Then the birth of the children. How sad she had been because again it was a girl! So many girls. He loved them all. His beloved daughters … his and Eleanor’s.
And now she was going to die.
It could not be. His daughter was frightened because her mother was ill. She was not going to die. Eleanor would never leave him. He needed her. He could not imagine his life without her. Always on his travels she had been with him … in the thick of the fight she had never been far behind.
He would take her in his arms. He would say: ‘My Queen, my love. You must be well … for me.’
So through the night. How far it was!
His daughter met him. Her face was pale, her eyes tragic.
He took her into his arms. His beloved daughter, the best loved of all his children.
‘My dearest …’
She could not speak. She could only shake her head. So he knew.
He went into the chamber of death. He looked at her lying there white and still … and beautiful. She had always been beautiful, in life … in death.
He knelt by the bed.
‘Too late,’ he whispered. ‘Too late to see her alive, to tell her once more what she has meant to me. If I could but bring her back, I would give anything … anything …’
The conquest of Wales, the coming conflict with Scotland … In this moment they meant nothing, because Eleanor was dead.
‘My lord,’ they said, ‘we should return to Scotland.’
He shook his head.
‘My place is with her.’
‘My lord, the Queen is dead.’
He turned away. He could not speak. He was mute in his misery.
I should have been with her. I should never have allowed her to slip away without me. I should have told her right at the end how much she has meant to me.
She knew of course. But he wanted her to hear it again. He wanted to beg her not to leave him. To tell her how much she meant to him.
But she was gone and now it was his duty to bury her. He would be with her on her journey to Westminster. Scotland, he did not care what happened in Scotland. Baliol; Bruce; Hastings. Let them come with their claims. He could not think of them because Eleanor, his dear Queen, was dead.
He shut himself in alone with his grief. He would speak to none save his daughter. Those who cared for him were glad that she was there. She alone could comfort him.
‘I will honour her,’ he told his daughter. ‘The whole country must mourn her. They will know that we have lost a good queen.’
‘They do know it, Father. Everyone knows it.’
‘I shall go with her to Westminster and she shall be at Westminster close to my father. I loved him dearly, almost as much as I loved her. It is fitting that they should be together.’
He ordered that she be embalmed and when this was done they set out on their slow journey to Westminster.
The King ordered that a cross be set up in Lincoln, and at every place where the procession rested there should a cross be set up to remind people of their beloved Queen.
At Grantham, Stamford, Geddington, Northampton, Stony Stratford, Woburn, Dunstable, St Albans, Waltnam, West Cheap and last of all close to Westminster. This last was the most beautiful of all and people called it the cross of the Chere Reine.
As the procession neared London the chief citizens came out to meet it. They wore black hoods and mourning cloaks, and they droned a doleful dirge as they passed along.
So they buried the Queen and people marvelled at the love the King bore her for he continued to mourn her. He ordered that a statue be made and set upon her tomb. It was cast in bronze and showed the Queen in all her beauty with her lovely hair rippling below the jewelled circlet on her head.
The King endowed the Abbey of Westminster with gifts and had masses said for the Queen’s soul. He ordered that the wax lights about her tomb should never be allowed to go out and dedicated a sum of money for this purpose.
People came to see the magnificent tomb carved from grey Petworth marble on which were embossed the towers of Castile and the lions of Leon.
The crosses were a constant memorial to her and that place where the last cross had been set up was called after her. Chere Reine Cross, soon to be known as Charing Cross.
Chapter X
JOANNA DEFIANT
The King was constantly with his eldest daughter. Only she could comfort him. They talked of the Queen, how good she had been and how they had failed to appreciate this to the full while she had lived. She had been so self-effacing, thinking only of the good of her family, and they had accepted her unselfishness as part of their lives and taken it for granted.
Gloucester and Joanna came to Westminster from Clerkenwell, and the four of them talked together of what the loss of the Queen meant to them.
Gloucester told the King that he could subdue his sorrow by throwing himself into his kingly duties. There was the matter of Scotland which had not grown less acute because of the Queen’s death.
The King agreed. He must drag himself away from his sorrow. He must continue that journey which had been interrupted.
Joanna, now quite obviously pregnant, was inclined to patronise her sister. As Countess of Gloucester, married to the most important baron in the country, rich, doted on and soon to become a mother, she made Eleanor feel that she was missing something in life.
When they were alone Joanna discussed the blessings of the married state.
‘Depend upon it,’ she said, ‘our father will soon be looking for a bride.’
‘Our father! He never would.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘He was devoted to our mother.’
‘My dear sister, how little you know of the world. Of course he was devoted to our mother. He loved her well. But she is dead. He is not an old man. He will want a wife, I tell you. He will want children.’
‘He has already had twelve and there are six of us still living. Joanna, do you think bearing so many children was what killed her?’
‘She was never worried about child-bearing.’
‘No, because she would think it her duty and would die in doing that. She knew how ill she was and she tried to keep it from us. Oh, Joanna, our father could never take another wife.’
‘Give him time,’ said the wise Joanna. ‘I’ll wager with you that soon there will be talk and our father will be persuaded to marry again. Ah, you like that not. My dear sister, you must not devote yourself so earnestly to our father. You must have a husband of your own. I assure you that if you find the right one there is a good deal to be said for the married state.’
Eleanor was beginning to think that too. She was no longer young. Twenty-six years old. Still time to marry and have children. Joanna was right. She must have a husband. But she was affianced to Alfonso of Aragon. She had set her heart against going to Aragon – and so had her father. He did not like Alfonso. But she must face the unfortunate fact that she had been affianced to him and that was tantamount to a betrothal. If she married anyone else she would need first a dispensation from the Pope and that might cause trouble with Aragon which was too important a country to quarrel with.
It seemed that she must either ask for negotiations to be opened with Aragon or make up her mind that marriage was not for her.
She consoled herself in comforting her sister Margaret who was greatly pleased when her bridegroom returned to Brabant without her. He was returning, it was said, to receive the congratulations on his marriage from his father’s subjects, but it was clear that he was no more unhappy at leaving his bride than she was to see him go.