by Jean Plaidy
It was a splendid ceremony but none was more magnificent than Roger de Mortimer who had brought one hundred and eighty knights to attend him and they in their turn were served by their squires; and all were elaborately and splendidly attired.
Days of feasting followed. There were pageants and tournaments and all these the little bride attended with wondering looks. She was less afraid now when she saw that her bridegroom was only a weak little boy who seemed very young to her because she had the advantage of being two years his senior.
In due course it was time for her to take her leave of the English party. Her mother embraced her and gave her some rich jewels which Joanna did not care very much about. Nor did she feel sad to say good-bye to her mother. She had always been afraid of her.
Isabella with Mortimer and the splendid cavalcade rode south while Joanna, who had been given into the hands of the Scottish nobles and their ladies, was taken to Edinburgh. There she was brought to the King of Scotland—an old old man who, though he was so feeble and could scarcely move, had brilliant eyes which smiled at her and a kindly look.
He was Robert the Bruce, her new father-in-law, and he gave orders that she was to be treated with the utmost care and it was to be remembered that she was very young and in a strange land.
There was something odd about him. He was dying, she knew, of a terrible disease, but he did not inspire her with fear as her own mother and Roger de Mortimer did.
She was bitterly homesick. She wanted the nursery at Windsor. She wanted Johanette Jermyn and dear Isabella de Valance; she wanted her sister Eleanor and her brother John. And most of all she wanted Edward and Philippa.
She had to be brave though. She had to remember that this happened to most princesses. That was what they were born for. They had to make peace and stop wars.
She was not surprised when she heard herself referred to as Joanna Make-Peace.
* * *
Events in France had brought dazzling new prospects to the English crown. The history of France over the last few years had been overshadowed by the Curse of the Templars. Philip the Fair, father of Queen Isabella, had made the error of the century when, in order to take their wealth, he had destroyed the Knights Templars. The final act in that dismal tragedy was the burning to death of Jacques de Molai in the Ile de la Cite. As the flames licked his limbs de Molai had uttered the curse—no good should come to the King and his heirs and God would be revenged on them for this evil deed. This had been uttered in the presence of the thousands who had come to witness the end of the Grand Master. It was taken very seriously and, when within a year both the Pope (who had been deeply involved) and the King had died, it was accepted as certain that the curse would work. And so it seemed it had. Philip had three sons and one daughter Isabella, wife to Edward the Second. All three sons became Kings of France—Louis the Tenth le Hutin, the Quarrelsome, Philip the Fifth known as The Long because of his unusual height and Charles the Fourth, the Fair because of his good looks. They all reigned for short periods and none of them had left a male heir. This was generally believed to be due to the curse.
Charles the Fourth had just died and people were looking to Philip of Valois, son of Charles, younger brother of Philip the Fair, as the heir to the throne.
But, reasoned Edward’s advisers, Philip had had a daughter—Isabella—and Isabella had a son Edward, King of England.
The Salic Law prevailed in France and that meant that a woman could not inherit the throne. Perhaps not, but what if that woman had a son? Why should he not have a right to the crown?
The matter was discussed in Parliament and the prospect of enriching the country and themselves was an agreeable one. Edward glowed with anticipation. He had failed to win Scotland but what a great prize France would be. And he could convince himself that he had a claim through his mother.
The French rather naturally had different ideas and elected Philip of Valois as their King.
There were hotheads in England who would have liked to raise an army and march into France. Edward himself longed to gain glory there. If he could win the crown of France he would have done something which even his illustrious grandfather had failed to do.
Isabella and Mortimer were against the enterprise.
‘It is not as though victory—even if there should be victory—could be achieved in a few weeks,’ said Mortimer. ‘There would be a war. Do you think the French would accept Edward? They would put up a strong fight to keep an English King off the throne of France. It would go on for years. The country would be impoverished. We should be impoverished.’ Isabella agreed with him.
She talked gently to her son. ‘The time is not yet ripe,’ she said. ‘You must grow up a little. You are not experienced in warfare as the Scottish exploit showed.’
‘If the Scots had come out to fight ...’ began Edward hotly.
But his mother smiled lovingly at him. ‘Those were the tactics of war, my dear son. They are something every commander has to be prepared for.’
She could bring Edward back to depend on her by reminding him of his youth and inexperience. ‘The Scottish adventure has been a useful exercise,’ she told Mortimer. ‘A reference to it and he is prepared to take any advice.’
So the matter of the claim to the French crown was set aside. But only, Edward promised himself, temporarily. The time would come when he would make a bid for the crown of France.
* * *
Soon after his coronation Philip the Sixth called together his numerous vassals that, as a new King of France, he might accept their homage. Among these was Edward who must swear fealty for his French fiefs.
On receiving the command Edward called his Parliament together to decide what, in the somewhat delicate matter of his claim to the French crown, should be done.
After a great deal of discussion it was decided that he must go but that in doing his homage he should in no way renounce his claim to the throne. He must travel in great splendour so that the French might be aware of his riches, but the tricky moment would be when he came face to face with Philip in the ceremony.
Edward took a fond farewell of Philippa. It was the first time they had been separated since their marriage and he promised to be back as soon as he possibly could.
The King travelled through France to Amiens where he was greeted with great warmth to hide the suspicions the French must feel towards one who had declared he had a claim to the throne of France.
It was a hot June day when Edward came before the King of France to pay the necessary homage, most splendidly attired in a robe of crimson velvet embroidered in gold with leopards. His sword was at his side and on his head he wore a glittering golden crown and his spurs were golden to match it.
It was inevitable that the French King should be equally splendid. Seated on his throne, wearing his crown and clad in blue velvet decorated with golden fleurs-de-lis he looked askance at the King of England.
Philip murmured to his knight-at-arms that he did not expect his liegeman to do homage in a crown. All knew that Edward was King of England, but that fact was not a matter of concern on this occasion. He had come to pay homage for his lands in France and it should be done with a bare head and an ungirt sword.
‘My lord,’ said Edward, ‘I can do homage only generally. I cannot set aside my English crown.’
There was much murmuring throughout the hall. Philip looked at this very young man—scarcely more than a boy and wondered what he had to fear from him. He decided to act with care.
‘I will accept homage on your terms,’ he said. ‘But when you return to England I would have you search the records and if you find that full liege homage is due you will send letters patent to me of it.’
Edward said: ‘This I agree to do.’
And the King of France answered: ‘I accept your word on your honour.’
But before the homage proceeded, with Edward wearing the crown on his head and the sword at his side, he asked that those territories taken from his father should
be returned to him.
‘Why should this be?’ asked Philip. ‘These lands were taken from your father in war.’
There was a deep silence throughout the community. All realized how reluctantly Edward did homage to a King whose crown he thought he himself should be wearing. But his claim to the throne seemed so ridiculous to the French that they did not consider it seriously; and the fact that Edward was so young made it seem even more absurd.
But there among the nobles of France Edward came to a decision. At some time, when he was older and more experienced, he was coming over to claim what he was fast believing he had a right to.
The lesson of the Scottish enterprise had been well learned and he was going to tread warily. He agreed therefore to pay homage only for those lands which he held in France, so the ceremony proceeded and, according to the custom, Edward placed his hands between those of the King of France and Philip responded by kissing his mouth.
After the ceremony he was eager to return home to Philippa at Windsor and there was great joy in their reunion.
She told him how anxious she had been. She hated his going away from her and was terrified that something would happen to him. He laughed at her fears and expounded at great length on the glories of France.
‘It is a wonderful country, Philippa, and as I rode through it I was saying to myself: “Mine ... this should be mine.”‘ ‘They will never give it up,’ said Philippa.
‘No. I shall have to fight for it.’
She was uneasy.
‘Do you not think I shall do it, Philippa?’
‘I am sure you will do anything you wish to do, Edward. But I like not battles. For one thing they will take you away from me.’
Edward replied that he would forgo France for her.
He had only been in England four days when news came from the little castle of Cardross on the banks of the Clyde that Robert the Bruce was dead, worn out with continual struggles, and desperately ill with the fearful leprosy from which he had been suffering for several years.
Philippa stood by Edward when he received the news.
‘The Bruce dead,’ she murmured. ‘This means that our little Joanna is Queen of Scotland.’
* * *
Isabella was growing more and more apprehensive. It was so different from when she had landed in England. It seemed to her that her friends were slipping away from her. Sir John of Hainault, that trusting adorer, who had been in love with her and had fought so well for her cause because of that, had returned to Hainault. She knew that those who had been with her in the beginning were turning away from her.
It was amazing how people blamed her for the marriage of Joanna. She knew they were saying it was cruel to have sent a child of seven into that northern land of harsh winters and barbaric people. To have married the little girl to a bridegroom of five whose father was dying of leprosy and who could very well have inherited the dreadful disease, was monstrous. But that, it could be argued, was a state matter; what could not be accepted was her flagrant behaviour with the adventurer Mortimer. Indeed a great deal of her unpopularity came from her association with Mortimer. Mortimer was a strong man, a fighter, a man who was without fear, but he could not be said to have a very subtle mind. He saw only the advantages of the moment and clearly there were many. He seized what he could get and no man—not even the favourites of the previous King—could have become so rich in so short a time. If there were lands and money to be had it could be depended on that Mortimer would find it and take it for himself.
And the reason why Isabella was being looked on with growing suspicion was due to her reliance on this man. It was as though he had bewitched her. She could see no fault in him. Their passionate sexual connection was as necessary to her as it had been in the beginning of their association.
If they had acted discreetly their relationship might have been accepted. The whole country knew how she must have suffered through the late King’s deficiencies. But this affair with Mortimer was not discreet. It was blatant and becoming more so. One rarely appeared in public without the other and they behaved with such careless abandon that it was clear that they did not care who knew of their liaison.
Often she reminded herself of her achievements. Who would have believed it possible when she had gone to France, having lured her husband and Hugh le Despenser into agreeing to her departure, that she would have returned so triumphantly, have brought about Edward’s removal, set her son on the throne and, with Mortimer, ruled the country through him? Everything they had planned had come to pass. Then why could she not enjoy it? Mortimer did. Oh, he was wiser than she was.
Of course there were her dreams and they were becoming more frequent. Sometimes they spilled over into the day. She wished she could stop thinking about her dead husband. She wished she didn’t see him in her dreams. In that vague drifting between wakefulness and sleep she fancied she heard his screams when the red hot spit was entering his body.
‘Oh God,’ she cried, let me forget. Why do I have to be haunted? Why cannot I be wise like Mortimer?’
Mortimer was wise indeed. He cared for nobody—certainly not the dead.
‘Let be,’ was his motto. ‘What’s done is done.’
And he was right, of course.
Mat had happened to her? She, who was the daughter of one of the most ruthless men of the century, the despoiler and murderer of the Templars, should have inherited some of his ruthless strength. I am his daughter, she thought. Perhaps the curse has come upon me.
She was beginning to notice the change in people’s attitudes towards her.
There was the Earl of Kent, for instance. As her husband’s young half-brother, son of a French mother, he had been drawn to her from the day she had arrived in the country. He had clearly been impressed by her beauty as so many had and, when she had arrived in England with her army to stand against Edward the Second and put young Edward the Third on the throne, Edmund had been there to support her.
Yet only yesterday when she had been riding with him she had been aware of his coolness towards her.
He had talked about his brother. She remembered every word of the conversation because it had seemed significant.
‘I believe he was not well treated at Berkeley,’ he had said suddenly.
She had felt the tingling shrinking on her flesh which indicated fear and she was not sure whether it showed or not. A short while ago she would have given no sign but something was happening to her. She was becoming more and more tense and nervous and showing it.
‘Oh ... Thomas of Berkeley was very friendly with him.’ ‘He is a connection of the Earl of March, I believe.’
‘Yes ... through marriage ...’
A silence had followed during which Edmund frowned deeply. She and Mortimer had always said that Edmund was a simple fellow. He had never been able to hide his feelings and he was very thoughtful now.
She had tried to change the subject but he had brought it back.
‘Our cousin Lancaster and he were very amicable together when the King was at Kenilworth.’
She wanted to scream: ‘Stop it. Stop. The dreams will come back tonight. They always do when I talk of him in the day.’
She desperately sought to change the subject. ‘I have reason to believe that the Queen is with child.’
Edmund smiled. He was fond of the new Queen and of Edward. Isabella went on: ‘It will be a blessing if it is so and I think the nation will go wild with joy if it is a son.’
Edmund agreed and to Isabella’s relief they talked of the joys of parenthood. Edmund had four children of his own and he never tired of discussing them.
But just as Isabella was congratulating herself on having most happily changed the subject they came upon a group of people who stood back to let them pass.
There were no cheers for Queen Isabella as in the past. But one voice was heard and what was said came very distinctly to their ears.
‘Whore! ‘
Isabella had pretended not to he
ar but she saw the faint colour in the Earl’s face. He looked disconcerted and she fancied she noticed a tightening of his lips.
* * *
She sought out Mortimer. In such circumstances she always turned to Mortimer. He would soothe her and know what to do.
‘The people are turning against us,’ she said.
‘Why concern ourselves with them?’
‘Dear Mortimer, they could rise against us.’
‘They would never dare.’
Looking at him she could believe that. He looked so powerful, so important and so splendid. The glory of his apparel increased every day. He never went anywhere without an array of knights almost as splendidly clad as himself, proclaiming his wealth and importance.
She told him what the Earl of Kent had said. ‘I could see speculation in his eyes. If the people turned against us, his royalty could make him a leader.’
‘Kent! He would never lead anyone.’
‘I believe he might,’ said Isabella.
‘The man’s a fool.’
‘That may be but he is Edward’s half-brother.’
‘The people have never liked him.’
‘They have never disliked him.’
‘No, he is neither this nor that.’
‘But he would be a figurehead. Others would decide on policy. I fear him, Mortimer. He talked about the King. He has been making enquiries I believe.’
Mortimer narrowed his eyes. ‘Maltravers, Gurney and Ogle are out of the country.’
‘Yes, I know. What if he discovered where and they talked?’
Mortimer was silent for a while and then he said : ‘We will make an example of one of them. We will let them see what happens to those who meddle.’
‘An example of whom?’ asked Isabella.
‘My choice falls on Kent,’ said Mortimer.
‘Kent! The King’s half-brother. Edward’s uncle.’ ‘It is always best, my love, to strike at the top.’
* * *
Edmund Earl of Kent was twenty-nine years old. He had been six years old when his father, Edward the First, had died. He had seen very little of that great warrior who was always away from home on some military enterprise and he and his brother Thomas of Brotherton, Earl of Norfolk, who was just one year older than he was, had been brought up by their gentle French mother Marguerite.
