The Shadow Queen

by Anne O'Brien

  King of England. Prince of Aquitaine.

  And, between them stood the heir to the throne, a tiny child at four years old.

  I looked on with some species of horror lurking behind my smiling countenance at what I could not deny when Ned knelt in formal fealty before the King. My hopes so quickly raised with the promise of the gold plate were dashed into pieces as effectively as a clay platter dropped onto the painted tiles.

  God ensure that neither King nor Prince die soon.

  Richard was no age to be King. A regency presaged all sorts of problems, not least the question of who would hold the reins of power while Richard grew. Unaware of my fears, father and son looked at each other, accepting what each saw in the other as Ned rose to his feet and embraced his father, while I could do nothing but stand as support to both. Philippa was no longer a willing helpmeet. It was as if her spirit lingered at my shoulder, her mourning pre-empting my own.

  For death lurked in that sumptuous chamber, peering over the shoulder of both father and son. Edward was ill, careworn, his face lined, his eyes faded and deep in their sockets as old age had indeed galloped into his presence. Ned could barely walk into the chamber. I saw the tension in his jaw as he pushed himself from knees to feet to kiss his father on both cheeks. I saw the effort it demanded from him to stand straight and tall as a son should before his father.

  ‘I leave government on your shoulders, my son. It has become too burdensome for me.’

  Even Edward’s voice had dwindled from its regal tones into almost obscurity, little more than a weak whisper, and beside him, standing not quite in his shadow, was Mistress Alice Perrers, only stepping back when father and son sat to talk more intimately. Seeing me she did not hesitate but made her way in my direction. I watched her with interest, and with displeasure, even perhaps a frisson of true fear. Mistress Alice had acquired an authority, a presence, even as she curtsied before me. How much power did she wield? Was it enough to harm me? To harm Ned? I did not think so but complacency would be a mistake. No longer a royal damsel, she was royal mistress, without question.

  ‘You have done well for yourself,’ I remarked, unwilling to exhibit any concern.

  ‘I have, my lady. The King needs help and companionship. I answer that need.’

  Again, as before, I could not fault the respect in her obeisance. Age had touched her, but lightly, perhaps even endowing her strong features with a mature charm.

  I looked across to where Edward had lowered himself onto a chair, Ned’s hand beneath his arm. ‘What will you do, Mistress Perrers, when you and your bastards are driven out?’

  Her reply was phlegmatic. ‘When I no longer have a place here, I have enough to keep me and my children in some comfort. Your cousin, my lady, has been generous.’

  ‘It will be soon.’ And when her eyes flew to mine. ‘The time when your place at this court is closed to you.’

  ‘Perhaps not as soon as you think. I know that you see me as a threat to your power at court, my lady, as Princess of Wales.’

  ‘And, one day, Queen of England.’

  Her glance fastened on Ned. ‘If you believe that it will come to pass, I wish you well. I would not wager these rubies that the Prince will ever see that day.’

  I looked to see what she saw in Ned that was so imminent. Then I looked at the rubies, where her hand rested on the bodice of her embroidered gown. They were Philippa’s. What had we come to, when the mistress wore the gems of the dead wife? Fury raged within me, against all my good intent.

  ‘I am solicitous to your impending loss, my lady,’ Mistress Perrers said, her eyes bright but not without feeling.

  I could not return it. All my thoughts were bound up with King Edward’s foolish weakness in rewarding this woman with his wife’s personal gems.

  ‘You have lined your purse and coffers with gold and precious stones,’ I accused.

  ‘And that is not all I have in my purse and coffers.’ Her pride was a thing to behold, perhaps making her careless for the first time. ‘I have bought land and pretty manors. Why would I not? It behoves every woman to make provision for an uncertain future. I have also made plans for my future of which you know nothing. My consideration for the uncertainties that lie ahead has been most successful.’ Her lips closed as if she had said too much, then: ‘As I have remarked before, we are not so dissimilar, my lady. I advise you to do likewise.’

  Once again the accuracy of her comment, like an arrow loosed at its target by a master archer, shivered through me with such pain that I swore my revenge.

  I have made plans for my future of which you know nothing.

  I would make it my own priority to discover just what it was that Mistress Perrers had been doing in my absence, and if it was of use to me, then I would not hesitate to use it.

  For the first time in my privileged life I put the wishes of others before my own. It had taken long in coming. Centred on my own desires, my own vision of my future, I had failed too often, unable to see the truth before me, making me the most selfish of women. King Edward and his own need to solidify his power had not made me tolerant of him. It had not been an easy start for him in his experience of kingship, a mere boy, at the hands of Earl Mortimer and his less than maternal mother. Of course he valued his friends, those who had stood by him. Of course he would wish to reward them, to mourn their passing. I had been less than sympathetic.

  There was Philippa in her pain and her anxieties, her isolation when Edward took a woman of her own household to her bed. Why did she not dismiss the woman, and have done with it? But Philippa was overcome with a need to preserve her dignity as well as her fear that she had lost his love. It was everything to her. Did I not now know that?

  Even my mother in all her driven need to wipe out uncertainties and ignominy. The past had put a cold hand on her heart. The only warmth came from ensuring the succession of her children to their father’s honours.

  Now I knew the burden of fear and grief for myself. Ned’s needs were paramount. Nothing must disturb the serenity of his mind if it was in my power to prevent it. I would smooth his path. I would put aside my own concerns. I almost wept. Philippa would be astonished at my transformation. I might even allow Edward the comfort of Alice’s presence for a little while.

  Later, much later, when I had both time and inclination to look back, the years that followed became for me much like the tiny illuminated pictures in my missal. Bright. Vivid. Intense in their detail and life force, with Ned at the centre of each one. Ned grasping all the power and the strength that he could summon to fulfil the role that his father had abrogated and expected his glorious son to fulfil. I was beside him, encouraging, supporting, when I could, exhausted with words. Drained with a permanent anguish that was never allowed to see the light of day.

  Some of the images that remained in my mind were astonishingly full of renewed hope. False hope, but still there had been room for a level of contentment. We could not mourn for all of five years. I took them out, these vivid pictures, as if they were jewels in my casket, to examine them and enjoy what could be enjoyed.

  Ned presiding over the Royal Council in his father’s stead, discussing taxes and matters of the realm, more cautious in his approach than he had ever been in Aquitaine.

  Ned riding out through the cheering populace of London, at ease in the saddle, to welcome brother John home to England, to dispense costly gifts to John’s young bride, the exiled Constanza of Castile, celebrating with him in his ambition that one day John would be King of Castile in his wife’s name.

  Ned attending the Garter feasts, resplendent in his robes, in appearance the most impressive of all the knights.

  Ned receiving petitions, again with more grace than he had applied in Bordeaux, because King Edward was no longer able to recall the names of his petitioners.

  Ned standing beside the King at the opening of the Good Parliament of 1376, aware of the need for conciliation with this body of powerful men who held the purse strings.
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br />   Ned at his father’s shoulder, standing bold on the aft deck of ship that would take them once again to war, Plantagenet banners flying bravely, to drive the French out of La Rochelle and remake England’s reputation and fortunes in Europe.

  And then there was Ned, teaching Richard to sit a horse and hold a sword, a young monarch in the making at his father’s hands.

  And the most poignant of all? Most heart-rending of all? Ned with the restored power to take me to his bed, with all the mastery of our early days, all the clever caresses to rob me of truth of those cautious days, but not with the power to get another child on me.

  ‘My most dearly beloved wife. I could not have chosen better, not if all the princesses of Europe and beyond had been paraded before me.’

  For a short time, it rekindled all my hopes that we would live out a long life together.

  And for myself, there was the remaking of my own reputation, for had I not been restored, renewed, my earlier notoriety wiped clean? I was once more Joan, the Fair Maid, Plantagenet princess. Our years in Aquitaine had done me no harm, neither at the English court nor with the populace, where out of sight, out of mind, had proved a true maxim. It seemed that my extravagance in spending and unconventional raiment had done me no lasting harm here in England, where even the diamond buttons were admired. I was cheered in genuine affection when I smiled on the crowds. I knew well how to smile. I could not afford to destroy what I had achieved. For Ned’s sake, for Richard’s, and for my own.

  Now I adopted the demeanour of an honourable woman, adding to my renown with generous acts of largesse and almsgiving, undertaken with courtesy, enhanced by a smooth coating of humility to wipe away the shame of my past. The dark lasciviousness, hinted at in some of the rumours, was burnished in gold. And so I rode at Ned’s side, raising my hand to acknowledge the acclaim of the Princess of Wales, Queen in waiting.

  What was there to trouble me in all of this? What was there to cast me into a creeping blackness of despair, from which there was no escape.

  Everything.

  There was everything to numb my emotions, because this was nothing but a painted facade. This was a mockery of Ned as the glittering heir, for there, alongside my bright images of my imagined illuminations were those painted in sombre colour, too many of them dragging at my spirits as they dragged at the resilience of Ned’s body. This was the truth of it; the weeks when we did not travel from either Berkhamsted or Kennington because Ned could barely stir from his bed. The days when he drove his body servants into a fright because his demeanour was one of imminent death. The days when the pain was so great that he did not wish to see me, when I was barred from his chamber and did not dare countermand that order. The evidence of his agony behind the closed door was beyond acceptance, and beyond his pride to allow me to witness it.

  I did what I could to ease his conscience when the lethargy attacked his sense of duty, so that it was I who took on the symbols of power such as a Prince would wield. It was I, not Ned, who attended Philippa’s annual memorial service at Marlborough, to honour both the late Queen and King Edward, who led the mourning. It was I who received the gift of the gold plate when it was finally complete, the whole impressive lot of cups and basins and lavers, a working service for a man constantly on the move, a soldier or administrator. Ned would be neither. It was I who received the givers of the gift with such grace, who later wrote to thank them for their kindness, knowing that the dishes would never be used as they were intended, nor would they ever be broken up to pay an army for Ned’s use. Ned would never lead an army again.

  The Good Parliament, flexing its financial muscles to encroach on royal power, enforcing the dismissal of trusted royal officials for embezzlement and dubious financial dealings, neither the King nor Ned was strong enough to hamper this parliamentary undermining of royal power. My only consolation was that the vengeance of the Speaker of the Commons also fell on Mistress Perrers and her extraordinary acquisition of wealth. When she was discovered to be wantonly and secretly married to a ruthless politician as driven and devious as she, one William de Windsor, her downfall was inevitable. How effortless it had been to discover and supply such information to Speaker de la Mare. How satisfying it was when Alice was peremptorily dismissed from court under threat of imprisonment, which she only avoided by promising to leave court and never visit with Edward again. Parliament, with some neat contrivance by me, had relieved me of Alice’s presence at last. If I had not been so absorbed in Ned’s concerns, I would have rejoiced more than was seemly. As it was, both Ned and I were reading the writing plain on the horrifyingly decreasing pages of our future.

  And the most desperate image of all, bright and bitter that lodged in my mind, leaping into my thoughts, sliding furtively into my dreams. Ned, rising from his couch on a day when he was able to do so, when a bundle of correspondence had arrived from his Council in Aquitaine. He took it, dismissed the courier with calm courtesy, then cast the letters onto the bed before seizing my hands in a grip that showed a strength that soon waned.

  ‘There is something I must tell you, Joan. Although I think there is no need.’

  I willed my own strength into him. No, there was no need, but I knew that he must be allowed to speak it. To acknowledge his acceptance of what he could and could not do.

  ‘Then say it, and be assured that I will accept your decision.’

  ‘Without argument?’ He smiled slightly. ‘Then here it is. We will never return to Aquitaine.’

  What need to say more? Ned would never lead an army against the French or the rebellious Gascon lords. He would never hold sway over that distant province. He simply had not the energy, the bodily strength, to set out on another campaign. It was all he could do to travel between Kennington and Windsor, at ease in a royal barge on the River Thames.

  ‘No, we will not,’ I agreed.

  I could no longer lie or encourage where there was no encouragement to be given, pretending that all would be well when it would not. Ned gave up his claim to the principality of Aquitaine in parliament in November of that year of 1372, less than two years after we returned to England.

  He turned from me to look out over the land that was his by right of inheritance.

  ‘We will have no more sons together.’

  What had it taken for him to admit that? The love still held firm between us, the affection deep, the desire still aflame. The physical ability was lost in a trough of pain and weakness.

  ‘It is of no importance. Richard grows strongly and he will wear the Crown. He will make an acclaimed King of England, with all the majestic bearing of his father and grandfather. I will ensure that it is so.’

  Walking lightly, I touched his shoulder, leaning a little against him, his hand covering mine against his chest where I could feel that his breathing was compromised. It was an intimacy of delicate acceptance of the brief time left, and it was a promise I made with a heavy heart. I would keep it. I would do everything in my power to keep it. It was as if I were touched anew by a burning brand of ambition, not for myself but for my son. Our son.

  It was a terrible day. There were many more to follow.

  ‘Will you tell your father?’ When Ned was once more stricken.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think that you should.’

  ‘No need to worry him.’

  So Ned would drag himself to the opening of the Good Parliament, and then onto the deck of the warship that would carry them to La Rochelle, perhaps to prove to himself that there was the smallest hope for a future, only to return to Kennington within the week in dismay, when the ship for La Rochelle never sailed. The losses abroad were out of his control. His despair was a thing of terror that haunted him, waking and sleeping, snapping at his heels.

  ‘Jeanette!’

  I looked back.

  ‘You must not tell my father either.’

  It was in my mind to do so, and he saw it.

  ‘Promise me! On your honour as a Plantagenet, that you hold
so dear.’

  It was an appeal could not be rejected.

  ‘I promise.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Year of Our Lord 1376: Kennington Palace

  In my own chamber, I sat in silence. Ned was dying, not as a warrior or a celebrated King but wasted by a base disease, his glory long past, his ambitions unfulfilled. England had once glittered and chimed to the deeds of his prowess; now it seemed to me that it was sour and sullen, divided and dark with a fast-fading King, a dying heir and a rapacious mistress.

  I cast aside the Book of Hours that I had picked up for solace, angry at my own impotence, as I allowed my thoughts to return to another death. When Thomas died he was far away from me. I did not experience the last hours, the harsh clinging to life, the wish to be shriven, the disposition of goods and the desire to make peace with family and friends that made the deathbed of a great lord such a public place. I knew nothing of it until it was all over and Thomas buried. I wished I had been with him. I resented that he had died without me.

  I had heard of those who, fast caught in a net of love, knew to the day, to the minute, even to the second, when their lover breathed his last. I did not know that Thomas had departed this world. I had no sense of doom of a distant leave-taking.

  Even if I had stood at his shoulder, knelt at his side, there would have been little for me to do. Thomas’s death would change my standing and rank not at all since the title was mine by right. Our children who carried their father’s name so proudly would inherit his property and his honour as was their right too, through me. All I would have needed to do in my absolute love for him, and my total irritation, was to give witness to his passing into the hands of a compassionate God.