Free Passage to Pontefract by Jean Plaidy

who must take his leave of his devoted wife, of his anxious father and his ailing mother.
    ‘I shall be back ere long,’ John promised Blanche. And he thought: I wonder if, when I return, Catherine Swynford will still be in the nurseries?

    The Queen knew that she was dying. Steadily over the last two years she had become more enfeebled. Her body was now so swollen with dropsy that it was a burden to her and she could feel no great sorrow at leaving a world which had lost its charm for her.
    As she lay in bed she thought of the past when she had been so happy. So vividly that it seemed like only yesterday did she recall the day Edward’s envoys had come to Hainault to choose a bride for him and how fearful she had been that they might select one of her sisters. And how they had laughed when he told her that he warned his ambassadors that it would be more than their lives were worth to bring him any but Philippa. So happy they had been, so much in love – a boy and a girl no more. And when they grew up, the love between them grew stronger and they had had a wonderful family to prove it to the world.
    Happy days – but past. So many of the children dead and herself nothing but a mass of unwanted flesh that encumbered her like a prison from which she longed to escape.
    Life was ironical. Some lived too long. Others were taken before they had had a chance to live at all. Oh my sweet Joanna, dying of plague in a foreign land. My dear Lionel who left us in the prime of his manhood. Mary and Margaret smitten down so suddenly. And all the little babies.
    Such tragedies! And yet such joys! That was life; and none could escape what fate had in store be they kings or queens.
    There was little time left.
    She said to those about her bed: ‘It is time to send for the King.’
    He came at once, hurrying into her apartment and throwing himself on his knees by her bed. Edward, her King. Instead of the ageing man he had become, she saw the bright-eyed flaxen-haired boy, so handsome, so vital, a leader in every way.
    Oh it was sad that youth must fade, that ideals be lost, that will o’ the wisps must be pursued when the wise know they can only lead to danger. It was sad that lives must be spent in making war in hopeless causes.
    Oh my Edward, she thought, if only you had been content to be but King of England. Why did you have to fight these hopeless battles for a crown which could never be yours?
    But it was all over … for her. Death was calling her away. She had played her part in the drama. She must leave it to others to finish.
    ‘Philippa … my love … my Queen …’
    His voice seemed to be coming to her from over the years.
    She said: ‘We have been happy together, husband.’
    ‘Happy,’ he echoed. ‘So happy …’
    There were tears in his eyes, tears of remorse. She was dying. He might have remained faithful to the very end. Yet he had seen that witch Alice and had been tempted, and unable to resist.
    ‘Philippa,’ he murmured, ‘you must not go. You must not leave me. How can I live without you?’
    She smiled and did not answer him.
    Her youngest son, Thomas, had come to her bedside. Such a boy, she thought sadly. He will need his mother yet. He was only fourteen years old.
    ‘Edward,’ she said, ‘care for Thomas.’
    ‘I will care for our son, my dearest.’
    ‘I must speak to you, Edward. I have three requests.’
    ‘They shall be granted, dear lady. Only name them.’
    All she wanted was that he should see that her obligations were fulfilled – all the gifts and legacies for her servants paid.
    ‘And when you die, Edward, I would that you should lie beside me in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey.’
    ‘It shall be. It shall be.’
    She was fast failing and William of Wykeham, the Bishop of Winchester, had arrived at her bedside.
    She asked to be left alone with the Bishop for a short while and her wish was granted. At the time there was thought to be nothing strange in this. It was natural that she