Winter 1333, Tower of London, England

Queen Philippa anticipated her third child's birth. Her confinement began a month earlier, so she had been locked in her birthing room since then with no interaction with her husband. Her young children, Edward and Isabella, were being looked after and had only been brought to her a couple of times early in her lying in time. This was all expected. A queen preparing for a royal birth must focus exclusively on calm, godly thoughts to ensure a successful birth and only be surrounded by women.

A fire burned in the fireplace and Philippa sat up in bed with nothing to do but wait. She was buried under fur-lined blankets, but the stone castle walls still made the room feel chilled. Oh, a child born in winter had more risks to health, but Philippa had felt so much movement in her room that she knew the child was strong.

Her ladies in waiting sat by the window practised their needlework and read to the queen from the Bible. Although Philippa dutifully respected English royal birthing traditions, she was bored after a few weeks. All but one window was covered and left for some light and fresh air. She had been told too much light at this point could hurt her eyes, and she had to go along with what she was advised. So she couldn't do much herself except talk to her ladies and listen to them while they found something to occupy their time.

The room was kept like her womb: warm, dark and quiet. It was the best transition environment for the baby, even though each day felt like it lasted forever to the queen.

She longed for her husband's kisses, his gentle caresses on her body, the way he possessed her completely, filling her with delight every time he was with her.

Oh! Philippa knew she mustn't think such things. Piety to God and the Church was important above all else, but it was He the Lord who sanctified marriage and He who created the pleasure when a man burrowed his face into his wife. It was a woman's duty to provide children, but it was God himself who must want it to be enjoyable, even if she couldn't admit it aloud.

It was by royal decree that Philippa was to marry a man she had never met and who she didn't even meet at the wedding. He could have been anything. He could have been old, ugly, cruel, or impotent. She had no choice. No, she had been married by proxy and arrived in England as a wife to an unseen figure. She was an alliance from her father to Edward's mother. It was a princess's duty to be sent away and marry whom she was told. She grew up with the finest education and most beautiful clothes, knowing all along her dear father would give her away to whomever most benefited him.

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But who could have been luckier? Philippa grew to love Edward rather quickly. He was tall and burly with a long, dark beard. He was a warrior and led troops in battle but was so gentle and caring in bed, even from the first night they consummated the marriage.

She looked forward to the nights he visited her apartments. He sought her counsel during the war about the financial cost, and after giving thought, she advised expansion of new industries, which he followed. New industry meant new income to the citizens and to the Crown. There were citizens of Flanders who had moved to London when she moved. Flanders was known for its textiles, and she convinced Edward to give skilled weavers land up river in Norwich. It was land he had no use for, and once the weavers were established with land, they grew wealthy on their output, other townspeople grew the town larger, and Edward had more funds from the new community.

Despite being a homesick princess upon arrival on English soil, she was now firmly English in her heart. Her children were England's future. The tapestries in her chamber were from Flemish hands, so the old princess and current queen had something in common.

Philippa felt the familiar contracting of her belly.

"Ladies," she said. They all turned towards her. "It is time."

The midwives got in position, but her lady who was reading from the Bible continued. Philippa knew childbirth could end in the beauty of a child or in death, a fate that claimed poor and rich women alike. This was her punishment of the original sin, and she braced herself for the familiar pain.

But now was the time to focus on breathing and let the midwives do their job. God would decide her fate. She clutched tightly to a cross placed into her hand. Incidentally, He made it an easy birth. God was good to her that day. Philippa only felt the pain of contractions for upwards of an hour before the baby emerged.

"A girl," the ladies cried.

Philippa let out a grateful sigh. The child cried out, the child was alive, a princess for England, a princess to aid their family much like Philippa aided Flanders when she came to England.

As Philippa held her newborn daughter against her chest, she knew as queen, it was also her destiny to raise her daughters to be sent away. Did it break her parents heart to see her go or was it something they prepared themselves for? Philippa would have to prepare herself too. They were her children, but more importantly, they were the nation's children.

"What shall you name her?" one of the ladies asked.

"Joan," the queen whispered out. "Joan of England."