The Hammer of the Scots (7 page)

‘I could never be completely happy unless I knew you were all well and safe, and I shall never forget that dreadful time.’

‘It is all in the past. Alexander is indeed the King now. None would dare cross him.’

‘And he is a good husband to you, my darling.’

‘None could be better. He is as near to my dearest father as anyone could be.’

‘He was incomparable. Margaret, I cannot describe to you how I suffer.’

‘I know, I know. But he would not wish us to brood. He would be happy that Edward is such a fine man and that the people are with him as they never were …’

‘With your father? Oh they were wicked to him. They have been so mean … so parsimonious …’

‘Let us rejoice, Mother, that they seem to have forgotten their grievances. Let us hope that there will be no more uprising of the barons. People will always be ready to remember Simon de Montfort.’

‘That traitor!’

‘He opposed our father, my lady, but I do not think he ever meant to be a traitor. And his death at Evesham was … terrible. I must tell you of something strange that happened. Not long before I received tidings of Edward’s return and that we were to come south for the coronation, we were at Kinlochleven on the banks of the Tay. We were in the banqueting hall, the company talking, as such companies do, of their deeds and adventures, but I was melancholy as I have been since news of my father’s death and I had the wish to escape from their laughter and light chatter.

‘Then the name of Simon de Montfort was mentioned and one of my knights who had sometime since come from England talked of the battle of Evesham at which he had fought, and he boasted that he had struck the first blow which had killed de Montfort. I was weary of all the talk and I rose from the table and said that I would take a walk along by the river. My attendants came with me and among them was this knight. They saw that I was depressed for this talk of Simon de Montfort had reminded me of my father, and I kept thinking of that dreadful day when the news had come to me of his death. I fell into such melancholy that one of my women said they should play games to raise my spirits. So they did. The men wrestled together and there were contests of leaping and jumping and climbing the trees. Their antics were funny and I found myself laughing. The knight who had brought up the subject of Simon de Montfort was the winner of most of the sports, and one of my women said that I should bestow on him a mark of approval so I said I would give him my glove. They wanted a ceremony. He was to come and take it from me. As he stood beside me he looked down at his hands which were mudstained and he bowed low and said, “Gracious lady, I could not touch your hand in this state. Give me permission to go to the river and wash my hands.” I granted that permission. It was a sort of mock ceremony, you see. And when he bent over to wash his hands I signed to one of my women to push him into the river. This she did and there was much laughter. The knight turned to smile with us. “What care I?” he cried. “I can swim.” Then he began to show us all that he could be as skilled in the water as on land, and he cut all sorts of graceful figures as he moved away from the bank. We applauded and I called out that he was asking for further trophies. Then suddenly something happened. It was as though the waters were stirred by some invisible hand to form a whirlpool. He gave a wild cry and disappeared. His little page must have thought his master was calling for him and he ran down to the river and went in, swimming towards the spot where his master had disappeared. In a moment he too was out of sight.

‘“It is a game,” I said. “Our clever knight is trying to show us how clever he is.”

‘We waited, half laughing, expecting every second to see him rise and swim for the shore with his little page. It took us some time to realise that we should never see them again and to realise that our innocent frolic had ended in tragedy. We never discovered the body of the knight nor that of his page.’

‘My dear child, what a dreadful story! What was this whirlpool which suddenly appeared in the river?’

‘That we did not know, my lady. But I tell you this to let you know how the people – even of Scotland – remember Simon de Montfort. They said that Heaven was angry. That de Montfort was a saint and this was Heaven’s revenge on this knight because he had boasted of his part in the murder.’

‘There will always be those to attach significance in these matters. De Montfort was no saint. He was a traitor who rose against your father. That is something for which I shall never forgive him.’

‘I was always fond of my Aunt Eleanor. I think she loved him dearly.’

‘I remember that marriage well. Conducted in secrecy. Your father was furious when he discovered that Simon de Montfort had married his sister.’

‘But he knew of the wedding. He attended it.’

‘Only because Simon had seduced your aunt and he thought it best in the circumstances.’

Margaret looked at her mother. That was not true, of course. King Henry had consented to the marriage because his sister had persuaded him into it, and afterwards, when he saw what a storm it aroused, he had pretended it was because Simon had seduced her first.

But her mother had always believed what she wanted to and contradiction on such matters displeased her.

‘I wonder where they are now,’ she asked.

‘Who? The de Montforts? In exile in France, I believe. They had better not try to come back here.’

‘You mean Simon’s wife and daughter? What of her sons?’

‘Young Simon is dead. He deserved to die the traitor’s death but God took him instead. He was guilty of murder with his brother Guy who is the worst of them all. You know how they most brutally murdered your cousin, Henry of Cornwall, in a church at Viterbo. Oh, that was wicked. It broke your Uncle Richard’s heart. He adored Henry and Henry was a good man, faithful and loyal to your father and to your brother Edward.’

‘I know, my lady. He and Edward were brought up together – with the de Montfort boys. I remember seeing them together in the days before my marriage.’

‘There has been much tragedy in our family, Margaret.’

‘I know, my lady. But now Edward is home and the people love him. Perhaps we shall live peacefully.’

‘There is perpetual trouble. I shall not feel happy while these de Montforts live.’

‘I am sorry to have reminded you of them.’

‘Saints indeed! There was never one less saintly than Simon de Montfort.’

‘It is a pity he was killed so brutally.’

‘It was in battle. His side would have done the same to your father or Edward had they been the victors.’

‘I suppose Guy and the young Simon thought they were avenging him. It is understandable. It would be best if it could all be forgotten.’

‘My dearest Margaret, you were always the peacemaker. I should like to hear that the de Montforts were all dead. I like not to remember that Guy still lives and his brother Almeric too.
He
is with his mother, I believe, and the girl Eleanor. They call her the Demoiselle. It is a good idea. There are too many Eleanors in our family.’

‘’Tis true, lady. There is yourself and now Edward’s wife and Edward’s daughter and our aunt who married de Montfort and de Montfort’s daughter … I am so pleased I called
my
daughter Margaret.’

‘Which, my love, means that she can so easily be confused with her mother.’

‘I know, but Alexander wanted the name.’

The Queen Mother took her daughter’s face in her hands and kissed it. ‘I know. He loves you so well, and would have your daughter named for you. I’ll warrant he tells himself she is growing up exactly like you.’

‘How did you guess?’

The Queen Mother laughed happily. Her anger, aroused by the reference to the de Montforts, had evaporated.

‘Because, my dearest, he has the look of a happy husband. Now tell me, how did you think Beatrice was looking?’

‘Very well.’

‘She has given me five little grandchildren. I am very proud of her.’

‘I am sorry, dear Mother, that I have fallen short of that number.’

‘My dearest child, all I ask of you is that you are happy. You have my three little darlings and that contents me well. I’ll warrant Beatrice is with Edward’s wife. I hear they became great friends in Acre.’

‘Edward is fortunate in his Queen, my lady. She seems so gentle and devoted to him.’

‘She is a good wife. She thinks he is the most wonderful being on earth. She does exactly as he says all the time. I was never like that.’

‘I am sure Edward appreciates it.’

‘Your father appreciated me and yet I always had my own opinions.’

‘Dearest lady mother, you cannot expect everyone to be like you.’

The Queen Mother laughed.

She felt she was nearer happiness than she had been since Henry’s death.

‘Let us go and find Beatrice,’ she said. ‘There is so much I want to say to her. I have you so rarely to myself that I grudge every moment that is spent away from me.’

Dear Mother, thought Margaret, she cannot bear any of us to care for anyone more than we care for her.

There was excitement throughout the capital which extended to the whole of the country. A king was about to be crowned and soothsayers declared that a new age of prosperity was coming to the country.

The last two reigns had been uneasy ones – the first disastrous and the second slightly less so. Two weak kings had governed the country, now a strong man had come, a man who looked like a king, who acted like a king and having just returned from a campaign to the Holy Land would have the seal of God’s approval on him.

Great days were in store for England.

Stories were told throughout the countryside of his strength and prowess. His Queen was a good and virtuous woman. The account of how she had sucked the poison from his wound was repeated. They forgot that she came from a foreign land and that they had laughed at her followers when she had first arrived in the country. Little dark people whom they said resembled monkeys. Now she had grown into a beautiful woman. She had cast away her foreign manners. She was English and a fitting wife for the great King.

Edward had said that there should be hospitality for all at his coronation. He wanted the people to know that he was going to introduce just laws, that he was determined to make his country prosperous. Already he had settled that irritating matter of the wool with the foreign traders. He believed that the people should be allowed to carry on their peaceful trades and only be asked for money when the country needed it.

For once though there should be a lavish spectacle. The London merchants were willing to pay to see their King ceremoniously crowned. It was right that there should be celebrations for this was the beginning of a new era.

Wooden buildings were erected in the palace yards. On these food was going to be cooked, for none should go empty on this great day. There were no roofs on these buildings; they were open to the sky that the smoke of the fires should escape. Here, announced Edward, food would be served to all those who came to the city – no matter who. Men of the country would eat with London merchants, and apprentices and anyone could eat as the King’s guest – rich and poor alike, wealthy tradesmen and beggars. For fourteen days there should be this feasting. And on the day of the coronation the conduits and the fountains should flow with red and white wine.

Everyone must be aware that this was a time for rejoicing.

There was no murmur from the people. This was a different sort of celebration from those arranged by the new King’s father. Henry had given lavish banquets it was true, but they had always been for his friends and relations. But at King Edward’s table there would be just the good plain food which was served to his people. He wanted them to know that he was not a man to set great store by feasting and drinking and the wearing of fine clothes. His pleasure would be in a prosperous land and a happy people.

Perhaps he was subtly saying that they would find him different from his father. If he was, this was just what his people wanted to hear.

The Archbishop of Canterbury, Robert Kilwardby, had arrived at Westminster to officiate at the coronation. Edward considered that he was fortunate in his premier archbishop. It was not that he had any great affection for him. Far from it. They had nothing in common. But Kilwardby, unlike many of his predecessors, was not a man to attempt to interfere in state matters. Something of a pedant and a scholar he was more likely to be concerned with points of grammar than the country’s policies. A scholar who had taught for many years in Paris as a master of arts, one time prior of the Dominicans, he was not a man who saw himself as rival ruler to the King.

‘Let us thank God for our Archbishop,’ said Edward to his Queen.

And so, side by side, Edward and Eleanor his Queen were crowned to the acclamation of the people, and after the ceremony they made their way to the great hall of Westminster where the feast had been prepared.

The royal pair wore the crowns which had so recently been placed on their heads, and Edward whispered to his Queen that he wondered how she was managing to support hers and trusting it was not too uncomfortable. She assured him that she could endure it, and she was overcome with emotion to think how fortunate she was, and she did not mean in becoming the crowned queen of such a country but in being given such a husband.