The Shadow Queen

by Anne O'Brien

  I was cool and measured in my explanation, despite the furious stare.

  ‘Our planning must come to naught because I find myself enceinte, and until I can be quite certain that I do not have to stop to vomit into every bush and ravine en route, I do not travel. I stay here where I can hide my mortification.’

  The frown vanished, the light back in his face, enhanced twofold, and with it a joy that could not be measured.

  ‘Are you certain?’

  The coins were tossed down so that he could lift me to my feet. This was his heir, an event much anticipated by both of us. More important than any new coinage.

  ‘Of course I am certain. My belly reminds me every morning. And sometimes at noon. And occasionally at any time during the day.’

  ‘But it will pass. Won’t it?’ At last a hint of concern, his kiss on my lips warm with a flattering foreboding of the dangerous days to come. ‘You must have experience of this.’

  ‘No, I have none. This malaise never struck me with my previous children.’

  I had carried them with ease. I had been proud of it. But now I was stricken.

  ‘Poor Jeanette. Can you stand a cup of wine?’

  ‘I hope so. But don’t complain if I can’t.’

  The wine had no ill effect, but we were both muted in our celebration. This was the longed for heir, but we would wait until the child was born to make much of the event. Children lost in pregnancy or in their earliest days were common, as Ned knew for his own brothers and sisters, as I knew from my son Edmund’s death. ‘When this child is born, we will drench Aquitaine in gold,’ Ned said.

  The atmosphere in the vast, high-roofed chamber of the ducal palace at Poitiers was stretched to breaking point, so much so that I was taken aback. It pulsed from one tapestried wall to the other, the clash of opinion virulent enough to destroy any complacency, as well as my immediate pleasure in being reunited with Ned. I had not expected this.

  Ned leaving precipitately on his progress, refusing to let grass grow under his feet, my own sojourn in Bordeaux had not been of long duration. With my good health soon prevailing, I was more than ready to be restored to Ned who sent an escort to fetch me, whose commander was quick to impart, and with some pride in Ned’s doings that, as Ned had predicted, the Gascon lords were gritting their combined teeth to bow their heads before their new sovereign overlord. There were many sharp smiles and empty promises of perpetual loyalty, but no open insurrection. No devious Gascon lord had as yet absented himself from the homage ceremonies.

  So a concern was awoken within me when, at Poitiers, I walked into the palace to a clamour of heated altercation. The tension in the vast hall, which could be carved with a knife, was made instantly plain to me by the cacophony of raised voices.

  I did not think that Ned even noticed my presence as I stopped to listen to the complaints. Was it right that the Gascon clergy should be asked to swear homage to the Prince of Aquitaine? They had never had to do so before. As servants of God and the Pope and the heavenly realms, their earthly service was not to be questioned by any man. They were not lords temporal.

  ‘I question it, my lords ecclesiastical,’ Ned, standing on the dais and very much the Prince, was announcing as I entered the chamber. His voice struck the walls and rebounded, a sure sign of his heated temper. ‘I will have your obeisance, sirs, as your temporal ruler.’

  ‘It is not the local custom, my lord.’ One of the bishops took it upon himself to challenge his new Prince.

  ‘Then I will change local custom, my lord.’ Ned addressed the Bishop, whose regalia in crimson and gold did not impress my husband one jot. ‘It is my right as Prince of Aquitaine.’

  ‘His Holiness in Avignon will not approve.’

  Ned’s reply proved more belligerent than princely. ‘It is not a matter for His Holiness. I will inform His Holiness in Avignon of my desires. You will be obedient to me, here in Poitiers, Your Grace. You and your cohorts of worthy priests will kneel before me, until I give you permission to rise.’

  He looked superb, of course, although I doubted that the clerics were of a mood to admire. The gems he wore on breast and hands would pay the taxes of the Gascon lords for a year and more. His pride crowned him as surely as his golden coronel. He would not be thwarted in this, his first discussion with his clergy. It was, I realised, the first time that I had seen him in the heady role of ruler.

  The clerics hesitated.

  ‘Do I wait until His Holiness presents himself here, to give his permission? Kneel, sirs!’

  The lords temporal knelt; the lords ecclesiastical still remained stubbornly on their holy and self-righteous feet.

  What were my thoughts as I remained on the periphery, awaiting the outcome? That my cousin King Edward would not have done this. Edward would have been firm, yes, demanding obedience, but he would have persuaded with softer words. Also I knew that he would have invited the wives of the lords temporal to be present, to calm the atmosphere in this austere chamber. He would have invited the clerics to sit and talk of his visions for Gascony, his iron fist sumptuously encased in a velvet glove.

  Ned owned no velvet gloves. The iron fist thumped down onto the arm of the throne he had just vacated.

  And neither would Thomas have been quite so heavy-handed, I suddenly realised. Thomas would have talked man to man, soldier to soldier, lord to lord, as I had seen him do in Normandy. He would not have heaped this cold judgement on their heads. He would not have threatened to keep them on their knees until he read their compliance in their bowed necks.

  The Gascon lords, both ecclesiastical and temporal, by now had bent the knee, with no good grace. Only then did Ned notice me, but there was no welcome, only a remnant of temper as if I interrupted his audience. Such was his stare that I found myself curtseying, which smoothed the anger from his face. He strode from the dais to take my hand.

  ‘You are right welcome, my lady.’

  ‘I am honoured to be invited.’

  ‘We will talk.’

  I surveyed the kneeling throng.

  ‘You may wish to speak your farewell to your subjects,’ I suggested.

  ‘Of course.’ Ned dispatched them with a wave of his hand.

  ‘I see that you are taking matters in hand.’

  ‘They have enjoyed their independence for too long.’

  ‘Don’t be too harsh on them.’ Seeing the discontent on the faces of the lords as they left the chamber, bowing to me, it struck me even more forcibly that patience with these proud men could be a better policy. I had read hatred there.

  ‘The sooner they accept my rule, the better for all.’ Then, at last, all traces of past discontents vanished and there was the true delight at seeing me. ‘Let me show you to your chambers. I have had them furnished and hung with tapestries that I know you would like. And there are new robes for you. You look restored to health.’

  ‘I am.’ But still I felt a need to say: ‘Don’t be too impatient. They have been under French rule for many years, and that a distant one rather than on their doorstep.’

  ‘Then they must learn new ways.’

  I sighed a little. It would be no easy task to push Ned in the direction of leniency and patience, but then any concerns were pushed aside in our reuniting. It astonished me how my emotions had reacted to seeing him again after the weeks of my absence. A deep longing had filled me with joy.

  Our reuniting became a physical pleasure that kept the Prince occupied for the rest of the day, allowing his harassed household some degree of leisure. At least I had saved the clerical knees from too long an acquaintance with the unyielding floor.

  ‘What will you do, here in Aquitaine?’ I asked at length, curious to know Ned’s vision. We had been wed so little time; now we would live and work together. I had imagined our holding court in Aquitaine in princely style, in Bordeaux or Angouleme. I had imagined settling into a perambulatory life where we would establish good government after the years of upheaval. Ned would establish his reput
ation and I would stand at his side as his most trusted counsellor. He would learn to enjoy the toils of government as much as he did the blood-stirring clash of the battlefield. He would learn to manage men and win them to his side with fair judgement and open-handed patronage. It would be a good time. Could we not achieve all of this before we must, as is the way of all things, return to take up the power in England? These years in Aquitaine would provide Ned with the perfect blank page on which to write his own name, his own style of ruling, until his reputation for government gleamed as brightly as that of battle hero at Crécy.

  ‘I will make my own kingdom,’ Ned stated.

  ‘It is your own.’

  ‘But the distances are vast and the lords used to their own powers over justice and government.’ Wrapping a sheet around me, he drew me to a window so that we could look out as if we would see the whole stretched before us rather than the rooftops of Poitiers. ‘There is no system, so I must travel and impose my presence. You will come with me. We will make a grand gesture with wealth and splendour so there will be no doubting who rules.’

  I nodded, approving his vision. ‘What will you do for money?’

  ‘What a prince must always do. Raise taxes. And since they are so keen on tradition, I will impose a traditional tax. A fouage – a hearth tax. That will help to put down the rebels too. The French are regretting putting their hand to the treaty of Brétigny and, my spies inform me, there are French lords already stirring disaffection along our eastern boundaries.’ He grimaced, his chin resting against my hair in intimate fashion, although his talk was all caustic business. ‘It may be that the tax will be higher than they like, at twenty five sous per hearth, but they can afford it. If they will rebel against me, they must be prepared to pay the cost of my troops to put them down. And to buy a jewel or two to enhance the beauty of my wife. Look at this.’ Suddenly I was released as he stooped to delve into the purse that he had dropped on the floor in his previous hurry.

  One of Ned’s new coins, now minted in quantity, which I took and inspected. But I recalled the glowering looks in the audience chamber when I had arrived. The symbolic message of a gold coin, the first actions of a conqueror to impose his will on a country, might express Ned’s ambitions but they would not necessarily win him more friends. Although God is a righteous judge, strong and patient must be acceptable to all.

  I looked at him as he stared out at the province that would make his name. There had been no friendship or even hearty respect in the audience chamber into which I had so unsuspectingly stepped. Perhaps Ned should have taken more time, to take with one hand, certainly, but give patronage and recognition with the other. And something I had noticed when we had first settled in Bordeaux. His circle of friends, those with whom he spent time, was English to a man. I would hazard a guess, knowing Ned, that he had made no changes here in Angouleme.

  ‘Well?’ he asked, his attention eventually returning to me and my introspection.

  ‘Go hunting with the Gascon lords,’ I suggested.

  ‘And have them stab me in the back?’

  ‘You will make friends of them.’

  ‘Why should I? They must accept me as their prince. They have all sworn their oaths.’

  He did not understand. Here, still as strong as ever, was the wilful driving force that I had known from his childhood when he would have his own way, with no thought that his will should be questioned. He had not grown out of it; I doubted that he ever would. And whereas it might play its role on a battlefield, in a new and difficult state it might not be to Ned’s best advantage.

  ‘I think that you should take them into your confidence.’

  ‘I see no reason why I should.’

  I left it, seeing the set of his jaw. I was beginning to see the ripples on our particular pond here in Aquitaine, caused by Ned being dropped into it. Somehow I must make him see them too.

  But then my participation in Ned’s ruling was, of necessity, curtailed.

  Early March 1364: Angouleme

  The birth of my son was easier than the carrying of him. A joy, more intense than the Angouleme sun that bathed the walls of the chateau, engulfed me as I held the child in my arms in the moments after his birth, an infant no different from the children I had birthed before. But he was different. Here was Ned’s heir, much desired. He would be baptised Edward and one day he would be King of England.

  There was no doubt in my mind. This child would one day rule, and in so doing would restore my reputation until I shone with righteous glory. I swept aside the empty words of Sir Bartholomew Burghersh as the child cried with lusty life. The Crown of England would be worn by Ned and then by his son and his son too as the years unfolded. The line of Plantagenet monarchs would be continued through my blood. Here, fists waving, his eyes clenched fretfully against the bright light, face still flushed with the effort of it all, was the future King, without question.

  I sent him out, wrapped in Ned’s heraldic cloth, in the arms of one of my ladies, to his father. And waited.

  The child was delivered back to me without a message. But wrapped in his coverings, to be discovered when he was placed in the crib with its gilding and royal devices, was a gift. Which was brought to me.

  ‘Madam.’

  My woman placed it on my bed cover. A coin larger than any I had seen, far more impressive than the one I had last admired. And weary as I was from a woman’s travails, I picked it up, turning it in my palm. It was the one I had originally wanted, the weighty pavillon. There was the Prince of Aquitaine with the badge of his ostrich feathers, standing under an ornately depicted arch, wearing a prince’s crown of roses and carrying a sword in his right hand, on the reverse a fleur de lys twined with leopards. All true symbols of power and wealth.

  I approved the symbols. And the motto.

  The Lord is my strength and my shield and my heart hath trusted him.

  And the note of explanation that came with it.

  Do you approve, my dearest Joan? Copied from the coins struck by the King of France. I cannot let the King of France outshine me in such matters.

  So typical of Ned that it made me laugh. In the weeks of my confinement, Ned had had the pavillon made for me, for his son, as a telling message to the lords of Gascony and Prince of Aquitaine. The Duke of Aquitaine’s rule was now secured, a match for the King of France, now and for the future. I could ask for nothing more, and so I fell asleep, the coin beneath my pillow. Doubtless I smiled. I too had secured my place with this child, sanctified and beyond reproach, beyond criticism. I had fulfilled my role for King Edward and for England.

  And the nobles of Aquitaine and Gascony? They would grow used to Ned. They would grow used to me. We would rule Aquitaine with a firm hand but we would bring peace and prosperity.

  Oh, but it was a wearisome thing. My child might be born but, still separated from Ned and my new court, time hung heavy on my hands, for I must of necessity remain incarcerated, away from the world of men and their affairs until I was churched. So, while couriers were sent off to England and France bearing the good news, and Ned planned a celebration, I must set my mind to what I could to hurry the hours of each day.

  I had thought that I might escape the need to retire for the customary period. I had not been so rigid in my observance when giving birth to Thomas’s children, but had been forced to acknowledge that this royal child must be born with all tradition and care. Rigid seclusion in my final weeks of pregnancy and beyond could not be avoided. It was enough that its mother had not been virginal on her marriage, and one of her husbands still very much alive. Ned did not say it, but there were many who would.

  Thus I adopted my seclusion in the comfortable chateau at Angouleme with what was becoming a well-practised serenity, even though my ambitions were far beyond these chambers with their locked doors, the shaded windows, and their amiable guards to deter visitors. And as women do, we turned inward, to the essential details of fashionable pleasure. To the skill of hands with lute and nee
dle. To the pleasures of minds with books and songs of love. A female world of children, of gossip. And of course, of praise and censure of our men folk.

  ‘And is the Prince as gallant a lover as your two previous husbands, my lady?’

  My English women were well versed in my past. My newly-come Gascon ladies less so, essentially curious, and enjoying the novelty of a princess thrice married. I allowed them the liberties. Boredom takes its toll on pride.

  ‘Sir Thomas, my first husband, had great energy, but much absence. The Prince has energy and skill.’ I noted their avid eyes, and so added: ‘And much presence.’

  ‘And the Earl of Salisbury?’

  ‘I know not. Both or neither. William and I did not share a bed.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘It was difficult to enjoy the demands of the flesh when His Holiness was peering over our marital shoulder,’ I admitted, remembering, enjoying my women’s responses.

  ‘I would like three husbands.’

  ‘For variety.’

  ‘For experience.’

  ‘I could wish that mine had more absence!’

  There was much laughter. And since I could detect no censorship, I found myself participating, saying:

  ‘I enjoyed the variety and experience. But now I am satisfied with the one I have. I love a knight whose prowess knows no peer.’

  The words came of their own volition. What had I said? It took my breath, as if the air in the room was suddenly too laden with an intensity of feeling to be breathed in. But before I could hold the thought close, my attention was drawn aside, and perhaps I was not reluctant to let it go. As a judgement on my relationship with Ned it was far too portentous for some light consideration. Strangely unsettled, I was pleased to guide the conversation in the direction of jewels and gowns and fashioning of hair, all dear to a woman’s heart. The searing heat of Aquitaine in the summer months promised that my English under and over gowns would be heavily oppressive. Anything more than a light veil to cover my hair would be impossible to bear. Already a warmth was building in the room, not compatible with layers of rich silk and figured damask.