Виктория Холт - The Hammer of the Scots

Although the King had been dead for more than a year, the Queen still mourned him. Somewhere across the sea was her son, the new King, who must now return to claim his crown. The Queen, who had so long ruled her husband, and therefore the Court, had been prostrate with grief. She could think of nothing but that he had gone for ever – that dear kind husband who had adored her from the day she had been presented to him as his bride.

She often smiled to recall how, when their marriage had been negotiated, he had haggled over the paucity of her dowry and there had been a time when it had seemed that because of her father’s poverty there would be no marriage. Yet as soon as he had set eyes on her such a consideration had been of no importance whatsoever, and from that moment and throughout his life he had made no secret of the fact that he considered himself the most fortunate of monarchs to have secured as his wife this dowerless daughter of an impoverished count. It was love at first sight and had continued throughout their lives. She had ruled him and that had made for connubial bliss such as was rarely experienced in royal households. That she had attempted to rule England at the same time had brought about less happy results.

And now he was dead, and she lay alone on this magnificent royal bed in the Palace of Westminster in this splendid chamber which was the wonder of all who beheld it. The King was responsible for its beauty. Henry had loved art, literature, music and architecture. Often he had said he wished he could escape the trials of monarchy and follow those pursuits at which he would have excelled. Some of the barons had exchanged covert looks at such times implying that it would have been a good thing for the country if he had. The barons could be insolent. They had had too much power since Henry’s father John had been forced to put his signature to that Magna Carta document which had thrown a shadow over their lives.

She liked to lie in bed and survey this room and recall how they had planned it together. The murals were exquisite. Henry had been a deeply religious man and had ordered that angels be painted on the ceiling. ‘One could lie in bed and believe one was in Heaven,’ she had said. And, always the ardent lover, Henry had replied that when she was with him he was.

‘Oh God,’ she said aloud, ‘why did You have to take him? There could have been many years left to us.’

She remembered how they had come here often to watch the workmen. ‘It must be finished before the summer is over,’ Henry had said. ‘If you have to hire a thousand workmen a day I will have it done.’ ‘The cost, my lord –’ they had whined. How impatient Henry grew at this continual harping on money! He had shrugged aside such excuses. The people would pay. Why not? The London merchants were rich and there were always the Jews. ‘People have no souls,’ he had said to her. ‘They are always worrying about money.’

Oh yes, a good and religious man Henry had been. There was evidence of his piety in this room. Even on the window jambs texts from the Bible had been carved. Scenes from the life of Edward the Confessor were painted on the walls to bear out the fact that Henry had admired the Confessor far more than he had any of his warlike ancestors. ‘A noble king,’ he had said. ‘I would I could be like him.’ She had challenged him. She hoped, she had said, he would not have preferred to live like a monk and he did not regret his life with her which had produced their lovely children. How he had soothed her, reassured her! In his family circle he was the happiest man alive. It was only the barons who had tormented him because they were always trying to rule him, and the merchants of London who would not give of their wealth for the improvement of the country. People should pay for their privileges. His favourite motto was actually engraved on one of the gables of this room: ‘He who does not give what he holds, does not receive what he wishes.’ There was a warning to his rapacious subjects who made such a fuss about paying their taxes.

She must stop brooding on the past. The future had to be considered. But what future was there for a dowager queen? Most of them went into convents, to live the last years of their lives in pious solitude that they might be forgiven those acts worldly needs had imposed on them.

That was not the life for Eleanor of Provence. She was a born ruler and she would not easily relinquish her role.

Edward would soon be returning to claim the crown. Her beloved firstborn – that son of whom she and Henry had been so proud. In the meantime she was still the Queen, and she would allow no one to forget it.

When her women came in for the dressing ceremony the Queen’s first question was: ‘How are the children?’

They knew that she would ask and they were ready, having ascertained that all was well in the royal nursery before coming to her. Her grandchildren were now her greatest concern and since the death of little Prince John she had made a point before rising of assuring herself that there was no cause for anxiety.

The children were well, she was assured.

‘And Prince Henry has had a good night?’

‘He said it was so, my lady.’

She smiled and took the shift which was offered to her.

When she had completed her toilette and taken a little ale with oaten bread, one of the men at arms came in to tell her that there was a messenger without who wished to see her.

She received him immediately, and even as he knelt before her and she bade him rise she guessed that he came from her son Edward. She was right.

‘My lady,’ said the messenger, ‘the King has sent me to you with all speed. He is on his way to England and if the wind is fair should be with you within the next few days.’

She nodded. She had been expecting such a message for many months.

As soon as she had dismissed the messenger she went to the nursery. She had insisted that while their parents were absent the children should be under her care. They alone could relieve the gloom which descended on her when she thought of her late husband. They had brought great anxieties of course. The death of little John had been an agony but then Henry had been there to help her bear it.

How they had wept and stormed at the physicians who could not save that young life. How they had clung together and comforted each other. Henry had said, ‘Edward is young yet. He will have many children. And thank God we have little Henry.’

It had been painful to have to send the news to Edward and his wife Eleanor of the death of their son: and that it should be followed almost immediately by news of that of his father was heartbreaking. Small wonder that those two who remained in the nursery were her special care, that she should ask every morning after the health of young Henry who was too frail for her comfort.

So she was now turning to the children for solace, and because she loved them so devotedly, following in the family tradition they adored her.

Her spirits were lifted when she heard their cries of joy as she entered the schoolroom. Precious children! Not only because their father was a king but because they were her grandchildren.

They were seated at the table – eight-year-old Princess Eleanor and her brother Henry who was a year younger. The Queen Mother could not look at them without overpowering emotion – half pain, half pleasure. She could not forget little John – who would have been the eldest of the three. Everything had been done to keep him alive but the saints when appealed to had been cruelly deaf to royal pleas; the physicians had advised and had failed to save him. There was not a known remedy in the kingdom which had not been tried, yet John had died. It was an ill-fated name, some said. How could they have expected a child named John to prosper? All the devils in hell had been waiting to receive the child’s great-grandfather who, some said, was the devil himself come back to earth for a brief spell. They had ignored such folly, but they would not give another child a name to which so much ill repute still clung.