Текст книги "The Star of Lancaster"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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And now he was dead and she was alone and she did not know what would become of her—yet in her grief she did not care.

*I shall not see this braggart Harry,' she said. 'Why should he come here to see me?'

Her maids, Simonette and Marianne, whom she had brought with her from France and whom Richard had indulgently allowed her to keep, fluttered round her, one brushing her long dark hair and the other putting on her shoes.

*It is important, my lady,' said Simonette. 'He is the Prince of Wales now, this Harry.'

*He is not the Prince of Wales,' cried Isabella. 'There is no Prince of Wales. He is the son of the usurper.'

'Hush, hush, my lady,' warned Marianne. 'People listen. They say the King is very harsh with those who go against him.'

'Let him be harsh with me. Let him kill me as he has killed my dear Richard. My father will come and fight him and perhaps kill him which would please me much, I tell you.'

The two chambermaids shook their heads and looked sadly at each other. It was hardly likely that the King of France would come to England to rescue his daughter. He was at this

time in one of his lost periods, which meant that he was kept shut away from the world, until his affliction left him and he was sane again.

The little Queen had been so indulged by her husband that she believed that the whole world would be ready to grant her whims.

'She has much to learn, that one,' was Simonette's comment to Marianne.

Isabella could not refuse to see the Prince of Wales and now she did not want to because her hatred for his father—and that hatred extended to him—was so overpowering that she wanted to give vent to it.

She was dressed all in white for mourning and with her cheeks ablaze and her eyes alight with passion she made a very pretty picture and Harry's heart leaped with pleasure at the sight of her. She was indeed the loveliest creature he had ever met. The daughter of the King of France, a Queen already ! What luck that she was worthy of him.

He bowed in his best manner while she regarded him with haughty disdain.

'Well met, my lady,' he said. 'It is long since I have known such pleasure as this meeting between us gives me.'

She remained silent. Wait till she knows, thought Harry. Pretty little Isabella, she is a prisoner here. She must have been wondering what will happen to her. I have come to rescue her. How she will love me when she knows.

1 have a matter of the greatest importance to discuss with you,' he went on.

She said coolly: 'I do not know what you and I could have to discuss.'

'You will, sweet lady. You will. Such good news I bring to you that I will withhold it no longer. Is there somewhere where we could be quiet that we may talk?'

'State your business here and now, my lord,' said Isabella. 'You have a long journey back to Westminster.'

Her manner made Harry laugh. Of course, she still thought of herself as the Queen. She had forgotten that Richard was dead, that he had been dethroned. Still, she still bore the title of Queen and she was the daughter of the King of France, madman though he might be.

'I shall go back with good news for my father, I doubt not. Come sit with me and I will tell you why I have come.'

With reluctance she allowed him to conduct her to the window seat.

Then he took her hand and said, 'Isabella, my father has created me Prince of Wales. That means I am heir to the throne. You never reigned with Richard. How would you like to do so one day with me?*

She refused to believe the implication.

1 do not understand, my lord,' she said. 'I know that the true King is dead and that there is a usurper on the throne. You mean that if the true King's loyal subjects do not displace this usurper you will one day be King.'

'There is no usurper. My father reigns by the will of the people because Richard proved himself unable to do so. My father is the descendant of Kings on both sides of his family. England will be happier under him than it ever was under Richard. My father. King Henry, has given his consent to our match and I come here to give you this good news.'

*Our ... match!'

'Isabella, my beautiful little Isabella, I love you. I want you to be my wife ... my Queen one day. My father ...'

She had sprung to her feet; her hands were clenched at her sides; her eyes stony.

'You ... the son of my husband's murderer ... You dare to come here and say this to me!'

'Isabella, you are mistaken. Richard was not murdered. He chose to die. He knew he was useless and he gave up the throne of his own free will. You were his bride ... his child bride ... you were never his wife in anything but name.'

'Please do not speak of him. I do not w^ish to hear his name on your lips. Your father is a murderer, Harry of Monmouth. You have killed my husband. You make your crime worse by suggesting that I w^ould marry you.' Her voice had risen. 'I hate you, Harry of Monmouth. I hate you. I hate you.'

'Well,' said Harry with a grin, 'that need not prevent your marrying me.'

'Go away. Never let me see you again.'

'Now that is asking too much. A wife must see her husband now and then you know. How else are they going to get the heirs the country will expect of them?'

She tried to push past him but he held her fast.

'You are like a wild cat,' he said. 'I must tame you.'

'I shall send to my father,' she cried. 'I will tell him how you

insult me. He will make war on you.'

'Sweet Isabella, dear child. Kings do not make war because of naughty little daughters. Your father will welcome this match as mine does. Come Isabella, I am a fine fellow really, and I am ready to prove it to you.*

'Let me alone. Go away. Never talk to me like this again.'

With that she gave him a push which sent him back to the window seat and she ran as fast as she could up the stairs to her bedchamber.

Harry looked after her ruefully. She would get used to the idea.

In her bedchamber Isabella found the Duchess of Ireland whom Richard had put in charge of her. The Duchess who had been Eleanor Holland before she married Roger de Mortimer had little cause to love the new self-styled King, for her son was Edmund de Mortimer whom many said was the true heir to the throne. The Duchess was still mourning the death of her husband who had died of his wounds in Ireland just before Richard had begun his campaign there.

Isabella turned the lock in the door and stood against it facing the Duchess.

'What do you think he has dared say?' she demanded. 'This ... this boy ... who calls himself the Prince of Whales. He says his father wishes me to marry him.'

'Oh, my child!' There was a bitter twist to the Duchess's lips. 'He wastes little time, does he, this Henry of Lancaster.'

'Eleanor, I refuse. I told him I hated him. I will never ... never marry him. Oh why did they kill Richard? I love Richard ... I'll always love him. Being dead doesn't make any difference.'

'My dear lady, he is only a boy obeying his father.'

'I hate him. He's just as bad as his father. I hate them both. I won't marry him. I'll run away. I'll go to my father. Eleanor, I want to send messengers to him at once ...'

The Duchess stroked Isabella's hair.

Poor child, she thought, she is just a counter in a game to them all ... to be moved this way and that as pleases them best.

Whatever the young Queen felt about her unwelcome visitor he could not be churlishly refused hospitality. He was after

all the son of the King and must be treated as such. Everyone at Havering knew that his or her present position was precarious and that Isabella would not remain long at Havering. It had been believed that she would most likely return to France but the arrival of the Prince of Wales presented a new and exciting possibility for it was quickly learned what his purpose was in coming.

When Isabella recovered from the shock of Harry's proposal she was a little calmer and her attitude tow^ards him was one of cold disdain.

At first this amused him. He would not have cared for an easy conquest; and the more aloof Isabella became the more he decided that he wanted to marry her.

He contrived to be with her as often as possible but as she was determined to avoid him he was not always successful.

In exasperation she tried to explain to him. *I will never marry you,' she said. *I have been married once. I loved my husband, the true King, and I shall never love anyone else.'

Harry tried to reason with her. 'That is nonsense/ he insisted. 'Richard was never your husband. He was like an indulgent father and you were his little pet... like one of his dogs.'

*I hate you, Monmouth Harry,' she murmured.

Tou were never a wife to him. You don't know what it means to be a wife.'

'And you would teach me what it means?'

His eyes glowed in anticipation. 'That would I do right gladly.'

'You never will.'

'Come, give me your promise.'

'I will promise you one thing: I will never be your wife/

'I am not one who easily gives up.'

'It takes two to make a bargain like this.'

'Not always,' he answered. 'In fact royal marriages are arranged for us. My father is very willing. What if your father is too?'

She w^as cold wath horror. She escaped from him as soon as she could and seeking out the Duchess she told her that she was sending a message to her father without delay. He must save her from the odious Harry and his murdering father.

The message was sent to France and at the same time an embassy arrixed from Henry proposing the marriage of his

son to Isabella. Charles the King of France was at the time suffering from one of his bouts of madness and his brother, Louis of Orleans, received the message. He certainly did not wish for the marriage. For one thing Henry was scarcely firm on the throne. There would be all kinds of murmurings against him, he was sure; moreover Louis had a son and it seemed to him that Isabella would be a very suitable bride for young Charles of Angouleme who was a year or so younger than she was.

Louis was pleased that Isabella had no wish for the match with Harry although of course if it had been expedient her feelings would not have been of paramount importance.

Louis's reply to Henry was that the King was at the moment suffering from one of his bouts of illness and it was impossible for the King's eldest daughter to be given away without consulting the King. Therefore no answer could be given at this time.

When Isabella heard she was grateful for a little respite; she believed that her father who had always been affectionate to her would listen to her pleas.

For some weeks after that Isabella lived quietly undisturbed by the visits of her would-be suitor. His father had decided that as Isabella felt so strongly about the marriage it was better to leave it for a while. In a few months it would be considered that she had reached a marriageable age and then it might be possible to perform the ceremony in spite of her objections. As yet it was too soon and Richard's death too recent.

The King of France came out of his madness as he had done on other occasions and as soon as his mental aberrations ceased he was quite normal again. His first thought was for his daughter and when he heard what was proposed for her and knew of her abhorrence for the match he decided to send the Count d'Albret with an embassy to England to see Henry and Isabella and discover what should be done. Isabella had gone to England with a magnificent dowry. If she returned to France that must come back with her and the King, like Louis of Orleans, felt that Henry's hold on the crown might not be very secure.

Isabella meanwhile had continued in some trepidation at Havering. Harry paid another visit during which she had remained cool towards him and avoided him as much as possible. He was however unabashed because he had thought that

Isabella would relent in time, but he was beginning to realize that what he had at first regarded as an amusing game was a more serious matter which might end in defeat for him, for Isabella truly hated him, and was amazingly loyal to Richard. There was no doubt that she was a person of determination and unless the French were very eager for the match it might well not take place.

When the Count d'Albret arrived in England and presented himself. King Henry entertained him lavishly at Eltham. The Count said that he wished to see the young Queen to which Henry replied: 'You will find her in a melancholy state. She mourns the late King. I should not wish you to speak of him when you see her.'

*How can that be avoided, my lord?'

*If she mentions him you must indeed answer, but I insist though that you must not introduce the subject, nor must you discuss his abdication and death with her. I would need your oath on this.'

The Count replied that he had not come here to talk of w^hat was past. It was the future with which he was concerned, and he gave his promise.

The King then sent one of his guards to Isabella to extract the same promise from her. *The King is allowing the Count d'Albret to visit you,' she was told, *on condition that you do not mention the late King to him.'

Isabella was aghast. 'How can I not speak of something that is in my thoughts night and day?'

The guard replied: 'Unless you give this promise the Count will not see you. He has given his promise to the King.'

Isabella was silent for a moment. She was a prisoner of the men she hated. There was nothing for her here—nothing but memories of her beloved Richard. She must go home. It was the only place where she could find peace of mind and escape from the odious attentions of Henry and his son.

She gave her promise.

The Count arrived at Havering where he was received by Isabella in the company of the Duchess of Ireland and a few other ladies.

Isabella plied the visitor with questions about her parents. Her father was well now, she was told; and so were Dauphin Louis and his two younger brothers and her sister.

'I long to see them,' said Isabella, her tone meaningful.

*It seems, my lady, that you will do so ere long,' was the answer.

It was an implication that the King was not eager to let his daughter marry into England.

The embassy returned to France but not until it had been made clear to Henry that there should be no marriage. The King of France wished to receive his daughter back at his Court. He would, of course, require that the jewels she had brought to England should be returned to France. She was young yet but at some time it might be necessary to provide another dowry for her. Charles wanted his daughter's valuable jewellery.

Henry was not very pleased by the turn of events but he wanted no trouble with France. Isabella was young. It might be better for her to return to France and a marriage between her and Harry could well be arranged at a later date. But what of the jewellery which must go with her? Henry had distributed that between the members of his family. He could only promise to return it and informed the French that he had commanded his children to send it to him. He intimated to them that he had not told the French that the jewellery would be returned but only that he had commanded it to be; and they were not to hurry to send it to him. In the meantime certain other items were put together—silver drinking cups and dishes and tapestries which she had brought with her– and these could be sent in her baggage. Now there was no doubt that Isabella was going to return to France.

It was a beautiful May morning when she set out on her way to Dover accompanied by the Duchess of Ireland and the Countesses of Hereford and March, Lady Mowbray and a few others of slightly lower rank. Isabella looked with some emotion at the countryside which was at its most beautiful now, alive with the promise of summer. The fields were so green and the banks blue and white with germander speedwell and ground-ivy, stitchwort and meadow-sweet. As she passed woods she caught a glimpse of misty bluebells waving under trees and she thought of the first day she had set foot on this land. She remembered her trepidation, her homesickness ... and then her first sight of Richard.

She must not go on thinking of him. But how could she help it, and she knew she would never be happy again.

Henry had determined that she should be treated with the

utmost honour and she was met on the way by the Bishops of Durham and Hereford and the Earl of Somerset, who was the King's half-brother, one of the Beaufort sons of John of Gaunt and Catherine Swynford.

Isabella was insensible of the honour. She was bemused. She did not want to stay in England, nor did she wish to go to France. All she wanted was to go back in time to the day when she had first come and seen Richard. I would protect him, she thought angrily and illogically. I would never have allowed him to be murdered. I should have been with him. But it was all such nonsense. He was dead and she was alone, floating in limbo not wanting to look forward, hating to stay where she was; all she could do was look back to the bliss she had shared with Richard.

At Hackney she was met by Prince Thomas, Harry's brother, who was a year younger than he was and loathed by her because he was the son of his father. But at least he did not pester her as his brother did. She received him coldly.

The Lord Mayor and the aldermen had come out of London to greet her and to guard her as she rode into the city. They did not forget that she was Queen and they were gracious to her and reminded her of the tumultuous w^elcome she had received when she had entered this city with Richard, but she despised them all. They had stood by and allowed Richard to be murdered; they had accepted the usurper and called him King.

She was lodged in the Tower of London and there she stayed for a few days before making the journey to the coast, and it was late June before she set out. In due course she reached Dover; and when she had crossed the Channel in the company of Sir Thomas Percy, a member of that family which had played such a big part in putting Henry on the throne, she was escorted to the little town of Leulinghen which was in between Boulogne and Calais and there she was ceremoniously handed over to the Count St Pol to be conducted to her father's Court.

When she reached Paris her family awaited her. Her parents embraced her warmly ^vhile her brothers and little sister regarded her with frank appraisal.

Her father she noticed at once was different from the man she remembered. He looked haggard, which she supposed was natural after the illness he had undergone. But he was kind

and calm and showed no sign of the mental stresses he must have suffered. Her mother too was different. Her beauty Tvas breathtaking. Isabella had never seen anyone more beautiful. It was a glittering beauty, which made it impossible for people to stop looking at her. Her brothers and sister were just children, not so experienced of the world as she was. Had they been to England; had they been married and widowed and almost forced into hideous union with someone they hated! No, they were young, innocent, unmarked by time.

She soon discovered that there was something strange going on. She w^as aware of covert looks; of the manner in w^hich her mother and the King's brother, Louis of Orleans, looked at each other. She was aw^are of many w^atching eyes; and it soon became clear to her that an adulterous intrigue was going on between her mother and her uncle.

Louis of Orleans was affable. He gave himself the airs of a King. Isabella recoiled because she could not stop thinking of her poor father with his bouts of madness and how her mother and her uncle were deceiving him and the aura of intrigue which surrounded the Court.

Her uncle Louis was very much aware of her she knew. He was planning something. So was her mother. And she felt afraid.

Uncle Louis said to her one day soon after her return: 'How good it is to have you with us, sweet child. We are going to keep you with us. We shall find a husband worthy of you, never fear.'

She w^anted to shout: It is what I do fear. I had one husband. I shall never forget him. I want no more.*

Then she began to w^onder w^hether she would be any happier in France than in England. She longed to be a child again, wdth the belief that everything was good and beautiful and made for her pleasure. How sad that she must grow up and learn the truth. She had wanted to leave the English scene because to her it w^as stained red with the blood of her husband and had become hateful because of the blatant usurpation of the throne. And now she w^as in France and because she was older, more experienced, she could feel tragedy here, as intense as that w'hich she had suffered in England.

What would become of her poor father who for long periods of time lost his sanity? What w^ere her mother and Uncle Louis planning together? When w^ould they force her to

marry the man of their choice? Could she be any happier in France than she had been in England? But how could she be happy anywhere now that Richard was dead.

J

HOTSPUR

It had quickly become clear to the King that though he had won his crown with comparative ease, he was going to find it a more difficult task to hold it.

Richard's mysterious death and the knowledge that the priest Maudelyn had borne an almost uncanny resemblance to him made a good foundation for rumour. Henry feared that for years to come there would be those who declared Richard still lived and the body they had seen paraded through the streets had been that of the priest. Another cause of concern was the existence of Edmund Mortimer whose claim came before that of Henry. None knew more than he that the crown which had been put on his head with such ready hands was very precariously balanced there.

The first real trouble came from Wales and there he discovered a formidable enemy in a man called Owain ab Gruf-fydd, lord of Glyndyvrdwy or as he was becoming known throughout England, Owen Glendower.

Owen had been a student of English law at Westminster and at one time was squire to the Earl of Arundel who had estates in Wales. When Arundel took sides with Henry of Lancaster Owen was with him, although Wales in general supported Richard and there was murmuring throughout that country when Harry was created Prince of Wales.

The trouble really started when Owen quarrelled with Reginald Lord Grey of Ruthin over certain lands which they

both claimed, and Owen came to Westminster for the case between them to be tried. There he was treated with a certain amount of contempt but he managed to get the case brought before the King and Parliament. 'The man is bent on getting what he calls justice,' the King was told. Henry impatiently waved the matter on one side. 'What care we for these barefooted scrubs,' he cried contemptuously. The King's words were reported to Owen who went fuming back to Wales.

Henry had made an enemy for life.

When a Scottish expedition was planned Owen should have been a member of it, but out of revenge Grey of Ruthin failed to deliver the summons until it was too late for Glen-dower to comply, and, as he did not join the expedition, Grey denounced him as a traitor. This was too much for a man like Owen to tolerate and if he could not get satisfaction at Westminster over the matter of his lands, what justice could he hope for now. He decided to take the law into his own hands. He made war against Grey, plundered his lands, killed some members of his household and declared publicly that the Welsh would never receive justice, that they were treated with contempt by the English and if any Welshman would march under his banner they would do something about it.

Henry heard the news with dismay and at first thought this was but a local rising but he was soon to learn his mistake. The Welsh were on the march. The cry was Liberty and Independence. Not only did the inhabitants of Wales rally to Owen Glendower's banner, but Welshmen in England left their homes to travel to Wales.

It was necessary to put an end to this rebellion and Henry marched in person to the Welsh border. Owen Glendower might have rallied a great force but it would not stand out long against the trained bands of English archers. There he was wrong, for Owen Glendower was too cunning to meet Henry's army in a confrontation. Instead he and his men retreated to the mountains where it was impossible to follow them. They knew every rock and crevice.

Those mountains were impassable and had defeated others before Henry. They provided the perfect stronghold. Moreover the weather was treacherous and the Welsh had their successes, the chief of which was the capture of Lord Grey and Sir Edmund Mortimer, the uncle and guardian of the young Earl of March whom so many believed had more right to the

throne than Henry. It was simply not possible to bring the conflict to a speedy end. The Welsh could not be conquered as easily as that and what could have been settled by law—if Owen Glendower had been treated with justice—developed into a war which neither side could bring to a satisfactory conclusion.

Henry left a company in Wales and went to Oxford where he saw his son.

Harry had been sent to study under his uncle, Henry Beaufort, who was Chancellor of the University, but he was tired of Queen's College and chafed against his youth, therefore when he heard what his father had to say he was delighted.

Harry noticed his father had lost some of his healthy colour. Being a King had its responsibilities, that was obvious, but Henry was clearly delighted with his son's appearance. Harry had grown and he was a picture of glowing health.

When they had embraced Henry said: *I have come to talk to you very seriously, Harry. I think it is time you gave up Oxford. There is work for you to do.'

Harry's eyes shone at the prospect. 'Right gladly will I leave Oxford,' he said. 1 am no scholar, my lord, and nothing will make me one. I want to fight beside you.'

*That is exactly what I want you to do, Harry.' The King touched his forehead in a weary gesture. 'There is so much trouble everywhere. The Welsh ... the Scots. And can we ever trust the French?'

*It is no time for me to be poring over books in college,' agreed Harry.

'That is a view we share, my son. The truth is I need you. Would to God you were a little older.'

'I am fifteen now. Father.'

'Fifteen. God's truth, Harry, you look three years older.*

Harry beamed with pleasure. 'Where would you have me go?'

'To the Welsh border. Perhaps later to Scotland. You have to learn, Harry. You have to learn fast.'

'Never fear, my lord. I have learned much already.'

'You have to learn how to defend us. We have to hold what we have. My God, Harry, we shall have to hold on to it firmly.'

'I have always known it. I shall be ready, never fear. I shall leave at once.'

The King held up his hand. 'Not quite so fast. Remember you are the heir to the throne. I will speak to the Chancellor. He will understand. You will have to do with what education you have. Your task now is to learn to be a soldier/

*I am ready, my lord/ said Harry.

Yes, he was. And a son to be proud of. I thank God for him, thought Henry. Would he were older.

He hesitated. Should he tell Harry of the strange malady which he feared might be threatening him? He decided not. He did not want to show him the discoloration of his skin and thanked God that he could so far hide it. It came and went and when it was there a terrible lassitude came over him.

He hoped it was not some dreaded disease.

Harry must be prepared.

When Harry arrived in North Wales he was greeted by Sir Henry Percy, known as Hotspur and a man some twenty years his senior with one of the most formidable reputations in the country. He had in fact been born in the same year as those two Kings, Henry the reigning one and Richard the dead one, and his attitude towards young Harry was inclined to be paternal. A great soldier himself Hotspur recognized those qualities in Harry; but Harry had much to learn. No matter, he would learn.

Hotspur's home was in the North. His father was the great Earl of Northumberland and his family looked upon themselves as the lords of the North and of no less importance than the King. They were very much aware that it had been their power which had put Henry on the throne; and they were determined that Henry should remember it.

Harry recognized Hotspur's qualities and was ready to learn from him. This was the life for him. He was born to be a soldier. He won immediate popularity with the men, his manners were free and easy and while he retained a certain dignity he could talk with them on equal terms; he had an affability which his father lacked, yet at the same time there was in him that which suggested it would be unwise to take advantage of his nature or his youth. Hotspur recognized in him the gift of leadership; and this pleased him.

There was another man who was attracted by the character of the Prince and Harry himself could not help liking this

man; consequently they would often find themselves in each other's company. They made a somewhat incongruous pair– Harry the young Prince fifteen years old and Sir John Old-castle who was thirty years his senior—the fresh young boy and the cynical old warrior had no sooner met than they were friends.

They would sit together while Sir John talked of his adventures, of which he had had many. His conversation was racy and illuminating and it gave Harry a fresh glimpse into soldiering.

'It is not all glory, my Prince,' Sir John told him. 'There's blood too ... plenty of it. No use being squeamish in war, my young lord. You've got to get in first and skewer the guts of your enemy before he gets yours. Always be one step ahead ... that's war. But there's another side to it.' Sir John nudged Harry. 'Oh yes, my little lordling, there's another side to it. Spoils ... there's wine and good meat and there's something better still. Can you guess what it is? It's women.*

Harry was already very interested in women and Sir John knew it.

1 can see you're another such as myself,' he commented comfortably. 'I couldn't get along without them ... nor will you. Well, 'tis a good and noble sport ... pleasuring here and pleasuring there and always with an eye for the next one. Always on the look out. There'll be all sorts to your taste, I don't doubt. The dark and the fair ... and not forgetting the redheads. I knew a redhead once ... the best I ever knew. Warm-natured, redheads are. You'll know that one day, my lord, for you're like old John Oldcastle, you've got a warm and loving nature. And it's the sort that'll not be wasted.'