Passage to Pontefract

by Jean Plaidy

  What rejoicing there was. What better gesture could the King have made.

  There was not a more popular man in London that day than the King of England.

  When the feasting was at an end and the King and the Queen could retire to their apartments Philippa looked forward to a cosy talk with her husband. Philippa was ever ready to cast aside her rank. She had been brought up in a happy home which by the standards of royalty was homely. She cared more deeply for the happiness of her family than for their military glory or the possessions they might acquire. She had always deplored Edward’s obsession with the crown of France.

  Often she wished that Edward were merely a nobleman without the responsibilities of state, though she knew of course that he would not have wished for that.

  She liked to spend most of the time they could be together in discussing family affairs, and what occupied her mind now was her eldest son.

  ‘Seeing John so happily married to dear Blanche has made me think more than ever about Edward,’ she said.

  The King nodded. Edward’s future was not a new subject.

  ‘He is twenty-nine years old,’ went on the Queen.

  ‘I well remember the day he was born,’ said the King. ‘What rejoicing there was! It was like you to give me such a son … our first born. Do you remember how the people stood about in the streets and how they would go wild with joy at a glimpse of him?’

  ‘I shall never forget their joy. And they still love him. He has their devotion even as you have.’

  The King took her hand and kissed it. ‘You have brought me great happiness, my dear. It was the best day of my life when I came to Hainault and set eyes on you. I loved you then and I love you now.’ He added with fervour: ‘There has never been any to take your place in my heart.’

  Even as he spoke he was thinking of his meeting with the Countess of Salisbury who would always be to him the most beautiful and desirable woman he had ever seen. Love had come to him so suddenly that it had overwhelmed him and to the astonishment of his followers, for hitherto he had been a faithful husband, he had made every attempt to persuade the fair countess to become his mistress. The situation was even more deplorable because she was the wife of William de Montacute, one of his greatest friends who was at the time a prisoner of the French, taken in fighting for Edward’s cause. It was a serious blot on his honour, and even though the Countess had been too virtuous to submit to his lust, his conscience was sorely troubled. Whenever he remembered that occasion he was particularly tender towards Philippa and made a point of protesting his eternal fidelity. Dear homely Philippa, who must never know how near he had come to betraying her!

  Philippa gave him her pleasant smile. She loved him dearly. She had always been aware of her lack of allure and had never ceased to marvel that Edward had loved her as he did. She knew of course that great beauties like the Countess of Salisbury must tempt him from time to time. Rumours reached her. But she had decided to ignore them. She longed for peace in her home. She was the Queen. Edward was her husband. She must always be his first consideration, and he and her children were her life.

  But the occasion of John’s marriage must make her think with apprehension of her eldest son, for he was ten years older than John and still a bachelor. Lionel, who was eight years younger than Edward, was married. A wife had been found for that second son when he was little more than a baby, and a very good match it had been, according to the King, for the bride although six years Lionel’s senior was a great heiress. Elizabeth de Burgh had brought him Ulster and he now bore the title of Earl of Ulster as well as Duke of Clarence, and Elizabeth’s vast inheritance was in his hands. He was happy, which pleased Philippa as much as his wealth. Lionel was an easy-going young man, pleasure-loving, far less serious than his brothers Edward and John. He was the tallest in a tall family and the handsomest. It had been said that there was not a man in England who could compare with Lionel in good looks.

  In between Edward and Lionel there had been the girls, Isabella and Joanna, and little William who had died; and after John there had been Edmund, who had distinguished himself at the tournament this day; and after Edmund little Blanche who had lived but a short time. Mary and Margaret, her two darling girls, had followed; then another William who had died. An unlucky name for the family, William. And lastly Thomas, the youngest of the brood. None could say she had not done her duty as a mother.

  Isabella, the eldest daughter, was headstrong and her father’s favourite, spoilt, wilful, flaunting the fact that she could with a little wheedling always get her own way with the King. Philippa was uneasy thinking of her eldest daughter’s future; she had constantly tried to restrain the King in his inability to stop spoiling her. But the greatest sadness had come to her through Blanche and her two Williams and Joanna. Joanna had died in Loremo, a small town near Bordeaux, when she was on her way to marry Pedro of Castile. Poor child! It seemed now that she had been fortunate to die, even horribly as she did of the plague, for Pedro who had earned the name of The Cruel would have been a fearful husband for such a gentle creature. She heard that his mistress commanded him and he was her absolute slave, and that he had murdered the wife he had eventually married and had strangled his bastard brother in addition to countless crimes of cruelty. Never again, Philippa had vowed to Edward, should a child of theirs be sent out to marry a bridegroom of whom they knew nothing except that he possessed a great title.

  Edward always soothed her. He loved his children even as she did; he wanted them to be happy; but he must be mindful of the demands of state. He never stressed this though with Philippa, and he knew that in the case of his daughters he would always be lenient.

  Lionel married, John married, and what of Edward?

  ‘It is not,’ said the Queen, ‘that he does not like feminine society.’

  She frowned. She was thinking of the King’s father, who had been devoted to the handsome young men on whom he showered wealth and titles. No, there was nothing like that about Edward. He was entirely a man.

  ‘He just feels disinclined to marry,’ replied the King.

  ‘But he is the heir to the throne! He should have sons by now.’

  ‘You know, my dear, it is no use trying to tell Edward what he should do. He will do what he wills.’

  ‘We have self-willed children, Edward. Isabella does what she wants with you.’

  ‘Isabella. She is a minx.’ His face softened. He loves this daughter more than anyone on earth, I do believe, thought Philippa. She was not jealous, only pleased that their daughter should mean so much to him. But she did feel that the girl was becoming more and more unmanageable. However, the concern at the moment was not with Isabella but Edward.

  ‘A minx yes, but it is Edward who is of the greatest importance. It is no use speaking to him, I suppose …’

  The King shook his head. ‘Edward will go his own way. He knows the importance of marriage. He knows the people expect it. See how they applauded John’s marriage. How much more so would they applaud the marriage of our heir. But he will go his own way. He will marry when he wishes and whom he wishes. You know Edward.’

  The King’s eyes were glazed with memory. That son of his who had filled him with pride from the minute he could walk. Isabella he loved the most. Well, she was a girl and he was very susceptible to feminine charms, but he was rarely so proud as when he rode out with his first-born beside him.

  Crécy where the boy won his spurs! What a great day! And he had been ready – nay eager – to pass over the triumph to his son. Fifteen-year-old Edward. He had risked the boy’s life then; had left him to fight his way out of trouble while his urgent prayer was ‘Oh God, let the boy earn his spurs this day.’ And valiantly had young Edward done so, proclaiming himself as a warrior at that tender age. And more recently Poitiers when against great odds he had won a decisive victory and captured the King of France himself. How like Edward to let his father first know of the victory by sending him the French King’s helmet!

&n
bsp; A son to warm the heart of any King. England would be safe with this Edward to govern it. It was only in this matter of marriage that he was a disappointment. Twenty-nine and unmarried! Moreover he was a soldier and soldiers, even the greatest of them, could never be sure when they might meet a violent end.

  ‘I sometimes think,’ went on the Queen, ‘that his heart is with Joan of Kent.’

  The King flinched. Joan was another of those women with whom, had the opportunity offered, he would have dallied. Joan was quite different from the Countess of Salisbury. She was beautiful and she had something else – a provocation, some quality which was a constant invitation to the opposite sex. There had been a time when it seemed that the Prince of Wales would marry Joan.

  Even so, faced with this provocative creature, Edward had been severely tempted – which would have been even more sinful than a liaison with the Countess of Salisbury. She was the wife of his best friend. Joan might have been the wife of his son.

  They called her the Fair Maid of Kent. Fair she was without question and her father was Edmund of Woodstock, Earl of Kent, who had been the youngest son of Edward the First, so she was of royal descent.

  In those days it had seemed that there could be no obstacle to her marriage with the Prince of Wales except that of consanguinity and that was a matter which could always be overcome by an obliging Pope.

  ‘I often wonder what went wrong,’ continued the Queen. ‘I am sure Joan was fond of Edward and she is not the sort to say no to a crown. Yet …’

  Philippa would never understand. Joan was ambitious. Joan was not averse to Edward; but Edward was too slow and Joan was not of a nature to stand by and wait. Her warm passionate nature demanded fulfilment and such a beauty had no lack of suitors. She had been affianced to William Montacute, son of the fair Countess, but in the meantime Thomas Holland had managed to seduce her. There had had to be a hurried wedding and that was the end of the hope of a marriage for Joan with the Prince of Wales.

  The King was thoughtful. He would have been a little uneasy perhaps if his son had married a woman whom he so much admired. It would have been very disturbing to have temptation so close and what if he were to succumb to it! He shuddered at the thought. It would be like incest. No, it was as well to have that temptress removed from his orbit. Even so there had been certain rumours. No one would ever forget that occasion when Joan had dropped her garter in the dance and he had picked it up. He could still remember the looks on the faces of those about him; he had fancied he heard a titter. He had faced them all with his comment which had now become well known: ‘Evil be to him who evil thinks.’ He had honoured the garter; he had attached it to his own knee and he had made it the symbol of chivalry.

  ‘Well, my dear,’ he said, ‘it is no use thinking of Joan of Kent. Let us hope that someone suitable to his rank will lure him from this bachelor’s state which he seems to find so pleasant. He must realise that he should marry for the sake of the country. Perhaps I should speak to him after all.’

  The Queen shook her head. ‘Perhaps it is better not. This constant questioning of the matter may well stiffen his resistance.’

  ‘As always you are wise, my dearest. We will wait awhile and hope.’

  ‘Perhaps the happiness of John and Blanche will decide him.’

  ‘We must hope for that.’ The King frowned. Then he said: ‘There is Lionel and his little daughter. There is John … We do not lack sons, Philippa.’

  ‘Edward was made to be King,’ replied Philippa firmly. ‘He is a young man yet. One day I know he will marry. He will have strong stalwart sons even as we have had.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ replied the King. ‘And now enough of these children of ours. We are not so old ourselves that we should not give a thought to our own wellbeing.’

  Philippa smiled. He could still be the impatient lover. It was an achievement really. She could scarcely have believed it would be possible if he had not again and again given her proof of it.

  The bridegroom was uneasy because he had a duty to perform and it was a secret one.

  He was delighted by his marriage. Blanche was enchanting. He had long heard of her beauty, though he did know that a bride’s charm was invariably measured by the size of her fortune, but this was not so in the case of Blanche. With her long fair hair and her very white skin and that air of vulnerability, she was irresistible and that she was a great heiress was just an additional attraction. Moreover had she not been rich and of such noble birth she would never have been chosen for him. He could not complain. He was in love with her already. It was a different sort of love from that he had had for Marie St Hilaire and he was deeply aware of the difference. It did not mean that he loved either of them the less. Blanche was the romantic lady, the kind of whom poets sang; Marie was the earthy mistress who knew how to satisfy him, how to soothe him, at all times. She did not complain. She understood that a man in his position could only come to her rarely. She knew that no great titles would come her way. Yet she had given him a deep and satisfying love.

  He had talked to her as he never talked to anyone except Isolda Newman. Isolda – that staunch Flemish woman who had been his nurse – was a mother to him. It was to Isolda that he could reveal his innermost thoughts – even more so than to Marie, for Marie would never have understood entirely. Isolda did. He was aware in his Flemish nurse of a similar resentment which he himself felt.

  When he was a little boy she had called him her little king and it had been a secret name for she had never used it before others.

  Once she had said: ‘’Twas a pity you were not the first. What a King you would have made.’

  He had been quite young when he had begun to feel the resentment because he was the fourth son. Edward and Lionel came before him. Young William had died. He had seen the adulation given to his brother Edward, the great Black Prince. When they had ridden out together people scarcely looked at him, and he had been very conscious of being only the little brother, while the people always shouted for the mighty Black Prince.

  Lionel did not mind being the second son. Good-natured, lazy, stretching his long legs before him, stroking his handsome face, Lionel shrugged his shoulders. Lionel did not want to rule a kingdom. ‘Rather you than me,’ he had said to Edward. ‘I would not be in your boots, brother. Go on living, there’s a good fellow. Produce as many healthy sons as our parents did. Make sure that there is no way for me to come to the throne.’

  How differently John felt! When he saw the crown his fingers itched to take it. He often thought: there are Edward and Lionel before me. And Lionel does not want it. What if …

  He dismissed such thoughts. He was fond of his eldest brother. When he was a boy he had thought he was some sort of God and had joined in the general worship. But Edward was now twenty-nine years of age and he did not show any desire to marry; he was a fighter and one who liked to be in the forefront of the battle. If he did not marry; if he did not produce an heir; if he were killed in combat, there would only be Lionel before him. It was true Lionel had a four-year-old daughter Philippa – named for her grandmother the Queen – but a girl.

  He must not think of these things. He could imagine the horror of his parents if they knew he did. He had a beautiful wife; passionately he wanted sons. It might well be that one day his son …

  No, he must stop. There was an important matter to settle. He must see Marie. He must explain to her. He wondered if she had been among the spectators at the joust. Poor Marie, how had she felt to see the fair Blanche seated beside the Queen, to see him go forward and take her hand and kiss it fondly and ride with her into Westminster?

  Blanche and he must have sons. It might well be that already she was with child. He hoped so. She seemed over fragile for much childbearing – unlike his mother – stolid, firm, Flemish wide-hipped, ample-bosomed, born for motherhood.

  He must slip out of the palace unnoticed. It was well that he was not as easily recognised as his father and elder brothers were – for whil
e the visage of the Black Prince was well known throughout the land, Lionel’s excessive height made it impossible for him to remain incognito. John himself was tall but not as tall as his brothers; his hair was less fair being more of a tawny shade; he was clearly Plantagenet, but that cast of features did appear here and there in the land, due no doubt to the lustiness of some of his ancestors.

  He left the palace alone and made his way towards the City. Riding along the Strand past the noble palaces he saw the Savoy towering above the rest and he thought exultantly, one day that might well be mine. It belonged to his father-in-law and Blanche with her sister Matilda was his heir.

  It was a pity that Blanche had a sister – and an elder one at that. Never mind the fortune was vast and when Duke Henry died it must pass to his daughters.

  His fair bride could bring him more than her beauty.

  He made his way into the City and rode along by the Water of Walbrook which came from its source in the heights of Hampstead and Highbury and flowed through swampy Moorfields to empty itself into the Thames. He came to a house near St Mildred’s Church close to Bucklersbury and here he paused. He rode through an arch at the side of the house and as he entered a courtyard a man ran out to make a sweeping bow. John dismounted and the man took his horse. He pushed open a door in the courtyard and was in the house.

  Marie was waiting for him. She did not rush into his arms as was her custom. She stood back waiting for him to give some sign of what was expected of her. It was her indication that she realised there was a marked change in their relationship.

  He thought: She was at the joust. She saw Blanche there …

  He caught her hands and kissed her passionately.