The Uncrowned Queen

by Anne O'Brien

  This time I turned, staring at him with wide eyes. Many would have been totally disbelieving of such a statement. Many would have considered that Edward, making such a remark, had run mad. Had not the old king, Edward the Second of that name, died at Berkeley castle of some unknown ailment and been buried with all pomp and ceremony at Gloucester, with Edward in attendance? But I knew that Edward, my Edward, was as sane as the next man. And we both knew that Edward’s father was not dead and buried at all, but alive and well and a prisoner in Mortimer’s hands in Corfe Castle, far away in Dorset. Well out of the way so that nothing could stand in Mortimer’s path to glory except for my Edward, who so far had been too friendless and inexperienced to retaliate.

  So Kent was planning to release the old king? My mind, seeking the repercussions of so momentous an act, became impossibly blank.

  ‘It could cast us all into the fires of Hell.’ Such a melodramatic statement but Edward’s voice as calm as if he had made a passing comment on the state of the roads to Westminster.

  ‘I don’t know what to say …’

  And what I saw in Edward’s face in that moment of revelation was neither youth nor inexperience, but a hard acceptance that from this day things would never be quite the same.

  ‘Oh, Edward,’ I breathed. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I have decided. I don’t like it, but I have been manoeuvred into a position where I have no choice.’ He thought for a moment or two as I sat helplessly back on my heels. Still with his gaze fixed on the altar he asked: ‘What would you advise me, Philippa? I would value …’

  He stopped. The priest passed by us. I bent my head over my hands as if still in prayer.

  ‘I would advise you to do nothing,’ I stated carefully.

  ‘I knew you would say that.’ He sighed softly. ‘But even so, even though I am constrained to do exactly that, he is my father. Do I condemn him to a life enclosed forever within four walls in Corfe?’

  Edward knew the answer to that. He knew it all too well. As did I.

  ‘What if he is rescued?’ I asked, now turning foursquare to look at his ravaged face. ‘What if your father is released and Mortimer overthrown?’

  ‘Then my father becomes King of England again,’ he replied promptly. ‘Possibly in name only and with his brother Kent pulling the strings.’

  ‘And Mortimer?’

  An eloquent lift of a shoulder was all the reply I got to that. An axe would figure prominently.

  ‘What of Isabella?’

  ‘I don’t know. I doubt my father would ever trust her again, but who’s to say? She might be prepared to inveigle her way back into his favour if it meant having a stake in ruling. But would my father accept her? He might. He seems not to have been known for his willpower.’ Edward lifted a shoulder again. ‘But I see no reconciliation. I think Isabella will have a high price to pay for her infidelities.’

  I nodded. So far the return of King Edward II was not unacceptable. But for my Edward, the storm clouds loomed as threatening as thunderheads.

  ‘So where do you stand in all this?’ I asked.

  ‘Up to my neck in treason.’

  I could not deny it, not even to give him solace.

  ‘He is my father, Philippa. My compassion is strong for him. But if he is discovered to be alive, deposed and constrained against his will, then am I, King by some appalling duplicitous means, not complicit in his illegal overthrow?’ Fury flared in Edward’s eyes, all pretence at prayer abandoned. ‘Yet how could I be complicit? I didn’t even know. It was all done in some hole-and-corner conspiracy, and I wasn’t told until three months after I had stood beside my father’s coffin and watched its interment, that is was all a fabrication. Who in his right mind would believe that? And if Mortimer swears that I was complicit in the whole thing, then treason sits on my shoulder like a chattering monkey.’

  I held onto Edward’s hand as tightly as I could. He spoke nothing but the truth. His reading of the situation had even more clarity than mine.

  And the penalty for treason was death.

  ‘No, I will not join my uncle. To become involved would be ill-considered. I will remain aloof until I know the outcome. And then …?’ The decision was ground out between Edward’s teeth. ‘I know exactly what I must do.’

  ‘You will do what is best – for you and for England.’ I had no doubts, despite Edward’s being torn apart by it.

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ The fury died, replaced by a dark flood of emotion. ‘Kingship brings a weight of responsibility. I know what my duty is. Why, Philippa, is duty sometimes so impossibly painful?’

  We said our farewells later in public. A clasp of hands, a brush of lips, nothing more, except …

  ‘Here.’ From his sleeve Edward slid a leather pouch that clinked softly. Smoothly, with no undue movement, he passed it to me. Without a glance I slid it into my own sleeve.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ I whispered.

  ‘Filched from Isabella’s coffers.’ He grimaced. ‘Mortimer keeps me almost a short as my mother keeps you.’

  Relief and pleasure mingled with the grief that he was leaving me. I could recompense those who served me. I need not feel the ignominy of having to ask for service without payment – or at least not until this unexpected largesse ran out.

  And Edward rode out, but not alone. He had Walter Manny at his side. I decided at the last moment that I would like Walter to stay with him. There would be at least one loyal servant in his entourage.

  ‘Keep an eye on him,’ I said to Walter, anxiety gripping hard as the escort gathered. ‘Don’t let him …’

  My words dried. Don’t let him what? Come to harm? Challenge Mortimer before he had the weight of support to do so effectively? Join Kent in an effort to release his father – an effort that would effectively destroy his own position as king, at the same time tarnishing beyond redemption the face of divine monarchy and throwing England into chaos?

  It was all out of my hands and, besides, Edward was his own man.

  ‘The King will act as he sees fit, my lady.’ It was as much a reprimand as I had ever had from Walter. Edward and I shared his allegiance equally now, it seemed. But I held onto Walter’s arm before he mounted.

  ‘Of course he will. But watch him anyway, Walter. For my sake as well as his.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I attended a Mass to mark my passing into the enclosed world where I would give birth. All, in the end, was as tradition demanded it, even the wine and spices, paid for by Edward’s gold. This first-born royal child must be born in a mystic and sacred manner. I was enveloped in a claustrophobic world, in effect a womb, as my child was enclosed in mine. The servants I took with me were women, fulfilling the roles usually apportioned to men. All men were barred from my presence until the child was born and I was churched to allow me to return to the outside world.

  And the luxuriously prepared chambers, where I would reside for the weeks of waiting? They were not luxurious at all. Her promises as empty as a tithe barn in a famine year, Isabella had provided no furnishings of any description. I sent Lady Katherine, accompanied by Walter to do the heavy work before he left, to purloin what they could from any rarely-used chamber where their depredations would not be noticed. And what an odd selection they garnered! Most of the hangings depicted bloodshed and hunting, which might not be appropriate for a royal birth, but at least some energetic beating had removed most of the dust. My bed cover had a lurid representation of a buck being torn apart by a pack of alaunts. I did not inspect carefully for the moth.

  So there I sat, Lady Katherine delivering my requirements beyond the locked doors, my young valet Thomas stationed outside the door to carry those requests on and report back anything I might need to know.

  Oh, I was bored with my inaction by the end of the first week. Books, unusually, held no attraction for me and stitching was merely something to do to keep my hands busy. My mind was far from Woodstock, and I was afraid. I fretted. I paced as much as I
could until my ever-swollen ankles drove me to bed. And still I fretted as my mind was free to consider the dangers that Edward must face. His position was deplorable, and all created by Mortimer.

  What if …?

  If one thought started with that hopeless question, it was more like a score.

  What if Kent’s rebellion succeeded and the old king, Edward II, was restored to his crown? Well if that was so, then Mortimer would surely hang. As for Isabella, I was as doubtful as Edward was of her reconciliation with her husband. I would wager on a fast divorce for the Dowager Queen and an enforced stay in a nunnery for the rest of her life. I had no fault to find in that.

  But what of Edward, my Edward? Could he in truth be accused of being an accomplice in breaking the law to keep a man – and a holy anointed one at that – wrongfully imprisoned? Without doubt he could, just as he would be dethroned if his father were restored. My Edward might even be arrested for treason, guilty of keeping his father hidden, attending a fake royal funeral, taking a crown that was not his to take. He might plead ignorance. He might plead Mortimer’s supremacy and his own youth – it still astonished me that Edward was not yet into his eighteenth year. But who would believe him? I would believe, having seen Mortimer’s heavy hand in operation, but Edward might have to face a hostile questioning.

  Or even an axe hovering over his neck. Unfair! Unfair!

  My lack of knowledge of what was happening at Westminster, or indeed at Corfe Castle, was a physical pain. Edward’s anguish was mine too. It was getting beyond my bearing when Edward came to Woodstock.

  ‘Edward!’ I hitched my skirts and ran through my rooms, as well as I was able, to the door so that I might fling it back and be swallowed up in his arms. All my fear was swept away by a surge of pure joy. Whatever had happened at Westminster or Corfe, Edward was not under constraint. I would see him, touch him – except that Lady Katherine, more agile than I in the circumstances, was there before me like a guard dog at the gate. Her hands were fisted uncompromisingly on her hips

  ‘You cannot go there, my lady.’

  ‘But I need to see him.’ I was horrified by the weakness in my voice, but my longing was so strong.

  Lady Katharine’s face was compassionate but her voice held the tone of a military commander. ‘You must not, my lady.’

  ‘What would it matter? Who would know?’ Tears were unnervingly close.

  ‘It would matter. This is how it is done. You do not leave these rooms. You have no contact with any man.’ She led me, protesting all the way, back to my inner chamber.

  ‘Then how can I speak with him?’ I had no intention of allowing Edward to leave without some form of communication passing between us. I suddenly thought, a ray of hope. ‘Can we not speak through the closed door?’

  ‘No.’ Lady Katharine, well versed in all such traditions, was adamant.

  ‘Then what?’ To my horror, the tears that had threatened began to fall in torrents. Pregnancy made me remarkably emotional. And here was Edward, still with the Kent conspiracy hanging over him like a curse, and I unable to even tell him even how much I missed him. Lady Katherine stared at me unhelpfully.

  ‘Help me!’ I pleaded.

  ‘Well …’ Her eye slid from mine.

  ‘What?’ I demanded, hope renewed.

  ‘You can I write, I suppose.’ Lady Katherine considered. ‘I don’t see why not. You are not in contact.’

  And I laughed through my tears, at the prospect of Edward sitting, pen in hand, to communicate whatever it was he wanted to say to me. Writing was not beyond Edward’s skills, but it was not his favourite occupation. Yet that is how we managed it, the notes carried by the long suffering and still-not-sufficiently-paid Lady Katherine, who scurried between us like a harvest mouse stocking up grains of corn for winter. I imagined Edward using every oath known to him as he penned his notes as briefly as he could. And what a heart-rending tale it was. I laughed no longer as I was informed in Edward’s scratchy hand, without any greeting, formal or informal:

  The rebellion is over. Kent is arrested. Mortimer will put him on trial. Kent is accused of attempting to rescue the old king, which is treason against me.

  I considered. Mortimer had struck hard.

  What does Kent say? I wrote back.

  The handwriting on Edward’s second note changed. Walter was with him. Edward, abandoning the effort, was dictating to Walter. At least it was easier to read.

  Kent is terrified, he begged forgiveness. He had not meant treason, only to rescue his brother and set him free.

  I considered this. A facile reasoning that no one would believe. Once rescued, would Kent have set the old king up as King of England again? The answer would have to be yes.

  Will Kent be found guilty? I wrote. I knew the answer even before it came back.

  Mortimer is out for blood. He intends to act as prosecutor himself, in a court he has set up for the sole purpose of finding Kent guilty. There is no hope. He will stamp Kent and his supporters underfoot.

  I could imagine Edward saying the final words, as if he were speaking them to me. This trial was not so much about Kent’s guilt, but about Mortimer’s sovereignty. Kent would be arraigned, declared guilty, and then … The pure Plantagenet blood in Kent’s veins would weigh nothing against Mortimer’s ambition.

  Can you stop it? I wrote urgently.

  And there came back the single word. No.

  There was really nothing more to say. I considered what it was I wanted to know most of all, what I would have asked if I had been allowed to fling myself into Edward’s arms. And finally I wrote: Are you in any danger?

  I had to wait for some minutes for the reply to this, and the lines were longer and well-considered. Walter’s handwriting was deteriorating. And if Edward was trying to protect me from anxiety, he failed miserably …

  Mortimer has now been forced to admit openly that my father is still alive. He has done it with blatant confidence, as if he fears no retaliation. But now that it’s known, there are voices raised against me, as I had feared. Am I not guilty of treason, keeping the rightful king, my father, under restraint when I knew he was alive, robbing him of his crown? If those accusations gain momentum, I could be brought down with Mortimer. There was a space as if it had taken some time to add the final words. There is only one course of action for me.

  Oh! My heart plummeted, thudding so hard that nausea swam for a moment in my belly. I had always seen the possibility of this, but to have it written, in Edward’s words even if in Walter’s hand, made it all as clear as day. And there was absolutely no purpose in my asking if Edward had any influence over Mortimer’s ultimate decision with regard to Kent. Mortimer would do as he chose. I would not have wagered a groat on Kent keeping his neck intact.

  I pondered my reply, allowing the nausea to dissipate, then wrote as dispassionately as I could. How was it possible to be dispassionate when contemplating execution and imprisonment? But I did it.

  Restoring your father to the throne was never the way forward, Edward. He would have remained a puppet in Kent’s control. You have to keep your crown at all costs. You have to show your people that you will preserve the dignity and sacredness of your inheritance. You must never give up your crown. Neither your crown nor that of the child that is to be born. It is your right to be king and you must hold fast.

  How heavy it sounded. How portentous. And how I wished that I could have stood beside Edward as I said what I believed to be the truth, however hard it was. I added.

  It is a terrible sacrifice for you to make.

  Edward’s reply was as sombre as mine, and written in his own hand as if he could not burden Walter with writing the words.

  I know what I must do. As do you. God forgive me.

  And I wrote back, my heart full of sorrow.

  God be with you, Edward. I will pray for you. And my tears splattered over the page.

  There was a lull in the passing of letters, so long that I thought Edward had left. Finally
, he wrote again.

  My dear Philippa, I have burdened you with affairs of the realm, and not once asked what I most want to know. Are you in good health? I came to Woodstock to discover exactly that. I hope you are sleeping and eating and not worrying.

  Not worrying! My laughter had a tearful quality. Not worrying, with my husband threatened with treason against his father? How typical of a man to inform his wife of his inner fears, and then hope she would not worry!

  I am well, I wrote staunchly. So is the infant, who is far too lively for my comfort. I miss you. Come to me when it is over, if you can. Never doubt my love and my thoughts are with you, day and night. And I signed it. Philippa.

  Edward responded:

  You are my pearl beyond price. My matchless wife.

  Edward R.

  An excruciatingly formal ending, but a very necessary one, I decided, Edward laying claim to his birthright, even if only to me. I held the final note against my heart. ‘That’s it,’ I informed Lady Katharine, mopping up my tears once more. ‘We have said all that needs saying.’ I caught her critical eye. ‘And we have, I hope, preserved the mysticism of my condition.’

  We had written of blood and rebellion and family treachery. A dark shadow of it lingered in my rooms, a terrible presence of the ultimate decision that Edward would be forced to make. It hovered by my bed. It lingered at my shoulder as I went to pray in my chapel. It sat at my side as I tried to eat. If Mortimer could be struck down by the hand of God, I considered it might be a blessing all round, but such an outcome was unlikely to happen. The march of Mortimer’s power continued apace.

  Who could stop him? Who could snatch sovereignty back from his unworthy hand?

  Edward. Only Edward. I prayed fervently as the days of silence passed slowly by.

  It was at the beginning of April. A letter was brought to me, delivered by Walter, who did not even stop long enough to receive a reply. Having read the content, how could I have sent one that would have had any value? The news – in Edward’s own hand again – was raw with an emotion that was not expressed in the cold words. I wondered how Edward had managed to get it past Mortimer’s ring of spies. It was brief.