Виктория Холт - The Follies of the King

‘Edward, you are not your father.’

He was silent. Even the mention of the old man could subdue him still.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Pembroke and Warenne are disgusted with Warwick, Hereford and Arundel. Pembroke moans that he was forced to break his word and he fears he will lose his estates to you.’

‘He should have taken more care.’

‘He should indeed. Bind Pembroke to you, Edward. Don’t you see that this split between the barons can be your salvation? Pembroke and Lancaster are engaged in a feud which is greater than that between you and Lancaster.’

‘Nothing could be greater than that. I regard Lancaster as Perrot’s murderer.’

‘Yes, yes. But Pembroke is a powerful man. The people admire him. And because of what has happened he will be with you― not against you. Don’t you see, this has not turned out so badly. Oh, I beg of you, do not start again on the virtues of Gaveston. We must put that behind us. Give him the best burial we can and a good chance in heaven by exhortations to the saints. Let us set up our candles and let prayers be said for his soul, but Gaveston is gone and we are here.’

Even as they were talking, messengers came hurrying to the King from Pembroke. Lancaster, Hereford, and Warwick were marching on London. They knew full well that the King would want to take action against them and they were taking action first.

Isabella smiled secretly. Lancaster was a bold man. This was not the time however to depose Edward. Her child must be born first. He must have a son, a symbol, a new King before the old one was set aside.

Gloucester was without. An earnest young man and loyal to the king. He knelt and kissed Edward’s hand.

‘Well, cousin?’ asked Edward.

‘My lord, Lancaster marches on London. He has strong support. He must not be allowed into the city.

‘Let him come,’ retorted Edward. ‘I would have his head. I would show him what I feel for him now that he has robbed me of my best friend.’

Gloucester said: ‘If he came to London there could be civil war. Let the gates be closed my lord and warn the Londoners to be on guard.’

Isabella interrupted: ‘Our cousin is right, Edward. This is no time for conflict.’

So it was done and Lancaster himself was somewhat relieved that there should not be open conflict. Now there would be conferences between the barons which could last for weeks and meanwhile the King could subdue his grief and perhaps forget his ire; and it might well be that the difficult situation could be eased somewhat. It was hardly likely that the King would ever forgive the murderers of his beloved Gaveston but it was always better to let matters settle down before rash action was taken.

* * *

The Queen had gone to Windsor for her lying in. At last the waiting was over and her desire to hold her child in her arms obsessed her.

She had chosen Windsor for the birth. It was one of her favorite palaces as it had been for Queen Eleanor who had brought the children there because she had thought the draughtiness of the Tower of London was bad for their health.

Isabella now lay in her bed and thought of how her life would be changed when this child was born. If it were a boy, everything would have been worthwhile.

Her pains were beginning. She welcomed them. She was praying to the Virgin, who should intercede for women.

‘Oh Holy Mary, give me a son. I have waited long. I have suffered humiliation which has been hard to bear for a woman of my proud nature.

Please give me my son.’

Pain engulfed her. She did not shrink from it. Anything― anything but give me my son.

She lost consciousness and was aroused to the sound of voices about her.

Then― the cry of a child.

She heard someone say, ‘Look, the Queen opens her eyes.’

‘My lady―’

How long they were. It seemed as though time had slowed down.

‘My― child―’

Then the blessed words: ‘A boy, my lady. A healthy boy― sound in limb and in good voice. A fine boy.’

A smile of triumph was on her lips as she held out her arms.

* * *

She caressed him. She examined him. He was perfect.

‘His legs are long,’ she said. ‘He will be like his grandfather.’

They noticed that she did not mention his father.

‘He is beautiful. Look― his hair is already so fair. Like a golden down. He’s a Plantagenet. It is obvious already.’

They agreed with her. The nurses clucked over him. They had never seen such a child, they assured her. He surpassed all other children.

Of course, he did. He was to be a king.

She said: ‘I have decided he shall be called Edward.’

‘The King will be pleased.’

She thought: Not after him. After his grandfather. I pray he may not be like his father. No, he should not be. Tall, fine, manly. A great king. But one who would listen to his mother.

Edward came. He stared at the child and none had seen him so delighted since Gaveston had died. He was smiling. Just for a few moments he forgot his beloved friend.

‘He is― perfect,’ he cried incredulously.

‘In every way,’ the child’s mother assured him. ‘Give him to me. I cannot bear not to have my eyes on him all the time.’

‘ My son,’ said Edward as though bewildered. ‘My own son.’

‘Your son,’ she answered, ‘and mine.’

‘There is rejoicing throughout the land,’ he went on. ‘They are talking of it at Court. They want him to be named Louis.’

‘I will not have it,’ said the Queen. ‘His name is Edward. Louis is not the name of a King of England but a King of France. He is Edward. I will have no other name.’

Edward knelt by the bed and kissed her hand. ‘I am so proud of him,’ he said. ‘My son.’

‘Yes, Edward,’ she answered, ‘and mine also.’

He took the child in his arms and walked about the room with it.

He has forgotten Gaveston― momentarily, she thought.

She was glad to see his delight in the child, but her intentions towards him had not changed at all. He had fathered the child, and they must have more. But little Edward was hers, entirely hers.

As she lay in bed with her baby beside her, she thought of the future. The people would be with her. They liked her youthful beauty as soon as they set eyes on it and the King’s treatment of her had incensed them so that they had immediately taken her part. That she had apparently forgiven him for his disgraceful behaviour with Gaveston and now actually given them the heir they wanted, made her seem something like a saint in their eyes.

She must never lose the respect of the people and in particular those of the City of London.

She therefore decided to acquaint them with the arrival of her son, to send them a personal message and to order that there be rejoicing throughout the capital.

She wrote to the citizens of London.

Isabella, by the grace of God Queen of England, Lady of Ireland, and Duchess of Aquitaine, to our well-beloved mayor and Alderman and the Commonality of London, greetings. Forasmuch as we believe you would willingly bear good tidings of us, we do make it known to you that our Lord in his Grace has delivered us of a son, on the 15th day of November with safety to ourselves and to the child.

May our Lord preserve you. Given at Windsor on the day above named.

She sent messages to say that she wished the city to have three days of rejoicing in which to welcome the baby. Wine would be in the streets and she hoped that there would be none in the city who did not drink her child s health.

She believed they would know how to make a merry time of it and she would be glad to hear of their rejoicing.

‘God bless the Queen,’ cried the people of London. ‘God bless the little Prince!’

There were few cheers for the King. But it was said that the timely arrival of the baby had averted trouble with the barons. Everyone was so delighted that there should be a male heir that it seemed hardly likely that those critics of the King would stand a chance against him now. As for the King, he should forget his grievances against those who dispatched Gaveston.

Gaveston was dead and a good riddance.

There was now a baby heir. Let the King settle down with his beautiful wife who was so popular with the people. Let him live a normal married life and beget more children.

AT this time the Archbishop of Canterbury, Robert de Winchelsey, died. He had been ailing for some time and was an old man so his death was not unexpected Walter Reynolds, Bishop of Worcester, who had been an intimate friend of Gaveston, asked for an audience with the King, which was immediately granted.

Reynolds was a crafty man. He did not come straight to the point which he felt even Edward might consider a little audacious but it had always been Walter Reynolds’ opinion that no delicacy of feeling should come between a man and his ambitions. The See of Canterbury was vacant. A new Archbishop would have to be appointed and in view of the closeness of his friendship with the King, it could possibly be that Walter Reynolds might step into those shoes so recently vacated by Robert of Winchelsey.

Reynolds fell onto his knees and kissed the King’s hand. ‘My lord, my lord, I see how you still suffer from our terrible loss.’

‘I think of him continuously,’ replied the King.