Читать книгу Child of the Phoenix - Barbara Erskine - Страница 97

In their bedchamber at Dunfermline Castle the King and Queen of Scots were alone at last. Alexander II, a handsome, broad-shouldered man of thirty-six, stood gazing out of the narrow window towards the gleaming blue ribbon which was the River Forth. His flaming hair and beard, already streaked with grey, were glinting in a stray ray of sunlight which slipped through the window and glanced off the deep embrasure wall.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing himself to composure. ‘Are you sure, this time, my love?’ His voice was gentle, but Joanna could hear the uncertainty, the disbelief, above all, the hope.

‘I’m sure,’ she whispered. ‘I’m into the third month and all is well.’

‘So!’ He smiled exultantly. ‘At last there will be an heir for Scotland!’ He caught her to him. ‘Make sure it’s a boy, sweetheart. A boy to lead Scotland forward to greatness.’

‘Scotland is already great with you as her king.’ Joanna reached on tiptoe to kiss her husband’s cheek. She sighed and, wrapping her arms around herself, she danced an excited pirouette. The eldest daughter of King John of England, and the sister of England’s present king, half-sister to Eleyne’s mother, Joan of Gwynedd, Joanna had been married to Alexander since she was eleven years old and she worshipped her handsome husband. She would have done anything in the world for him; she would have died for him. The only thing she had seemed unable to do in their thirteen years of marriage was to produce a child. Month after month, year after year she had offered prayers to the Blessed Margaret, to St Bride, to the Blessed Virgin herself, but month after month her prayers had proved fruitless and she remained barren. Until now.

‘When shall we tell everyone?’ She ran to him again and caught his hand. ‘I should so like everyone to know.’

‘And I, sweetheart, and I.’ Seeing the joy and excitement in her face, his doubt vanished and he laughed out loud, suddenly aware of the enormous relief which had succeeded his initial caution. A son! An heir! At last Scotland would have the stability she needed, the stability which the succession of his first cousin, the Earl of Chester – English-born and so often ill – would so badly have compromised. He looked again at his wife’s slim body – no trace yet of a thickening at her waist – and at her radiant smile, and again he laughed out loud. Picking her up, he whirled her in the air until she shrieked with laughter, then he took her in his arms and kissed her.