Текст книги "The Star of Lancaster"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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She was lost now in mists of pain; she had never believed there could be such agony. Vaguely she heard a voice saying: 'But she is only a child herself ... too young ... immature ...'

She had lost count of time. She just lay waiting for the waves of pain to sweep over her, to subside, to flow away and then flow back. It seemed as though it would never end. She lost consciousness and when she awoke the pain had gone. She felt completely exhausted and for some time was unsure of what had happened. And when she remembered her first thoughts were for the child.

'My baby ...' she murmured.

There was silence. She tried to struggle up but she was too tired. 'Where is my baby?' she asked shrilly.

One of her women came to the bed and knelt down. She was about to speak and then she bowed her head and covered her face with her hands.

'Tell me,' said Mary stonily.

'My lady,' said the woman, and there was a sob in her voice, 'the child was born ... a beautiful child ... perfect in limb .. .*

'Yes, yes. Where is it?'

'It was born dead, my lady.'

Mary sank back on her bed. She closed her eyes. All the months of waiting ... all the hopes and plans ... gone. The baby was born dead.

'There will be more ... later,' went on the woman. 'You have come through, praise be to God. You are going to get strong again and then, and then .. .*

Mary was not listening. Henry I she thought. Oh Henry, I have disappointed you.

She was unable to leave her bed. She lay listless wondering where Henry was, what he was doing now. He would come to her room, she was sure. She would not be able to bear his disappointment.

She was right. As soon as the news was taken to him he got leave of the King to ride to Kenilworth.

He knelt by the bed. He took her hands and kissed them. She must not fret, he said. They would have a son in time ...

He did a great deal to comfort her. Think how young they were, both of them. They had the whole of their lives before them. They must not fret because they had lost this child. He sat by her bed and he talked to her of the future and how happy they were going to be and in time they would have as many children as his grandfather King Edward and his grandmother Queen Philippa had had. She would see.

She began to recover, but she was still weak.

A few days after Henry arrived there was another visitor to Kenilworth. This was Mary's mother, the Countess of Hereford.

She went at once to her daughter, embraced her and then declared that she had come to nurse her. Joanna de Bohun was a woman of great strength of character; she was devoted to her daughters and in particular to Mary because she was the younger of the two. Eleanor, she believed, was able to take care of herself.

Joanna had always resented the fact that the custom of the land demanded that her daughter be removed from her care and that she should become the ward of John of Gaunt, in order, so she said, that that mighty Duke should have the prize money which went with such appointments.

She, Mary's mother, was better fitted to look after the child than anyone; and in view of what had happened she had now come to assert that right.

Mary was delighted to see her mother.

The Countess studied her daughter and hid the concern she felt. The child was too thin. What a terrible ordeal for a girl not yet twelve years of age to pass through. Some girls developed earlier than others and then early childbearing

might be permissible; but Mary herself was still too childlike and delicate.

There shall be no more of this, thought the Countess grimly. If I have to fight John of Gaunt himself TU do so.

'Dearest Mother,' said Mary. 1 am so happy to see you.'

*God bless you, my child. It is natural that when my daughter is ill her mother should be the one to look after her. You are going to be well in a week. I shall see to that.'

Mary smiled. 'We always had to obey you, my lady,' she said. 'So I must do so now.*

'Indeed you must and shall.'

Henry had come into the sick room and the Countess was aware of the manner in which Mary's face lit up at the sight of him. A fine boy, she thought, and indeed a worthy husband for a de Bohun, but they were too young ... far too young, and there was going to be no more of this.

Henry welcomed her gallantly and was clearly delighted that she had come for he was apprehensive about his young wife's health and she liked him for it. She told him she would soon have Mary well.

'No one understands a daughter like her own mother,' she announced.

She took charge of the invalid. She had a bed brought into the room which she would occupy. She would be with Mary day and night. She made possets and special broths for her daughter which under the stern eye of her mother Mary dared not refuse.

She felt a great sense of security which she had missed in the days of Pleshy. To be here with Henry and her mother made her very happy and she began to grow away from her sorrow at the loss of the baby.

'You have your whole life before you,' said her mother. There was one matter which she had not discussed with Mary yet, but she intended to when she considered the time ripe.

She blamed herself for not being firm enough in the first place. When she became a widow she should have refused to allow her younger daughter to be taken out of her care.

The King had given the wardship to John of Gaunt as a consolation prize for something else, and she had been obliged to let her daughter go because of the royal command. Her husband, Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford and Essex, had been one of the richest men in the country and so had a

vast fortune to leave, and it was that fortune which had led to this situation when Mary might have lost her life.

She was now putting her foot down firmly and taking matters into her own hands.

She broached the subject to Henry first.

'Henry,' she said, 'I am going to talk to you very seriously. I am deeply concerned about Mary/

He looked alarmed. 'I thought she was getting better.'

'She is. But vou know, do you not, that she has come near to losing her life.'

'I know she has been verv ill.'

'The plain fact is that she is too voung to bear children. Her body is not vet fully formed. She needs another two years at least in which to grow up.'

Henry looked shamefaced and the Countess went on hur-riedlv: 'I do not blame you. It is the fault of those who put you together at such an earlv age.'

Henry flushed hotly. His father was a hero in his eyes.

'Oh, men do not alwavs understand these matters,' said the Countess hastily, realizing that if she were to have her own way in this matter she must not antagonize John of Gaunt.

She believed she knew how to handle this, but she would have to be tactful; and she knew^ that John of Gaunt's great desire had been to get the marriage celebrated and Mary's fortune secure. That had been done and he would be prepared to postpone the begetting of children for a few years.

'Vhat do vou want me to do?' asked Henry.

'There must be no marital relations between vou for at least two years. You must see the reason for this. There must not be anv more children ... yet.'

'Have you told Mary?'

*I will explain to her. She will understand. In fact I am sure she does not want to endure again what she has so recently come through. ^Vhat I am going to suggest is that I take Mary back with me. I shall look after her and vou will know that she is safe in her mother's care. You will be welcome at my castle whenever vou wish to come on the understanding that there is to be no lovemaking until she is of a suitable age.'

Henry was ready to swear to agree to these terms. He had been very very anxious about Marv and had felt a terrible sense of guilt. But now she was ^vell again and he could see

that they must wait a few years before they lived together. Yes, he could do nothing but agree.

The Countess was triumphant. John of Gaunt was absent in Scotland on the King's business so he could raise no objections. Eleanor and her husband were no longer interested now that her share of the de Bohun fortune was lost to them.

She had only to tell Mary and as soon as the girl was well enough to travel they would leave.

Mary listened attentively to her mother.

'My dearest child,' said the Countess, 1 was very sad when you left me to go to your sister. It was no wish of mine, you know.'

1 do know,' said Mary fervently.

*It is so wrong when a child is taken from her rightful place just because she happens to have a fortune. Oh that fortune I I could wish that your father had been a much poorer man. Your sister coveted it... and so did her husband. They would have had you in a convent for the sake of it.'

1 was fortunate to meet Henry,' put in Mary. *He does not care for my fortune.'

The Countess was silent. Did he not? She would be surprised if this were so. In any case there was one who cared deeply and that was Henry's father, John of Gaunt.

Thank God he was in Scotland and could not interfere. And would the King? He had given the wardship to his uncle John. No, she had nothing to fear from Richard. He was only a boy. If need be she would see him and explain; she was sure she could touch his pity for a mother who was concerned about her child.

'My dear,' went on the Countess, 'you know very well that you have been very ill. There was a day when your life was despaired of. The fact, daughter, is that you are too young as yet to bear children. Henry agrees with me that you must wait for a year or so.'

'Wait ... what do you mean?'

'You and Henry will be as betrothed ... There will be no more marital relations between you.'

'I must ask Henry ...'

'I have already spoken to Henry. He sees the point. He agrees with me.'

She looked relieved. Then she said in alarm: 'Do you mean I shall not see Henry?'

*Of course you will see Henry. He will come to Leicester to visit us. He will stay and you will sing your songs and play your guitar together. You'll pit your wits at chess. It is simply that you will be as betrothed ... as though the actual ceremony ol: marriage has not yet taken place.'

She was silent. And her mother burst out: 'You shall not be submitted to that pain again. You are too young to bear children as yet. Your body is not ready for it. All I ask is for you to wait for a year ... for two years perhaps. In fact I am going to insist.'

*As long as Henry agrees ... and I shall see him.'

*But of course you shall. Dear child, understand all I ever want is what is best for you.'

So it was arranged and when Mary was well enough, the Countess left Kenilworth with her daughter.

THE LORD HARRY

For more than three years Mary lived with her mother during which time Henry visited her whenever it was possible for him to do so. Her mother explained to her that when one married a man who was of such high rank one must be prepared for him to have many duties outside his domestic life to claim him.

Mary was resigned. She eagerly learned how to manage a large household; she spent long hours in the still room; she studied the various herbs and spices and how to garnish dishes with them; she could brew ale to perfection; her mother allowed her to instruct the servants on those occasions when important visitors were expected and the Countess insisted that they all realized that in spite of her youth, Mary was the Countess of Hereford and wife of the son of the great John of Gaunt. Nor was she allowed to neglect the finer pursuits. She must learn the latest songs and dances which were fashionable at Court and she played the guitar and sang to guests. The finest materials were sent to the castle for her to choose which she preferred and the Countess insisted that she pay special attention to her appearance.

Those were the waiting years and Mary knew now without a doubt how wrong it would have been had she allowed herself to be forced into the convent. Henry had saved her from that and she w^ould always be grateful to him. She was intended to be what he would make her: a wife and a mother.

Providing a happy well managed home for her husband and children was her true mission in life and during those waiting years she longed for the time when she would be old enough to go to Henry.

Often she thought of him, wondering what he was doing at that time. During the day she was busy; her mother saw that she was well occupied; but at night she would lie in her bed, watching the flickering shadows on the walls, for after the fashion of the day she burned a small lamp in her bedchamber. It was a small metal cup filled with oil with a wick in it; and it was a comfort during the darkness when certain fears came to her.

She was always apprehensive lest something happened and she not be told of it. During the time when she and Henry had lived together and she had been pregnant terrible things had been happening and she had known nothing of them. The peasants had risen and the whole country had been in danger; as for Henry he had been with the King at the time in the Tower of London and had come near to losing his life. She had been—and still was—so appalled at the second near calamity that she could give little thought to the first.

It was only after the tragic birth of her stillborn child that she had heard the truth and she would never forget as long as she lived the day Henry had sat with her and told her about it.

*A man called Wat Tyler was at their head,' he had said. *The story is that the collector who had gone to gather the poll tax had insulted his daughter and the tyler killed the tax collector and the peasants rallied round him. They marched to London eventually. They wanted to rule the country themselves; they wanted to take all the riches of the land and divide it between them. They were looting everything as they went. They have destroyed my father's palace of the Savoy.'

She had listened wide-eyed, her heart beating furiously to think that while that was happening she had been living quietly in the country expecting her baby and knowing nothing of it. And Henry had been there in London ... with the King.

•They came into London, that seething rabble,' Henry went on. 'The King went out to meet them ... first at Black-heath and then at Smithfield. He showed great courage—

everyone said so—and it has to be remembered that he saved the day. When he was at Blackheath I was left in the Tower and the mob broke in.*

She felt sick with fear, and he had laughed at her.

'It's all over now. It came out all right. Richard talked to them ... promised to give them what they wanted ... not that he can ... but he promised them and Wat Tyler was killed. They were without a leader. They broke up and disappeared ... and afterwards the ring leaders were caught and punished.

'And you were in the Tower,' she had murmured.

1 was lucky. Oh Mary, you nearly lost your husband on that day. They would have put an end to me because they hated my father. Everywhere you go, Mary, you hear them murmuring against him. You know all the lies they tell against him.'

'Why do they hate him so?' she had asked.

Henry had shrugged his shoulders. Then he had said, his eyes glowing with pride: 'Because he is the greatest man in England. He should have been the first-born so that he could have had the crown. He was meant to be a king.'

Mary had begged him to tell her about his lucky escape.

'It was like a miracle, Mary. There I was expecting them to burst in on me at any moment. I was thinking of you. I thought: My poor little Mary, her heart will be broken. And it would have been would it not?'

She had only been able to nod, being too full of emotion for speech.

'And then,' he had gone on, 'the door flew open and there was one of them; he had a billhook in his hand and I thought he had come to kill me. He called me "My lord" and spoke urgently and told me that he had come to conduct me to safety for my life was in great danger. He told me what to do, and I put on some rough clothes which he gave me. He had a wooden stick for me and he bade me follow him shouting abuse on the rich and so did I and we ran out of the Tower and through the streets of London shouting ail the while until we came to the Wardrobe which is the royal offices in Carter Lane and there I joined the Queen Mother and others who had managed to escape from the Tower.'

She had only been able to cling to him and marvel with horror that while this had been happening she had been

calmly sitting at her needlework with no hint of the tragedy which had nearly ruined her life.

1 shall be grateful to that man who saved you for the rest of my life,' she said fervently.

'And so shall 1/ Henry had replied. 'His name is John Ferrour and he is from Southwark. He has been well rewarded. He must have done it out of love for my father for I had never heard of him. But there is no doubt that but for him there would have been the end of Henry of Boling-broke.'

Later she had heard much of the Peasants' Revolt and the young King's bravery and everyone said that Richard would be a great king like his grandfather. The Peasants' Revolt had been Richard's triumph, so it seemed at first; but as she saw it he had won by false pretences. He had promised to give them what they w^anted and what they had received was cruel death for their leaders and their grievances had remained.

Henry had tried to explain to her that there could have been no other solution. The revolution had to be stopped and Richard stopped it; and the only way it could be done was by promising them what it was impossible to give.

*We were fortunate,' said Henry. 'It could have been the end of England, the end of us all.'

But what lived on in her memory w^as the danger that could beset her husband; and it w^as impossible to know real peace except when he was w4th her.

She was avid for news from Court. Henry gave it on his visits and those were the highlights of her existence. When she heard visitors arriving her heart would leap with joy. Alas, often she suffered bitter disappointment. But those occasions when he came were wonderful. She longed for the time to pass that she might reach that stage when she would be considered old enough for marriage.

Henry longed for it too. That was another anxiety. What if he were to love someone else? His father was married to Constanza of Castile but everyone knew that he loved Lady Swynford. Marriage w^as no certainty of love.

When the young King was married there was great excitement throughout the country. It was said that Anne of Bohemia was not very beautiful and w^hat good looks she had were marred by the hideous horned head-dress she wore; but the King liked her and very soon horned head-dresses were

the fashion in the highest circles. Tou must have one/ said her mother.

Henry spent a great deal of time with his father and it was clear to Mary that to Henry no one could ever quite compare with John of Gaunt. There was a great bond between them which pleased her and she knew that Henry was very fond of Lady Swynford, who was treated by all—on pain of the Duke's displeasure—as the Duchess of Lancaster. It would not be long, said Henry, before they were together. As soon as she reached her fifteenth birthday he was going to overrule her mother's objections; and his father would help him, he knew.

Meanwhile he brought news of the outside world. The King was devoted to the Queen and she was friendly with his friend Robert de Vere, whom, some said, Richard loved more than anyone, so that it was suspected that he had inherited certain traits of character from his great great grandfather Edward the Second. But the Queen made it all very cosy and the trio were always together. It was foolish said Henry because Richard was paying too much attention to his favourite not only privately but in State matters and that was a great mistake.

'Richard has outgrown the glory of Blackheath and Smith-field and if he goes on like this he will have to take care,' said Henry ominously and there was a certain gleam in his eyes which vaguely disturbed Mary.

Later he told her that John Wycliffe, who had caused so much controversy with his ideas on religion, had died of apoplexy while assisting at mass.

'But this is not the end of John Wycliffe,' prophesied Henry.

There was more trouble when John Holland, the King's half-brother, murdered the Earl of Stafford's son and was banished from the country.

'The Queen Mother is distraught,* Henry explained. 'She is trying to persuade Richard to acquit him but I don't see how he can. This will just about kill her. Her health is not good and she is getting old.'

And it did kill her for she died soon after.

But by this time Mary had reached her fifteenth birthday and one day John of Gaunt sent word that he was coming to see them.

There must be great preparations for such an important

visitor and the Countess with Mary beside her ordered that beef and mutton, capon, venison with herons and swans and peacocks be made ready for the honoured guest. The smell of baking pervaded the kitchens for there must be pies and tarts of all descriptions to be worthy of such a guest and the retinue he would certainly bring with him.

Henry was to accompany him and Mary guessed what the object of this visit was. So did her mother for she watched her daughter anxiously.

*My lady,' Mary reminded the Countess, 1 have passed my fifteenth birthday and am no longer a child.'

The Countess sighed. She would have liked to keep her daughter with her a little longer.

From one of the turret windows Mary watched the arrival of the great John of Gaunt, resplendent with banners displaying the lions and the leopards. Beside the great Duke of Lancaster rode his son, Henry of Bolingbroke.

How noble they were—these Plantagenets, and how similar in looks! There could be no doubt of their origins; they bore themselves—all of them—like Kings.

The Countess was waiting to greet them, with Mary beside her. John of Gaunt took Mary in his arms, when she would have curtsied to him.

*And how fares my dear daughter?* he asked. She replied that she was well and trusted he was also.

Her mother looked on with pride as she must to contemplate this brilliant marriage of her daughter's; and the fact that Mary and Henry so clearly loved each other was great balm to her motherly heart.

Henry was watching Mary with glistening eyes and when he embraced her she sensed the joy in him; so she knew that the waiting would soon be over.

There was an air of festivity at supper that evening as the dishes v>^hich had caused such a flurry of activity in the kitchen were set before the honoured guests. In addition to the meats and pies there were dried fruits preserved in sugar—almonds* raisins and fancy marchpane with every delicacy that had ever been thought of.

'Your daughter grows apace,' said John of Gaunt to the Countess. 'And her beauty increases. She is no longer a child. Do you agree?'

The Countess reluctantly admitted that this was so; and

then there could no longer be any doubt of the reason for the visit.

Mary and Henry danced together; she played the guitar and he sang with her; and while they watched them the Duke of Lancaster explained to the Countess that he was shortly leaving the country for Castile where he would try to win the crown to which he had a claim through his wife Constanza; he was leaving his son in charge of his estates.

'He is a man now,' he added.

The Countess was thoughtful. She did not greatly care for John of Gaunt; he was too formidable for comfort. Moreover she knew how ambitious he was and that he longed for a crown. He had married Constanza of Castile in the hope of being King of Castile since he could not be King of England, though he did not live with his lawful wife but with his mistress Catherine Swynford. And he had married his son to Mary because of Mary's fortune.

Now he was telling her that it was time Mary left her mother and became a wife to Henry.

It must be, she saw that.

Meanwhile Henry was explaining to Mary. 'The waiting is over,' he said. 'You are coming away with me.'

She clasped her hands together and closed her eyes; she was overcome with joy.

'Does that mean you are pleased?' asked Henry.

She nodded.

*I am nearly twenty/ he said. 'My father says it is time I had a wife. Oh, Mary, the waiting has been so long.'

'For me, also. I am sorry I w^as so young.'

That made him laugh.

'Listen,' he said. 'When I go from here, you will come with me. My father is going to Castile.'

'Oh Henry ... you ...'

'No, I am not going with him. There must be someone here to look after the estates. I shall doubtless travel with him to the coast. Perhaps you will come with us, Mary.'

She put her hand in his.

'Henry, I am so happy,' she said.

Those were busy days that followed. The great John of Gaunt must be entertained and she must prepare herself to leave with Henry. Her mother watched her with a certain sadness.

yo The Star of Lancaster

'I am pleased that you are happy in your marriage/ she said, 'but sorry that you are going away. If you are ever in need of me, you have but to send word, my child, and I shall be with you/

Mary said solemnly: 'Was there any girl more fortunate than I? I have the best husband and the best mother in the world/

Mary was indeed a wife and it was not long before she was expecting to become a mother. She and Henry had gone to their favourite castle in Monmouthshire and there they had spent a few ecstatic weeks during which Mary had become pregnant. Life was so wonderful if she could but forget that parting could come at any moment. Henry was deeply involved in politics and that meant uneasy living. He did not like his cousin, the King. He called him a fool in private; he said he was futile, riding for disaster.

*He lost his slipper at his coronation,' he once said, 'and if he is not careful, ere long he will lose his throne.'

Mary hated to think how deeply Henry was being embroiled. She could have wished they could have lived quietly in Monmouth Castle happily from day to day.

She was so happy when he played his recorder and she played her guitar and then sang and danced; or when they played chess with the beautiful silver chessmen which were Henry's father's gift to them, or they rode together in the forest as they had when they had first met.

But this idyllic existence could not last. Sometimes she thought—but secretly—how happy she could have been had he been the son of a humble squire. She dared not hint of her feelings for the fact that he was the son of his father was one of his proudest boasts.

As the months passed her discomfort increased; it was a difficult pregnancy as it had been with her first child. Henry was a kind and thoughtful husband, but she sensed his restlessness. She could no longer ride with him; she could not dance; and sometimes she was so tired that she could not even concentrate on a game of chess.

She was realizing that she had married a very ambitious man. It was hardly to be expected that the son of John of Gaunt would be otherwise, and while he dallied with her in

the castle she sensed that his thoughts were far away. The political situation was growing rather tense; when he talked to her about it his eyes glowed and his voice trembled with excitement; she quickly understood that he would rather be at Court than with her; it saddened her and yet she understood. She was only a part of his life; she must not expect him to share her desire for this cosy domesticity; and now, pregnant as she was and often feeling ill, she could not be the lively companion he needed. She must face facts; the idyll was over; it was changing rapidly into sensible marriage. He loved her still but how could she expect the same wholehearted devotion from him which she was prepared to give.

There came a day when his uncle—Mary's brother-in-law —^Thomas of Gloucester came to the castle. Mary was apprehensive about the visit for she knew that Thomas would never forgive her for leaving Pleshy and marrying Henry. Eleanor had been very cool towards her on the few occasions when they had met.

Thomas however greeted her with a brotherly affection and when she asked after Eleanor he said she was well and so were the children. Eleanor now had a son and that seemed to have given her and her husband a great deal of pleasure. He had been named Humphrey which was a favourite name in the de Bohun family.

The boy was strong and healthy, Thomas told her with pride and he trusted she would honour them with a visit.

This was offering the olive branch without doubt and having learned something of her brother-in-law's nature when she was living at Pleshy, Mary thought that it could only mean that he had some project in mind which had made the loss of half of the de Bohun fortune seem less significant than it once had.

He and Henry spent a great deal of time alone together and she became apprehensive for she w^as aware of the excitement these talks had engendered in her husband.

When they were alone that night she ventured to ask him what Thomas's motive was in visiting them.

At first he had been disinclined to tell her, which was hurtful.

'He is my uncle,' he said, 'and now my father is away no doubt he feels he must keep an eye on me. He was riding this way so naturally he would call on us. Moreover he is your

brother-in-law. I dare swear Eleanor wants news of you/

*Why, Henry/ she replied, 'your uncle has not been very pleasant with your father and that means with you, since you were given the Garter in place of him and since you married me when he and my sister wanted me to go into a convent so that my part of the family inheritance should go to them, it is hardly likely that they feel much affection for us/

Then he decided to tell her. 'That is in the past/ he said. 'They were petty differences. I can tell you that something of the utmost importance is afoot.*

Her heart seemed to miss a beat. 'What is it, Henry?'

'You know that for some time the King's behaviour has not pleased certain men in the country. His besotted attitude towards de Vere gives great offence. That man is a menace to the peace of the country. He plotted against my father. It is time the King learned that there are men in this country who will endure this state of affairs no longer.'