to leave their children or their husbands. Now they would all be united; and there would be more grandchildren for the Queen Mother to take under her wing.
Edmund would also be there – her dear son, the Earl of Lancaster. He was not as popular with the people as his brother Edward was. Naturally, Edward was the King and he had those spectacular good looks. Edward was all Plantagenet – the golden young man with the long limbs of the Normans. People only had to look at him to realise that he was descended from the Conqueror. The English liked strong kings, or they did when they were dead. They had groaned under the harsh laws of the Conqueror, his son, Henry I, and his great-grandson, Henry II, while these kings lived, but when they were dead harshness was called justice, and they were revered. Even so early it seemed apparent that Edward would be a strong king. The Queen Mother’s lips turned out at the corners when she considered that. Edward had shown clearly that he was not going to take her advice. True, he listened to it gravely and sometimes implied that he would follow it; then he went away and did exactly what he wanted to.
Edmund was less tall, less blond, more Provençal than Norman. He suffered from a slight curvature of the spine which it had been impossible to disguise and it had in due course given his enemies the opportunity to call him Crouchback. How angry she had been about that, especially so since there was nothing she could do about it. She found frustration more maddening than anything else.
It had been a matter for congratulation when he had married Aveline de Fortibus, heiress of the Earl of Albemarle, because the marriage should have brought great wealth into the family and shortage of money was a constant complaint. Alas, Aveline had died before she could inherit the fortune and soon afterwards Edmund had taken the cross and gone with his brother to Palestine.
‘We must find a new wife for Edmund,’ she thought; and her energetic mind scoured the ranks of the wealthy.
The greatest joy of all was being with Margaret, and what a pleasure it had been to see her ride into the capital with her husband and her children, for Margaret’s entourage was grander than any. A lesson to Edward, thought the Queen Mother. Was he going to allow the King of Scots to outshine him?
She could not wait to carry Margaret off somewhere where they could be alone. There she embraced this most loved of her children – perhaps in the past she had been inclined to favour Edward. That was natural because he was the eldest and the son, but a mother could be closer to a daughter, and ever since Margaret’s experiences in Scotland when she had been a child bride, the young Queen of Scotland had had the notion that her parents were omnipotent and nothing could be more delightful than such a notion to Eleanor of Provence.
She took her daughter into her arms and examined her closely. Margaret looked a little too delicate for her mother’s comfort.
‘My dearest,’ said the Queen Mother, ‘do you still find the climate harsh?’
‘I grow accustomed to it. The children enjoy it.’
‘Your father was constantly worrying about you. Whenever he saw the snow he would say, “I wonder what is happening north of the Border and if our darling child is suffering from the cold.”’
‘My dear lady mother, you always worried too much about us.’
‘I could never be completely happy unless I knew you were all well and safe, and I shall never forget that dreadful time.’
‘It is all in the past. Alexander is indeed the King now. None would dare cross him.’
‘And he is a good husband to you, my darling.’
‘None could be better. He is as near to my dearest father as anyone could be.’
‘He was incomparable. Margaret, I cannot describe to you how I suffer.’
‘I know, I know. But he would not wish us to brood. He would be happy that Edward is such a fine man and that the people are with him as they never