The Vow on the Heron

TREACHERY AT CORFE CASTLE

ISABELLA could not escape from the dark shadows which crowded in on her. Sometimes she thought she was going mad. She dreamed continually of her murdered husbane-that he came to life and would not Te-airs-re her, that he appeared not only in her bedroom at night when she lay beside her lover, but sometimes she thought she saw his face in a crowd, and once even at a conference table.

Mortimer laughed at her. Mortimer was strong and had little understanding of whimsical imaginings. Mortimer lived entirely for the present and if there were threats in the future he would not look at them.

Sometimes she thought of Gaveston and Hugh—both of whom had met violent deaths though neither could compare with what had happened to her husband—and how they had refused to see their fate approaching them. It had seemed clear enough to everyone else, but those two had continued to plunder the King and snap their fingers at the hatred of the people. If she were not besottedly infatuated by Mortimer, would she say he was the same?

He never wanted to talk about the possibilities of disaster. He never wanted to take heed of warning shadows. He delighted in the pact with the Scots because Robert the Bruce was to pay Edward twenty thousand pounds. The first instalment arrived and Mortimer had taken charge of it, which meant that he would spend it. He was a great spender, Mortimer. He liked to live flamboyantly, and so did she. Well, they deserved it after all that they had suffered—he a prisoner in the Tower with an uncle who had died of starvation, as he might have done if he had not been so strong; and she, what humiliation she had endured for years, thrust into the background while all the favours were showered on her husband’s men friends, bearing his children while she loathed him just because she had to give the country heirs.

Now, they were reaping their reward. Mortimer was the richest and most powerful man in the country and she and he ruled it together. Edward was such a boy and remained amenable.

She was uneasy though about Philippa.

She talked to Mortimer about it. ‘Mortimer what do you think of Philippa?’ she asked.

‘I never think of her. What is she? A simple country girl, fresh and untutored. Why should we think of Philippa as anything but a nice playmate for our boy. He likes married life evidently. Well, let them enjoy it. It will keep them occupied.’

‘That woman on the road ... She insisted, you know, and Edward wants to please her.’

‘She held us up yes. But it was of no great importance.’ ‘Only to show us that he will do a great deal to please her.’ ‘Of course he will ... for a while. He is a boy; he experiences early love. It seems very important to him. Wait till she bears him children and he discovers that there are women in the world more attractive than his plump little Hainaulter.’ ‘At the moment she could guide him.’

‘How could such an innocent guide anyone?’

‘He is changing, wanting his own way. It could be less easy to control him.’

‘Come, sweetheart, let us leave that problem until it arises.’ ‘This peace with Scotland ...’

‘I welcome it.’

Of course he did. It had brought money into his pocket. ‘The people of London are rioting.’

‘A plague on the people of London.’

‘Do not say that. It could be disastrous to the country.’ ‘I mean I care not a groat for them.’

‘They can be dangerous. They are saying the Scone stone shall not be given up and that it is a disgrace to send a baby to that barbarous land to marry the son of a leper.’

‘She will be Queen of Scotland.’

‘They do not like it. Mortimer, do you remember how they supported me? How they cheered me in the streets.’

‘They always loved you. You only have to appear and they shout their loyalty.’

‘Not any more.’

‘It is a momentary matter. They don’t like the wedding. They won’t part with the stone of Scone. They have too high an opinion of their importance, these Londoners. It will blow over.’

‘Yesterday someone shouted “Whore” as I rode by.’

‘Did you see who? He could be hanged, drawn and quartered for that.’

‘Yes, and still he did it. They are turning from me, Mortimer. They are turning from us.’

‘Much should we care.’

‘I wonder sometimes ...’

He soothed her as he always did. He snapped his fingers at danger by refusing to see it.

He was the great Mortimer; she was the Queen of England. It was true there was another Queen—but she was of no importance, no more importance than her young husband. Edward and Philippa were the figureheads. The real rulers were Isabella and Mortimer—and so it should remain.

Every night Joanna cried herself to sleep. It was no use their telling her that she was going to be happy in Scotland. She knew she was not. She was going to have a hideous little bridegroom, two years younger than herself, David the Bruce, who was five years old.

She knew that many princesses were betrothed at her age and sometimes they had to go to the homes of their bridegrooms to be brought up in his way of life, but that did not help at all. Eleanor was older than she was and she did not have to go away. And now Philippa had come and she loved Philippa. Philippa was her new sister but what was the use of having a new sister if you were not going to be with her?

She heard the servants talking about how the new Queen had saved a girl from hanging, and how the King had indulged her although the Queen Mother and the Earl of March had not been very pleased and had wanted to continue their journey without delay.

Perhaps if she asked Philippa to save her from going to Scotland she could speak with Edward and as Edward could deny Philippa nothing—so the gossips said—then perhaps she would be saved.

It was her only hope. She would ask Philippa.

Philippa listened gravely. Yes, it was true Edward had allowed her to save the girl, but this was not a state matter. The marriage with Scotland was, and it might be that there could be no way of stopping it. But Philippa would speak to Edward.

She did. He was sorry but there was nothing he could do. It was a state matter and it was in the treaty.

But when a child is so young surely she could be married by proxy and stay in her own home until she is of an age to leave?’

Edward could only say that it was in the treaty.

He himself was disturbed for he was fond of the little girl and her sister and his brother John. But he was so young himself and after his adventures in Scotland he felt loath to act on some matter of which he was not quite sure. He felt that he had looked rather foolish, marching north with an army and chasing the elusive Scots who had obviously been playing a game with him.

He had to be careful in future.

He hated to disappoint Philippa so he said he would go into the matter and see what could be done.

This meant talking to his mother.

Isabella was pleased that he should have consulted her instead of attempting to act on his own. She pretended to consider the matter but she was determined that Joanna must go to Scotland. It had been agreed upon and if the treaty broke down the Scots might demand the return of the money which Mortimer had already taken.

‘We are dealing with barbaric -people, my sweet son,’ she said. ‘You saw what they were like when you went up to chastise them. What a dance they led you.’

He flushed a little. He was very young. It was good to bring home to him in a subtle way how inexperienced he was.

‘We could not say what would happen if we did not keep to the treaty. War might break out again.’

‘The people are against this marriage, my lady.’

‘The people sway with the wind. They know not what is best for them.’

‘The Queen is worried about Joanna. She is but a baby ... and to be sent away ...’

Isabella stiffened imperceptibly. The Queen? My lady Philippa would have to learn that she had not come here to govern the land.

‘Dear Philippa,’ said Isabella, ‘she is so soft-hearted. I saw lips curl with amusement when she allowed that woman to get the better of her.’

You mean the woman with the daughter whom Philippa saved from the hangman’s rope? I think the people loved her the more for that.’

‘Criminals will, my son. They will say we can commit our crimes and be caught. Never mind. We’ll make a plea to the Queen.’

‘This was but a young girl ...’

‘Of course she is young, our dear Philippa. She will grow up. She will learn quickly I think. She is a charming girl. I am so happy for you Edward.’

Edward smiled. He loved to hear praise of Philippa.

‘Dear Edward,’ went on his mother, ‘you know my thoughts are all for you. Everything I do is what I think is best for you. But you have always known that.’

Her beautiful eyes were moist with tears; he kissed her cheek.

She clung to him. ‘It has not been easy for me, Edward,’ she went on. ‘Sometimes I look back over my life and wonder how I have come through it all. I was so petted in my young days at the Court of France and then when I came to England ...’ she shivered. ‘And when I think of all I had to do ... well, it was worth while because it brought me you. If I can see you secure on the throne, grown into the great King I know you will be ... in time ... I shall die happy.’

‘Dear lady, you are not going to die yet ... not for a long long time.’

‘I pray it will be a long time ... for I will refuse to die until you have become such a King as your grandfather was.’

She had successfully made him realize his youth, his dependence upon her. He accepted her word that the Scottish marriage must go through.

He told Philippa that he saw clearly that there was nothing he could do about it, and Philippa accepted his word.

Through the sultry July days the procession travelled north to Berwick. At its head rode Queen Isabella, beside the most wretched little girl in the kingdom.

Joanna often thought of running away and she might have attempted it if the Earl of March had not ridden beside her and she had not been so afraid of him. In fact she did not know whom she feared most—her mother or the Earl.

Her mother had spoken sharply to her. She must not be a baby. She must accept her fate. She was not the first Princess who had to leave her home. The Scots would make much of her. Didn’t she understand that she would leave her home as a Princess and in Scotland become a Queen.

She would lie in her bed at the various castles in which they stayed during the journey and talk to her sister Eleanor. She was glad Eleanor had come. Eleanor tried to pretend that it was going to be wonderful in Scotland and marriage was exciting. Look how pleased Edward and Philippa were with theirs!

Sometimes Joanna was comforted by her sister; but there were occasions when Eleanor could think of nothing comforting to say and was only too aware that before long she herself might be in a similar plight.

It was sad that Edward and Philippa had not accompanied them. They had talked a great deal about the marriage and Edward longed to stop it. Once more he raged against his youth and inexperience. In his heart he felt the marriage was wrong, and yet he did not feel confident enough to stop it. If he had had a resounding success in Scotland he would have behaved differently.

It was not that he lacked strength of purpose; what he missed was experience; and if he could have convinced himself that there was a right thing to do, he would have done it.

Queen Isabella was hurt that he did not accompany them. She had tried to tempt him by arranging a mock battle and had had special spears made for him elaborately painted with his royal arms; she had others less glorious made for other combatants. It was the sort of entertainment Edward would have enjoyed taking part in and would have excelled at. But he was not tempted. In fact Isabella had misunderstood her son. The last thing he wanted was to be treated like a boy who is bribed with a special treat.

He did not like the idea of the marriage. He did not want to go to the North again where he considered he had recently been humiliated. He was uncertain and unhappy about Scottish matters. So he was going to stay in the soothing company of his beloved Queen.

Meanwhile the royal party arrived at Berwick and the ceremony of betrothal took place with a sad little bride weighed down with the magnificence of her jewelled garments and a little bridegroom who was even younger and seemed to be wondering what all the fuss was about.

It was a splendid ceremony but none was more magnificent than Roger de Mortimer who had brought one hundred and eighty knights to attend him and they in their turn were served by their squires; and all were elaborately and splendidly attired.

Days of feasting followed. There were pageants and tournaments and all these the little bride attended with wondering looks. She was less afraid now when she saw that her bridegroom was only a weak little boy who seemed very young to her because she had the advantage of being two years his senior.

In due course it was time for her to take her leave of the English party. Her mother embraced her and gave her some rich jewels which Joanna did not care very much about. Nor did she feel sad to say good-bye to her mother. She had always been afraid of her.

Isabella with Mortimer and the splendid cavalcade rode south while Joanna, who had been given into the hands of the Scottish nobles and their ladies, was taken to Edinburgh. There she was brought to the King of Scotland—an old old man who, though he was so feeble and could scarcely move, had brilliant eyes which smiled at her and a kindly look.

He was Robert the Bruce, her new father-in-law, and he gave orders that she was to be treated with the utmost care and it was to be remembered that she was very young and in a strange land.

There was something odd about him. He was dying, she knew, of a terrible disease, but he did not inspire her with fear as her own mother and Roger de Mortimer did.

She was bitterly homesick. She wanted the nursery at Windsor. She wanted Johanette Jermyn and dear Isabella de Valance; she wanted her sister Eleanor and her brother John. And most of all she wanted Edward and Philippa.

She had to be brave though. She had to remember that this happened to most princesses. That was what they were born for. They had to make peace and stop wars.

She was not surprised when she heard herself referred to as Joanna Make-Peace.

Events in France had brought dazzling new prospects to the English crown. The history of France over the last few years had been overshadowed by the Curse of the Templars. Philip the Fair, father of Queen Isabella, had made the error of the century when, in order to take their wealth, he had destroyed the Knights Templars. The final act in that dismal tragedy was the burning to death of Jacques de Molai in the Ile de la Cite. As the flames licked his limbs de Molai had uttered the curse—no good should come to the King and his heirs and God would be revenged on them for this evil deed. This had been uttered in the presence of the thousands who had come to witness the end of the Grand Master. It was taken very seriously and, when within a year both the Pope (who had been deeply involved) and the King had died, it was accepted as certain that the curse would work. And so it seemed it had. Philip had three sons and one daughter Isabella, wife to Edward the Second. All three sons became Kings of France—Louis the Tenth le Hutin, the Quarrelsome, Philip the Fifth known as The Long because of his unusual height and Charles the Fourth, the Fair because of his good looks. They all reigned for short periods and none of them had left a male heir. This was generally believed to be due to the curse.

Charles the Fourth had just died and people were looking to Philip of Valois, son of Charles, younger brother of Philip the Fair, as the heir to the throne.

But, reasoned Edward’s advisers, Philip had had a daughter—Isabella—and Isabella had a son Edward, King of England.

The Salic Law prevailed in France and that meant that a woman could not inherit the throne. Perhaps not, but what if that woman had a son? Why should he not have a right to the crown?

The matter was discussed in Parliament and the prospect of enriching the country and themselves was an agreeable one. Edward glowed with anticipation. He had failed to win Scotland but what a great prize France would be. And he could convince himself that he had a claim through his mother.

The French rather naturally had different ideas and elected Philip of Valois as their King.

There were hotheads in England who would have liked to raise an army and march into France. Edward himself longed to gain glory there. If he could win the crown of France he would have done something which even his illustrious grandfather had failed to do.

Isabella and Mortimer were against the enterprise.

‘It is not as though victory—even if there should be victory—could be achieved in a few weeks,’ said Mortimer. ‘There would be a war. Do you think the French would accept Edward? They would put up a strong fight to keep an English King off the throne of France. It would go on for years. The country would be impoverished. We should be impoverished.’ Isabella agreed with him.

She talked gently to her son. ‘The time is not yet ripe,’ she said. ‘You must grow up a little. You are not experienced in warfare as the Scottish exploit showed.’

‘If the Scots had come out to fight ...’ began Edward hotly.

But his mother smiled lovingly at him. ‘Those were the tactics of war, my dear son. They are something every commander has to be prepared for.’

She could bring Edward back to depend on her by reminding him of his youth and inexperience. ‘The Scottish adventure has been a useful exercise,’ she told Mortimer. ‘A reference to it and he is prepared to take any advice.’

So the matter of the claim to the French crown was set aside. But only, Edward promised himself, temporarily. The time would come when he would make a bid for the crown of France.

Soon after his coronation Philip the Sixth called together his numerous vassals that, as a new King of France, he might accept their homage. Among these was Edward who must swear fealty for his French fiefs.

On receiving the command Edward called his Parliament together to decide what, in the somewhat delicate matter of his claim to the French crown, should be done.

After a great deal of discussion it was decided that he must go but that in doing his homage he should in no way renounce his claim to the throne. He must travel in great splendour so that the French might be aware of his riches, but the tricky moment would be when he came face to face with Philip in the ceremony.

Edward took a fond farewell of Philippa. It was the first time they had been separated since their marriage and he promised to be back as soon as he possibly could.

The King travelled through France to Amiens where he was greeted with great warmth to hide the suspicions the French must feel towards one who had declared he had a claim to the throne of France.

It was a hot June day when Edward came before the King of France to pay the necessary homage, most splendidly attired in a robe of crimson velvet embroidered in gold with leopards. His sword was at his side and on his head he wore a glittering golden crown and his spurs were golden to match it.

It was inevitable that the French King should be equally splendid. Seated on his throne, wearing his crown and clad in blue velvet decorated with golden fleurs-de-lis he looked askance at the King of England.

Philip murmured to his knight-at-arms that he did not expect his liegeman to do homage in a crown. All knew that Edward was King of England, but that fact was not a matter of concern on this occasion. He had come to pay homage for his lands in France and it should be done with a bare head and an ungirt sword.

‘My lord,’ said Edward, ‘I can do homage only generally. I cannot set aside my English crown.’

There was much murmuring throughout the hall. Philip looked at this very young man—scarcely more than a boy and wondered what he had to fear from him. He decided to act with care.

‘I will accept homage on your terms,’ he said. ‘But when you return to England I would have you search the records and if you find that full liege homage is due you will send letters patent to me of it.’

Edward said: ‘This I agree to do.’

And the King of France answered: ‘I accept your word on your honour.’

But before the homage proceeded, with Edward wearing the crown on his head and the sword at his side, he asked that those territories taken from his father should be returned to him.

‘Why should this be?’ asked Philip. ‘These lands were taken from your father in war.’

There was a deep silence throughout the community. All realized how reluctantly Edward did homage to a King whose crown he thought he himself should be wearing. But his claim to the throne seemed so ridiculous to the French that they did not consider it seriously; and the fact that Edward was so young made it seem even more absurd.

But there among the nobles of France Edward came to a decision. At some time, when he was older and more experienced, he was coming over to claim what he was fast believing he had a right to.

The lesson of the Scottish enterprise had been well learned and he was going to tread warily. He agreed therefore to pay homage only for those lands which he held in France, so the ceremony proceeded and, according to the custom, Edward placed his hands between those of the King of France and Philip responded by kissing his mouth.

After the ceremony he was eager to return home to Philippa at Windsor and there was great joy in their reunion.

She told him how anxious she had been. She hated his going away from her and was terrified that something would happen to him. He laughed at her fears and expounded at great length on the glories of France.

‘It is a wonderful country, Philippa, and as I rode through it I was saying to myself: “Mine ... this should be mine.”‘ ‘They will never give it up,’ said Philippa.

‘No. I shall have to fight for it.’

She was uneasy.

‘Do you not think I shall do it, Philippa?’

‘I am sure you will do anything you wish to do, Edward. But I like not battles. For one thing they will take you away from me.’

Edward replied that he would forgo France for her.

He had only been in England four days when news came from the little castle of Cardross on the banks of the Clyde that Robert the Bruce was dead, worn out with continual struggles, and desperately ill with the fearful leprosy from which he had been suffering for several years.

Philippa stood by Edward when he received the news.

‘The Bruce dead,’ she murmured. ‘This means that our little Joanna is Queen of Scotland.’

Isabella was growing more and more apprehensive. It was so different from when she had landed in England. It seemed to her that her friends were slipping away from her. Sir John of Hainault, that trusting adorer, who had been in love with her and had fought so well for her cause because of that, had returned to Hainault. She knew that those who had been with her in the beginning were turning away from her.

It was amazing how people blamed her for the marriage of Joanna. She knew they were saying it was cruel to have sent a child of seven into that northern land of harsh winters and barbaric people. To have married the little girl to a bridegroom of five whose father was dying of leprosy and who could very well have inherited the dreadful disease, was monstrous. But that, it could be argued, was a state matter; what could not be accepted was her flagrant behaviour with the adventurer Mortimer. Indeed a great deal of her unpopularity came from her association with Mortimer. Mortimer was a strong man, a fighter, a man who was without fear, but he could not be said to have a very subtle mind. He saw only the advantages of the moment and clearly there were many. He seized what he could get and no man—not even the favourites of the previous King—could have become so rich in so short a time. If there were lands and money to be had it could be depended on that Mortimer would find it and take it for himself.

And the reason why Isabella was being looked on with growing suspicion was due to her reliance on this man. It was as though he had bewitched her. She could see no fault in him. Their passionate sexual connection was as necessary to her as it had been in the beginning of their association.

If they had acted discreetly their relationship might have been accepted. The whole country knew how she must have suffered through the late King’s deficiencies. But this affair with Mortimer was not discreet. It was blatant and becoming more so. One rarely appeared in public without the other and they behaved with such careless abandon that it was clear that they did not care who knew of their liaison.

Often she reminded herself of her achievements. Who would have believed it possible when she had gone to France, having lured her husband and Hugh le Despenser into agreeing to her departure, that she would have returned so triumphantly, have brought about Edward’s removal, set her son on the throne and, with Mortimer, ruled the country through him? Everything they had planned had come to pass. Then why could she not enjoy it? Mortimer did. Oh, he was wiser than she was.

Of course there were her dreams and they were becoming more frequent. Sometimes they spilled over into the day. She wished she could stop thinking about her dead husband. She wished she didn’t see him in her dreams. In that vague drifting between wakefulness and sleep she fancied she heard his screams when the red hot spit was entering his body.

‘Oh God,’ she cried, let me forget. Why do I have to be haunted? Why cannot I be wise like Mortimer?’

Mortimer was wise indeed. He cared for nobody—certainly not the dead.

‘Let be,’ was his motto. ‘What’s done is done.’

And he was right, of course.

Mat had happened to her? She, who was the daughter of one of the most ruthless men of the century, the despoiler and murderer of the Templars, should have inherited some of his ruthless strength. I am his daughter, she thought. Perhaps the curse has come upon me.

She was beginning to notice the change in people’s attitudes towards her.

There was the Earl of Kent, for instance. As her husband’s young half-brother, son of a French mother, he had been drawn to her from the day she had arrived in the country. He had clearly been impressed by her beauty as so many had and, when she had arrived in England with her army to stand against Edward the Second and put young Edward the Third on the throne, Edmund had been there to support her.

Yet only yesterday when she had been riding with him she had been aware of his coolness towards her.

He had talked about his brother. She remembered every word of the conversation because it had seemed significant.

‘I believe he was not well treated at Berkeley,’ he had said suddenly.

She had felt the tingling shrinking on her flesh which indicated fear and she was not sure whether it showed or not. A short while ago she would have given no sign but something was happening to her. She was becoming more and more tense and nervous and showing it.

‘Oh ... Thomas of Berkeley was very friendly with him.’ ‘He is a connection of the Earl of March, I believe.’

‘Yes ... through marriage ...’

A silence had followed during which Edmund frowned deeply. She and Mortimer had always said that Edmund was a simple fellow. He had never been able to hide his feelings and he was very thoughtful now.

She had tried to change the subject but he had brought it back.

‘Our cousin Lancaster and he were very amicable together when the King was at Kenilworth.’

She wanted to scream: ‘Stop it. Stop. The dreams will come back tonight. They always do when I talk of him in the day.’

She desperately sought to change the subject. ‘I have reason to believe that the Queen is with child.’

Edmund smiled. He was fond of the new Queen and of Edward. Isabella went on: ‘It will be a blessing if it is so and I think the nation will go wild with joy if it is a son.’

Edmund agreed and to Isabella’s relief they talked of the joys of parenthood. Edmund had four children of his own and he never tired of discussing them.

But just as Isabella was congratulating herself on having most happily changed the subject they came upon a group of people who stood back to let them pass.

There were no cheers for Queen Isabella as in the past. But one voice was heard and what was said came very distinctly to their ears.

‘Whore! ‘

Isabella had pretended not to hear but she saw the faint colour in the Earl’s face. He looked disconcerted and she fancied she noticed a tightening of his lips.

She sought out Mortimer. In such circumstances she always turned to Mortimer. He would soothe her and know what to do.

‘The people are turning against us,’ she said.

‘Why concern ourselves with them?’

‘Dear Mortimer, they could rise against us.’

‘They would never dare.’

Looking at him she could believe that. He looked so powerful, so important and so splendid. The glory of his apparel increased every day. He never went anywhere without an array of knights almost as splendidly clad as himself, proclaiming his wealth and importance.

She told him what the Earl of Kent had said. ‘I could see speculation in his eyes. If the people turned against us, his royalty could make him a leader.’

‘Kent! He would never lead anyone.’

‘I believe he might,’ said Isabella.

‘The man’s a fool.’

‘That may be but he is Edward’s half-brother.’

‘The people have never liked him.’

‘They have never disliked him.’

‘No, he is neither this nor that.’

‘But he would be a figurehead. Others would decide on policy. I fear him, Mortimer. He talked about the King. He has been making enquiries I believe.’

Mortimer narrowed his eyes. ‘Maltravers, Gurney and Ogle are out of the country.’

‘Yes, I know. What if he discovered where and they talked?’

Mortimer was silent for a while and then he said : ‘We will make an example of one of them. We will let them see what happens to those who meddle.’

‘An example of whom?’ asked Isabella.

‘My choice falls on Kent,’ said Mortimer.

‘Kent! The King’s half-brother. Edward’s uncle.’ ‘It is always best, my love, to strike at the top.’

Edmund Earl of Kent was twenty-nine years old. He had been six years old when his father, Edward the First, had died. He had seen very little of that great warrior who was always away from home on some military enterprise and he and his brother Thomas of Brotherton, Earl of Norfolk, who was just one year older than he was, had been brought up by their gentle French mother Marguerite.

It was only natural that when the new King, Edward the Second, married a French wife that he should be drawn to her. She was beautiful and gracious and everyone said what a good and docile wife she was to a husband who was far from admirable.

When Edward had become so unpopular through his association with the Despensers Edmund had become a member of Lancaster’s party to stand against them, which meant being opposed to the King. He had been on an unsuccessful mission in France when Isabella had visited her brother’s court and he had joined the malcontents who gathered round her. Thus when she came to England with her army he was with her; and he had been faithful to her cause until now.

Mortimer however was becoming intolerable. There was murmuring against him all through the country just as there had been with Gaveston and the Despensers in the previous reign. This Marcher Baron had set himself up as a king and even had he been a rightful king he would have caused discontent by his behaviour. Moreover he was Isabella’s paramour and, although none would have raised any great objection if the liaison had been carried on with discretion, it was intolerable that Mortimer, freshly risen from Isabella’s bed, should strut about as few kings had ever had the temerity to do.

It had to stop.

He had conferred with Henry of Lancaster, his cousin, and his brother, Thomas Earl of Norfolk, and they had agreed with him. At that same time they had reminded him that the King was very much under his mother’s influence and that meant Mortimer’s. The situation was full of dangers and they all agreed they must go warily.

It was at this time that a Friar called at the house of the Earl of Kent in Kensington and he asked for a private audience with the Earl for he had something to tell him which he was sure would be of the greatest interest.

As soon as they were alone together the Friar said: ‘My lord, this seems incredible but I know it to be true. Edward the Second is not dead. He still lives.’

Kent was speechless and the Friar continued: ‘I can tell you where he is, my lord. He is in Corfe Castle. The Governor of the castle is well known to me and I have his word for it that the King still lives. He is kept a prisoner there and he longs to be in touch with those whom he can trust. He looks to you, my lord, as his brother.’

Kent spluttered: ‘I ... I cannot believe this to be true. I must go to him at once.’

‘My lord, forgive me, but you must act with the greatest care. The Governor goes in fear of his life. He regrets already having let me into the secret. If you did go to Corfe it would have to be with discretion.’

‘Of course, of course,’ cried Kent. ‘What is their motive?’ ‘It is to tell the world that he is dead that they may rule through the young King as they wish.’

‘But Edward gave up his throne to his son.’

‘Yes, but young Edward was loth to take it and he could not happily wear the crown while his father lived. So ... they devised this plan ...’

‘Isabella ... and Mortimer

The Friar nodded.

‘I will set out for Corfe without delay,’ said the Earl.

‘I will accompany you, my lord, but you will understand that our mission must be entirely secret.’

The Earl promised this should be so and did not even tell his wife where he was going.

During the journey the Friar told Kent that Edward was a prisoner and that Mortimer’s idea was to get rid of him as soon as he could conveniently do so.

The Earl of Kent was a simple man. He had swayed from side to side during the troubles which had beset the country during the reigns of Gaveston and the Despensers. He had always been gullible and it might have been that was why Mortimer had selected him to be his example rather than his elder brother, Thomas of Norfolk. Norfolk had never been so embroiled in conflicts. Although he had supported Isabella on her return to England he had soon retired to his estates and had not taken a great part in the struggle. Kent was different : he was all enthusiasm one day and doubts the next.

Now he was ready to believe this story of Edward’s captivity in Corfe, though when he arrived at the castle the reception he received would have warned any other man that there was something contrived about the whole matter.

At first the Governor did not wish to let him in and he reproached the Friar for having brought him, but at last after a great deal of talking the visitors were allowed inside.

‘Is it true that you have my brother here?’ demanded Kent.

The Governor floundered, stammered and looked down at the floor, up at the rafters and anywhere but at the Earl of Kent.

‘I cannot believe it,’ said Kent. ‘There has been some mistake.’

‘It is not so,’ declared the Friar.

‘It is all very strange,’ said the Earl. ‘Until I saw my brother here I would not believe it.’

‘My lord,’ cried the Governor, ‘I dare not ... I could not ... I do not know whether ...’

‘You must tell me the truth,’ cried the Earl.

The Governor at length said: ‘If you would communicate with the King you must do so by letter.’

‘So you admit that he is here.’

‘I say that if you wrote a letter and it was delivered to the one for whom it is intended then you would know for yourself whether the prisoner here is the King.’

‘So you admit to having a prisoner.’

The Governor was silent.

A warning flashed into the Earl’s mind. They were making such a mystery of this. Why? Of course they were making a mystery. The matter was mysterious. But he was not putting anything into writing until he was certain.

He said as much.

‘My lord, I dare not take you to the King. He has refused to see anyone. He thinks all who come are his enemies, sent from the Earl of March.’

‘I know,’ said the Friar, ‘that the King will see no one but would it be possible for my lord Earl to see the King ... perhaps from some point where he himself would not be observed.’

‘I will consider whether this could be possible,’ said the Governor.

Edmund spent a restless night in the castle. It was all too involved and mysterious for comfort and he did not greatly care for the Governor.

At dusk the next day the Friar said that if he looked through a peep-hole above the room where the King was lodged he would see him for himself.

‘Why should I not visit him?’

‘My lord, the King has moments of desolation when he is not quite lucid. This matter of a rescue will have to be broken to him gently, by letter preferably. Come with us and assure yourself that it is your brother who is lodged in this castle.’

It was very strange, but the Earl told himself that if he could see Edward he would believe the story. He was conducted up a spiral staircase and taken to a room. Here a hole was revealed in the wall. It was small, just enough for an eye to peer through, and looking in the Earl saw a room with bed, table and a chair. On the chair sat a man. Although he was seated it was easy to see that he was exceptionally tall and his greying hair had been very fair. The resemblance was strong, but the light was feeble. However the Earl of Kent was very ready to be deceived.

He left Corfe Castle the next day to consider what he had seen, and thoughtfully returned to Kensington. He wondered whether he should tell his brother. Could he really have been the King, that man who was seated in the chair at the table in the room at Corfe Castle? But why should anyone want to deceive him?

For a few days he pondered and then he received another visit from the Friar.

‘I have had a message from the Pope, my lord Earl,’ he said. ‘He has commanded me to tell you that he wishes the King to be rescued from Corfe Castle.’

‘Then the Pope believes this story.’

‘It is no story, my lord. Your brother lies in Corfe Castle, a prisoner of Mortimer. There are plans to remove him altogether. This is what the Pope fears will happen and he has commanded me to put this matter to you and to beg you not to delay.’

The Earl was thoughtful.

‘First,’ he said, ‘I must write a letter to my brother.’

‘That would be an excellent plan,’ replied the Friar. ‘If you will tell him that you are his friend as well as his brother and will rouse others to his aid. If you will tell him that you are determined to expose the wickedness of Roger de Mortimer you will put new hope into the King, my lord. Aye, and Heaven will praise you, as the Pope implies, for what you have done.’

Edmund glowed with enthusiasm.

He would write immediately and the Friar should take the letter to Corfe. Could he be sure of getting it into the hands of the King? Indeed he could. The Governor would not be averse to passing on a letter.

Kent wrote at great length and indiscretion, explaining that he was at his brother’s service and would raise an army to fight for him and against his enemies. He could, if he wished, be set back on the throne for it seemed as though he had given it up under duress.

The Friar took the letter and rode back to his lodging where he discarded his friar’s habit. He would be well rewarded he knew. All had worked out according to their plans. He had the letter which was clear treason against the King if anything ever was. Who would have thought a man in the Earl of Kent’s position would be so easily misled,by a man who happened to bear a faint resemblance to the late King. The Friar set out for Winchester where a Parliament was sitting and Mortimer received him immediately.

He laughed as he read the letter.

‘Well done, erstwhile Friar. Silly Kent has written enough to put a rope round his neck. He has been well deceived.’

‘It was no hard matter, my lord, to deceive him. I never knew a man more eager to fall into a trap.’

‘It will be the last time he shall fall,’ said Mortimer fiercely. ‘I have made up my mind to that. You have done well and shall not be forgotten.’

Now to it, he thought. I will summon the Earl of Kent to Winchester.

The King and Queen were at Woodstock. They were as devoted as ever and they were especially happy at this time because the Queen was pregnant.

Edward was determined that the utmost care should be taken of her and he said he could trust her to no other than himself and in spite of pressing state matters he would not leave her.

Shortly before, she had been crowned. He had been so proud of her. He often thought how fortunate he had been. How many kings married women with whom they were already in love? How many secured such a woman as Philippa? She was loving, tender and good. His people appreciated her worth as he did. And when she gave him a son ... She had admonished him a little, fearful of course that the child might not be a boy. But although he wanted a boy he would not care so very much if it proved to be a daughter. They were young in love and would have a host of children—many boys among them.

The coronation had not been as splendid as he would have liked. The exchequer was very low and he was beginning to feel very uneasy. His mother and Mortimer were taking too much of money and treasure which was needed for other things. He must examine these matters. He was concerned about his mother, though, and hated to upset her and she could be so easily upset nowadays. Any word of criticism however faint directed at Mortimer and she was ready to fly into one of those moods when she talked incessantly and sometimes not very coherently, and that worried him.

He was at Woodstock to forget such matters. He and Philippa could walk together and he could cosset her and they could talk of the baby which was due in June.

Messengers came from Winchester. There were alarming reports of treason, and his uncle the Earl of Kent was involved.

Oh not seriously, he thought. Uncle Edmund could never be really serious. He thought he was, of course, but he could be so enthusiastic about some plan and a few words could alter the course of his excitement completely. He did not take Uncle Edmund entirely seriously.

He would not go to Winchester. He was not going to leave Philippa. She was very young but then she was strong and so far she had had an easy pregnancy. He wanted to stay here and talk of the coming child for nothing could seem of any importance beside that.

The days were growing warm. Philippa was growing larger. Each day brought the arrival of that blessed infant nearer. Who could think about what was happening at Winchester?

The Earl of Kent was shown the letter he had written to the dead King. Was it in his handwriting? It was, he answered. There was no point in denying it. He had believed the dead King was alive and indeed had been shown a man in Corfe Castle who greatly resembled him.

‘Did he tell you he was the dead King?’ he was asked. ‘I had no speech with him,’ replied the Earl.

‘Yet you believed he was the dead King and you wrote this letter to him. Do you know that this letter is treason. Do you know that your offers of service were to a man not our King whom you are proposing to set up against our true King ... do you realize, my lord Earl, that this is treason?’

He knew enough to recognize that it was.

He also knew the penalty for treason.

Isabella and Mortimer talked of it when they were alone. ‘You cannot sentence him to death, Mortimer,’ said Isabella. ‘He is the King’s uncle.’

‘I can and I will,’ cried Mortimer. ‘He has written this letter. He has condemned himself to death. He should not complain if the sentence is carried out.’

‘You are forgetting he is royal.’

‘Royal or not he goes to the scaffold. There is none who thinks himself so high that he cannot be brought low.’

‘The King must be told.’

‘My love, do you want to ruin our plan? You know what Edward would do. He would pardon his dear kinsman.’ ‘What then, Mortimer?’

‘Execution,’ replied Mortimer. ‘Immediate execution.’

They had sentenced him to death and the sentence was to be carried out without delay. They had taken him into the courtroom presided over by the coroner of the royal household, Robert Howel, and he had been clad only in his shirt with a rope about his neck.

He pleaded for mercy. He wished to see the King, he said.

His accusers regarded him coldly. It was too late to think of repentance, they told him. He was a traitor to the King; he had committed treason; he had tried to arouse others to share his disloyalty; he had planned to raise an army against the King. What did it matter if he were closely related to the King? He was a traitor and deserved his punishment the more for being royal.

On Mortimer’s orders he was taken through Winchester to a spot outside the walls. There the axe was awaiting him.

It was early morning for Mortimer had wished the deed to be done before the town was astir. He guessed that the execution of such a well-known man would attract crowds and there might be some to disagree with the verdict.

Half an hour passed and the headsman had not arrived. A messenger came from him. He had run away because he was afraid to do it, he had said, for the Earl of Kent was royal; he would not behead such a person. Who knew he might be blamed for it later.

Mortimer who was there in person to witness his enemy’s end was furious.

‘The knave! ‘ he cried. ‘Send for another. Anyone. But let there be no delay. The headsman had an assistant had he not?’

He had, was the answer, but hearing what his superior had done he himself had acted similarly. He also had decided that he would not take responsibility for beheading a member of the royal family.

Mortimer was fuming with rage. It was as though they were defying him, as though they said: ‘Edward the King would not wish this deed to be done.’ Of course he would not. That was why it had to be done with all speed.

‘Find me a headsman,’ cried Mortimer; and although one was sought none could be found. His knights and squires cast down their eyes lest he should command them to do the deed. He could not do that, for if he did it could be said that one of his men had murdered the Earl of Kent. It must be done by a man whose business was with prisons.

Noon had come and the Earl still lived. He was praying to God, telling himself that this was divine intervention. He was going to be saved because God would allow no one to behead him.

The afternoon wore on and still no one could be found to do the job. Then Mortimer had an idea. ‘Go to the prison,’ he said. ‘Find a man who is condemned to die. Promise him freedom if he will act as headsman to the Earl of Kent.’

That was the end of the quest.

Life was a reward too great to be missed.

At five o’clock on that March day Edmund Earl of Kent laid his head on a block and that head was severed from his body.

The King was at Woodstock when he heard the news.

He could not believe it. His own uncle. To have been executed without a word to him!

A traitor they said. He was plotting to raise an army against his King.

It was the end of March and the child was due in June. Edward must leave Philippa and ride to Winchester to hear for himself what had really happened.

She did not want him to go, of course, nor did he wish to. She wanted to come with him, but he would not allow that. True the winter was over but the roads were rough. How would she travel? Carried in a litter. That would not be good for the child.

‘Must you go?’ she asked.

‘He was my uncle,’ he answered.

‘And a traitor to you.’

‘Somehow I cannot believe that of my uncle.’

‘You always thought he was not very clever.’

‘Not very clever but he would not rise against me.’

‘Something troubles you deeply,’ she said.

‘My love, my uncle has been beheaded, accused of treason against me. In truth I am troubled.’

‘There is something more,’ she said.

He stroked her hair back from her face. ‘I am troubled that I must leave you,’ he said. ‘Never fear, I shall be back soon. I shall order that I am to be kept informed of your health every day.’

So he rode to Winchester, and there he found his mother and Mortimer.

‘Fair son,’ cried Isabella, ‘how good it is to see you here.’

‘I am not happy with my mission,’ he answered grimly. ‘I come to hear about my uncle Kent.’

Mortimer was there, smiling familiarly. One would have thought Mortimer the King and he, Edward, the subject.

‘My lord, ever zealous in your service we could not allow one to live who was trying to raise an army against you.’ ‘I do not believe that to be true.’

‘There was evidence. He admitted it. He had trumped up some story about a man at Corfe whom he believed to be your father.’

Edward was silent. He looked at this man and he thought: What happened to my father? How did he die?

His mother was watching him closely.

‘Mortimer has been a good servant to you, Edward.’

‘And to himself, my lady,’ Edward replied; and his words sent shivers of alarm through Isabella’s heart. She thought: He is growing up. He is growing up too fast.

‘My dear son, your grandfather always dealt speedily with traitors so I heard. It is never good to let them live to ferment trouble.’

‘My uncle was a fool but not a knave.’

‘The actions of fools and knaves can sometimes run on similar lines,’ said Isabella. ‘Oh, Edward, I know this is a shock to you, but it was necessary. Believe me. Believe me.’

She looked so wild that he had to soothe her. ‘I know you have my good at heart,’ he assured her.

‘Have I not always loved you? Were you not everything to me? When you were a baby you made all that I had suffered worth while.’

‘I know. I know. I do not complain of you.’

It was pointed but Mortimer shrugged it aside.

‘Only a boy,’ he said afterwards to Isabella. ‘The Scottish campaign taught him that and it is something he will never forget.’

‘What if he discovers that you set the trap for Kent? That you arranged for his downfall?’

‘How could he? Has he discovered how his father died?’ ‘Not yet,’ said Isabella.

‘Oh, my love, what has come over you? You are so fearful these days.’

‘I have a premonition of evil. Oh Mortimer, we should never have killed Edmund of Kent.’

‘Nonsense. It has shown people that they should take care before they trifle with me.’

He drew himself to his full height. The complacent smile was always on his lips nowadays. What was wrong with the execution of Kent? Mortimer had taken charge of much of his possessions and grown the richer for it. All over the country people would be marvelling at the might of Mortimer.

‘Take care,’ they would say. ‘Never offend the Earl of March.’