For the first time in her life Philippa felt the need to hide her feelings.

She prayed that night. Oh God, let me be the chosen one.

Then she hated herself for being so selfish for it seemed to her that marriage with Edward must be the pinnacle of every girl’s ambition and this would be denied to those who were not selected.

But I love him, she told herself. I was the one he rode with alone. I was the one he talked to. He said that he would come back for me. How could he send a Bishop to choose one of us!

Had he forgotten then? He must have. She meant no more to him than Margaret, Jeanne or Isabella.

One of the daughters of the Count of Hainault! Was that all that mattered?


* * *

It was a terrible time to live through. In her anxiety she looked less attractive than her sisters. She was clumsy at table. She saw the Bishop observing her gravely and she fancied he talked more to the others than to her.

He would not choose her, she was sure, and she would spend her life in misery. She would beg her parents to let her go into a convent. It was the only way. She could not marry anyone else.

They were once more summoned to their parents’ apartment. Philippa was praying silently. ‘Dear Lord, let me hide. Don’t let them see my grief. I must not weep. I must kiss and congratulate Margaret ... Jeanne or Isabella. But of course it will be Margaret. It is sure to be the eldest. The eldest always marries first. And he does not care. All he wants is a daughter of the Count of Hainault because he promised that he would marry one of us when he was crowned King of England. Which one was of no importance. Oh, why did I let myself care so much!’

Her father was speaking in a tender voice for he found the prospect of the marriage of one of his daughters deeply moving. Much as he wanted a grand marriage he did not want to lose any one of them.

They stood before him in order of age. They were all overexcited and the two younger ones were inclined to giggle. Margaret was serious for, like Philippa, she believed she might well be the chosen one. Philippa’s emotions were too pent up to be described. She could only continue to pray that she, who had always been frank, did not betray them.

‘My lord Bishop has come to tell us that he has chosen the future Queen of England,’ said the Count. ‘You will tell my daughter that she is the one you consider most suitable, I beg you my lord Bishop.’

The Bishop cleared his throat and frowned slightly. ‘My lord and lady,’ he said, ‘your daughters are all charming. For me this has been the most difficult task. The lady Margaret ...’ He seemed to pause for a long time and Philippa thought: I cannot bear it. Oh how wicked I am. It is so wonderful for dear Margaret but I cannot bear it! ‘The lady Margaret is gracious and charming. The lady Jeanne equally so as is her sister Isabella. I and my embassy have talked much of this and we have come to the conclusion that the lady Philippa being closer to the age of my lord the King would be the most suitable to be his wife and Queen and it is for this reason, my lord Count, my lady Countess, that I beg, on behalf of my lord the King, for the hand of the lady Philippa.’

She was swooning. I am dreaming, she thought. It cannot be.

They were all looking at her. She had turned white and then red; she was trembling. Pray God the tears would not fall. So she was the chosen one. She ... and because she was nearest to his age!

Her father had taken her hand and he was placing it in that of the Bishop.

‘She is young yet, my lord,’ he said.

‘She will be an enchanting Queen of England,’ said the Bishop.


* * *

She was more important now, the betrothed of the King of England.

Her sisters talked all at once about the marriage. She was relieved that they did not mind too much. Isabella was a little regretful but then she was young and she had merely thought it would be fun to be a queen.

‘Of course,’ said Margaret, ‘you are closest to him in age.’ ‘Of course,’ she said demurely.

‘I thought he would have asked for you,’ said Jeanne. ‘He seemed to like you best when he was here.’

‘I daresay he forgot all about us as soon as he left,’ put in Margaret. ‘He had to get his crown didn’t he, and there was something about his father. It seems strange not to be friendly with your own father.’

‘Oh, there were reasons,’ declared Philippa coming immediately to his defence.

‘I thought he would have asked for you,’ said Margaret, ‘and not left it to his bishop to choose.’

No, nor had Philippa. It was a blow to her but never mind. She would not brood on it. She was to see him again. They would renew their friendship and it would be as though they had never parted.

She had to be happy, even though it was the Bishop who had chosen her and not Edward and it was because of her age.

There was another scare.

Her parents explained it to her.

‘You know that your mother and Edward’s mother are first cousins,’ said the Count. ‘Their fathers were both sons of the King Philip the Third of France. This means that there is a very close blood tie between you and Edward and because of this the Pope must give his permission for you to marry.’

‘What if he does not?’ she cried in dismay.

‘There seems to be no reason why he will not,’ replied her mother. ‘We are sending an embassy at once to Avignon and we hope very soon to hear that the dispensation is granted.’

So there were further anxieties. How she wished that Edward himself had come for her. In her fantasies she imagined his coming and saying: ‘Never mind about the Pope. Nothing is going to prevent our marrying.’

But all was well after all. The Pope readily gave the necessary dispensation and the King of England, now that his bride was settled on, wanted no delay. Philippa was to be married by proxy and immediately after that ceremony, to leave for England.


* * *

There was a great bustling preparation through the castle of Valenciennes for Edward was sending the Bishop of Lichfield to perform the proxy marriage.

Every morning when Philippa awoke she had to assure herself that it was really happening. She wondered how long it would be before she saw Edward. Over the intensity of her happiness there hung a faint shadow. It was there because Edward had not chosen her but had let his Bishop choose and the implication was surely that that idyllic week they had spent together had not meant the same to him as it had to her.

I will make him love me in time, she assured herself; but still the shadow persisted.

Her mother said: ‘Your father is determined that you shall go richly equipped to England. Your husband-to-be is by no means rich, King though he may be. A great deal of his treasure has been spent in war and his father was not a provident man.’

‘I do not care to be rich, dear lady.’

‘My dearest child, I think you are very happy to be going to Edward.’

Philippa clasped her hands and said: ‘I think I should have died if I had not been the chosen one.’

‘Oh, my dear daughter, you must not speak so extravagantly. But I know your feelings for your husband and I am glad of them because whatever happens that love will remain constant I know and it will enrich both your lives.’

The Countess wondered whether to warn her daughter. She had betrayed her feelings too easily, and she wondered whether Edward would appreciate such blind devotion as Philippa seemed prepared to give. A little restraint should perhaps be practised. No, perhaps it was better that her daughter should behave in her natural way which had endeared Edward to her when he had come here as a prince.

‘You are both very young,’ went on the Countess. ‘Fifteen years old. And you, Philippa to go to a new country I ‘

‘But, my lady, it is not like going to a stranger.’

‘No, dear child, and I rejoice that you are going to a husband whom you already love.’

It was better to leave it thus, the Countess decided. Philippa’s frank nature, her inherent unselfishness and goodness would carry her through whatever lay in store for her. It was to be hoped that the boy King would recognize those qualities and appreciate them.

Her sisters revelled in the preparation; they were often present during the constant fitting sessions; they cried out with admiration at the richness of her garments.

‘Just fancy our sister will be a Queen! ‘

‘Oh Philippa, how does it feel to be a Queen?’

Philippa said that it was the most wonderful thing in the world. She was completely happy ... well not quite completely because to go to Edward she had to leave them—and, she added to herself: he did not really choose me. It might have been any one of you.

As the days passed her happiness was more and more tinged with sadness at the thought of leaving her home. It would be so strange not to see her sisters and her parents every day.

‘You must all visit me in England,’ she said; and the thought struck her that in a short time all her sisters would be married and be gone from this lovely old castle in Valenciennes where they had been so happy. She saw the sadness in her parents’ eyes; her sisters were too excited by all the fuss to think very much about the parting. How sad it was that there could not be complete happiness.

The days were passing quickly. Soon the time would come when she must really say good-bye.

‘Your Uncle John will meet you when you arrive at Dover,’ her mother told her, ‘so it will not be like going to a land of strangers.’