The Uncrowned Queen

The Uncrowned Queen
Anne O'Brien

A Sunday Times Bestseller‘O’Brien cleverly intertwines the personal and political in this enjoyable, gripping tale.’-The Times Her path to the throne is paved with treason… 1330. Philippa of Hainault may be married to King Edward III but she’s penniless and powerless. England quivers in the clutches of the Dowager Queen Isabella and her darkly ambitious lover Lord Mortimer while her husband rots in jail, a prisoner at Mortimer’s hand. It will take a courageous young man to emerge from the shadows and rise up against this formidable pair.Philippa won’t sit back and see Edward puppeteered. She is determined to see justice done. It’s her words whispered into the young King Edward’s ear that will see the battle for England’s throne commence.Praise for Anne O’Brien‘O’Brien cleverly intertwines the personal and political in this enjoyable, gripping tale.’- The Times‘A gem of a subject … O’Brien is a terrific storyteller’- Daily Telegraph‘Joanna of Navarre is the feisty heroine in Anne O’Brien’s fast-paced historical novel The Queen’s Choice.’-Good Housekeeping‘A gripping story of love, heartache and political intrigue.’-Woman & Home‘Packed with drama, danger, romance and history.’-Pam Norfolk, for the Press Association‘Better than Philippa Gregory’ – The Bookseller ‘Anne O’Brien has joined the exclusive club of excellent historical novelists.’ – Sunday Express ‘A gripping historical drama.’-Bella‘This book has everything – royalty, scandal, fascinating historical politics and ultimately, the shaping of the woman who founded the Tudors.’ – Cosmopolitanwww.anneobrien.co.uk@anne_obrien

About the Author (#ulink_717bb367-391c-54c3-b12f-a34ea83a8e71)

ANNE O’BRIEN taught History in the East Riding of Yorkshire before deciding to fulfil an ambition to write historical fiction. She now lives in an eighteenth century timbered cottage with her husband in the Welsh Marches, a wild, beautiful place renowned for its black and white timbered houses, ruined castles and priories and magnificent churches. Steeped in history, famous people and bloody deeds, as well as ghosts and folklore, the Marches provide inspiration for her interest in medieval England.

Visit her at www.anneobrienbooks.com (http://www.anneobrienbooks.com/)

Also by Anne O’Brien

Virgin Widow

Devil’s Consort

The Uncrowned Queen

(short story prequel toThe King’s Concubine)

The King’s Concubine

The Uncrowned Queen

Anne O’Brien

Table of Contents

Cover (#uc4149c2b-fc3d-59fc-8755-db58cb9adbf6)

About the Author (#ulink_d4189633-af10-5fde-a573-135c064a82da)

Title Page (#u65a09fee-59f5-5348-a8cc-547bf616ac55)

PROLOGUE (#ulink_67e312b0-c98f-5b41-b317-40f5559a3643)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_96be8ed0-bfc8-5d31-a558-317eebbae1af)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_c1cc8535-855e-541d-b55c-6b71dd7634fd)

CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE (#ulink_d8fb9aa2-e1a7-5ca9-af06-c3dddf79823e)

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.’