Queen of England.
When she intimated this to Henry he agreed with her. No expense must be spared and as it seemed unlikely that Richard would agree to such extravagance, Henry would pay for it.
Chapter XVIII
LONDON’S REVENGE
The state of affairs between the King and the barons had deteriorated and the King had found it necessary to fortify the Tower and Windsor Castle against attack which he feared might take place at any moment.
He was accused of having violated the Provisions of Oxford which was the reform laid down by that Parliament which had been called the Mad and which had been held in Oxford in 1258. The members of that parliament had drawn up reforms for the Church and the royal household, which meant that the King’s extravagant spending must be curbed. Later another clause had been added which was designed to exclude foreigners from entering the country and to drive out those who were already there and who were considered responsible for the King’s continual need to tax his people in order to replenish his exchequer.
The fact that the King ignored these rules and was indeed spending more and more, and often on the foreigners, had given rise to such discontent that the leading barons, under Simon de Montfort, were determined that the position should not be allowed to endure.
Henry was depressed. He could not ride out without an armed guard. The baro
ns were turning his subjects against him, he said.
He remembered how his grandfather had, in the depth of his melancholy, caused a picture to be painted of an eagle in a nest with the young eaglets attacking him. Henry represented the eagle, the eaglets his sons. His was not quite such a sorry case. He could imagine nothing as bad as having a man’s own family turn against him. Thank God, that had not happened and that unfortunate matter with Edward had been resolved and had been proved to be due to malicious Gloucester’s envy of Simon de Montfort. Edward was his very good son and if he wanted proof of his family’s affection he only had to think of how Margaret had deceived her husband and his ministers because of her great desire to come to England and be with her family.
Now it was the people who were traitors to their King – the barons led by that man who had menaced his peace of mind for so long – Simon de Montfort.
He went to pray in the Abbey of Westminster and when he was returning to the palace he passed one of the monks who was painting a picture of the Abbey. He paused to admire it. It was exceedingly clever how the monk had caught the gleam of the stone.
‘A fine picture, William,’ he said.
The man bowed his head in pleasure.
‘You are indeed an artist.’
‘God has been good to me,’ said William. ‘All that I have comes from Him.’
‘That’s true. But that He has chosen you as His instrument redounds to your credit.’
The King stood for a few moments studying the picture.
‘You shall paint one for me, my good monk,’ he said. His eyes narrowed. ‘You shall depict me with my subjects who are endeavouring to tear me to pieces; but I shall be rescued … rescued by my own dogs. Would you do that then, good William?’
‘My lord, I could paint a picture no matter what the subject.’
‘Then here is a subject for you. It will show future generations what I had to endure from those who should have served me best. Rest assured, you will be paid well.’
The monk bowed his head and the King passed on. As he continued to paint the picture of the Abbey William was thinking that the King was overwrought and small wonder if rumours he heard were true. There was trouble brewing, and when a King’s subjects were restive and ready to rise against him it needed only one little spark to set the conflagration going.
