Edmund would also be there – her dear son, the Earl of Lancaster. He was not as popular with the people as his brother Edward was. Naturally, Edward was the King and he had those spectacular good looks. Edward was all Plantagenet – the golden young man with the long limbs of the Normans. People only had to look at him to realise that he was descended from the Conqueror. The English liked strong kings, or they did when they were dead. They had groaned under the harsh laws of the Conqueror, his son, Henry I, and his great-grandson, Henry II, while these kings lived, but when they were dead harshness was called justice, and they were revered. Even so early it seemed apparent that Edward would be a strong king. The Queen Mother’s lips turned out at the corners when she considered that. Edward had shown clearly that he was not going to take her advice. True, he listened to it gravely and sometimes implied that he would follow it; then he went away and did exactly what he wanted to.
Edmund was less tall, less blond, more Provençal than Norman. He suffered from a slight curvature of the spine which it had been impossible to disguise and it had in due course given his enemies the opportunity to call him Crouchback. How angry she had been about that, especially so since there was nothing she could do about it. She found frustration more maddening than anything else.
It had been a matter for congratulation when he had married Aveline de Fortibus, heiress of the Earl of Albemarle, because the marriage should have brought great wealth into the family and shortage of money was a constant complaint. Alas, Aveline had died before she could inherit the fortune and soon afterwards Edmund had taken the cross and gone with his brother to Palestine.
‘We must find a new wife for Edmund,’ she thought; and her energetic mind scoured the ranks of the wealthy.
The greatest joy of all was being with Margaret, and what a pleasure it had been to see her ride into the capital with her husband and her children, for Margaret’s entourage was grander than any. A lesson to Edward, thought the Queen Mother. Was he going to allow the King of Scots to outshine him?
She could not wait to carry Margaret off somewhere where they could be alone. There she embraced this most loved of her children – perhaps in the past she had been inclined to favour Edward. That was natural because he was the eldest and the son, but a mother could be closer to a daughter, and ever since Margaret’s experiences in Scotland when she had been a child bride, the young Queen of Scotland had had the notion that her parents were omnipotent and nothing could be more delightful than such a notion to Eleanor of Provence.
She took her daughter into her arms and examined her closely. Margaret looked a little too delicate for her mother’s comfort.
‘My dearest,’ said the Queen Mother, ‘do you still find the climate harsh?’
‘I grow accustomed to it. The children enjoy it.’
‘Your father was constantly worrying about you. Whenever he saw the snow he would say, “I wonder what is happening north of the Border and if our darling child is suffering from the cold.”’
‘My dear lady mother, you always worried too much about us.’
‘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.’