The Uncrowned Queen

by Anne O'Brien

  The rebellion is finished. My father remains under lock and key in Mortimer’s control. I think he is moved to Ireland. My uncle of Kent was found guilty of treason against me. He was executed for his loyalty to his brother on 19th March.

  A little space, as if Edward had had to think hard about the rest.

  Mortimer declared Kent’s guilt. But I had to ratify the decision. I sentenced Kent to death. I signed the warrant. His blood is ultimately on my head.

  It was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.

  My cheeks were wet with tears. Edward had made no excuses, made no attempt to shift the blame to where it rightfully lay, for which I admired him more that I could say. I saw Mortimer’s hand in this, from top to bottom: the court, the judgement, the sentence, and Edward once more an unwilling pawn. If Edward had pardoned Kent he would have challenged Mortimer, and thus risked his own future and that of the child I carried. What an appalling choice, that a man must condemn his uncle to death and his father to endless imprisonment in order to safeguard his own kingship, however imperfect a kingship it might be.

  Cold-hearted selfishness, some would say.

  Hard-headed pragmatism, I decided. A much needed quality for man who had the ambition and the quality to be a great king.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I gave birth to my son, a robust child with a fluff of fair hair and myopic blue eyes. I was inordinately proud of my achievement, as if I was the first woman ever to carry a child. Isabella sent me a chilly note of recognition, and a gift of a silver bowl. I smiled sourly. At least I could sell it, if I had to. Edward’s hoard of gold coin had long been spent on food for my little household. Then I smiled no longer, for fear gnawed constantly at my mind, reducing me to terror in the dark hours of the night as I waited out the allotted span until my churching. I had not seen Edward for weeks. Kent was dead by the axe, the old king was still imprisoned, and Edward was still dancing to Mortimer’s tune. Nothing had changed as far as I could see, but what murky doings were swirling underfoot, hidden from me … My days were full of fear.

  And then, four days after my churching, I heard his voice, with that familiar carrying quality, demanding to see me privately, as he and his escort dismounted in the courtyard. How my heart leapt as relief flooded through me from head to foot, like the pleasure of a draught of cold ale on a sultry day. It made me work some swift improvements to my appearance. When Edward had seen me last I had resembled the elephant in the royal menagerie. I dismissed my women, too. This would be a private reunion.

  He was tormented, I sensed, as he opened the door to my private sun-filled chamber, quickly closing it at his back. This was not a purely personal visit of a husband to his wife and new-born son, and my heart abandoned the relief to thud hard against my ribs as Edward stood, his hand momentarily on his sword hilt, his gaze sweeping the room and alert for any hidden threat. How often had he done exactly that in recent weeks, I thought, when royal blood was no guarantee of a long life? Mortimer’s naked ambition cancelled out any Plantagenet claim to sacred inviolability. And a sudden gust of anger shook me, surprising me with its vehemence. Would we ever settle down to some semblance of domesticity, when we could greet each other with love without the shadow of fear and death crowding in between us? Would Edward ever escape the taint of treason against his father? He might be innocent but I thought he would carry the personal guilt branded into his heart until the day he died.

  Then all emotion other than sharp desire was swept from me, for Edward strode forward, arms wide. First he kissed me with considerable heat. Then he enveloped me in his arms, so close so that my new gown was as much covered with dust as he. And when he had crushed my finery sufficiently for his pleasure and mine, he released me with a little growl of satisfaction, to crouch beside the cradle, all his features softening into such joy that I had to fight against tears.

  ‘A son.’ He stood upright, lifting the child with admirable dexterity. ‘You have given me a gift beyond price, Philippa. I will buy him a sword and a destrier.’

  ‘Not for a little while yet,’ I replied, my heart struck anew by love for this man who saw his tiny son as a great warrior. ‘I’ll teach him some sound common sense before I turn him over to you.’

  Edward looked up from the sleeping infant, across to where I waited. ‘What a blessing you are to me. I knew it from the start: I will have Philippa, with her warm heart and ample hips, for she will bear me good sons.’

  I flushed, as bright as the crimson ground of Edward’s tunic on which the golden lions undulated and pranced, as he bent to replace the baby with greatest care.

  ‘How long …?’ I began to ask. But Edward proceeded to prowl around the room, so I asked instead, all my nerves on a knife-edge: ‘What’s wrong now?’

  His eyes snapped to mine. ‘I need to borrow your chamber.’

  ‘Why?’ The unease that had unsettled the whole country after Kent’s ill-fated rebellion and execution had to all intents and purposes reduced to a low simmer. There were more serious matters afoot here. Dangerous matters, I decided, noting the heavy groove between Edward’s brows.

  He shrugged, as if to dislodge an unpalatable line of thought. ‘I’m still hedged about by spies, passing information to Mortimer at every turn.’ He grimaced. ‘Here I won’t be disturbed. What an excellent excuse you’ve given me. Who could deny me an hour of privacy with my wife and son?’

  The excuse woke up and wailed in his cradle.

  I sighed, but hid a smile as I moved to rock the child back to sleep. ‘And I thought you came to see me.’

  Although he returned my smile, Edward stalked to the door, opened it and gestured to those waiting outside. And all I could do was look askance as my chamber was suddenly full of men and noise, as four servants, supervised by Walter Manny, manhandled two large coffers between them. While they grunted and heaved around us, oblivious to it all, Edward took my hands and held them, palm-to-palm, between his own. His mouth was pressed firm in what I now recognised as a mood of absolute intransigence.

  ‘You told me to win friends, Philippa,’ he said. ‘Do you remember? You showed me the value of loyalty and trust. Be patient, you said, until the time was right. And I have done that. I have been patient all these years when my soul cried out against the injustice of it. But this is the time, come at last. I feel it in my blood and I will be patient no more. My father’s crown is mine, whatever the circumstances of its passing to me – and now I have my son to consider. I have a dynasty to create. And I have Kent’s death to avenge.’

  I watched Edward covertly through my lashes. There was a feverish determination in his stance, whilst his vitality filled the room, all but reverberating from floor to ceiling. His whole body cried out for action, but there was a new maturity about him, hammered out in the years when he had pretended to approve Mortimer’s policies. Now, as the servants thumped the coffers down in the middle of the floor and left, Edward, Walter and I drew up stools in an intimate huddle in the window embrasure, no less than a War Council.

  ‘What - ‘ I found that I was whispering, and smiled apologetically. There were no spies here. ‘What will you do?’ I asked.

  Edward leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. ‘Now is the time to call on the men who I know will stand by me and will act in my name. See what a good pupil I have been, Madame Counsellor. Even Walter will give me his allegiance in this dangerous venture.’

  ‘Indeed, Sire,’ affirmed Walter blandly. ‘How can I not when it is my lady’s wish?’

  The two men exchanged glances that spoke of a bond of loyalty that now spread far beyond my influence. Walter was Edward’s man. I felt a little sad, but could not regret it. A truer friend Edward would never have.

  ‘I plan open revolt. It can be no other way.’ Edward spread his palms in a gesture of distaste. ‘I need recognition for what I must do, so I’ve been in contact with his Holiness the Pope, to assure him of my integrity and the rightness of my cause. He’s cautiously suppor
tive, but has concerns. He says he must be able to recognise the difference between my communications, and those of Mortimer. We can soon remedy that. Do you have pen and ink?’

  I gestured to Walter who rose, producing the items from a little chest, together with sheets of parchment.

  ‘Can you do that? Plot against Mortimer?’ I asked. My thoughts were awry, cast adrift with uncertainties. ‘It seems to me that …’ I stopped, frowning. ‘I was going to say that you have nothing to lose, but of course you have everything to lose, if Mortimer discovers what you’re doing.’

  Edward’s gaze on mine was fierce. ‘But that’s just it! I have nothing to lose, Philippa. This is no life, for you or me or my heirs. I’ll live under Mortimer’s dominion no longer. Nor can I live in perpetual fear that he will turn his hand against me as he did against Kent. I’ll fight for my freedom, or die in the attempt. This is rebellion, Philippa.’

  ‘I am afraid.’ I hadn’t meant to say it, but it slipped my guard.

  ‘The King has many good friends,’ assured Walter.

  ‘I’ve no intention of meeting my end by an assassin’s knife,’ added Edward crisply. And without hesitation, he handed over the inkpot to Walter, dipped the pen and scratched briefly on the parchment resting on his knee. He turned the document for me to see. It was a letter – and very simple.

  ‘Holy Father,’ I read at the end.

  ‘Exactly. The only royal correspondence sent to his Holiness, from me personally, will bear the words Pater Sancte, in my hand – like this.’

  ‘Mortimer would consider it treason,’ I suggested, still anxious.

  ‘To hell with Mortimer,’ Edward retorted. ‘I am King. This is in my hand.’

  I was impressed. ‘I didn’t know you were capable of such subterfuge.’

  ‘Nor did I. But needs must.’ He began to fold the document, while Walter fixed me with a speculative eye.

  ‘What are you thinking now?’ I asked him.

  Walter pursed his lips. ‘That you too could be vulnerable to counter-plots, my lady.’

  ‘So she could!’ With a bark of a laugh, Edward promptly tore off another piece of parchment, and drew with swift stokes, a rough sketch of leaves on a stem twisting around a solid branch. He handed it over to me. ‘Here’s your code for my messages.’

  ‘And what is that?’ I asked.

  Walter smirked.

  ‘Is it so bad?’ Edward’s eyes might gleam, but his explanation was deadly serious. ‘Woodbine. That’s me. The branch is you. You are my strength, the support around which I climb – and I will climb higher and higher until I have achieved my royal birthright.’

  I tucked the scrap of parchment in the laces of my bodice, moved beyond words. What an emotional day – in a string of emotional days – this was turning out to be. ‘What’s in the coffers?’ I asked gruffly.

  ‘A deceit,’ Edward replied, his spirits looping back to a lighter mood. ‘So that we can all pretend that there is nothing untoward afoot. Here you see me,’ he flung his arms wide despite the spatter of ink from the pen, ‘- King Edward, friendly and diplomatic – and apparently ineffectual with nothing on my mind but outer display. I’m dispensing gifts as if I don’t give a fig that my hereditary rights are usurped.’

  The tension in him was dispelled. Handing me the pen, leaping to his feet, Edward lifted the hasp and flung back the lid of the nearest chest, spreading the contents over the floor with extravagant movements.

  ‘Do you like them?’ he demanded as I gasped in awe. Cloaks and robes of velvet and cloth of gold lay one on the other. Filmy fabrics laden with gold and silver embroidery brushed against silk so fine it could be drawn through the circle of my marriage ring. ‘Turkish robes. Priceless garments. For you and my mother and for Mortimer too. Will they be fooled by my good will, d’you think?’

  There we sat - I with a silk mantle cast over my shoulders and a silvered veil improving my hair, Walter draped incongruously in magnificence worthy of an eastern potentate, and Edward with the folds of a velvet hood dropped on his fair hair.

  ‘I think they will.’ And I added dryly: ‘I think you have the makings of a devious sovereign, my love.’

  ‘I hope so,’ he replied fervently. ‘I’ll need all the guile I can get. Now if you’ll store these out of sight for me, can I borrow Walter to dispatch the letter?’

  ‘When will it be?’ I asked when Walter was gone to summon the escort for the return to Westminster, at the same time passing on the Papal letter to the safe hands of Montague for its journey to Avignon. Edward could not stay long.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘How will you do it?’ It seemed an impossible task to me.

  ‘I don’t know that either. It must be a sharp, hard blow when Mortimer least expects it and from which he can’t recover.’

  Any residue of humour from the past hour had drained from him. Edward had his destiny in sight and it would be a difficult and painful road. He might still be uncertain of the means or even the outcome, but beneath the uncertainty I saw an unshakeable determination.

  ‘What can I do?’ Inconsequentially I picked a remnant of gold thread from his shoulder, left over from our enjoyment of the ridiculous costumes.

  ‘Nothing. You have done enough.’ His fingers stroked down my cheek before he kissed my mouth in reluctant farewell. ‘Sometimes I think you don’t realise how much you have done for me. But all you can do now is wait.’ His smile was a little twisted. ‘Perhaps that’s the hardest part of all.’

  ‘Send me word,’ I begged.

  ‘I will.’ He tilted his chin. ‘What worries you?’

  Apart from the possibility of your death, unknown to me and in some far distant place, in a violent blood-letting? Or by an axe in the Tower of London, courtesy of Mortimer’s vile brand of justice?

  I shook my head to dispel the horror and said what I knew I must say. ‘I know you will have no compunction in dealing with Mortimer. But what about Isabella?’

  Edward’s face clouded, dark storm clouds rolling in. ‘I will deal with her too.’

  Concerns still rioted in my mind. ‘It may not be easy. She is your mother. She has a claim on your loyalty and obedience, as her son.’

  ‘Do I not know it?’ Edward interrupted harshly. ‘She is blood of my blood.’ Then his voice gentled as he looked down into my face. ‘But the days of my loyalty to the woman who gave me birth are ended. I have to deal as firmly with her as with her lover. And I will. I can have no pity for either of them, for if I do, I will remain their creature for ever.’

  Such a brutal statement of policy - but his reassurance swept through me in a tidal wave. It was what I wanted to hear from him, and I reached up to kiss his mouth. ‘I’ll pray for you.’

  ‘God keep you, Philippa, and my son. I’ll come when I can.’

  ‘Edward …’

  What to say? He must do this for himself, and I must bear the terrible uncertainty.

  Oh, it was hard. The endless, empty waiting. I knew the Parliament was summoned to meet at Nottingham. Would Edward act then, at the very centre of government circles? Would his friends stand firm? But what if he failed? Those who did not support Mortimer feared him, and might find any number or reasons to be absent if rebellion was mooted. Would Edward end up incarcerated at Mortimer’s whim? And if so, what of me and my new son? I feared we would both be in danger, used as pawns in a vicious power game. I kept the baby under my eye. I was relieved that Isabella had accompanied Mortimer to Nottingham, but Walter had accompanied Edward as his squire, leaving me even more alone.

  I could not regret it. Edward would need all the friends he could get.

  No news. The days passed.

  Then a letter, with a scribble of leaves on a twisted stem around a heavy slash of a branch. The drawing was even more cursory than the original, but I knew it for what it was.

  It will be on the nineteenth day of October at Nottingham. Pray for me. Do not leave Woodstock. Wait until I come for you.
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  I spent that night, and many nights after, on my knees.

  A party of riders approached at a fast clip. Edward or Mortimer? And then I saw the banners, knowing it was Edward, with a large escort. But was it his own, or under the orders of Mortimer? There was no way of telling. Perhaps there had been no coup at all? I was down in the courtyard before Edward could even dismount.

  ‘Well?’ He looked exhausted, but I must know. ‘Edward …?’

  He swung down from his weary mount, tossing his reins to Walter, and turned to me. His eyes were full of the light of victory.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ He swept off his cap and bowed low so that the peacock feathers marked the dust. ‘I lay a kingdom at your feet.’

  ‘You’ve done it!’ I could barely speak the words.

  ‘I have done it,’ he repeated. ‘My son has an unencumbered inheritance. I am King. Mortimer is no more.’

  So much in so few words. I knew he would tell me the rest, as he did, in his own good time. The grim tale of a dark night at Nottingham, a secret passageway, a bloody struggle that saw the death of some of Edward’s supporters, but ending in Edward taking charge of the keys of the castle where Mortimer was in residence.

  ‘Where is Mortimer?’ I asked, as Edward stood before me.

  ‘Walled up in the Tower of London,’ he replied briefly. ‘Surrounded by guards. There’ll be no escape for him. He tried to bargain with me. He thought he had enough influence with me to talk me into a pardon to save his miserable life.’ The glow of victory was gone. His voice and face were suddenly bleak, ragged with the horror of what had been done. His weary eyes were looking down at my fingers resting in his, but seeing something quite different. And then his gaze lifted to mine, harsh with judgement. ‘Mortimer will die for his treason against me, and against my father. Kent’s blood on the scaffold will be avenged. I will be neither compassionate or generous.’