The Shadow Queen: The Sunday Times bestselling book – a must read for Summer 2018. Anne O'Brien

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СКАЧАТЬ rel="nofollow" href="#ulink_0f79ecac-1809-5141-bc34-0c44f52ce1b3">Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Extract

       Acknowledgements

       What inspired me to write about Joan of Kent?

       In the steps of Joan of Kent

       And Afterwards:

       Epitaph of Edward of Woodstock, Prince of Wales

       About the Publisher

Prologue

      I stared at the reflection, with appreciation. The eyes – bold, self-assured – stared back at me.

      To mark the celebration of the day of my birth – I do not recall which year it might have been except that I was still little more than a child – I was given this mirror by Philippa. Queen Philippa, my cousin by marriage, wife of my royal cousin King Edward the Third. I think that I had no gift from my mother on that occasion. My mother had mislaid the celebration amidst all the other burdens on her memory. As for my father, he was dead by an axe reserved for those condemned for treason. But Queen Philippa remembered and marked the day. I valued that mirror highly.

      ‘Don’t look in it too often, Joan,’ Philippa advised in her kindly manner, when she saw me glance in its silvered surface for the third time within the reading of our daily prayers. ‘It will set your pretty feet on the path to vanity and self-will, neither of which are admirable qualities in a young woman.’

      It was a beautiful thing, the glass embellished by an ivory mount, the back smooth-carved with two figures of a knight and his lady. She was crowning him with a garland to symbolise their love. The mirror was made to hang from a cunning little hasp at my belt.

      Lifting it, now that I was alone and at leisure to do so, I angled it towards the light and studied the face that looked back.

      Fair hair, as fair as that of the Blessed Virgin in my Book of Hours, was pleated and pinned and tucked beneath a coif in seemly fashion, so that there was little to see of it, but I knew it was much admired by the women who cared for me. Pale skin without blemish or unsightly freckle. A straight nose. Brows darker than my hair, arching impressively with a touch of female artifice. Eyes that were agate-dark, with lashes that were the envy of my female cousins. A graceful neck. Which was as much as I could see in the small aperture, but it was enough. I enjoyed the experience.

      I was Joan of Kent. Joan the Fair. Even now my praises were being sung where men admired female loveliness.

      ‘And in the taverns too, I don’t doubt.’ My cousin Princess Isabella had a caustic tongue. ‘I would not be proud of that.’

      ‘But then, dearest cousin, you can lay no claim to my degree of beauty. Although,’ I adopted a nice tone of condescension, ‘the ground lily root with egg yolk has been miraculous in ridding your skin of blemishes.’

      Isabella, pretty enough, glowered.

      Beware conceit, Queen Philippa would admonish. Her beauty was neither in her face nor her figure, rather in her loving heart, but I was too young to acknowledge that allure of the flesh could be of less value than winsomeness of the spirit. How could I not be vain when I had been so gracefully blessed in face and form?

      What would the future hold for me?

      Whatever I wished it to hold, of course. Was I not of royal blood? I tilted my chin, liking the result as the light glimmered along the fine line of my brow, softening my perfect cheekbones. I must practise looking imperious. I was sure that it would be a most useful attribute.

Chapter One

       Late Autumn, 1340: Windsor Castle

      A servant, opening the door with well-worn deference, bowed briefly and generally to the crowded chamber. For the most part, inured to such interruptions and intent on our own pursuits, we, the youthful but high-bred occupants, ignored him. There was music, there were books and counter games. There were small animals to be teased and cosseted. The boys were clustered round a longbow in need of repair. We, my sister and female cousins, were draping a length of luridly-vermillion embroidered cloth, discovered in one of the King’s Twelfth Night dressing-up coffers, around the short figure of Princess Isabella.

      The servant cleared his throat, to no avail.

      Who were we, to ignore what would be a summons from some higher authority for at least one of us? We, as we were all supremely well aware, СКАЧАТЬ