The Uncrowned Queen - Anne O'Brien

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me with any degree of cruelty, unless neglect in itself be a form of cruelty. She simply ignored me, a thing of no importance now that my hand in marriage had brought the wherewithal to enable her to wrest the crown from her husband, the old king. I was no longer useful except to breed and provide a future heir. I had simply to fend for myself.

      ‘Tell my mother what you lack, Philippa,’ Edward ordered, his hand firm around mine.

      I needed no second invitation, although I was not hopeful. ‘It is for my birthing chambers, my lady’ I said baldly.

      I should have had a splendid suite of rooms already prepared for me, where I would stay for the birth of my child and for the requisite month afterwards until I was churched, cushioned from the rest of the world in the full panoply of royal luxury. There I should, by tradition, be welcomed with wine and spices, music and celebration, all in anticipation of the coming event. As it was, I would be lucky to pay for bread and small beer and a single lute player.

      ‘What do you need?’ Isabella was already preoccupied in opening a large sealed document, perusing its contents.

      ‘I need money to pay those who will care for my baby. Martha who will rock the child’s crib. Joan who I have employed as a wet nurse. My valet Thomas who will fetch and carry to my door,’

      ‘Very well. Is that all?’ Isabella almost yawned.

      ‘No. There is Lady Katherine Haryington too, my lady, my own particular lady-in-waiting.’

      ‘They will all be provided for, of course …’

      ‘I need clothes for myself and for my servants,’ I continued, determined to itemise every possible need before my soft incarceration. ‘I need tapestries and bed covers. Bed linen and pillows …’

      ‘I’m sure we can find some unused hangings here in the palace.’ Isabella showed her teeth in a smile. It held no warmth.

      ‘I am most grateful, my lady.’ Well they would be better than nothing when the dust and moth had been beaten out of them. I nearly said as much but felt Edward’s hand squeeze harder, and so forced my tone to remain flat. ‘I need money to pay for the food we will need for the months of my confinement.’

      ‘I will not let you starve to death, Philippa.’ Brows raised in elegant ennui, Isabella picked up a pen. ‘Now, if that is all, I wish you to put your signature to this, Edward, before you leave …’

      I sighed silently, but Edward’s voice was as cold and clear as his mother’s

      ‘Not yet. This matter must be settled, madam. You must supply my wife with what she needs. It is not fitting that she should have to beg. Nor must she have any worries about this.’ He glanced down at me then back to his mother. ‘She should have at least two of the manors that were promised to her for her dower.’

      Isabella continued to read the terms of the document.

      ‘Philippa,’ Edward reiterated with an insistence that forced me to hide a smile, ‘should have Pontefract and Knaresborough for her own.’

      It crossed my mind that she might still refuse outright, but Isabella shrugged gracefully as she at last looked up. ‘Very well. I will sign them over to her. They raise little in revenue, and are inconveniently far to the north, but you are welcome to them, dear Philippa.’

      I pinned a grateful smile to my lips. I should have had them two years ago. I recognised them as part of the promised dower.

      ‘Excellent.’ Edward remarked. He escorted me to the door.

      ‘She won’t do it,’ I whispered, under cover of him bending to salute my cheek.

      ‘I know …’

      ‘Edward …!’ Isabella’s demand floated after us.

      Edward’s face became a bland mask. He kissed my cheek again, opened the door for me and returned to put his royal seal on the documents of his mother’s choosing.

      There was one blessing from that unpleasant little interview.

      ‘Will you remain at Woodstock during Philippa’s confinement?’ Edward had asked.

      ‘No,’ Isabella had replied.

      She did not explain. I knew she would be wherever her lover Mortimer was. And I heaved a sigh of relief. Sometimes neglect could be a blessing.

      Edward was able to spend one night with me at Woodstock before his escort was instructed to sweep him up and deposit him back under Mortimer’s beady eye at Westminster. It was no time for passion. Edward was restless and preoccupied with something he was not telling me, and I was too furious with Isabella to put aside my grievances and actually ask him what it was. But my mood improved when Edward rubbed my ankles, then held me in his arms and told me how much he loved me. With my head comfortably resting in the little hollow below his shoulder, I continued to be astonished, for I of all the four Hainault daughters, was the least blessed with physical beauty. The family features were strong in all of us, but they had not done their best by me. I had square, practical hands, a broad forehead, wide cheeks and lank hair of pale mouse. The sallow skin that glowed after a sunny day on Margaret and Jeanne and baby Isabelle looked merely dull on me. Nor was I very tall, even for my age. Jeanne and Isabelle, younger than I, would soon outgrow me. I was, my mother the Countess of Hainault frequently observed, a plain and wholesome daughter. Jeanne, in moments of sisterly bile, labelled me a poor dab of a girl. Isabella had wanted the Hainault dowry and did not care which sister became the bride, but Edward had wanted me.

      I held on to that one miraculous thought when fears rained down on me thick and fast. For now, sheltered in his arms, I was content.

      ‘I’m afraid you’ll not see Pontefract or Knaresborough,’ he murmured, his chin resting on my head, as I sighed deeply.

      ‘No, I don’t suppose I shall.’ I laughed a little. ‘I didn’t expect to be scrabbling for money as Queen of England. But still …’ I paused for a moment, merely to tease. ‘… on the whole, I’m pleased I wed you.’

      ‘Only pleased?’

      I raised my head so that our eyes met, barely a handspan apart, and as we smiled at each other I recalled my first sight of him, striding into the audience chamber at Valenciennes in the wake of Isabella. How astonishingly handsome he had been, this Plantagenet prince, striding confidently forward with a proud tilt of his head and a spine as straight as a pikestaff. His skin was fair, his eyes blue and his luxuriant hair as gold as a corn sheaf. He was to me as breathtaking as the image of the warrior angel St Michael in the window of our private chapel. And he still was.

      ‘I thought Isabella would choose Jeanne for you,’ I confessed, pushing back the fall of hair that invariably got in his eyes. I was feeling in a mood for confession and intimacy.

      ‘She did,’ Edward admitted dryly, ‘since Margaret was already wed. But how could I refuse a girl who was kind and resourceful – a girl who was bold enough to accuse me of being stupid when I informed her that to my mind it was impossible to trust anyone, particularly servants.’

      I laughed at the memory. ‘You were impossibly opinionated. I was surprised that Walter did not hit you.’ Walter Manny, my page – now a squire and come with me to England – was unquestionably loyal to me and to those of my choosing.

      ‘So was I. I deserved it, I expect. My pride knew no bounds.’

      Allowing my head to sink back against his chest, I sighed again, remembering. It had been a dire story that Edward had eventually told after much persuasion.

      ‘How can I be expected to trust anyone?’ he had demanded furiously when I had accused him of rank insensitivity to me and to Walter. ‘I am spied on. Every minute, every day. Everything I say or do is reported back to the Queen or Mortimer. If I write a letter,

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