Passage to Pontefract Read Free

Blanche who had lived but a short time. Mary and Margaret, her two darling girls, had followed; then another William who had died. An unlucky name for the family, William. And lastly Thomas, the youngest of the brood. None could say she had not done her duty as a mother.
    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