Chapter 30 #3
Three weeks later, on a cool, breezy day, the Prince’s funeral cortege arrived in Canterbury having journeyed by stages from Westminster.
Folk had lined the route to pay their respects and receive distributions of alms and largesse as the bier travelled past, exactly as Edward had planned.
The bier was emblazoned with shields bearing the Prince’s device between swatches of black fabric, and was drawn by six black horses.
The tomb effigy had been commissioned but was yet to be constructed, and the chantry chapel to house that tomb was still being designed.
For now, his body would rest in the crypt.
His military equipment was to adorn his resting place – his jupon, his helm and the accoutrements of his warrior life – and when the chapel was ready, all would be moved there.
He had requested that a set of textile hangings be draped in the choir in memoriam on each anniversary of the Trinity – the day on which he had been born and died.
Travelling with the cortege, behind the bier, another cart contained the hangings and other treasures Edward had requested for the cathedral – textiles of embroidered green velvet, cloths of gold thread, an enamelled cross of silver gilt and a golden chalice with his arms engraved around the base.
A statue of the Trinity was among the gifts too, depicting the Virgin enthroned, and crowned with sapphires and rubies.
The nobility and clergy of England had gathered to bury their most famous prince and pay him their due respects.
The words of the sermon echoed in Jeanette’s head as she looked upon the draped bier and tasted incense with each breath she drew.
The black wool of her mourning gown prickled the nape of her neck, chafing above the line of her chemise.
Everything was too real, but at the same time other-worldly, like a suffocating dream, as Simon Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, delivered his oration.
‘Any prince should excel his subjects in power, wisdom and goodness, just as the image of the Holy Trinity represents these, the Father being power, the Son wisdom and the Holy Spirit goodness. But this lord Prince had all three qualities in the highest degree.’
Jeanette swallowed. At her side, Tom took her hand and gripped it in his, and she was grateful for the grounding and the contact of warm, living flesh. At her other side, Richard was observing proceedings with that peculiar concentration he had.
‘This lord is most praiseworthy because he excelled in power, wisdom and goodness, which is contained in the image of the Trinity. And that same Trinity he worshipped above all. He was born on the Feast of the Trinity; on that same feast he paid Nature’s debt; and in the church of the Holy Trinity, he chose to be buried. Amen.’
* * *
Jeanette stood beside Edward’s bier in the candlelit cathedral crypt.
The handsome, chivalrous Prince was now at rest until the sounding of the trumpets of the final judgement.
‘Farewell, my dearest love,’ she said softly.
‘May God keep and hold you in his protection.’ She felt both blessed and cursed.
To have had two such great loves in her life and to have lost both men untimely was great fortune and great grief.
There would be no one else. Richard was her life now. He stood at her side, silently intense.
‘You have done well today,’ she said. ‘Your father would have been so proud of you.’
Richard’s expression was hard and set, like glass. ‘Why did he have to die?’ he demanded. ‘Why did God make him die? Why has God taken my father and my brother from me?’
‘It is not for us to know God’s will,’ she said, swallowing bitterness.
Richard jutted his chin. ‘How can a king be fair and just when God is not?’
‘You must ask that of God himself, for I cannot answer you. I do know you must be fair and just in yourself – it is what your father would expect of you, and what I expect too.’
Richard fell silent, his face pale, his expression withdrawn. She pulled him to her again and kissed his hair.
‘It’s still not fair,’ he said.
Following the ordeal of the funeral banquet, Jeanette retired for the night.
Richard was sleeping in the ante chamber watched over by his nurse.
Jeanette’s ladies helped her disrobe, unpinned her hair and combed it out, still lustrous but thickly stranded with silver.
The women helped her into a clean chemise for sleeping and she drew her bed robe over it – a loose garment of blue silk, lightly belted across the rounded folds of her stomach.
Sitting on the bed, she fondled the dogs, Amber and Damask, the current pets in a long line of canines permitted in the domestic bedchamber.
She reached to the platter of spiced meat pastries sent up from the kitchens and as she shared them with the dogs, remembered how she and Edward had so often done this as they discussed their day.
She imagined him sitting with her, eating, asking her opinion of the funeral and the attendees.
The pithy remarks and witticisms. His eagerness for his tomb to be a resplendent representation.
‘They will never forget me,’ she heard him say, and in her imagination she reached out to caress his face.
‘No, they never will, my love, we shall make sure of it.’ Tears trickled down her cheeks.
She wiped them away as they welled and spilled over and continued with the pastries, one for herself, one for Edward and a third for the dogs.
Then a cup of wine for herself and another for Edward, from the engraved silver goblet he had given her almost thirty years ago – eating and drinking because he could not, while the tears continued and she strove not to sob lest she be sick.
She was contemplating a third cup of wine to numb her senses when there was a soft knock on her door, and, at her call, the knight Lewis Clifford quietly entered. ‘Madam, the Duke of Lancaster is asking to speak with you,’ he said.
Jeanette hastily dusted crumbs from the bed and wondered at the lateness of the hour. ‘Bid him enter,’ she said, and retied the sash on her bed robe, firming the knot to prepare herself, her heart quickening at what she might have to face now.
John walked into the room, still wearing the garments from the funeral – sombre dark velvet, plush with a gleam in its depth. He fondled the dogs briefly before pushing them away.
She rose to face him. ‘John, whatever is the matter?’
He shook his head. ‘There is news from Havering. My father has taken a turn for the worse, and his physicians fear for his life.’
Jeanette gave an involuntary gasp. She knew the King was ailing but had not thought him at death’s door. Not on the evening of Edward’s burial. ‘No!’
‘I am afraid so. We should leave for Havering at first light. I understand he is well enough to be putting his affairs in order and making his will – but you know how Edward was in the week before . . .’
Jeanette sat down abruptly on the bed as her legs gave way. John poured wine into her cup and gave it to her. She took a single sip and handed it back, feeling sick. ‘Is he truly dying? Did your messenger say anything more than that?’
‘Only that he has taken to his bed. It may be that Edward’s funeral has overwhelmed him with grief.’
She nodded numbly.
‘You must prepare Richard, and yourself. I have to go: there are letters to write and orders to give.’
Fear jolted through her at how much she and Richard were at the mercy of others. She had to rely on John’s truth and integrity – and try to ensure it aligned with hers.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and was relieved when he returned her gaze and did not look away.
‘I promised,’ he said, as if he could see her thoughts. ‘I promised my brother and I promised you and Richard. Never doubt it.’