Princess of the Black Death | ✔️

Prologue

Summer 1377, Sheen Palace, Richmond, England

The king had been given his last rites.

His wife had departed this earth 8 years ago. Queen Philippa had been a true good wife — mother to many children, five of them sons, voice of reason throughout his reign, leader to all England while he was off at war with France. His eldest daughter Isabella was the only one now by his side. He gave her everything as no princess before or since had, and she had travelled from France to see him off for a final time.

Yes, no king could have asked for a better queen by his side. The last eight years were lonely. Edward III had been king for nigh on 50 years. Scarcely anyone but he remembered how bad a queen could be. His own mother was a she-wolf who usurped his father's throne, had his father killed, and tried to rule in her son's name until Edward was old enough to be able to banish his mother and kill her lover. He had been king fully since then, although in the last few years he deferred to his sons to do most of the ruling. His wife was a true partner to him, and he couldn't have reigned so well without her.

His priest who had listened to his final prayers and said the sacrament, sat with him now along with some advisors, who waited silently. He felt his strength slipping away. The stone room felt cold despite his fine silk blanket covering him. No one had lit a fire due to the warm summer season. Only he felt the shiver of Death's presence.

He felt he had been a good king to his people and to God and was ready to commit his soul to God and Eternity. He wanted so much to see Philippa again.

And see his own son, Edward. His son, his heir, who died before him last year but left his own son to continue the line. Edward III left many capable and cunning sons behind, and yet his kingdom would been in the hands of his quiet, gentle young grandson. He prayed his sons would aid the future boy king Richard for the glory of England, but he feared clashes and fights for their own power.

But more than he longed to see his son, he suddenly felt a tightening grip of guilt and mourning for his beloved daughter, Joan. Little Joan, a treasure in life, adored so much by himself and Philippa, joined the angels more than 30 years earlier. Barely more than a child, he sent her into Europe with all the riches and entourage to show off England's wealth and above all, Edward III's own might. Little Joan was betrothed for an alliance and was put on her boat to sail away to her death. He hadn't given her a choice in life.

The Great Death, the greatest pestilence to befoul Christendom and claimed so, so many, came first for Joan because he sent her away.

"Forgive me!" Edward cried, tensed up, and closed his eyes and fell back on his pillow. The priest crossed himself. There were whispers in the room as the priest confirmed the king's death. Who did he ask for forgiveness? What sight did he see as he met his maker?

There was only room for speculation, but word needed to be sent out. One era had now ended and a new one would rise. There was the chance for shifting alliances, new grabs for power, new justifications for switching allegiances, new possibilities of claims to the throne due to being progeny of this man. There was hardly time to mourn but immediate need to plot.

The old king was dead; long live the king.