Виктория Холт - The Hammer of the Scots

As he stood at one of the windows of the state apartments he felt a great longing to be with his family. The birth of his child could not be far off. It was expected somewhere around the twentieth of the month. His family were at Rhudlan and he thought it would be nice to have them with him.

He sent a messenger to Rhudlan. Let the Queen and the rest of his family join him at Caernarvon. He had a notion that his next child should be born at the castle which he had so recently completed and which was the finest in Wales.

* * *

In a very short time they arrived. The Queen was very heavy but she assured him that the journey had been easy. She was so accustomed to child-bearing that it caused her little inconvenience. What a pleasure he derived from showing them his castle.

‘There is of course much to be done yet, but work progresses.’

How he wished he could spend more time with them but they had scarcely settled in when news came that after the family had left Rhudlan trouble had sprung up there and it was felt that the King’s presence was needed at once.

‘So it goes on,’ said Edward. ‘I am of an opinion that we shall have trouble here for years ahead unless I can find some way of placating these people.’

He said a fond farewell to his family.

And the Queen’s last words to him were: ‘This time it must be a son.’

‘Send me news of him to Rhudlan as soon as he comes,’ was his answer.

* * *

At Rhudlan he went into conference with his generals. There was trouble in the mountains. Certain chieftains were raising their banners and trying to rally men to the cause of a free Wales.

‘They should be taken to London and shown the rotting heads of those who attempted to defy me,’ was the King’s grim rejoinder.

‘They are talking about a prince who should be appointed. They want a Welshman. They want someone who does not even speak the English language.’

‘It is not what they want but what I want which will come to pass. They forget they are a conquered nation.’

‘There are some men, my lord, who will never admit to defeat. The Welsh are of this kind.’

‘We shall see,’ said Edward.

He was a little melancholy. He wanted to return south. He was finding that too many problems beset him and they came from all sides. He wanted to be at Windsor or Westminster. That was the centre of his government. How could he know what was happening there while he was concerned with the Welsh matter?

‘By God,’ he cried, ‘these are a defeated people. They shall do as I say or feel my wrath.’

And while he was musing upon this a messenger arrived from Caernarvon.

The Queen had given birth to a boy. A healthy boy.

He stared at the messenger. He could not at first believe it. Then he cried out in joy.

‘Is this indeed true then?’

‘My lord, it is so. The Queen is overjoyed.’

‘As I am. As I am. And a healthy boy you say.’

‘They say they have never seen a healthier. If his lungs are any indication, my lord, he gives good evidence of strength.’

‘Blessings be on you. You shall be rewarded for bringing this news. A grant of land and this day a knighthood is yours.’

‘May the lord preserve you and the baby Prince, my lord.’

The man was grovelling on his knees but Edward had stepped past him.

He would keep his promise to the man and then … all speed for Caernarvon.

* * *

It was true. The Queen lay in her chamber which she had made beautiful and comfortable after her fashion by hanging up her Spanish tapestries. Beside her was the wooden cradle which hung on rings attached to two upright posts.

‘My love,’ he cried and knelt by the bed kissing her hands.

She smiled at him triumphantly. ‘The child,’ she said.

And there he was, lying there, only a few days old but with a look of health on him – so different from the other boys who had all been puny from birth.

‘Let us call him Edward,’ said the Queen.

‘Edward he shall be.’

‘I shall pray that he will grow up to be exactly like his father.’

The Princesses greeted their father with their usual devotion, but the Princess Eleanor was subdued. She did not want to speak to anyone, not even Joanna. Eleanor was now twenty years old, Joanna herself was twelve. There would be no more delay, Eleanor thought. How could there be? The child in the cradle had ousted her from her position. Alfonso could not live long. Everyone was saying that. And just as her ambition was about to be realised this boy had to be born.

Joanna was a little mischievous. ‘I wonder why God sent the Sicilian Vespers?’ she said. ‘It all seems of no moment, does it not? You might as well be in Aragon as here in England.’

Eleanor could not speak. She could not shut herself away so she must try to compose herself, so that her father might not see how bitterly disappointed she was.

She could not shut out the memory of Joanna’s mocking comment. Whatever was God thinking of?

It was unwise to share one’s secret thoughts with anyone – even one’s sister.

* * *

Edward received the Welsh chieftains who had come to Caernarvon to pay homage to him.

He received them with respect and after they had made admission of their fealty to him they asked leave to speak to him. This he readily gave.

‘My lord,’ said their leader, ‘there will be no peace in this land until we have a prince of our own – a prince who is beyond reproach, one who can speak neither French nor English.’

Edward was silent. If he could speak neither French nor English that meant that he must be Welsh.

‘A prince,’ he repeated, ‘who has never offended you, a prince who has never fought against you on the side of the English, you mean.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘A prince who can speak no English nor French. I see what you mean. I think I can agree to this. And if I do will you promise me peace in Wales?’

‘My lord, we promise it.’

‘No more rising. No more rebelling. You will accept the prince I shall appoint and make him your Prince of Wales.’

‘We should do that, my lord.’

‘Wait here awhile. I shall not be long.’

The chieftains looked at each other in astonishment. It was victory beyond their expectations. The King was agreeing to their request. A Welsh Prince for Wales!

The King returned. They stared at him in astonishment for in his arms he carried a baby.

‘You asked me for a Prince of Wales,’ he cried. ‘Here he is. I give him to you. He has been born in your country. His character is beyond reproach. He cannot speak either French or English and if you wish it the first words he shall speak shall be in Welsh.’

The chieftains were astounded. They had been tricked they knew. But something in the King’s gesture appealed to them. There was a man of great resource. He was one whom it would be in the interests of Wales to follow.

They conferred together. Then their spokesman said: ‘My lord, we accept your son as our Prince of Wales.’

The King was overcome with delight, as one by one the chieftains kissed the baby’s hand and swore fealty to him.

He believed he had completed the conquest of Wales.

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.