Виктория Холт: Passage to Pontefract

Excitement was intense. The joust had begun. The Queen and her ladies sat watching. With her was the young bride. Blanche was as beautiful as she had been proclaimed to be. Her long fair hair was loose about her shoulders; her skin was delicately white, her eyes deep blue. She was eighteen years old. People gazed at her with interest. Tall, slender, almost delicate, she looked so young and tender beside the corpulent Philippa.

The people cheered themselves hoarse for the ladies. But they waited for the King and they waited in vain.

But there was little time for speculation for the challengers had come forward and the defenders were riding out to meet them – twenty-four knights led by five of the tallest men in the field. For a few moments the silence was intense. Then the trumpets were sounding and the heralds had come forward announcing that the tournament was about to begin. The heralds ran from the field as the horses came pounding in. There was fierce excitement in the sound of the crash of steel against steel, in the shine of shields and lances as the sun caught them, in the battle cries of the noble knights. The Londoners looked on in utter fascination and their attention was focused on the men who had taken upon themselves the task of defending London. Who were they? The crowd thrilled with delight for the challengers were no match for them.

In due course their victory was complete. London had been bravely and skilfully defended against all comers, as it always had been and always would be.

Now the great moment had come. The mysterious defenders must uncover and show themselves. They rode into the centre of the field – those five tall men who had led the defending team.

One rode a little ahead of the others and when he lifted his visor there was no mistaking the thick fair hair, the blue eyes, the handsome Plantagenet features.

‘The King!’ The people went wild with joy. What greater compliment could he have paid his City than to place himself at the head of its defenders. They might have guessed whose face was beneath that visor for he had not been beside the Queen in her loge. It was a game that kings loved to play when they were sure of the loyalty of their people. It was Edward’s way of telling them that his City of London was dear to his heart and that he would defend it with all his might.

‘Long live the King.’ The cheers that rent the air could have been heard from the Tower to the village of Knightsbridge.

The second knight had ridden up. He had removed his visor and the crowd was now almost hysterical with joy for there was no mistaking that handsome face either. It was so like that of the King. More austere perhaps but as handsome, the great military hero Edward, heir to the throne, who had won his spurs at Crécy and was the hero of Poitiers, who a few years previously had led his royal captive, the King of France, through the streets of London and lodged him in the Palace of the Savoy. Edward, acclaimed throughout the world as the soldier whom none could equal. The Black Prince himself.

And he too was here to defend London!

The third knight was even taller than the King and the Black Prince. He was not so well known as they were but that he was a Plantagenet there was no doubt – the same colouring, the same handsome features and his outstanding height proclaimed him as a son of the King.

‘Long live Lionel Duke of Clarence, Earl of Ulster, defender of London against all comers.’

How they revelled in the disclosures. They were not surprised however when the next defender was revealed as John of Gaunt, the bridegroom. A special cheer for him because it was due to his wedding that the joust was taking place. All eyes turned to the little bride seated so demurely beside the Queen; she was flushed with what must have been pride and happiness. What a handsome pair they were. Only great Edward could have sired such splendid sons.

What rejoicing there was. What better gesture could the King have made.

There was not a more popular man in London that day than the King of England.

When the feasting was at an end and the King and the Queen could retire to their apartments Philippa looked forward to a cosy talk with her husband. Philippa was ever ready to cast aside her rank. She had been brought up in a happy home which by the standards of royalty was homely. She cared more deeply for the happiness of her family than for their military glory or the possessions they might acquire. She had always deplored Edward’s obsession with the crown of France.

Often she wished that Edward were merely a nobleman without the responsibilities of state, though she knew of course that he would not have wished for that.

She liked to spend most of the time they could be together in discussing family affairs, and what occupied her mind now was her eldest son.

‘Seeing John so happily married to dear Blanche has made me think more than ever about Edward,’ she said.

The King nodded. Edward’s future was not a new subject.

‘He is twenty-nine years old,’ went on the Queen.

‘I well remember the day he was born,’ said the King. ‘What rejoicing there was! It was like you to give me such a son … our first born. Do you remember how the people stood about in the streets and how they would go wild with joy at a glimpse of him?’

‘I shall never forget their joy. And they still love him. He has their devotion even as you have.’

The King took her hand and kissed it. ‘You have brought me great happiness, my dear. It was the best day of my life when I came to Hainault and set eyes on you. I loved you then and I love you now.’ He added with fervour: ‘There has never been any to take your place in my heart.’

Even as he spoke he was thinking of his meeting with the Countess of Salisbury who would always be to him the most beautiful and desirable woman he had ever seen. Love had come to him so suddenly that it had overwhelmed him and to the astonishment of his followers, for hitherto he had been a faithful husband, he had made every attempt to persuade the fair countess to become his mistress. The situation was even more deplorable because she was the wife of William de Montacute, one of his greatest friends who was at the time a prisoner of the French, taken in fighting for Edward’s cause. It was a serious blot on his honour, and even though the Countess had been too virtuous to submit to his lust, his conscience was sorely troubled. Whenever he remembered that occasion he was particularly tender towards Philippa and made a point of protesting his eternal fidelity. Dear homely Philippa, who must never know how near he had come to betraying her!

Philippa gave him her pleasant smile. She loved him dearly. She had always been aware of her lack of allure and had never ceased to marvel that Edward had loved her as he did. She knew of course that great beauties like the Countess of Salisbury must tempt him from time to time. Rumours reached her. But she had decided to ignore them. She longed for peace in her home. She was the Queen. Edward was her husband. She must always be his first consideration, and he and her children were her life.

But the occasion of John’s marriage must make her think with apprehension of her eldest son, for he was ten years older than John and still a bachelor. Lionel, who was eight years younger than Edward, was married. A wife had been found for that second son when he was little more than a baby, and a very good match it had been, according to the King, for the bride although six years Lionel’s senior was a great heiress. Elizabeth de Burgh had brought him Ulster and he now bore the title of Earl of Ulster as well as Duke of Clarence, and Elizabeth’s vast inheritance was in his hands. He was happy, which pleased Philippa as much as his wealth. Lionel was an easy-going young man, pleasure-loving, far less serious than his brothers Edward and John. He was the tallest in a tall family and the handsomest. It had been said that there was not a man in England who could compare with Lionel in good looks.