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.’
THE END OF MORTIMER
IT was ten o’clock on the morning of June the fifteenth and expectancy hung over Woodstock Palace.
Philippa was calm; her women about her declared that that was extraordinary in one so young expecting her first child. She was just seventeen years old.
‘If the child is a boy,’ she had told Lady Katherine Haryngton, ‘my happiness will be complete.’
‘It is never wise to think too much about the sex of the child, my lady,’ was the reply.
‘Oh do not think I should not love a girl. I should. And it is not for myself that I want a boy, but for Edward. Imagine his joy if I could bring forth a son. Everything has been perfect so far, Katherine. I would just like it all to be crowned with a boy ... a perfect boy ... a boy who looks exactly like Edward.’
‘We will pray for that, my lady.’
‘Dear Edward. He longs to be with me now and will be I know ere long. In a way I am glad that he is not here, I may suffer and that would make him unhappy. No, I want him to arrive in time to see his boy ... and not before.’
‘My lady, you make great demands on fate.’
They were good friends, she and Katherine. Katherine was the wife of Sir John Haryngton of Farleton in Lancashire, herself a wife and mother and very well able to look after Philippa.
They discussed children and the best way to bring them up during those waiting days; and then came the fifteenth, that day which Philippa was to think of in later years as one of the happiest of her life for during the morning she gave birth to a child—a boy, who was perfect in every way and even at his birth showed himself to have the long limbs of the Plantagenets and that lusty air which Katherine Haryngton declared was obvious from the first moment she saw him.
Exhausted but triumphant Philippa held him in her arms—this wonder child, this fruit of her love for Edward.
‘God has favoured me,’ she said. ‘Never was a woman more blessed. The news must be taken to Edward without delay.’
‘I will send your valet, Thomas Priour, to him at once,’ said Katherine.
‘I would he were here. I would I could see his face.’ ‘He will be here. You will see his face.’
‘I long to show him our boy.’
She did not have to wait. Edward came immediately. He had given the delighted Thomas Priour a reward of forty marks a year for bringing him the good news.
Now he strode into his wife’s chamber, knelt by the bed and kissed her hand. There were tears on her cheeks.
‘I never knew there could be such happiness,’ said the Queen.
‘Nor I,’ replied the King, ‘and only you could give this to me.’
They marvelled over the child. Edward had to assure himself that the reports of him were true. Yes, there he lay in his state cradle decorated with paintings of four evangelists, big for his age, long-legged and with a down of flaxen hair. A true Plantagenet.
‘An Edward,’ said Philippa.
So that was the name he was given.
Edward was seventeen and seven months old when his son was born, and this event following so closely on the execution of his uncle which had been a great shock to him, jerked him out of his boyhood and into manhood.
There were certain facts he had refused to face before, and this was because of his mother’s involvement. It was entirely due to her that he had not acted before. He had refused to look facts boldly in the face because he knew that if he did he would find something which would horrify him.
He was fast realizing that he could no longer delay looking at the truth and in order to do so clearly he must forget that Isabella was his mother; he must escape from that spell she had cast on him from the days of his childhood. She had always been apart from other people; she was more beautiful than any he had ever seen; when she had ridden out with her as a boy and had heard the people’s cheers she had seemed to him like a goddess. It was only now that he was forcing himself to see her as she really was.
The man he hated was Mortimer. For some time the Earl of March had shown that he considered himself the most important man in the kingdom. He had taken the money received from Scotland as though he were the King—only a King would not have used that money for his own personal needs—at least Edward would not. Edward had now heard the details of the Earl of Kent’s execution. Mortimer had killed him because he had wanted him out of the way. There were rumours that Mortimer had set the scene for his death by trumping up a story about Edward the Second’s still being alive.
Mortimer was a rogue and a villain and there would be no good rule in England while he lived.
But what concerned Edward was his mother.
Philippa was in a state of bliss, refusing to be separated from her baby, feeding the child herself, rushing to his cradle on awaking every morning to make sure that he had survived the night. If he whimpered she was overcome with anxieties; when he smiled her happiness was overwhelming. It was fortunate that the young Prince was a lusty child and gave little cause for anxiety.
Edward did not wish to disturb her at this time by imparting his fears to her. Yet he wished to confide in someone whom he could trust. There was one among his friends for whom he had a particular liking. This was William de Montacute who was in his late twenties—old enough to give helpful advice, but young enough to be almost of Edward’s generation.
Montacute had been a good friend to Edward. He had accompanied him on the humiliating Scottish campaign and had travelled with him to France wnen he had gone to pay homage to the King there. Over the last two years the friendship had ripened and is was in Montacute that he decided to confide.
Montacute was quick to agree that Edward would never be the King in truth while Mortimer lived. He heard whispering which did not reach Edward’s ears. The people were saying that Mortimer was the King and they did not like that. They wanted the country to be rid of Mortimer and their true King to govern them.
‘I can speak frankly to you,’ said Edward. ‘There is my mother.’
‘And do I have leave to speak frankly to you, my lord?’
‘I see that we shall not advance very far without frankness.’
‘Then, my lord, all the world knows that your mother is Mortimer’s mistress. She is bewitched by him and this is why he has such power. She will deny him nothing and when he decided to murder your uncle of Kent, she agreed with him.’
‘I know it,’ said the King.
‘Then my lord, imitate his tactics. Why should he not be arrested as he arrested Kent? Why should he not be submitted to a hasty trial and as hasty a death?’
‘I would not want this country to be plunged into civil war.’
‘Civil war, my lord! Do you think there are any men in this land who would fight for Mortimer? There is none so hated as he. Gaveston found none to stand by him. Nor did the Despensers. These favourites are hated by the people. Nay, my lord. It should be a simple matter. Arrest Mortimer. God knows there is enough against him. Lose no time. Seek the first opportunity. Bring him to trial. He will quickly be condemned and there be an end to him.’
‘And my mother?’
Montacute was silent for a few moments, then he said : ‘You will find out after Mortimer is gone, what is the best way to deal with her.’
‘I am calling a Parliament at the end of the month. It shall be in Nottingham. Mortimer will be there. Meanwhile we will find out all we can of his evil deeds. It will not be difficult I am sure.’