A traitor they said. He was plotting to raise an army against his King.


* * *

It was the end of March and the child was due in June. Edward must leave Philippa and ride to Winchester to hear for himself what had really happened.

She did not want him to go, of course, nor did he wish to. She wanted to come with him, but he would not allow that. True the winter was over but the roads were rough. How would she travel? Carried in a litter. That would not be good for the child.

‘Must you go?’ she asked.

‘He was my uncle,’ he answered.

‘And a traitor to you.’

‘Somehow I cannot believe that of my uncle.’

‘You always thought he was not very clever.’

‘Not very clever but he would not rise against me.’

‘Something troubles you deeply,’ she said.

‘My love, my uncle has been beheaded, accused of treason against me. In truth I am troubled.’

‘There is something more,’ she said.

He stroked her hair back from her face. ‘I am troubled that I must leave you,’ he said. ‘Never fear, I shall be back soon. I shall order that I am to be kept informed of your health every day.’

So he rode to Winchester, and there he found his mother and Mortimer.

‘Fair son,’ cried Isabella, ‘how good it is to see you here.’

‘I am not happy with my mission,’ he answered grimly. ‘I come to hear about my uncle Kent.’

Mortimer was there, smiling familiarly. One would have thought Mortimer the King and he, Edward, the subject.

‘My lord, ever zealous in your service we could not allow one to live who was trying to raise an army against you.’ ‘I do not believe that to be true.’

‘There was evidence. He admitted it. He had trumped up some story about a man at Corfe whom he believed to be your father.’

Edward was silent. He looked at this man and he thought: What happened to my father? How did he die?

His mother was watching him closely.

‘Mortimer has been a good servant to you, Edward.’

‘And to himself, my lady,’ Edward replied; and his words sent shivers of alarm through Isabella’s heart. She thought: He is growing up. He is growing up too fast.

‘My dear son, your grandfather always dealt speedily with traitors so I heard. It is never good to let them live to ferment trouble.’

‘My uncle was a fool but not a knave.’

‘The actions of fools and knaves can sometimes run on similar lines,’ said Isabella. ‘Oh, Edward, I know this is a shock to you, but it was necessary. Believe me. Believe me.’

She looked so wild that he had to soothe her. ‘I know you have my good at heart,’ he assured her.

‘Have I not always loved you? Were you not everything to me? When you were a baby you made all that I had suffered worth while.’

‘I know. I know. I do not complain of you.’

It was pointed but Mortimer shrugged it aside.

‘Only a boy,’ he said afterwards to Isabella. ‘The Scottish campaign taught him that and it is something he will never forget.’

‘What if he discovers that you set the trap for Kent? That you arranged for his downfall?’

‘How could he? Has he discovered how his father died?’ ‘Not yet,’ said Isabella.

‘Oh, my love, what has come over you? You are so fearful these days.’

‘I have a premonition of evil. Oh Mortimer, we should never have killed Edmund of Kent.’

‘Nonsense. It has shown people that they should take care before they trifle with me.’

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.