The Vow on the Heron

THE KING’S BRIDE

EVER since Edward had spent a week at the Court of Hainault Philippa had never ceased to think of him. Before he had come she had been completely content with her life. Hers was a closely knit family and if it was a source of disappointment to the Count and Countess of Hainault that it consisted of only one son and four daughters they had showed no sign of it.

They had had one great tragedy in their life for there had been five girls. Their eldest. Sybella, had died when she was young; only the two elder ones remembered her, and they would never forget the deep sadness in the family at her premature departure.

The girls had always been aware that their mother came of a very noble family—the royal family of France, no less. Countess Jeanne was the daughter of Charles of Valois and her brother, Philip of Valois, was next in line of succession to the crown of France if the reigning King Charles died without a male heir. It seemed likely that he might for ill luck had been the lot of the Kings of France since Philip IV had persecuted the Knights Templars and their Grand Master, Jacques de Molai, had cursed the Capet line while he was being burned at the stake. It did seem as though that branch of the family would die out; in which case the Valois would take over.

Countess Jeanne never tired of talking of her early life in France and the four sisters knew how much more elegantly life was conducted there than in Hainault and how the music and poetry composed there was the best in the world.

‘Still,’ she would add, ‘I have known more happiness in Hainault than I ever had in France.’

That did not prevent her from introducing French customs and letting the girls know, if they ever acted in a manner of which their high-born mother disapproved, that they came from the royal house of France.

Philippa was sure that nowhere in the world was there such a handsome boy as Edward of England. Even France could not produce one so full of charm, vitality and kindliness, and since he had gone life had become excessively dull.

Every day was the same. It was made up mostly of lessons but there was also a good deal of exercise. The Count was a great believer in the benefits of outdoor life; they were all excellent horsewomen and their fresh complexions were an indication of their blooming good health.

It was a happy simple life they led and both the Count and his Countess had wished their girls to be first of all good women. They spoke their minds freely and saw no virtue in deception. They had been taught to be kind to those below them in rank and that, although they had been born without their own advantages, they were human beings and worthy of their consideration.

Countess Jeanne often smiled to think how differently she herself had been brought up; but she was wise enough to realize that the simple happiness of the Court of Hainault was infinitely more desirable than the sophistication of that of France.

The girls often discussed the visit of the Queen of England and her son who had since become the King. Philippa had a habit of bringing the conversation round to him and this usually happened at that hour of the day when they were at their needlework for they must set aside a certain time of the day to sew for the poor. They would all have preferred to work on some colourful tapestry but the Countess had told them that they must make themselves enjoy working on the rather coarse materials because they could think of the comfort it would bring to those less fortunate than themselves.

As she stitched Philippa thought of Edward and that made the hour pass quickly. She would sit smiling over the stuff and not see the strong thread but Edward leaping onto his horse, showing how far he could let an arrow fly, riding out with his falcon, and best of all arranging that he and she strayed behind a little or rode on ahead so that they could lose the party and be alone together.

Her sisters talked of him too. They had all found him attractive. And one day as they sat sewing their garments for the poor they heard sounds of arrival at the castle.

Young Isabella dropped her work and ran to the window.

She looked out silently and Margaret said: ‘Who is it?’

Isabella turned round, her habitually pink cheeks a shade more colourful. ‘It is important, I think,’ she said.

All the girls were at the window.

‘Why,’ said Margaret. ‘Look at the pennant. They come from England.’

Philippa’s heart was doing a wild dance; she could not trust herself to speak.

‘I wonder what this means?’ pondered Jeanne. ‘Doubtless,’ replied her eldest sister, ‘we shall discover in due course.’

They stood at the window watching.

‘Edward is not with them,’ observed Isabella.

‘As if he would be,’ Philippa had found her voice. ‘He is a king now. He has a country to rule.’

‘Kings sometimes pay visits,’ retorted Isabella. ‘Do they not, Margaret?’

‘Indeed they do. Edward must be one of the youngest kings that ever were.’

‘Some people are kings when they’re babies,’ added Jeanne. Philippa was not listening. Why had the messengers come from England? What could it mean?’

They were soon to discover. Later that day they were summoned to their parents’ apartment and there they found the Count and Countess looking more sombre than they usually did.

‘Come here, children,’ said the Countess.

They came and stood before their parents, Margaret first, then Philippa, Jeanne and Isabella in order of age as was expected of them.

‘You will have heard the arrivals,’ the Countess went on. ‘Yes, my lady,’ Margaret answered for them all.

‘They come from the King of England. You remember Edward who stayed here with his mother and whom your uncle John conducted to England?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘I believe you all grew fond of your cousin.’

‘Oh yes, my lady.’ It was Philippa that time, speaking a little ahead of the others.

‘I am glad,’ she said.

‘I also,’ said the Count. ‘You girls will know that time must come when you must leave home to marry. Your mother and I know that you will not want to go. Alas, it is the fate of girls. The point is that the King of England is asking for the hand of one of you in marriage.’

‘One of us!’ cried Margaret.

‘Which one?’ Philippa’s voice had sunk to a whisper.

‘That is what has to be decided,’ went on the Count. ‘An embassy has come from the King and it is led by his Bishop of Hereford. Over the next day or so he will observe you and choose the one whom he considers most suitable to be the Queen of England.’

Philippa felt sick with fear. Oh, she thought, Margaret is prettier than I am; Jeanne is more graceful and Isabella has beautiful eyes; they are all cleverer than I. I shall die if they don’t choose me ... and how can they when my sisters are so much more attractive?

‘I was not surprised,’ went on the Count, ‘when the embassy arrived for your mother and I had already agreed when the Queen and the King—Prince as he was then—were our guests, that we should put no obstacles in the way of a marriage between one of you and Edward. This is our bargain. We are very happy that the King, now he has his throne, has remembered it.’

‘I am sure,’ said the Countess, ‘that whichever one of you is chosen, she will be happy. Edward is young—he is only a few months older than you, Philippa, and whichever one of you is chosen will quickly learn his ways and perhaps he some of yours.’

‘When ... when,’ stammered Philippa, ‘will the choice be made?’

‘That is for the Bishop to say. He will watch you, I daresay and then he will come to us and tell us which one of you he thinks will suit his master best. There, now you may go. I think the Bishop will not want to delay long. So perhaps within a few days we shall know.’

For the first time in her life Philippa felt the need to hide her feelings.

She prayed that night. Oh God, let me be the chosen one.

Then she hated herself for being so selfish for it seemed to her that marriage with Edward must be the pinnacle of every girl’s ambition and this would be denied to those who were not selected.

But I love him, she told herself. I was the one he rode with alone. I was the one he talked to. He said that he would come back for me. How could he send a Bishop to choose one of us!

Had he forgotten then? He must have. She meant no more to him than Margaret, Jeanne or Isabella.

One of the daughters of the Count of Hainault! Was that all that mattered?

It was a terrible time to live through. In her anxiety she looked less attractive than her sisters. She was clumsy at table. She saw the Bishop observing her gravely and she fancied he talked more to the others than to her.

He would not choose her, she was sure, and she would spend her life in misery. She would beg her parents to let her go into a convent. It was the only way. She could not marry anyone else.

They were once more summoned to their parents’ apartment. Philippa was praying silently. ‘Dear Lord, let me hide. Don’t let them see my grief. I must not weep. I must kiss and congratulate Margaret ... Jeanne or Isabella. But of course it will be Margaret. It is sure to be the eldest. The eldest always marries first. And he does not care. All he wants is a daughter of the Count of Hainault because he promised that he would marry one of us when he was crowned King of England. Which one was of no importance. Oh, why did I let myself care so much!’

Her father was speaking in a tender voice for he found the prospect of the marriage of one of his daughters deeply moving. Much as he wanted a grand marriage he did not want to lose any one of them.

They stood before him in order of age. They were all overexcited and the two younger ones were inclined to giggle. Margaret was serious for, like Philippa, she believed she might well be the chosen one. Philippa’s emotions were too pent up to be described. She could only continue to pray that she, who had always been frank, did not betray them.

‘My lord Bishop has come to tell us that he has chosen the future Queen of England,’ said the Count. ‘You will tell my daughter that she is the one you consider most suitable, I beg you my lord Bishop.’

The Bishop cleared his throat and frowned slightly. ‘My lord and lady,’ he said, ‘your daughters are all charming. For me this has been the most difficult task. The lady Margaret ...’ He seemed to pause for a long time and Philippa thought: I cannot bear it. Oh how wicked I am. It is so wonderful for dear Margaret but I cannot bear it! ‘The lady Margaret is gracious and charming. The lady Jeanne equally so as is her sister Isabella. I and my embassy have talked much of this and we have come to the conclusion that the lady Philippa being closer to the age of my lord the King would be the most suitable to be his wife and Queen and it is for this reason, my lord Count, my lady Countess, that I beg, on behalf of my lord the King, for the hand of the lady Philippa.’

She was swooning. I am dreaming, she thought. It cannot be.

They were all looking at her. She had turned white and then red; she was trembling. Pray God the tears would not fall. So she was the chosen one. She ... and because she was nearest to his age!

Her father had taken her hand and he was placing it in that of the Bishop.

‘She is young yet, my lord,’ he said.

‘She will be an enchanting Queen of England,’ said the Bishop.

She was more important now, the betrothed of the King of England.

Her sisters talked all at once about the marriage. She was relieved that they did not mind too much. Isabella was a little regretful but then she was young and she had merely thought it would be fun to be a queen.

‘Of course,’ said Margaret, ‘you are closest to him in age.’ ‘Of course,’ she said demurely.

‘I thought he would have asked for you,’ said Jeanne. ‘He seemed to like you best when he was here.’

‘I daresay he forgot all about us as soon as he left,’ put in Margaret. ‘He had to get his crown didn’t he, and there was something about his father. It seems strange not to be friendly with your own father.’

‘Oh, there were reasons,’ declared Philippa coming immediately to his defence.

‘I thought he would have asked for you,’ said Margaret, ‘and not left it to his bishop to choose.’

No, nor had Philippa. It was a blow to her but never mind. She would not brood on it. She was to see him again. They would renew their friendship and it would be as though they had never parted.

She had to be happy, even though it was the Bishop who had chosen her and not Edward and it was because of her age.

There was another scare.

Her parents explained it to her.

‘You know that your mother and Edward’s mother are first cousins,’ said the Count. ‘Their fathers were both sons of the King Philip the Third of France. This means that there is a very close blood tie between you and Edward and because of this the Pope must give his permission for you to marry.’

‘What if he does not?’ she cried in dismay.

‘There seems to be no reason why he will not,’ replied her mother. ‘We are sending an embassy at once to Avignon and we hope very soon to hear that the dispensation is granted.’

So there were further anxieties. How she wished that Edward himself had come for her. In her fantasies she imagined his coming and saying: ‘Never mind about the Pope. Nothing is going to prevent our marrying.’

But all was well after all. The Pope readily gave the necessary dispensation and the King of England, now that his bride was settled on, wanted no delay. Philippa was to be married by proxy and immediately after that ceremony, to leave for England.

There was a great bustling preparation through the castle of Valenciennes for Edward was sending the Bishop of Lichfield to perform the proxy marriage.

Every morning when Philippa awoke she had to assure herself that it was really happening. She wondered how long it would be before she saw Edward. Over the intensity of her happiness there hung a faint shadow. It was there because Edward had not chosen her but had let his Bishop choose and the implication was surely that that idyllic week they had spent together had not meant the same to him as it had to her.

I will make him love me in time, she assured herself; but still the shadow persisted.

Her mother said: ‘Your father is determined that you shall go richly equipped to England. Your husband-to-be is by no means rich, King though he may be. A great deal of his treasure has been spent in war and his father was not a provident man.’

‘I do not care to be rich, dear lady.’

‘My dearest child, I think you are very happy to be going to Edward.’

Philippa clasped her hands and said: ‘I think I should have died if I had not been the chosen one.’

‘Oh, my dear daughter, you must not speak so extravagantly. But I know your feelings for your husband and I am glad of them because whatever happens that love will remain constant I know and it will enrich both your lives.’

The Countess wondered whether to warn her daughter. She had betrayed her feelings too easily, and she wondered whether Edward would appreciate such blind devotion as Philippa seemed prepared to give. A little restraint should perhaps be practised. No, perhaps it was better that her daughter should behave in her natural way which had endeared Edward to her when he had come here as a prince.

‘You are both very young,’ went on the Countess. ‘Fifteen years old. And you, Philippa to go to a new country I ‘

‘But, my lady, it is not like going to a stranger.’

‘No, dear child, and I rejoice that you are going to a husband whom you already love.’

It was better to leave it thus, the Countess decided. Philippa’s frank nature, her inherent unselfishness and goodness would carry her through whatever lay in store for her. It was to be hoped that the boy King would recognize those qualities and appreciate them.

Her sisters revelled in the preparation; they were often present during the constant fitting sessions; they cried out with admiration at the richness of her garments.

‘Just fancy our sister will be a Queen! ‘

‘Oh Philippa, how does it feel to be a Queen?’

Philippa said that it was the most wonderful thing in the world. She was completely happy ... well not quite completely because to go to Edward she had to leave them—and, she added to herself: he did not really choose me. It might have been any one of you.

As the days passed her happiness was more and more tinged with sadness at the thought of leaving her home. It would be so strange not to see her sisters and her parents every day.

‘You must all visit me in England,’ she said; and the thought struck her that in a short time all her sisters would be married and be gone from this lovely old castle in Valenciennes where they had been so happy. She saw the sadness in her parents’ eyes; her sisters were too excited by all the fuss to think very much about the parting. How sad it was that there could not be complete happiness.

The days were passing quickly. Soon the time would come when she must really say good-bye.

‘Your Uncle John will meet you when you arrive at Dover,’ her mother told her, ‘so it will not be like going to a land of strangers.’

She said it would be pleasant to see Uncle John again.

‘He is greatly enamoured of England and the English,’ replied her mother. ‘He was a great friend to the Queen, Edward’s mother.’

Philippa felt again a faint twinge of uneasiness. She remembered Edward’s mother, the Queen---a strikingly beautiful woman, indeed one of the most beautiful she had ever seen. It was Isabella who had said of her: ‘She is a witch, I believe, a beautiful witch. The sort Satan makes more beautiful than anyone else so that they can get the better of other people.’

Philippa also remembered a big man with flashing dark eyes and heavy brows who was always at the Queen’s side and who also for some reason had aroused her misgivings.

But the excitement of those days swallowed up her uneasiness and she could think of little else but Edward.

At last the day came. The Count had said that it would be better for the family not to accompany her. They would say their farewells in the privacy of the castle and they would all go to the topmost turret and watch her ride away with the large company of knights, squires and ladies who would be her companions until the end of the journey.

Her parents embraced her with fervent affection, her sisters tearfully.

‘How strange it will be without you,’ said Isabella. ‘There are only three of us now.’

And soon only two, thought their mother, for a marriage was being arranged for Margaret.

She looked sadly at her husband. She was reminding him of the inevitability of losing their daughters.

And so, riding at the head of the cavalcade, Philippa set out on her journey to England.

The crossing was comparatively smooth and in due course Philippa stood on deck and saw the starkly white cliffs coming nearer and nearer. And there looking out to sea was the fortress castle rising more than four hundred feet above the level of the water—formidable, warning off invaders and yet seeming to welcome her who came as a bride of the King.

As she came ashore there, as she had been told he would be, was her uncle Sir John of Hainault waiting to greet her. He embraced her warmly and said that this was one of the happiest days of his life. He had always wanted a link between England and Hainault and here was his dear little niece Philippa to forge it.

They would stay the night in Dover Castle and then they would travel on to London by way of Canterbury where of course they must pause to make an offering at the shrine of St Thomas à Becket, to thank him for their safe passage and to ask his blessing on the union.

Philippa slept little during her first night in her new country and she was ready at dawn to begin the journey to Canterbury.

Wrapped in furs to keep out the winter cold she rode with her uncle and from the villages they passed the people came out of their houses to stand in the roads and see her.

That they liked the fresh young face with the open smile was obvious, and on that journey Philippa first became aware that the people of England were ready to give her a warm welcome.

She was so young, so appealing, so ready with her smiles, and rumours about the late King’s death and the Queen and her paramour Mortimer were beginning to circulate even in the remote country districts so that people wanted a change and they were more than ready to show great affection to the innocent young King and his bride.

By the time Philippa reached the outskirts of London it was Christmas Eve. There she was met by a procession largely made up of the clergy who had come to escort her into the city.

Eagerly she looked for Edward but he was not among them. They are taking me to him, she thought.

Her uncle Sir John rode beside her and told her that he was very proud of her and happy because it was clear that she was making a good impression on the English. She said she was just being herself which made Sir John smile for he knew it was naturalness which the people were finding so appealing.

He delighted in pointing out the landmarks which he had come to know well. He showed her the Tower of London which she thought rather grim and hoped she did not have to spend too much time in the palace there. The river, though, sparkled in the frosty air and the gardens of great houses which ran down to the water’s edge were beautiful indeed. There were so many trees—ornamental and fruit-bearing. Now their stark branches made a lacy pattern against the sky and their leaflessness made it possible to see the landscape more clearly.

Her uncle pointed out the abundance of green fields and he told her of the wells of London in which were waters proved to be beneficial to health. Holy Well, Clerken Well and St Clement’s Well. And there was Smithfield where every Friday—when it was not some great feast day or holiday—the finest horses in England changed hands. There was the Great Moor on the north side of the city which washed the edge of Moor- fields and here a few weeks later in the depth of winter when the river was frozen, the young people would come out to skate.

All this he had seen; and he found the life of the capital city enjoyable indeed.

It was clear that Uncle John believed that the greatest good fortune which could have befallen his niece was her marrying into England.

In the heart of the City the Lord Mayor and his aldermen were waiting to greet her. It was a most impressive ceremony during which she was presented with a service of gold plate which Uncle John told her later was worth quite three hundred marks and was a sign of the people’s joy in her arrival.

As the next day was Christmas Day she would spend that in London. She would be conducted to the Palace of Westminster and there she would remain for the next three days.

But why, she asked herself, was Edward not there to greet her?

In the palace she was taken to those apartments which had been restored with great artistry and expense under the direction of the King’s great grandfather, Henry III. They were beautiful and had been especially prepared for her on the King’s order.

But if only he had been here himself to greet her!

Her uncle explained to her. ‘We shall shortly be travelling to York where the King is with his mother the Queen.’

‘I had thought to meet him ere this,’ said Philippa, and her uncle noticed her despondency.

‘Dear niece,’ he answered, ‘you must remember that you are married to a King. As eager as he is for your coming, he has State duties which demand his attention. He is involved at this time making a treaty with the Scots and it is for this reason that he cannot be with you. You have seen, have you not, how his people have welcomed you. Why do you think? It is because they have had orders from the King to do so.’

‘So their welcome was not because they were glad to see me but because they were ordered to appear so,’ said the logical Philippa.

‘I tell you this to show the King’s great regard for you. But one can always tell whether the people’s welcome comes from the heart—as it never could if it were shown merely because it was commanded. Nay, my dear niece, you are the most fortunate of girls. Do not look askance at your luck.’

‘I won’t,’ replied Philippa. ‘I do understand that Edward has his State duties. And I am sure the people really like me. They could not be so warm and friendly if they did not.’

There were so many people who wished to meet her and so much feasting. The three days of Christmas had passed and, leaving the Londoners to continue celebrating their King’s marriage to the pleasant little girl from Hainault, Philippa and her retinue began the journey north.

Edward’s second cousin, John de Bohun, Earl of Hereford and Essex, had arrived to conduct her on her journey north and by New Year’s Day they had reached Peterborough, where they rested awhile at the Abbey there.

The weather had taken a turn for the worse and their speed was considerably slackened on account of the icy roads; the winds were fierce and the quantity of baggage which travelled with them slowed them down even more, so it seemed a very long time to Philippa before she saw the towers of the Minster in the distance and knew that her journey was nearing its end.

Then she saw bearing down towards them an array of armour glistening in the pale wintry sun; pennants fluttered in the strong east wind for the cream of the nobility who were with the King in York had come out to greet her; and at their head rode the young King himself.

Philippa’s heart leaped with joy as she saw him mounted on a fine white horse. Gloriously apparelled, taller than when she had last seen him, his flaxen hair adorned by a slender golden crown, he looked more like a god than a king and she was overwhelmed by adoration for him.

He broke away from the company in his eagerness to greet her. His horse was close to hers. His blue eyes were looking earnestly into hers as he took her hand and kissed it.

‘Philippa ... little Philippa,’ he said, ‘at last you have come to me. It has seemed a long time.’

‘For me also,’ she replied. ‘I had thought to see you long ere this.’

‘Oh, you are just the same. I feared you might have changed. How long it seems since we were together in the Hainault woods. I found the waiting irksome, but it is over now. We are to be married immediately. I’ll have no delay.’

The glow of happiness which had settled on her made her beautiful but even in this moment she could not forget those days of anxiety when she had feared she might not be the chosen one.

‘I was afraid ...’ she began.

‘Afraid!’ he cried. ‘You ... of me!’

‘Afraid that one of my sisters might have been chosen by the Bishop.’

Edward smiled at that. ‘That could never have been.’ ‘Oh but it might have. Margaret is the eldest. I thought he was going to choose her.’

‘He wouldn’t have dared.’

‘But I thought he was going to. He seemed to study her. I could have died with misery because you asked him to choose.’

Edward burst out laughing. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘the Bishop was sent to choose. It is the custom, you see. He must choose the most suitable. Kings have to follow customs, Philippa. But do you know what I said to him? “Bishop,” I said, “if you value your head you will choose Philippa. Understand this now that I, the King, command you to choose Philippa.” And of course he would dare choose no other.’

‘Oh Edward, is it really so?’

‘I swear it, my little love. I swear it on our marriage vows, on the tomb of St Thomas, on my father’s bones. It is Philippa I loved in Valenciennes and I swore then and I swear now that I will take none other as my Queen.’

She was silent for a few moments. Then she said quietly: ‘I had thought I should want to die if I had not been chosen. Now I feel I could die for very happiness.’

‘No talk of dying please. You will live for me, sweet Philippa, and I for you and thus shall it be until the end of our days.’

It seemed to her that York was the most beautiful of all cities and she had never believed that there could be such happiness in the world.

The people cheered. They were so young—this King and Queen; they were so handsome and so much in love.

On the thirtieth of January, a month after Philippa had arrived in London they were married in York Minster. It was an impressive ceremony and it was attended not only by the leading members of the English nobility but by many of the great Scottish nobles also, for they had come to York to conclude the peace treaty which was being made between the two countries.

The young lovers were enchanted with each other. Edward would not be sixteen years old until the coming November and Philippa was even younger, but it was an age for early maturing and it had never occurred either to them or to anyone else that they were too young to consummate the marriage.

Although there were meetings with the Scots, and Parliament and the royal council were convened at York, still Edward was spending most of his tune in the company of his bride. They rode out together and they were cheered wherever they went; they were in love with each other and the country was in love with them. Philippa made no secret of her adoration for her young husband and he of his love for her. They were ideally suited, it was generally said; and indeed the rich treasures which Philippa had brought with her into the country were very useful, for the English exchequer was very low at this time. Queen Isabella had necessarily spent much on maintaining her army and in keeping herself and Mortimer in the position they had taken up; the Scottish campaign had been costly; so in spite of the fact that the new Queen was the daughter of a mere Count she was, comparatively, a rich girl and welcomed because of it.

Philippa was delighted that her treasure should be so enthusiastically received. She wanted to give everything she had to her wonderful husband, and in her luggage were rich tapestries and cloth besides valuable jewels, for her father had not wished her to come as a pauper into her new country.

She was immensely popular with her young brother and sisters-in-law. Twelve-year-old John of Eltham who thought his brother the King the most wonderful being in the world immediately fell in love with Philippa; their shared opinion of the King made an immediate bond between them. The two little girls, ten-year-old Eleanor and seven-year-old Joanna, were ready to adore her.

‘I like you,’ Eleanor told her, ‘because you are always smiling.’

‘And I like you because your cheeks are so red,’ added Joanna.

They were her dear little sisters, Philippa told them, and she was particularly happy to have them because when she came to England she had had to leave three sisters behind. And now she had two to replace them.

‘There ought to have been three of us,’ said Joanna looking apologetic.

‘Never mind,’ put in Eleanor. ‘There is John. Will he do as well as a sister?’

Philippa said she thought he would do every bit as well.

When Edward was obliged to meet certain of his ministers and she could not be with him Philippa took the opportunity of going to the royal schoolroom. She was quick to sense that there was some uneasiness in her husband’s family. It may have been due to the fact that she herself had come from such a happy home and that the honesty of purpose which prevailed there made her alert to something which was entirely alien to it.

That it emanated from her mother-in-law and the Earl of March she knew. She saw as little of them as possible for the truth was that they frightened her a little. She sensed a strangeness in the manner of Queen Isabella and she knew that the Dowager Queen and the Earl of March watched her intently. She fancied they were trying to find some fault in her. True, they were friendly towards her, in fact almost gushing in their attitude, and that was something she did not trust. The fact was that she did not understand them. The Queen made her very uneasy and it was not only her attitude which made her feel this. It even had something to do with Isabella’s beauty. She moved with a grace and quietness which was almost feline, and would often appear suddenly in a room where Philippa had fancied herself to be alone. She endeavoured to make the young girl feel awkward, so that she was a little clumsy and somewhat hesitant in her speech. Philippa could not understand the effect the Queen had on her; yet she sensed in it something unhealthy, even evil.

As for the Earl of March, there was something in his cold features which told her that he was ruthless and brutal and she could not understand why he was treated with such respect by everyone—and most of all by the Queen. She believed that people were afraid of him and she was sure she ought to be wary of him.

One day, she promised herself she would speak to Edward about her feelings but she feared it would be rather churlish to say that about his mother which might be construed as criticism.

Moreover when she was with Edward they talked of themselves, how much they loved each other, and how wonderful life had been since they had married; they even talked of the children they would have, for they were certain they would soon have a child.

‘It will be a boy,’ declared Edward.

And we shall call him Edward.’

Then they talked about this boy who, Philippa declared, must be exactly like his father or she would be most displeased.

Such nonsense they talked, Philippa said, but they laughed and kissed and made love and life was wonderful ... far too wonderful to bring in sinister undertones which after all might only be thought up in her imagination.

But there was something unhappy even in the schoolroom. Philippa discovered this from the little girls.

They remembered so much that had happened. There was the time when they had been in the Tower and Lady le Despenser had been their guardian. Their father had set her over them and their mother was unhappy about it because she was the wife of Hugh.

Philippa knew enough about the recent history of her new country to understand that Hugh le Despenser had been a great favourite of the King and that Queen Isabella had been neglected for his sake. The people had hated him and he had been executed and later the King had given up his crown to Edward.

She did not talk to Edward about it because it was depressing and he was always sad when his father’s name was mentioned.

‘There was a lot of shouting in the streets,’ Eleanor told her.

And we were frightened,’ added Joanna.

‘And then the people came and took us to our mother.’

‘We were still frightened.’ Joanna’s face puckered a little. Philippa realized that the little girl was greatly in awe of her mother.

‘Once we saw a man swinging on a rope,’ Joanna went on. ‘He was dead.’

‘He was Hugh’s father,’ went on Eleanor. ‘They had done terrible things to him. Then they hung him on the rope outside the castle ... and he swung and he swung ...’

Philippa said: ‘It is all over now. I should not think of it any more.’

‘I do sometimes in my bed,’ said Eleanor. ‘When it is dark.’

‘I do too,’ added Joanna.

‘Then you mustn’t any more. It’s all over.’

‘Have you ever seen a man hanging on a rope, dear sister?’ asked Eleanor.

‘No,’ said Philippa firmly. ‘Perhaps you didn’t either. Perhaps it was a dream.’

The two little girls looked at her wonderingly.

‘Yes,’ said Philippa, ‘that was it. A dream. Nobody worries much about dreams. They seem of no importance when the day breaks.’

The two girls seemed to like the idea of the hanging man being a dream. ‘Yes, it was a dream,’ they kept saying.

Joanna had something else on her mind. She wanted to know about marriage.

‘What’s marriage like?’ asked Eleanor.

Philippa said that she thought it was the most wonderful thing that could happen to anyone.

‘But you married Edward,’ Joanna reminded her. ‘I wish I could marry Edward.’

‘You cannot marry your brother,’ Philippa explained. ‘Besides he is already married now.’

‘When I was little,’ went on Eleanor, ‘they were going to marry me to Alfonso, the King of Castile. I never did though. Perhaps he didn’t like me.’

‘That could not be,’ Philippa replied firmly. ‘He never saw you.’

‘Did you see Edward?’ asked Joanna.

‘Yes, I did.’ She told them of his coming to Valenciennes and how they had ridden in the forest and fallen in love with each other and then Edward had sent for her to be his wife.

They listened avidly. She told it with such glowing enthusiasm that the little girls could not hear it often enough.

Joanna’s face puckered with anxiety. ‘They are going to make me marry the son of the King of the Scots.’ Suddenly she turned to Philippa and buried her face in her lap. ‘Don’t let them, dear sister. I don’t want to go to Scotland.’

Philippa stroked the little girl’s hair. ‘Oh you are too young yet. You will have to wait years and years.’

That comforted Joanna. ‘I don’t want to go to Scotland,’ she said, ‘even when I am old. It is a cold cold country and the Scots are our enemies.’

‘That is why you will have to marry Robert the Bruce’s son,’ explained Eleanor. ‘We always have to marry to stop people making wars.’

‘He’s only a little boy,’ said Joanna scornfully. ‘He’s not as old as I am.’

‘Oh, you are far too young,’ Philippa assured her.

Then she told them more about Edward’s visit to Valenciennes and although Joanna laughed and asked questions Philippa could see that she was not entirely convinced. She must have been listening to gossip. There was plenty of that and people were not always very careful of what they said in children’s hearing.

When they were alone together Philippa talked to Edward about Joanna’s fears.

‘Poor little girl,’ she said, ‘she has had a very sad life. She and Eleanor seemed to be constantly expecting something unhappy to happen to them.’

Edward frowned. ‘They were always well looked after in Pleshy Castle in Essex. Isabella de Valence was put in charge of them. She was connected with the family because she had married Ralph Monthermer after my aunt Joanna died. Johanette Jermyn was their gouvernante and she was a pleasant woman. They should have had a happy household.’

‘I have no doubt their comforts were taken care of,’ said Philippa. ‘But I think they missed love. In my family our parents were always with us and we were all happy together.’

‘Yours was an unusual family, sweetheart. That was why they produced you.’

She smiled lovingly at him but she pursued the subject. ‘Is it really true that Joanna is to marry the son of Robert the Bruce?’

‘It’s part of the treaty. It’s a good thing really. These wars with Scotland are costly in life and money. The country is too wild and mountainous for a complete conquest. Even my grandfather could not do it. I am all for a peaceful settlement between our two countries and this is what this treaty is all about.’

‘The Scots agree?’

He nodded. ‘Robert the Bruce is anxious for it. He is a very sick man. He has been slowly dying of leprosy for many years and the end cannot be far off. All that he leaves is a five-year- old boy, David, and David will be King of Scotland when Robert dies.’

‘So the plan is to marry Joanna to him.’

‘That is so.’

‘As the boy is five and Joanna seven the marriage will not take place for years.’

‘It will have to take place soon. Anything could happen in a few years. It has to be clear that there is union between England and Scotland and the only way of making this apparent is to celebrate the marriage.’

‘Then Joanna will stay in her own country until she is older.’

Edward frowned. ‘I’m afraid not. Joanna will have to go to Scotland.’

‘Poor child! Then her fears are not groundless.’

‘Oh come, Philippa, these things happen to princesses. They have to reconcile themselves to the fact that they are bargaining counters. It always has been so.’

‘But such a child!’

‘Princesses grow up quickly.’

He kissed her lips. ‘I’ll not have you worrying about these matters. Come, my love, I never have half the time with you that I want. Let us forget these tiresome Scots. They have been a thorn in our side for centuries. This matter may well settle the problem.’

She slipped into his embrace and forgot Joanna, but only temporarily. Later her anxieties concerning the child returned to her with those uneasy stirrings of apprehension which Isabella and the Earl of March aroused in her.

The treaty had been signed. Edward explained the terms to her. He was giving up his feudal claim to Scotland and the great stone of Scone which his grandfather had taken away from Scotland was to be restored to them with certain treasures which had been confiscated. The Scots were to pay twenty thousand pounds to the King of England over the next three years. But the most important clause was the marriage between David, son of Robert the Bruce, and Joanna, daughter of King Edward the Second, the marriage to take place four months after the signing of the treaty.

Philippa was horrified. So the poor child was to be sacrificed. She saw at once that there was nothing she could do about it. Isabella and the Earl of March were in favour of it. They had no desire for a lengthy war. They wanted to enjoy the spoils of their victory and that could not be done if treasure was to be wasted in fighting what could only be a prolonged war which might not bring success in the end. Edward the First, one of the mightiest warriors ever known, had been unable to subdue the Scots.

This was what Edward told her, but she did suspect that he was in some way under the spell of his mother. She could understand it in a way because Isabella was so beautiful and she made such a point of showing her affection for her son—though, thought Philippa sadly, she did not show the same to her other children. Poor little Joanna was in urgent need of comfort, for before the year was out, if this unhappy matter were carried out, the poor little girl would be in Scotland.

There was nothing Philippa could do. She was too young and inexperienced. She was glad that Edward was sympathetic towards his little sister, but as he said to Philippa, it had to be.

It was a mercy that there was a little time left to Joanna and with the resilience of childhood and for weeks at a time she forgot the ordeal ahead of her.

Easter had come and after the church service and celebrations the whole Court prepared to travel south.

As they came out of the city of York and into the village of Bishoppesthorpe, a strange incident occurred which seemed to indicate that already the people had begun to guess the nature of their new young Queen.

Philippa was riding beside Edward at the head of the cavalcade when a woman ran into the road before the uncoming horses and kneeling held up her hands.

The horses were brought to a sharp halt and the woman, ragged and unkempt, came straight to Philippa. She fell to her knees and Philippa leaning forward spoke to her gently and asked what she wanted of her.

‘I have heard of your goodness, my lady,’ said the woman, ‘and it shines in your face. My daughter who is but eleven years is to be hanged by the neck. I beg of you, my lady, speak for her. Save her. She is my child ...’

‘What was her crime?’ asked Philippa.

‘She stole some trinket. It was but a childish impulse. Believe me, my lady, she is a good girl.’

Edward said: ‘I fear my love, you will find many to beset you in this way.’

‘I must help her,’ replied Philippa firmly.

The Queen Mother said: ‘Take the woman away. We wish to ride on.’

For a moment the two queens looked at each other. Isabella’s gaze was impatient and then faintly disturbed. She had seen a hint of firmness in the wide candid eyes. Philippa had turned to Edward.

‘You will want to please me, I know, my lord.’

‘More than anything on earth,’ answered Edward.

‘Then,’ said Philippa, ‘we will call a halt here and I will look into this matter. I could not have our subjects believe that I would not listen to a mother’s plea. It is clear that this woman is deeply distressed.’

‘Do as you will, my dearest,’ answered Edward.

‘How good you are to me,’ she murmured.

So there was a stay at Bishoppesthorpe and Philippa herself saw the young girl who had stolen the trinket and she spoke to the stewards and marshal of the household in which the theft had taken place and the judge who had condemned the girl; and as a result the child was saved from the hangman’s rope.

The mother fell to her knees and kissed the hem of Philippa’s gown while Edward smiled on the scene benignly, and the people said : ‘It was a happy day when our King brought good Queen Philippa to our shores.’

After that they continued their journey south and at last they came to the palace of Woodstock in Oxfordshire that most enchanting residence in sylvan surroundings so beloved of Edward’s ancestor Henry the Second.

‘We will rest here awhile,’ said Edward, ‘Philippa and I with a few attendants, for there has been so much state business and travelling since our marriage, and a little peace is due to us.’

So there they stayed at Woodstock and Philippa’s attendants who had travelled with her from Hainault now returned to their native land. She retained only one. Walter de Manny who was her carver, because he had already shown himself to be a worthy knight and had sworn allegiance to the King.

‘Now,’ said Edward, ‘you have left Hainault behind and are my English Queen. Are you sad, sweet Philippa, to see them go?’

‘I have rewarded them well,’ she said, ‘and they are my friends. But I could not be sad while I am with you and you love me.’

The idyllic life continued at Woodstock.