The Shadow Queen

by Anne O'Brien

  Had Thomas missed my presence in those final hours? His suffering had been short. Had he known that he was dying? I did not know. All I had been given were the usual platitudes by the priest to comfort the grieving widow, by the courier whose task it was merely to deliver the sad news. And I, bereft, had felt no desire to question it further. I had been willing to be comforted, praying with the cleric that Thomas had died in peace and under God’s care.

  How different was this leave-taking?

  This was fought against as it was anticipated, as it was feared. I would lose him, and all the love that had bloomed over the years since he insisted that we wed against all good advice. And here was the difference that blighted my soul. My own position as a Plantagenet daughter and widow would not be undermined, but that of my son Richard, the child-heir, might well be considered untenable in this dangerous atmosphere when parliament clamoured for its right to speak and decide, and all was disaster abroad as France regained her strength. Who would want a royal heir of only nine years old when King Edward would so obviously follow his son into his grave within the year? Sometimes it was difficult to decide who would die first, King or Prince. King Edward waned before our eyes despite the firm hand of Alice Perrers, whom I had been driven through necessity to accept after her triumphant return to the court. Defying parliament and the judgements against her, she cared for the King with a tenacity that I could not deny, even as I despised her for her desire to grasp all the wealth she could.

  Meanwhile I fought for Ned’s life, not with any knowledge of potions and tinctures, for I had none, leaving such mundane tasks to Ned’s physicians, but with my will. I prayed with him. I talked with him. I poured my strength into him. I would not let him go. He had a mere forty-five years of life; no age for a man of Ned’s calibre to die of so crippling and humiliating a disease. It was not right. It was not just.

  I showed none of my desolation, cloaking my compassion for, before God, Ned wanted no pity. Instead I preserved a tranquillity, my joy in his presence a genuine yearning, for Ned’s company was beyond value in anticipation of the many years that I must soon sustain alone. And we would remain at Kennington, the palace he had built for himself and furnished for me in the first months of our marriage. He loved Kennington best of all; even more than Berkhamsted. He would die in his chamber surrounded by his household. With me. And with Richard.

  I was informed by my people that the King had arrived. It was late and the Prince was resting as the June day sank into a magnificent evening, the dying sun setting the trees and water aflame. What had driven the man to make the journey from London that could not wait until the morrow? The Prince was always stronger in the mornings.

  Not best pleased, I put my raiment to rights, ordered wine to be brought, and descended to the entrance hall to time my arrival with his, viciously hoping that he had not brought the Perrers woman with him. I was prepared to be coolly condescending, even denying him the right to visit his son, but what I saw thrust aside all my resentment that the King should come to disturb us. How much he had aged, even in the few months since I had last seen him, such that he had needed the arm of a servant to help him to climb the shallow steps.

  I curtsied low. He was still my King as well as my cousin.

  ‘You are welcome, my lord.’

  Edward blinked at me. Then, the servant still in close attendance, he shuffled across the floor as if he had not the strength to pick up one foot and then the other.

  ‘My lord.’ I took his arm, motioning away his servant, who would have done the same.

  He looked at me as if arranging his thoughts. ‘I need to sit a moment.’

  I drew him to a stool set against the wall.

  ‘What has happened?’ His grey pallor was worse than the Prince’s.

  ‘It is parliament,’ he said, his voice without inflection as if he could not believe the words he spoke. ‘I have heard that they seek my deposition.’

  ‘No!’ I too could not accept. ‘They would not. How do you know this calumny?’

  ‘One of my knights told me of it. They will do to me what they did to my father, stripping away the crown that is mine, as they took what was his. They will attack Alice too. I must speak with my son.’

  I had not enough sympathy for two men so afflicted. All mine was centred on the Prince who lay gasping for his next breath in his chamber, and yet this man who had supported me, who had taken me in when my family was attainted, deserved better. In that moment I feared for him. This was no longer the great leader who had led England to battle and glory, building for the future and for his family. Where was the grandeur of the past? This was an old man who feared dishonour more than death. I signalled for wine, and waited until his eyes cleared and the planes of his cheeks firmed once more.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Where is my son? I wish to see him.’

  ‘He is in his chamber. He is resting.’

  ‘I have business to discuss.’

  ‘I think today would not be the best of days.’

  Edward’s glance became surprisingly keen. ‘Is he rallying?’

  Did I lie? Did I fill this old man’s heart with hope in this moment of lucidity, to allow him to believe that his son would give him advice and stand at his side while he fought his battles with parliament to retain the Crown, if indeed there was any truth in his fears?

  ‘I need him to be with me.’

  And as Edward’s voice rose into a full-throated command, as it would have done every day of his life in past years, I could no longer mask the truth. The King would read it as soon as he saw his son. Better to warn him now. I broke my promise to Ned, gently but inexorably, for it must be done.

  ‘No, the Prince will not be with you. He cannot stand at your side again, my lord. You will have to fight your own battles, calling on your other sons.’

  It was the hardest most painful advice I had ever given, the first time that I had put it into words, that once spoken into the still air of the chamber could never be recalled. Cruel? Yes, perhaps it was, but entirely necessary. We had hidden the truth for far too long. And still it was difficult to believe that the magnificent Prince was ending the term of his earthly days.

  ‘No. No. He is stronger than that.’

  Edward struggled to his feet, stretching out his hand to me, commanding me.

  ‘He is not. His weakness is a burden to him and to those who serve him.’

  ‘He will outlive me.’

  ‘No, Edward,’ I said softly. ‘I think that he will not.’

  He rubbed his hand across his brow then stood, as tall and straight as it was possible for him to do.

  ‘I have buried seven children. I will not bury the eighth.’

  I could not reply, however much I knew that I ought to say: ‘Ned will be the eighth.’ It would be wrong for the King to believe that there was any hope. He must put his own house in order, with the help of his three living sons. I doubted that Ned would ever rise from his bed again. The physicians were not sanguine, speaking of weeks.

  ‘I wish to see him. I will see him.’

  I dare not refuse longer.

  It was a terrible reuniting. The Prince lay flat on his bed when his body did not writhe in agony. His physicians were in attendance, hastily casting a cloth over the bloody basin at the bedside. Nor could the burning incense mask the reek of disease and death. The King almost staggered at the door, then straightened and walked forward to take Ned’s hand. I hovered. There would be no lies spoken now, no denials when Ned’s face was as gaunt as his father’s.

  ‘I will not say that you look well, my son.’

  ‘I am dying.’

  The King had not believed me, but he could not deny Ned or the evidence of his own eyes, in which there were now tears.

  No business was discussed on that night. All that mattered was the affection, the loyalty, the admiration, one for the other. They were truly father and son in their deep understanding of each other so that I wished that I
had known my own father. Their emotion filled the room, stiflingly hot, so that I made to leave them, indicating that a servant should remain within call but far enough so that he was no eavesdropper on what they might say together. Until the King’s words to Ned as I opened the door.

  ‘I want you to come with me to Westminster.’

  I strode back to stand beside Ned, a barrier between the two, my gaze commandingly on the King, all compassion lost. ‘No.’

  The King ignored this. I might not have been in the room. ‘I want you to travel back with me. Tomorrow.’

  I did not even stay to choose my words with care so that Ned would not be wounded more. ‘That will not be. He is too ill. He is in too much pain. Can you not see?’

  Edward turned on me, temper flaring like an ill-lit torch, gesturing that I should leave them alone. ‘We do not need you.’

  Oh, but they did. Both proud men but in need of all the help they could get.

  ‘It is not advisable,’ I tried, tempering my language.

  ‘My son rode into battle in a litter against the town of Limoges. And won the battle.’ As I well knew. ‘He has the strength of an eagle.’

  ‘He is comfortable here.’ I looked across at Ned, who managed only a grimace that might have been an attempt at a smile.

  ‘What she means is that I might not have the strength to survive the journey. I might die between Kennington and Westminster.’

  Yes I had. I also knew that once at Westminster the control would be stripped from me. Ned would be surrounded by the royal household, cosseted and nurtured by the King’s own physicians and servants. I would stand on the edges and wait. I did not want that. He was mine and I would be with him until he no longer needed me.

  ‘I want him at Westminster.’

  ‘But I don’t think…’

  ‘He will travel by river. There will be no added strain on him.’

  I made to argue, furious with the King that he should at this moment recover his determination. Then I heard the breath that Ned drew from deep in his lungs.

  ‘Don’t worry Jeanette. I’ll not die on the road. Or the river.’ And to his father: ‘I will go with you to Westminster. It is right that I should die there.’

  ‘Is that what you want?’ I asked, for how could I refuse him?

  ‘It is what I want.’ He sought my hand and held on as if it would save him from all the horrors that assailed his mind. ‘And you will be with me. To the end.’

  He read me very well, as he had always done. Thus it was settled, but I would remain at his side where I had not been for so much of our life together. He was mine and he would die under my aegis.

  It was not to be. Of course it was not. Did I expect that it would be? What fools women can sometimes be, expecting to order their days and the days of those they love. Ned was laid to rest on his bed in his own chamber at Westminster, cold and cheerless as it was through lack of use, despite the fine furnishings, of which Ned was now unaware. It was as if the life had departed from these rooms that we had not used since the early days of our marriage. But when I might have expected Ned to rest and recover his strength to some degree, he wrapped his willpower around him like a metal chain and prepared to leave this life with authority and utmost dignity. Nothing was to be left undone. I stood beside him in despair, which he must have sensed as, at the first opportunity he dictated his will. He gripped my hand as he did it. Who was giving comfort to whom here?

  ‘There is time and enough to make my peace with God. I’ll not die today. There is much to be settled. And first you should know that I will be buried in Canterbury.’

  ‘Why not here?’ I could imagine Edward resisting.

  ‘Near the Chapel of the Blessed St. Thomas the Martyr. It is my command. And it will be done to my ordering.’

  There was no moving him, the old self-will unwavering. The Prince would have it so.

  And then, even when his breath was short and his energies waning, all the depositions were made with an increasing urgency, to friends and family and servants who had been with him throughout his whole life. No one was forgotten as the clerk scribbled furiously. He would make a fair copy.

  And finally:

  ‘Now I will see Richard.’

  I could have said that Richard was too young to understand, too young for all the emotional burden of a deathbed, but I did not. I knew what must be done.

  Sent for, Richard was almost as pale as his father. Regarding him as he halted in the doorway I considered the rich blue damask of his tunic with its gold stitching suitable for a royal audience, certainly too ostentatious for this occasion, but it would have been of his own choosing, demanded of his servants as they clothed him, and now was no time to offer a reprimand. Instead I beckoned for him to approach and drew him close, Ned stretching out his hand to touch Richard’s sleeve. I felt the child flinch as if already touched by a corpse, but I held him still. There were some lessons that Richard must learn, the most important in regal composure.

  ‘When I am dead, you will stand by the bequests I have made, Richard.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ It was barely a whisper.

  ‘I cannot hear you.’

  ‘I will stand by the bequests,’ he repeated, hesitating on the word.

  ‘You will remain true to your duty, as my heir.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘You will be a wise and good King when the time comes.’

  Richard had the look of a hunted rabbit, but held firm with my hands on his shoulders. ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘You will obey your mother.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Kiss me.’

  He did after only the smallest hesitation; a formal salutation on Ned’s lips. And then:

  ‘What will I get, when you are dead, sir?’

  My fingers closed tightly into Richard’s flesh, so that my son looked up into my face with some astonishment.

  ‘The Crown of England will be yours,’ Ned said with admirable calm, whereas I was wondering at our son’s avaricious nature. ‘You are my heir. Do you understand?’

  Richard’s face fell. ‘But my grandfather has it. What will I have that is mine?’

  ‘What would you wish?’

  ‘The blue gypon that you wore in Bordeaux. The one covered with gold roses and ostrich plumes.’

  ‘It is too big for you.’ Ned’s patience was a thing of wonder.

  ‘He will grow into it,’ I said as I felt Richard stiffen under my hands at being denied. Now was no time for untoward emotions.

  ‘Then it is yours,’ Ned agreed. ‘And my two best beds and their hangings.’

  ‘The one with gold angels sewn all over it?’

  ‘Yes. The gold angels are yours. Now you may go.’

  At the door Richard stopped on some thought that caught on the seriousness of the moment, looked back. ‘Will I see you again, Father?’

  ‘Yes. You will see me again. Are you not my son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Richard ran from the room. I could hear his voice triumphant in his release, while I moved to smooth the coverlet with the embroidered ostrich feathers that covered Ned’s wasted flesh, my heart weeping for him as he made provision for his end, for Richard who did not understand, but I smiled and touched Ned’s cheek, trying for a little lightness in the charged atmosphere.

  ‘And what will you give me, my dear lord?’

  I watched as he gathered his strength, pushing himself upright against the pillows. He could barely form the words.

  ‘I leave you all my love. You have always had it. Never forget, even when you wed again.’

  ‘I will never wed again. How could any man replace you? You are my soul.’ And I meant it, every word. ‘But you must leave me something tangible too. If you do not, the world will record that you despised me and wished we had never wed. That even at the point of death you had given me nothing to commemorate our marriage.’

  He was hanging on to consciousness.

  ‘Then I
will give you the hangings that you love so much. All those eagles and griffins with their claws and fierce eyes.’

  My own eyes were blinded. A gift that had no meaning compared with the loss I would suffer and it was as if Ned sensed my grief for he roused.

  ‘My dearest and truest sweetheart and beloved companion. I give you my son. I leave you my son to nurture and raise as a King must be raised. What more could a man give his wife?’

  My cheeks were wet with tears that he could not see.

  ‘You can give me no finer gift, my lord. I will honour it.’

  I had my own concerns that were becoming more urgent by the day. When we had travelled to Westminster a small travelling coffer had come with me, as it accompanied me whatever my destination. It was rarely out of my sight and never out of my mind.

  Leaving Ned to sleep, with no one to see me but the stitched figures of the eagles and griffins that were now my property, I lowered myself to kneel beside the little coffer. A jewel coffer, to keep safe my wealth of gold-set gems? Many would consider it to be so, knowing my love of outward show. I applied the key at my belt and lifted the domed lid, setting it gently back as the gems on my fingers absorbed the light. Here, contained within this carved box, inlaid with fragrant sandalwood, was the source of all my nightmares, of all my hopes. Not jewels at all, but layers of parchment, of documents.

  I lifted out the first one but did not need to unfold it to know its content. Here was the letter, the only letter Ned had ever written to me, after the battle of Nájera, before returning to claim me with such love. But this was not what I sought so I laid it carefully aside. Then I took hold of the rest of the contents, holding them flat against my breast with both hands, as if their weight was enough to strengthen my will, before placing them back into their safekeeping.

  Why did I need to do this? I did not need to inspect what was within. The folded sheets of old documents were as familiar to me as the famous contents of my jewellery coffer, and just as well handled. I knew exactly what I would find in that pile of carefully stacked documents. I knew the seals, the signatures and the sequence of them. I recalled with sharp acknowledgement the highs and lows of my emotions as I had received them. Such happiness. Such despair. Here in this little coffer was a map of my life, but now it was more than my own life that would come under the picking of nimble minds and destructive fingers.