Maurice Druon: The Lily and the Lion

The boyish figure seemed endued with the mind of a man supremely sure of the vow he was taking in the face of Heaven, of a prince conscious of the part he had to play between his people and his God. The new King was taking his family, his friends, his great officers of State, his barons, his prelates, his people of York and, indeed, of all England, to witness the love he was vowing to Madam Philippa.

Prophets burning with the zeal of God and leaders of nations who are imbued with some unique conviction can infect the crowd with their faith. A public affirmation of love also has this power, and can make everyone share one man’s emotion.

There was not a woman in the crowd, whatever her age, whether she was newly married, was deceived by her husband, was a widow, a virgin or a grandmother, who did not feel herself at that moment to be standing in the bride’s place; and there was not a man who did not identify himself with the young King. Edward III was uniting himself to every woman among his people; and it was his whole kingdom that was taking Philippa to wife. The dreams of youth, the disillusionments of maturity, and the regrets of old age were all centred on the young couple – heartfelt offerings. And, when darkness fell in the ill-lit streets, the eyes of betrothed couples would glow brighter in the night, and husbands and wives, who had been long at enmity, would reach for each other’s hands when supper was done.

From the beginning of time people have crowded to the weddings of princes, in order to enjoy a vicarious happiness which, when seen in the highest, must seem perfect.

‘… till death us do part …’

There was a lump in every throat; a vast, sad, almost reproachful sigh rose from the crowd. At such a moment, there should be no mention of death. Surely this young couple could not be mortal or subject to the common lot?

‘… and thereto I plight thee my troth …’

The young King heard the people sigh, but he did not look at them. His pale blue, almost grey eyes, their long lashes raised for once, were gazing at the chubby, freckled little girl, wrapped in veils and velvets, to whom he was making his vows.

Indeed, Madam Philippa was not at all like a princess in a fairy story; she was not even very pretty, for she had the heavy features, short nose and freckles of the Hainauts. Nor was she endowed with any particular grace of movement; yet she had an attractive simplicity and made no attempt to assume an air of majesty, which would certainly not have become her. Without her royal adornments, she would have looked no different from any other red-headed girl of her age; there were hundreds like her in every one of the northern kingdoms. But this merely increased her popularity with the crowd. Though she was the elected of Fate and of God, she was essentially no different from the women over whom she was to reign. Every stout, red-headed girl felt that she had, somehow or other, been personally complimented and honoured.

Trembling with emotion, Philippa screwed up her eyes as if unable to bear the intensity of her bridegroom’s gaze. All that was happening to her was so incredibly wonderful: the coronets about her, the mitres, the knights, the ladies she could see within the cathedral, row on row of them behind the candles, like souls in Paradise, and all the populace there below her! Indeed, she was to be Queen and, what was more, Queen by a love-match.

Oh, how she would cherish, serve and adore her fair and handsome prince, who had such long eyelashes and such slender hands, and who had come so miraculously to Valenciennes twenty months ago with his exiled mother, seeking help and refuge. Their parents had sent them out to play in the garden with the other children; and they had fallen in love. And now that he was King, he had not forgotten her. How happy she would be to devote her life to him. Her one fear was that she was not beautiful enough to please him for ever, nor clever enough always to be a help to him.

‘Madam, put out your right hand,’ said the Archbishop.

Philippa at once put out her little dimpled hand from her velvet sleeve, holding it firmly, palm upwards, fingers spread.

To Edward it seemed an exquisite rose-tinted star.

From a salver held out to him by another prelate, the Archbishop took the flat gold ring, encrusted with rubies, which he had previously blessed, and handed it to the King. The ring felt damp to the touch, as did everything else in the mist. The Archbishop gently drew their hands together.

‘In the Name of the Father,’ said Edward, placing the ring just over the tip of Philippa’s thumb, ‘in the Name of the Son, in the Name of the Holy Ghost,’ he said, as he moved it to her fore and middle fingers. And then, as he slipped it home on the fourth finger, he said: ‘Amen!’

Philippa was his wife.

Queen Isabella, like every mother at her son’s wedding, had tears in her eyes. Though she was making a great effort to pray God to grant her son happiness, she could not help thinking of herself; and she suffered. It had become increasingly clear during these last few days that she would no longer take first place in her son’s heart and house. Not, of course, that she had much to fear from this little bundle of embroidered velvet who, at this very instant, was become her daughter-in-law; her authority over the Court could not be challenged, nor indeed her supremacy in beauty. Straight and slender, her fine golden tresses, framing her face, which was still so clear-complexioned, Isabella at thirty-six looked scarcely thirty. She had spent much time that morning before the looking-glass, while donning her crown for the ceremony, and had left it reassured. Yet today she was no longer the Queen but the Queen Mother. How quickly it had happened. How odd that twenty stormy years should be resolved like this.

She thought of her own wedding, exactly twenty years ago, on a late January day like this. It had taken place at Boulogne in France and there had been a mist then too. She also had believed, as she made her heartfelt vows, that her marriage would be happy. But she had not known to what kind of man she was being married in the interests of the State. How could she have known that her reward for love and devotion would be humiliation, hatred and contempt, that she would be supplanted in her husband’s bed, not indeed by mistresses, but by scandalous and avaricious men, that her marriage portion would be ravished from her, her lands confiscated, that to save her life she would have to go into exile, raise an army to reconquer her position, and in the end order the murder of Edward II, who that day had slipped the wedding ring on to her finger? How lucky young Philippa was to be not only married but loved.

First love is the only pure and happy one. If it goes wrong, nothing can replace it. Later loves can never attain to the same limpid perfection; though they may be as solid as marble, they are streaked with veins of another colour, the dried blood of the past.

Queen Isabella turned to look at her lover Roger Mortimer, Baron of Wigmore, who owed it as much to her as to himself that he was now master of England and governed in the name of the young King. Stern-featured, his eyebrows forming a single line, he stood with his arms crossed over his sumptuous robe; he met her eyes, but his held no kindness.

‘He knows what I’m thinking,’ she thought, ‘But why does he always make one feel that it’s a crime to stop thinking of him even for an instant?’

She knew his jealous nature so well; and she smiled at him conciliatingly. What more could he want than he already had? She lived with him as if they were man and wife, even though she was Queen and he married; and she had compelled the kingdom to accept the fact of their love. She had seen to it that he had complete power; he appointed his creatures to every post; he had acquired all the fiefs of Edward II’s old favourites; and the Council of Regency obeyed his decrees and merely ratified his wishes. He had even persuaded Isabella to issue the order for her husband’s death. It was due to him that she was called the She-wolf of France! How could he expect her not to think of it on this wedding day, particularly since the executioner was present? The long, sinister face of John Maltravers, lately promoted Seneschal of England, seemed to be hanging over Mortimer’s shoulder as if to remind her of the crime.