Isabella, the eldest daughter, was headstrong and her father’s favourite, spoilt, wilful, flaunting the fact that she could with a little wheedling always get her own way with the King. Philippa was uneasy thinking of her eldest daughter’s future; she had constantly tried to restrain the King in his inability to stop spoiling her. But the greatest sadness had come to her through Blanche and her two Williams and Joanna. Joanna had died in Loremo, a small town near Bordeaux, when she was on her way to marry Pedro of Castile. Poor child! It seemed now that she had been fortunate to die, even horribly as she did of the plague, for Pedro who had earned the name of The Cruel would have been a fearful husband for such a gentle creature. She heard that his mistress commanded him and he was her absolute slave, and that he had murdered the wife he had eventually married and had strangled his bastard brother in addition to countless crimes of cruelty. Never again, Philippa had vowed to Edward, should a child of theirs be sent out to marry a bridegroom of whom they knew nothing except that he possessed a great title.
Edward always soothed her. He loved his children even as she did; he wanted them to be happy; but he must be mindful of the demands of state. He never stressed this though with Philippa, and he knew that in the case of his daughters he would always be lenient.
Lionel married, John married, and what of Edward?
‘It is not,’ said the Queen, ‘that he does not like feminine society.’
She frowned. She was thinking of the King’s father, who had been devoted to the handsome young men on whom he showered wealth and titles. No, there was nothing like that about Edward. He was entirely a man.
‘He just feels disinclined to marry,’ replied the King.
‘But he is the heir to the throne! He should have sons by now.’
‘You know, my dear, it is no use trying to tell Edward what he should do. He will do what he wills.’
‘We have self-willed children, Edward. Isabella does what she wants with you.’
‘Isabella. She is a minx.’ His face softened. He loves this daughter more than anyone on earth, I do believe, thought Philippa. She was not jealous, only pleased that their daughter should mean so much to him. But she did feel that the girl was becoming more and more unmanageable. However, the concern at the moment was not with Isabella but Edward.
‘A minx yes, but it is Edward who is of the greatest importance. It is no use speaking to him, I suppose …’
The King shook his head. ‘Edward will go his own way. He knows the importance of marriage. He knows the people expect it. See how they applauded John’s marriage. How much more so would they applaud the marriage of our heir. But he will go his own way. He will marry when he wishes and whom he wishes. You know Edward.’
The King’s eyes were glazed with memory. That son of his who had filled him with pride from the minute he could walk. Isabella he loved the most. Well, she was a girl and he was very susceptible to feminine charms, but he was rarely so proud as when he rode out with his first-born beside him.
Crécy where the boy won his spurs! What a great day! And he had been ready – nay eager – to pass over the triumph to his son. Fifteen-year-old Edward. He had risked the boy’s life then; had left him to fight his way out of trouble while his urgent prayer was ‘Oh God, let the boy earn his spurs this day.’ And valiantly had young Edward done so, proclaiming himself as a warrior at that tender age. And more recently Poitiers when against great odds he had won a decisive victory and captured the King of France himself. How like Edward to let his father first know of the victory by sending him the French King’s helmet!
A son to warm the heart of any King. England would be safe with this Edward to govern it. It was only in this matter of marriage that he was a disappointment. Twenty-nine and unmarried! Moreover he was a soldier and soldiers, even the greatest of them, could never be sure when they might meet a violent end.
‘I sometimes think,’ went on the Queen, ‘that his heart is with Joan of Kent.’
The King flinched. Joan was another of those women with whom, had the opportunity offered, he would have dallied. Joan was quite different from the Countess of Salisbury. She was beautiful and she had something else – a provocation, some quality which was a constant invitation to the opposite sex. There had been a time when it seemed that the Prince of Wales would marry Joan.
Even so, faced with this provocative creature, Edward had been severely tempted – which would have been even more sinful than a liaison with the Countess of Salisbury. She was the wife of his best friend. Joan might have been the wife of his son.
They called her the Fair Maid of Kent. Fair she was without question and her father was Edmund of Woodstock, Earl of Kent, who had been the youngest son of Edward the First, so she was of royal descent.
In those days it had seemed that there could be no obstacle to her marriage with the Prince of Wales except that of consanguinity and that was a matter which could always be overcome by an obliging Pope.
‘I often wonder what went wrong,’ continued the Queen. ‘I am sure Joan was fond of Edward and she is not the sort to say no to a crown. Yet …’
Philippa would never understand. Joan was ambitious. Joan was not averse to Edward; but Edward was too slow and Joan was not of a nature to stand by and wait. Her warm passionate nature demanded fulfilment and such a beauty had no lack of suitors. She had been affianced to William Montacute, son of the fair Countess, but in the meantime Thomas Holland had managed to seduce her. There had had to be a hurried wedding and that was the end of the hope of a marriage for Joan with the Prince of Wales.
The King was thoughtful. He would have been a little uneasy perhaps if his son had married a woman whom he so much admired. It would have been very disturbing to have temptation so close and what if he were to succumb to it! He shuddered at the thought. It would be like incest. No, it was as well to have that temptress removed from his orbit. Even so there had been certain rumours. No one would ever forget that occasion when Joan had dropped her garter in the dance and he had picked it up. He could still remember the looks on the faces of those about him; he had fancied he heard a titter. He had faced them all with his comment which had now become well known: ‘Evil be to him who evil thinks.’ He had honoured the garter; he had attached it to his own knee and he had made it the symbol of chivalry.
‘Well, my dear,’ he said, ‘it is no use thinking of Joan of Kent. Let us hope that someone suitable to his rank will lure him from this bachelor’s state which he seems to find so pleasant. He must realise that he should marry for the sake of the country. Perhaps I should speak to him after all.’
The Queen shook her head. ‘Perhaps it is better not. This constant questioning of the matter may well stiffen his resistance.’
‘As always you are wise, my dearest. We will wait awhile and hope.’
‘Perhaps the happiness of John and Blanche will decide him.’
‘We must hope for that.’ The King frowned. Then he said: ‘There is Lionel and his little daughter. There is John … We do not lack sons, Philippa.’
‘Edward was made to be King,’ replied Philippa firmly. ‘He is a young man yet. One day I know he will marry. He will have strong stalwart sons even as we have had.’
‘Amen to that,’ replied the King. ‘And now enough of these children of ours. We are not so old ourselves that we should not give a thought to our own wellbeing.’