‘This is nonsense. Is this room a dungeon?’
‘No, but it is a prison nevertheless. Why do they treat me thus?’
‘You are being brought up to be the Queen of Scotland.’
‘Then I would rather be a humble serving wench for I am sure she would be happier than I.’
‘You talk foolishly, my lady.’
Margaret kicked a footstool and sent it sliding across the room. Matilda gripped her arm so firmly that Margaret cried out in pain.
‘Take your hands from me,’ she shouted. ‘Forget not that I am the daughter of the King of England.’
‘We forget it not. Pray be calm. Me-thinks you have madness in you.’
Oh God help me, prayed Margaret, are they going to pretend that I am mad? What will they do to me then?
She fell silent.
It was so hard to know what to do when one was only fifteen.
She thought a great deal of her parents and all the love that had been showered on her when she was a child. If they but knew, how angry they would be. They would come and take her away. She knew that by marrying her to Alexander they had made peace with the Scots but they would make war if they knew this was how the Scots were treating her.
What could she do? She would not be fifteen forever. Alexander was young. He would help if he could but they treated him in the same way as they treated her.
Homesickness obsessed her. A deep feeling of melancholy came to her. If she heard England mentioned she was ready to weep helplessly so much did she long for her home and family.
She began to feel ill and listless. She ate very little and grew pale and thin.
Matilda was angry with her and so were those fearsome men who came more frequently to see her. But they could not make her eat if she would not.
‘You are ungrateful,’ scolded Matilda. ‘We do our best for you and how do you repay us?’
‘If this is your best I cannot imagine your worst,’ answered Margaret.
‘What do you want then?’
‘To leave this prison. To go home.’
‘This is your home. You have a husband now.’
‘He is no husband to me. He is your prisoner … as I am. I hate you all. I want to go back to England. I want my mother and my father.’
‘Thus do babies cry,’ said Matilda sternly.
Seated at the window, she looked out over the countryside. There was no escape from the castle. Sometimes she dreamed that her brother Edward came or her cousin Henry. They were such perfect knights and in the old days they would have enjoyed playing at rescuing imprisoned ladies.
It would be wonderful to see her brother riding up to the castle with his standard flying in the wind. She pictured the scene. ‘I have come to take my sister home.’ He would thrust aside de Ros and Baliol. He would laugh at Matilda de Cantalupe. He would seize his sister in his arms and place her on his horse. She could almost feel herself flying along in the wind with Edward, laughing as they went, and singing some song about rescue and adventure.
A few months ago Matilda had told her that her parents were in France and Edward was with them. He had married the half-sister of the King of Castile. There had been rejoicing and feasting and much extravagance.
Why did she tell her? It could only be to make her prisoner long for them the more.
They have forgotten me, she thought. They are rejoicing in Edward’s marriage. Lucky Edward, who will not have to leave his home because he has married. What matter of girl was his bride? She would be coming to a happy home. The King and Queen of England would never be unkind to young people. They would welcome Edward’s bride. Happy girl to marry into such a family.
When she had walked with Alexander he had tried to comfort her.
‘It will not always be thus,’ he had assured her. ‘It is only because I am not old enough yet to be a proper king and this is a regency.’
Perhaps it would end then. But he had a long time to wait before he would be considered old enough to be a real king.
While she sat disconsolately at the window she saw a party of riders coming towards the castle. She was alert immediately.
She watched them come up the slope and enter through the gateway. She could hear the horses’ hoofs clattering on the cobbles.
She was aware of the tension in the castle, and she knew that something extraordinary was afoot. Any excitement was welcome in this dull life and there was always the hope that the visitors had come from England.
Footsteps on the stone stairs! They were coming up this way.
She stood up as the door opened.
A man came into the room. Matilda de Cantalupe hovered behind him uncertainly.
‘I come on the command of the Queen of England,’ said the man, and Margaret felt as though she were fainting with relief.
‘You are welcome,’ she stammered. ‘How … how fares my mother?’
‘Your mother fares well and is anxious for news of you.’
Oh God, thought Margaret. You have answered my prayers. I knew she would send someone. She would never forget me.
Her melancholy dropped from her. ‘Leave us,’ she said to Matilda.
Matilda replied: ‘I think, my lady …’
The man looked amazed. ‘Madam, did you not hear the command of the Queen of Scotland?’
‘My orders are …’
‘You have just heard your orders from the Queen herself. What I have to say to the Queen I wish to say to her alone.’
There was an air of such authority about the man that Matilda hesitated. Her orders would have been not to allow a messenger from England to be alone with the Queen. She knew that. On the other hand if that was obvious it would create an even worse impression than if the Queen complained of their treatment. She decided to leave them alone together and send a message at once to her masters de Ros and Baliol.
When they were alone Margaret ran to the visitor and gave him her hand.
‘How glad I am to see you. You come from my mother. What messages do you bring? Tell me quickly before we are disturbed.’
‘Your mother has suffered great anxiety about you. She feared all might not be well.’
‘Oh I knew she would. My dearest, dearest mother. She would never desert any of us. My dear father too.’
‘He too is concerned. They have heard nothing from you.’
‘But I have written often. I have heard nothing from them.’
‘This is indeed a conspiracy. They have sent letters to you and received none from you. They must have been intercepted. Your mother wants a report on your health. I am a doctor. You may have heard of me. Reginald of Bath.’
‘But yes,’ cried Margaret excitedly.
‘I have to take back a report on your health and I fear it has been impaired by this place.’
‘I am so tired. I have no appetite. It is so cold and cheerless. I am ill in the winter. Sometimes I feel I want only to lie down and weep. I long to be home again.’
‘I shall report this to your mother. How do you live here?’
‘Like a prisoner. I am only allowed to walk in the castle grounds. I rarely see Alexander, who is treated as I am. My jailers de Ros and Baliol come to see me now and then and ask me many questions about England. It is easy to see that they hate our country. Tell my mother that I am sick with longing for home. If only I could see her and the others and the green fields and forests of Windsor I should be as well as I ever was. I am ill … and my complaint is Scotland. Oh, Doctor Reginald, I want to come home.’
‘I will tell your mother all you have said. I shall stay here but briefly for the Queen is impatient for my report. You may rest assured that when she has it she will take some action. I shall tell her how your health is suffering and I know that she will not allow that to continue.’
They talked awhile and she remembered indignities she had suffered and told him of them and that she was treated like a prisoner.