by Anne O'Brien
Touching the frayed ribbon and chipped wax of the top document, my fear became a swollen river, all but choking me. All the choices I had made in the past threatened to come home to roost like a flock of carrion-eaters. I regretted none of them but the shadow they cast was dark and full of danger. My reputation was much mended but still, in some quarters, the subject of gossip and tainted innuendo. My spine was strong enough, my shoulders firm enough to bear the insinuations; but what of Richard? What a terrible legacy I had given my son to carry. Richard would be a King of renown, but only if he was allowed to inherit as was his right on the death of his grandfather, as long as he was allowed to grow into his power.
Was there any doubt? Not in my mind, but there were those who might look elsewhere. There were those who might not wish a child of ten years to wear the crown, who would look for a man of age and substance and reputation for leadership, with the ability to lead an army. My son was the unquestionable heir to King Edward, only son of the eldest son, but lacking all such qualities; there were men in this kingdom who might make a claim against him that would not be without support. Had not the portents warned me? I had not forgotten them.
So many with royal claims. They marched before me, bold in their demands to be considered.
John of Lancaster would be the choice of some, followed by his son Henry, as the next surviving son of King Edward. But that was not all. There were the offspring of Philippa, daughter and heiress of Ned’s deceased brother Lionel of Clarence. Older than Lancaster, Lionel’s descendents would take precedence. Philippa, wed to Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, had a promising family. And there was the worry that assailed me. If this female line was considered to be acceptable, there would be an adult Mortimer claimant clamouring for recognition as the future King instead of boy with a tainted birth.
Tainted. Therein lay the problem.
For I had, wilfully, selfishly, provided these ambitious claimants with the perfect weapon. And then there were the prophecies that were still whispered behind locked doors.
My thoughts interrupted by an insubstantial knock, I closed the little domed lid. No place for prying eyes here.
‘Enter.’
My heart thudded that it might be news of Ned.
But it was only Richard, his fair face flushed, his tunic’s gold-stitched appliqué dimmed with a thin coating of dust. He had been riding with his governor.
‘I have come to tell you, maman …’
I turned the key to lock the contents away, so that Richard was distracted from what he might tell me, running forward to fall on his knees beside the little box. Snatching off his cap to cast it on the floor, he ran his fingers over the coffer, leaning close to peer at the decoration inlaid in gold and ivory, trying to open the lid.
‘Look, there is a hart with a chain around its neck. And a gold crown.’ He traced it with his finger.
‘So there is,’ as I smoothed his ruffled hair with my hand. ‘It is my own device. One day you may use it too.’
‘What is inside? Do you have a key?’
‘I do.’
‘Can I look?’
I thought about it. But to what purpose? I would not impart my own worries to him.
‘When you come of age,’ I said, ‘I will give you the coffer for your own. It is very precious. You will keep its contents safe.’
‘I wish to look now!’ And when I shook my head: ‘Can I look inside when it is mine?’
‘Of course. The contents are very important for you. You will understand when you are older.’
‘I will understand now.’
I recognised his father’s will, the obstinacy in his jaw when he was refused something he desired, but I would not be swayed.
‘Not yet.’ I stood, lifting him to his feet, bushing the dust from the azure damask of his tunic. ‘But come and look at this. I have a gift for you.’
I was not unaware that Richard would need clear guidance when he became King. I could no longer pretend that it would be Ned.
Watching Richard turn the pages of the book I gave to him, I began to plan with a sure clarity of thought. I needed an ally. A conspirator. Someone as capable of hard-headed political manoeuvrings as I. A guiding hand would be required, and it would be mine, of course; I would ensure that it was so. But then I considered death, that could strike so fast, so unexpectedly, as with Thomas. Or slow and agonisingly, with Ned. I could die tomorrow. How could I ensure Richard’s safety? One woman, alone, was no answer to the weakness of my son’s position. How could this boy, this child, hold fast to power if he became King within a month, within a year? I could not hold his hand for ever, nor did I necessarily trust the men who would undoubtedly be appointed to the Royal Council to guide the young King, reading naked ambition in so many of their faces. If I did not have a care, I would be pushed aside as a woman of no moment in a man’s world. I would be neatly nudged to live out my days as a widow, worthy of all royal recognition, but with no influence on the life and progress of my son.
I found myself staring at one of Ned’s much praised tapestries, not the eagles and griffins but one of a woman sitting alone in a garden. She was rich and beautiful, her surroundings perfect, her garments exquisite, but she was alone except for the birds and flowers, and she was powerless. That would be me.
I would not allow it.
Turning my head, I sought out a different scene, a crowned woman from some mythical tale who was directing her servants in her garden, to prune shrubs and pick fruit. What’s more, the servants obeyed, their backs bent, their hands busy to fulfil her demands. That was more to my taste.
And so I considered. I might not need a husband, but I most certainly needed a man at my side whom I could trust with my innermost fears and who would follow my directives. It was a pertinent thought that played a discordant tune within the harmony of my own determination to control the future of my son. I would need an ally to speak with parliament, who would sit in the Royal Council. My own role would inevitably be curtailed by my being female; I needed a man on whom I could rely to be a bulwark for Richard against the storms of government, a man whom I could trust to set aside his own ambitions for those of a God-Anointed child.
Therein lay the problem.
Who knew better than I that men did not always consider the consequences of their actions? Thomas: marry and depart, sure in the knowledge that a wife would be waiting after months of silent absence. William: incarcerate a hostile wife in the belief that she would become compliant. Ned: wield a heavy sword in Aquitaine and expect the powerful lords to fall to their knees in loyalty. Whereas, I, since that distant occasion when I had exchanged vows with Thomas Holland which cast us all into the mire, considered the consequences of all my actions. Since then, with maturity and experience, I had taken no thoughtless step. It was the same driving force that I was forced to admire in Alice Perrers, for all her sins and power-grabbing.
But the incisive power of women to think and plan – woefully overlooked – would not change within my lifetime, so I must work to keep the reins in my own hands as securely as I might. When Edward was dead, when Alice Perrers was removed from the scene, when Richard, my son, wore the crown: then I would be in a position to bring the proud creature that was England under my dominion in my son’s name.
I will make Richard a King of whom you would be proud.
It was a promise I made to Ned every night. A role that was mine to grasp, I would not retreat from it when my love was dead and gone from me.
I held my hands up to the light, turning them. They were small and fine-boned, heavy with jewels. They were capable, clever, skilled. Was not Joan of Kent still known for her beauty and grace? But these hands could not carry the burden that lay on my heart with increasing heaviness. Without doubt I needed an ally, a confidante.
I allowed the men of my acquaintance to replace the march of claimants to the throne, considering them, discarding them with unnerving rapidity, particularly when they were one and the same, both poss
ible ally and enemy. Was there no one suitable to stride beside me to ensure the unquestioned succession of my son and my own position in his household?
Not Will Montagu, as steady and reliable a man as one of Edward’s new gateposts beyond my window, but before God he had no flair for plotting.
My sons, Thomas and John. They were too young, too lacking experience, neither of them near his thirtieth year. Their loyalty to their half-brother was unquestionable, but I needed a man with years and a honed ability under his belt.
Then there were Richard’s royal uncles who would regard it as their right to wield power in the name of their young nephew. Edmund of York was too weak; Thomas of Gloucester not to be trusted. As for Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, Richard’s uncle by marriage, he might prove to be no friend to Richard and his royal claim. None of them appealed.
Why was I procrastinating? I knew who I needed; some would say not a wise choice. An uncertain choice. Nor was I even certain that I could shackle such a wayward talent to my own desires. He was a man who would go his own way, who would place his own ambition before that of others. I would have him as my compatriot in arms but I did not yet know how to ensure his compliance.
Opening a different coffer as Richard continued to turn the pages of the book, exclaiming at the beauty of the gilded images, I considered, then pushed a fine ring, a ruby, onto my finger, admiring its glow in the sunlight. One day fate would thrust this man into my hands. And if it did not, then I would take fate and twist it, mould it into my own creation, so that he had no choice but to become my ally. One day…
Sometimes the burden of my past was becoming too great to bear alone.
***
The King sat beside his son, his hand resting on Ned’s, lax on the bedcovers as if he could tie this departing soul to the earth, oblivious to the coming and going of servants and physicians, until he became aware of the crush in the doorway as a small crowd gathered.
‘Close the door,’ he ordered. ‘My son needs peace.’
But I read an unspoken demand in Ned’s face, the sudden feverish fire in his eye.
‘No.’ I raised my voice so that all should hear. ‘That must not be.’
The King stood, his face as ravaged as Ned’s. ‘You would dictate to me, your King?’
‘Yes, my lord. Leave the door open. Admit all who wish to come close.’
‘Would you drain the life from him so fast? My son has not the will to receive visitors.’ Edward raised his hand towards the servant who awaited the outcome between us. ‘Close the doors, I say.’
‘No, my lord.’ I addressed the servants. ‘Leave the doors open.’
This was a battle I must not lose.
‘Why would you do this?’ Edward said, turning once again to countermand my order, frustration lining his brow, grief bowing his shoulders. ‘Have I no power in my own land?’
And all my determination to impose my own will drained away into utmost compassion, so that I walked to him, to place a hand on his shoulder and lead him back to the chair beside Ned. This was the brightest gem in his crown, the son who was the best of knights, who should have made the best of kings.
‘You will see,’ I said, kneeling before him as the most unimportant of subjects. ‘Are you not still King? Do I not kneel before you? But Ned has a need that we must not hinder. It would be cruel to do so.’
Edward looked down at me. ‘Then do it.’ He clutched my hands. We were at one perhaps for the first time, to bring what comfort we could to his son.
I nodded at the servants.
I knew what Ned hoped for, what would happen. Had we not talked of it in the early hours before dawn? I had sent out the word that the hours of the Prince of Wales, once Prince of Aquitaine but no longer, were drawing to a close. Thus they came, all the household who had known him through their life and his. Servants to kiss his hand. His former knights who had fought long and hard at his command to kneel at his side, in honour of their once-great captain. The citizens of London to make their final farewells. His brothers of York and Gloucester paid their final respects in low tones. My sons Thomas and John paid due respect to the man who had taken their careers under his guiding hand as would any father for his son. Perhaps it had, after all, been good to return to Westminster. The affection in which Ned was held proved to be shatteringly emotional for all.
When I thought I could withstand no more, here was a face I recognised, and the familiar heraldic achievements, a mass of red; and white and silver lozenges on the breast of his entourage that stood in the doorway. He knelt beside the prince, head bent, and kissed his hand. They had fought and won together. As he had fought alongside Thomas. But he had lost to Thomas, and not just on the battle field.
I watched him, my attention momentarily taken from my suffering lord, my heart softening with an old affection in spite of everything. Will had grown into the man he would always become. Still gentle, still easily brought to the brink of emotion, but a fine soldier and a fine man who had made his name without the royal blood of a bride. He had been as good a servant to Edward as his father had ever been. I smiled a little sadly. I had brought him nothing but heartbreak and trouble.
Our paths had crossed little since my return from Aquitaine, only in a superficial way. Now I walked across to him, unsurprised that his eyes were full of tears, which he hastily wiped away before taking my hand, saluting my fingers as an old friend.
‘Forgive me, Joan. This is no time for being unmanned, but we will lose a great knight. A fine king.’
I squeezed his hand, quelling the tremor of my own emotion as well as his. I had discovered that I had need of friends who would mourn with me.
‘He will have been pleased to see you.’
‘I’m not sure if he realised.’
‘I am certain that he did. You were one of his most trusted comrades in arms.’ I steered the talk into kinder waters so that he might recover his control. ‘Is your wife well?’ Although I cared little, except as it affected Will. He deserved some happiness at the hands of a better wife than I had been to him. A surge of compassion and regret for my own behaviour washed over me. This was indeed a morning for regrets.
‘Elizabeth thrives,’ Will said. ‘And so does my son. I’ll make a soldier out of him. I don’t expect the peace with France will outlive me.’
‘No, I don’t expect that it will. The Treaty of Brétigny has finally disintegrated into dust.’
He cleared his throat. ‘I am sorry that you lost your son in Bordeaux.’
‘Yes.’ I retreated from the bitterness that still had the power to waylay me when I least expected it. ‘But Richard will be a worthy heir.’
Our eyes jointly centred on Richard who stood with his tutor at the foot of Ned’s bed, my son encouraging a reluctant monkey to sit on his shoulder, oblivious to the scene being played out before him, until the monkey escaped and fled, chattering in anger, the gold links of its chain clinking on the tiles. Will shuffled from one foot to the other so that I could almost read his thoughts. Was this indeed the makings of a potent ruler?
‘Of course he will be,’ he said. ‘And we will serve him well. My son and I.’
Service. Duty. How fortunate I had been. Perhaps I had more friends who would mourn with me and stand with my son than I had realised. Will must have seen my melancholy for he touched my hand to restore me to the present.
‘You will not be Queen of England, if that was your ambition.’ His glance sharpened, became speculative. ‘I imagine that rankles.’
‘Yes. It does.’ I would be honest with him, for there was no reason not to be so. ‘But I will be a superlative King’s Mother.’ Will cleared his throat. I lifted my chin. ‘Say it,’ I commanded. I was in no mood for secrets and innuendo.
But there was none, merely a promise from a friend on whom, I knew in my heart, I could rely.
‘If you ever need a man who will raise his sword in your defence, if you ever need a man who will remain loyal through all the vicissitude to
come, I will be that man. As I will be for your son. I will always be your servant.’
So simple, so heartfelt born out of long affection and not a little strife. I felt tears begin to well as memories rushed back. ‘I remember,’ I said. ‘I recall the day when your late lamented mother informed us all that you would never be half the man your father was. I was angry that she said it then, because it hurt you. There, you see. I was not always selfish.’ My smile was wry. ‘Now I know she was wrong. You will be everything your father was, and more. And thank you. I will value your friendship as will my son.’ I turned my head to look over my shoulder to where Ned received another of his military comrades, to where Richard stood, wishing to be anywhere but in this room of pain and utter misery. I was no seer and yet I said: ‘I think that somewhere in the future our paths will cross again, Will, hedged about by severe difficulties. It will be good to have a friend.’
His face was flushed with emotion.
‘There will be no question of it. For all that has been in our past and in our present.’
He kissed my hand, bowed, and moved quietly to speak final words to his admired commander in battle. I watched him go, my emotions tumbling. There was no happiness in me on that day, no contentment, but one day when emotions were less raw, perhaps there would be.
There was one final step I wished Ned to take. Before his energies quite waned, I knelt and whispered in his ear, seeing the intelligence return, the quick understanding. Nothing could keep death from Ned’s door, but between us we could make the path of our son straight and true.
‘You know what you must do,’ I urged.
‘Yes…’
‘He is too weak, madam,’ the hovering priest intoned. ‘He is sinking fast.’
I waved him aside. ‘Then all the more necessary that this is done now.’
Ned’s mind sought mine. I could sense it, feel it as his wasted hand closed over mine, as I had never sensed it in life. Never had I felt so close to him as at that moment in this urgent need. There was the bright intelligence once more, behind the suffering, as our thoughts held fast.
