The Queen was a little sad, wondering if some fault lay in her. It seemed strange. She had had six children – this one would be the seventh. Three of them only lived. Perhaps one should not stress too much the little girl who had been born at Acre. The circumstances of her birth were against her. Joanna had lived and thrived though, and Eleanor was a fine healthy child. It was the boys whom it was so difficult to rear. Would she ever be able to forget little John and Henry? Never! Because she blamed herself for leaving them. And now Alfonso was not as strong as he should be. She had moved them from the Tower and Westminster to Windsor which she believed to be so much more healthy. But she had to admit that Alfonso had changed little since he had been at Windsor.

She must pray for a boy – a healthy boy.

In the afternoon her pains started while she stood calmly at her window looking to the forest where the leaves of the trees were already turning to bronze, for September had come.

She calmly told one of the attendants to go to the Queen Mother’s apartment and ask her if she would come to her quickly. The woman departed with all speed and as soon as the Queen Mother looked into the face of the breathless woman she knew, and immediately went to the Queen’s apartment.

The Queen was serene. The birth of a seventh child is not like the first. She knew what to expect and she had always given birth without much discomfort.

The energetic Queen Mother gave orders sharply. Soon there was great activity in the royal apartments.

As expected the labour was not arduous, but the result was disappointing.

The Demoiselle chose a moment when the Queen Mother was absent to come into the Queen’s bedchamber to see the baby.

‘What a dear little girl!’ she said.

The Queen smiled. ‘Yes, a dear little girl.’

‘But you wanted a boy.’

‘Now I have seen her, she is the one I want.’

‘The King will love her.’

‘The King loves all his children.’

The Demoiselle nodded, her eyes were misty. Poor child, thought the Queen, she dreams of the children it seems she will never have.

‘I have heard she may be called Margaret,’ said the Demoiselle, noting the pity in the Queen’s eyes.

‘It is what the Queen Mother wishes,’ said the Queen. ‘In memory of the Queen of Scotland.’

The Demoiselle nodded and remembered that life was sad for others as well as herself.

She asked if she might hold the baby and the Queen, smiling, gave her permission. After a while the Queen said, ‘The children will want to see her. They are being brought in.’

The Demoiselle put the baby in the cradle and was prepared for flight in case the Queen Mother came with the children.

She did and the girl slipped away. The Queen Mother frowned but the children were exclaiming loudly.

‘Oh, she is only little!’ cried Alfonso in a disappointed tone.

‘Well,’ retorted the Queen Mother, ‘what did you expect her to be? Big like yourself? You are two years old remember. She is but two weeks.’

‘They said we were to have a brother,’ said the Princess Eleanor rather reproachfully.

‘God sent us a girl instead,’ the Queen answered.

‘Which,’ commented Eleanor, ‘was rather unkind of Him when He knew what my father wanted.’

‘Well, we all have to have what is sent us,’ said the Queen Mother brightly.

‘You don’t, my lady,’ retorted the Princess. ‘You have what you want.’

The Queen Mother loved Eleanor. What a bright child. If the worst came to the worst Edward would have to make her his heir. She would speak to him about it some time … perhaps not yet. It was a little tactless while Alfonso lived, but the boy did have an air of delicacy and he was so like little Johnny had been at his age; and very soon Henry had begun to go like it.

Oh what a pity this child was not another boy!

As soon as he could, Edward came to his wife.

She lay in her bed looking at him appealingly.

‘Edward, I’m sorry.’

He laughed aloud. He was not going to let her know how disappointed he was.

‘Why, she is a beautiful child, and Margaret, eh? That was my mother’s choice and you agree with it.’

‘It pleases her so to honour the Queen of Scotland.’

‘And you, dear good soul that you are, will agree for her sake. God bless you, my Queen.’

‘I am so glad that you are not angry.’

‘What sort of man should I be if I were angry with you? By God, we’ll have sons yet. You were made to be a mother of them and I a father. Don’t fret, sweet wife. We have had seven to this time. There’ll be another seven you’ll see and if among them there are a stalwart boy or two I’ll be satisfied.’

She smiled and thought she was indeed blessed with such a husband.

A few weeks after the child’s birth there was alarming news from Wales. Ever since the capture of the Demoiselle, as was to be expected, Llewellyn had been making raids into England with some success. Edward had sent an army to deal with him, and had expected news of success. It had been delayed rather longer than he had thought it would.

Then came the news. The English army had been defeated at Kidwelly.

Edward was dismayed. The Queen was anxious. The Queen Mother was furious. And the Demoiselle could not completely hide her satisfaction.

Edward stormed into the Queen’s apartment. There was nothing for it. He would have to get together the best of his armies. If a job had to be well done there was only one who should do it and that was oneself.

‘Edward,’ said the Queen, ‘it is only a skirmish he has won. Need you go into danger? Cannot your soldiers let him know that he must keep the peace?’

‘If it were not for this prophecy of Merlin’s I might agree with you. He must not win … even a skirmish. His little victories will be sung into big ones. You know the Welsh and their songs. Verses not deeds make their heroes. It may be that this prophecy of Merlin’s was made by a poet and sung of until people believed it for truth. Nay, I must teach Llewellyn a lesson. I shall not be long away. I must drive this man back to his mountains. It is the only way.’

The King made his preparations to leave and before he went the Queen was able to tell him that she was once more pregnant.

The Demoiselle was white with misery. It was hard for her to keep believing in Merlin’s prophecy when she lived close to the power of the great English King.


* * *

Edward marched up to Wales and they waited for news. The Queen grew large with child.

‘This time,’ she said, ‘it must be a boy. What wonderful news that would be to send to the King.’

The Demoiselle sat with the Princess Eleanor and they worked on their tapestry together.

‘You are sad,’ said the Princess, ‘because my father is going to kill your lover.’

‘What if my lover killed your father?’ replied the Demoiselle.

‘No one could kill my father. He is the King.’

‘Llewellyn has been promised the crown by Merlin.’

‘He lived long ago. He does not count now,’ said the Princess, placidly stitching. ‘Do you like this blue silk?’

‘I do,’ said the Demoiselle.

‘Tell me about Llewellyn,’ said Eleanor. ‘Is he beautiful?’

‘He is the most beautiful man in the world.’

‘That is my father. So you lie.’

‘He is beautiful for me as your father is for you.’

‘But you said the most beautiful.’ Eleanor cried out. She had pricked her finger. ‘Do you think my mother will have a boy?’ she asked.

‘That is in God’s hands.

‘And God is not very kind, is He? He took my two brothers and my aunts Margaret and Beatrice. My grandmother is very cross with Him.’ She shivered. Obviously she was sorry for anyone with whom her grandmother was cross. ‘I’ll tell you a secret, Demoiselle, if you promise to tell no one.’

The Demoiselle looked eager. She was always hoping to learn something about Llewellyn and she knew that news about him was kept from her.

‘I will tell no one.’

‘I was glad Margaret was a girl. I hope this one will be a girl.’

‘But why? Don’t you know how much they want a boy?’

The Princess nodded gravely. ‘I heard them talking about Alfonso. They were saying he was like John and Henry. Then one of them said: “It may well be that the King would make Princess Eleanor” – that is myself – “heir to the throne.” You see, Demoiselle, if there were no boys and Alfie went the way of … the others … I should be the one. I, the Princess. Princesses can become queens you know. Real queens – not like my mother and grandmother who just married kings, but The Queen.’

The Demoiselle looked shocked. ‘You should not say such things,’ she said. ‘They are not … becoming.’

‘I know. That is why they are secret. You don’t have to be … becoming … in secret.’

The Demoiselle studied the ambitious little girl who kept her ears and eyes open. She supposed there was a possibility of her realising her ambition.

Poor child, she had yet to learn the trials of wearing a crown.

As the months passed and the Queen’s confinement drew near there was little news from Wales.

Then less than a year after the birth of little Margaret, another child was born to the Queen.

There was general despondency. Another girl! They called her Berengaria because of a fancy the Queen had, and when a short while afterwards the child grew more and more sickly it was said that it was an unlucky name to have given a child. It recalled the sad queen of Richard Coeur de Lion. He had never loved her; he had neglected her; and she had been an unhappy woman, a barren woman. Poor soul, said the Queen Mother, she rarely had an opportunity to be anything else for everyone knew of the King’s preference for fighting crusades and for handsome people of his own sex. A man to sing of rather than to live with.

Berengaria. It was a doomed name.

The Queen was sad, eagerly awaiting news from the Welsh border, but not more eagerly than the Demoiselle.

But the Princess Eleanor had a light in her eyes which showed she was not altogether displeased by the turn of events.


* * *

Gloom settled over Windsor. The King was on the Welsh border with his forces but it was not easy to gain the victory he sought. It was the Welsh mountains which defeated him time after time.

The Demoiselle was like a grey ghost in the palace. She longed for news yet dreaded it. She prayed for Llewellyn; she did not care whether Merlin’s prophecy came true or not. It was not a King of England she wanted; she could have been completely happy with a Prince of Wales … and peace.

The Queen Mother was so hostile to her that she wondered why she did not force her to leave Windsor. But the gentle Queen would be firm about that. It was after all the King’s wish that although she was a prisoner she should not be treated as one. Sometimes she would dream of how different her life would have been if the ship which was taking her to Wales had not been intercepted by the English. She and Llewellyn together with perhaps a little son or daughter. She would not have minded which. Oh how different it would have been from this weary waiting, this never-ending anxiety. Every time a messenger came to the castle she was in terror of what news he would bring. So was the Queen. She feared for Edward as the Demoiselle feared for Llewellyn.

The Queen had discovered how Almeric was faring in Corfe Castle and had assured the Demoiselle that he was being well treated. ‘In spite of everything,’ said the Queen, ‘the King does not forget that you are cousins.’

Edward was just, and the Demoiselle did not think he would be unduly cruel unless he found it expedient to be so. He was not like her grandfather King John who had taken pleasure in inflicting pain.

It was circumstances rather than individuals that had decided on her cruel fate.

The Queen Mother had received the Provençal physician William who assured her that her ailments were only those of encroaching age and that as she was usually healthy, there were many years left to her. That made good hearing and she rejoiced that Edward had sent for him. William was to stay in England – those were the King’s commands – and he must be given certain privileges which the Queen Mother would decide on.

That was very satisfactory. If Edward could only settle that tiresome business in Wales and they could send the Demoiselle to Corfe to join her brother, and Edward could come home and get his wife with a child who would prove a boy, and if little Alfonso would show a little more vitality, all would be as well as it could be without the late King.