The Vow on the Heron

THE PRIDE OF ISABELLA

THE King was disturbed to receive a letter from his sister Joanna the Queen of Scotland. When he had last seen her he had been sixteen and she a child of seven. He had been very sorry for her, being sent off to marriage in Scotland which was by all accounts a dour and wild country.

He immediately went to Philippa to tell her of what Joanna proposed.

‘She wants a safe conduct to England,’ he said. ‘You can guess what she seeks.’

Philippa nodded. ‘A pardon for her husband. What will your answer be?’

‘No,’ replied Edward shortly. ‘Soon I shall have to go into France again. It would be folly to give the Scots a rallying point in their King.’

‘But you have no great opinion of David.’

‘David! ‘ the King laughed. ‘Who would believe that laggard was the son of Robert the Bruce! ‘

He paused frowning. Who would believe that he was the son of his dissolute father? Great fathers sometimes had weak sons and weak fathers great sons. He was assured that the King who followed him would be a great one. The Black Prince, already the idol of the people, a man who had proved himself in war as a leader of men. I shall die happy, thought Edward. It was time the Prince married though.

Philippa said: ‘Poor Joanna, I do not think she will ever be happy with him. It is common knowledge that he is a rake.’

‘He seems to have settled down with Katherine Mortimer,’ replied Edward.

‘The woman lives with him, I believe. He is treated well as a prisoner.’

‘He is a King and I would not deny him his paramour. No, I shall not listen to Joanna’s pleas. It is better for her husband to remain in this happy captivity here than to return to Scotland and gather an army about him.’

‘Do you think that is truly so?’

‘I do, my love. But I cannot refuse Joanna a safe conduct.’

‘Perhaps when she comes she will plead so earnestly ...’

Edward shook his head and Philippa smiled. None could be more firm than Edward when he had made up his mind. She herself felt a great interest in the matter because it was when she was regent that David had been captured at Neville’s Cross.

Edward changed the subject. ‘It is time our son married. Why think you he delays so long?’

Philippa was thoughtful. She did not understand this son whom she adored perhaps more than anyone else, even Edward. Her Black Prince was a hero in every sense. His handsome looks, his valour, his prowess on the battlefield, were undeniable. People called him the victor of Crécy—and that had happened when he was little more than a boy. She had shivered when she heard how his father would not send anyone to his aid because he wanted young Edward to win glory that day. He might have been killed. But he had won his spurs indeed.

There was a strangeness about him, an aloofness. And why did he not marry? He was not without interest in women. In fact there had been a rumour that he had had a child by one of them. Why did he hesitate?

‘He would seem to have no fancy for the state,’ said Philippa, ‘but it is true ...’

‘He has had a mistress or two,’ said Edward. ‘That may be, but now he is of an age to marry. I should like to see my grandson before too many years pass.’

‘I believe he has a fondness for Joan of Kent. She is a beautiful girl ... the most beautiful at Court some say ... and she is royal.’

Edward did not meet the Queen’s eye. He agreed that Joan of Kent was one of the most desirable girls at Court. Sometimes he wished he had not imposed so rigid a code on himself. Then he would have given way to his impulses. Other kings had done so and this little foible had been accepted. It was Philippa he was thinking of. He loved Philippa; he would not wish to hurt her in any way.

But Joan of Kent ... what a beauty! Involuntarily he compared that willowy seductive shape, those exquisite bones, those languishing eyes, that smile which was almost an invitation, with Philippa. How fat she had grown! She wheezed as she walked and she could not move about without difficulty.

He always tried to see her as the fresh-faced girl she had been when he married her and had been so content with her. But of course she had always been homely.

‘Joan of Kent,’ he said. ‘We could not say no to such a match. Why does he not ask her?’

‘Perhaps you could speak to him.’

‘Perhaps you should,’ replied Edward.

Philippa agreed that she would do so, but it was not easy to talk to the Prince of such matters. He could evade the issue with the utmost of ease.

Edward thought of having the disturbing Joan as a daughter-in-law.

It would be disconcerting.

It was Philippa to whom the Scottish Queen turned for comfort. Philippa seemed to understand how desolate she was and how overawed by the English Court. Edward was kind as he had always been to her but he showed an uneasiness which she felt due to her presence in England.

It was a strange situation; his brother-in-law his captive and his own sister come to plead for his release. To a family man such as Edward it was a distressing situation and he believed it would have been better for all if Joanna had remained in Scotland.

When she asked earnestly for the release of her husband Edward was adamant. She must understand that if David were released it was very likely that the war would break out on the border once more. Edward could not allow that to happen. His country had been devastated by the pestilence—so was France for that matter; so was the whole of Europe, the whole of the world. This was no time to allow reckless men to make trouble.

Joanna saw this clearly, yet suggested to Philippa that there might be a treaty one of the terms of which would be the release of her husband.

But Philippa was sure that Edward would never agree.

‘In which case,’ replied Joanna, ‘I might stay here in England with my husband and share his prison.’

Philippa was embarrassed. How could she tell her sister-in- law that David already had a companion sharing his prison—the beautiful and brazen Katherine Mortimer?

She discussed this with Edward and they both agreed that no good could be served by letting Joanna know of this liaison between her husband and his mistress which was of such importance to him that he preferred—or so he said—to remain in England with her than return to Scotland and his Queen.

Of course if he were released there was no doubt that Katherine Mortimer would follow him to Scotland.

It was far better, reasoned Philippa, for Joanna to go back to Scotland believing that the King of England was firm in his resolution to keep her husband prisoner than to learn the true facts about her feckless faithless husband for whom it was clear she had a great deal of loyal affection.

So Joanna made her preparations to leave.

First she visited her father’s tomb in Gloucester. She was sad thinking of his unhappy end and the tragedy of his and her own life. Mystery still surrounded events in Berkeley Castle but there were evil rumours about it and she dreamed of her father often and thought of him as he had been when she had been a child and forced into the Scottish marriage by her overbearing mother.

She did not possess many jewels but some she laid on the tomb of her father, thinking of him when he had been handsome and kind—though he had never spent much time with his children.

She prayed fervently for his soul and then she went to Castle Rising to see her mother.

Queen Isabella who had played such an important part in deposing her husband and had for a time ruled England with her lover Roger de Mortimer seemed to have accepted a life of tranquillity. She was still beautiful in spite of her years and was Lady Bountiful to the people of the neighbourhood. She lived well and seemed to have no qualms of conscience about the evil deeds which she had inspired.

It was hard to believe that this serene lady had been the instigator of that fearful murder in Berkeley Castle.

She received her daughter graciously and entertained her at the Castle in a royal manner. She talked with undisguised pleasure of the gifts she had received of wines and barrelled sturgeon which was her favourite food.

She was not the least interested in Joanna’s troubles and scarcely mentioned her husband’s imprisonment.

There was about her an aloofness, a strangeness even. Joanna heard that occasionally her mother lapsed into moods of near madness, but these were becoming less and less frequent.

The past seemed like a dream to Joanna; the present was tragedy and she dared not look into the future.

Sadly she returned to Scotland.

The Princess Isabella still smarted occasionally when she recalled the manner in which Louis of Flanders had jilted her and almost immediately married Margaret of Brabant.

The fact that he had felt so strongly as to plan an escape, which he had carried out with a few of his friends, really was insulting.

She had pretended not to care—and indeed she had had no great love for Louis—but the fact that she, the beloved daughter of the King on whom he doted more than on any other, had been jilted, was galling to her vanity.

She was a little annoyed too because of all the attention Joan of Kent demanded at Court. Joan was said to be the most beautiful girl at Court—out of Isabella’s hearing, of course. She was royal too, which was irritating. She had many admirers and Isabella had noticed, too, that the King himself often allowed his eyes to rest on her.

Joan had created something of a scandal recently by admitting that she had secretly married Thomas Holland. That was when plans to marry her to the Earl of Salisbury were progressing too fast; and when it was discovered that she had actually lived with Holland as his wife, nothing could be done but to accept the marriage.

The Black Prince, who was quite clearly attracted by Joan, must have been deeply put out; but Isabella could understand Joan’s impatience with him because although he was clearly fond of her he had made no effort to marry her.

Joan was sly; Joan was clever. Isabella believed that had Edward offered marriage she would have found some means of wriggling out of her union with Holland. Joan might be enamoured of that young man—so much so that she could not resist him—but her eyes would be on the crown which one day the Black Prince should inherit.

So there was too much talk of the Fair Maid of Kent, and not enough attention for the King’s beautiful daughter.

It was a state of affairs which must not be allowed to cootinue.

Isabella had become interested in a young Gascon nobleman. This was Bernard Ezi, whose father—also Bernard—was Lord of Albret and he had come to England when Isabella’s sister Joanna’s marriage was being arranged with Pedro of Castile. His son—Bernard the Younger—had accompanied him.

Young Bernard was very handsome, tall, charming and he and the Princess had become friends. In fact Bernard had fallen in love with Isabella.

Smarting from Louis’s rejection Isabella was very happy to accept his attentions and she decided that here was someone who adored her, in great contrast to Louis of Flanders.

How delighted he would be if she agreed to marry him. Naturally he would not dare aspire so high but led on by her he declared his passion and told her that the greatest joy in his life would be to marry her.

Isabella said she would speak to her father before he did. This was by no means orthodox Court behaviour. Penniless foreigners did not come to Court and ask for the hands of princesses. Isabella snapped her fingers. She could get anything she wanted from her father, she boasted. Did not Bernard know that the King loved her dearly that he could deny her nothing.

Bernard did know this but he thought the King’s indulgence to his daughter would not extend to marriage.

Isabella determined to prove him wrong.

She sought an opportunity to be alone with her father which was not difficult for Edward was growing fonder and fonder of her as he was becoming faintly critical of his wife. It was not that he did not love Philippa, but he did admire women with beautiful figures and Philippa’s was becoming more and more unwieldy every week.

Isabella took his arm and drew him to a window-seat because, she said, she had something very important to tell him.

He was beaming with satisfaction, loving to share confidences with her.

‘Oh my dear father,’ she said, ‘it is so wonderful to have you with me. How unhappy I was when I was in the Tower and you were in France. You wouldn’t let me come with you ...’

‘I was afraid for your safety, my dear,’ explained the King. ‘You did come with me in the end remember, and then you were frightened when the French attacked our ships, were you not?’

She shook her head. ‘You were close. I knew you would win.’

She kissed his cheeks and he smiled fondly.

‘You must have thought it is time for me to marry, my lord. And I fancy you do not urge it because you would hate to lose ine. Confess it.’

‘I confess,’ said Edward.

‘And you would be very pleased if I married someone who need not take me abroad so that we could all live happily in England.’

‘That would be my wish, of course. Ah, if only it were possible.’

‘It is, dear father, it is. And it is the only marriage I will consider. Do you think I should ever allow myself to be separated from you?’

‘It will be a great sadness to me when the day comes ... as I fear it must.’

‘It shall not come,’ she said. ‘I have decided whom I will marry. Now father, dear father of mine, the one I shall love best in the whole of my life—husband or no—I will not be parted from you. That I swear. So it will be no foreign prince for me. It will be a man of such small estate that it matters not whether he go to his own country or stay in mine.’

‘You are a dear sweet child. But alas you must grow up and marry some day.’

‘That day will be soon, my lord. I have chosen Bernard Ezi.’

Edward was too astounded to speak and Isabella rushed on : ‘I must marry him. No other will do. I know he has nothing ... but you will give him estates here ... near Windsor perhaps and I shall not lose you. That is my main concern.’

‘My sweet child, this is impossible.’

‘I have told Bernard that you will give your consent.’

‘Nay, child. It will not do.’

Isabella’s lips were firmly set. ‘Yes, dear father, it will do. It must do. It is what I want.’

‘Isabella, sweet daughter, you are young and this is passing infatuation for this young man. If you wish for a husband, I will find one worthy of you.’

‘Someone who will take me away from you.’ She stood up and stamped her foot. ‘I will not go. I will never go. I shall marry Bernard or ... die.’

‘Now this is nonsense ...’

‘Indeed it is not. Dear father, you must agree to this, you must give your consent or I shall be the most unhappy woman in your kingdom. I must marry Bernard. Oh, dearest father, as you love me, say you will grant me this ...’

He was wavering. He could never bear to disappoint her. He was a very sentimental father particularly where his daughters were concerned and the favourite of all the children was pretty Isabella.

He was thinking rapidly. The dear child is really serious. Well, consider this Bernard Ezi. What will he have? Albret! It is nothing. How could I possibly let my daughter marry a man of so little consequence? And yet I could raise him up. I could give him an earldom ... And I should have her near me ... I could make it so that they lived in England. I should see her often. Their children would be here with me ... my own grandchildren.

She had thrown her arms about him; she was almost suffocating him with her embraces.

‘You are the dearest kindest father in the world,’ she declared.

And she knew that she had won.

The whole Court was astonished to learn that the King had agreed to his daughter’s marriage with the son of a minor nobleman even though he was his father’s heir. Philippa understood perfectly. Her wayward spoilt daughter had once more succeeded in getting what she wanted from her father. Well, if Isabella and Edward were happy that was enough for Philippa.

And Isabella did seem overwhelmed with happiness. She was determined to have the grandest wedding the Court had seen for a long time. She sent for the seamstresses and embroiderers for she had a passion for such decoration. She delighted in one garment especially. A mantle of silk which was edged with ermine and embroidered in silver and gold with birds, trees and animals. There were other gorgeous garments and Isabella insisted on trying everything on and parading before her mother and those sisters and brothers who were with the Court.

She persuaded her father to come to admire her and he sat, his arms folded, looking on with benign pleasure while his daughter walked about before him calling attention to the excellence of the embroidery and fine material of her clothes. People had ceased to marvel at his fond indulgence of this daughter and to be surprised that the great King and warrior should become so involved in feminine fripperies.

He seemed quite pleased with the marriage and in fact he told Philippa that because his daughter was making such an insignificant marriage there was no need to supply her with the grand dowry which a prince or a king would have demanded.

In any case everything was worth while to see their daughter so happy.

The day for the celebrations of the nuptials was only a week away when Isabella came to her father and told him that she had decided not to marry after all.

Edward stared at her in amazement. Where was the happy bride of the last days? What had happened?

She flung herself into his arms and burst into tears. He sought to comfort her, asking for her reasons for this change of mind.

‘Dear father, I do not know. I only know that I cannot marry Bernard. I don’t want to marry anybody. I want to stay with you and be with you always. I cannot marry Bernard. Please understand.’

‘My dear child, everything is arranged. The ceremony is shortly to take place.’

‘I know, I know. But I cannot do it.’

The King was completely bewildered. But there was nothing to be done. The Princess was adamant.

The whole court was talking of the matter. Poor Bernard was heart-broken. He had been so deeply in love with the Princess and so enchanted with his great fortune in marrying the daughter of the King that to find himself deprived of love and honour when it seemed so nearly his sent him into the deepest melancholy.

Isabella kept her thoughts to herself. She was elated. She had done to Bernard what Louis had done to her. Her pride was vindicated. She was filled with a secret satisfaction and wondered whether she had intended all the time never to marry Bernard.

Perhaps. She had liked him very much. He was handsome, charming and she had so enjoyed stooping to his social level. He had always been so aware of the fact that she was a Princess and he a humble nobleman.

Now everyone was talking of her. They saw her in a different light from the poor jilted princess.

Moreover she was going to remain close to her father, for whatever arrangements had been made she would have had at some time to go with her husband to his estates in Gascony.

It was a piquant situation which she enjoyed thoroughly. It was particularly gratifying when Bernard declared he was weary of the world, retired to a monastery to become a cordelier monk and gave up his inheritance to a younger brother.