Every known remedy had been used; the best of the physicians had been at her bedside – all to no avail.
Her body was being sent to England because that had been her wish. She had always wanted to be buried in the arch on the north wall of the choir in front of the altar in Christ Church in New Gate, that church which she herself had founded before her marriage.
It should be done, said John her husband, and her body was sent to England, but her heart had been removed and was to be placed in the Abbey of Fontevraud where her great-grandfather and great-grandmother, Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine, lay together with the remains of her great-uncle, Richard Coeur de Lion.
The Queen Mother was dazed with shock. She could not believe this had happened. So many deaths … such senseless deaths … in such a short time. It really did seem as though the hand of God was turned against her.
She shut herself in her apartments and stormed against the Almighty. Then she remembered her beloved husband who had been a deeply religious man and she knew how distressed he would be if he could hear her. That sobered her. ‘If this is my cross,’ she said, ‘then must I bear it. But when You took him You took away the best part of my life, and now You seem intent on taking what is left to me.’
It seemed as though God had taken heed of her railings and was indeed sorry for what He had done, for shortly after the funeral of Beatrice the Queen was brought to bed and to the joy of all she gave birth to a healthy son.
There was great rejoicing throughout the Court. It was a good omen. Little John and Henry had gone but the Queen was young and bore children without difficulty. And here was the boy they all wanted.
The Queen Mother came out of her mournful lethargy and began making plans for the child.
Edward was so delighted that, when the Queen, who rarely expressed a desire which was not Edward’s, said she would like to call him Alfonso after her father, he agreed.
The Queen Mother was astounded. ‘He should have been Edward. Is he not the heir to the throne? Alfonso! Do you think the English will ever welcome a King Alfonso?’
‘When he comes to the throne,’ said the King, ‘we shall have to give him a new name. In the meantime his mother particularly wants Alfonso and Alfonso it shall be.’
And as Alfonso thrived so did the hopes of the family. They had ridden out the storm of ill luck which had brought death to so many of them; they were now set fair and the journey ahead looked full of promise.
Chapter III
THE WELSH PRINCE AND THE DEMOISELLE
Trouble, as might have been expected, came from the Welsh border.
Gilbert of Gloucester came riding in all haste to the King at Westminster to tell him the news. The King received Gilbert in one of the lavishly painted chambers in the palace which his father had restored.
Edward knew at once that the news was bad.
‘Llewellyn?’ he said even before Gilbert had begun.
‘It was certain to happen, my lord. The Marcher Barons have been reporting trouble there. It seems that the Welsh have discovered some prophecy of Merlin’s which says that a man named Llewellyn shall reign not only over Wales but over England as well.’
The King turned a shade paler. He was more afraid of prophecies than armies for he knew how deeply the people could be affected by them.
‘And this is the chosen Llewellyn are they saying?’
‘My lord, that is so.’
‘By God I will show this Llewellyn that he shall never be King of England while the true King lives.’
‘I thought you would say that, my lord.’
‘How dare he? What right has he? Is he descended from the Conqueror?’
‘He intends to ally himself with the Conqueror’s line, my lord.’
‘It is deeds not intentions he will need if he is to make fact of his dreams. How, pray, does he think he will become a member of our family?’
‘Through his wife.’
‘His wife! He is unmarried.’
‘But intends to marry ere long. You will remember that he was at one time betrothed to Eleanor de Montfort, she whom they call the Demoiselle.’
‘Her father agreed to the betrothal when he was raising the Welsh to fight against my father.’
Gilbert nodded. ‘It is said that the pair became enamoured of each other then. It must be nearly ten years ago and the Demoiselle was a very young girl at that time, but her youth did not prevent her falling deeply in love.’
Edward shrugged his shoulders.
‘My lord,’ said Gilbert, ‘this matter is not lightly to be dismissed. Forget not that the Demoiselle is royal through her mother – your father’s sister. She is your cousin and if he marries her, Llewellyn will feel that he is not without a claim to the English throne.’
‘Then he must be mad.’
‘He is mad with this dream of glory. He says he is going to make Merlin’s prophecy come true.’
‘And how will he do that?’
‘He will try to win England by conquest.’
‘And you think I shall idly stand by and let him?’
‘By God and all His angels, no. You will fight. You will show him who is master here. Poor Llewellyn, I could feel it in my heart to be sorry for him when I think of what you will do to him when he ventures out from the shelter of his Welsh mountains. But he intends to establish his link with the throne through marriage with the Demoiselle.’
‘Who is in exile with her mother and her evil brothers.’
‘This is the news, my lord. He has sent for the Demoiselle. They are to be married when she arrives in Wales.’
‘From France?’
‘He has sent a ship for her. She will soon be on her way. Then when he is married to her, he will do more than harry the Marcher country. The Welsh are with him to a man – and maybe others. Since it was put about that Merlin prophesied that a Llewellyn should be King of England people begin to believe it may be so.’
Edward’s eyes were narrowed. He stood for a few seconds, long legs apart, staring into the distance. Then he smiled slowly.
‘You say the Demoiselle is to come out of exile to marry him, eh?’
‘That is so, my lord.’
‘Do you think she will ever reach him? I do not. The first thing we do, Gilbert, is to send out ships to intercept her. We are going to make sure that Llewellyn does not get his bride.’
In a small château in the town of Melun which stands on the river Seine, Eleanor de Montfort, Countess of Leicester, lay dying. Beside her sat her daughter – a beautiful young woman of some twenty-three years – who was known even in her family as Demoiselle.
The dying Countess was easier in her mind since the message had come to her a few days earlier, for she had been deeply concerned as to what would happen to her daughter if she should die. Now there was a chance that she would be happy. Llewellyn, the Prince of Wales, wanted to marry her. He had, explained the message, thought of her constantly through the years. He had never married because of his attachment to her and because he considered they were betrothed. What he longed for more than anything was for her to be his bride.
Any day now the news of the ship’s arrival would come. The Countess knew that her daughter would not leave her while she lived, but was fully aware that there were not too many days left to her.
She was ready to go. Hers had been a stormy life, and there had been plenty of opportunity to contemplate the past as she lay there on her sickbed. It was strange how well she remembered the days of her youth, and how much more vivid they seemed than what was happening around her now!