The Hammer of the Scots (4 page)

‘God means you to rule and be a great king,’ she said. ‘I know it. You see how you are protected. Do you remember that night in Bordeaux when we were seated on the couch talking of home and the children and suddenly lightning struck? The two men who were standing close to us were both killed but we were unharmed.’

‘They were in the direct path of the lightning.’

‘Yes, but we were saved. I believe Providence diverted it so that you should live to rule your country.’

He smiled at her. ‘You really believe that, Eleanor?’

‘I am sure of it,’ she said fervently.

He could see that she was comforted by the thought and he reminded her of another occasion when he was playing chess and had suddenly risen from the board without any reason – and afterwards could not say why he had done so. Almost immediately part of the roof had collapsed, killing his opponent at the board.

They both turned their faces to the shore and now his thoughts were going back to his attempts to recover his strength after that poison had entered his body. He remembered the throbbing pain of his lacerated arm and the agony of the knife which had cut away the gangrenous flesh and the looks on the faces of those about him which showed clearly that they believed they would leave him behind in the Holy Land.

But he had survived. By God, he thought now, there had been so much to survive for. There was England which would be his. There were his wife and his children … his father and mother … the sacred family which he had been brought up to believe was the most important thing a man could possess. But there was something more important if that man was a king. He had known it for a long time. The blood of his ancestors was in him and sometimes in his dreams it was as if those great men of the past came to him. William the Conqueror, Henry the Lion of Justice, his great-grandfather Henry II – those men who had cared for England, who had made it great. It was as though they said to him, ‘It is your turn now. You have the qualities we need. You, Edward Plantagenet, with the blood of the Normans in your veins. England – our England – has suffered through the weakness of your forebears. Rufus, Stephen, Richard – that brave man who deserted his country for a dream of glory in the Holy Land – disastrous and devilish John, and lastly – oh, yes, we know you do not like this – Henry, the father whom you loved, and who all but destroyed his country because he was so busy loving his family and pleasing an extravagant wife, who was always begging for luxury and draining away the life blood of the nation’s trade. You know this, Edward. It is for you, who are one of us, to save England.’

‘I will,’ he murmured. ‘God help me, I will.’

He had of late realised his great responsibilities. After the affair of the poisoned dagger, it occurred to him that he did wrong to place himself in danger. His father was ageing and though he, Edward, had two sons in the nursery, John and Henry were but babies. His strength had been impaired; he needed the temperate climate of his own country. He had seen that there was no hope of conquering the Saracen. Others before him had failed in that endeavour. Even the great Coeur de Lion had not succeeded in capturing Jerusalem.

When an opportunity had arisen to come to terms with the great Sultan Bibars he had taken it. A truce … it was all he had achieved but that could mean a few years’ respite. All that blood, all that danger to achieve that! His arm was painful; it had affected his health, he believed. He ought to go home, for who knew what the barons would be plotting? They were always suspicious of his father and they hated his mother, whose extravagance Edward knew in his heart should be curbed. A nation’s wealth should not be spent on banquets and fine jewels, indulging an extravagant wife and bestowing gifts and pensions on her impecunious relations. Much as he loved his father he could see clearly his shortcomings as a king.

So he had left the Holy Land and in Sicily the heart-rending news was brought to him. First the death of his eldest son John. Poor Eleanor had been stricken with grief. She had asked herself whether she had been wrong to go and leave her children, and could not stop contemplating what a bitter choice a wife had to make when it was a question of leaving her children to be with her husband.

There had followed the news of his father’s death. That had prostrated him indeed. He shut himself away from everyone, even Eleanor, and brooded on the loss of the kind parent who had loved him so dearly. He remembered how in the days of his childhood they had played together; when he had been ill – and oddly enough he had not been a strong child – the King with the Queen had been at his bedside. Matters of state could be neglected, important ministers made to wait in order that a sick child might be comforted. Never to see his father again! Never to talk with him! Never to stroll arm in arm with him in the palace gardens! Never to find comfort in that bond between them which only death had been able to break.

The Sicilians had marvelled at him. He had such a short time earlier heard of the death of his eldest son but it had not affected him as deeply as the death of his father.

‘The loss of children can be repaired by the same God that gave them,’ he had said. ‘But when a man has lost a good father it is not in the course of nature for God to send him another.’

And he knew of course that he must go home. He must comfort his sorrowing mother, for he guessed how she would take this bereavement. The death of his father had aged him, sobered him, set him looking back and thinking of the death of his great-grandfather, Henry II, who would be judged one of England’s most worthy kings and he thought of how he had died, deserted by his sons, sadly aware of it, and hated by his wife – in fact a lonely old man, friendless, and with few to wait at his bedside and offer him comfort. Yet he was a king who had done much for England. And that other Henry, Edward’s beloved father, who had brought the crown into danger and indeed had come near to losing it through men such as Simon de Montfort, had died mourned and regretted to such an extent that his children and his wife would be prostrate with grief and would keep his memory green for ever. Ironic, thought Edward, and wondered what his own fate would be. But it was not a matter of choice. Why should not a man be a good king and a good father? He knew that his Eleanor would stand beside him; she would not attempt to rule him as his mother had ruled his father. He loved his mother dearly but that did not mean to say that he did not realise her faults. Now that he was King he would have to curb her extravagance. He was not going to run into trouble with the barons as his father had done.

In a sudden rush of affection he took his wife’s hand and pressed it as they stood there on the boat deck watching the white cliffs come closer.

From the moment of his father’s death he had become the King, but he had not after all hastened home. He had better work to do on the Continent. This was not a time to indulge his grief but to consolidate his position. He visited the all-important Pope to ensure good relations with Rome; then he and Eleanor stayed awhile with her family in Castile, and then they came to Paris where he was entertained by the French King, Philip III, and Philip’s mother who was Edward’s Aunt Marguerite; he had even met the Count of Flanders at Montreuil and settled a dispute which had stopped the export of English wool to Flanders.

He had made good use of his time and behaved, he believed, in a kingly manner by setting matters of state before his inclinations.

Now the Queen had turned to him and she said, ‘Soon we must embark.’

‘It is a new life beginning for us,’ he replied. ‘When we step onto English soil again it will be as King and Queen.’

‘I wonder if the children will be there. Oh, Edward, our own babies and we may not recognise them.’

There were tears in her eyes and he knew that she was thinking of Baby Joanna. He said gently, ‘You must not fret. It is not for long. She will come back to us.’

‘I should never have begged you to allow it,’ she said.

‘Think of your mother’s delight.’

‘I try to. Oh I must not be selfish. I have my two darlings waiting for me. It should have been three.’

‘You must not brood on that. Children die. But they can be replaced. We’ll have more. I promise you a round dozen.’

‘I pray to God that it may be so. But I cannot forget Joanna.’

It was natural that her mother should have doted on the child. Joanna had been bright and lively from her very youngest days. It was strange how people were particularly drawn to their namesakes. So it had been with Eleanor’s mother. She had adored the baby from the moment she had seen her. She had carried her off to her own apartments and would not relinquish her to her nurses or to her mother; and when it had been time for Edward and Eleanor to leave the Castilian Court, she had become so desolate declaring that when they had gone, taking the baby with them, she would have nothing to live for. What could a loving daughter do? Poor Eleanor, her tender heart had been deeply touched by her mother’s lonely state. ‘We owe her something,’ she had said to Edward. ‘Your father made her waste her youth when he was pretending he would marry her. And afterwards he jilted her for the sake of your mother, and no one asked for her hand until my father came along. I was the only child there was time for then, and I am married and gone far away from her.’

Edward understood. Poor Eleanor, she was called upon once more to make one of those decisions which fall to people such as she was. A selfish woman would have had no difficulty. She would simply have done what she wanted. But Eleanor must always do what was right for others before she considered herself.

So they had left Baby Joanna with Eleanor’s mother who seized the child hungrily and had all but hidden her away lest her parents should change their minds.

And now here they were – home in England, Baby Joanna left behind in Castile.

But on the shore the children whom they had left in England were waiting for them.

There was a shout of joy as the King stepped ashore, quickly followed by his Queen.

‘Long live the King.’ The loyal cries went up.

Edward stood for a moment, his wife beside him, listening to their cheers.

Then he saw his mother, erect, her outstanding beauty scarcely impaired at all by the years and her grief. She was holding two children by the hand and the Queen’s eyes went immediately to them. She gave a little cry and held out her arms.

They were running to her – Princess Eleanor, the daughter who had been named after her, and the little boy, Prince Henry, pale and breathless.

‘My darlings.’ The Queen had knelt down, her arms about them, tears in her eyes.

‘My lady,’ cried the Princess, ‘you are home at last. It is years and years ago that you went away …’

She could only hold them to her.

‘Henry, my darling …’ Oh God, she thought. How pale he is! He is too small, too frail …

Then Edward had picked up his son. He set him on his shoulder. He held his daughter close to him and stood there.

A touching sight. This great king who towered above his subjects, dismissing ceremony, in that profound emotion engendered by his reunion with his family.

The Queen – more beautiful than they remembered – standing there beside him. A happy omen. A king come home. Old Henry was gone; his extravagant wife was relegated to the background. King Edward had come into his own.

‘Long live the King.’

Everyone who witnessed that affecting scene was sure that it was a good augury for England.

Edward was proud as he rode up the steep hill to the castle keep. The road was lined with cheering subjects who were determined to let him know how pleased they were that he had returned, and in their cheers was the hope that in him they had a strong king who would set right all that had gone wrong during the mismanagement of the previous reigns.

Dover had been aptly named by the early Britons Dvfyrrha, meaning the steep place. And what an inspiring sight it was to look down on that magnificent harbour and out to sea where he knew that on fine days the coast of France could be seen. Part of the castle was the work of the Romans and beside it was the ancient Pharos to remind people of their occupation. The castle was three hundred feet above sea level – perfectly placed for defence. No wonder it was called the Key to England.

Here his ancestors had lived. The Conqueror had taken possession of it immediately after the Battle of Hastings and Edward’s great-grandfather, Henry II, had rebuilt the keep. Oh yes, it was undoubtedly a great moment when he passed into the castle.

The Queen was beside him but she had eyes only for her children, and was longing to discuss the state of Henry’s health with her mother-in-law.

There was a chill in the castle in spite of the fact that it was August. She, who had spent so long in warmer climates, noticed it, and her first reaction was to wonder whether Henry suffered from this cold.

In their apartments Edward turned to her.

‘Home at last, my love,’ he said. ‘I trust it will be long before we have to go on our travels again.’

She nodded. A forlorn hope. When had any King of England been allowed to live peacefully in England?