It was a hot June day when Edward came before the King of France to pay the necessary homage, most splendidly attired in a robe of crimson velvet embroidered in gold with leopards. His sword was at his side and on his head he wore a glittering golden crown and his spurs were golden to match it.

It was inevitable that the French King should be equally splendid. Seated on his throne, wearing his crown and clad in blue velvet decorated with golden fleurs-de-lis he looked askance at the King of England.

Philip murmured to his knight-at-arms that he did not expect his liegeman to do homage in a crown. All knew that Edward was King of England, but that fact was not a matter of concern on this occasion. He had come to pay homage for his lands in France and it should be done with a bare head and an ungirt sword.

‘My lord,’ said Edward, ‘I can do homage only generally. I cannot set aside my English crown.’

There was much murmuring throughout the hall. Philip looked at this very young man—scarcely more than a boy and wondered what he had to fear from him. He decided to act with care.

‘I will accept homage on your terms,’ he said. ‘But when you return to England I would have you search the records and if you find that full liege homage is due you will send letters patent to me of it.’

Edward said: ‘This I agree to do.’

And the King of France answered: ‘I accept your word on your honour.’

But before the homage proceeded, with Edward wearing the crown on his head and the sword at his side, he asked that those territories taken from his father should be returned to him.

‘Why should this be?’ asked Philip. ‘These lands were taken from your father in war.’

There was a deep silence throughout the community. All realized how reluctantly Edward did homage to a King whose crown he thought he himself should be wearing. But his claim to the throne seemed so ridiculous to the French that they did not consider it seriously; and the fact that Edward was so young made it seem even more absurd.

But there among the nobles of France Edward came to a decision. At some time, when he was older and more experienced, he was coming over to claim what he was fast believing he had a right to.

The lesson of the Scottish enterprise had been well learned and he was going to tread warily. He agreed therefore to pay homage only for those lands which he held in France, so the ceremony proceeded and, according to the custom, Edward placed his hands between those of the King of France and Philip responded by kissing his mouth.

After the ceremony he was eager to return home to Philippa at Windsor and there was great joy in their reunion.

She told him how anxious she had been. She hated his going away from her and was terrified that something would happen to him. He laughed at her fears and expounded at great length on the glories of France.

‘It is a wonderful country, Philippa, and as I rode through it I was saying to myself: “Mine ... this should be mine.”‘ ‘They will never give it up,’ said Philippa.

‘No. I shall have to fight for it.’

She was uneasy.

‘Do you not think I shall do it, Philippa?’

‘I am sure you will do anything you wish to do, Edward. But I like not battles. For one thing they will take you away from me.’

Edward replied that he would forgo France for her.

He had only been in England four days when news came from the little castle of Cardross on the banks of the Clyde that Robert the Bruce was dead, worn out with continual struggles, and desperately ill with the fearful leprosy from which he had been suffering for several years.

Philippa stood by Edward when he received the news.

‘The Bruce dead,’ she murmured. ‘This means that our little Joanna is Queen of Scotland.’


* * *

Isabella was growing more and more apprehensive. It was so different from when she had landed in England. It seemed to her that her friends were slipping away from her. Sir John of Hainault, that trusting adorer, who had been in love with her and had fought so well for her cause because of that, had returned to Hainault. She knew that those who had been with her in the beginning were turning away from her.

It was amazing how people blamed her for the marriage of Joanna. She knew they were saying it was cruel to have sent a child of seven into that northern land of harsh winters and barbaric people. To have married the little girl to a bridegroom of five whose father was dying of leprosy and who could very well have inherited the dreadful disease, was monstrous. But that, it could be argued, was a state matter; what could not be accepted was her flagrant behaviour with the adventurer Mortimer. Indeed a great deal of her unpopularity came from her association with Mortimer. Mortimer was a strong man, a fighter, a man who was without fear, but he could not be said to have a very subtle mind. He saw only the advantages of the moment and clearly there were many. He seized what he could get and no man—not even the favourites of the previous King—could have become so rich in so short a time. If there were lands and money to be had it could be depended on that Mortimer would find it and take it for himself.

And the reason why Isabella was being looked on with growing suspicion was due to her reliance on this man. It was as though he had bewitched her. She could see no fault in him. Their passionate sexual connection was as necessary to her as it had been in the beginning of their association.

If they had acted discreetly their relationship might have been accepted. The whole country knew how she must have suffered through the late King’s deficiencies. But this affair with Mortimer was not discreet. It was blatant and becoming more so. One rarely appeared in public without the other and they behaved with such careless abandon that it was clear that they did not care who knew of their liaison.

Often she reminded herself of her achievements. Who would have believed it possible when she had gone to France, having lured her husband and Hugh le Despenser into agreeing to her departure, that she would have returned so triumphantly, have brought about Edward’s removal, set her son on the throne and, with Mortimer, ruled the country through him? Everything they had planned had come to pass. Then why could she not enjoy it? Mortimer did. Oh, he was wiser than she was.

Of course there were her dreams and they were becoming more frequent. Sometimes they spilled over into the day. She wished she could stop thinking about her dead husband. She wished she didn’t see him in her dreams. In that vague drifting between wakefulness and sleep she fancied she heard his screams when the red hot spit was entering his body.

‘Oh God,’ she cried, let me forget. Why do I have to be haunted? Why cannot I be wise like Mortimer?’

Mortimer was wise indeed. He cared for nobody—certainly not the dead.

‘Let be,’ was his motto. ‘What’s done is done.’

And he was right, of course.

Mat had happened to her? She, who was the daughter of one of the most ruthless men of the century, the despoiler and murderer of the Templars, should have inherited some of his ruthless strength. I am his daughter, she thought. Perhaps the curse has come upon me.

She was beginning to notice the change in people’s attitudes towards her.

There was the Earl of Kent, for instance. As her husband’s young half-brother, son of a French mother, he had been drawn to her from the day she had arrived in the country. He had clearly been impressed by her beauty as so many had and, when she had arrived in England with her army to stand against Edward the Second and put young Edward the Third on the throne, Edmund had been there to support her.

Yet only yesterday when she had been riding with him she had been aware of his coolness towards her.

He had talked about his brother. She remembered every word of the conversation because it had seemed significant.

‘I believe he was not well treated at Berkeley,’ he had said suddenly.

She had felt the tingling shrinking on her flesh which indicated fear and she was not sure whether it showed or not. A short while ago she would have given no sign but something was happening to her. She was becoming more and more tense and nervous and showing it.

‘Oh ... Thomas of Berkeley was very friendly with him.’ ‘He is a connection of the Earl of March, I believe.’

‘Yes ... through marriage ...’

A silence had followed during which Edmund frowned deeply. She and Mortimer had always said that Edmund was a simple fellow. He had never been able to hide his feelings and he was very thoughtful now.

She had tried to change the subject but he had brought it back.

‘Our cousin Lancaster and he were very amicable together when the King was at Kenilworth.’

She wanted to scream: ‘Stop it. Stop. The dreams will come back tonight. They always do when I talk of him in the day.’

She desperately sought to change the subject. ‘I have reason to believe that the Queen is with child.’

Edmund smiled. He was fond of the new Queen and of Edward. Isabella went on: ‘It will be a blessing if it is so and I think the nation will go wild with joy if it is a son.’

Edmund agreed and to Isabella’s relief they talked of the joys of parenthood. Edmund had four children of his own and he never tired of discussing them.

But just as Isabella was congratulating herself on having most happily changed the subject they came upon a group of people who stood back to let them pass.

There were no cheers for Queen Isabella as in the past. But one voice was heard and what was said came very distinctly to their ears.