Читать книгу The Uncrowned Queen - Anne O'Brien, Anne O'Brien - Страница 5

February 1330

‘I’ll not allow this – this travesty – of a ceremonial to keep you on your feet in these damnable conditions any longer,’ Edward muttered in my ear as we stood in the nave of Westminster Abbey, waiting for the procession to begin. It was a cold February, and our breath billowed in clouds in the freezing air.

I smile wanly – even my smile was frozen. At least the building was complete, and the roof did not leak even if the lively draughts around my ankles were enough to ruffle my skirts. When I had wed Edward two years ago in York – in an equally bone-freezing January – we had all had to sidestep the puddles and the drops of water showering down from overhead as we walked down the aisle. It had all been a thoroughly shabby affair for the marriage of the English king to a daughter of Hainault. It seemed to be my destiny to experience the greatest moments of my life in the worst of circumstances.

‘We’ve been waiting on Isabella’s appearance for half an hour …’ Edward observed.

‘And hour at least,’ I amended, equally low-voiced. My feet, like blocks of ice in my thin shoes, had registered every minute of the Dowager Queen’s tardiness. Edward’s mother played by her own rules. ‘If these clerics don’t hurry I expect I’ll give birth to your first-born on the steps of the high altar. And then what would your lady mother have to say? Her dignity would be irrevocably besmirched.’

I was beyond caring what I said, beyond weary, having struggled into the second change of clothing of the day, discarding the green velvet and miniver for a less-than-warm red and grey samite tunic and mantle. The sable edgings barely stretched to meet over my belly. I was not carrying this child well, feeling clumsy and overwrought. I could see my new gilded shoes only if I leaned forwards.

‘I didn’t mean that!’ For a moment Edward looked startled, then amused, and finally, frowning at my levity, downright forbidding. I enjoyed the range of emotions that chased across his features. It proved he still managed to retain his sense of humour, no matter the weight of adversity on his damask-slick shoulders. I discovered the energy to admire those shoulders, albeit fleetingly: today he looked every inch the King he was. But then his gaze, glittering with suppressed anger, slid away from me. ‘Look at them,’ he growled. ‘Every last one of them plotting to undermine my power. My authority. Kent and Mortimer are like fighting cocks, squaring up to do battle to win the spoils. I can just about tolerate Kent. At least he is my father’s brother and has royal blood in his veins. I swear there’s nothing but venom in Mortimer’s.’

I looked as he indicated with a lift of his chin. Dowager Queen Isabella, now arrived to honour me with her appearance at my coronation, was wrapped about in cloth of gold and ermine, relishing her superiority and entirely indifferent to my sufferings. I was a bride whose dowry and Hainault connections were of more value than my person. I had been part of Isabella’s strategy to raise an army, oust her husband from his throne and take control. Military aid had come as part of the deal. And how spectacularly successful Isabella had been, for herself and her damnably ambitious lover, Lord Mortimer.

Mortimer was smiling with insincere charm like the rogue he was, eyes as cold as the stone paving. Edward’s uncle, the Earl of Kent, scowled indiscriminately on the whole performance. Tension was high and the rank odour of imminent civil war tainted the incense-filled air. Edward could have sliced through the vicious atmosphere with no effort and a blunt broadsword.

‘Do you remember the advice you gave me?’ Edward suddenly asked, as the blast of a fanfare to herald the beginning of the procession all but deafened us. We shuffled slowly into line.

‘I do,’ I said. I rested my hand lightly on Edward’s arm, anticipating the moment when he would present me to his subjects as their Queen. ‘As I recall, I gave you a particularly hard time.’

‘And I expect I deserved it.’ A fleeting grin curved his mouth, quickly vanishing so that he looked older than his years. ‘Well, my percipient wife, the time is come for change. First we’ll get you crowned …’ He covered my hand with his, peering down into my face. ‘Can you tolerate it?’

‘Of course.’ Were not daughters of Hainault made of stern stuff? And the brush of Edward’s fingertips over my chilly skin had warmed my blood. I might be a strategic bride, and less outwardly appealing than my sisters, but that did not mean that Edward did not love me.

‘I’m not convinced,’ Edward frowned. ‘I see shadows under your eyes deep enough to bury Mortimer in.’

Behind us, Mortimer gave the order for the procession to begin. I took a breath and steeled myself for the lengthy but necessary formalities. Since I was so obviously carrying Edward’s child, I presumed that it was essential that my crowning be as formal and magnificent as it was possible to make it.

‘Wait!’

It was Edward’s command, to my surprise. Mortimer stepped out of the procession to see what was amiss. He was not pleased. Nor was Isabella, whose pre-eminence was suddenly compromised.

It gave me a little jolt of pleasure. Unworthy, perhaps, but quite understandable.

Edward raised his hand to beckon Mortimer’s newly appointed Archbishop of Canterbury who had been lurking uneasily on the edge of the milling courtiers. The priest, resplendent in mitre and full regalia, approached and bowed.

‘I want this done fast,’ Edward stated without preamble.

There was a pregnant silence.

‘Her Majesty should be crowned with all due process, Sire,’ Archbishop Meopham reproved, glancing over to where Mortimer, arms folded across his chest, was keeping a jaundiced eye on the proceedings.

‘Her Majesty should have been crowned two years ago,’ Edward retorted. ‘Now her health is under strain.’

The Archbishop lowered his voice. ‘But the Lord Mortimer wishes the full ceremony, Sire, to honour the Lady.’

More like to honour Mortimer! I could see the thought dance in Edward’s eyes as he stared at the Archbishop, but not a word of it passed his lips. This was neither the time nor the place for so formidable a level of confrontation. ‘My wife will be honoured when the holy oil touches her brow,’ Edward stated. ‘The length of the ceremony is irrelevant. I wish it to be cut short.’

‘But, Sire …’ The cleric cast another furtive glance towards Lord Mortimer.

And at last the edge of temper rumbled. ‘I am your liege lord, Meopham. If you are wise, if you have an eye to your future in this kingdom, you will obey me. Affairs will not always be as they are today. The humiliations of the past can be tolerated no longer. Do you understand me?’

The Archbishop, pierced by Edward’s stare, understood all too well, the warning and the promise. He swallowed hard and bowed.

‘Yes, Sire. Indeed I do. It will be as you desire.’

And so it was. It must have been the fastest coronation in history. Mortimer glowered, Isabella plucked irritably at her ermine, Kent stood throughout with his hand on his sword-hilt, but I was duly anointed, crowned and feasted almost before I could change my garments yet again for cloth of gold and a miniver cloak. And as the crown was placed on my head, I knew. Here, in this one small wielding of royal power, in this oblique statement of future intent, was my first real intimation of the King who would emerge from the shadow of the furious, frustrated young man who had come to Hainault three years before to wed my lovely elder sister, and who had got me instead.