Текст книги "The Star of Lancaster"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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'My lady said not for you the wimple or the dorelet. Your hair is too pretty to be hidden.'

Mary felt like a stranger to herself when the Countess came to her chamber to see the effect and to conduct her down to the hall.

It was clear that her aunt was pleased by the transformation.

In the hall was the Earl who bade her welcome to the castle, and with him were his daughters Elizabeth and Joan.

Mary was glad that they were there. The boys were away from home—as was the custom with boys who always seemed to be brought up in someone else's home. But it was pleasant to meet her cousins.

The warmth of her welcome was heartening and she could not help feeling glad to have escaped from Eleanor who would have been highly critical of her and that would have spoilt her pleasure.

Mary was placed at the high table in between the Earl and the Countess and they talked to her about life at Pleshy and naturally the convent of the Poor Clares was mentioned.

'The nuns are the best people possible to give a girl a good education,' declared the Countess. 'Poor creatures, what sad lives they lead.'

'They are not in the least sad, my lady,' said Mary hastily. 'They serve God through the unfortunate and that brings them great happiness.*

The Countess laid her hand on that of her niece. 'Indeed they do. I am sorry for them because they will never know

the joy of having children. I speak as a mother, dear child. I wonder how many of them ever regret the life they have chosen when they hear children chattering and laughing together.'

Mary was silent.

This was a special occasion, whispered her uncle. They were so delighted, he and her aunt, that she had come. He was going to lead her into the dance when they had eaten. What did she think of that? Did she like to dance?

Oh yes, she loved to dance.

And music? Did she enjoy that?

She liked to sing. She played the guitar accompanying her-»self.

*We must hear you,' said the Earl. *Do you sing to your sister and her husband? It would be no use singing to the nuns, I'll warrant.'

*Oh no,' she said with a little laugh.

'This venison is to your taste, I hope,' went on the Earl. T\ swear you'd not taste better at the King's table. He has a fine palate, our King. Do you know he interests himself in the actual cooking of the food which is served at his table?*

*The King has very unusual tastes for a king.'

The Countess laughed. 'You are right,' she said. 'One could not imagine his father or his grandfather caring how much honey in proportion to mulberries was put into a moree.'

'Does the King care about such matters then?' asked Mary.

'Indeed he does,' replied the Earl. 'He concerns himself not only with his cooks but with his tailors. He spends hours in consultations with these fellows who are, they say, getting a grand idea of their worth. He'll be bestowing the Garter on one of them soon, some say, because he has produced some delicate recipe or a particularly magnificent cote bardie.'

There was laughter at the table. And then while the sotil-tees were being served the minstrels and the mummers arrived.

It was a wonderful entertainment, more amusing than anything she had seen at Pleshy. The mummers danced and pirouetted in the most agile manner; in their grotesque masks they looked like beings from another world. Mary laughed a great deal and the Earl and Countess were delighted at her pleasure. They were determined that by the time she left

Arundel she was going to have changed her mind about this wish to join the Poor Clares.

She slept soundly that night and arose feeling fresh and full of vitality the next morning. She could not help being pleased that Eleanor had been unable to accompany them, for she was realizing that Eleanor had a way of damping down her pleasure and implying that it was sinful for Mary to indulge in that of which she, Eleanor, could not have enough.

Her cousins showed her their horses and they crossed the drawbridge, ran down the incline and walked as far as the forest. How she had enjoyed standing under the trees and inhaling the scent of earth and pines. She loved the forest and longed to be there alone free of her cousins' chatter. She felt she had so much to think about. They believed they had been very bold to cross the drawbridge but said Elizabeth: 'It is all right because there are three of us.'

She felt much older than they were, though she was not really so; she supposed it was due to her upbringing with the nuns. It seemed that during the last days she had grown up suddenly; she was presented with a problem which could affect her whole life and she needed solitude to think of it. How she would love to wander alone among these beautiful trees and think of the future. She was thoughtful as they returned to the castle.

It was after dinner and the household was very quiet. Mary knew that her cousins were with their mother before she took her rest. An irresistible urge came over her to get out into the forest. She wanted to be absolutely alone and she could not feel that within the castle walls.

On impulse she put on her cloak and went to the drawbridge. It was down and there were no guards on duty. She crossed it and felt free. She ran down the incline and turned towards the fringe of the forest.

It was greatly daring. Her uncle and her aunt would be horrified if they knew she were out alone. I shall only venture into the edge, she promised herself, and shall keep the castle in sight. I must be alone to think.

The grass was green and springy under her feet. There had been much rain of late. How beautiful it was! There was a tang in the air which made her cheeks tingle but it was not really cold for January. She liked the winter; she thought the trees raising their stark branches to the sky made a more in-

tricate and delicate pattern than could be produced with needle on silk and the ever-green pines were as resplendent now as in the height of summer. She stood listening to the call of a skylark; she filled her lungs with the sharp fresh air and gratefully smelt the scent of grass and foliage. She looked up at the grey sky and the pale wintry sun and thought the world was a beautiful place. There was so much to discover and if one were shut away in the convent one would learn so little about it. She was deep in thought as she walked through the glades, pausing every now and then to look closer at the tassels of the hazels and to see whether the blossoms were beginning to show on the ancient yews, as she inhaled the fresh air.

She began to smile, suddenly thinking of the mummers she had seen last evening. How excited she had been when her uncle had led her in the dance! It had been a great honour; she wondered why he and the Countess had taken such pains to make her feel so important. She was, after all, only just past ten years old.

Her uncle had talked about her going to Court. That would be much later of course but he had made it sound exciting. Richard would be pleased to receive her he had said. How would she like that? It must always be a pleasure to be received by a king, she had replied.

It was so different here at Arundel from Pleshy. Was it because Eleanor always made her feel that she was destined for the convent and must never forget it for it would be sinful to turn her back on her destiny.

But was it her destiny? Since she had come to Arundel she was unsure.

She stood listening. She could hear the sound of horses' hoofs. There must be arrivals at the castle. There was nothing unusual in that. Travellers were constantly calling. They came often to Pleshy. They were never turned away unless, of course, there was some reason for doing so.

The incident had reminded her where she was and what she was doing. She was disobeying rules which was not very good of her since she had been treated so affectionately by her aunt and uncle at the castle. Because they had behaved as though she were much older, with the honours they had bestowed on her, she had felt grown up. Perhaps it was for that reason that she had ventured into the forest.

She should return at once.

She started to walk back the way she thought she had come, but after she had gone some little distance and expected to emerge from the forest to see the castle before her, she did not do so.

The trees hedged her in and with dismay she realized that she was not sure of the direction in which she should go. It was nothing to be alarmed at. She had not really penetrated the forest; she had just skirted the edge. She must emerge from the trees and see the castle soon.

But alas, it was not so simple. She had been so deep in thought that she had not noted any landmark which might have helped her. All the trees looked alike. She paused uncertainly and tried to work out which way to go.

She must not panic. This was a situation she had never had to face before. It was the first time she had been away from her home alone. What had she been thinking of to come into the forest? The treatment given her by her relations had made her feel she was no longer a child.

How foolish she had been and here she was alone, lost in the forest.

This was nonsense. She would find her way. She stood quite still and as she did so she thought she heard a rustling in the undergrowth.

Was someone else in this part of the forest?

Her first thought was of relief. If some woodman was there he could show her the way back to the castle. Then she thought of robbers. She heard that they abounded on the roads. During the early days of the reign of the late King there had been strict laws against them and the roads had been comparatively safe; but, when the old King had grown senile and paid more attention to his mistress Alice Ferrers than to the affairs of the country, laws had become lax and the robbers multiplied. Richard was young yet and it was not known what his rule would be but it seemed clear that his laws would not be as strict as those of his grandfather in his heyday.

Her hands went to the girdle at her waist. It was not over elaborate, not to be compared with the kind Eleanor ^vore– but it would have great value in the eyes of some needy vagrant.

There was another sound. There was no doubt now. Someone was coming nearer. She walked on, quickening her pace.

Whoever it was quickened pace also. So she was being followed.

She was now really afraid.

She started to run. Was she going in the right direction? So many trees, so many bushes, that looked alike and she had been too absorbed in her thoughts to notice landmarks.

Could she be sure that she was going the way she had come, that the trees would be less dense in a few moments and she would be able to glimpse the grey walls of the castle?

Whoever was following her was running now.

'Wait!' called a voice.

She ran on.

Someone was immediately behind her, and a hand was laid on her arm. She started violently as a voice said: 'Good day to you, my lady.'

She turned sharply. It was a boy—a few years older than herself, tawny-haired, blue-eyed and fairly tall.

*Why do you run from me?' he asked. 'You are quite breathless.'

'What do you want?' she asked and instinctively her hands went to her girdle.

He stood back a pace and bowed low. 'To serve you,' he said and there was a slightly mocking look in his eyes.

'Then show me the way to the castle.'

'You have not come far.'

*Am I on the right path?'

He shook his head. 'You will need my help.*

'You will want payment for it, I see. Never fear. Take me back to the castle and you will be rewarded.'

'How did you come to lose your way?'

'No matter, I have lost it. Are you going to show me the right path?'

'Follow me,' he said.

She was relieved for a moment. He walked ahead of her. She noticed his well shaped head and how his tawny hair curled softly; he held himself proudly. She thought he might be the son of some neighbouring squire.

After a few minutes she said: 'I do not remember coming this way.'

He turned to smile at her and there was a hint of mischief in the smile. 'Ah, but you lost your way.'

'Are you sure this is the way back to the castle?'

L

*I swear that I will show you the way.'

They had come to a clearing in the trees.

*I did not see this before.'

'It is a pleasant spot,' he said.

She had become very frightened. He was not leading her to the castle. It seemed rather that he was taking her away from it.

'Please show me the way at once,' she said.

'You are tired,' he answered soothingly. 'Rest awhile. Then I promise you that I will show you the way back.'

*I have no desire to rest.*

'I think you have. You are flushed with exertion and alarm. Sit for a few moments. Look, there is a pleasant spot under the trees there.'

'I have no wish to. Good day to you.'

He had thrown himself down under a tree and looked up at her smiling. She thought: How insolent he is, this son of a squire! My uncle would punish him severely for this.

She turned away and immediately asked herself which way to go.

She hesitated and she heard his voice. 'You will go farther into the forest. Better wait for me.'

She came back to him. 'If you will take me back now, I will pay you well.'

'Later,' he said. 'Later.'

He indicated the spot beside him. She hesitated for a second and seeing that she needed his help she sat down beside him.

'You must know how eager I am,' she said. 'It is not very gallant to behave as you do. You should study the manners of knighthood, even though you may not be of noble birth.'

'You ask too much of one ... not of noble birth. You are, indeed. I guess that. You are a guest at the castle.'

'The Earl of Arundel is my uncle. He would be displeased if he knew of your conduct.'

'I wonder what my punishment would be. Perhaps I shall find out when you betray me.'

'I will say nothing of this if you take me back to the castle without delay. Indeed I shall see that you receive a good meal and some reward.'

'I am overcome with gratitude.'

She leaped to her feet. 'Then, show me the way back, now/

He did not rise but lay back smiling at her lazily.

*Very soon,' he said. *I promise you. You have not told me your name but I believe you are the Lady Mary de Bohun who is at this time visiting her aunt and uncle at Arundel/

*How did you know this?'

*We humble folk discover these matters concerning the great ones.'

'Then as you know who I am you will realize the need not to offend me ... or my uncle.'

'It is a great need,' he said. 'You have not asked my name.'

*It is of no importance to me.'

*That was scarcely friendly. Then I will tell you. My name is Henry.'

*Then Henry, it is time we left this place.'

*Such a pleasant place/ he murmured. 'It has been a happy adventure for me.'

*If you will not show me the way back I shall attempt to find the way myself. And rest assured I shall tell of your knavish behaviour to me. You will regret it.'

'You are not often angry are you, my lady?'

She turned away.

'But you are angry now because you are frightened. Please do not be, Lady Mary. I want you to like me.*

'I shall not do that after your behaviour. Take me back at once.'

He stood up meekly and said: 'It was only a game. Come. It is here. You will be surprised how close you were to the castle. The trees grow so thickly and the bushes so high that even in winter weather it is easy to lose the way.'

She walked beside him uncertainly. From time to time he glanced at her almost appealingly as though begging her to forgive him; and strangely enough because he was rather handsome and seemed really contrite and was after all only a boy, she found she could, particularly when she saw the castle a little way ahead.

At the edge of the wood she paused to bid him good-bye and thank him.

'You shall be rewarded,' she told him. 'I will tell my uncle.*

'I shall come to the castle for my reward,' he said.

She hesitated. Perhaps that was the best way. He could go to the kitchens and be refreshed there and be satisfied.

They came to the drawbridge. There were men-at-arms there now and they bowed both to her and her companion.

Together they passed under the portcullis and into the courtyard.

He was preparing to accompany her into the hall and she said to him: Tou must go through that alley there. You will come to the kitchens. You may tell them I sent you/

*I prefer to enter by way of the hall/

'But you do not understand.'

He raised his eyebrows. He was a most unusual boy. He had, she noticed now, an air of arrogance which implied that he thought himself equal to anyone.

'My uncle ...' she began.

And at that moment her uncle came into the hall and with him was the Duke of Lancaster himself. Even at such a moment she could not help but be overawed by her guardian.

He was a tall man, commanding in appearance. His deep-set eyes were a vivid blue and his hair tawny as a lion. He had the long nose and narrow cheeks of the Plantagenets, and on his tunic was emblazoned his emblem of the lilies of France and the leopards of England.

Beside him her uncle looked insignificant.

For a moment she forgot the boy at her side and then she was afraid for him. It was one thing for him to venture into the hall of the castle but to come face to face with her uncle and the great Duke of Lancaster was another.

'It is Mary herself,* said the Earl.

She walked forward and to her astonishment so did the boy.

He stood beside the great Duke who did not display any surprise at this strange behaviour.

Apprehensively she curtseyed, wondering how she was going to explain.

The Duke lifted her up in his arms and said: 'Why, Mary, you have grown since we last met. You have already made the acquaintance of Henry.'

Henry!

The boy was smiling at her.

'We met outside the castle, my lord father,' he said. 'So ... we came in together.'

It was bewildering. The boy whom she had thought to be

some humble squire was in fact the son of the great John of Gaunt—more noble than she was. She was overcome with shame. What had she said to him!

It was all something of a joke now. He had come to the castle with his father who had been anxious to see his ward and to discover how she was getting on at Pleshy.

The Countess said: 'When my lord Lancaster heard that you were coming here he thought it would be an easy way of assuring himself that you were well and happy. It was so much easier than going to Pleshy.' She lowered her voice. 'And you know he and his brother are not on the most amicable of terms.'

It is a pity when there is conflict in families,' said Mary.

'But always inevitable. This young Henry of ours is a fine young sprig of the royal branch, do you not think? He was the cause of the trouble between the brothers. Knight of the Garter and already Earl of Derby! I am not surprised that his father dotes on him. He will be a good companion for you while you are with us, Mary.'

*I have my cousins.'

'Yes, but I am sure you will find Henry more amusing.'

It was true, she did.

At first she had reproached him for the way he had behaved in the forest.

'It was but a game,' he said. *I could not resist it. I saw you as we arrived. You were just entering the forest—which was forbidden, I am sure. I came to guard you.*

'It was deceitful not to say who you were,' she retorted.

*Oh dear. I had forgotten they are going to make a nun of you, are they not?'

'They will not make anything of me if I do not wish it.'

'Then I'll tell you something. You are not going to be a nun.'

'How do you know?'

'Because you will never agree to shut yourself away from the world. You like it too much.'

'My future is not yet decided.'

'It will be soon,' he told her, and there was laughter in his eyes.

He wanted always to be with her.

I

Encounter in the Forest 37

'You neglect my cousins sorely/ she reprimanded.

'They do not mind. They are but children/

'And how old are you?'

'Soon to be fifteen/

It was indeed a few years older than she was, but he never seemed to notice that difference.

She could play as good a game of chess as he could. They would often be seated together in a corner of the great hall, their heads bent over the chess board. Sometimes the great Duke himself would stand by watching the game—applauding a good move. He seemed very contented to see them together.

She would sing to him, playing her guitar as accompaniment. His voice would join with hers; they were in perfect harmony.

The Countess said they must sing together for the company after supper and when they did so, she noticed the eyes of the great John of Gaunt glazed with emotion. He clearly had a great affection for his son and she could understand it for she was discovering that she had too.

The days passed too quickly. She knew that she would have to go back to Pleshy very soon and when she thought of returning to the old way of life she felt depressed. Perhaps Henry would come to see her at Pleshy; but if she became a nun they would not be able to meet very often.

They rode out together with a party but Henry always contrived that he and she escaped. She fancied that their elders realized this and were amused rather than displeased by it.

Then one day when they had escaped from the party and were riding in the forest they came to the clearing where they had sat on that first occasion.

Henry suggested that they tether the horses and sit in the same spot for a while as he had something to say to her.

'You will soon be going back to Pleshy,' he began.

She sighed. 'Alas yes. My stay here has been longer already than I thought it would be. I shall be returning soon, I am sure.'

'I too shall be leaving here with my father.'

'It has been such a happy time.'

Tor us both,' said Henry. 'Mary, you will not go into a convent, will you?'

*I am unsure .. /

He turned to her passionately, and putting his arms about her held her close to him. *Oh Mary,' he whispered, 'you can't do that. Promise you will not.'

*Why should it mean ... so much to you?* she asked rather breathlessly.

'Because I want to marry you.'

'To marry me. Oh Henry .. /

'Does that please you?'

She looked about her at the stark branches of the trees which she loved and she thought the forest of Arundel was the most beautiful place in the world.

'You have answered,' he said. 'It does please you.'

'So much,' she said. *I have never in my life been so happy as I have since you came.'

'Then it is settled.'

'What is settled? I shall have to go away from here and so will you.'

'We shall be married,' he said.

'Married. How can we be? I cannot marry ... just like that.'

'Why not?'

'It would never be allowed.'

'I can tell you that my father will not forbid it and he is your guardian.'

'How can you know that?'

'He has told me.'

'So ... you have talked with him.'

'Only because I was so eager. I felt if I could get his consent that would be all we needed.'

'And ... he has given it.'

'He loves you. He says you have been his ward and now you will be his daughter.'

'Is this truly so?'

'It is indeed. He has been delighted by the way in which we have grown to love each other. He says he sees no reason why we should not marry ... soon.'

'Henry I am not yet eleven years old.'

'That is a very pleasant age. I am fourteen. You see there is not much difference between us.'

'They would never let us marry yet. We should have to wait.'

'There could be a ceremony ... so that none could keep us apart. What say you, Mary?'

She clasped her hands together and was silent. It was too much to take in. It was not so long ago that she had sat here, lost in the forest, uncertain of the way she must go back to the castle, uncertain of her way in life too.

Henry had taken her hand and kissed it. 'You want to marry me, Mary. You know you do. Think how you have enjoyed these last days. It would be like that for the rest of our lives.'

She contemplated it and it seemed to her too wonderful to be true. Not to have to live at Pleshy; to give up her studies at the convent. How could she ever have thought she wanted to become a nun?

*Yes, Henry,' she cried. 'I do want it. I want to marry you. I want to have many children. I want to be a wife and a mother and live like this for ever.'

Henry was laughing. He embraced her fervently. He told her that he had never been so happy in his life.

'Let us go back to the castle and tell them.'

She did not want to go yet. She wanted to linger in the forest. For all he said, she feared their disapproval. Although they had seemed content to see her and Henry together and had not stopped their being alone, which in itself was strange, she still felt that her extreme youth would be stressed and while they would be kind, might let them become betrothed, that would be as far as this matter would go for the time. They might be married in say three years' time ...

But she was wrong.

When they returned to the castle Henry took her immediately to his father.

*My lord,' he cried, 'Mary has promised to marry me.'

Mary was astonished by the expression on the Duke's handsome face. His eyes looked more fiercely blue than ever and a smile of delight spread across his face.

'But, my dear children ... this news moves me and delights me. Nothing could please me more.'

He took Mary into his arms and held her tightly so that she felt she would suffocate against the lilies and the leopards. Then he released her and embraced Henry.

'It is what I hoped for,' he said. 'It has delighted me to see you two grow to love each other. Love is the best foundation for marriage.' He was too emotional to speak for a moment.

He meant what he said. His ambitious marriage with Cons-tanza of Castile had been undertaken for love of a crown which was love of another sort and often he had wondered whether he should not have been recklessly romantic and married Catherine Sv)'nford, the woman he loved. Marriage for love. What a blessing. But when there was great wealth as well as love, then there could be no doubt that the marriage was an ideal one.

He smiled benignly on Mary. *So, my child, you have decided the convent life is not for you, eh. You have chosen wisely, and most happily for this son of mine. You shall be betrothed.'

*We are anxious, my lord, that we should be married,' said Henry. *We do not wish for a long delay.'

Tou see what an impatient man you are to marry, Mary,' retorted the Duke. 'Well, it is a measure of his love for you. I tell you sincerely, nothing shall stand in the way of your wishes.' Mary could not believe she heard aright. The great man seemed as happy about the union as she and Henry were.

THE CHILD WIFE

Lancaster could not await to acquaint the Earl and Countess with the good news.

It has worked perfectly/ cried Lancaster. 'Henry has played his part to perfection. He knew what I wanted and it seems that when he saw the pretty child he wanted the same thing himself.'

*It is a pleasure to have such a dutiful son/ replied Arundel.

'They make a charming pair/ said the Countess. *I think Henry is a very lucky boy and I am so glad our little Mary has escaped from that sister of hers. I wonder what Thomas is going to say when he hears the news. I should love to be present when it first comes to his ears.'

*He will rant and rave/ said the Earl. 'And try to prevent it.'

'That is what we must beware of/ added Lancaster. *I do not think it wise for Mary to return to Pleshy.'

'No indeed/ agreed the Earl. 'Eleanor would be capable of anything. She might lock the child up until she promises to go into a convent. She'll be furious—particularly as this has happened while Thomas is away.'

'He could not have refused to let Mary come to Arundel/ pointed out Lancaster.

'He would have tried to if he had known you and Henry were coming here/ said the Earl.

'He would not have thought of this ... in view of Mary's youth.'

'Mary's youth!' mused the Countess. 'She is young for marriage.'

*Oh let them live together,' said Lancaster. 'They will act according to nature and that is the best way. I want to see them married and I intend that the ceremony shall take place with all speed.'

'And you want her to remain here right up to the time when it shall take place?'

*I think it best. And we should keep quiet about the proposed marriage. Then it shall take place at the Savoy. I doubt my brother—if he has returned which I hope he will not—or his wife will be among the wedding guests.'

Eleanor had begun to realize how long her sister had been away, but she was not unduly disturbed. The weather was bad and it was not easy to travel in the winter. Her aunt had given the impression that she believed a convent life would be good for Mary and if the girl came back convinced of her vocation Eleanor would be delighted.

Pregnancy was irksome to one of her vitality. It was a necessity of course if she was to breed; and she must produce sons. She hoped she would have one to show Thomas when he returned from France. Even so they would have to busy themselves in getting another.

She sat disconsolately among her women who talked continually of the baby and sometimes they would mention the Lady Mary and wonder if she missed the convent.

*Of course she does,' retorted Eleanor firmly. 'Her life is with the nuns. Dear child, she has a saintly nature. It is clear where her destiny lies.'

The ladies murmured agreement. It was always wise to agree with Eleanor and it was impossible to be in this household and not know the urgent wish of its master and mistress.

On a snowy afternoon her pains started. Everything was in readiness and within a day the child had made its appearance.

It was a great disappointment to the countess that it should be another girl.

She lay disconsolately in her bed and listened to the wind buffeting the walls of Pleshy. How frustrated Thomas would

be. But the child was healthy enough and she decided to call her Joan. Before long she would be once more pregnant she supposed and would have to go through the wearisome months of waiting and then produce ... not another girl. No, that would be too unfortunate. But it had happened to others. Lancaster had got girls and a stillborn son before young Henry had been born at Bolingbroke.

While she was brooding a messenger arrived. It was strange that he should have come from Lancaster when the Duke had just been in her thoughts.