by Jean Plaidy
It was one of the minor servants who spoke, feeling himself no doubt without blame as his only duty was to obey those who were set over him.
‘We were told, my lord, that we could not have what we needed because there was not enough money to pay for it.’
‘It was true,’ said another. ‘We could not provide what food was necessary for the household. So it was taken from the neighbourhood and the people got very angry.’
‘You mean you stole from the villages round here to feed yourself ... and my children! ‘
‘Well, my lord, there was not enough money to pay for what was wanted.’
‘This is a sorry state of affairs. And does that account for the neglected state I find my children in?’
There was silence.
‘By God,’ cried Edward, ‘some of you will be sorry you flouted my wishes.’
Philippa said: ‘The children are well. It seems they have been fed. They have been left to themselves and have not been washed and tended—that is all. My lord, all I wish is to be with them, to look after them. If you dismiss these people it is punishment enough that they will have nowhere to go and no employment. We can bring others in to take their place.’
Edward, who had felt that rising anger beginning to stir in him, was haunted suddenly by the sight of two headless children. He must govern this temper or his life would be strewn with regrets for violent actions taken impulsively.
Philippa was right. No harm had been done to the children. They had not been starved or ill-treated. They were happy enough.
He turned to Philippa.
‘I will leave you to deal with the household,’ he said. ‘I will summon those villagers and hear their version of this sorry tale. They must be reimbursed for what they have lost. And let me warn you all that if it is brought to my ears that you have behaved in this disgraceful way again, you will know no mercy from me and what you have done at this time shall be considered against you.’
Edward learned from the neighbourhood that five hundred pounds was owing. This he ordered should be paid at once.
Philippa had been deeply shocked by the sight of the children but in a short time she herself had washed them and put them into fresh garments. Edward chattered away to her and she was relieved that he had no idea that he had been so neglected.
Philippa was thoughtful. She had made up her mind that she would have to be very careful about leaving them again.
She would never have a moment’s peace if she did. Yet on the Other hand she did not want to leave Edward.
She prayed for peace that would allow Edward to remain at Court with her; but she knew that the time would come when the difficult choice would have to be made.
* * *
To her great joy she discovered that she was once again pregnant. The King was delighted. Their two children brought him great joy and she noticed that although Edward was his pride, it was Isabella on whom he doted.
Isabella was a very pretty child, wilful and more demanding than Edward but that seemed to amuse the King. He liked her to sit on his knee and talk to him in her baby way; she clearly enjoyed being made much of and always ran to her father as soon as he appeared.
Philippa rejoiced to see Edward with the children so it was a great happiness to know that there would soon be another.
With Berwick in English hands, there could be a respite from the Scottish wars and Christmas was a jolly occasion and they spent it at Wallingford. Philippa at this time was heavily pregnant, the baby being due in February.
The Court was in London at the time of the birth and the baby was born in the palace of the Tower. Perhaps it was for this reason that Philippa decided to call her Joanna in memory of that other Joanna her aunt, who had been born in the Tower and was now living in France with her husband, David the Bruce, under the protection of Philip the Sixth.
However Joanna was a welcome addition to the family and Edward was more than ever delighted with a loving and fruitful wife.
He was however beset with problems. Trade had suffered considerably from the Scottish war. Foreign ships avoided coming to England for fear of being taken and robbed of their cargoes. Edward had quickly seen that if he was going to have a contented country it must be a peaceful one. Trade was what the country needed. He issued letters of safe conduct to all merchants and gradually the ships were coming back into English ports. The weavers who had come to England on Philippa’s suggestion were settling in Norfolk, although they faced some hostility from the local people who found them too hard-working for their liking. But they were a quiet people and so industrious that in spite of certain opposition they flourished. Moreover they had the blessing of the King and Queen and the natives were afraid to be too openly hostile.
Baliol was now back on the throne of Scotland with Edward’s support. He had agreed that Edward should have the whole of the South of Scotland below the Forth and by accepting him as his liege lord for the North he was allowed to reign over that part. It was not to be expected that Scotsmen would consider this a very happy state of affairs. Baliol was weak and needed continually bolstering up which meant that for Edward during the months that followed there must be continual journeys back and forth to the North. After her experiences at Clarendon Philippa would not leave her children, so she and the children, even baby Joanna, were constantly on the move. There was one occasion however when she could not have them with her and after much soul-searching she decided that she would leave them at Peterborough Abbey where she knew they would be safe.
The Abbot, Adam de Botheby, was taken aback. The Abbey was no place for young children, he pointed out. Yet the Queen pleaded with him. She told him of her experiences at Clarendon and she also mentioned Edward’s need of her. So eloquently did she plead that, after consulting his monks the Abbot agreed to take the children.
They could not expect great comfort, he said. They would be disciplined and expected to follow the rules of the Abbey.
At least Philippa knew they would be cared for by these good men. She was amazed however when she returned to find that they had completely changed the life of the Abbey. She found young Edward seated on the shoulders of the Reverend Abbot and Isabella had one of the monks on all fours while she rode him as a horse. Joanna was rocked to sleep by one of the cellarers and would have none other to do this task, expressing loud disapproval if any other tried.
The children were reluctant to leave Peterborough and the Queen discovered that if they had been neglected at Clarendon, they had been utterly spoiled by the monks.
‘I must keep them with me,’ she told Edward. ‘I must.’
It was not long before another child was born. It was a boy this time whom the Queen wanted to name William, to which the King immediately agreed. His was a sad little life. He lacked the vigorous health of his brother and sisters and after a few months he died.
The Queen’s grief was great and long after the little boy was buried in York Minster she continued to mourn him. Edward consoled her. They had three healthy ones. They must be thankful for them—and there would be more.
There was sad news from Scotland where Edward’s brother the Earl of Cornwall, known as John of Eltham after the place of his birth, had gone to help subdue the Scots who had risen against the Baliol-Edward regime. There was nothing unusual in this, because trouble was continually breaking out and it was to deal with this in his brother’s name that John had marched to Perth. He had been there some months when fighting had broken out and during it he had been killed.
Edward was overcome by grief. John had always been a good brother to him. He was only twenty years old and had never married, although alliances for him had been proposed. It was terrible to think, said Edward, that he had died without really living. It was different for children like William who never knew what life was; but John had lived for twenty years and then suddenly death had taken him.
The loss of his brother set Edward thinking about his childhood when they had been in the nursery togeth
er. They had not often seen their parents then and when they had Isabella had seemed to them like a goddess. They had never seen anyone as beautiful. It was true she had ignored John but she had always made much of Edward and looking back Edward realized that he had always taken her attention as his right. Poor John. He hoped he had not minded too much; but their sisters had shared that neglect too. Poor Eleanor and poorer Joanna. He wondered how Eleanor was faring with her elderly husband. How splendidly equipped with material goods she had been when she had gone off, but that would not make for happiness. She had a little son now, Raynald after his father; he guessed that Eleanor would make a good mother. But poor young Joanna, what was life like for her in the Château Gaillard with her young husband who was not very prepossessing or charming.
How lucky he was with his Philippa.
Being depressed by trouble in the family, he had thought a great deal lately about his mother, and decided he would go to Castle Rising and see her.
There was no doubt of her pleasure when he arrived.
She embraced him and wept a little and he noticed with relief that she was more serene than he had seen her ever before.
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘you are indeed a King now.’
‘I have grown older—and perhaps more quickly than most.’ ‘It was necessary. You were such a boy when the crown was placed on your head.’
‘Tell me, my lady, are you content here at Castle Rising?’ She was silent for a while and he wished he had not asked that question for it had set her looking back into the past. ‘There is peace here,’ she said.
‘Peace ... ah peace! Is that not what we all long for?’
never wanted it when I was young. It is only when you are old and wise that you realize its virtues. You, my dear son, would not like to be shut away here in Castle Rising. I see very few people but I have good servants. I ride a little. I go out with my falcon now and then. I hunt the deer. I read a great deal and I pray, Edward. I pray for the remission of my sins.’
‘You are ... better than you were?’
‘You mean do I still have my fits of madness? Now and then, Edward, now and then, but I fancy they are less frequent nowadays and of shorter duration. I see visions in my dreams but not in my waking moments. Sometimes I lie remembering all the evil deeds of my life.’
‘An unhealthy occupation which would do none of us much good, I fear.’
‘Some of mine will need a great deal of prayer for forgiveness. And now your brother is dead. I think about him, Edward. I was never a good mother to him.’
‘He thought of you as a goddess. He said not long ago that he had never seem a woman whose beauty compared with yours.’
She shook her head. ‘I scarcely looked at him. I wanted children for the power they would give me. Oh, I am a wicked woman, Edward. John’s death has brought that home to me.’
‘You must not brood on it, my lady.’
‘At least it has brought you to see me.’
‘I should have come before.’
‘You have been lenient with me, though you killed Mortimer ...’ Her voice broke at the mention of that name. ‘I must not think of him,’ she said quietly, ‘or I shall have bad dreams. Edward, I want to come to see you sometime. You ... and the children and your good Philippa.’
He went to her and kissed her brow.
‘You shall come to us, Mother. Philippa would wish it. You should see young Edward.’
‘He is like you when you were his age. I am glad you called him Edward.’
Questions came into her mind. She wanted to ask him if his father’s murderers had ever been discovered. But she dared not. She did not want him remembering what part she had played in the most horrible murder in history.
She knew that the long exile could be over if she wished. She could go to Court. People would forget.
They talked of John for a while and it was clear that she mourned this son though she had never loved him in life. His death had brought home to her another of her failings. She had been a bad mother to her children ... all except Edward and she had led him to depose his father.
Edward took an affectionate farewell of her.
Life could change now if she wished. He had come to see her; he was telling her that whatever she had done she was his mother and he had loved and admired her until he discovered her true nature.
He could forgive her.
Her spirits were lifted. But she would have one of her attendants sleep in her room this night. She was afraid that the ghosts would come.
Edward had revived memories.
THE KING AND THE HERON
COUNT Robert of Artois, Queen Isabella’s cousin, had arrived in England. He had quarelled with the King Philip and came as a fugitive, having escaped from France disguised as a merchant.
Robert of Artois was a man born to make trouble. It had been his lot in life never to achieve what he thought was his by right; he suffered from a permanent envy and a desire to bring misfortune to those who possessed that which he would like to have.
His great animosity was directed against the King of France. He was a great grandson of Robert the first Count of Artois, who had been a younger brother of St Louis, and it was frustrating for a man of Robert’s temperament to be descended from the royal tree and yet not of the main line. He constantly reminded himself of how different everything would have been if instead of being a younger brother his great grandsire had been the elder.
Moreover Philip, the present King, was not of the direct line. Yet there he sat on the throne, elected by common consent as the nearest to Philip the Fair since his father was brother to that King. Philip’s three sons, Louis, Philip and Charles had reigned ignobly under the shadow of the Templar’s curse and now Philip son of Charles de Valois had become the King of France.
For some years Robert had had to sue for what was his by right—that was the countship of Artois which had belonged to his great grandfather.
Philip the Fair had refused to grant him these lands and had tried to fob him off with others and during the reigns of Philip’s three sons he had tried again; he had even married Philip’s sister; but it was no use. Philip had shown clearly that he was not interested in his kinsman’s claims.
When Queen Isabella had been in France he had been struck by her beauty and had become one of her ardent partisans. At the time when her brother was finding her presence at his court embarrassing, it was Robert of Artois who had hastened to warn her to get away and had helped her to reach Hainault.
The fact was that Robert could never resist being involved in any intrigue. He liked to be at the heart of it and if he could not enjoy the estates which he believed were his due, he could at least enjoy trouble.
If there was anything likely to bring that about he would seize the opportunity to be in the thick of it. He could only soothe his envy for the King of France by making the position more difficult for him to hold.
Again and again sources of disaffection would be traced to him; and there came a time when the King decided he would have no more of it.
There would never be peace in a realm while Artois was there to make trouble so the King called together a court of peers to examine the case against Robert of Artois with the result that he was banished and his property confiscated.
Robert was not the kind of man to go meekly. He lingered. He sought further means of making trouble until the King was so exasperated that he sent guards to arrest him. If Robert would not live peaceably in freedom, he would have to be put somewhere where he could do nothing to disrupt the country.
It was then that Robert, having warning of his intended arrest, disguised himself as a merchant and took flight.
Where should he go? Where but to England. But for him Edward might never have had his throne, so he believed.
He presented himself at Court in most dramatic fashion. Edward was dining at the time in the great hall of Westminster with a large company of people. The Queen was seated beside him and as was the custom the
people were allowed to walk in and watch the King at his meal.
There was a sudden commotion among the crowd and a merchant stepped forward. As he had come very close to the table the guards moved in to restrain him.
Edward, his knife in his hand, had been in the act of conveying a tasty morsel of lamprey to his mouth.
‘What means this?’ he demanded.
The merchant came forward. ‘Allow me a word with the King,’ he said.
The guards stood hesitantly awaiting the King’s orders. All eyes were on the merchant.
‘My dear dear cousin,’ he said. ‘I have come from afar to seek hospitality at your Court. I know you will not deny it.’ Edward stared in astonishment. ‘It is. It can’t be. But yes ... Robert ... Robert of Artois ‘
‘Your own cousin ... your loyal friend. It warms my heart to see you in the midst of your devoted subjects.’
Edward rose, embraced Robert and made him sit beside him and eat of the food, which Robert did with great heartiness while he talked a great deal about the wickedness of the King of France.
He was so different from Robert’s dear cousin of England.
The just requests which he, Robert, had made had been denied him. He never wanted to return to France while Philip of Valois sat on the throne. He would go back though when that unworthy monarch was ousted from that position.
This was a reckless manner in which to talk in public but Robert had been born reckless.
‘This Foundling I ‘ went on Robert. ‘That is what they call him in France. He had no idea that he would ever come to the throne ... nor would he but for a course of mishaps. First the father and then the sons ... one by one. It was clear was it not that they were a cursed line? And who is Valois? The son of a King’s brother. Methinks there are others who come before him.’
There were sly looks at Edward who was flushed a little—either with this suggestion or with the excitement of the reunion.
Philippa studied this flamboyant man who looked as though he had seen a great deal of the world and was dissatisfied with it.
