The Hammer of the Scots

Chapter V THE SICILIAN VESPERS

Llewellyn had discovered peace and happiness in the stronghold of Snowdonia. His Demoiselle was all he had dreamed her to be. Loving, gentle and clever, she was his entirely. His welfare was her greatest concern. She watched over him, cared for him, and was capable of advising him. She taught him the delights of disinterested love. There had always been conflict in his family, brother against brother, and never being sure when the next piece of treachery would arise. Here at last was someone whom he could trust completely. It was a wonderful revelation. It had bemused him a little at first; he had not quite believed it to be true. But now that he had proved again and again that it was so, he settled into a sense of security which was near exaltation.

He had never dreamed such happiness was possible.

The Demoiselle, too, found contentment. Her only sadness came from her anxieties concerning her brothers. Almeric was still Edward’s prisoner in Corfe Castle and Guy was still in exile, wanted for the murder of Henry of Cornwall. If only they could be free; if they could be given the opportunity to start again, she could cease to worry about them and give herself up completely to the peace and contentment of her new life.

It was more than a year since Edward had given his permission for them to marry and each day when she awoke she thanked God for bringing her at last to peace.

She loved the mountains – rugged and beautiful, a menace to the enemy, security to themselves.

‘Our beloved mountains,’ she called them.

There were times when she fancied Llewellyn fretted over his loss of power. Then they would talk together and she would try to make him see how unworthily temporal glory compared with what they had discovered. She would feel delirious with happiness when she fancied he was realising this.

Then that for which they had longed came at last. The Demoiselle was with child.

This was the crowning of their love. Llewellyn was overcome by emotion. He liked to lie at her feet and make plans for the boy.

She laughed at him. ‘The boy. Always “the boy”! What if it should be a girl?’

‘If she is like her mother I ask nothing more.’

‘Welsh insincerity,’ she chided. ‘You are asking for a boy who looks like yourself.’

‘Well, which do you want?’

‘I shall want whatever I get.’

‘Oh, there speaks my wise Demoiselle.’

‘Since we have been together I have known so much happiness that I am content.’

‘If it is a boy we will call him Llewellyn. Why, he must be the one Merlin spoke of.’

She shook her head. ‘Nay. I do not want a warrior. I want my son to be the head of a happy family. I want him to have children who love and revere him – not subjects who fear him.’

‘Wise Demoiselle!’ he said, kissing her hand.

She was looking beyond him into the past, thinking, he knew, of her father – one of the greatest men of his age, they were beginning to say now. A man who had believed in the right and had for a time subdued a king. In time to come people would remember Simon de Montfort because he had lived and died violently. They would not remember the Demoiselle who had longed for peace and had brought happiness to a wild man of the mountains.

So they planned for the child to come.

One day Llewellyn’s brother Davydd called on them. Davydd had in truth come more satisfactorily out of the agreement with England than Llewellyn had. Because Davydd had gone over to Edward, the King had regarded him as an ally. Llewellyn had been the enemy.

Edward did not know Davydd. Davydd was a man who would fight on whichever side was the stronger.

There had been peace on the borders now for some time and Davydd was restless. He wanted to talk to his brother about the possibilities of regaining what had been lost.

The Demoiselle was uneasy when she greeted Davydd. She was sure his coming meant trouble. She did not want even the thought of war to be brought into their happy home.

Davydd sat long, talking with his brother.

‘Are you content then,’ he demanded, ‘to be the vassal of the English King? Where is your pride, Llewellyn?’

‘I have not been so happy before in the whole of my life.’

Davydd was sceptical. ‘A new husband. A new father-to-be. By the holy saints, Llewellyn, what will your son think of a father who was content to pass over his heritage to the English?’

Llewellyn was silent. When he was not with the Demoiselle he did sometimes think with shame of the peace he had made. What would his old grandfather have said? What of his father?

‘I was not strong enough against the English,’ he said. He frowned at Davydd. ‘I was surrounded by traitors.’

Davydd shrugged that aside. ‘If I had not gone to the English there would be nothing of Wales left to us.’

‘If you had stood beside me …’

‘It was not in me to be any man’s vassal … even my brother’s.’

‘Except of course the King of England’s.’

‘Not for long,’ said Davydd.

‘What mean you?’

‘I mean this: we should gather a force together and reclaim that which has been taken from us.’

Llewellyn thinking of the Demoiselle shook his head.

‘Have you forgotten the prophecy?’

‘It was clearly not meant for me.’

‘Certainly it was not for one who thrusts aside his opportunity of greatness. Llewellyn, you were meant to rule Wales … and, it may well be, England. Merlin may have meant that England was yours if you were bold enough to take it.’

There was a deep silence. That thought had more than once occurred to Llewellyn.

He said slowly: ‘I have never known such happiness as I have of late.’

Davydd was scornful. ‘You are newly married. You waited overlong. Your bride was snatched from you. Oh, it was so romantic. Dreams, dreams … and you are still in a dream. Think, Llewellyn. When you are an old man your children will say to you, “And what of Wales? What of your heritage? You threw it away for your romantic dreams.”’

‘It will be for them to go their ways, to learn life’s lessons for themselves, to ask what they would have – happiness such as I now enjoy, peace … joy … oh, I cannot explain to you. Davydd … that or war, bloodshed, misery, heartbreak.’

‘And the glory of Wales? Wales for the Welsh!’

‘You waste your time with me, Davydd.’

And at last Davydd saw that this was true.

He was thoughtful after Davydd had ridden away. The Demoiselle comforted him.

‘He thinks me a fool,’ he told her.

‘A wise fool,’ she answered. Then they talked of the baby to come and the beauty of the Welsh mountains.

Our mountains, she called them, and they with his happy marriage and his child to come were enough for him.

So they lived in their peaceful haven and the time grew near when the Demoiselle should be brought to her bed. The women came and shut her in away from him.

He sat outside her bedchamber and waited.

They had not reached the peak of their happiness yet. It would be different when the child came. She longed for the child, so did he.

A little boy. Llewellyn. That Llewellyn who was going to make Merlin’s prophecy come true. No, she would not want that. It would mean going out against Edward’s might. Perhaps Edward would be dead by the time this child grew up. Perhaps it would be Edward’s son whom the child would have to face.

Llewellyn smiled. That must be the answer. No man could stand against great Edward. It was something people knew instinctively. Even Merlin’s prophecy wilted and faded away in face of Edward.

The labour was long. The day faded. No sign yet. Is she suffering? That was more than he could bear. I should be with her. Oh no, my lord, they said. Better not. It would not be long now.

Oh, my Demoiselle, daughter of a great man and royal princess, what joy you have brought me. This cannot last. There must be no more children. You will say it is natural for a woman to bear children but I cannot endure this … torment.

He laughed at himself. His was the mental torment, hers the physical. The women were bustling back and forth. Grave faces and the perpetual cry: It will not be long now.

Then he heard the cry of a child.

He was at the door. ‘A girl, my lord. A lovely healthy little girl.’

He did not look at the child. He could only go to where the Demoiselle lay on her bed weak and exhausted.

He knelt by the bed and the tears flowed from his eyes. He could not stop them. He did not care that the women saw.

‘How he loves her!’ said the old midwife and she shook her head. There was infinite sorrow in her eyes.

‘A little girl,’ whispered the Demoiselle.

‘A beautiful child, my love,’ he answered.

‘You do not mind …’

‘I want only my Demoiselle. I care for nothing else …’

‘You must care for the child.’

They told him she must sleep now.

‘She is worn out with bearing your child,’ said the midwife.

So he went away and left her and he went to his room and prayed. He had forgotten to look at the child.

They were rapping on his door.

‘My lord, come quickly. My lady wishes to see you.’

He ran. He was at her bedside. She was looking at him with glazed eyes.

‘Llewellyn,’ she whispered his name. He knelt by the bed.

‘My Demoiselle, I am here.’

She said: ‘Take care … of the child …’

Then she closed her eyes.

One of the women came and stood beside him.

‘She has gone, my lord,’ she said.

‘Gone!’ he cried. ‘How dare you! Gone. She is here … She is here …’

He lifted her in his arms. He stood holding her lifeless body daring God to take her from him.

He was mad with grief. He had no wish to live.

‘There is the child,’ they told him.

He cared nothing for the child. He hated the child. Her coming had taken away the Demoiselle … a poor exchange. A tragic exchange. I should never have had a child. Oh God, how I wish I had never had a child. What do I want with a child … without her?

He was in a dream … a dream of despair. He cared for nothing. He shut himself in his chamber. He would not eat. He would see no one. He had lost everything he cared for.

They begged him to think of the child.

‘My lady said that she liked the name of Gwenllian. She said if the child is a girl I will call her that. My lord, shall she be given that name?’

They could give her any name they cared to. It was of no moment to him.

So the little girl who had cost her mother her life was named Gwenllian; and she was content with the wet nurse they had found for her, oblivious of what her coming had cost.

Llewellyn wandered in the mountains – as dark and dour as they could be when the sun was not there. And the sun had gone out of his life for ever. He cared not what became of him.

The Princess Eleanor was in her eighteenth year and it was generally wondered why she was not married. Her betrothed, Alfonso of Aragon, was now the Infant; he would one day be King of Aragon, but every time the matter of the marriage was broached the King was too busy to discuss it, or he found the project of sending his daughter away inconvenient for the time.

The Princess was delighted. She had no wish to go to Aragon. Why should she? She was perfectly happy in England. She had her dear family and the status of an heir to the throne.

Poor little Alfonso was now eight years old and people shook their heads over him. ‘He will never make old bones,’ they said.

As for the King, he loved all his children but he could not help being a little impatient with a boy who was so unlike himself. Alfonso was not going to have that fine physique inherited from the Normans; in fact he was very much a Castilian, dark-haired, soft-eyed and gentle. Admirable qualities in the Queen but hardly suitable for the heir of England. Moreover the King adored his eldest daughter. They rode together and talked together and he could not bear her out of his sight. She was a strong woman; she resembled her grandmother; and for this reason the Queen Mother’s love for the girl was almost as strong as that of the King.

She loved to have the Princess visit her. She had gone to Amesbury but only for brief visits. She was trying the place out before she finally settled there, and she certainly would not do that until the tiresome matter of the dowry had been sorted out. She was certainly not losing any of her wealth. She loved her money and possessions almost as much as she loved her family and she was not parting with one penny.

Moreover she loved life too much to shut herself away completely. Perhaps Heaven would be satisfied for the time being with a few brief sojourns in sanctity. After all she was in good health still so there were some years left in which to pay up in full.

Not that she believed she had a great deal to atone for. She had been a faithful wife to Henry; he and she had been as one; she had helped him govern his kingdom. No, she could not see that a great deal of recompense would be demanded from her.

She was fond of her daughter-in-law the Queen, but she found her a feeble creature. She was, however, what Edward wanted because he was an overbearing man – not like his dear father who would listen to counsel … from his wife. Edward would listen to no one – not even his mother. Edward believed he knew best.

Fortunately he was a great general. Men feared him; he was just, and as was to be expected from a son of hers and Henry’s, he was a faithful husband with a respect for family life. This was good for the nation, for subjects followed the fashions set by their King.

Now she welcomed her grand-daughter Eleanor with the greatest pleasure. She took an enormous interest in all her grandchildren, but Eleanor chiefly, and Mary of course, whom she had determined should go into a convent – Amesbury very likely, if it came up to her expectations.

‘My dear, dear child,’ she said and embraced the Princess. ‘How it delights me to see you! I have just come from Amesbury and the rest has done me good.’

‘You look well, my lady.’

‘I am, my dear. I should never have thought I could have been so well after your dear, dear grandfather died.’

‘Something in you died with him,’ said the Princess quickly before her grandmother said it.

‘How well you understand! I thank God for you, my child. You are such a comfort to your parents.’

Then they talked of the Queen. ‘I doubt not,’ said the Queen Mother, ‘that she will be pregnant again soon.’

‘Dear Mother! I think she should not bear so many children. It weakens her.’

‘It is too much. Edward should realise that it is hardly likely he will get a son now. His boys are never strong. I thought Alfonso looked very frail when I last saw him. He is such a darling boy. I have the widows doing vigil for him but what good does it do!’

‘It did nothing for the others,’ said the Princess.

‘It is my belief,’ said the Queen Mother conspiratorially, ‘that Alfonso will never come to manhood.’

The Princess nodded solemnly.

‘Well, we have you, my love.’

‘My lady, suppose poor Alfie …’

‘Dies?’ said the Queen Mother. ‘Alas, I think that very likely.’

‘And the Queen only has girls …’

‘I think that equally likely …’

‘And I …?’

‘My blessed child, you are the eldest daughter. I’ll swear you are every bit as good as a man. It has always maddened me … this desire for boys. As though they are cleverer than we are. Have you noticed that? Why, your grandfather used to say I was worth ten of his ministers.’

‘And so it proved.’

‘Your grandfather used to say I could have governed the country as well as he could.’

It would not have been politic to say: ‘And his was not very good government,’ and the Princess was excited because she saw that she had her grandmother’s support and everyone would agree that that was well worth having.

‘Then, my lady, if all this should happen, do you think that I could years and years hence become the Queen of England?’

‘It could come to pass, my child, and I believe that would not be such a bad thing for this country.’

‘But if I go to Aragon to marry this man …’

‘Ah, then, my dear, it would not be so. Your husband would want the crown and that is something the people would never have. No, you would have to be here … and you will have to show the people that you are strong and able. Secretly I believe the King thinks so. Look how he has honoured you.’

‘But this is what I want to talk to you about. There is news from Aragon. They want me to leave England at once. Oh, my lady, what am I going to do?’

‘It must be stopped,’ said the Queen Mother. ‘I will speak to your mother and the King.’

‘I could not bear it if I were sent away. Not to see you, my lady … and the others.’

The Princess was watching her grandmother closely. The old woman pressed her lips firmly together.

‘Certainly you must not go … yet. You are far too young.’

The absurdity of this did not matter to either of them. When the Queen Mother made a statement it must be true, however much the facts disagreed.

The King was quite ready to be persuaded that his daughter was too young to leave her home. Though he did cover himself by writing to the King of Aragon that it was ‘The Queen, her mother and our dearest mother who are unwilling to grant that she may pass over earlier on account of her tender age.’ He did, however, add that he agreed with this.

The Aragonese were suspicious. To speak of the tender age of a bride-to-be who was in her eighteenth year when so many girls were sent to their bridegrooms at the ages of twelve and thirteen did seem rather strange.

A coolness sprang up between the ambassador of Aragon and the King’s Court which disturbed Edward and as conditions abroad necessitated the friendship of Aragon, he would have to be careful and not let them think that he wished to break off the contract.

Meanwhile the Queen had become pregnant once more.

Llewellyn continued to mourn. The baby was left to the care of nurses and he never wanted to see her. He would ride out into the mountains because he wanted to be alone with his wretchedness.

They said of him: ‘If he goes on like this he will die of melancholy.’

His brother Davydd, hearing of his state, came to see him again.

‘Do you not see how misguided it is to set store by such ephemeral joys?’ he asked.

‘Who would have thought she would have died?’ mourned Llewellyn. ‘We had so little time together. How could God have been so cruel?’

‘God is sometimes cruel to a man in order that he may fulfil his destiny.’

‘Destiny! what is my destiny without her!’

‘There was a prophecy by Merlin.’

‘A false prophet.’

‘Take care, Llewellyn. It is small wonder that Heaven strikes you such blows if you blaspheme in this way.’

‘Heaven can strike as many blows as it wishes. I cannot feel any more. I care nothing of what happens to me.’

‘You are not finished yet, Llewellyn. The future is before you.’

‘I care not for it. I shall never know happiness again.’

‘There is happiness to be found outside family life. Give yourself a chance to find compensation.’

‘You do not understand, Davydd.’

‘I understand full well. If you stay here brooding you will die of melancholy. Let me tell you, brother, I could raise an army. We could go against the English … together. Edward is lulled to a feeling of security. He thinks he has beaten us. Llewellyn, why do we not show him his mistake?’

Llewellyn was half listening. He was thinking: Edward kept us apart. Edward captured her and kept her from me. We could have had more life together. I hate Edward. I hate the world. I hate God.

‘We could … together … defeat him. We could bring Wales back to the Welsh. Llewellyn, don’t you see it is your opportunity. It is God showing you a way out of your misery. Llewellyn, you are stunned with grief now, but if you would give yourself a chance you would grow away from it. Oh, I know you will never forget her. I know what you have lost. But you have still to live. You have to go on living. You cannot for her, but you can for Wales.’

For Wales! For the magnificent mountains, the valleys and the hills. The honour of Wales. Wales for the Welsh. And perhaps one day Merlin’s prophecy would come true. Davydd was in earnest. He could not trust Davydd. He had deceived him once.

He was astounded. For a few minutes he had stopped thinking of the Demoiselle.

Now he was listening to Davydd.

He did not care what became of him. Perhaps that was the best way to go into desperate battle.

The Aragonese were determined. They would wait no longer. The Infant wanted his bride. If she did not come to him it was likely that he would look elsewhere; and he would certainly not regard as an ally one who had treated him as the English King had in withholding his daughter.

Tight-lipped, Edward explained to his daughter. He saw the stony despair in her face. Then he broke down and embraced her.

‘My darling child, what can I do? You are promised to Aragon.’

There was nothing she could do. There was nothing the Queen Mother could do. The Princess was promised to Aragon and there was no real reason why she should not go to her bridegroom.

The Princess was on her knees praying. God must do something that would prevent her going. She could not go. All her plans would have foundered if she did. She did not want to be the Queen of Aragon, she wanted to be the Queen of England. Her mother was pregnant again. If God sent a son this time she would take it as a sign that He had deserted her.

Something will happen, she kept telling herself. Something must happen.

Then came the startling news from Wales. Llewellyn and his brother Davydd had risen against the King. Edward was furious. He had believed the Welsh problem was settled. He had given Llewellyn his Demoiselle and looked forward to years of peace on that border. Now the brothers were in revolt.

He would trust no one to subdue them. He would go himself.

He told his daughter that he was going to Wales. She clung to him and said, ‘You are going and I shall have to go away. It may be that we shall not see each other again.’

‘That must not be,’ he said. ‘You shall come with me to Wales. You and your mother and your brothers and sisters shall be lodged in a safe place, but where I can see you between battles. My dearest child, it seems you must go to Aragon, but not yet … not yet. I can hold them off for a bit.’

‘It sounds as though they are an enemy,’ she said half tearfully, half joyously, because he betrayed his love for her so blatantly.

‘Anyone who takes my dearest daughter from me is an enemy,’ he said.

‘For a while then, I shall forget,’ she said. ‘I shall try to be happy. I shall not think that soon I have to go away. For the moment I can be with my beloved father.’

The Queen was also eager to go to Wales. The superstitious belief clung to her that if she bore a child in a different place, she might have a healthy boy.

Thus it was that they travelled north and the King put his family in Rhudlan Castle while he went on with his armies to subdue Llewellyn and his brother Davydd.

Edward had made Rhudlan his place d’armes and there he also kept the provisions for the army. It was a great comfort to him to have his family with him. How much less exacting war could be if, somewhere – as safely away from the fighting as possible – he could have them installed. It meant that when there was a lull in the battle and circumstances warranted his taking a little respite, he could be with them.

The Queen was in a state of expectancy. She was optimistic by nature and at every pregnancy she was buoyed up by the thought that this time they would have their son; and even when she was disappointed she would say to herself, ‘It will be the next time.’ She was thankful that she could bear children easily – a gift some women had, but which was not always bestowed on queens. Edward always agreed with her that one day the longed-for boy would come. ‘And if not,’ he had said not long before, ‘we have our daughter.’ He was very upset at this time at the prospect of losing her. She really should have gone to Aragon years before. But it was a comfort to know that Edward so loved his daughters that he could not bear to part with them.

Joanna would have to go too. She was afraid that would come to pass very soon for, although Joanna was eight years younger than her sister Eleanor, she was now ten years old, and this was an age when future brides were expected to be with their bridegroom’s families that they might grow up in their ways. How sad it would be when Eleanor went to Aragon and Joanna to Germany. But there seemed no help for it. Princesses were born to leave their homes and go to those of their husbands. She had had to do it; even the dominating Queen Mother had had to do it – although from what she had heard she had believed it was her choice.

It was wonderful to be near Edward so that she could have news quickly about the progress of the war. Edward did not expect this one to last long. Welsh chieftains rising in their hills should soon be put in their places and this time, said Edward, they shall feel my wrath. They made a treaty with me. I shall have no mercy on those who break faith with me.

And he meant it. Soft as he was with his family he was becoming a stern king. It was right of course. People only obeyed those who showed the strong arm.

‘Let it be a boy,’ she prayed. If it were, Rhudlan would be remembered as the birthplace of her son. There was Alfonso of course. They were inclined to forget that he was a boy and the eldest. Poor little fellow, did he know that there were whispers about him? He’ll not make old bones, they said. Edward was kind to him but he had no pride in him, and sometimes she thought the little boy knew it and lost the will to live. Because John and Henry had died they were expecting Alfonso to do the same. He was nine years now and had lived longer than either John or Henry. It could really be that like his father he would grow out of his delicacy.

She prayed that he would but even so it would be advisable to have another brother – a strong boy who would be there to take the throne if need be.

She liked Rhudlan. She immediately felt at home in a castle because as soon as she arrived she ordered her servants to hang up the tapestries she had brought with her. Then of course there were certain items of furniture which were carried from place to place – her bed, her cupboard, her chairs. So one castle was very like another.

She was glad that the custom of hanging tapestries on the walls – a fashion she had brought with her from Castile – was appreciated here. More and more people were doing it.

But Rhudlan was different, of course. The castle stood on a steep bank commanding a good view of the surrounding country. It was washed by the river Clweyd and was impressive with its red sandstone which had come from the neighbouring rocks. Her spirits had lifted when she saw its six massive towers flanking the high curtain walls of the King’s Tower above them. Edward had done a certain amount of rebuilding when he had been here. Edward could never resist improving his castles whenever he rested. He had his father’s talent for and love of architecture, only where Henry had beautified regardless of cost for the sheer joy of improving on the building, Edward was practical, never spent more than was necessary and was mainly concerned with strengthening the fortifications.

Here she waited as she had waited so many times before. This would be her eleventh confinement. Out of them there had been only three boys and two of them dead and the other sickly. Surely God would be good to her now. Surely He would listen to her prayers.

Her daughters came to see her for they were all here – even four-year-old Mary, although the Queen Mother had wanted to keep the child with her. She was determined that Mary should go into a convent. The Queen thought her daughter should be allowed to make up her own mind as to what she would do with her life. Everything would depend, the Queen Mother insisted, on how the child was brought up. She should be made aware from the first what was intended for her. It was necessary for one daughter to lead the secluded life and the Queen Mother had chosen Mary.

The Queen was inclined to leave unpleasant matters until they had to be decided, and Edward had other affairs with which to concern himself, so Mary was left a great deal to the Queen Mother who had even on one occasion taken the child to Amesbury and, no doubt, implied to her that her future would be there.

Her time was upon her. She felt the familiar signs. She was calmer than her women. She had after all gone through it so often.

She called them to her and said, ‘We should now prepare.’

A few hours later her child was bom. It was what everyone had come to expect. A daughter. But she thanked God that this one appeared to be a healthy child.

Edward would not come to her immediately but news was sent to him.

She recovered quickly as she always did. She sent for the children that she might show them the new baby; eighteen-year-old Eleanor, ten-year-old Joanna, nine-year-old Alfonso, seven-year-old Margaret, and four-year-old Mary.

They examined the new baby in its cot.

‘She is going to be called Elizabeth,’ the Queen told them.

The Princess Eleanor’s eyes were shining with an emotion her mother did not understand. Her sister Joanna did though. She smiled secretly, and when they left their mother’s apartment Joanna followed her sister to theirs.

‘Another girl,’ said Joanna. ‘Is it not strange that they who so urgently need a boy can get only girls? It is as though God is playing a trick on them. Eleanor, do you think God plays tricks?’

‘I think,’ said Eleanor, ‘that God has His reasons.’

‘We all have those,’ Joanna reminded her.

‘I mean He lets things happen in a certain way because it is all part of his plan. I used to think …’

‘I know what you used to think. Alfie would die and you would be the Queen.’

The Princess Eleanor was about to deny this but when she looked at her sister’s knowledgeable eyes she changed her mind. No one would have believed Joanna was so young. She was too clever for her age; she listened at doors; she questioned the attendants in a sly quick way, which meant that they betrayed more than they intended. Joanna thus knew a great deal.

Eleanor shrugged her shoulders. ‘I am to go to Aragon.’

‘And I to Germany.’

‘I don’t want to go to Aragon. If I do …’

‘Nothing will be as you want it. You will in time be the Queen of Aragon when you want to be the Queen of England. Queen Consort of Aragon or Queen in her own right of England. It is easy to understand.’

Eleanor said angrily, ‘If God is going to send me to Aragon why does He give the Queen another girl? It would seem as though He is on my side … all those girls … and then He lets them send me to Aragon.’

‘And me to Germany,’ sighed Joanna. ‘Though I see that is not quite the same, for I could never hope to be Queen of England. You are the one our father wants, sister, but if God does not want it that is no good.’

‘We could pray for a miracle.’

‘What sort of miracle? That Alfie would die?’

Eleanor cried out in dismay, ‘Don’t say it. It would bring bad luck. Of course I don’t want Alfie to die. I just want him to be too delicate to govern … so that they have a queen …’

‘Queen Eleanor,’ said Joanna, with mock respect.

The Princess clasped her hands together. ‘I must not go to Aragon,’ she said.

‘No,’ repeated Joanna, ‘you must not go to Aragon. How shall we prevent it?’

‘Do you believe if you pray hard enough you will something to happen?’

‘It has never been thus for me.’

‘Try it. It is all that is left to us. Pray with me that I shall not go to Aragon …’ She added as an afterthought, ‘… and you to Germany.’

Joanna loved experimenting.

‘We’ll try it! Special prayers! We’ll really mean it. We’ll give our whole minds to it. To tell the truth, sister, I do not want to go to Germany any more than you want to go to Aragon.’

The Princess Eleanor gripped her sister’s hand, her eyes shining with a fanaticism which Joanna found very interesting.

The Princess Eleanor and her sister Joanna were jubilant. Eleanor said she had never doubted her miracle would come to pass and it was for this reason that it had. It was what was called ‘Faith’.

Joanna was impressed. Eleanor must be very important in God’s eyes if He could kill so many people just to gratify her ambitions, and that it had all happened so far away over a matter which was really no concern of theirs made it doubly interesting.

It had taken place in Sicily, in that sunny island where people had loved to sing and dance before they were conquered by the French. The freedom-loving Sicilians, restive under the French yoke, had plotted in secret and earlier that year – on Easter Day to be precise – they had risen against their enemies. The signal to rise had been the first stroke of the vesper bell and the Sicilians had slaughtered all the French on the island – eight thousand of them in all.

It was some time after it had happened that the news of the massacre reached England, and it never occurred to Eleanor at the time that this could be so important to her. It had far-reaching effects, however, and the Sicilians, having taken part in what had become known as the Sicilian Vespers, were almost immediately afterwards in terror of the powerful French. They had sought the help of Pedro of Aragon – the father of Eleanor’s husband-to-be.

The reason they had turned to Aragon was because Pedro’s wife was Constance, the daughter of the old King of Sicily, and they thought that if the crown of Sicily were offered to Aragon that country would not hesitate to come to their relief. They were right and Pedro was received in Sicily with great rejoicing.

It was hardly likely that the French would allow this state of affairs to continue. Charles of Anjou who had been the King of Sicily was very close to the English royal family because he had married Beatrice, the sister of the Queen Mother. Constance had been very anxious for the Princess Eleanor to come to Aragon, that she might forge a link with England which would be stronger than that already existing between England and France, on account of the relationship between Beatrice and the Queen Mother. Naturally the French were now extremely anxious that this betrothal should not take place.

Charles of Anjou very quickly regained his lost possession and the Pope was induced to reconsider the dispensation regarding marriages of royal people, and among these was that of Eleanor and Alfonso of Aragon who on the very recent death of Pedro had become the King.

The Pope therefore sent his envoys to the King of England with injunctions that the dispensation which had been granted for a marriage between England and Aragon was no longer valid; and the Pope added that he hoped the King of England would give up all intentions of forming an alliance with enemies of the Holy See who had joined with those who had used the bells of vespers as a signal for their uprising.

The King had returned briefly to Rhudlan, and even before he saw his new daughter Elizabeth he sent for Eleanor.

He embraced her fiercely.

‘Oh, my darling child,’ he said, ‘this is good news. There will be no Aragonese marriage. You are not to go to Aragon. You are staying here … with me.’

The colour flooded her face; her eyes were brilliant with joy. She had always been the most beautiful of his children. He could not take his eyes from her lovely face.

‘It seems you are made happy by this news,’ he said.

‘Nothing could have made me happier. It is the miracle I have prayed for.’

How they exulted! How they laughed together! ‘We must be serious,’ said the King. ‘We will pretend to be put out. How dare the Pope dictate to the King of England, eh? But the King of England is at war with the Welsh rebels and he would not risk a threat of excommunication at such a time, would he? Therefore we must do as the Pope wishes. This must be one of the few times a Pope’s orders have pleased a King of England.’

She clung to him. She would not let him go.

He stroked her hair and murmured endearments. There were many who would have been surprised if they could have seen the stern King’s expression of tenderness towards his eldest daughter.

At length he left her and went to his wife’s bedchamber.

He kissed her fondly. Dear Queen, who had given him the children he loved – and in particular her namesake, his eldest daughter.

‘Edward, another girl, I fear.’

‘Nay, my love, you should not grieve. I love my girls. And we have Alfonso. We must change his name e’er long. Alfonso is no name for a King of England. Shall we rename him Edward?’

‘No, Edward, no please …’

‘You do not like the name?’

‘I like it too well,’ she said earnestly. ‘I fear it might be unlucky.’

‘Then he shall stay Alfonso,’ and he thought, That boy will never mount the throne. And there is nothing wrong with a Queen of England.

By a strange coincidence the arrangements for Joanna’s marriage were brought to an abrupt termination.

When earlier that year Prince Hartman, Earl of Hapsburg and Kyburg, Landgrave of Alsace and son of the King of the Romans, had announced his intention of coming to England to see his bride, and if he had come that would have meant a betrothal and Joanna’s returning to his country with him, his visit was delayed. His father had been at that time engaged in a struggle of his own and he could not consider sending his son to England without an adequate bodyguard of his best soldiers. The plain fact was that he needed those men to fight his battles and so the visit was postponed. It was of no great matter, wrote Prince Hartman; he would come as soon as he and his men could be spared and then the Princess Joanna should leave with him and would continue her education in the royal house of Hapsburg.

There had been something ominous in that letter. He was determined to come and it was only a temporary postponement. Joanna did not see how she could escape her destiny. It was true that having been brought up in Castile and then sent to England she was not so averse to a change as her sister Eleanor had been. Joanna had the belief that wherever she was people would love and admire her. All the same she wanted to stay in England.

It was at Rhudlan that the news was brought to her father.

He sent for her, embraced her and told her that he had bad news for her.

‘There has been an accident,’ he said. ‘Prince Hartman was staying at the castle of Brisac on the Rhine and decided to visit his father. He set out and suddenly a fog arose. His sailors did not know where they were for it was so dense they could not see their hands when they held them before their faces. Their boat foundered on a rock. My dear child, Prince Hartman, your bridegroom-to-be, has been drowned. They have recovered his body from the river so there can be no doubt.’

‘Then there will be no marriage,’ said Joanna solemnly.

‘Well, you are but a child. We will find a husband for you as important, never fear.’

‘I have no fear, my lord, and I had no wish to go away.’

The King smiled fondly. What delightful daughters he had! Joanna was almost as beautiful as her sister Eleanor.

He said: ‘To tell you the truth, my child, I can feel no great sorrow in this for it means we are not going to lose you … yet.’

‘Perhaps when I marry it will be someone here … at home,’ said Joanna. ‘I know my sister hopes that she will.’

He smiled at her, well pleased.

‘Who knows,’ he said, ‘such good fortune may well be ours.’

Joanna lost no time in going to her sister.

They stared at each other wide-eyed.

‘So miracles do happen,’ said Eleanor.

‘If you will them to,’ replied Joanna.

They smiled secretly, believing they had made a great discovery.