by Jean Plaidy
* * *
In Castle Rising the Dowager Queen Isabella lay very ill. She was sixty-three years of age and it was nearly twenty-eight years since her lover Roger de Mortimer had been snatched from her side and barbarously executed. He had been her life; the only person she had ever loved and when she had lost him she had declined into temporary madness. As she had grown older these bouts had grown less frequent and during the last ten years there had scarcely been any.
She had changed a great deal. She had become the Lady Bountiful of Castle Rising, known for her good works. But older people who remembered the havoc she had caused and the murder of her husband Edward the Second, which was said to be the most cruel ever known, whispered that a lifetime of good works could never expiate her sins.
She had grown serene, forgetful of that in the past which she did not want to remember.
Lying in her bed she dozed and when she awakened her thoughts were happy ones. She thought of all the good works she had done and caused to be done. Twenty-eight years was a long time. She was loved and respected here in Castle Rising. It was only now and then that people remembered, and when all was considered she had deprived the country of an unworthy king and given it a great one. Surely that was justifiable.
She had enjoyed hearing news from outside the castle. How her son Edward was revered wherever he went; how he was claiming the French crown because she his mother had been a daughter of a King of France; how he and his plump wife had produced that hero, the Black Prince. Surely it was not such a bad life? What had happened in Berkeley Castle had been long forgotten. Surely she could die in peace.
Edward came to see her. How handsome he was, how kingly! He knelt by her bed and taking her hand held it firmly in his.
‘Dear son,’ she said, ‘you fulfilled all my dreams for you.’
He bowed his head. He could not pretend to love her. Perhaps he had long ago when they had been in France and Hainault together and he first met Philippa. In those days he had looked to her and Mortimer and had been their tool. Well, he had been only a boy and they had ruled through him. Then he had discovered the truth about them—their adulterous relationship and worse still their relentless ambition. It might have been because of his mother that he had been a faithful husband and devoted father. He had determined that he would not resemble his parents in any way.
But all that was in the past. She was dying now.
He wondered if she knew it.
She did, because she said: ‘I am dying, Edward. Promise me that I shall be buried in the Grey Friars of Newgate.’
‘It shall be,’ said Edward, for none could deny a dying wish. But the Grey Friars in Newgate was where the mangled body of Mortimer lay. So she remembered her lover still and would be laid beside him.
She went on: ‘And your father’s heart must be with me. I want it laid upon my breast. Will you do this for me, Edward?’ Edward swore he would.
Her wishes were carried out and little was said of her burial. She herself was a figure of the past. Few remembered her story so there were not many to marvel that she should wish to have the heart of the husband whom she and Mortimer had caused to be murdered buried with her.
* * *
The King of Scotland refused to be depressed by what he called his wife’s desertion.
‘Let her stay with her noble brother,’ he cried. ‘At least I do not have to support her.’
Katherine consoled him and he was relying more and more upon her. In vain did those who wished him well implore him to use discretion. He snapped his fingers at them and the conduct of the lovers grew more and more blatant.
Katherine showed her contempt for those lords who were cool to her. She contrived that they could not even speak to the King unless it was in her presence. Having flamboyant tastes she adorned herself in the royal jewels and was a glittering figure beside the King wherever he went.
In the streets the people muttered against her. They called her the wanton harlot, the King’s whore, but Katherine merely laughed at them and made David laugh with her. Sometimes he felt a little uneasy but Katherine always made fun of his moods. She could excite him and soothe him and he told himself he could not live without her.
Anyone but David would have seen that he could not continue in this way, but he was blind to everything but the satisfaction he derived from his mistress’s company.
They were riding together near Melrose one day with a small party of friends.
David was a short distance ahead of Katherine when suddenly he heard a cry of agony and turning sharply he saw her fall from her horse.
Those who were riding with him were some little way behind. They did nothing when a man broke into their ranks and ran into the forest. Then to his horror David saw that Katherine was covered in blood and that a knife was protruding from her side.
He knelt beside her calling her name. She looked at him with glazed eyes and then he knew that she could not see him; she would never see anything else again.
So Katherine, the King’s mistress, had been murdered and David was beside himself with grief which could only be assuaged by violent revenge. He wanted the man who had done this deed. He wanted him brought before him. He wanted him tortured. Oh, it should he a long and lingering death.
Enquiries were made and it was discovered that the murderer was a peasant called Richard de Hulle.
‘Bring him to me,’ cried David. The thought of what he would do to this man was all that could pacify him. Only to see him writhing in misery while his life was prolonged that he might suffer again and again could give him any comfort.
But Richard de Hulle was never brought to justice. He had too many friends in high places. In fact he had worked for men who paid him well and promised him protection because they saw that the only way to save Scotland and her King from complete disaster was to dispose of that woman. So David was forced to live without his beloved Katherine. On the advice of his ministers he asked Joanna to return. Katherine was dead. He would be a good husband to Joanna now.
But Joanna had heard that before. She was firm. ‘I am happy,’ was her reply, ‘to remain in my native country, where I enjoy the love of those whom I can trust. I shall never return to Scotland.’
THE MARRIAGE OF THE
BLACK PRINCE
THE Princess Isabella declared that she had made up her mind not to marry and her father, indulgent as ever, seemed content that this should be so. She was twenty-seven years old and so it seemed that she really meant what she said. She had vindicated herself by cruelly jilting Bernard Ezi and she liked to hear the story repeated of how broken-heartedly he had given up everything in life. Then she could forget how Louis of Flanders had insulted her.
If she ever thought of Louis it was to congratulate herself on her escape, for his marriage with Margaret of Brabant had been far from felicitous. Margaret had died horribly and there were rumours that it was her husband’s doing. The story was that while he was away from Court Margaret had discovered that a particularly beautiful peasant girl had been his mistress and was to bear his child. In a fury of jealousy Margaret had had the girl seized, her nose and lips were cut off and she was imprisoned in a damp cell and left to die which she very quickly did. When Louis returned and sought his beautiful mistress and was told what had happened he was overcome by such fury that he put his wife into a dungeon similar to the one in which she had imprisoned his mistress. There was no window in this dungeon, only a hole through which bread and water were pushed daily. Either she was still there or she had died. Louis it seemed had no intention of setting her free.
‘Of course he is mad,’ said Isabella. And that seemed a good enough reason for jilting her.
Why should she, the beloved daughter of the King, whom everyone knew he loved more than anyone else in the world, want to exchange her comfortable existence for marriage.
Then take the case of her sister Joanna who had died of the plague near Bordeaux. Some said that she had met a happier fate than she could
possibly have done had she married Pedro of Castile, who had already earned the name of Pedro the Cruel. He had neglected his wife and when she had died it was said he had poisoned her. He undoubtedly poisoned his father’s mistress Eleanor de Guzman and there were many others whom he had killed by extremely cruel methods.
No! Who would marry and take such chances?
The Princess Isabella was very happy in the state she had chosen—and so was her father. How often had he said to her that he was content to keep her near him.
Her sisters Mary and Margaret did not share her views. Moreover their father knew that he could not allow all his daughters to remain unmarried. Margaret was enamoured of John Hastings, Earl of Pembroke. John’s father had died when he was a year old and he had become a ward of the King. Consequently he had been brought up in the royal nursery and from an early age he and Margaret had always shared secrets and taken a great delight in each other’s company.
‘When I grow up,’ Margaret had said, ‘I am going to marry John Hastings.’
Isabella had laughed. ‘He is not good enough for a princess,’ she had told her haughtily.
‘John is good enough for anybody,’ Margaret had retorted. ‘Even you,’ she had added rather maliciously for Isabella’s overweening vanity was often commented on among her sisters.
Isabella replied that if he was not good enough for Margaret he certainly was not for her elder sister. But it was never wise to indulge in arguments with Margaret for Margaret could always get the better of anyone in that field. She was admittedly the cleverest of them all and she and John Hastings used to get together over their books and nothing could draw them away from them. At this time a young man who was a page in the household of Margaret’s brother, Lionel, Duke of Clarence, had caught their attention. His name was Geoffrey Chaucer and he was very interested in literature, a subject which intrigued Margaret. She had written poetry herself and she and John had read certain things written by this Geoffrey.
Isabella could not concern herself with a mere page so she knew very little about the young man but she did wonder what would be the outcome of Margaret’s infatuation with John Hastings. Mary was betrothed to another John, the Earl de Montfort, who had a claim to the Duchy of Brittany. His position at this time was not very secure and it was for this reason that there had been a delay in the marriage for Mary who was two years older than Margaret was of a marriageable age.
Isabella thought that if she had wanted to marry the Earl of Pembroke she would have done so. It would not have taken her very long to wring her father’s consent from him. Of course Margaret was not Isabella and everyone knew that the King could deny his eldest daughter nothing at all.
But Margaret was well aware of her father’s fondness for his children and even if Isabella was his favourite he dearly loved them all and particularly his girls.
She chose her moment well. For it was necessary to approach him when he was in the right mood, and as he was always glad and ready to see his daughters she had no difficulty in talking to him alone.
She took his hand and kissed it; then raised her eyes wistfully to his. She told him how she and John had always been inseparable in the nursery, how their interests were the same, how they wanted to be together for the rest of their lives.
‘Pembroke,’ said Edward rather teasingly, ‘not a very grand title for one of my daughters.’
‘It is the one I would rather have than any other.’
‘Bah, you are a love sick child.’
‘I am not a child, Father. I do know what I want, and that is to marry John and to live in England so that I may never be separated from you and my mother.’
It was inevitable. His eyes were glazed with affection. These dear girls of his! He could no longer bear to lose them than they could him.
He was a foolish old man, a doting father. Men would marvel at his weakness. But how could he refuse her?
She was smothered with kisses. It was a moment such as he loved.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘you must go to your mother and tell her what you have decided. I have had no say in the matter.’
‘Dearest dearest Father,’ cried Margaret sincerely, ‘it is you who decide everything for us. If I did not know that you were happy with this I could not be either.’
‘It shall be a grand wedding, eh. I will show you that your father is not beyond dancing a measure with his daughter.
Philippa was delighted because she knew it was what Margaret wanted and she recognized that this, the cleverest of her children, needed a husband who was of her own kind. Margaret would be near her all her life and that was what she wanted. All her children should marry for love as she herself had. When she thought of the fate of poor sad Joanna of Scotland she rejoiced in her own marriage. Then there was her own daughter Joanna who had died it seemed fortunately of the plague. It was horrible to contemplate that a daughter of hers was better off dead than married to a monster—and one whom her parents had chosen for her.
She said to Edward: ‘I want to see them all make happy marriages. That is all I ask.’
‘You are a sentimental creature,’ said Edward, and she smiled at him. He knew what she meant. None could be more sentimental than he was ... but only where his family was concerned.
So Margaret was married and the King gave her a coronet mainly of pearls which he said was suitable on account of her name.
It seemed that marriages were in the air because a few months later her brother John of Gaunt was married to Blanche of Lancaster. John was nineteen years old, the most forceful of all the brothers next to the Black Prince. There were many speculations about the latter for he showed no sign of wanting to marry. Some said that he had wanted Joan of Kent about whom there had been a scandal when it was discovered that she had been living with Thomas Holland. And since she had left England for the Continent as the wife of another man the Prince had lost interest in matrimony. None was sure though, for he confided in no one, not even John Chandos.
The Black Prince’s life seemed to be dedicated to war and he was with every year taking on the mantle of his father. The same aura of invincibility which had been the First Edward’s and which now surrounded his father was without doubt inherited by him too; and what was so gratifying was that the father and son were in complete accord with each other. Brilliant warrior that he was the Prince never sought to usurp his father’s power and although he was in every way preparing himself to be King he showed himself in no way eager to inherit the crown before that time when it should come naturally to him. Apart from the fact that he declined to marry and give the country an heir, he was the perfect prince.
As David of Scotland was showing himself completely unworthy to wear the crown of Scotland and it seemed unlikely that there would be any trouble from that quarter, and as the truce with France had come to an end it seemed that the time was ripe to begin another invasion in the hope of gaining complete victory and possession of what Edward regarded as his rights.
He left England and once more Philippa was filled with misgiving. However Edward did not engage in battle because the Dauphin Charles refused to meet him and before he could be forced to do so a strange event occurred which appeared to be both to Edward and his army a sign of supernatural interference.
It was Easter time and the weather had turned suddenly so cold that many of the English soldiers died because of it, collapsing and falling from their horses while riding. Nothing like it had ever been known.
It was the Monday after Easter Day when the storm broke. It came upon them suddenly; the air was full of darkness at midday and the hail rained down on the army. Then the sky was rent with such sound and fury as none of them had ever known before. Lightning streaked across the sky to be followed by utter darkness and the violent sound of the thunder.
Many of the soldiers believed that the world was coming to an end; many of the horses and men were struck by the lightning, and hailstones the size of eggs began to shower down on them.
This appeared without doubt to be a sign of divine anger and why should God visit his fury on Edward’s army? There was one answer to that and it was that God did not like the claim to the French crown and he was not going to allow the King of England’s efforts to be successful.
Edward was dismayed. Six thousand of his finest horses had been killed by lightning. One thousand of his men had suffered the same plight. The soldiers had turned to him expecting him to act.
But what could even the greatest soldier in the world do against the acts of God?
Edward saw only one way. He leaped from his horse and bare-headed with the hail beating down on him and the hideous lightning illuminating his face cried out: ‘Oh God, take away this storm. If I have incurred your wrath I will make amends. Let my army survive this day and I will make reasonable terms with the King of France. I will release him from bondage. I give my word on this.’
There was silence all about him. He lifted his eyes to the sky and it seemed that the lightning was less fierce, that the thunder was growing more distant.
The storm was passing. His vow remained, and it was not as a promise given to another King. This one he had made to God and he must keep it.
When he told his men that they were returning to England without delay there was a great shout of joy. Every man among them had had enough of war and the sign that God was not with them would have undermined any feeling they might have had for it.
Edward was fully aware of this. That was why he knew that he must abandon the fight.
Philippa received him with the utmost joy and King Jean was informed that he was to be released on payment of a smaller ransom. Edward stressed though that his sons would be requested to come to England as hostages until the sum was paid.
Jean left for France conducted there by the Black Prince and the Duke of Lancaster; and Philippa, delighted with this outcome of affairs in France, settled comfortably to enjoy having her family with her and for the moment at least out of imminent danger.