She sighed. ‘Well, perhaps one day you will change your mind when …’
He looked at her and that lid which fell over his eyes slightly and reminded her poignantly of his father could have added a sternness to his face but his mouth was tender.
‘If I have to change my mind, dear lady, because I am proved wrong, I should be the first to admit it.’
He was strong. If only she could have guided him as she had Henry she would have been greatly reconciled to her life.
She wanted to test his love for her.
‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘I fancy my days of usefulness are over. Perhaps I should do what ladies of my age so often do … go into a convent.’
‘You would not like that I am sure.’
‘Would you like it, Edward?’
‘Dear lady, you know how I and Eleanor like to have you here. You know how the children adore you. How could we want you to shut yourself away? But if it is your wish …’
‘Well, I will tell you this,’ she said. ‘I have considered taking the veil and have been to Amesbury to look at the place.’
The King smiled. He could picture his mother entering the convent, becoming the abbess and setting up her rule there. ‘And you have decided against it?’
‘While they want to take my wealth, yes. I have no fancy to give up my possessions to a convent.’
‘Nay. You will have to get them to rescind that rule.’
‘Indeed I should before I entered such a place.’
‘In the meantime you will continue to bless us with your company?’
‘For as long as my health is good.’
She saw the little lights of alarm in his eyes. She had never been one to complain about her health. She had rather thought that people who professed bad health were in some way to blame for such feebleness.
Edward suddenly thought of his childhood when she had been the most important person in his life. She had been love, security … everything to him. He would never forget. He loved her deeply and nothing could change that love, and even though he would not brook her interference he could not love her any less for interfering any more than she could love him less for refusing to take her advice.
She had suffered cruelly lately. The death of her two beloved daughters had been a great shock to her. She could be hurt most through her loved ones and whatever her faults she had been the most devoted of wives and mothers.
He was at her side, taking her face in his hands, looking at her anxiously. Joy flooded her heart. Real concern. The Welsh forgotten, the Demoiselle of no importance. Even the Queen’s imminent confinement relegated to second place. There was nothing but fear for his mother.
‘My mother,’ he said quietly, ‘is there something you have to tell me? If you are ill … if you are keeping something back …’
‘My dear, dear son, I am getting old, that is all. Life has been cruel to me of late. Your father’s death killed half of me … and now God has taken my daughters. Two of them, Edward. How could He! What have I done to deserve that? But I have my sons … my most beloved King. If my old physician William were here I would see him. But no other … No, it is nothing … I am just an old woman who has suffered too much the pain of loss.’
‘Mother, I am going to send for William.’
‘Nay, son. He is in Provence I believe. It is too far. Let us forget this. I should never have mentioned it.’
‘I am sending without delay for the physician. He will be here just as soon as it is possible for him to be.’
‘Edward, my son, you have other matters with which to concern yourself.’
‘What could be of greater moment than my mother’s health?’
Sweet words. Not entirely true but sweet nevertheless.
And he was true to them. It was not long before the Queen Mother’s physician arrived from Provence.
September had come and the birth of the Queen’s child was imminent.
There was a hush over the palace. Everyone was expectant. It should be a boy. It must be a boy. The Prince Alfonso was a bright boy, but he had that all-too-familiar air of delicacy which had been John’s and Henry’s. A great deal of care was taken of him and the physicians said that if he could survive the first seven years of his childhood he could grow to a healthy man. They recalled his father’s infancy. It was difficult to believe now that Edward had ever been a sickly child. Alfonso was only two. It would be a great comfort if a really healthy boy were born.
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.’