The Queen from Provence

Chapter XIV THE UNHAPPY QUEEN OF SCOTLAND

While the English party was in Paris Pope Innocent IV sent a message to Henry which gave him immense satisfaction. Innocent who was in conflict with Manfred, the King of Sicily, the illegitimate son of the Emperor Frederick II, needed money to carry on his war and was determined to depose Manfred. Henry seemed to have a way of raising money when he needed it and Innocent thought that he could be of help in the Sicilian conflict. Of course Henry must be rewarded for his help; and it was this reward which caused Henry such pleasure.

He took the news to Eleanor without delay.

‘My dear, look at this ring which the Pope has sent.’

Eleanor took it and held it in the palm of her hand. ‘Why does he send it?’ she asked.

‘Ah, my dear, it has a special significance. It is for the King of Sicily. You look puzzled, as indeed you may. The Pope is at war with Sicily. He will dethrone Manfred. In return for help he sends me this ring which will be put on the finger of the newly appointed King of Sicily.’

‘And who … ?’

‘One of my sons, he says.’

Eleanor smiled. ‘Edward …’ she began.

‘My dearest, Edward has England. He will regain much of France. I thought Sicily for Edmund. You will have two Kings for sons then, my dear.’

Eleanor laughed.

‘You are right,’ she said. ‘It must be Sicily for Edmund.’

Henry immediately gave a special banquet to celebrate his son’s elevation to the throne of Sicily. There was a certain murmuring among members of his entourage as to how the crown of Sicily was going to be paid for. More taxes. Would the people endure it? That was the question. The King did not seem to realise that they were growing dangerously restive.

Meanwhile there was a splendid celebration. Eleanor insisted on her younger son’s wearing the Sicilian costume and everyone declared how well it became him.

At last it was time to return to England. The King and Queen of France with their Court accompanied them for a day and the English party then continued its way to the coast. On a cold January day they crossed to Dover and prepared to make the journey to London.

There was a ceremonial entry into the capital where the traditional present of one hundred pounds was made to the King. It seemed, complained Henry to the Mayor, a very small appreciation when it was considered that he had been absent so long on the country’s business. The Mayor consulted with the merchants and a fine piece of plate was produced. The beauty of this pleased him but he was still disgruntled.

‘Trust the people of London to spoil my welcome,’ he grumbled to Eleanor.

Both Henry and Eleanor, much as they had enjoyed the homage paid to them by the Court of France, were delighted to be home.

The first thing Eleanor did was rush to the nursery to see her little daughter Katharine. The child was very pretty and healthy and she wondered why the nurses had a somewhat apprehensive air.

‘What is wrong,’ demanded the Queen. ‘Is the child ill?’

‘Not exactly, my lady, but …’

A fearful anxiety came to the Queen. While she had been enjoying life in France all was not well with her baby.

‘Come,’ she cried sharply, ‘tell me. Don’t dare hold anything back.’

‘My lady, the child does not speak.’

‘You mean … she cannot …’

‘It would seem, my lady, that she is dumb.’

Eleanor took the child and held her tightly in her arms.

She crooned over her. ‘My baby Katharine … This to be … and I not to know.’

She kissed the child fervently. Katharine smiled back at her, gently loving but dumb.

The Queen shed many tears. She reproached herself.

‘My dearest,’ said Henry, ‘there was nothing you could have done had you been here.’

Eleanor could not be comforted. That her child should be less than perfect shocked her; and while she mourned over Katharine she began to feel uneasy about her eldest daughter Margaret.

‘It is long since we heard of her. She was so young to go away. Alexander is only a boy. Henry, I must see Margaret. Coming home and finding Katharine thus has frightened me.’

Henry was ready to soothe her.

‘I will send to Scotland without delay and tell them that Margaret is to visit us. Perhaps we could travel up to York and be together there.’

‘Let us do that without delay. I shall not know a moment’s peace until I have seen our daughter.’

‘You have allowed yourself to be fearful because of this …’

‘Perhaps. But I have a feeling for the children. I believe that if any of them is in danger I should be aware of it. And I am very uneasy about Margaret.’

‘The messengers shall leave without delay.’

The Queen could settle to nothing while she awaited news from Scotland. When it came it was disconcerting. There was nothing from Margaret herself but the guardians of the King and Queen, Robert de Ros and John Baliol, sent word that it was quite impossible at this time for Queen Margaret to leave Scotland.

This threw the Queen into a panic.

‘Something is wrong. I know it. Oh Henry, why did we ever let her go to that bleak land?’

‘The marriage was necessary if we were going to keep peace on the border. But I begin to share your anxiety.’

‘What can we do?’

‘If they refuse to allow her to come to England there is nothing we can do. We would have to go to war and …’

‘Then we would go to war,’ said the Queen fiercely.

Henry put a soothing arm about her shoulders. ‘It may well be, my dear, that you are worried unduly. We must discover why Margaret does not write and why it is impossible for her to come to see us. But we must do it with care.’

‘I have it,’ said Eleanor. ‘I shall send one of our doctors up to see her. They cannot deny him entrance to the castle. If he brings me back a good report of her health and word from her that she is happy I shall be reassured.’

The King agreed that this was a good idea and they sent for Reginald of Bath who was the finest physician they knew.

‘You are to leave at once for Edinburgh,’ said Eleanor. ‘There you will go to the castle. You will see the Queen of Scotland and tell her that you come on behalf of the King and Queen of England and you want to hear from her own lips that all is well. And I shall want a report on her health.’

Reginald left immediately.

How long and dreary were the days, and how Margaret yearned for the happy times of her childhood. She hated Scotland. As for her husband Alexander, who was younger than she was, he might have been a good companion but she was only rarely allowed to see him.

Edinburgh Castle was as dour and grim as those who had set themselves up as her guardians. She longed for Windsor and her dearest mother and father always at hand, always ready to listen. She wanted the hectoring company of the boys – even though they had spurned her as a girl and rarely let her join in their games – she wanted Beatrice and young Edmund. She wanted to look out of the windows and watch Edward lording it over the others with his flaxen hair waving in the wind and his long legs putting him above everyone else.

She wanted to go home.

From the moment she had seen this castle it had seemed like a prison. Built high on a rock; grey and forbidding it was grimmer than the Tower of London. It was a sad and solitary place; there were no green fields and gardens around it; it was unhealthy, she was sure, because she had felt ill ever since she came here. But perhaps that was homesickness.

She hated the long lessons with Matilda de Cantalupe, the governess who rarely smiled and who never complimented her however hard she worked. And sometimes she did work hard to make the days pass more quickly. Alexander was in another part of the castle, and their guardians, those two dour men, Robert de Ros and John Baliol, visited them from time to time. They asked her questions about England and wanted to know whether any communication had been smuggled in to her.

Yes, indeed, she was a prisoner.

Each day she walked along the ramparts of the castle with Matilda de Cantalupe, who kept close to her almost as though she feared she would run away.

Alexander was allowed to walk with her sometimes, but never so that they could exchange confidences. They were never allowed to say one word to each other out of the hearing of one of their jailers.

She wrote to her parents but the letters were taken away from her and as there were no replies she wondered if they ever reached them. She knew that her parents would write to her, but she never had letters from them either.

Sometimes she would feel very angry and demand of Matilda why she was treated thus. Matilda’s reply was: ‘You are well treated. You are fed and looked after. Your education is attended to. What more do you ask?’

‘I ask to be free. I am the Queen of Scotland.’

‘Then I must ask you to behave as the Queen of Scotland.’

‘How should she behave? Should she allow herself to be treated as a prisoner?’

‘This is nonsense. Is this room a dungeon?’

‘No, but it is a prison nevertheless. Why do they treat me thus?’

‘You are being brought up to be the Queen of Scotland.’

‘Then I would rather be a humble serving wench for I am sure she would be happier than I.’

‘You talk foolishly, my lady.’

Margaret kicked a footstool and sent it sliding across the room. Matilda gripped her arm so firmly that Margaret cried out in pain.

‘Take your hands from me,’ she shouted. ‘Forget not that I am the daughter of the King of England.’

‘We forget it not. Pray be calm. Me-thinks you have madness in you.’

Oh God help me, prayed Margaret, are they going to pretend that I am mad? What will they do to me then?

She fell silent.

It was so hard to know what to do when one was only fifteen.

She thought a great deal of her parents and all the love that had been showered on her when she was a child. If they but knew, how angry they would be. They would come and take her away. She knew that by marrying her to Alexander they had made peace with the Scots but they would make war if they knew this was how the Scots were treating her.

What could she do? She would not be fifteen forever. Alexander was young. He would help if he could but they treated him in the same way as they treated her.

Homesickness obsessed her. A deep feeling of melancholy came to her. If she heard England mentioned she was ready to weep helplessly so much did she long for her home and family.

She began to feel ill and listless. She ate very little and grew pale and thin.

Matilda was angry with her and so were those fearsome men who came more frequently to see her. But they could not make her eat if she would not.

‘You are ungrateful,’ scolded Matilda. ‘We do our best for you and how do you repay us?’

‘If this is your best I cannot imagine your worst,’ answered Margaret.

‘What do you want then?’

‘To leave this prison. To go home.’

‘This is your home. You have a husband now.’

‘He is no husband to me. He is your prisoner … as I am. I hate you all. I want to go back to England. I want my mother and my father.’

‘Thus do babies cry,’ said Matilda sternly.

Seated at the window, she looked out over the countryside. There was no escape from the castle. Sometimes she dreamed that her brother Edward came or her cousin Henry. They were such perfect knights and in the old days they would have enjoyed playing at rescuing imprisoned ladies.

It would be wonderful to see her brother riding up to the castle with his standard flying in the wind. She pictured the scene. ‘I have come to take my sister home.’ He would thrust aside de Ros and Baliol. He would laugh at Matilda de Cantalupe. He would seize his sister in his arms and place her on his horse. She could almost feel herself flying along in the wind with Edward, laughing as they went, and singing some song about rescue and adventure.

A few months ago Matilda had told her that her parents were in France and Edward was with them. He had married the half-sister of the King of Castile. There had been rejoicing and feasting and much extravagance.

Why did she tell her? It could only be to make her prisoner long for them the more.

They have forgotten me, she thought. They are rejoicing in Edward’s marriage. Lucky Edward, who will not have to leave his home because he has married. What matter of girl was his bride? She would be coming to a happy home. The King and Queen of England would never be unkind to young people. They would welcome Edward’s bride. Happy girl to marry into such a family.

When she had walked with Alexander he had tried to comfort her.

‘It will not always be thus,’ he had assured her. ‘It is only because I am not old enough yet to be a proper king and this is a regency.’

Perhaps it would end then. But he had a long time to wait before he would be considered old enough to be a real king.

While she sat disconsolately at the window she saw a party of riders coming towards the castle. She was alert immediately.

She watched them come up the slope and enter through the gateway. She could hear the horses’ hoofs clattering on the cobbles.

She was aware of the tension in the castle, and she knew that something extraordinary was afoot. Any excitement was welcome in this dull life and there was always the hope that the visitors had come from England.

Footsteps on the stone stairs! They were coming up this way.

She stood up as the door opened.

A man came into the room. Matilda de Cantalupe hovered behind him uncertainly.

‘I come on the command of the Queen of England,’ said the man, and Margaret felt as though she were fainting with relief.

‘You are welcome,’ she stammered. ‘How … how fares my mother?’

‘Your mother fares well and is anxious for news of you.’

Oh God, thought Margaret. You have answered my prayers. I knew she would send someone. She would never forget me.

Her melancholy dropped from her. ‘Leave us,’ she said to Matilda.

Matilda replied: ‘I think, my lady …’

The man looked amazed. ‘Madam, did you not hear the command of the Queen of Scotland?’

‘My orders are …’

‘You have just heard your orders from the Queen herself. What I have to say to the Queen I wish to say to her alone.’

There was an air of such authority about the man that Matilda hesitated. Her orders would have been not to allow a messenger from England to be alone with the Queen. She knew that. On the other hand if that was obvious it would create an even worse impression than if the Queen complained of their treatment. She decided to leave them alone together and send a message at once to her masters de Ros and Baliol.

When they were alone Margaret ran to the visitor and gave him her hand.

‘How glad I am to see you. You come from my mother. What messages do you bring? Tell me quickly before we are disturbed.’

‘Your mother has suffered great anxiety about you. She feared all might not be well.’

‘Oh I knew she would. My dearest, dearest mother. She would never desert any of us. My dear father too.’

‘He too is concerned. They have heard nothing from you.’

‘But I have written often. I have heard nothing from them.’

‘This is indeed a conspiracy. They have sent letters to you and received none from you. They must have been intercepted. Your mother wants a report on your health. I am a doctor. You may have heard of me. Reginald of Bath.’

‘But yes,’ cried Margaret excitedly.

‘I have to take back a report on your health and I fear it has been impaired by this place.’

‘I am so tired. I have no appetite. It is so cold and cheerless. I am ill in the winter. Sometimes I feel I want only to lie down and weep. I long to be home again.’

‘I shall report this to your mother. How do you live here?’

‘Like a prisoner. I am only allowed to walk in the castle grounds. I rarely see Alexander, who is treated as I am. My jailers de Ros and Baliol come to see me now and then and ask me many questions about England. It is easy to see that they hate our country. Tell my mother that I am sick with longing for home. If only I could see her and the others and the green fields and forests of Windsor I should be as well as I ever was. I am ill … and my complaint is Scotland. Oh, Doctor Reginald, I want to come home.’

‘I will tell your mother all you have said. I shall stay here but briefly for the Queen is impatient for my report. You may rest assured that when she has it she will take some action. I shall tell her how your health is suffering and I know that she will not allow that to continue.’

They talked awhile and she remembered indignities she had suffered and told him of them and that she was treated like a prisoner.

Matilda had given orders that an apartment be prepared for Reginald and he told her that he would need it only for one night. The next day he intended to return to England where the Queen was eagerly awaiting news of her daughter.

‘It would seem strange,’ he added, ‘that correspondence intended for the Queen of Scotland has never reached her and that which she sent to the King and Queen of England has not come to them.’

‘The roads are treacherous,’ replied Matilda. ‘Messengers are often waylaid and robbed.’

‘Aye,’ was the answer, ‘particularly in Scotland.’

Supper that day was taken in the great hall and Alexander was present, and although her melancholy was lifted, Margaret could eat little through excitement.

Alexander was clearly amazed at this change in their fortunes and Reginald listened intently to the young King’s corroboration of Margaret’s story.

He would certainly have something to report to Queen Eleanor and King Henry.

The next morning he left and shortly after his departure Robert de Ros and John Baliol arrived at the castle. They had come with all speed on receiving Matilda’s communication and were furious because the doctor had already left.

They made Matilda tell them everything that had happened. They realised that she could not have kept him away from Margaret but they deplored the fact that she had not remained with them to hear what was said.

How long had he gone? They must be after him. He must not be allowed to take his report to England.

Reginald, with his small party, was riding south, well pleased with his work. The mission was successful. He had found out what he had come to seek and he would have the royal approval for what he had done.

He had confirmed their suspicions. All was not well in Edinburgh. Some action would have to be taken for it was clear that the treatment Margaret was receiving in Scotland was, as Queen Eleanor had feared, affecting her health.

A day after he had left the castle his party fell in with some travellers on the road who were making their way south. They were pleasant companions and explained that they were frequent travellers along this road and would be delighted to give their English friends the benefit of their experience. They could guide them in the making of short cuts for they could see that their friends were intent on speed.

They came to an alehouse and were received warmly by the landlord. He could as it happened provide them with some good meat and drink and his wife had just baked fresh bread. His home-made ale was renowned throughout the neighbourhood and he would be proud if the distinguished travellers would sample it.

They talked together and during the conversation Reginald somehow revealed that he was a doctor and that he came from Bath. He was a well-known doctor in England, he could not help hinting, and served the great.

The ale was good and after he had drunk well of it he began to feel very sleepy. His bed was a pallet on the floor in the gallery above the alehouse parlour. He slept heavily but awakened in the night feeling rather strange. He was beset by violent pains which his medical knowledge suggested had been brought about by something he had drunk or eaten.

By the morning his friends were alarmed for he could not get up from his pallet. Their new friends who had brought them to the inn departed as they said they must and wished them good speed on their journey.

Before that morning was out Reginald of Bath was dead.

Eleanor, impatiently awaiting news from Scotland, was filled with foreboding. She had come to accept Katharine’s dumbness. The child was so pretty and appealing and she could forget her affliction in her charm.

Now her thoughts were all for Margaret. She knew that something was amiss. She could not imagine what was keeping Reginald. But perhaps she expected too much. Henry kept reminding her that he had not been gone very long and as he had impressed on him her deep anxiety he was sure the good doctor would make all possible speed.

When the party returned without the doctor and she heard that he was dead, she was in great dismay.

She fired questions at his attendants and wanted to know what he had found in Edinburgh Castle. They had not seen the Queen of Scotland, but they did know that Reginald had been horrified by the condition of the young Queen and he had said that she was more or less a prisoner of the Scots.

‘It is because he was bringing this news to us that he has been poisoned! Oh Henry, what are we going to do? We must bring our little girl home.’

Henry was horrified but talking the matter over with his brother Richard he realised that he could not make war on the Scots. Money would be needed for such an operation and he was already committed to helping the Pope in Sicily – a matter which was causing considerable complaint from his subjects who were being taxed to find the money needed.

Henry decided that he would send the Earl of Gloucester to Scotland with a suitable retinue and there arrangements must be made to give Margaret an establishment in keeping with her position, the regency disbanded, and Alexander and Margaret to rule as King and Queen.

This should be done, said the Queen, but it was not enough. She must see her daughter. Nothing would satisfy her until she had.

Since Eleanor was so determined that they must go to Scotland, go they must.

The Earl of Gloucester reported that the King and Queen of Scotland were now living together in their own establishment which was very different from their quarters in Edinburgh Castle. They would be travelling to Wark and Roxburgh and there they would meet Eleanor and Henry.

How delighted Margaret was! There was no ceremony. She must fling herself into her mother’s arms while they wept together.

‘I knew you would come. I knew you would never forget me,’ sobbed Margaret.

Eleanor laughed. ‘Forget one of my children! My darling, that I never would.’

‘Oh I knew everything would be all right if only I could reach you.’

‘It must never happen again,’ said Eleanor sternly, looking at her husband; and he assured her that it never would.

The mother and daughter would not be separated. Eleanor must hear everything that had happened since her daughter had parted from her. She told Margaret of their adventures in France, how she had met her sisters and her mother and how pleasant that had been – marred only because her darling daughter was not with her.

She told about Edward’s little bride.

‘A charming creature. Very young and she adores him already.’

‘Anyone would adore Edward,’ said Margaret; and Eleanor agreed with her.

‘You would like her. We must all be together before long. She has brought with her some tapestry which it seems in Castile they hang on walls and use on furniture. It is very pleasant and we are already using it in England.’

‘Oh, my dearest mother, how happy it makes me to be with you,’ cried Margaret.

They were going to make sure that there was no return of this monstrous behaviour, Eleanor assured her daughter. Those villains de Ros and Baliol had already been dismissed. They would regret the day they had made the Queen of Scotland a prisoner. Young Alexander was acknowledged as King and no petty little lords were going to prevent that.

‘Edward is coming to see you soon,’ said Eleanor, ‘and my love, we shall expect you at Woodstock before long. I tell you this; if you do not come, your father and I will come and fetch you.’

Margaret gazed at her parents with loving wonder. Hadn’t she always known they could put everything right?