The Queen From Provence - Plaidy Jean (книги онлайн полные .txt) 📗

The Queen could settle to nothing while she awaited news from Scotland. When it came it was disconcerting. There was nothing from Margaret herself but the guardians of the King and Queen, Robert de Ros and John Baliol, sent word that it was quite impossible at this time for Queen Margaret to leave Scotland.

This threw the Queen into a panic.

‘Something is wrong. I know it. Oh Henry, why did we ever let her go to that bleak land?’

‘The marriage was necessary if we were going to keep peace on the border. But I begin to share your anxiety.’

‘What can we do?’

‘If they refuse to allow her to come to England there is nothing we can do. We would have to go to war and …’

‘Then we would go to war,’ said the Queen fiercely.

Henry put a soothing arm about her shoulders. ‘It may well be, my dear, that you are worried unduly. We must discover why Margaret does not write and why it is impossible for her to come to see us. But we must do it with care.’

‘I have it,’ said Eleanor. ‘I shall send one of our doctors up to see her. They cannot deny him entrance to the castle. If he brings me back a good report of her health and word from her that she is happy I shall be reassured.’

The King agreed that this was a good idea and they sent for Reginald of Bath who was the finest physician they knew.

‘You are to leave at once for Edinburgh,’ said Eleanor. ‘There you will go to the castle. You will see the Queen of Scotland and tell her that you come on behalf of the King and Queen of England and you want to hear from her own lips that all is well. And I shall want a report on her health.’

Reginald left immediately.

How long and dreary were the days, and how Margaret yearned for the happy times of her childhood. She hated Scotland. As for her husband Alexander, who was younger than she was, he might have been a good companion but she was only rarely allowed to see him.

Edinburgh Castle was as dour and grim as those who had set themselves up as her guardians. She longed for Windsor and her dearest mother and father always at hand, always ready to listen. She wanted the hectoring company of the boys – even though they had spurned her as a girl and rarely let her join in their games – she wanted Beatrice and young Edmund. She wanted to look out of the windows and watch Edward lording it over the others with his flaxen hair waving in the wind and his long legs putting him above everyone else.

She wanted to go home.

From the moment she had seen this castle it had seemed like a prison. Built high on a rock; grey and forbidding it was grimmer than the Tower of London. It was a sad and solitary place; there were no green fields and gardens around it; it was unhealthy, she was sure, because she had felt ill ever since she came here. But perhaps that was homesickness.

She hated the long lessons with Matilda de Cantalupe, the governess who rarely smiled and who never complimented her however hard she worked. And sometimes she did work hard to make the days pass more quickly. Alexander was in another part of the castle, and their guardians, those two dour men, Robert de Ros and John Baliol, visited them from time to time. They asked her questions about England and wanted to know whether any communication had been smuggled in to her.

Yes, indeed, she was a prisoner.

Each day she walked along the ramparts of the castle with Matilda de Cantalupe, who kept close to her almost as though she feared she would run away.

Alexander was allowed to walk with her sometimes, but never so that they could exchange confidences. They were never allowed to say one word to each other out of the hearing of one of their jailers.

She wrote to her parents but the letters were taken away from her and as there were no replies she wondered if they ever reached them. She knew that her parents would write to her, but she never had letters from them either.

Sometimes she would feel very angry and demand of Matilda why she was treated thus. Matilda’s reply was: ‘You are well treated. You are fed and looked after. Your education is attended to. What more do you ask?’

‘I ask to be free. I am the Queen of Scotland.’

‘Then I must ask you to behave as the Queen of Scotland.’

‘How should she behave? Should she allow herself to be treated as a prisoner?’

‘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.