The Hammer of the Scots

Chapter VII JOANNA’S MARRIAGE

The shining star of the family was now young Edward. He was watched over, crooned over and marvelled at. He had a Welsh nurse – for Edward was determined to keep his word to the chieftains – and Mary of Caernarvon guarded him like a dragon.

Eleven-year-old Alfonso loved his brother dearly. Alfonso had always been aware of the sorrow his health had caused. It was disconcerting to know that images of himself were constantly being burned in oil at shrines while widows were paid by his mother and grandmother to keep vigil in those churches, that their piety might induce the saints and those who had some influence in Heaven to do something about his health.

It had been a great responsibility, and the burden of kingship to come was too much for his frail shoulders; and now this new baby who cried a great deal and demanded the undivided attention of Mary of Caernarvon had taken it from him. Everyone marvelled at Edward’s health. ‘Another such as his father!’ they said. ‘Look at his long legs. He is going to be another Longshanks, the angel.’ Whereas poor Alfonso had been short for his age.

They were all delighted with Edward except his sister Eleanor and even she shrugged her shoulders and realised the hopelessness of a wild dream which had once come to her.

They had Edward. There might be more sons. Her mother had a natural aptitude for putting children into the nursery.

They had remained in Caernarvon because, said their father, that was Edward’s birthplace and he was the Prince of Wales and it was good for the Welsh to know that he meant it when he had said his son’s first words should be in Welsh. Moreover the Welsh must be kept under surveillance for a while, and it was necessary to wait and see whether they honoured their promises.

The Queen thought the castle beautiful, but that perhaps it might be cold when the winter came. She was anxious about Alfie’s cough which seemed to have grown worse in the last weeks. However, she was glad to have her family with her; it was pleasant, too, that the Queen Mother should be staying at Amesbury, though she had not retired there permanently, for she was still waiting for the Pope’s dispensation which would allow her to enter the convent without losing her money. It was, the Queen admitted only in her secret heart, rather a relief not to have the Queen Mother with them. She smiled a little, contemplating the advice she would have attempted to give her son on the way he should treat the Welsh. She would have wanted heavy fines and great celebrations. Poor defeated people, they had not the means to pay fines. Edward realised that and knew the best way to get their peaceful co-operation was to treat them kindly. Oh, Edward was so wise.

The physician who was never very far from Alfonso’s side came to her in some dismay.

‘He is asking for you, my lady.’

She went to Alfonso. He seemed to have shrunk and the little hand which reached for hers was hot and feverish.

‘Dear lady,’ said the little boy, ‘I think I am going to die now.’

‘No, my love,’ she said, kissing his hand. ‘We are going to make you well again.’

‘Not this time, dear lady. And it matters little now, does it? There is my brother now.’

‘My dearest,’ said the Queen, ‘it matters so much … to me, to your father …’

He smiled wanly. ‘Nay, it is all right now. I can go. I have always caused you such anxiety.’

‘My little son, I love you so.’

‘You were always my very good mother. But I can go now … I want to, dear Mother. The time has come.’

She sat by his bed, but she knew he was dying. He had been dying slowly for years. She thought of her half-brother after whom she had named him. What a clever man he was, but more wrapped up in his mathematical studies than his kingdom. His son Sancho was getting restive, and she had heard rumours that he intended to depose his father and take the throne himself. How could there be such strife in families! How could sons go against their fathers! She prayed that the baby Edward would always cherish his father and work with him. She need not pray that Alfonso would support his father. Alas, there would be no growing up for Alfonso.

Alfonso had closed his eyes and she could hear that he was breathing with difficulty.

The King came to the bedside and stood beside her, his hand on hers.

‘He is going, our little Alfonso,’ said the Queen.

The King nodded. ‘It had to come.’

‘It is as though when he knew he had a brother he gave up trying to live.’

‘Thank God we have Edward,’ said the King.

And they stood side by side looking down on the body of their dead son.

It would seem that the people of Wales had accepted their fate. Edward had impressed on them that if they were loyal to him they should reap their reward and they were beginning to trust him. It was true that the bards sang songs of the valour of Llewellyn and Davydd and of Davydd’s cruel death at the hands of the English tyrant. But these were the songs of the mountains. In the valleys, towns and villages people began to see that it was better to be part of England which was becoming increasingly prosperous under the King, than a wretchedly poor independent Principality of Wales. They remembered too that Davydd had been a traitor, a man who acted from self-interest. Brave he was but cruel to his enemies, and it must not be forgotten that he had betrayed them at one time to the English.

When chieftains brought to Edward a gift of a crown which they maintained had belonged to the great King Arthur, Edward was greatly impressed. The Welsh claimed that Wales had been the headquarters of the legendary King and Edward was prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt on this, for he saw a way of forging a link between them which would result in amity.

It was soon after the death of Alfonso that he called his family together and talked to them of what he proposed to do.

The Princess Eleanor’s eyes glowed as she listened and it was to her her father addressed himself. He wanted her to know that, although he rejoiced in the birth of young Edward, the arrival of the boy must necessarily impair her status in the realm, but she was still his beloved and favourite child. He loved his wife; she was a necessary part of him; he felt that he could always rely on her support in whatever he undertook but there was nothing controversial about her. She agreed with him wholeheartedly, whereas his clever daughter would sometimes raise a point of disagreement and very often it was a good one.

The fact was he was happy in his family and now they actually had a healthy boy he was deeply content. The conquest of Wales was a matter of great satisfaction but his happiness with his family meant more to him than anything else. Sometimes he was a little ashamed of that. But it was true.

‘We must celebrate this victory over the Welsh,’ he said, ‘and I think I have found a way of doing it in a manner which will please them. You know they set great store on King Arthur and insist that this is where he held his Round Table. Now I am going to make it as though Arthur has returned. I am going to recreate the scene. I shall have a round table constructed and I with my knights shall sit round it and swear with them to uphold chivalry and justice throughout the land. This is going to be an occasion which will be remembered. There shall be jousting, tournaments as of old. The past will be brought back.’

The Princess’s eyes glowed with pleasure. ‘My lord,’ she cried, ‘it is a most excellent plan. The Welsh will be included. It will be the greatest token of peace and prosperity that you can give them.’

She had grasped his intention at once. The Queen agreed with him and his daughter as she always did.

‘Now,’ said the King, ‘shall I summon the knights and we shall set about planning this great spectacle.’

And thus in the August of the year 1284 Edward celebrated his conquest of Wales by setting up his Round Table in Nevin in Caernarvonshire, and to this he invited all the most renowned knights of England and the Continent. The Welsh had never seen such magnificence – and that was what Edward intended. He wanted them to realise that they now belonged to a great and powerful nation ruled over by an invincible king. He had compared himself to the great Arthur, and Arthur himself could not have presented a more noble figure than the tall King who in this romantic gesture was telling them that he intended to uphold justice and chivalry throughout their land.

They were aware of what he was doing for Wales. The great castles of Conway, Caernarvon and Harlech owed their strength and beauty to his skill.

Wales was now part of England and it was said that if good sense prevailed there would be no attempt to change that state of affairs.

The Queen Mother’s strength had suddenly started to fail. She, who had enjoyed good health throughout her life, was seriously alarmed and it occurred to her that it was time she took the veil.

By great good fortune the Pope had agreed that if she entered a convent she might retain her worldly goods and this decided her.

She had long made up her mind that her granddaughter Mary should take the veil and it seemed to her that this would be an appropriate time.

Neither the King nor the Queen were eager to see their daughter immured in a convent and the Queen felt that the child – who was only seven years old – should have a little more time in which to discover whether this was the kind of life she wanted.

But the Queen Mother was adamant. ‘If you deny me this I shall die unhappy,’ she declared. ‘You have had good fortune in Wales. God was on your side. Why, there was Merlin’s prophecy. That carried no weight because God was determined to aid you. And why do you think? It was because Mary was promised to His service. If you disregard His wishes now your good fortune will change, depend upon it.’

It did occur to the Queen that so often throughout their lives God’s will had coincided with that of the Queen Mother. But Edward half believed her and she knew that if he did not give way to her his mother’s doubts would creep into his mind, and it was necessary for his confidence to remain firm.

In her quiet way the Queen understood them both far better than they realised and it was easier to let Mary go as she showed no repugnance for the life chosen for her. Poor child, how could she when she had been told from birth what was awaiting her and had come to accept it? And what did she know, in any case, of what life would be with a husband and children?

‘Mary will not be lonely there,’ said the Queen Mother. ‘I shall be there to watch over her and her cousin Eleanor is already there.’

‘Of course Eleanor is much older than Mary.’

‘True, but she is her cousin and of the same rank. I am sure Mary is going to know such happiness as is denied to so many.’

The Queen sighed. The Queen Mother had, on the death of her daughter Beatrice, sent Beatrice’s daughter Eleanor to the convent at Amesbury. She had wanted a girl from each family to go there for she had a notion that it gave pleasure in Heaven and she was feeling the need more and more as the days passed to find favour there.

The Queen Mother thought that the Princess Mary should enter the convent at the time of the festival of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary – since the child bore the Virgin’s name.

This was arranged and the family returned to London, there to make the journey to Amesbury in order to be present at the ceremony.

Even baby Edward – now a year old – was taken along.

The Queen Mother was well satisfied. None of them would regret this, she was sure. The King, loving his daughters dearly, was a little unsure, but he had insisted that thirteen girls of noble families and of Mary’s age should accompany her as her companions.

The ceremony was most impressive and the Queen wept when the monastic veils were thrown over the heads of the young girls and the spousal rings placed on their fingers.

After that all the members of the royal family placed a rich gift on the altar and the King promised his daughter an annual allowance for the upkeep of her state in the convent. The Princesses Eleanor and Joanna discussed the ceremony afterwards and Joanna commented that it was easy to see why convents and monasteries welcomed royal people and those of great wealth.

‘The wealth of those who enter goes to the convent of course,’ said Eleanor.

‘Not always,’ retorted Joanna. ‘Our grandmother made sure that she retained hers.’

They smiled. They loved their grandmother but they were not sorry to see her take up her new abode. They were always a little afraid of her interference and that she would persuade their parents that something she wanted was good for them.

It was fortunate that she had been so impressed by the Princess Eleanor that she had been in favour of her being recognised as the heiress to England – but now that young Edward had arrived no one could do anything about the matter any more.

‘How sad to be old as she is!’ said Joanna. ‘She is always brooding on the past and so many people she loved are dead, even those whom you would have believed would have outlived her.’

‘I don’t think she ever got over the deaths of her daughters. It was so strange that Beatrice should die so soon after Margaret.’

‘I think she loved Margaret better than any of them. She could never forget that affair of her marriage when they almost starved her and kept her from her husband. Oh Eleanor, do you think we are ever going to get husbands? You are quite old and I am no longer young.’

‘We did not want to be sent away … I to Aragon and you to Germany. We had our wish.’

‘I know. But now that Edward is here it is different. I think we should marry soon. I should like to marry in England. Would you?’

Eleanor smiled secretively. ‘I think that is what our father wants.’

‘Then,’ added Joanna, ‘since his mother is no longer here he might have his way.’

‘That is not fair. He always had his way … and always will.’

‘But you must admit he took a great deal of notice of his mother. Look at Mary. Do you think he wanted her to go into a convent?’

‘He did not care very much and he thought it would serve him well in Heaven. Had Mary been unhappy he would not have allowed it.’

‘Well, sister, you are twenty-two years of age. If you are ever going to marry you will have to do so soon.’

‘And you are fourteen.’

‘A babe in arms compared with you.’

Eleanor sighed. It was true.

‘The gentleman of Aragon is still in his kingdom. It may well be those negotiations will be renewed.’

‘I don’t want to go to Aragon.’

‘Well, sister, even our father would not prevent it if it was necessary to state affairs.’

‘It was necessary before, but he prevented it.’

‘Oh, I thought that was God with the Sicilian Vespers.’

‘Our father took the opportunity that was offered.’

‘Oh, he loves you truly. You are his favourite and always will be. But alas, in this world we live in, a boy is a boy and therefore of greater importance than we are.’

‘Yet our grandmother loved her daughters and so does our father.’

‘Oh yes, but that is a private loving. But I like it well when a woman comes into her own.’

‘Oh yes, a woman queen … Queen in her own right … not simply because she is married to the King!’

It was strange, but very soon after this conversation an event took place which was to have a great effect on the crown of England.

It concerned the Scottish succession. There was one thing the Queen Mother had always been grateful for and that was that her daughter Margaret had been spared the suffering she would have undoubtedly endured had she lived to see the death of her two sons – those little princes David and Alexander on whom she had doted. David had died when he was only eleven years old and Alexander, the elder, having just made a good match with the daughter of the Earl of Flanders, had died a few years ago. That meant that only one of Margaret’s children was living and that was the girl, named Margaret after her mother, who had been born in England and for whom the Queen Mother had a very special affection. The Princess Margaret was beautiful and for the Queen Mother heartbreakingly like her mother; she was clever too and King Eric of Norway had asked for her hand in marriage. The Princess herself had been most unhappy at first and had implored her father not to send her to Norway.

Politics, however, decreed that she should go. There had long been a dispute between Scotland and Norway over the sovereignty of the Western Islands and the marriage would be of immense help to both sides. So Margaret set aside her prejudices and went to Norway as the bride of Eric. The marriage turned out better than might have been expected and this was due to the gentle and gracious manner of the young Princess of Scotland. In due course a child was born. She was known as Margaret, the Maid of Norway.

Alexander had been a widower for nine years. He had dearly loved his wife and had felt no desire to replace her, but on the death of his two sons, remarriage became a political necessity. He had, therefore, chosen as his second wife Yolante, daughter of the Earl of Dreux, and they were married.

At the wedding a masque was performed and many declared that, among the masked dancers, there appeared one of an unearthly shape who beckoned to Alexander. Later it was said that this was the angel of death who had come for the King.

It did indeed seem that Alexander was ill-fated. Less than a year after the marriage – and there was no sign of a child so far – he decided to give a banquet at Edinburgh Castle. Rumours had been in circulation that the end of the world was approaching and was, in fact, destined to end on the very night fixed for the banquet. Instead of depressing the company this appeared to make them all the merrier, as though they were determined to eat and drink as much as they could before they came face to face with their Maker.

By a strange coincidence a violent storm arose and the darkness was intense.

Queen Yolante had not attended the banquet but had stayed in the castle of Kinghorn, where the King had promised to rejoin her that night.

All the members of the company protested when he said his farewells to them. He could not ride out on such a night, they told him. He only had to listen to the wind and the rain to know why.

‘I have promised the Queen,’ replied the King, ‘and I shall keep my word. If anyone is afraid to ride out tonight then he can stay behind.’

One of the knights replied, ‘My lord, it would ill become me to refuse to die for your father’s son.’

‘The decision is yours,’ replied the King.

So Alexander left Edinburgh in the company of a small band of his most devoted friends. Safely they crossed Queen’s Ferry and reached Inverkeithing.

‘See,’ said the King. ‘Here we are and what harm has befallen us?’

‘My lord,’ said one of the King’s men, ‘you must see that far from abating the storm grows more fierce. The roads are flooded ahead. Our horses cannot ride on paths such as these and there are danger spots on the coast road to Kinghorn.’

‘I see you are afraid,’ replied the King. ‘Very well, I shall go on alone. I will take two men to show me the way and that is all I ask.’

‘My lord, my lord,’ cried one who was very near to him in friendship, ‘this is unwise. The road to Kinghorn is very dangerous. The Queen will not expect you on such a night. You know the precipice close to which you would have to pass. In the most clement weather that path must be trodden with caution.’

‘Enough,’ replied the King, and there was a light of fanaticism in his eyes, and afterwards some wondered whether he had deliberately challenged death that night. ‘I am bent on going.’

So he set out. The road of which they had spoken lay along the top of the rocks from which there was a sheer drop down to the shore of Pettycur. In the darkness and driving rain the King’s horse stumbled and he and his rider went hurtling down onto the rocks below.

So the King of Scotland went to his death – willingly some said, for he had wanted to join his first wife Margaret, and the story went that on that steep cliff path the angel of death had appeared again as it had at his wedding feast and this time he had followed it to death.

This was a fanciful legend such as the Celts loved. The King of England was sceptical about the angel of death. What struck him immediately was that the little girl in Norway was now the Queen of Scotland, and he had seen a way of uniting the two kingdoms without the disastrous bloodshed which had been necessary in Wales.

Eric of Norway was delighted that his daughter should be betrothed to the heir of England and young Edward was told by his mother that he was to have a bride.

He was mildly interested, but when he learned that it was not to be just yet, he was ready to forget the matter. ‘It is a happy state of affairs,’ said Edward to his Queen. ‘Fortune is smiling on me. Wales in my hands and if Edward becomes King of Scotland when he comes to the throne the two kingdoms can be united. You see how much more peaceful we shall be when we stand together.’

‘I do, Edward. And the people should be grateful to you. I hope they appreciate what you have done for them.’

‘They applaud what I have done when all goes well,’ he answered. ‘If all did not go well they would be quick to blame me. There is a certain luck required in kingship.’

‘Good judgement often results in what seems like luck.’

‘Aye, my Queen, and good luck as often looks like good judgement. By God, if I can be successful with Scotland as I have with Wales, if I can make us one nation, then I shall achieve that which even the Conqueror failed to do.’

‘You will do it, Edward. I know.’

It seemed that he might. Several of the Scottish lords came to see him and when he realised that they were by no means averse to the marriage between the heiress of Scotland and the heir of England, he was jubilant.

‘They are over-young yet,’ he said. ‘But we shall not wait long. We will have the child sent over from Norway and she shall be brought up here in your nursery, my love. There she will get to know and love Edward long before they can be married.’

It was an excellent plan.

So good that Edward felt he could make a long-postponed and very necessary trip to the Continent. There were several matters which demanded his attention. He needed to be in Aquitaine for one thing; he had been away too long from this stronghold. It had been a great disappointment when his brother Edmund’s stepdaughter had married the son of the King of France. Edward had hoped that marriage of Edmund’s with the Comtesse of Champagne would bring Champagne to England. King Philip of France had been too wise to allow that. It was why he had offered the dazzling prize – his own son and heir – to the heiress of Champagne which made it certain that that rich territory should come to the crown of France.

There was another matter. Edward could no longer shut his eyes to the fact that it was time his daughters married. Eleanor was well into her twenties. The match with Aragon could still be made and it was a good one. He had to overcome his repugnance to her leaving England and take up negotiations once more with Aragon.

He would have to leave his beloved girls and go to France. There was one consolation, he could take his wife with him.

Preparations for the King and Queen to leave for France were set in motion.

Before they left Edward paid a visit to his mother at Amesbury.

He found her peevish. She was not well, she said. She was restive. The monastic life was not for her although she realised the need to undertake it. She spent long hours lying on her bed and thinking about the glorious past. She wanted to talk about it to Edward when he came.

So he was now going to France. How well she remembered when she and his father had gone. And there had been that dreadful time when she had gone alone … a fugitive from those wicked men who held Henry a prisoner. ‘And you too, my son. Forget not that.’

He did not forget, Edward assured her. He remembered well how she had worked to raise an army.

‘Which you did not need because you escaped and went to rescue your father.’

‘Ah, but it was a brave effort you made. You are an unusual woman, Mother.’

She was pleased. ‘What days they were! Tragic days … but glorious somehow.’

‘We want no more such tragedy,’ said Edward.

‘Your father was a saint … a blessed saint.’

Edward could not agree to that so he remained silent.

‘There is something I must tell you. A man came to me not long ago. He was blind and one day when praying at your father’s tomb his sight was restored to him. Edward, your father was a saint. That proved it. I think we should have a church built for him … a monastery …’

‘My dear mother, this is nonsense.’

‘Nonsense! What do you mean? I tell you this man came to me. “I was blind,” he said, “and now I can see. Oh glory be to Saint Henry.” Those were his words.’

‘He has deceived you, my lady. He is looking for rewards, depend upon it. I’ll warrant he wants some shrine set up and he will be in charge of it, eh? And many will come and lay offerings at this shrine, much of which will find its way into his pocket.’

‘I am amazed. I tell you your father was a saint. Have not people been cured at the tomb of St Thomas à Becket?’

‘My father was not à Becket, Mother.’

‘You shock me. You disappoint me. You … his son.’

‘It is because I am his son that I know this to be false. We loved our father. He was good to his family, but he was not a saint and this man seeks to deceive you.’

‘So not only will you deny your father’s goodness but you insult me too. Please leave me. I wonder you trouble to come to me … since my opinion is so worthless you but waste time in conversing with me.’

‘My dear lady …’

‘Pray go,’ she said.

He shrugged his shoulders and, king though he was, he bowed and left her.

As he strode angrily from her apartment he met the Provincial of the Dominicans whom he knew to be a man of piety and learning and with whom he was on terms of friendship.

‘You have heard this tale of a man cured of his blindness at my father’s tomb?’ he asked.

The Dominican admitted that he had.

‘I tell you this: that man is a self-seeking scoundrel. There has been no miracle. As for my father I know enough of his justice to be sure that he would rather have torn out the eyes of this rascal when they were sound than to have given sight to such a scoundrel.’

The Dominican agreed with the King.

‘He is a man taking advantage of the Queen Mother’s piety,’ he replied.

Edward, however, could not leave the country on bad terms with his mother. He went back to her before he left.

She was delighted to see him, for she could no more bear to quarrel than he could.

‘Dear Mother,’ he said, ‘I am sorry for my abrupt departure.’

She embraced him. ‘We must not part in anger, my son. That is something which would be intolerable to me. You were in my thoughts all through the night. My little flaxen-haired baby! How proud I was of you. Your father too. Our firstborn and a beautiful son. Even the hateful Londoners and the Jews loved us for a while when you came.’

‘I like it not when any of our family are not on happy terms with each other.’

‘Dear Edward, I know I am an old woman now. The days have gone when I was listened to. Oh, when your dear father was here how different it was!’

‘Life must change for us all, Mother.’

‘But to have lost him … and then your dear sisters … Oh, I am a lonely old woman … of no account now.’

‘You will always be of account.’

‘To you, Edward?’

‘Always to me.’

He began to tell her of his plans for his daughters’ marriages and what he hoped to achieve in France. He had to stop her going over those incidents from the past which he had heard hundreds of times before.

But he was pleased to part on terms of affection. The bond between them was too firm to be broken because he had grown into a strong-minded man who would have his own way and say what he thought to be the truth and because she was a selfish old woman who could not believe that she had had her way because she possessed an uxorious husband who could deny her nothing, but thought it was because she was always right.

How did either of them know how long he would be away and what would happen in the meantime and whether they would ever see each other again?

Now that their parents were out of the country and the Queen Mother was in Amesbury the Princess Eleanor was the undoubted head of the family. She was twenty-four years of age and so a mature woman. There was such a difference between her age and that of the rest of the family for Joanna the next was sixteen and Margaret thirteen; poor ten-year-old Mary was in Amesbury; Elizabeth who had been born in Rhudlan was only six and Edward four.

It was true that Mary of Caernarvon, Edward’s Welsh nurse, guarded him like a dragon and put him right outside the Princess’s rule. He was a spoilt little boy anyway and thought the whole world had been created for him. Eleanor was angry that so much fuss should be made of him because he was a boy. And she would never forget either that merely by arriving he had ruined her dreams. It was true he was a handsome child – fair and tall for his age, very like his father had been. He was bright enough but already showed signs of indolence. Eleanor wondered what her father had been like when he was young Edward’s age. One day she would ask her grandmother, but the Queen Mother was a great romancer and coloured all stories from the past so glowingly that one was never sure how far one could believe her.

Elena, Lady de Gorges, who had been their governess for years was with them in the schoolroom still. Not that the Princess Eleanor was in the schoolroom, but now that her parents were absent she was a great deal with her sisters and brother and in that respect could say she was part of the establishment. She had her own of course and grand it was, for when her father was really looking on her as a possible heir to the throne she had been treated accordingly and he could hardly ask her to relinquish her state when Edward was born. Far from it. He was eager to show his darling that she was still as important to him – if not to the country – as she had ever been.

It was very rare, of course, for the daughter of a king to have reached the age of twenty-four without marriage. She doubted whether she would remain in a single state for ever. She knew that her father would see Alfonso of Aragon while he was away and it was very likely that some agreement would be reached.

She hoped not – fervently she hoped not. She wanted to stay in England, and she knew her father wanted her to.

‘I must see the King of Aragon,’ he had said when they parted. ‘But it may well be that nothing will come of it. My child, it would be a hard wrench if you ever had to leave us.’

She had clung to him and he had told her what a blessing she had always been to him.

How she wished he would come back. It would be terrible if anything should happen to him on the Continent. Then Edward would be King … a little boy of four. Oh how stupid people were to set such store by the sex of a king’s heirs.

Even when her father went away he did not appoint his daughter as regent of England. She could imagine the protests there would have been if that had been suggested. The task went to her cousin Edmund, Earl of Cornwall, son of her grandfather’s brother Richard. She was fond of Cousin Edmund who had ever been mindful of her importance and never treated her with anything but the utmost respect.

Joanna was often rather mischievous in her attitude towards her elder sister, so that Eleanor wished she had not been so frank. Joanna liked to inspire confidences and then tease people about them. Joanna was not in the least like herself or Margaret.

As she had said to Margaret, ‘It has something to do with being born in a different part of the world.’ It was something people would never forget. Even now she was often called Joanna of Acre.

Joanna was extravagant. She was constantly overspending the allowance Egis de Audenarde gave her. This man had been appointed by their father as their pursekeeper and had had instructions as to how much was to be given them to spend on their needs; and Joanna could be very short-tempered with him when he admonished her for being more extravagant than the means at his disposal would allow.

It was no use trying to remonstrate with Joanna. She did not grow less self-willed as she grew older.

How different was Margaret, sweet Margaret who was always so subdued by her lively sister. Eleanor had noticed that when they were at the altar in Westminster paying their respects to the shrine of Edward the Confessor they had all presented their offerings, but Margaret had slipped in an extra two shillings.

She had done it unobtrusively and when Eleanor had mentioned it to her had coloured in embarrassment and murmured that their grandfather had had a special love for the Confessor and she had really been thinking of dear Grandfather when she did it.

‘You never knew him,’ Joanna had said sharply, for she would never have thought of giving extra – rather of holding back a little to be spent on something for her own adornment. ‘He died three years before you were born.’

‘But our grandmother has made him live for us,’ Margaret pointed out.

‘Oh, people always become saints when they die. I doubt even the old Confessor was such a saint as he is made out to be.’ Joanna could be quite irreverent. It was fortunate that she was not the one chosen to go into a convent. Joanna warmed to the subject. ‘I should think he was a very uncomfortable old man.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He never consummated his marriage you know. He was too pure. I should not like a husband like that.’

‘What do you know of husbands?’ demanded Eleanor.

‘As much as you do, sister, since neither of us have had one yet. Of course you are getting so old that you may never have one.’

Margaret said, ‘Well you know how frightened we were when we thought they were going to send her to Aragon.’

Eleanor changed the subject and said that she was going through her wardrobe to decide what she would need for their forthcoming pilgrimage.

‘I wish we could stay at Court,’ said Joanna. ‘I am so weary of visiting shrines.’

‘It is the wish of the King and Queen and our grandmother that we do this,’ Eleanor reminded her sister.

‘I could almost wish I were Mary,’ retorted Joanna. ‘No, no,’ she cried, crossing her fingers. ‘I did not mean that. Poor Mary. What a shame to force her into a convent!’

‘She went of her free will,’ Margaret reminded her.

‘Free will. What does a baby know of convents? How can you renounce the world when you don’t know what the world has to offer? They would never have made me enter a convent, I do assure you.’

‘There is no need to assure us, Joanna,’ replied Eleanor. ‘We believe it.’

Then they were all laughing and Joanna was telling them what festivities she would have at her wedding. There should be a masque – how she adored masques! There should be playacting and tournaments.

‘But you cannot have a wedding without a bridegroom,’ said Margaret. ‘And yours is dead.’

‘Drowned, poor Hartman! We willed it to happen, did we not, Eleanor?’

‘What nonsense!’ said Eleanor. ‘Now I am sending for Perrot and I am going to tell him what must be done with these garments. So many of my robes need mending.’

‘We need new ones,’ complained Joanna.

Nevertheless Eleanor sent for Perrot the tailor, and she discussed with him how her garments could be repaired while some had gone too far to be renovated and she would need new ones.

Perrot was eager to repair as much as possible for he had been warned by Egis de Audenarde that the Lady Joanna was spending more money than he was authorised to supply.

He examined the surtunics and the girdles which held them in at the waist and the mantles which were trimmed with fur and so long as to sweep the ground. He counted up how many silver buttons would be needed and how many gold.

He rather diffidently suggested that the Lady Joanna’s mantle should be repaired and perhaps he could find a little more fur to replace that where it was worn.

‘I’ll not have a patched-up mantle,’ cried Joanna. ‘It will show and people will say that the King’s daughters dress like paupers.’

‘I assure you, my lady, that when repaired, this mantle will be very fine indeed.’

‘Fine in your eyes it may be, but not in mine. I will have a new one for I will not allow the people to see me in what you will make of that.’

‘My lady, I fear the funds will not allow me to purchase a new mantle.’

‘You will not patch that one.’

‘But, Joanna,’ said Eleanor, ‘if Perrot does not, what will you do for a mantle?’

‘I shall have a new one.’

‘But you have just heard …’

Then Joanna flew into one of her rages. ‘I will not be governed by Perrot the tailor,’ she cried.

‘I do not seek to govern you, my lady. Only to tell you that the money allotted will not run to it.’

‘How I hate this vulgar talk of money! It is because the King is away that you think you can govern us, Master Perrot.’

Poor Perrot was so distressed he was almost in tears.

‘Perrot,’ cried Joanna, ‘I have finished with you. I shall not discuss any further what I shall have and what I shall not have. I will have what I will.’

With that she turned and flounced out of the room, leaving poor Perrot quite bewildered and distressed.

Eleanor comforted him. ‘The Princess Joanna will understand in time that you cannot spend money which is not there. Please do not fret, Master Perrot. I shall tell my father that this has come about through no fault of yours. Now shall we see what I need for my garments and I promise you I shall not attempt to ask for more than my allowance.’

Perrot thanked God for the calm justice of the Princess Eleanor and the gentle kindness of Margaret. He knew of course from other servants that the Princess Joanna was a trial.

When Perrot had gone Eleanor said to Margaret, ‘Don’t fret about it. Forget it. You know Joanna. She will recover from her temper sooner or later. Then she will attempt to make up to Perrot for her unfairness.’

‘I do hope so,’ said Margaret. ‘Poor Perrot is most upset.’

Joanna recovered from her rage but she did not send for Perrot. She was determined to have what she wanted, so she sent for merchants and bought extravagantly. She was more richly clad than any of her sisters and refused to wear a garment that Perrot had mended. When Eleanor pointed out that she was accumulating debts which would have to be paid she said, ‘Yes, I will speak to the King when he returns.’ She smiled mischievously at Eleanor. ‘He will be so delighted to return to his family that he will forgive us anything.’

Eleanor thought this was probably true but she would never have run up bills as Joanna was doing, for her sister would be deeply in debt by the time their father returned.

That December the three princesses set out for Glastonbury. The King and Queen had arranged this journey for them before they had left for the Continent. It was well, said the King, for the people to realise the piety of the royal family and the three girls were of an age now to show the country that they were devout. Money would have to be raised for their marriages when the King returned to England, for he could not keep all his daughters in the single state for ever. So let the people see what good pious girls they were.

Glastonbury was the most important of the abbeys because it held the bones reputed to be those of King Arthur; and since that monarch had been much discussed at the time of Llewellyn’s uprising he was anxious to remind the people that Arthur did not belong to the Welsh any more than the English.

The fact that the princesses travelled in winter made their pilgrimage more commendable for it was no luxury to make their way through the countryside during the season of snow and frost, and even if it was not cold enough for that there were rain and muddy roads to contend with.

So they set out and they did not ride on horseback but in chariots and in the midst of a large cavalcade of knights, ladies and attendants of all ranks.

Wherever they went the people came out to welcome them. There was no doubt that the reigning King and Queen were more popular than their predecessors had been.

They were warmly greeted in all the abbeys at which they called and with good reason for it was the recognised custom that royal visitors meant royal gifts.

When they had paid their respects to the bones at Glastonbury they started on their homeward journey by calling at the Abbey of Cerne in Dorsetshire that they might pay homage to the shrine of St Ethelwold. They spent Christmas in Exeter where they stayed until mid-January and it was February by the time they were back in Westminster.

It was at this time that there was a violent quarrel between Joanna and Egis de Audenarde when he told her blankly that he could advance her no more money. She had spent so much more than her allowance that he must stop it forthwith until what she had bought was paid for.

This was one of the occasions when Joanna’s temper would not be controlled. That she, a Princess of England, should be dictated to by one of her father’s servants – a clerk, nothing more – was intolerable to her.

‘I will spend as I will, sir,’ she cried.

‘Not of the King’s monies, my lady.’

‘I think you forget to whom you speak,’ she flashed.

‘My lady, you forget that I am in charge of the King’s accounts and it is his orders I must obey.’

‘Get from my sight,’ she shouted. ‘I will have no more of you. From this moment you are no more concerned with my affairs.’

De Audenarde bowed low.

‘My lady,’ he said, ‘I withdraw. You must do as you will and it is for you to answer to the King.’

Still fuming with rage Joanna sought out her sisters and told them what had happened.

‘He was right,’ said Eleanor. ‘He cannot spend our father’s money.’

‘What nonsense. How can we clothe ourselves if we do not spend money?’

‘You know we have plenty of clothes. Perrot can mend them.’

‘I will not be seen in patches. When I want new garments I shall have them.’

Eleanor shrugged her shoulders. ‘Do so, but remember it is you who will have to answer to our father when he returns.’

Joanna said she would do that willingly. And she spent even more recklessly than she intended so that she could show her sisters that she did not care.

The princesses were seated at their embroidery in one of the chambers in Windsor Castle which was light and therefore suitable to work in, and at the same time gave them a view of the forest.

Joanna was in a good mood. Strangely enough for one of her restless nature, she loved to embroider. It had a soothing effect on her temper, she often said, and she rather mischievously chose colours to suit those moods of hers. It was said that if her women saw her embroidering in sombre colours they knew it was the time to keep away from her. She had been taught the art by the Lady Edeline and had started to learn in the days when she was in her Castilian nursery. The Castilians did beautiful work. That was why they liked to see it set up on walls that it might be continuously on view.

She had spent lavishly on her silks and now showed them with delight to Eleanor and Margaret who sat with her.

‘But you had plenty before,’ said Eleanor.

‘I needed more,’ she retorted.

She was working with a beautiful blue silk which meant she was in a benign mood. Eleanor shrugged her shoulders. It was Joanna who would have to ask her father to pay her debts. It was no concern of the Princesses Eleanor and Margaret.

‘Just look at this lady’s dress. Is it not a heavenly colour? I shall run some gold thread through the blue and make it even more grand.’

‘She looks as though she is going to a wedding,’ said Margaret.

‘Ah, weddings. I have been thinking of weddings. When do you think the King and Queen will return, Eleanor?’

‘It cannot be long now. They have been away nearly two years.’

‘Matters on the Continent absorb them, I doubt not,’ said Margaret.

‘I’ll wager we are discussed.’ Joanna was smiling. ‘Weddings. I’ll swear there will be weddings when they come back. A husband for me, a husband for you. Oh, Margaret, sweet sister, we shall soon be leaving you.’

‘Pray do not speak of it.’

‘She would miss us,’ cried Joanna. ‘Would you miss my teasing?’

‘Very much,’ answered Margaret.

‘She loves me in spite of my evil nature,’ said Joanna. ‘Yes, you do. People do not always like the good, do they? It is most unfair. I am determined to have my way and I tell you this, if I do not like the husband who is chosen for me I’ll not take him.’

‘You will have to take whoever is given you,’ said Eleanor.

‘I won’t! I won’t! I will not be governed by …’

‘By the King?’ said Eleanor.

‘Marriage is too important a matter,’ insisted Joanna. ‘Is it not strange that Margaret is the only one who is betrothed? Little Margaret who is not yet fifteen. What think you of your Duke, Margaret?’

‘If our father has chosen him for me then he must be the best husband I can have.’

‘Dutiful daughter! Will she be as dutiful a wife, I wonder? Eleanor, what think you of the Duke of Brabant?’

‘I thought him handsome,’ said Eleanor.

‘I thought he was more interested in his horses and falcons than his wife-to-be.’

‘Margaret was only a child when he came here. How could he be interested in her?’

Margaret felt a little uneasy. She knew that the Duke of Brabant had been chosen for her, but as her sisters’ marriages had come to nothing she had thought hers might also.

She tried to remember what she could of John of Brabant, who had joined their household on one or two occasions and had stayed very briefly. She remembered a high-spirited boy who was always boasting about his horses and had taken as little interest in her as she had in him.

‘It will be a long time before I marry,’ she said.

‘Depend upon it,’ soothed Eleanor, ‘our father will never let you go at your age. He is sure to say you are too young.’

Joanna said: ‘I have heard the Duke of Brabant is a lusty young man and that already he keeps several mistresses.’

‘There are bound to be such rumours,’ put in Eleanor quickly.

Eleanor was glad that there was an interruption at that moment for she could see that Joanna’s comments were making Margaret apprehensive.

A messenger came with letters and packets from the Continent.

‘News from the King,’ cried Eleanor and the girls dropped their work and ran to him.

‘He must be coming home,’ said Joanna. ‘Oh, when, I wonder!’

There was a letter for Eleanor. It was full of loving sentiments to his dearest daughter and the news that they were about to begin the journey home. In the meantime just to show he had not forgotten them he sent them a few trinkets to remind them of him.

The princesses cried out with pleasure as they unwrapped the packets. There were jewels and silks for them all.

But for Eleanor there was the best of all the gifts – a gold cup and a coronet decorated with emeralds, sapphires, rubies and pearls. There was awestruck silence as they looked at it. Eleanor solemnly placed it on her head.

‘It is quite the most beautiful thing I ever saw,’ said Joanna.

‘Our father says it was given to him by the King of France. He says “Treasure it. I want you my beloved eldest daughter to have it in memory of me.”’

‘You were always his favourite,’ said Joanna.

Eleanor did not deny it.

‘They will be home soon,’ she said softly. ‘Oh, how I long to see them again!’

Later she reproved Joanna for speaking of John of Brabant as she had before Margaret.

‘Did you not see that you frightened her?’

‘I think it is well for her to be prepared. Everyone knows what a rake he is. Poor Margaret, I would not envy her, married to him.’

‘Perhaps it will not come to that.’

‘If it does, she should know that she will have a philanderer for a husband! It is right that she should be warned.’

Eleanor was unsure whether it was better to know or remain in ignorance of such matters.

What rejoicing there was in the city of London when the King rode through. It was two years since he had been away and the people were glad to see him back. He looked as kingly as ever and he brought with him that air of invincibility which gave them a feeling of security. They felt all was well while the King was in his castle.

A few noticed that the Queen had aged a little. There was a new air of delicacy about her which, seeing her frequently, the King had not been aware of; and her children were so pleased to see her, and she them, that it passed their notice.

They were gratified at their reception; the King was closeted with his ministers; but it was clear that he was longing to be in the intimate circle of his family and to talk of domestic matters. In a royal family those domestic concerns could become entwined with state affairs and they all knew this.

When he had studied all his children, glowed with pleasure at the charm and beauty of his daughters, marvelled at the progress of his son and heard from the Ladies Edeline and de Gorges that all was well with his daughters and from Mary of Caernarvon that Edward’s health gave no reason, however small, for anxiety, he sought to be alone with his favourite Eleanor and they walked in the gardens together.

‘My lord,’ she said, ‘you have been to Aragon.’

‘I have seen Alfonso,’ he replied.

‘Oh? What news of him?’

‘Eleanor, my sweet child, would you be very disappointed if I told you that there was to be no match with Aragon?’

She turned to him and laid her head against him. He kissed her hair.

‘Then, my dearest, you are not too disappointed?’

‘I could not have borne to go to Aragon.’

‘Nor could I have borne letting you go. To tell the truth, daughter, I can see no happiness for you there. This Sicilian matter was ill-conceived. He is a man who will have a finger in too many pies and pull little good out of any of them. I have talked with him. A match with Aragon … yes, it could bring us good. But I could not give you to him. No I could not.’

They walked arm in arm in silence for a few moments.

‘So I am not to have a marriage.’

‘A marriage … yes. There must be that. But not to Aragon.’

‘You have someone else in mind?’

‘Not yet … not for you. But for the others yes. Margaret must be married to Brabant and Joanna must be married, too. As for you, my love, your time will come. But let us have a little longer together, dear child, before you leave me. You cannot know how much I have missed you.’

‘I can, for it is as I have missed you.’

They walked in silence and he wondered whether to tell her of his plans for Joanna.

Better not, he decided. It would be better for Joanna to hear it first from him. He expected trouble there.

So he continued to walk in contentment with his best-loved daughter and for a time at least they could be content that they were not to be parted.

Delighted as she was to see her parents once more, Joanna’s apprehension had become great for she knew the time could not be long postponed before Egis de Audenarde reported to her father that she had refused to draw her allowance from him and had run up bills on her own.

She could not bear to look at those bills; she could only guess how far they exceeded that sum which had been set aside for her use.

She found her father alone and knew that this was the time when she must confess what she had done. The sooner the better, for so delighted was he to be back in the heart of his family that he was likely to be lenient.

She came into the room where he was seated at a table and to her horror she saw that the accounts lay before him. He was a man who was haunted by his father’s follies and the greatest of those had been extravagance. Edward only spent when it was expedient to do so.

She threw herself on her knees and buried her face in his robe.

‘My dear daughter,’ he cried, ‘what means this?’

‘Oh my father,’ she said, ‘I have to confess to some indiscretions.’

His dismay showed on his face. He immediately thought that she had become involved with a man. Joanna was different from the others. She was wild. He had always feared that there would be some trouble with her.

‘You must tell me,’ he said.

‘My lord, promise me you will not hate me.’

He smiled indulgently. ‘I cannot imagine that could ever come to pass.’

‘I have been foolish.’

‘I can well believe that.’

‘You see, dear father, they were so old. I was weary of them. They had been patched up so many times … and as your daughter I owed it to you to look of some substance.’

‘What are you talking of, my child?’

‘I dislike Egis de Audenarde. He is an overbearing, arrogant man. You would have thought it was his money he was giving us!’

The King breathed more easily. He was beginning to see that his vain little daughter had quarrelled with de Audenarde and been spending more extravagantly than she should.

‘He was commanded to keep my accounts.’

‘An arrogant fellow. He reproved me … me … your daughter …’

‘For wanting to spend more of my money than I had given him charge of?’

Joanna allowed a few tears to escape from her eyes while she watched her father intently.

‘I have heard what you have spent, daughter. It is a great deal.’

She was silent.

‘It would have been wiser if you had allowed Egis to deal with these matters. But,’ he added, ‘it is done.’

‘So you are not angry!’

‘I find it hard to be angry with one whom I love as I love you, my child. What is done is done. You have spent a great deal of money. Your grandfather and your grandmother spent recklessly. It brought them no good. You will have to be watchful in the future.’

‘Oh, my father, I will. I will do anything if you will forgive me for this … anything you ask of me to show my love and devotion to you … ask me and I will do it. I will even let Egis de Audenarde decide what shall be spent on my clothes.’

‘Anything?’ said the King. ‘I am glad to hear that because I have a husband for you and I want you to marry within the next few months.’

‘Marry! But whom should I marry?’

‘That is what I want you to understand. This marriage would be of the utmost importance to me. I need this marriage. I need this man on my side. He is the most important man in England.’

Joanna’s heart was beating fast; she was too bemused for a few seconds to reason clearly. The only thought which came to her was: The most important man in England … then I should be the most important woman.

‘Who … is he?’ she asked slowly.

The King hesitated as though putting off the uncomfortable moment and Joanna was alarmed. ‘Pray tell me,’ she said quickly.

‘He is a good deal older than you. But one of your temperament needs an older man. He is deeply enamoured of you.’

‘Please, Father, who?’

‘The Earl of Gloucester – Gilbert de Clare.’

‘Gloucester? But he is an old man.’

‘Older than you certainly but he is not yet fifty.’

‘Not yet fifty. But he has a wife. He is married to Alice of Angoulême.’

‘There has been a divorce. For long he has sought it. That has been no marriage for years. I can tell you he is deeply enamoured of you. He likes your spirit, your beauty. He admires you so much that nothing will satisfy him than that you shall be his bride.’

She was astounded. The most important man in England. She could see that. She began to weigh up the advantages against the disadvantages. She would not leave England. That was the first and most important. Poor Margaret had to marry that rake John of Brabant and go to a foreign land which she might hate and in which she might be a prisoner. An old man who would adore her youth! The most important man in England!

The King was watching her closely.

‘There are many advantages,’ he said. ‘He is a man of great influence. I need him, Joanna, I need him to be on my side. The barons have always presented a danger to the monarchy. You know what they did to your grandfather and your great-grandfather. They ruined one and almost ruined the other.’

‘They could not harm you, Father.’

‘Nay, I do not intend that they should. But I should like to know that the most powerful of them was bound to me … by family ties.’

‘Is the Earl of Gloucester likely to turn against you?’

‘He has turned his coat once. He was with de Montfort for a time you know. But he has fought for me. He did well in Wales against Llewellyn.’

‘Yet you do not trust him enough. For this reason you would give him one of your daughters?’

‘My dear Joanna, I know him to be a steadfast knight where he gives his loyalty. The prospect of marriage to you would make him my friend for life. He is deeply enamoured of you and has been for some time. You will be so beloved that you cannot fail to be happy. To him you will always be young.’

‘As he will always be old to me.’

‘He is rich … there is not a richer man in the land. He will be ready to indulge you. You must marry. You are of an age to marry. I cannot have all my daughters single. He has fine estates … and one in Clerkenwell. If you marry Gloucester, my love, you need never be so far from your mother and me, we can be together at the smallest inconvenience to ourselves.’

‘You are making me like this marriage.’

‘You are making me very happy.’

‘Dear Father, you have been so good about the accounts. You will settle them then?’

‘Could I be so churlish as to refuse my daughter such a request when she is determined to make me happy?’

She kissed him solemnly.

Then she left him. She was longing to tell the news to Eleanor.

Now the preparations for the royal wedding which was to take place on the thirtieth day of April were in full swing.

Joanna was delighted that she would be the first of the princesses to marry. She felt no apprehension. She was going to live in England; she would be close to her family; her bridegroom was old but he was delighted with her youth which would not have impressed him so much had he been her own age.

She commented to Eleanor that marriage was a tremendous undertaking; if one’s partner was so old that he could not have so very long to live one had a chance of a second choice and if a princess had married once to please her family it was only fair that in her second marriage she should please herself.

Eleanor was horrified, but then Joanna, from her superior experience, would know so much more of the world.

She delighted in being the centre of attraction. Adam, her father’s goldsmith, had made her a magnificent headdress offset with rubies and emeralds. A beautiful robe was being made for her. Her bridegroom was by no means distasteful. He was old it was true; but he emanated power and the fact that even her father was wary of him aroused her admiration. She believed that she could rule him though. He gave signs already that this would be so. Yes, an ageing bridegroom for a while, and then some man of her own choice, if she found marriage sufficiently to her taste that she wanted to embark on it again.

She comforted Margaret who was less happy about her coming marriage. And small wonder. John of Brabant was no doting old Earl of Gloucester. By no means so. What would he want of a child of fifteen when, if rumour was to be believed, he had the most flamboyant mistresses in his own country? Poor little Margaret! How lucky was Joanna!

The wedding day arrived. It was to be a private affair conducted in Westminster Abbey by the King’s chaplain, but after that the feasting and the celebrations began. The people cheered and made merry in the streets, drinking the red wine which flowed from the fountains. They were pleased that this was no foreign wedding, and the most astute of them liked to see the most powerful of the barons united with the King through his beautiful daughter.

Joanna had always been attractive and there were some who thought her vitality gave her an advantage in appearance over the more beautiful Eleanor. Now she glowed with a new beauty which startled all who beheld it, and was a source of great delight to her husband.

She was very eager to see his estates and he was anxious to show them to her but the King and Queen wanted her to stay at Court to join in the celebrations for Margaret’s wedding.

That was to be in July. ‘It is only just over two months,’ said the Queen. ‘Your father and I so want you to be here.’

‘A husband and wife should be alone together for the weeks following their marriage,’ said Joanna demurely.

‘My dear daughter, you will have time for that.’

The Queen, knowing her daughter’s love for horses, gave her five beautiful white steeds for her chariot, in which she could ride through London and enjoy the admiration of all who beheld her.

But she liked to talk of her husband’s estates. She longed to see them. Moreover she wanted to test whether he would defy the wishes of the King and Queen to please her.

Gilbert de Clare, the newly married Earl of Gloucester, explained to her that as soon as Margaret’s wedding was over she would go wherever she wished.

‘But I want to go now.’

‘So do I, my sweet wife.’

‘Then, Gilbert, why should we not?’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘Let us slip away … the two of us. Oh we should be alone you know. It is only right that we should.’

Gilbert insisted that it would be unwise to disobey the wishes of the King.

This made her all the more determined. She had thought, she said a little sadly, that she was the one he wished to please … not the King.

He did. He longed to please her, but the King …

‘My father will forgive me. He always does.’

She had her way as she was determined to. They slipped away early one morning before the Court was awake.

What an adventure riding through the morning with her husband beside her, so besotted with love for her that he was ready to defy the King. Not that there was anything meek about him. It was not the first time he had defied the King. In fact that was the very reason why he had won his Princess.

This gave her a wonderful sense of power and that was what Joanna enjoyed.

The King was angry. He knew this was his daughter’s show of defiance and that Gilbert had acted as he had to please her. In a sudden outburst of temper he said that her wedding outfit should be confiscated. He knew how much she loved her clothes and ornaments.

In the stronghold of her husband’s castle at Tunbridge Wells Joanna snapped her fingers. She had a rich and doting husband. Whatever she wanted – fine silks, velvets, brocades and jewels, and horses for her chariot – she only had to ask for.