Rise of a Dynasty: Unveiling the Plantagenets (Part 9) - Edward II: A Crown Too Heavy
In this next instalment in our journey through the Plantagenet Dynasty, let us ponder historical figures in general — some invite admiration, others spark debate. And then there are those who leave us with more questions than answers. These are the figures whose lives feel like puzzles we’re still trying to solve centuries later.
Edward II is one of those kings!
So I have decided, rather than recount the familiar dates and political details of his reign, in this blog, I prefer to take a different path. I want to look at Edward not just as a monarch who failed, but as a man. Someone shaped by expectations, entangled in emotion, and ultimately undone by forces he may never have fully understood.
This is not a deep academic dive, nor an attempt to solve any mysteries related to his downfall. Instead, it’s a reflection, a pause to consider how different his story feels when we look at it through a more human lens. As we explore the many emotional milestones of Edward’s life, leading to the tragic legacy he left behind, we may just see another side to this maligned king.
The Burden of Legacy
When we picture a medieval king, we imagine a warrior with a sword raised, decisive, and ruthless when needed. But what happens when the crown rests on the head of a man who doesn’t meet that expectation?
Born as the youngest of at least fifteen children, and the fourth or possibly fifth son, Edward II was never meant to wear the crown. His future should have been one of relative freedom, unburdened by the impossible expectations of kingship. But fate, as it so often does in royal families, had other plans. And so a boy never groomed to lead became a man judged for how poorly he did it.
His father, Edward I, was a king whose very name still echoes with authority, a towering figure in every sense of the word. His skill as a military commander, together with his imposing rule, made him a man feared by enemies and allies alike. The title ‘Hammer of the Scots’, earned through brutal campaigns, left no doubt about his power, and to many, he was the embodiment of what a medieval king should be.
In short, his were very big boots to fill!
And into this legacy stepped his son, from the outset more sensitive, more drawn to companionship than conquest, and much more comfortable with music and building projects than military manoeuvres. From the very beginning, Edward II seemed to carry not just the crown, but the weight of comparison. Where his father demanded discipline, Edward wavered. Where strength was expected, he showed softness.
And in a world where kings were measured by battlefield glory, Edward's reign would begin and end in disappointment, at least in the eyes of many.
But perhaps the greater tragedy isn’t that Edward failed to live up to his father’s image. Perhaps it’s that no one ever truly allowed him to be anything else.
Love in All the Wrong Places
Edward’s reign was shaped as much by the people he loved, or thought he could trust, as it was by any political acts. The chronicles speak often of his “favourites,” and history has long speculated about the nature of those relationships. The most famous of course is Piers Gaveston, charming, bold, and utterly unbothered by the disapproval he stirred. Their closeness was undeniable, and it rattled the court from the very beginning.
But what if we look at it not just through the lens of scandal, but through the quiet, human desire for connection?
Edward had been born into a world of power and distance. The son of a commanding, often cold father, and the youngest of a vast royal brood, not only was he not meant to be king, but he was also not prepared for the isolation it brought. His mother, Queen Eleanor of Castile, travelled frequently with Edward I, and with so many children to care for, it’s likely Edward spent much of his early life in the hands of attendants rather than cradled in parental affection. And while that was fairly common for royalty at the time, if we take into account Edward’s gentle personality, that absence may very well have left its mark. From the very beginning, I believe he had been searching for something, not power, not glory, but a kind of connection he never truly had.
After all, we know that Gaveston was not the only one. After his brutal execution by the Earl of Lancaster, others quickly stepped into that intimate circle, men like Roger Damory and Hugh Audley, before Hugh Despenser the Younger rose to dominate not just Edward’s favour, but his policies. There’s every reason to believe that Edward was drawn to them not simply for politics, but for the comfort they offered. The danger, of course, was that these affections made him vulnerable, not just emotionally, but politically.
Was Edward homosexual? Perhaps. But I feel that question, while fascinating to many, may have missed the larger point: could all of these favourites simply be the ones who offered him the love or attention he seemed to crave. And in a harsh, masculine world where emotional connection was seen as weakness, it’s little wonder that those willing to press close with flattery, charm, and ambition were the ones he let in.
Not because he was foolish. But because he was lonely.
The Weight of the Crown
If Edward struggled to find affection in his personal life, he fared no better when it came to the political responsibilities of kingship. His reign was marked not by decisive leadership, but by hesitation, misjudgment, and a refusal to listen to the voices he most needed to hear.
Military command, in particular, revealed his weaknesses. At the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314, Edward led a sizeable English force against the Scots, and suffered one of the most humiliating defeats in English history. Poor planning, overconfidence, and a failure to adapt cost him the battle, and with it, his reputation. Scotland slipped from his grasp, and with it, any sense that Edward could live up to the military legacy of his father.
And yet, for all his softness, Edward could be astonishingly stubborn. He clung to those he trusted, most notably Hugh Despenser, even when their influence fanned the flames of rebellion across the country. Again and again, his barons tried to intervene, tried to pull him back from disastrous decisions, but he would not yield. Like a dog with a bone, he held fast to those affections, as if they were the only certainty in a world that refused to accept him.
The great irony was that while Edward lacked almost all the qualities expected of a king, he would not loosen his grip on the throne. His son, Edward of Windsor, was growing up fast, a symbol of hope to many, and a threat to the authority Edward still clung to. But even as his kingdom slipped into chaos around him, Edward remained dogged in his determination to have his way, as well as to serve up the dish of revenge for those who targeted his favourites. Whether it was pride, fear, or simply a refusal to accept that his rule had failed, he did not prepare for a transition, and did not shift course. He ruled on, not because he was strong, but because by that point he probably could not envision any other outcome.
The Woman Who Would Not be Silenced
If Edward’s reign was marked by emotional vulnerability, Isabella’s story is often framed as its fierce opposite. The French princess who became Queen of England, beautiful, intelligent, politically astute, and ultimately, the woman who brought down her own husband. History remembers her as the She-Wolf of France, a name heavy with judgment. But perhaps, like Edward, Isabella’s story deserves a closer look.
Their marriage began with ceremony and diplomacy, sadly though, the young queen was wed to a king who was already devoted to another. Even as early as at their joint coronation, Edward shocked and insulted many by giving Piers Gaveston pride of place — dressing him in silks, allowing him to carry the king’s crown, and lavishing him with honours that should have belonged to his new bride. What should have been Isabella’s moment was instead dominated by Gaveston’s splendour. Her father’s envoys were deeply offended, and the English court took notice. From the very beginning, she was treated not as a queen, but as an afterthought, a mere political pawn in the game of medieval kingdoms.
And as the years passed, things only worsened. With the rise of Hugh Despenser, any remaining sense of her dignity, position, or influence was stripped away. She was not just sidelined as a consort; but completely humiliated, her lands seized, and her royal authority undermined. And then there was the moment Edward left her alone in the north of England, tasked with negotiating during a rebellion, and forced to take refuge at Tynemouth Priory, while he fled south. It may have been a political decision, and then it may have become something else: a turning point for Isabella.
In 1325, when she crossed to France, sent as a mediator, she chose not to return. However, it was the arrival of her son on the continent months after her, that changed everything. Sent by Edward to pay homage to the French king for Gascony, as he himself was afraid to leave England because of the political unrest with his barons, the young Prince Edward became not just a diplomatic envoy, but a powerful playing piece upon the board.
With the heir to the throne now in her control, Isabella gained much more than influence, she gained legitimacy.
Her cause was no longer a whisper of discontent, it became a movement with a future king at its heart.
Also whilst in France, she found an unexpected ally and most probably a lover, in the form of the exiled nobleman Roger Mortimer, who had previously escaped from the Tower of London. Some say she was manipulated, others that she took control. But perhaps it was something more human than either: perhaps, like Edward, she too was seeking comfort. She too may have been drawn to someone who offered what her husband never could, and that was attention, validation, and partnership.
It’s easy to see Isabella’s affair with Mortimer as cold calculation. But maybe it was born, at least in part, from the same longing that had once drawn Edward to his favourites.
Of course, unlike Edward, Isabella acted. She and Mortimer raised an army with the young Prince Edward as it’s figurehead, crossed the Channel in September 1326, and swept through England almost without resistance. Edward was abandoned by most of his supporters and allies, and finally, captured and forced to abdicate the throne in favour of his son, the new Edward III. And at the centre of it all stood Isabella, not just as a scorned queen, but as a woman who had waited long enough.
History gave her teeth. But perhaps, before she ever bared them, she had been bleeding quietly for years.
The Fall and the Shadows
Edward’s fall was not dramatic in the way history often remembers its kings. There was no final stand, no noble last speech. Once stripped of his crown, he faded quietly and humiliatingly into the shadows of his own story.
He was imprisoned at Kenilworth Castle, and later transferred to Berkeley. And then, the silence. What followed remains one of history’s darker mysteries. Some accounts claim he died in 1327, murdered in a manner so brutal it’s become infamous. Others suggest a quieter death, from illness or despair. And there are even whispers, fed by half-truths and fragments of letters, that he may have survived, living out his final years in obscurity, on the continent, and far from the throne that broke him.
Whatever the truth, Edward II died not as a king, but as a mysterious tale. Misunderstood in life, and mythologised in death.
But perhaps the real tragedy lies in something much simpler: that he was never the man his crown required him to be, and sadly, was never given the freedom to be anything else. In another time, in another role, he might have been remembered not for failure, but for kindness, creativity, and loyalty that ran too deep for the brutal world he was born into.
Instead, his legacy remains cloaked in questions. But beneath the layers of scandal and silence, I tend to believe that only one thing feels certain.
Edward II was not just a failed king. For me I think he was a lonely soul, born to rule a kingdom that never made room for his heart.
I hope you have enjoyed my ponderings….. please don’t hesitate to comment below, I do feel curious whether others have similar thoughts, or am I perhaps the only soft-centred fool who likes to see the good in everybody.
In our next instalment, we turn our attention to Edward III — a very different king from his father, and yet, in many ways, shaped by the very shadow Edward II left behind. His reign will be the next step on this journey, beginning with how he reclaimed control of a kingdom fractured by betrayal, and set the course for what would become one of the longest and most complex conflicts in medieval history.
But as always, we’ll follow the thread of the people, not just the war. Because if there’s one thing I continue to discover through this Plantagenet story, it’s that history is never just about battles or dates. It’s about hearts and choices, longings and fears. It's about people with flaws, strengths, ambitions, and regrets, just like us. And maybe, just maybe, the past isn’t so distant after all.
Does this make you want to walk the very landscapes where history just like this unfolded?
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Tynemouth Priory Image - English Heritage, Berkeley Castle & Tower of London Images © Plantagenet Discoveries, Robert the Bruce addressing his troops at Bannockburn, Painting of Edward and Piers Gaveston & The execution of Hugh Despenser Images - Public Domain
