Philippa understood the situation and applauded Joanna’s tact and wisdom.

‘With your help,’ Joanna told her, ‘I shall stay here. I know that I have your support and that of Edward. I shall never go back to him again.’

Philippa placed a hand over that of her sister-in-law, saying warmly: ‘You will always be welcome here.’ She was deeply sorry for Joanna and was sure that had she been in her position she would have behaved in the same way. How fortunate she had been in her married life. For that very reason she wanted to show her thankfulness by helping Joanna all she could.

Edward agreed that the payment of the instalment should be postponed and made it clear that this concession was granted for the sake of his sister who had pleaded so earnestly for it. They discussed a peace treaty and it was agreed that Scottish youths should be allowed to work in English universities.

When this business had been completed, there was no reason why David should remain in England and he prepared to return to his own country.

He had quite expected that Joanna would accompany him and for the first time it was brought home to him that he did not understand his wife.

She faced him squarely. ‘You may rest assured that I shall never return to Scotland. I have decided to stay here with my family who love and respect me.’

In vain did he protest. She was determined.

He rode back with his grim-faced nobles across the Border. The real object of the mission had failed. Joanna had left him; and the people were not pleased with his treatment of his Queen.

He was growing very unpopular and if it had not been for memories of his father Robert the Bruce they might have risen against him.

Katherine Mortimer was waiting for him and when he was with her he forgot everything else.


* * *

In Castle Rising the Dowager Queen Isabella lay very ill. She was sixty-three years of age and it was nearly twenty-eight years since her lover Roger de Mortimer had been snatched from her side and barbarously executed. He had been her life; the only person she had ever loved and when she had lost him she had declined into temporary madness. As she had grown older these bouts had grown less frequent and during the last ten years there had scarcely been any.

She had changed a great deal. She had become the Lady Bountiful of Castle Rising, known for her good works. But older people who remembered the havoc she had caused and the murder of her husband Edward the Second, which was said to be the most cruel ever known, whispered that a lifetime of good works could never expiate her sins.

She had grown serene, forgetful of that in the past which she did not want to remember.

Lying in her bed she dozed and when she awakened her thoughts were happy ones. She thought of all the good works she had done and caused to be done. Twenty-eight years was a long time. She was loved and respected here in Castle Rising. It was only now and then that people remembered, and when all was considered she had deprived the country of an unworthy king and given it a great one. Surely that was justifiable.

She had enjoyed hearing news from outside the castle. How her son Edward was revered wherever he went; how he was claiming the French crown because she his mother had been a daughter of a King of France; how he and his plump wife had produced that hero, the Black Prince. Surely it was not such a bad life? What had happened in Berkeley Castle had been long forgotten. Surely she could die in peace.

Edward came to see her. How handsome he was, how kingly! He knelt by her bed and taking her hand held it firmly in his.

‘Dear son,’ she said, ‘you fulfilled all my dreams for you.’

He bowed his head. He could not pretend to love her. Perhaps he had long ago when they had been in France and Hainault together and he first met Philippa. In those days he had looked to her and Mortimer and had been their tool. Well, he had been only a boy and they had ruled through him. Then he had discovered the truth about them—their adulterous relationship and worse still their relentless ambition. It might have been because of his mother that he had been a faithful husband and devoted father. He had determined that he would not resemble his parents in any way.

But all that was in the past. She was dying now.

He wondered if she knew it.

She did, because she said: ‘I am dying, Edward. Promise me that I shall be buried in the Grey Friars of Newgate.’

‘It shall be,’ said Edward, for none could deny a dying wish. But the Grey Friars in Newgate was where the mangled body of Mortimer lay. So she remembered her lover still and would be laid beside him.

She went on: ‘And your father’s heart must be with me. I want it laid upon my breast. Will you do this for me, Edward?’ Edward swore he would.

Her wishes were carried out and little was said of her burial. She herself was a figure of the past. Few remembered her story so there were not many to marvel that she should wish to have the heart of the husband whom she and Mortimer had caused to be murdered buried with her.


* * *

The King of Scotland refused to be depressed by what he called his wife’s desertion.

‘Let her stay with her noble brother,’ he cried. ‘At least I do not have to support her.’

Katherine consoled him and he was relying more and more upon her. In vain did those who wished him well implore him to use discretion. He snapped his fingers at them and the conduct of the lovers grew more and more blatant.

Katherine showed her contempt for those lords who were cool to her. She contrived that they could not even speak to the King unless it was in her presence. Having flamboyant tastes she adorned herself in the royal jewels and was a glittering figure beside the King wherever he went.

In the streets the people muttered against her. They called her the wanton harlot, the King’s whore, but Katherine merely laughed at them and made David laugh with her. Sometimes he felt a little uneasy but Katherine always made fun of his moods. She could excite him and soothe him and he told himself he could not live without her.

Anyone but David would have seen that he could not continue in this way, but he was blind to everything but the satisfaction he derived from his mistress’s company.

They were riding together near Melrose one day with a small party of friends.

David was a short distance ahead of Katherine when suddenly he heard a cry of agony and turning sharply he saw her fall from her horse.

Those who were riding with him were some little way behind. They did nothing when a man broke into their ranks and ran into the forest. Then to his horror David saw that Katherine was covered in blood and that a knife was protruding from her side.

He knelt beside her calling her name. She looked at him with glazed eyes and then he knew that she could not see him; she would never see anything else again.

So Katherine, the King’s mistress, had been murdered and David was beside himself with grief which could only be assuaged by violent revenge. He wanted the man who had done this deed. He wanted him brought before him. He wanted him tortured. Oh, it should he a long and lingering death.

Enquiries were made and it was discovered that the murderer was a peasant called Richard de Hulle.

‘Bring him to me,’ cried David. The thought of what he would do to this man was all that could pacify him. Only to see him writhing in misery while his life was prolonged that he might suffer again and again could give him any comfort.

But Richard de Hulle was never brought to justice. He had too many friends in high places. In fact he had worked for men who paid him well and promised him protection because they saw that the only way to save Scotland and her King from complete disaster was to dispose of that woman. So David was forced to live without his beloved Katherine. On the advice of his ministers he asked Joanna to return. Katherine was dead. He would be a good husband to Joanna now.

But Joanna had heard that before. She was firm. ‘I am happy,’ was her reply, ‘to remain in my native country, where I enjoy the love of those whom I can trust. I shall never return to Scotland.’

THE MARRIAGE OF THE BLACK PRINCE

THE Princess Isabella declared that she had made up her mind not to marry and her father, indulgent as ever, seemed content that this should be so. She was twenty-seven years old and so it seemed that she really meant what she said. She had vindicated herself by cruelly jilting Bernard Ezi and she liked to hear the story repeated of how broken-heartedly he had given up everything in life. Then she could forget how Louis of Flanders had insulted her.

If she ever thought of Louis it was to congratulate herself on her escape, for his marriage with Margaret of Brabant had been far from felicitous. Margaret had died horribly and there were rumours that it was her husband’s doing. The story was that while he was away from Court Margaret had discovered that a particularly beautiful peasant girl had been his mistress and was to bear his child. In a fury of jealousy Margaret had had the girl seized, her nose and lips were cut off and she was imprisoned in a damp cell and left to die which she very quickly did. When Louis returned and sought his beautiful mistress and was told what had happened he was overcome by such fury that he put his wife into a dungeon similar to the one in which she had imprisoned his mistress. There was no window in this dungeon, only a hole through which bread and water were pushed daily. Either she was still there or she had died. Louis it seemed had no intention of setting her free.

‘Of course he is mad,’ said Isabella. And that seemed a good enough reason for jilting her.

Why should she, the beloved daughter of the King, whom everyone knew he loved more than anyone else in the world, want to exchange her comfortable existence for marriage.

Then take the case of her sister Joanna who had died of the plague near Bordeaux. Some said that she had met a happier fate than she could possibly have done had she married Pedro of Castile, who had already earned the name of Pedro the Cruel. He had neglected his wife and when she had died it was said he had poisoned her. He undoubtedly poisoned his father’s mistress Eleanor de Guzman and there were many others whom he had killed by extremely cruel methods.

No! Who would marry and take such chances?

The Princess Isabella was very happy in the state she had chosen—and so was her father. How often had he said to her that he was content to keep her near him.

Her sisters Mary and Margaret did not share her views. Moreover their father knew that he could not allow all his daughters to remain unmarried. Margaret was enamoured of John Hastings, Earl of Pembroke. John’s father had died when he was a year old and he had become a ward of the King. Consequently he had been brought up in the royal nursery and from an early age he and Margaret had always shared secrets and taken a great delight in each other’s company.

‘When I grow up,’ Margaret had said, ‘I am going to marry John Hastings.’

Isabella had laughed. ‘He is not good enough for a princess,’ she had told her haughtily.

‘John is good enough for anybody,’ Margaret had retorted. ‘Even you,’ she had added rather maliciously for Isabella’s overweening vanity was often commented on among her sisters.

Isabella replied that if he was not good enough for Margaret he certainly was not for her elder sister. But it was never wise to indulge in arguments with Margaret for Margaret could always get the better of anyone in that field. She was admittedly the cleverest of them all and she and John Hastings used to get together over their books and nothing could draw them away from them. At this time a young man who was a page in the household of Margaret’s brother, Lionel, Duke of Clarence, had caught their attention. His name was Geoffrey Chaucer and he was very interested in literature, a subject which intrigued Margaret. She had written poetry herself and she and John had read certain things written by this Geoffrey.

Isabella could not concern herself with a mere page so she knew very little about the young man but she did wonder what would be the outcome of Margaret’s infatuation with John Hastings. Mary was betrothed to another John, the Earl de Montfort, who had a claim to the Duchy of Brittany. His position at this time was not very secure and it was for this reason that there had been a delay in the marriage for Mary who was two years older than Margaret was of a marriageable age.