Passage to Pontefract

Chapter I THE BIRTH OF THE BOYS

London was in a festive mood on that glorious May day. There was little the citizens liked better than a royal occasion and this promised to be one of the most splendid the capital had ever seen. The King loved display – the more magnificent the better. It was one of his endearing qualities. A weakness perhaps but a lovable one indulged in by a man who was said to be the greatest warrior in Christendom and whose reputation was as illustrious as that of his grandfather, great Edward, the first of that name.

Three days earlier the King’s son – he who was known as John of Gaunt because he had been born to Edward and good Queen Philippa in the Flemish town of Ghent and the English despising foreign tongues found Gaunt came more easily to the tongue than Ghent – had in Reading been married to Blanche, the daughter of the Duke of Lancaster.

All would agree that the union of two handsome young people was a matter for celebration, particularly as they were both royal, for Blanche was descended from the Plantagenet tree even as John was; and the parents of both bride and groom were revered throughout the country.

Henry of Lancaster, the bride’s father, was known in England – and in Europe too – as Good Duke Henry, the perfect knight. He was chivalrous at all times, generous to his enemies, loyal to his friends, a deeply religious man, and his grandfather had been Edmund the second, son of Henry the Third.

As for the bridegroom’s parents, they were beloved by the people as few monarchs had been before them. Their subjects must be proud of this tall handsome King whom many said was the image of his grandfather and only slightly less tall than that Edward Longshanks whose reputation had been enhanced by memory. This Edward had all the Plantagenet good looks – the abundant fair hair, the straight nose, the flashing blue eyes, the fine physique. Moreover he had brought stability to the country and such was his popularity that it had been forgotten that the glories of Crécy and Poitiers had been paid for not only with blood but with taxes wrung from the people, and that the acquisition of the throne of France was no nearer than it had been at the beginning of the war. He had married Philippa of Hainault of whose benevolence the people had been made aware and even in his marriage he had shown his good sense. Philippa might be over plump and show signs of continuous childbearing and be scarcely a beauty, but her fresh rosiness was comely and her expression one of gentle goodwill. She had on several occasions been known to plead with the King to show mercy, for he like most of his race was possessed of a temper which could be violent when provoked; and for this quality she had been deeply respected. She was womanly; she was virtuous; and she was known as Good Queen Philippa.

Their devotion to each other had been an example to the nation, and if there had been rumours of late that the King was not quite the faithful husband it had, in the past, been generally believed he was, such suggestions were forgotten when the royal pair appeared together.

London was delighted with its ruler; and all wise rulers knew that the approval of the capital city was essential to their security. Yes, they loved this King who could give a good account of himself in the jousts in which he so liked to indulge, and they enjoyed seeing him glittering with the jewels with which he so loved to adorn his handsome person.

Not only had he restored the prestige to England which it had lost during the previous disastrous reign of his weak effeminate father, he had sired sons – all handsome – and the eldest, as was fitting, was one whose fame had spread far and wide and already showed signs of being as great as his father and grandfather – another Edward, known throughout the country as the Black Prince.

So on this occasion of the marriage of the King’s son, London determined to honour its sovereign. There was noise and bustle everywhere. From the gables of the houses women chatted to each other, discussing the merits of the bride and groom. People crowded into the streets; they lived most of their lives out of doors when the weather permitted, for they liked to escape from the closed-in darkness of the little houses huddled closely together, and regarded them only as shelters against the cold and places in which to eat and sleep. Celebrations such as this one made the highlights of their lives.

May Day had just passed. Then they had danced round the maypole welcoming the summer; they had decorated it with the wild flowers growing outside the city walls by the Strand which connected the City of London with Westminster and where lay the houses of the nobility, their gardens lapped by the river – the City’s great highway along which craft of many descriptions plied back and forth at all hours of the day and night. They had festooned their doorways with flowers; and had even hung little glass lamps among the blossoms. After dark the effect had enchanted all who beheld it.

That was May Day. But this was an even greater occasion, for it had been announced that there was to be a great joust and that champions had come forward to hold London against all challengers. There was an air of mystery about this for none knew who those champions were; but all declared that there had never been, nor ever would be, a celebration to match this which honoured the marriage of the King’s son, John of Gaunt, to the Lady Blanche of Lancaster, daughter of Good Duke Henry.

The pavilions were being erected. In these the knights would don their armour and await the summons to come forth and fight. Some were glorious indeed, made of silk and velvet; but the mystery was stressed because on the grandest of these pavilions there were no mottoes, no shield of arms to identify those who would occupy them. This reminded the people that the defenders of London were the mysterious knights who had come forward to serve the City at this glorious time.

Stands were being erected for the nobility. It would be a glorious sight. The King would be present. A royal occasion indeed. It was no wonder that hours before the tournament was due to begin people should be converging on the City. From Clerkenwell and Holborn they came, from St John’s Wood and Hampstead. They slept in the meadows of Marylebone and dabbled their feet in the Paddington brooks.

Even the sombre Tower, that grim Norman fortress, brooding over the scene seemed less menacing on this day and no one thought of the dark deeds which had gone on behind those grey walls. Rather they looked towards Westminster and the magnificent Savoy Palace on the Strand. The Savoy was the home of Duke Henry now and had passed through the hands of many owners; it had been built by the notorious Simon de Montfort who had married King Henry’s sister and had come near to ruling England himself. But when he had been subdued King Henry the Third had presented the house to his wife’s uncle Peter, the Earl of Savoy, and it had been known as the Savoy ever since. He in his turn gave it to a priory and it was from this priory that Queen Eleanor had bought it as a suitable residence for her second son Edmund, Earl of Lancaster and that was how it had come into the family.

Close to the City but outside its walls the joust would be held and already the people were waiting there. Cheeky apprentices, like boys let out of school, were chatting to the milkmaids; ploughmen, prelates, merchants – men and women of all ranks – had come to see the pageantry.

Excitement was intense. The joust had begun. The Queen and her ladies sat watching. With her was the young bride. Blanche was as beautiful as she had been proclaimed to be. Her long fair hair was loose about her shoulders; her skin was delicately white, her eyes deep blue. She was eighteen years old. People gazed at her with interest. Tall, slender, almost delicate, she looked so young and tender beside the corpulent Philippa.

The people cheered themselves hoarse for the ladies. But they waited for the King and they waited in vain.

But there was little time for speculation for the challengers had come forward and the defenders were riding out to meet them – twenty-four knights led by five of the tallest men in the field. For a few moments the silence was intense. Then the trumpets were sounding and the heralds had come forward announcing that the tournament was about to begin. The heralds ran from the field as the horses came pounding in. There was fierce excitement in the sound of the crash of steel against steel, in the shine of shields and lances as the sun caught them, in the battle cries of the noble knights. The Londoners looked on in utter fascination and their attention was focused on the men who had taken upon themselves the task of defending London. Who were they? The crowd thrilled with delight for the challengers were no match for them.

In due course their victory was complete. London had been bravely and skilfully defended against all comers, as it always had been and always would be.

Now the great moment had come. The mysterious defenders must uncover and show themselves. They rode into the centre of the field – those five tall men who had led the defending team.

One rode a little ahead of the others and when he lifted his visor there was no mistaking the thick fair hair, the blue eyes, the handsome Plantagenet features.

‘The King!’ The people went wild with joy. What greater compliment could he have paid his City than to place himself at the head of its defenders. They might have guessed whose face was beneath that visor for he had not been beside the Queen in her loge. It was a game that kings loved to play when they were sure of the loyalty of their people. It was Edward’s way of telling them that his City of London was dear to his heart and that he would defend it with all his might.

‘Long live the King.’ The cheers that rent the air could have been heard from the Tower to the village of Knightsbridge.

The second knight had ridden up. He had removed his visor and the crowd was now almost hysterical with joy for there was no mistaking that handsome face either. It was so like that of the King. More austere perhaps but as handsome, the great military hero Edward, heir to the throne, who had won his spurs at Crécy and was the hero of Poitiers, who a few years previously had led his royal captive, the King of France, through the streets of London and lodged him in the Palace of the Savoy. Edward, acclaimed throughout the world as the soldier whom none could equal. The Black Prince himself.

And he too was here to defend London!

The third knight was even taller than the King and the Black Prince. He was not so well known as they were but that he was a Plantagenet there was no doubt – the same colouring, the same handsome features and his outstanding height proclaimed him as a son of the King.

‘Long live Lionel Duke of Clarence, Earl of Ulster, defender of London against all comers.’

How they revelled in the disclosures. They were not surprised however when the next defender was revealed as John of Gaunt, the bridegroom. A special cheer for him because it was due to his wedding that the joust was taking place. All eyes turned to the little bride seated so demurely beside the Queen; she was flushed with what must have been pride and happiness. What a handsome pair they were. Only great Edward could have sired such splendid sons.

What rejoicing there was. What better gesture could the King have made.

There was not a more popular man in London that day than the King of England.

When the feasting was at an end and the King and the Queen could retire to their apartments Philippa looked forward to a cosy talk with her husband. Philippa was ever ready to cast aside her rank. She had been brought up in a happy home which by the standards of royalty was homely. She cared more deeply for the happiness of her family than for their military glory or the possessions they might acquire. She had always deplored Edward’s obsession with the crown of France.

Often she wished that Edward were merely a nobleman without the responsibilities of state, though she knew of course that he would not have wished for that.

She liked to spend most of the time they could be together in discussing family affairs, and what occupied her mind now was her eldest son.

‘Seeing John so happily married to dear Blanche has made me think more than ever about Edward,’ she said.

The King nodded. Edward’s future was not a new subject.

‘He is twenty-nine years old,’ went on the Queen.

‘I well remember the day he was born,’ said the King. ‘What rejoicing there was! It was like you to give me such a son … our first born. Do you remember how the people stood about in the streets and how they would go wild with joy at a glimpse of him?’

‘I shall never forget their joy. And they still love him. He has their devotion even as you have.’

The King took her hand and kissed it. ‘You have brought me great happiness, my dear. It was the best day of my life when I came to Hainault and set eyes on you. I loved you then and I love you now.’ He added with fervour: ‘There has never been any to take your place in my heart.’

Even as he spoke he was thinking of his meeting with the Countess of Salisbury who would always be to him the most beautiful and desirable woman he had ever seen. Love had come to him so suddenly that it had overwhelmed him and to the astonishment of his followers, for hitherto he had been a faithful husband, he had made every attempt to persuade the fair countess to become his mistress. The situation was even more deplorable because she was the wife of William de Montacute, one of his greatest friends who was at the time a prisoner of the French, taken in fighting for Edward’s cause. It was a serious blot on his honour, and even though the Countess had been too virtuous to submit to his lust, his conscience was sorely troubled. Whenever he remembered that occasion he was particularly tender towards Philippa and made a point of protesting his eternal fidelity. Dear homely Philippa, who must never know how near he had come to betraying her!

Philippa gave him her pleasant smile. She loved him dearly. She had always been aware of her lack of allure and had never ceased to marvel that Edward had loved her as he did. She knew of course that great beauties like the Countess of Salisbury must tempt him from time to time. Rumours reached her. But she had decided to ignore them. She longed for peace in her home. She was the Queen. Edward was her husband. She must always be his first consideration, and he and her children were her life.

But the occasion of John’s marriage must make her think with apprehension of her eldest son, for he was ten years older than John and still a bachelor. Lionel, who was eight years younger than Edward, was married. A wife had been found for that second son when he was little more than a baby, and a very good match it had been, according to the King, for the bride although six years Lionel’s senior was a great heiress. Elizabeth de Burgh had brought him Ulster and he now bore the title of Earl of Ulster as well as Duke of Clarence, and Elizabeth’s vast inheritance was in his hands. He was happy, which pleased Philippa as much as his wealth. Lionel was an easy-going young man, pleasure-loving, far less serious than his brothers Edward and John. He was the tallest in a tall family and the handsomest. It had been said that there was not a man in England who could compare with Lionel in good looks.

In between Edward and Lionel there had been the girls, Isabella and Joanna, and little William who had died; and after John there had been Edmund, who had distinguished himself at the tournament this day; and after Edmund little Blanche who had lived but a short time. Mary and Margaret, her two darling girls, had followed; then another William who had died. An unlucky name for the family, William. And lastly Thomas, the youngest of the brood. None could say she had not done her duty as a mother.

Isabella, the eldest daughter, was headstrong and her father’s favourite, spoilt, wilful, flaunting the fact that she could with a little wheedling always get her own way with the King. Philippa was uneasy thinking of her eldest daughter’s future; she had constantly tried to restrain the King in his inability to stop spoiling her. But the greatest sadness had come to her through Blanche and her two Williams and Joanna. Joanna had died in Loremo, a small town near Bordeaux, when she was on her way to marry Pedro of Castile. Poor child! It seemed now that she had been fortunate to die, even horribly as she did of the plague, for Pedro who had earned the name of The Cruel would have been a fearful husband for such a gentle creature. She heard that his mistress commanded him and he was her absolute slave, and that he had murdered the wife he had eventually married and had strangled his bastard brother in addition to countless crimes of cruelty. Never again, Philippa had vowed to Edward, should a child of theirs be sent out to marry a bridegroom of whom they knew nothing except that he possessed a great title.

Edward always soothed her. He loved his children even as she did; he wanted them to be happy; but he must be mindful of the demands of state. He never stressed this though with Philippa, and he knew that in the case of his daughters he would always be lenient.

Lionel married, John married, and what of Edward?

‘It is not,’ said the Queen, ‘that he does not like feminine society.’

She frowned. She was thinking of the King’s father, who had been devoted to the handsome young men on whom he showered wealth and titles. No, there was nothing like that about Edward. He was entirely a man.

‘He just feels disinclined to marry,’ replied the King.

‘But he is the heir to the throne! He should have sons by now.’

‘You know, my dear, it is no use trying to tell Edward what he should do. He will do what he wills.’

‘We have self-willed children, Edward. Isabella does what she wants with you.’

‘Isabella. She is a minx.’ His face softened. He loves this daughter more than anyone on earth, I do believe, thought Philippa. She was not jealous, only pleased that their daughter should mean so much to him. But she did feel that the girl was becoming more and more unmanageable. However, the concern at the moment was not with Isabella but Edward.

‘A minx yes, but it is Edward who is of the greatest importance. It is no use speaking to him, I suppose …’

The King shook his head. ‘Edward will go his own way. He knows the importance of marriage. He knows the people expect it. See how they applauded John’s marriage. How much more so would they applaud the marriage of our heir. But he will go his own way. He will marry when he wishes and whom he wishes. You know Edward.’

The King’s eyes were glazed with memory. That son of his who had filled him with pride from the minute he could walk. Isabella he loved the most. Well, she was a girl and he was very susceptible to feminine charms, but he was rarely so proud as when he rode out with his first-born beside him.

Crécy where the boy won his spurs! What a great day! And he had been ready – nay eager – to pass over the triumph to his son. Fifteen-year-old Edward. He had risked the boy’s life then; had left him to fight his way out of trouble while his urgent prayer was ‘Oh God, let the boy earn his spurs this day.’ And valiantly had young Edward done so, proclaiming himself as a warrior at that tender age. And more recently Poitiers when against great odds he had won a decisive victory and captured the King of France himself. How like Edward to let his father first know of the victory by sending him the French King’s helmet!

A son to warm the heart of any King. England would be safe with this Edward to govern it. It was only in this matter of marriage that he was a disappointment. Twenty-nine and unmarried! Moreover he was a soldier and soldiers, even the greatest of them, could never be sure when they might meet a violent end.

‘I sometimes think,’ went on the Queen, ‘that his heart is with Joan of Kent.’

The King flinched. Joan was another of those women with whom, had the opportunity offered, he would have dallied. Joan was quite different from the Countess of Salisbury. She was beautiful and she had something else – a provocation, some quality which was a constant invitation to the opposite sex. There had been a time when it seemed that the Prince of Wales would marry Joan.

Even so, faced with this provocative creature, Edward had been severely tempted – which would have been even more sinful than a liaison with the Countess of Salisbury. She was the wife of his best friend. Joan might have been the wife of his son.

They called her the Fair Maid of Kent. Fair she was without question and her father was Edmund of Woodstock, Earl of Kent, who had been the youngest son of Edward the First, so she was of royal descent.

In those days it had seemed that there could be no obstacle to her marriage with the Prince of Wales except that of consanguinity and that was a matter which could always be overcome by an obliging Pope.

‘I often wonder what went wrong,’ continued the Queen. ‘I am sure Joan was fond of Edward and she is not the sort to say no to a crown. Yet …’

Philippa would never understand. Joan was ambitious. Joan was not averse to Edward; but Edward was too slow and Joan was not of a nature to stand by and wait. Her warm passionate nature demanded fulfilment and such a beauty had no lack of suitors. She had been affianced to William Montacute, son of the fair Countess, but in the meantime Thomas Holland had managed to seduce her. There had had to be a hurried wedding and that was the end of the hope of a marriage for Joan with the Prince of Wales.

The King was thoughtful. He would have been a little uneasy perhaps if his son had married a woman whom he so much admired. It would have been very disturbing to have temptation so close and what if he were to succumb to it! He shuddered at the thought. It would be like incest. No, it was as well to have that temptress removed from his orbit. Even so there had been certain rumours. No one would ever forget that occasion when Joan had dropped her garter in the dance and he had picked it up. He could still remember the looks on the faces of those about him; he had fancied he heard a titter. He had faced them all with his comment which had now become well known: ‘Evil be to him who evil thinks.’ He had honoured the garter; he had attached it to his own knee and he had made it the symbol of chivalry.

‘Well, my dear,’ he said, ‘it is no use thinking of Joan of Kent. Let us hope that someone suitable to his rank will lure him from this bachelor’s state which he seems to find so pleasant. He must realise that he should marry for the sake of the country. Perhaps I should speak to him after all.’

The Queen shook her head. ‘Perhaps it is better not. This constant questioning of the matter may well stiffen his resistance.’

‘As always you are wise, my dearest. We will wait awhile and hope.’

‘Perhaps the happiness of John and Blanche will decide him.’

‘We must hope for that.’ The King frowned. Then he said: ‘There is Lionel and his little daughter. There is John … We do not lack sons, Philippa.’

‘Edward was made to be King,’ replied Philippa firmly. ‘He is a young man yet. One day I know he will marry. He will have strong stalwart sons even as we have had.’

‘Amen to that,’ replied the King. ‘And now enough of these children of ours. We are not so old ourselves that we should not give a thought to our own wellbeing.’

Philippa smiled. He could still be the impatient lover. It was an achievement really. She could scarcely have believed it would be possible if he had not again and again given her proof of it.

The bridegroom was uneasy because he had a duty to perform and it was a secret one.

He was delighted by his marriage. Blanche was enchanting. He had long heard of her beauty, though he did know that a bride’s charm was invariably measured by the size of her fortune, but this was not so in the case of Blanche. With her long fair hair and her very white skin and that air of vulnerability, she was irresistible and that she was a great heiress was just an additional attraction. Moreover had she not been rich and of such noble birth she would never have been chosen for him. He could not complain. He was in love with her already. It was a different sort of love from that he had had for Marie St Hilaire and he was deeply aware of the difference. It did not mean that he loved either of them the less. Blanche was the romantic lady, the kind of whom poets sang; Marie was the earthy mistress who knew how to satisfy him, how to soothe him, at all times. She did not complain. She understood that a man in his position could only come to her rarely. She knew that no great titles would come her way. Yet she had given him a deep and satisfying love.

He had talked to her as he never talked to anyone except Isolda Newman. Isolda – that staunch Flemish woman who had been his nurse – was a mother to him. It was to Isolda that he could reveal his innermost thoughts – even more so than to Marie, for Marie would never have understood entirely. Isolda did. He was aware in his Flemish nurse of a similar resentment which he himself felt.

When he was a little boy she had called him her little king and it had been a secret name for she had never used it before others.

Once she had said: ‘’Twas a pity you were not the first. What a King you would have made.’

He had been quite young when he had begun to feel the resentment because he was the fourth son. Edward and Lionel came before him. Young William had died. He had seen the adulation given to his brother Edward, the great Black Prince. When they had ridden out together people scarcely looked at him, and he had been very conscious of being only the little brother, while the people always shouted for the mighty Black Prince.

Lionel did not mind being the second son. Good-natured, lazy, stretching his long legs before him, stroking his handsome face, Lionel shrugged his shoulders. Lionel did not want to rule a kingdom. ‘Rather you than me,’ he had said to Edward. ‘I would not be in your boots, brother. Go on living, there’s a good fellow. Produce as many healthy sons as our parents did. Make sure that there is no way for me to come to the throne.’

How differently John felt! When he saw the crown his fingers itched to take it. He often thought: there are Edward and Lionel before me. And Lionel does not want it. What if …

He dismissed such thoughts. He was fond of his eldest brother. When he was a boy he had thought he was some sort of God and had joined in the general worship. But Edward was now twenty-nine years of age and he did not show any desire to marry; he was a fighter and one who liked to be in the forefront of the battle. If he did not marry; if he did not produce an heir; if he were killed in combat, there would only be Lionel before him. It was true Lionel had a four-year-old daughter Philippa – named for her grandmother the Queen – but a girl.

He must not think of these things. He could imagine the horror of his parents if they knew he did. He had a beautiful wife; passionately he wanted sons. It might well be that one day his son …

No, he must stop. There was an important matter to settle. He must see Marie. He must explain to her. He wondered if she had been among the spectators at the joust. Poor Marie, how had she felt to see the fair Blanche seated beside the Queen, to see him go forward and take her hand and kiss it fondly and ride with her into Westminster?

Blanche and he must have sons. It might well be that already she was with child. He hoped so. She seemed over fragile for much childbearing – unlike his mother – stolid, firm, Flemish wide-hipped, ample-bosomed, born for motherhood.

He must slip out of the palace unnoticed. It was well that he was not as easily recognised as his father and elder brothers were – for while the visage of the Black Prince was well known throughout the land, Lionel’s excessive height made it impossible for him to remain incognito. John himself was tall but not as tall as his brothers; his hair was less fair being more of a tawny shade; he was clearly Plantagenet, but that cast of features did appear here and there in the land, due no doubt to the lustiness of some of his ancestors.

He left the palace alone and made his way towards the City. Riding along the Strand past the noble palaces he saw the Savoy towering above the rest and he thought exultantly, one day that might well be mine. It belonged to his father-in-law and Blanche with her sister Matilda was his heir.

It was a pity that Blanche had a sister – and an elder one at that. Never mind the fortune was vast and when Duke Henry died it must pass to his daughters.

His fair bride could bring him more than her beauty.

He made his way into the City and rode along by the Water of Walbrook which came from its source in the heights of Hampstead and Highbury and flowed through swampy Moorfields to empty itself into the Thames. He came to a house near St Mildred’s Church close to Bucklersbury and here he paused. He rode through an arch at the side of the house and as he entered a courtyard a man ran out to make a sweeping bow. John dismounted and the man took his horse. He pushed open a door in the courtyard and was in the house.

Marie was waiting for him. She did not rush into his arms as was her custom. She stood back waiting for him to give some sign of what was expected of her. It was her indication that she realised there was a marked change in their relationship.

He thought: She was at the joust. She saw Blanche there …

He caught her hands and kissed her passionately.

‘Oh my lord …’ she murmured.

They went together into the room with the leaded windows that looked out on the courtyard. How often had he been here and found solace with Marie. It had been a satisfying relationship. He was not a promiscuous man. He had had one mistress at a time and Marie had held that position for more than two years. She was older than he was but he had been very young when he had first come to her.

They did not go to her bed as they would have done had this been an ordinary occasion. Marie was aware of this. She had set out on a table wine and the wine cakes she liked to bake for him. She knew that he had come to talk.

‘You were in the crowd?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘I saw your bride. She is very beautiful. She looks … kind and good.’

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I know she is.’

‘You will love her well and she will love you.’

‘Marie,’ he said. ‘I am sorry. It had to be.’

She smiled bravely. ‘I always knew it would be thus. I never forgot that you were the King’s son and some day there would be a bride for you. Sometimes I thought that might not be the end.’

‘It must be the end,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘I knew you would wish it so.’

‘I could not deceive her,’ he said.

‘I understand.’

‘Dearest Marie, you have always understood. It is not that I do not love you. I shall for ever be grateful to you …’

‘You owe me no gratitude,’ she answered. ‘It was my pleasure to give and to take as it was yours. Suffice it that we have been happy together.’

‘It is a new life. I shall be sailing for France with my father ere long.’

‘So she, too, will be alone.’

‘It is the way our lives go. I must not stay. They will miss me.’

‘She will miss you,’ she murmured.

‘Marie. Before I go. The child …’

She rose. ‘She is sleeping.’

‘Let me see her.’

She led the way into a room, where lying on a pallet was a child a little over a year old.

‘How lovely she is,’ he said.

‘She has a look of you. The same tawny hair … the blue eyes. I shall have her to remind me.’

‘She shall never want. Nor shall you.’

‘I know it,’ said Marie. ‘She must never want, because she is your daughter.’

‘You may trust me to make all arrangements. It is to assure you of this that I came.’

He knelt by the pallet and bending kissed the child. She smiled in her sleep.

They went back to the table; he drank a little of the wine and ate one of the wine cakes. He explained what arrangements would be made for her and the child.

Then he took his farewell. They stood facing each other, both deeply moved. She had meant so much to him; he had trusted her. Here in the dark room when he had lain beside her after making love he had talked of his dreams, of how he resented being born the fourth son instead of the first, of how he longed to be a king. He could talk to Marie as freely as he could talk to Isolda and no one else. ‘I have the blood of kings in my veins,’ he had said. ‘I was born to rule, but born too late.’

And she listened as Isolda had listened; and she commiserated and soothed him and understood.

It was over now. They had always known it must be some day. Once he had thought Marie would always be there in his life and so she would have been if they had married him to anyone but Blanche.

Blanche filled his thoughts. There was something in her which appealed to his manhood. Soft and white and vulnerable. That was it. Heiress as she was, stem of a royal tree, she needed to be protected.

He said goodbye to Marie and he chided himself because he felt less sad than he should. Marie and her child should always be cared for. But he was in love with Blanche.

Those summer days passed delightfully for the young married pair. Each day it seemed they were more and more in love. The King and the Queen watched with pleasure and continued to sigh because the Prince of Wales still avoided the same happy state.

It was with great joy that Blanche at length discovered that she was pregnant.

John was exultant. In an unguarded moment he cried, ‘If this child is a boy, he may one day be King of England.’

Blanche was a little shaken. ‘Oh, my dear husband, there are many before him.’

‘Many,’ agreed John. ‘But who can see into the future?’

She said nothing, but she knew of his great ambition and it gave her a certain apprehension. She accepted the fact that he was bold and ambitious but her father had taught her that duty and honour were greater blessings than titles and lands and she knew her father was right. There had been a strong bond between them, because she supposed she was the only child who was near him, Matilda being far away.

She prayed each night that her child would be a boy, for she could not bear to disappoint her husband.

In October of that year John went to France with his father. The truce which had been made two years before with the capture of the King of France was coming to an end and as the Dauphin of France refused to recognise the treaty his father had agreed to in captivity it was clear that Edward would have to attempt to enforce it. Preparations had been going on during the summer months and the King, in accordance with the custom at such times, had made a tour of the holy shrines accompanied by members of his family with their households.

The great cavalcade made its way through the country and it was cheered wherever it went. The people were certain that great Edward could not fail and soon these wretched wars with France would be over and Edward would attain the crown which for so long he had made such determined efforts to get. It was true all had thought the war was over when the King of France had ridden into England with his captor the Black Prince; but now it seemed there was a wicked Dauphin who was determined to cling to the crown for himself.

So it was war again.

In the household of Lionel and his wife Elizabeth was a young man who interested Blanche. He was about the same age as her husband – bright-eyed, intelligent; seeming different from other pages. He was in favour with Elizabeth and Lionel and looked quite elegant in his parti-coloured breeches of red and black – the fashionable colours at the moment. He even had a silk paltok, the new kind of coat which was very elegant.

Blanche would find his eyes on her whenever he was near. She was amused and asked him why he stared at her.

He told her that he had never in his life seen anyone as beautiful as she was.

Such a comment might have been impertinent from one in his lowly position but it was given with an air of dignity and Blanche graciously accepted it.

She asked her sister-in-law who the young page was and Elizabeth laughed and said, ‘Oh, he is an interesting boy. He writes clever verses. Both Lionel and I encourage him. He is the son of a vintner who distinguished himself in the wars. His name is Geoffrey Chaucer.’

Blanche found herself watching for the young man and she always had a smile for him when they met.

His admiration gratified her. There were plenty to admire her of course, but there was something rather unusual about the young page.

In due course the army left and Blanche must say farewell to her husband.

The Queen was sad. She hated these wars. ‘Would to God the King had never got it into his head that he had a claim to the throne of France,’ she confided to Blanche. ‘How much happier we should all be if there were not this continual fighting. I never sleep peacefully when the King is away because when he is he is always engaged in battle. My dear Blanche, you will condole with me for alas, John is with him.’

They were great friends and had been all Blanche’s life for Blanche had spent a large part of her early life in Philippa’s household. Children loved the Queen; she was the natural mother and even those who were not her own children had a share of her affection.

‘When they go away,’ Philippa mourned, ‘we can never be sure when they will come back. It may be a year or more.’

‘I hope by the time John returns that our child will be born and oh how fervently I hope that it will be a boy.’

‘My dear child, you must not hope too much. It is better to wait patiently and see what God sends you. If it is a girl don’t fret. You are both so young. You have time to get boys.’

‘John longs for a boy.’

‘John would. I sometimes think he is the most ambitious of my sons. And Lionel is the happiest because he is content with his lot. He was born in Antwerp. You see his father had started the war against France even then and I was with him. Oh this war, will it never end! But let us talk of happier things than war. I trust you are resting when you feel tired. I have some fine silk which I will give you for some of the baby’s garments.’

The company of Queen Philippa was certainly comforting. Blanche needed that comfort when her child was born, for the longed-for son was denied her. It was a little girl they brought and laid in her arms.

For herself she would have been content. But she thought what John’s disappointment would be when he heard that she had not given him the boy he longed for.

Blanche wanted to call her Philippa after the Queen and Philippa was delighted that the child should be so named.

By May of the next year the army had returned to England. There was talk of a divine interference which had changed the King’s attitude towards France. He had marched to Paris and believed that victory was close. The French had offered terms for peace which Edward would not accept. He had continued to ravage the country and was so doing when suddenly a terrible storm of hail, lightning and thunder had descended upon him. Rumour had it that six thousand men and horses had been killed by the elements which had only abated when the King had lifted his arms to Heaven and sworn that if God would stop pouring his wrath from the Heavens he would accept the terms for peace which the French were offering. It was like a miracle, said rumour. The storm had ceased, and Edward prepared to return to England. King Jean of France was released after four years of imprisonment and Edward declared he would accept the ransom which had been offered.

‘Peace for a while,’ said the Queen. ‘We must be grateful for it even though it may not last.’

So home came the warriors and when John of Gaunt was introduced to his little daughter, he hid the chagrin he felt on account of her sex. His delight in his marriage persisted, and it was not long before Blanche was pregnant once more and this time John was convinced that they would have a boy.

Great was his joy when a boy was born to them.

‘Let us call him John after his father,’ said Blanche. So John the child became.

Alas, fate was cruel. Only a few weeks after his birth the child sickened and all the efforts of the royal physicians could not save him.

John lapsed into gloom and even Blanche found it difficult to rouse him from his melancholy.

‘We shall have a boy,’ she assured him. ‘I know it. I shall not rest content until I have given you the son you long for.’

He kissed her and tried to hide his disappointment.

Fate had been unkind to him, he thought. First giving him an overweening ambition and making him the fourth son and then giving him a daughter and when a son was born to him taking the child away.

But fate was full of tricks and that year was to bring great change into his life.

Some years before a terrible pestilence had swept through Europe enveloping England. Thousands had died of it and it had been spoken of with dread even after it no longer raged.

Very few who developed the plague ever survived. When it attacked, a discoloured swelling would be perceived under the armpits. These would be followed very quickly by more swellings and in a few hours the sufferer would be dead. So infectious was the plague that it could be caught by coming near to the body of someone who had died by it. It had spread through the country like a hurricane, impoverishing it, wiping out the population in its thousands. It was only when ships had ceased to call at the ports and grass grew among the cobbles of the streets that it had subsided and then had come the terrible reckoning, when there were few left to till the fields and to carry on the country’s business.

The Black Death would be talked of until the end of time.

And now it had returned.

However something had been learned from the previous visitation. The plague had struck its cruellest blows in the towns where people lived close together, and those who could left them for the country. A careful watch was made so that no people from abroad should enter the country if there had been plague on their ships.

John and Blanche were with the court at Windsor when the news was brought. Blanche could not believe it was true. She was stunned by her grief. Her father Duke Henry of Lancaster had taken the sickness and died.

John tried to comfort her. He knew how devoted she had been to her father, but all the time he was thinking: Lancaster is dead. The richest man next to the King, and his daughters are his heirs. That vast fortune will be divided between Blanche and Matilda.

He, the impecunious fourth son of a King, would be one of the richest men in the Kingdom, and riches meant power. Was this Fate’s way of compensating him for the loss of his son?

He could not talk of this to Blanche. It would shock her beyond belief. Dear Blanche! She was good and noble and he loved her dearly, but she did not understand ambition and particularly his.

Marie would have understood as would one other – Isolda.

He had always cared for Isolda. He had made sure that she would be well provided for. He had kept her in the household. It was strange that an ambitious man should find comfort with an old Flemish woman. But she understood him; she had nurtured him; perhaps it was she who had first sown the seeds in the heart of her little king.

‘My dear one,’ she said when he called on her, ‘your father-in-law is dead. Your wife will be a very rich woman now.’

‘She shares with her sister. When I think of what would be hers if she were an only child …’

Isolda laughed. ‘It is like you to want it all. And rightly so. If I had my way everything you ask should be yours.’

‘Everyone is not as kind to me as you are, Isolda.’

‘You were always my little king. And the Lady Blanche must share. It is a pity. But still there will be great riches for you. What of his title? Duke of Lancaster eh.’

‘That would die with him. There will be the earldom though.’

‘And I doubt not if it came your way your father would make a duke of you.’

‘There is Matilda. She is the elder.’

‘A pity … a pity … And a lady who will claim to the last penny I doubt not.’

‘I think Matilda will want all that is hers.’

‘But she has no heirs, my king.’

John shook his head.

‘Who knows …’ said Isolda.

‘It is strange so soon after the death of my son …’

‘Fate will be good to you. I promise you. I can see the crown there … I always have.’

‘Is it true, Isolda, that you have the powers?’

She laughed. ‘Those of us who have them are never sure. It is only the charlatans who know so much and invent so much more. But in my heart and in my bones I know there is a crown and it is close to you.’

‘Perhaps a son …’

‘You will have a son. A great son. I promise you.’

She took his hand and kissed it. ‘I shall watch and pray and work for you.’

‘God bless you, Isolda. May all my dreams and hopes come to naught if I ever forsake you.’

She comforted him, Isolda did. She was the only one to whom he dared open his heart.

The greatest blow of all to John’s schemes fell that very year when his father-in-law’s death had made him one of the richest men in the country.

Joan of Kent returned to England. Joan, who had scandalised the court by her frivolous behaviour in living with Sir Thomas Holland while she was betrothed to the Earl of Salisbury, had become a widow.

Joan was beautiful. In her youth she had been known as the Fair Maid of Kent. The Black Prince had been enamoured of her but in such a desultory way that it had obviously rendered the Fair Maid so impatient that she had turned elsewhere. She was voluptuous and flighty, she liked to be the centre of admiration and of course she had once had hopes of marrying the Prince and being the next Queen of England.

This would have been acceptable because she was royal, her father being Edmund of Woodstock, Earl of Kent and the son of Edward the First.

But Joan had married Sir Thomas Holland and had sons by him. Holland had done well by the marriage. He seemed contented with Joan as a wife as she did with him as a husband, and Holland had recently assumed the title of Earl of Kent which had come through his wife. He had been made governor of the Fort of Creyk and the pair had lived very happily in Normandy. Now he was dead and Joan with her boys had come to England.

She was thirty-three years of age – young enough of course to marry again. She was still beautiful, though she had lost her willowy figure and was a plump matron now, but it seemed she was as fascinating as ever.

John received the news from the Queen who was half delighted, half apprehensive.

‘Your brother has married,’ she told John. ‘It has surprised us all.’

‘Married. Which … brother?’

‘Edward of course. I think he was always attracted by her and now she has overcome his objections to marriage and it has already taken place in secret if you please.’

‘My dear lady mother, pray tell me of whom you speak.’

‘I speak of the Prince of Wales and his wife of Kent.’

‘Joan! She is so recently widowed.’

‘I know but she was never one to let the grass grow under her feet.’

‘I thought there was talk of her marrying Sir Bernard de Brocas, that knight of Gascony. He is deeply enamoured of her, I believe, and it seemed most suitable.’

‘Suitable indeed but not good enough for Joan. Edward approached her about de Brocas and she made it very clear that she would take none but himself and then he realised that that was what he wanted and was the reason for his remaining unmarried all this time. They are deeply in love.’

‘And what says the King?’

‘He was uneasy at first. He thinks Joan over flighty and of course – though pray God it will be many years yet – she will be the next Queen of England.’

John was silent. Dreams were disintegrating before his eyes. They will have children, he thought. She has already shown herself fertile with Holland. There will be her sons to stand between me and the crown. And first Edward himself. Who would have believed that life could deal him such blows! After making him a rich man it had then made well nigh impossible the greatest dream of all.

There was nothing to do but accept the position. The Black Prince was married at last and to his sweetheart of years ago. Neither of them was in their first youth but there were a few years ahead for childbearing. How could fate be so cruel!

Of course there was some delay. But Joan and the Prince snapped their fingers at ceremonies. At least Joan did and Edward followed her. But in due course the papal dispensation arrived and in October the espousals were celebrated at Lambeth by the Archbishop of Canterbury. That Christmas Joan and Edward entertained the entire royal family at their home in Berkhamsted; and the people from the surrounding country joined in the festivities. It was a great occasion, the marriage of the Black Prince, which was all the more to be enjoyed because it had been delayed so long.

After Christmas great preparations were afoot for the Prince and his family to leave for France. The King had made him Prince of Aquitaine and Gascony and he was to set out with his wife and entourage for Bordeaux.

During that very month when Edward and Joan sailed for Bordeaux, Matilda, Blanche’s sister, arrived in England to take possession of her inheritance.

She had not been more than a few weeks in England when she caught the plague and within a day or so was dead.

Blanche was now her father’s sole heiress and the entire Lancastrian fortune, by courtesy of her marriage, was in the hands of John of Gaunt.

He reflected with Isolda on the strangeness of fate which seemed determined to shower blessings on him with one hand and take them away with the other.

So there he was rich beyond his dreams but his path to the throne it seemed blocked for ever by Edward’s marriage to the lusty Joan.

He considered the situation with Isolda. Joan was two years older than her husband; but she had already borne five children and could bear Edward sons. Once she did that – one or two boys … that would be the death knell of his hopes.

‘The greatest man in the kingdom …’ crooned Isolda.

‘Next to the King and my brother of Wales. There is also Lionel.’

He was in possession of the earldom of Richmond, of Derby, Leicester and of course Lancaster. His father, delighted at the turn of events, rejoicing in his foresight in arranging the match with Blanche of Lancaster, decided to make him a Duke, and one dull November day John knelt before his father and was girded with the sword, and the cap was set on his head while he was proclaimed a Duke – Duke of Lancaster.

More than ever he longed for a son but when Blanche was next brought to bed, she was delivered of a daughter. He could have wept with mortification, though he kept his disappointment from Blanche.

They called the girl Elizabeth and he loved her even as he loved her elder sister Philippa, but he went on longing for a boy.

His bitterness was great when news came from Aquitaine that Joan had produced a fine boy. There was great rejoicing throughout the court and the country. It was fitting that the Black Prince should give the country an heir who would be exactly like himself. They christened the boy Edward. There was a feeling that that was a kingly name. People forgot that there had been one Edward – the Second – who had been slightly less than kingly. The Prince was there to step into his father’s shoes, already loved and revered by the people – and he had not disappointed them. There was another Edward and a little one in his cradle to grow up in the light of his father’s wisdom – a little king in the making.

John curbed his disappointment. He would have hated Blanche to know his feelings. His love for her was idealised, as was hers for him.

He could talk to Isolda about the new turn of events, but she continued to look wise – almost as though she were some soothsayer who could see into the future. He half believed that she feigned this for his pleasure; but sometimes he felt that she had some insight and she continued to insist that there was a crown close to him.

Blanche was once more pregnant. So was Joan of Kent.

The King was in close conversation with his son and on the table before him lay letters from Bordeaux.

‘Your brother is eager that you should join him,’ said Edward, ‘and I am sure when you know the reason you will be eager to do so. The King of Castile is at Bordeaux.’

John knew that there was trouble in Castile, because Henry of Trastamare, Pedro’s bastard brother, had for some time believed he had a right to the throne and would rule better than Pedro.

‘Henry of Trastamare now reigns in Castile and Pedro is asking our help to regain his throne,’ went on the King.

‘Is it any quarrel of ours?’ asked John.

‘Your brother believes and I with him that it is no good thing for bastards to depose legitimate heirs. Moreover Pedro has promised to make little Edward King of Galicia and to reward well those who help him.’

‘If he can be trusted that seems fair enough.’

‘I am sure your brother agrees with that. He asks that you join him there. My dear son, it is my wish that you make preparations to leave without delay.’

John bowed his head. He was not averse to the adventure and it was true that legitimate sons could not stand aside and allow bastards to triumph. It was a dangerous precedent.

Blanche was apprehensive when he told her he must prepare to leave, but as the Queen pointed out to her women in their positions must learn to accept these separations.

Bravely Blanche said her farewells. ‘And when you come back,’ she added, ‘I trust I shall have a fine son to show you.’

‘We’ll have him yet,’ replied John. ‘Never fear. Isolda swears it and she is a wise woman.’

So he left her and sailed for Brittany and when he reached the shores of that country, a message awaited him from his brother.

‘On the morning of Twelfth Day Joan bore me another son. The child was born in the Abbey of Bordeaux. A boy. God be praised. A brother for little Edward. Truly I am pleased in my marriage. There is great rejoicing here at the coming of Richard of Bordeaux.’

John ground his teeth in envy. Another boy. Another to stand between him and the throne.

Whatever Isolda said fate was mocking him.

Blanche had decided that her child should be born in the Lancastrian castle of Bolingbroke. This had been one of her father’s castles which was now in the hands of her husband. She had always had a fancy for the place although many of the servants believed that it was haunted. A very strange kind of ghost was this one. It was said to be the spirit of some tormented soul which took the shape of a hare which had been seen running through the castle and some swore they had been thrown by it as it passed swiftly between their legs.

Blanche remembered her father’s telling how a pantler of the castle who had once tripped while carrying wine had blamed the hare, but it seemed more likely that he had been indulging too freely in the cellars.

There was an old story that once some bold spirits had gathered together a pack of hounds to hunt the hare. They had pursued it through the rooms of the castle down the spiral staircases to the cellars. Then the hounds had come dashing out, mad to escape, their hair on end, their eyes wild and none of them would enter the castle again.

In all her sojourns at the castle Blanche had never seen the hare and as the fancy had come to her to visit Bolingbroke, hither she had come and decided that it should be the birthplace of her child.

Here she awaited the event and thought constantly of John, praying to God and the saints to bring him safely through the battle.

She sent for Isolda who was a great comfort to her, for she believed that Isolda had some rare gift of looking into the future. Isolda was sure that her beloved John was coming home safely. She was sure too that this time there was going to be a healthy boy.

So while the winter days grew a little longer and the signs of spring increased with passing time, Blanche waited at the Castle of Bolingbroke for the birth of her child.

On the battle field of Nájara the Black Prince with his brother John of Gaunt was ready to fight the cause of Pedro of Castile.

Against them was the army of Henry of Trastamare. ‘This day,’ the Prince had said to Pedro, ‘we shall decide whether or not you are to have your throne.’

He had begun to doubt Pedro. Henry of Trastamare had written to him in a manner which seemed frank and plausible. Pedro was known throughout Castile as The Cruel. He had shed much innocent blood. Legitimate he might be but Castile suffered under him and the people of Castile would be overjoyed to see him deposed. The great Black Prince had no notion of the man he was dealing with. If he really knew Pedro the Cruel he would recognise him as a false friend.

‘Ha,’ said the Prince, ‘it is clear that Bastard Henry has no stomach for the conflict. The battle is as good as won.’

So they rode forward and there was not a man in Henry of Trastamare’s ranks who was not aware that that military legend the Black Prince came against them and in their hearts they knew that the hero of Crécy and Poitiers was undefeatable.

They saw him there, at the head of his army, his black armour making him easily identifiable.

From the moment they heard his shout: ‘Advance, banner in the name of God and St George. And God defend our right!’ the result was a foregone conclusion. All knew that the Black Prince was the greatest soldier in the world next to his father and his great-grandfather; and the former was growing old and the latter was dead. He had gathered under his banner the flower of English chivalry and there was not a man who did not regard it as the greatest honour to serve under him.

The battle was over. Henry of Trastamare had fled the field. The Black Prince had given Pedro the Cruel his kingdom. He had shown the world that even for a King of questionable worth he would fight rather than a bastard should usurp his right.

They rode back to Bordeaux. The Black Prince looked weary as John had never seen him look before. There was a faint yellowish tinge in his usually fresh-coloured face.

‘You are unwell, Edward,’ said John.

‘I confess to certain disorders,’ admitted Edward. ‘Of late I have been aware of them. I pray you do not mention this to Joan. She would have me in bed and be acting the nurse to me.’

John nodded but he thought, Joan will have only to look at you, brother, to see that all is not well.

When they reached the castle, there were letters from England.

Great waves of exultation swept over John.

Blanche had been safely delivered of a son.

She had christened him Henry. ‘Henry of Bolingbroke, they are calling him, for, my husband, I decided that he should be born in our castle of that name. He is well formed, lusty, perfect in every way. I long to show him to you.’

A son, Henry of Bolingbroke! Born three months after Richard of Bordeaux.

It was the greater victory.

At last … a son.

Chapter II CATHERINE SWYNFORD

Queen Philippa, suffering as she was from a dropsical complaint, was scarcely able to move. Her women helped her from her bed to her chair where she would sit with her needlework and dream of the past.

She was always delighted to see members of her family, and that included her daughter-in-law Blanche of Lancaster who contrived to spend much time with her.

During this year the Queen had come to Windsor Castle, one of her favourite residences and there she found it expedient to remain for the progress from palace to palace was too exhausting to be undertaken unless there was some important reason why she should do so.

In spite of her sufferings she was amiable and was always interested in the activities of those around her, ready to share in their triumphs and commiserate in their tribulations.

Blanche was a great favourite with her. There was a similarity in their characters. They were both capable of deep affection; and ready to forget themselves in their service to the loved one. Neither of them was of a complaining nature. They did mention however when their husbands were absent that they missed them, but both of them accepted these partings philosophically and the similarity of their lives was an added factor which drew them closer together.

Philippa would sit with her women at one end of the apartment stitching at garments for the poor or working on an altar cloth while Blanche sat close beside her where they could talk intimately. Philippa’s hands would be busy and so would Blanche’s. The Queen had never approved of idleness.

It pleased her very much to know that Blanche was pregnant once more.

‘It is good that John is home again,’ she said. ‘I trust my dear that it will be long ere he has to go to war again. I’ll swear you are hoping for another boy.’

‘It is what John wants.’

‘Your young Henry is a rascal I’ll be bound.’

Blanche’s face betrayed her pride and joy in her only son.

‘My lady, I know all mothers think their children are the best in the world, but Henry …’

‘Henry really is the most beautiful and clever child that ever was born.’ The Queen smiled. ‘I understand, dear Blanche. I was so with mine. Every one of them filled me with wonder. If you could have seen Edward as a baby! Of course he was the first-born. And Lionel. He was big from the start. And dear John. Such an imperious young gentleman. Then Edmund and Thomas. And the girls of course. They were just as dear to me. I had my sadnesses. Death has taken its toll. But when I look at my fine sons I can rejoice. Oh Blanche, if you are as happy in your family as I am in mine you will be a fortunate woman. But we must remember that while God gives with one hand, He takes away with the other; and He has always his reason for doing so and that, dear daughter, we must accept.’

Blanche bowed her head in agreement. She had lost the dear little boy she had borne, but now that she had her Henry she had ceased to grieve so deeply, although she believed she would never forget.

She was sure Philippa would always remember those children she had lost. Her greatest blow had been the deaths of her two daughters some years before, Mary and Margaret who had died within a few weeks of each other. She had never been quite the same since.

But she must not think of death now with the new life stirring within her.

‘This matter of Castile,’ the Queen was saying, ‘would seem to have been satisfactorily resolved. Pedro will have much to thank my sons for. He owes his crown to Edward and John.’

‘It was a glorious battle John tells me.’ Blanche frowned a little. Could any battle which meant death to many be called glorious? She did not think so and she knew Philippa would agree with her. If she mentioned this to John he would have smiled at her indulgently, amused at her woman’s sensibilities.

‘Aye,’ added Philippa. ‘Pedro the rightful King back on his throne. I hear news from Joan though that Edward returned from the battle in poor health. She is alarmed for him. She has changed since her marriage. She was such a flighty girl. Capable of any indiscretions I am sure. But she seems to be a good wife to Edward and they have those two dear boys.’

‘It is good for young Edward to have a little brother.’

‘It is always good for kings to have several sons, and Edward will of course be King of England one day. I always rejoiced because he was so worthy, right from the time of his boyhood. But in battle one never knows what may befall and it is good to have others who could step forward in case of disaster.’

Blanche was thinking: John believed that. John had hoped … but his hopes had been dispersed because of the birth of those two boys to the Black Prince.

As they were speaking a woman had entered the room. Blanche had seen her at court once or twice and had on each occasion been very much aware of her. She was tall and had a flamboyant somewhat coarse kind of good looks. There was a boldness about her which Blanche found decidedly unattractive.

Instead of joining the women at the other end of the chamber she came to the Queen and bowing to her and to Blanche she took a seat beside them.

Blanche was startled. Surely it was the duty of the woman first to wait until she was summoned to the Queen’s side and to sit only when she had been given permission to do so.

She waited for the Queen to dismiss her but Philippa did no such thing.

The woman took up the piece of needlework on which they were working.

‘It grows apace,’ she said. ‘My Lady Blanche is a rival to the Queen … with her needle.’

‘You like the colours, Alice?’ asked the Queen.

‘They are a little sombre, my lady.’

‘Ah, you like the bright colours.’

‘’Tis a weakness of mine. What thinks Lady Blanche?’

Blanche was astounded. She could not understand why the Queen endured such insolence.

She said coldly: ‘I like those well which the Queen has chosen.’

She noticed that a ring of rubies and diamonds glittered on the woman’s hand. Who was she? wondered Blanche.

‘Alice,’ said the Queen, ‘I wish you would join the ladies and tell them they are dismissed. I wish to be alone with the Duchess of Lancaster.’

The woman nodded but made no haste to rise and it was some minutes before she sauntered to the other end of the room. There she laughed with the women for a while and Blanche noticed that they seemed somewhat sycophantish towards her. At length they went out together.

Blanche said: ‘Who is that woman?’

‘She is one of the bedchamber women.’

‘She seems to give herself airs …’

‘Oh … that is her way.’

Blanche was astonished. The Queen was friendly to those around her; she had never stressed her rank or behaved in an imperious manner but there had been a certain dignity about her which prevented people from abusing her gentleness. Blanche had never before seen her so subdued by one of her subjects.

There were many questions which Blanche wanted to ask, but she could tell from the Queen’s manner that it was not a subject she wished discussed.

That there was some mystery about this woman was clear. She would ask John if he knew what it was. The incident had been extremely unpleasant and Blanche felt faintly depressed. It had obviously had the same effect on the Queen and the intimacy between them had become clouded.

Blanche took her leave soon afterwards and made her way to her own apartments in the castle. As she did so she heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs below and looking from a window she saw the King with a group of attendants in the courtyard below. Among them was John.

The sight of the King shocked her a little. He had aged considerably since she had last seen him. But perhaps she was comparing him with John who looked so robust and well.

The King had dismounted. He was standing in the courtyard saying something to one of the knights. He looked up suddenly. For a moment Blanche thought he was looking at her, but she soon realised that his gaze had gone beyond her. She saw the expression on his face. It alarmed her faintly. She could describe it as lustful.

Then she heard the sound of laughter. A window had been opened and a woman was leaning out. She was obviously the one at whom the King had been looking.

Some signal passed between them.

Blanche understood a great deal in that moment, for the woman was that Alice of the Queen’s bedchamber whose insolence towards Philippa had been so thinly veiled.

When she was alone with John she could not stop herself from referring to what she had seen.

‘I know the woman of whom you speak,’ he said. ‘The whole court is talking of her. She has bewitched the King.’

‘It seems impossible!’ cried Blanche.

John took her hands and smiled at her tenderly.

‘It is difficult for you to understand, my dearest,’ he said. ‘The King will always be devoted to the Queen.’

‘Yet he allows this woman to insult her!’

‘I am sure he would not allow that. But you see, my dear, the Queen can no longer be a wife to the King …’

‘She is his wife. She has been his wife for many years …’

‘She can no longer share his bed. That dropsical complaint of hers has immobilised her to such an extent that she can no longer live a normal life. This woman … you would not understand but she flaunts her sex at him … She is one of those women who …’

He looked at her helplessly. ‘Dearest Blanche,’ he went on, ‘try not to think of this. It is unfortunate that the King should not have chosen a different mistress – if mistress he must have, and all worldly men and women would understand that, my love. It is unfortunate that this is the one who should appeal to him.’

‘So this bedchamber woman is his mistress.’

‘It would seem so.’

‘And for this reason she flaunts her position before the Queen. She was wearing a valuable ring.’

‘She is fond of fine things and the King delights to give them to her. I suppose he had to have a mistress but that it should be Alice Perrers …’

‘I could not bear it if I were the Queen.’

John put his arms about her and then releasing her held her face in his hands.’

‘I promise you,’ he said, ‘that you shall never find yourself in such a position. You and I will be faithful unto each other until death divides us.’

She clung to him. ‘Oh John, dearest husband, do not talk of death. You cannot know how I suffer when you go away to war.’

‘Never fear. It will not be easy for my enemies to rid themselves of me. I shall continue to live for you, my Blanche, and our children. How is that young lion Henry faring today? And you look a little tired.’ He touched her stomach gently. ‘You must take care of that little one. He will soon be with us.’

‘I shall pray for a boy,’ said Blanche, ‘and that he shall be exactly like his father.’

She felt a little better. The obvious devotion of her husband, so affectionately expressed, wiped away the unpleasantness which had been planted in her mind by Alice Perrers.

A few days later news came to Windsor which brought such sorrow to the King and the Queen that they were drawn very close together and it seemed that Alice Perrers would be like a meteor shooting across the sky – to startle everyone with its brilliance and then drop to oblivion. The King scarcely left the Queen’s side and the tragedy visibly aged them both.

It was so unexpected.

It was not so many years before when Lionel, their second son, had come back from Ireland – which he had inherited through his wife who had died some years before – declaring that he had enough of the place and would remain in England.

Philippa who loved to have her family around her was delighted that he should be back with them. Easy-going Lionel who asked nothing more than that life should flow comfortably around him was a good companion. He was so pleasant to be with. He never asked for grants and lands and privileges. He was rich enough through his widow, of course; but he was unlike the rest of the family inasmuch as he lacked that overwhelming ambition which Philippa sensed strongest of all in her son John.

He had but one daughter of his marriage with Elizabeth, Philippa; and it was natural that he should marry again.

It so happened that the Visconti of Milan was looking for a suitable bridegroom for his beautiful and only daughter Violante. Negotiations were set in progress and after some time Lionel went to Milan to marry Violante. First though he had settled the future of his daughter Philippa by marrying her to Edmund de Mortimer, the Earl of March.

Then with suitable pomp he had set out and in due course had been married in Milan Cathedral to the beautiful and rich daughter of Galeazzo Visconti of Milan.

Blanche knew that John had not been very pleased by the marriage. She could read his thoughts. He still hankered for the crown, even though he had an elder brother and that brother, the ever popular Black Prince, had two sons, another Edward and young Richard of Bordeaux. She wished that she could curb those ambitious thoughts of his. But she knew she never would. They were part of his nature.

Naturally when Lionel, that other brother who would rightfully claim the crown if some disaster removed the Black Prince and his family, married again he was depressed. A young and beautiful wife, the warm sun of Italy, the pleasure-loving Lionel who indulged himself on every occasion, surely it would not be long before he fathered a child who would be yet another to stand between John and his desire.

Violante and Lionel were married and so great was the rejoicing in Milan that the festivities went on for weeks. That, John had said, will suit Lionel very well. His father-in-law Galeazzo was delighted with him, it seemed. The alliance with the English royal family was something he had set his heart on, and all seemed to be going well in Milan.

And then had come the shattering news.

Lionel was dead.

In the midst of the feasting he had become sick and although at first no one had taken his indisposition very seriously it had rapidly grown worse and a few days after it had begun he was dead.

The Queen could not believe the news when it was brought to her.

Lionel – the tallest of them all, the one who liked so much to enjoy life – dead. It could not be.

She and the King spent hours together trying to console each other.

It was too cruel a blow. Lionel was the seventh of her children to die. Two little Williams and Blanche had died at birth and that was less heart-breaking than losing them when they were grown up. Joanna had died of the plague on her journey to marry Pedro of Castile and Mary and Margaret had died of some mysterious ailments in their teens. The Queen had never recovered from that. And now Lionel, hale and hearty Lionel, was cut off like that in the flower of his youth.

She was old and sick and she knew – although she tried to pretend she did not – that Edward, who through the many years of their marriage had always kept up the show of being a faithful husband, and she believed he had been almost entirely so, was now unable to hide his lascivious longing for an insolent bedchamber woman.

All that she had borne and now here was the most cruel blow of all. One of her beloved sons was struck down by a cruel fate.

Edward sat beside her. He held her hand. He was not thinking of Alice now. Desperately he sought some comfort for himself and Philippa.

When John brought the news of his brother’s death to Blanche she could see that in spite of his tragic expression a certain triumph gleamed in his eyes and she knew that he was thinking: Lionel dead. One obstacle to the throne removed.

Then Blanche shivered with apprehension and fear for the future.

She went to her nursery and picked up the little Henry who was some eighteen months old now – lusty, bright-eyed, beginning to take notice of everything around him.

John joined her there. He could not keep away from the nursery and although he loved his girls all his hopes were centred on this boy.

She watched him take the child in his arms.

‘And what have you been doing today, Henry of Bolingbroke?’ he asked playfully.

She saw the dreams there … dreams for the boy.

There was the usual outcry about poison and Lionel’s father-in-law was suspected of taking his life. But, as John pointed out, there was no reason why Galeazzo would do so for the death of Lionel was the end of his ambitions for his daughter and Milan.

No, Lionel had indulged himself too freely with the food of the country; he had been unaccustomed to its strangeness and to the heat of that country; he had succumbed to that dysentery which often attacked travellers abroad and in his case it had been fatal.

He was buried first at Pavia but he had asked in his will that his remains should lie in the convent of the Austin Friars at Clare in Suffolk so they were brought there and placed beside those of his first wife.

In the midst of this mourning Blanche gave birth to a son.

John was delighted with the boy and he was named after his father.

Alas, poor little John lived only for a few days.

Blanche was desolate. In spite of all her care the child was gone.

She was a great deal with the Queen and they tried to comfort each other.

‘We must be brave,’ said Philippa, ‘you have your daughters and your boy Henry. I have my dear Edward, my John, Edmund and Thomas left to me as well as my daughter Isabella. We must be thankful for what is left of us.’

It was clear however that the shock of her son’s death and the knowledge that Edward was drifting away from her had cast a heavy shadow over the Queen.

It was in the royal household that Blanche again encountered the young poet, Geoffrey Chaucer.

The Queen had taken an interest in him because he had married one of her bedchamber women, Philippa de Roet. ‘A good girl,’ the Queen had said, ‘perhaps over zealous. Given to bustling and taking much on herself. But reliable and honest. A good wife I think for Geoffrey. Lionel thought highly of him. He has written some pleasing verses.’

Because Lionel had thought highly of Geoffrey and had enjoyed his poetry and given him a stipend which was more than he would have earned as an ordinary page, the poet was now taken into the royal household.

It was a pleasure for the Queen to know that her bedchamber woman, Philippa de Roet, was married. She gave rich presents to the pair and took a personal interest in them. Philippa Chaucer continued to serve in the bedchamber and Geoffrey was often summoned to the Queen’s presence to read his poetry to her.

She talked to Blanche of the girl who was a much pleasanter subject than that other bedchamber woman, Alice Perrers.

‘She will make Geoffrey a good wife. He needs someone who is practical to look after him. He is a dreamer that young man, but he writes well and his verses are thought very highly of. The King enjoys them. Lionel was delighted with them. Dear Lionel, he would have wanted us to find a place for Geoffrey.’

‘I have noticed him.’

The Queen laughed. ‘And he has noticed you. When your name is mentioned he all but falls on his knees in worship. He admires you, Blanche, oh in the most respectful way.’ The Queen went on, ‘I felt a certain responsibility to Philippa de Roet. Her father was a good servant to me. He came over from Hainault to join me. He would wish to see his daughter settled in life, which she will be with young Chaucer. The King will give him a pension, I am sure. He has promised me to see to it.’

‘They are a fortunate young pair to have won your interest, my lady.’

‘I did feel I must do what I could for de Roet’s girl. He was a good and honest servant. She has a sister who has recently married … rather well. I think, for someone in her position. Philippa was telling me about it. This sister Catherine is something of a beauty I gather. In any case she has managed to attract Sir Hugh Swynford. John will know him. He is one of his men and I believe was with him in Gascony recently. However this girl Catherine was clever enough to get him to marry her and it was clever of her because she has no fortune. De Roet left nothing. That is why I feel I must do what I can.’

‘At least you have only to concern yourself with one daughter since the other knew how to take care of herself.’

‘Catherine is Lady Swynford – a fact which pleases her sister mightily. Mistress Chaucer does not sound so well in her ears as Lady Swynford. I tell her, you have married a poet, my child. Your husband’s verses may well live on after we are all dead and gone when the world may have forgotten a country squire and his wife. Dear Philippa de Roet. I think she is a little impatient with her husband’s verses.’

‘I should like to see the girl.’

‘My dear Blanche, you shall. I shall have her wait on me this day. She shall sit there with the ladies and work on the garments we are making for the poor. I always feel happy when we are working on those garments although I love to embroider in bright colours. I think of the poor often, Blanche, particularly now that I am old and tired and ill. I think of what a happy life I have had and how some of them live in misery and poverty …’

‘Happiness and riches do not necessarily go hand in hand,’ said Blanche.

‘You speak wisely, dear child. I hope you will be as happy in your marriage as I have been … until …’

The Queen stopped abruptly and Blanche bent her head low over her work that Philippa might not see the flush which had arisen to her cheeks.

That afternoon Philippa Chaucer was in attendance and Blanche was able to study the sturdy young woman who had married the poet. The marriage would have been arranged for them and neither partner would have chosen the other; and it occurred to her that they could well be an incongruous pair.

She and the Queen talked of her children as they so often did.

The girls were of an age now when they needed a governess and she was looking for a suitable person. She must have someone who loved children. There was little Henry too. He was becoming the terror of the nursery. Blanche wanted someone who would be able to teach the children a little and at the same time take charge of them in a motherly way. She did not want the usual high-born governante.

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ said the Queen. ‘You want someone who will show that devotion to them which Isolda Newman gave to John.’

Blanche agreed that was what she was looking for.

‘We will look for someone and I am sure we shall find the right person.’

It was a few days later when the Queen asked Blanche to come to her apartments. She was in bed and looking very tired. She told Blanche that she had been too weary to rise that day.

‘But let us not talk of my dreary ailments. There are more interesting subjects. Philippa Chaucer has been to me with a request. She said quite candidly that she had overheard our conversation when she was stitching with the ladies and she wishes to put forward the name of her sister as governess to the children.’

‘Philippa Chaucer’s sister. That would be interesting.’

‘I have told Philippa that I will lay the matter before you. Philippa is eager for her sister to be part of Court life. She says it is no place for her tucked away in Lincolnshire. Swynford’s estate is not a large one, and Philippa says her sister lives like a farmer’s wife. I wonder what you feel about this.’

Blanche said: ‘I should like to see this Catherine Swynford. She may well be just the one I need. Moreover I should like to do something for the Chaucers.’

‘I thought you might,’ said the Queen. ‘I will tell Philippa to send her to you.’

A few moments later Philippa herself entered with a posset for the Queen.

Blanche wondered whether she had been listening to the conversation and had timed her entry that there might be no delay in sending for her sister. There was that about Philippa Chaucer which suggested a resourcefulness and a determination to arrange the fortunes of her family.

‘Ah, Philippa,’ said the Queen, ‘we have been speaking of you, the Duchess and I.’

‘The Queen has told me of your sister,’ said Blanche. ‘You may tell her to come and see me.’

Philippa flushed with pleasure as she made a deep curtsey and murmured her gratitude.

The Queen took the posset and when Philippa had gone she said, ‘They bring me these things. I drink them to please them. But there is no remedy for what ails me, Blanche.’

Blanche took the Queen’s hands and kissed them in a rush of affection. ‘You must not lose hope, dear lady. So many of us need you.’

When she had first seen Catherine Swynford, Blanche had been startled by her appearance. Catherine was a strikingly attractive woman and far younger than Blanche had imagined her. She had been thinking of another Philippa – rather square, sturdy, not unattractive in a fresh and countrylike way, a homely woman, motherly, perhaps a little forceful like her sister, the sort who would know how to gain immediate obedience from the children.

Instead of that here was Catherine. Tall, slender, about eighteen years of age – abundant hair with more than a hint of red in it, long greenish eyes fringed with lashes the blackness of which contrasted arrestingly with her white skin. The short nose was provocative and the full lips suggested a certain sensuality. Quite a disturbing young woman.

Blanche hesitated. She felt a little bewildered simply because the girl was so different from what she had been imagining her to be.

Catherine told her in a charming cultured voice that she had spent some six years in the convent at Sheppey.

‘The Queen arranged for me to go there,’ she said. ‘She has been very good to my family.’ Blanche bowed her head in acknowledgement of the Queen’s goodness.

‘My mother was French and my sister and I lived with her in Picardy while my father was at the wars. My father was herald to King Edward and knighted by him for bravery on the field.’

‘The Queen has told me something of this. He died, did he not?’

‘He was killed on the battlefield … fighting for King Edward.’

The girl lifted her head high. She was one who would not wish for charity. Doubtless she thought any service the Queen had given her and her sister had been earned with their father’s life.

‘The plague struck our household,’ went on Catherine, ‘and only my sister and I survived. We were brought to England and taken to the Queen. I was very ill and none thought I should survive so I was sent to the convent to be nursed by the nuns and my sister Philippa was found a place in the Queen’s household.’

‘And when you left the convent?’

‘I came to see my sister and Sir Hugh Swynford was at Court. He saw me … and very soon we were married.’

‘So you made a good match, Lady Swynford.’

‘It was called so, my lady.’

‘And you want to leave your country home and come to Court?’

‘My husband is in France serving the King. Our estate is very small and we have few retainers. Yes, my lady, I do wish to leave the country and come to Court.’

‘Very well,’ said Blanche. ‘I will send for the children and you shall see how you like them … and they like you.’

She sat still, with great dignity, confident that the children would like her.

They came into the room – Philippa eight years old and very much aware that she was the eldest; Elizabeth four years younger but already showing signs of a somewhat tempestuous nature and Henry who was not yet two years old in the charge of his nurse.

‘My dears,’ said Blanche to the two girls, ‘this is Lady Swynford who would like to be your governess.’

Elizabeth ran forward and stood looking up at Catherine. Philippa remained still watching her silently.

Catherine held out her hand. Elizabeth took it. Then Catherine knelt so that her face was on a level with the little girl’s.

‘I hope you will like me well enough,’ said Catherine.

Philippa came forward and took her sister’s hand.

‘I like her,’ said Elizabeth.

Philippa said nothing but there was approval in her silence.

Then young Henry finding that he was not the centre of attraction made them all aware of his displeasure in his usual lusty fashion.

‘He is a spoilt boy,’ said Philippa to Catherine.

Catherine went to Henry and picked him up in her arms.

They looked steadily at each other and then Henry’s face broke into a beautiful smile.

It was clear that he, like his sisters, had taken a fancy to the beautiful new governess.

Catherine Swynford is an enchantress, thought Blanche.

There was bad news from Bordeaux. The health of the Black Prince so seriously affected at the battle of Nájara, far from improving, was steadily growing worse. Moreover Pedro of Castile had shown himself to be a dishonourable ally. He had kept none of his promises.

Edward had remained in Valladolid for some weeks during the hottest of the weather while he was waiting for the payment due to him for coming to Pedro’s aid, but Pedro had made constant excuses. Dysentery had struck the army and many had died of it. The Prince himself had been badly affected and some had even suggested that Pedro might have bribed one of his spies to poison him. Pedro’s reputation being what it was, this seemed a possibility.

The fact was that it had been a mistake to help Pedro back to his throne for he was a worthless ally and it would have been better to have left his bastard brother in control.

Because of his health Edward needed his brother’s help. He wanted John to come to France for he feared that Charles of France would take advantage of the situation so John must make preparations to come out at once.

John consulted with his father. The King was showing signs of his age. He had never recovered from the shock of Lionel’s death and he was worried about reports of Edward’s health. He was tormented too by Alice Perrers for while he deplored his infidelity to the Queen he could not resist Alice.

‘You must leave us, John,’ said the King. ‘Edward needs you. I should like you to tell me exactly how he is. I fear Joan is over anxious. She has always seen Edward so strong and healthy. She is afraid because he has this unfortunate illness. It will pass, I feel sure. But see for yourself, John, and tell me the truth. Alas, my son, you must once more leave your sweet wife. I know what it means to be torn from the side of one’s wife and children …’

Poor old man, thought John, he was over anxious to tell people what a good husband he was now that he was so no longer.

‘I will prepare at once to leave for Bordeaux,’ he said. ‘And rest assured, I will let you know exactly how I find things there.’

He sought out Blanche. She would be sad because of the coming parting, but she would understand, of course, that it must be so.

Her women told him that she was with the Queen.

Ah yes, he thought. Poor mother. She could not last long now. Every time he saw her he was aware of the change in her. She had lost the healthy rosy colour which had been with her all her life until the last year or so. Now there was an unhealthy yellowish tinge to her skin; and the dropsy was growing to such an extent that she could scarcely move at all.

He went to the nursery. He hated to say goodbye to his children. It gave him such complete joy to gloat over the sturdy Henry. What a little man he was already! Just such another as I was, thought John. His eyes taking in everything, his hands eager to grasp all within his reach. My son. What is in store for you? I wonder. Could it be … a crown?

There was a young woman in the nursery. She turned, startled, as he entered.

The children ran to him; Philippa giving a grave curtsey, Elizabeth trying to do the same and abandoning the effort to catch at his knees. Henry was not to be outdone. He staggered towards his father.

‘My dearest daughters … my little son …’ He embraced them and all the time he was aware of the young woman watching him.

Holding the children against him, he looked over their heads to her.

She swept a curtsey to the floor. She remained there for a few seconds, gracefully poised with her dark red skirts about her. He noticed the bodice laced across a rather full bosom; her thick red hair hung in plaits one of which fell over her shoulder. The brilliant green eyes edged with incredibly dark lashes regarded him with interest. He felt a great excitement grip him.

He signed to her to rise and come forward.

Now he could see that she was more startling when close. Her skin was soft and white as milk – a deep contrast to the flaming hair and the black eyelashes, green eyes and red lips.

‘You are …’ he began.

Philippa said shrilly: ‘She is Catherine … our new governess. Our father is a great great lord, Catherine.’

Elizabeth said: ‘Yes, a great great lord, greater than the King.’

‘Hush hush,’ said John smiling. ‘You see my daughters have a high opinion of me. I believe the Duchess mentioned you.’

‘I am Catherine Swynford, my lord. My husband is in your service.’

‘Swynford,’ he murmured. And he thought: That oaf. And this glorious creature. He went on: ‘Sir Hugh. Yes, he has served with me. He is in France now, I believe.’

‘Yes, my lord. He is in France.’

‘And you are here to care for my children. I am pleased at that, Lady Swynford.’

She bowed her head, and when she raised it her eyes were brilliant. It was almost as though some message passed between them.

He turned to the children, but he hardly noticed them. He was so deeply aware of her.

He left the nursery because he felt a need to get away.

He went to his apartments and said that he would be alone until the Duchess returned from her visit to the Queen.

He kept thinking of the governess. Catherine Swynford, he murmured. Ridiculous name. And married to Hugh! He supposed he was worthy enough but he was uncouth and she … she was a magnificent creature, there was no question of that.

It was absurd to have allowed her to make such an impression on him. Had he not seen attractive women in his life before! But never one quite like this woman. What was it? Beauty certainly. But he had known many beautiful women. Many would say she was not as beautiful as Blanche his wife. Blanche was a poet’s beauty. Young Chaucer was aware of that. Aloof, to be admired from afar. Not so this Catherine Swynford. One would not wish to remain far from her. There must be an urge in all men when they beheld her to take her … to possess her … even those who were most satisfactorily married …

This was ridiculous. He had not felt like this before. He was not by nature a promiscuous man. And yet in the presence of the governess he had felt an almost irresistible urge to throw aside those standards to which, since his marriage to Blanche, he had strictly adhered.

When Blanche came into the apartment, he rose quickly, took her hands and held her in his arms. He was reminded momentarily of his father playing the uxorious husband after one of his sessions with Alice Perrers.

‘My dearest,’ he said, ‘what is it? You look sad.’

‘It is the Queen,’ she replied. ‘I fear she grows worse; every time I see her there is a change.’

‘If only they could find some cure.’

‘She is fretting … about the King …’

‘That horrible woman. How I hate her! I believe she flaunts her newly acquired jewels before my mother.’

‘And the Queen is too gentle, too eager not to hurt the King to complain about her.’

John spoke fiercely against Alice Perrers. He had never hated her so much as at this moment.

He led Blanche to a window seat and they sat there together, his arm about her. ‘I have to go away, Blanche.’

She turned to him and buried her face against him.

‘I fear so, my love,’ he went on. ‘Edward needs me and my father thinks I should go.’

Blanche said nothing.

‘Perhaps it will not be for long,’ he went on.

‘You will be fighting.’

‘There is always fighting. It is a man’s lot, it seems.’

‘When must you go?’

‘As soon as I am prepared.’

She was silent and he said slowly: ‘I went to the nursery and saw the new governess.’

‘What thought you of her?’

‘That the children looked well and as full of high spirits as ever.’

‘They are in good health, I thank God. But I meant what thought you of Catherine Swynford?’

He hesitated.

‘You do not like her?’ she asked quickly.

‘I am not sure. I had not thought she would be so young.’

‘She is serious minded.’

‘I was thinking that Swynford’s wife would be different. When he comes back to England she could be sent back to the country, I suppose.’

‘I am sorry you do not like her. The children are fond of her already.’

‘I would not say I did not like her. I thought she might be … perhaps a little flighty.’

‘Men’s eyes follow her. She is good looking and … something more …’

‘Perhaps,’ he said.

‘The Queen is pleased at the appointment. She remembers the girl’s father. Philippa Chaucer is her sister, you know.’

‘It is a pity she is not more like Philippa Chaucer.’

‘The children seem very fond of her. I notice they like pretty people around them. Henry is already devoted to her.’

‘I hope that is not an indication of events to come.’

‘You mean …’

‘I hope he will not be too obsessed with pretty women.’

‘I dare swear our son will be a normal man. In any case he is already fond of Catherine Swynford. Of course if you would like me to send her away …’

‘Oh no, no. Give the woman a chance. I cannot judge her. I was in the nursery only for a few minutes. We have to think of my departure. Would you like me to take letters from you to Joan?’

He was glad to be alone, and although he tried to dismiss Catherine Swynford from his mind her face kept presenting itself to him.

That night he dreamed that he awakened and saw her standing by his bed, her red hair loose and her red lips smiling. She came in beside him and he put his arms about her.

She said in that dream: ‘This has to be. You know it, John of Gaunt and so do I, Catherine Swynford.’

A disturbing dream and it showed clearly what effect she had had on him.

He was almost glad that he was going away.

Before he left there was more news from his brother.

Pedro had become so unpopular in Castile where he was known as The Cruel that his half-brother, Henry of Trastamare, had been welcomed back by the people and when he had returned he had confronted Pedro and stabbed him to death.

Nothing had been gained by the English from the battle of Nájara, that resounding victory which had seemed so glorious. Many English soldiers had died of dysentery and it seemed that the health of the Black Prince was impaired for ever; the money Pedro had promised to pay the English armies would never be paid now; Biscay which was to be the Prince’s reward for his help had not come into his hands and if he wanted it he would have to fight a fresh battle for it.

It was disaster.

And the King of France was rubbing his hands with glee.

Yes, the Black Prince needed his brother John who must take his leave of his devoted wife, of his anxious father and his ailing mother.

‘I shall be back ere long,’ John promised Blanche. And he thought: I wonder if, when I return, Catherine Swynford will still be in the nurseries?

The Queen knew that she was dying. Steadily over the last two years she had become more enfeebled. Her body was now so swollen with dropsy that it was a burden to her and she could feel no great sorrow at leaving a world which had lost its charm for her.

As she lay in bed she thought of the past when she had been so happy. So vividly that it seemed like only yesterday did she recall the day Edward’s envoys had come to Hainault to choose a bride for him and how fearful she had been that they might select one of her sisters. And how they had laughed when he told her that he warned his ambassadors that it would be more than their lives were worth to bring him any but Philippa. So happy they had been, so much in love – a boy and a girl no more. And when they grew up, the love between them grew stronger and they had had a wonderful family to prove it to the world.

Happy days – but past. So many of the children dead and herself nothing but a mass of unwanted flesh that encumbered her like a prison from which she longed to escape.

Life was ironical. Some lived too long. Others were taken before they had had a chance to live at all. Oh my sweet Joanna, dying of plague in a foreign land. My dear Lionel who left us in the prime of his manhood. Mary and Margaret smitten down so suddenly. And all the little babies.

Such tragedies! And yet such joys! That was life; and none could escape what fate had in store be they kings or queens.

There was little time left.

She said to those about her bed: ‘It is time to send for the King.’

He came at once, hurrying into her apartment and throwing himself on his knees by her bed. Edward, her King. Instead of the ageing man he had become, she saw the bright-eyed flaxen-haired boy, so handsome, so vital, a leader in every way.

Oh it was sad that youth must fade, that ideals be lost, that will o’ the wisps must be pursued when the wise know they can only lead to danger. It was sad that lives must be spent in making war in hopeless causes.

Oh my Edward, she thought, if only you had been content to be but King of England. Why did you have to fight these hopeless battles for a crown which could never be yours?

But it was all over … for her. Death was calling her away. She had played her part in the drama. She must leave it to others to finish.

‘Philippa … my love … my Queen …’

His voice seemed to be coming to her from over the years.

She said: ‘We have been happy together, husband.’

‘Happy,’ he echoed. ‘So happy …’

There were tears in his eyes, tears of remorse. She was dying. He might have remained faithful to the very end. Yet he had seen that witch Alice and had been tempted, and unable to resist.

‘Philippa,’ he murmured, ‘you must not go. You must not leave me. How can I live without you?’

She smiled and did not answer him.

Her youngest son, Thomas, had come to her bedside. Such a boy, she thought sadly. He will need his mother yet. He was only fourteen years old.

‘Edward,’ she said, ‘care for Thomas.’

‘I will care for our son, my dearest.’

‘I must speak to you, Edward. I have three requests.’

‘They shall be granted, dear lady. Only name them.’

All she wanted was that he should see that her obligations were fulfilled – all the gifts and legacies for her servants paid.

‘And when you die, Edward, I would that you should lie beside me in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey.’

‘It shall be. It shall be.’

She was fast failing and William of Wykeham, the Bishop of Winchester, had arrived at her bedside.

She asked to be left alone with the Bishop for a short while and her wish was granted. At the time there was thought to be nothing strange in this. It was natural that she should want to confess her sins and be alone with the Bishop before she died. But it was to be remembered later and then seemed to be of great significance.

The King came back to the chamber of death and knelt beside her bed. She placed her hand in his and thus she died.

Blanche had left the children at Windsor in the care of Catherine Swynford and had set out for Bolingbroke Castle. In due course they should all follow her there. Blanche had felt a need to be alone for a while where she might mourn in solitude for the dead Queen.

Philippa had been almost a mother to her; she had loved her dearly. Nothing would be quite the same without her to confide in; there would be no more of those calm judgements to be given, that innocence which was closer to wisdom than most men of the world possess.

Yes, thought Blanche, she had done with life. She had lived long and happily – at least she had been happy until illness had affected her, and it was only of late that there had been an Alice Perrers in her life.

Riding through the countryside she was shocked when one of her servants said they must not enter a certain village.

‘No, my lady, there are red crosses on the doors. The plague is with us again.’

She said then they must change their route to Bolingbroke. The plague would not survive in the fresh country air.

They continued their journey and at length came to the castle of Bolingbroke which would always be one of her favourite castles because little Henry had been born there and she could never think of the place without remembering the joy of coming out of her exhaustion to hear the glad news that she had given birth to a boy.

Bolingbroke lay before them – looking less grim than usual because of the September sunshine.

She rode into the courtyard. Grooms came running forward to take the horses. She alighted and went into the castle.

She was tired and made her way straight to her apartments and had food brought to her there. In the morning she would make plans for the children to come to her. She was glad to think of them in the care of Catherine Swynford. She was sorry that John had seemed to take a dislike to her. It could only be because he had imagined someone homely like the good Philippa Chaucer.

She ate a little and was soon asleep.

When she awoke next morning a sudden foreboding came to her. She could hear no sounds of activity in the castle. She arose and went into the antechamber where her personal attendants should be sleeping.

The room was empty.

Puzzled she went out to the head of the great staircase and looked down into the hall. A group of serving men and women stood there, strangely whispering.

They stopped when they saw her and stood as though turned to stone, gazing at her.

‘What means this?’ she demanded.

One of the stewards stepped to the foot of the stairs.

‘My lady, two of the serving-men have been stricken. They are in the castle … now. We do not know what we should do.’

‘Stricken,’ she echoed. ‘The … plague?’

‘’Tis so, my lady.’

‘Have any of you been near them?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

She stood looking down on them and as she did so she saw one of the women creep into a corner and lie there.

‘A red cross must be put at the castle gates,’ she said. ‘No one must go out. No one must come in. We must wait awhile.’

There was a deep silence in the hall. Then it was broken by the sound of someone sobbing in another part of the castle.

The plague had come to Bolingbroke.

Death was in the castle.

Blanche thought: ‘Thank God the children are not here.’

Three days had passed and she knew that several were already dead.

‘We must pray,’ she had said; and they had prayed; but they all remembered that when the plague entered a dwelling be it cottage or castle there was little hope of survival for its inhabitants.

On the fourth day Blanche discovered the fatal swelling under her arms. In the space of a few hours the loathsome spots began to appear.

Oh God, she thought. This is the end then.

She lay on her bed and when one of her women came in she called to her ‘Go away. You must not enter this room.’

The girl understood at once and shrank away in horror.

Blanche lay back on her bed. She was fast losing consciousness. She thought she saw the phantom hare close to her bed. He appeared, did he not, when death had come to Bolingbroke.

He has come for me, she thought. Oh John, I am leaving this life and you are not beside me to say farewell. Where are you, dearest husband? What of my children? My girls … my baby Henry. Dear children, you will have no mother now …

This was not the way in which a great lady should die … her husband far away, her servants afraid to come to her bedside. But this was the plague, that cruel scourge which took its victims where it would. Cottage or castle, it cared nothing for that. But it was merciful in one way. Its victims did not suffer long.

The news was carried through the castle.

The Lady Blanche is dead.

Chapter III THE LOVERS

When the Black Prince returned to Bordeaux after his victory at Nájara his wife Joan was greatly disturbed by his appearance.

She knew that that long stay in the heat of Valladolid had affected many of his followers and there had been deaths from dysentery; but the Prince had always been a strong man, one who was able to take the rigours of battle as they came and throw off any ill effects they might leave. She remembered the recent death of Lionel in Italy and this did nothing to ease her anxiety.

‘Now you are home I shall look after you,’ she announced. ‘There shall be no more going off to battle until you are well.’

The Prince smiled at her fondly. Joan had never behaved in a royal manner. She was a woman who would go her own way. It was a relief to know that she was there and that he could comfortably allow her to tell him what must be done until he was ready to go off again.

He should retire to his bed, said Joan. No, she would hear no protests. She knew the very posset to cure him. At least they must be thankful that this wretched matter was at an end. It had been a folly from the start to finish.

His servants smiled to see the great Black Prince ordered by his wife but they knew his nature. If he had made up his mind at that moment to leave the castle and take up arms no one – not even the masterful Joan – would have been able to stop him.

‘You should have been a commander in my armies, Jeanette,’ he told her fondly.

‘My lord, I am the commander in our castle.’

That made him smile.

‘I am happy to be home with you and the children,’ he told her.

‘Then you must prove your words by not going off again to fight senseless battles for ungrateful people.’

‘A waste, Jeanette … a waste of blood and money …’

‘And squandering of health. But enough of that. I’ll soon have you well again.’

She kept him to his bed and none might see him without her permission. The Prince was happy to lie back comfortably and allow her to rule him. The comfort of his bed, the assurance of her devotion, these were what he needed.

A ruler must have his failures, and what seemed the greatest triumph could in time be seen to have been an empty victory. So with Nájara.

Joan was right. If she had her way, there would be no battles. She would say: ‘You are the King’s eldest son. One day England will be yours and our little Edward will follow you. Be content with that. In any case it is one man’s work to govern England.’

His mother had felt the same, only she did not say it as forcefully as Joan did. He was sure that John’s wife Blanche would have agreed with them. It was a woman’s outlook.

There were times like this when he wondered whether they were right. How far had they advanced with the war in France? How much nearer to the French crown was his father than when the whole matter had started?

No farther after years of struggle, bloodshed and squandering of treasure! And if this ambition had never come to his father, if he had never decided that he had a claim to the crown of France …

This was no way for a soldier to think, particularly one who was reckoned to be the greatest soldier in Christendom. Jeanette’s influence, he thought wryly.

And there she was standing by his bed with yet another of her potions.

‘I believe you are a witch,’ he said. ‘You want to keep me to my bed so that I can never leave you.’

Joan laughed. She had the gayest laughter he had ever heard.

‘You put ideas into my head, my Prince. Ever since the day I forced you to marry me I have been wondering how I could keep you at my side.’

‘Jeanette,’ he said softly. ‘Oh Jeanette, did you have to use much force?’

‘You know full well,’ she retorted. ‘We could have been married years ago but for you.’

‘You were dallying with Salisbury and Holland then.’

‘Only in the hope of arousing some jealousy in your sluggish breast.’

‘Was that indeed the truth?’

‘You know it. You were for me and I for you but I could not ask you, could I? Some foolish law says that it is the man who must ask for the hand of the lady not she for his. It is a law that should be changed. When you are King, my love, that must be your first consideration.’

‘I doubt my parliament would be much impressed with my rule. Moreover there are women who decide to take matters into their own hands no matter what the custom.’

‘Some have that wit and boldness.’

‘Like my own Jeanette.’

‘You were cruel to attempt to persuade me to take that man de Brocas.’

‘I never meant you to.’

‘In your cowardly way you forced me to tell you I would marry no one but the greatest knight in the world and there was no doubt who that was, was there? My lord, I know your courage is great on the battlefield but you were a coward in very truth when it came to the lists of love.’

‘My Jeanette, I never thought you would look my way.’

‘As my eyes were fixed in your direction for many years that is a poor excuse. But no matter, thanks to your resourceful wife the matter was solved, though belatedly, and now you have at last – through none of your own effort – been brought to where you belong … and that, my lord, is in my care.’

‘God bless you, Jeanette,’ he said. ‘Often I thank Him for you.’

‘And I thank Him for you,’ she replied more soberly. She went on briskly, ‘The task of the moment is to have you well again and I warn you, my Prince, that you are not leaving this roof until you are.’

‘I would I could stay with you every day of my life.’

‘Untrue,’ she said. ‘You are a soldier … the greatest in the world they tell me. You long to lead your men into battle. It is in your blood. But not when you are sick. That is when I take command.’

‘As you say, my general. Tell me what has been happening here in Bordeaux?’

‘Pedro’s girls are still here.’

‘Constanza and Isabella. What will become of them?’

‘Constanza has become a rather ambitious girl for as you know, since the death of her sister Beatrice she has become the elder and the heiress to the throne. Now do not look excited! I have made up my mind that whatever grows out of this, Constanza is going to fight her own battles. Now, a happier subject and one which is really our concern. Your sons are clamouring to see you. “Where is our father?” they constantly ask. When I tell them that you are resting after the battle they cannot believe that you would need to rest. I am going to bring them to see you. Lie still and they shall come to your chamber.’

‘Jeanette.’ He caught her hand. ‘I like it not that they should see me thus.’

‘They will not know how ill you are. I have promised them they shall come. I will bring them myself.’

In a few moments she had returned, a boy on either side of her.

Edward the elder was about six years old, Richard three years younger.

Edward tore his hand from his mother’s and ran to his father, climbing on to the bed and embracing him.

‘My son, my son …’ The Prince looked at the eager little face glowing with health and high spirits. ‘Would you throttle me then?’

‘No,’ cried Edward, ‘only love you.’

‘And how are you, my son? How have you been faring? Tell me how far can you shoot an arrow … I hear good news from your horsemaster.’

‘I am very good, Father. I have to be because I am the son of the Black Prince. That’s you,’ he added almost conspiratorially. ‘And did you know you are the greatest soldier the world has ever known?’

‘That’s what they tell you, is it?’

Edward nodded vigorously and Joan said: ‘Richard is here, too.’

She brought the younger boy forward. He did not look as robust as his brother although he was tall for his age – in fact almost as tall as his brother. His long fair curls shaded a face which was almost feminine in its beauty. Young Richard had all the good looks of his Plantagenet ancestors, but he certainly lacked that sturdiness which Edward had undoubtedly inherited.

There was a reproach in Joan’s voice. She was constantly warning her husband that he paid too much attention to his elder son and she feared that little Richard might notice this. She herself was inclined to lavish more affection on the younger boy, to make up, she told herself, for true mother that she was she must give more care to the weaker of the two. She loved young Edward but as the Prince doted on that boy, she made Richard her favourite.

Young Edward allowed himself to be put aside with a certain lack of grace while Richard came forward.

The Prince laid his hand on the fair head and said: ‘Well, my son, and how fare you?’

‘Well, my lord, I thank you.’

Grave, dignified, and with a certain grace, this boy seemed intelligent beyond his years. The Prince knew from his wife that Richard’s prowess was with his books rather than in outdoor exercise. Joan seemed to think that was something to be applauded, but the Prince would have preferred it to be the other way round.

It was well that Edward was the firstborn. He was going to make a good king. He would be trained for that, just as the King had trained him, so should young Edward be brought up. It was good for a boy who was destined to rule a great kingdom to become aware of it from an early age and prepare himself.

‘His tutors give good accounts of him,’ said Joan proudly. ‘I am going to have some of his exercises brought to you.’

‘Richard is still on the leading reign,’ said young Edward scornfully.

‘So were you when you were a few years younger,’ retorted his mother. ‘Richard sits his horse gracefully as a knight should.’

‘I am better …’ began Edward.

‘Now,’ said their mother, ‘you may sit on the bed … one on either side and talk to your father for a few moments. Then you shall go to your apartments and tomorrow, if you are good, you may see him again.’

The Prince was amused at their ready obedience. There was no doubt that Joan ruled the household.

She herself took them away at the appointed time and, although there were protests from young Edward that he wanted to stay longer, Joan was adamant.

‘You must obey your mother,’ said the Prince. Joan was smiling at him, well pleased with the life her boldness in proposing marriage to the Black Prince had brought to them all.

When John of Gaunt reached Bordeaux he too was amazed at the ill health of his brother. He had known that during the campaign for Castile Edward had been afflicted by the malady which had attacked so many men in the army, but he had expected him to throw it off with the ease which seemed natural for one of his strength.

He wondered whether Joan was thinking, as he was, of Lionel, who had not so long before died of a similar disease. However, within a few weeks, under the assiduous care of Joan, the Prince’s health did begin to improve a little.

He was delighted to see John; and their younger brother Edmund had also arrived at the castle.

Edmund of Langley, fifth son of the King, was so called because he had been born in King’s Langley in Hertfordshire. Like his brother he was tall and handsome, and resembled Lionel in temperament inasmuch as he appeared to be devoid of that ambition which the two elder brothers shared, Edward perhaps naturally as he was the eldest son and heir to the throne and John overwhelmingly because he had so narrowly missed all that he most desired.

It had never worried Edmund that there were several between him and the crown. He did not seek the anxieties of state in any case. He much preferred a life of ease and comfort – good food, good wine and a certain dalliance with the ladies.

Being his father’s son, of course, he must indulge in the family occupation which was battle. He accepted that, as he accepted everything else; and because he was the most handsome member of the family – now that Lionel was dead – and was easy-going, never giving himself royal airs, he was immensely popular and often achieved through the loyalty of his followers a success which a sterner leader might have had to work hard to achieve.

He hoped there would be some good hawking and hunting and that too much time would not be given to the war.

John discussed with Edmund the state of their elder brother’s health. It seemed a little better, he pointed out, but he knew this form of dysentery. It was weakening the Prince and there were days when he seemed to have a complete relapse. Even Joan’s care was not working as well as it should.

‘Consider the position,’ said John. ‘Our father has aged considerably since our mother’s death.’

‘He is a changed man,’ agreed Edmund. ‘I wish he would carry on his business with Alice Perrers in a more private manner. He positively flaunts his relationship with the woman and it is not as if she is a high-born lady.’

‘The flaunting is part of the price she demands for her favour. She wants the whole of England to know that she is his leman. They say that men of rank are afraid to offend her. But it was not of her I wished to speak. Our father cannot live long. And what think you of our brother’s chance of returning to health?’

‘By God’s teeth, brother, what do you suggest?’

‘I pray to Him that it will not be so. But if our father dies and Edward were to follow him, this child, his eldest son, would be our King. A boy, nothing more …’

‘You are thinking of a Regency.’

‘It might come to that.’ John looked searchingly at Edmund. ‘We should have to stand together to protect our brother’s son.’

‘He would be our rightful King and we could do no other.’

‘We must stand together. But I pray God that it may never come to pass.’

Edmund avoided meeting his brother’s eyes. A thought flashed into his mind. It was: ‘You mean you pray God that it might.’

He dismissed it at once. That was unfair. They were a united family. They had been brought up in affection by loving parents. They had always been taught that they must stand together. The family was supreme and if one was in need all the others must go to that one’s aid.

No, he was misjudging his brother and he was ashamed of himself.

But they had always known that the most ambitious member of the family was John of Gaunt.

At the Court of the Black Prince there were two young ladies. They were very interested to meet the new arrivals.

They were beautiful in the exotic way of Spanish ladies – quite different from the pale noble beauty of Blanche or that overwhelming sensual beauty of Catherine Swynford which John even now had been unable to forget.

They were interesting of course because they were the daughters of Pedro.

Constanza was the elder of the two girls. She was a determined young woman and it was clear that she was trying to find some champion who would restore the throne of Castile to her for she considered she was the rightful heir.

John listened attentively to her. Edmund, too, was drawn into their conferences. He was rather attracted by Constanza’s younger sister, Isabella, but of course he could not enter into a light love affair with a girl of such position, so he gave himself up to a little harmless dalliance while John discussed the state of affairs with the elder sister.

‘I would gladly marry the man who would win my throne for me,’ said Constanza.

John watched her thoughtfully. Yes, she was right. She had a claim. There had been an elder sister Beatrice who had gone into a convent and had died there, so that Constanza, now the eldest child of Pedro the Cruel, could claim the throne if she could oust the usurper.

He wondered whether she would find someone to help her. Some ambitious man might, for the sake of the title of King, he supposed. It would be a good gamble, and a throne was an ever enticing goal.

While he talked with her the children came riding in – sturdy Edward, delicate Richard and with them their two half-brothers, those noisy Holland young men, the result of Joan’s misalliance with Sir Thomas Holland. The elder Holland must be about twenty years old, the other two years younger; but there was no doubt that the little boys looked up to their brothers and the Hollands made the most of it.

John’s eyes rested on young Edward. A King to be, and another Edward. That seemed to be a name the people loved. Whereas John … They should never have named him John because people still remembered that wicked ancestor of his, the King John who had made the signing of Magna Carta necessary.

He turned away from the window. He was beginning to think that he would never wear a crown.

A few days later, news came from England. He could not believe it. Blanche dead … of plague at Bolingbroke, that castle which they had both loved so much since it was the birthplace of their son.

He was stunned. He thought of her gentleness, her nobility. He was bowed down with grief.

He must leave at once for England. Edward would understand that he must go.

That the plague should have struck her down! All that beauty made loathsome by the fearful enemy which stalked the towns and villages of the world in search of victims. Blanche … not beautiful, noble Blanche!

Downstairs he could hear the sounds of music. The musicians were practising for the evening. Joan was anxious to fill the castle with rejoicing because she was sure that the Black Prince was recovering from his sickness.

Constanza and Isabella would be there.

Constanza who wanted a husband to help her gain the throne of Castile.

That husband would be King of Castile.

Blanche had been buried near the High Altar in St Paul’s, and John had ordered that a magnificent alabaster tomb be erected on which was an effigy of his wife.

He was overwhelmed by his sadness. He had loved her dearly, and he was ashamed of the fact that there were two women who would come into his mind even while he mourned for her. One was Constanza, the heiress of Castile, the other was Catherine Swynford, the wife of his squire Sir Hugh who was with one of the armies in France. One promised a crown, the other such sensual delight as he felt he had never known yet.

But nevertheless he mourned for Blanche. He knew that there would never be one who loved him so devotedly, so selflessly, as Blanche had. Blanche would always be enshrined in his heart – the most beautiful of ladies, the most perfect of wives, the mother of his children, his beloved daughters and the one he loved above all others because in him was enshrined his ambition – Henry of Bolingbroke.

Geoffrey Chaucer had presented himself to him. He was deeply affected. Once John had laughed at Chaucer’s devotion to Blanche. He had teased her saying that the little poet loved her and it was well that his devotion was of the soul and not of the body otherwise he would have been jealous and have cut off the head of the presumptuous fellow.

As it was he had been amused and liked the poet for it.

He received him with friendliness and was touched when Chaucer produced what he called his Book of the Duchess.

John read it with emotion. It extolled the beauty and virtue of Blanche, setting it down in such a way that would immortalise her. It told of his own love for the incomparable Blanche.

He was deeply moved to read those words:‘My lady brightWhich I have loved with all my mightIs from me dead.’

Those simple words, which Chaucer in his poet’s sensitivity had attributed to him, putting himself in his place no doubt, writing what he would have felt had he been John of Gaunt, conveyed so much more than flowery speech could have done. Chaucer had gone on:‘Alas, of death, what aileth theeThat thou wouldst not have taken meWhen that thou took my lady sweetThat was so fair, so fresh, so freeSo good that men may well it seeOf all goodness she had no mete.’

He would not forget Chaucer, nor his wife … nor his sister-in-law.

He must go to the children. Poor motherless ones. They would be bowed down with sorrow.

It was his duty to go to them.

They were installed in the Palace of the Savoy in the care of their governess, and it was with strange emotions that he made his way there. He was wondering how he would find his children; they were over young perhaps to realise what this meant. Their governess would have talked to them.

Their governess! He was not really thinking of his children, he found, but of their governess.

He sent for them and waited for their arrival, his heart beating fast. He wondered what she would look like now. Perhaps she had grown over fat; some of these women did when they came to the palace. Perhaps he had endowed her, in his imaginings, with qualities she did not possess. She had become a kind of dream woman, a fantasy possessed of charms beyond all human knowledge.

The door had opened. Philippa came in. She ran to him and threw herself into his arms.

‘My child, my child,’ he said overcome with emotion.

Then there was Elizabeth. His younger daughter was six years old now, old enough to mourn.

‘She went to Bolingbroke and we were to join her there. We never saw her again.’ Philippa was looking at him sternly as though there was some explanation that he could give.

‘Alas of death what aileth thee …’ he thought. Why take Blanche … dear good Blanche, who had never harmed anyone and who was so sadly missed?

‘And where is your brother?’

‘Catherine told us to come first. She will bring him when you have seen us. He is only three you know.’

As if he needed to be reminded!

‘Does the boy miss his mother?’

‘Not as we do. He forgets sometimes that she is dead. He says he will show her something and that makes us cry and then he says “Oh, she is dead. I forgot.” He does not know what it means. He thinks she has gone away for a while … like going to Kenilworth … or Windsor or somewhere like that.’

‘And you, my darling daughters, you know what this sadness means?’

‘It means she will never come back again,’ said Philippa seriously.

‘It is fate, my daughters. It is life. It is something we must accept. It happens to us all … in time.’

Elizabeth looked alarmed. ‘You are not going to die too?’ she asked.

‘Oh no, no, my daughter. Not for years I think.’

‘If you did,’ said Elizabeth, ‘we should be real orphans! Who would look after us then? The Queen couldn’t. She is dead too.’

‘I know,’ said Philippa. ‘We would go and live with our cousins in France. Henry is the same age as Cousin Richard.’

‘My children, my children, I am not going to die. There is no need to wonder what will become of you for I am here and while I am you will always be my concern. Ah … here is my son.’

They had come into the room. He was holding her hand. John scarcely saw the boy. He could see nothing but her.

No. He had not exaggerated. It was there … the voluptuous overwhelming attractiveness … just as he had imagined it.

She curtsied to him. Henry made a little bow … obviously taught by her.

‘Rise, Lady Swynford,’ he heard himself say. ‘I see you have taken good care of my children. Henry …’

Henry ran forward and threw himself at his father’s knees.

He lifted him up. The boy glowed with health. ‘That was a fine bow you gave me,’ said John.

‘Catherine said I must,’ replied Henry.

‘Catherine did …’ He repeated her name. He glanced at her. She smiled and again that understanding passed between them.

‘Lord Henry grows apace, my lord,’ she said. ‘You will be delighted with his progress.’

‘I’m getting bigger every day,’ boasted Henry. ‘I shall soon be bigger than you … bigger than the King. Bigger than everybody.’

‘I see you have given my son a fine opinion of himself,’ he said.

She answered: ‘My lord, I believe he was born with that and it was his birth that gave it to him, not I.’

He put the boy down. ‘I am well pleased with your care of the children, Lady Swynford.’

‘Then I am happy,’ she answered softly.

He asked her questions as to their progress. Philippa and Elizabeth kept butting in with the answers; but he was not really listening. He was thinking of her all the time and the dreams he had had of her. She had never been so alluring, so exciting in those dreams as she was in reality.

She took the children away and he stood looking out of the window on to the river at the craft that was plying its way from Westminster to the Tower.

Then he made his way to his bedchamber. There he said to one of his pages: ‘I wish to speak again with Lady Swynford. There is much I have to say to her regarding the care of my children.’

It was the first time he had ever thought it necessary to explain his motives to a servant.

She scratched at the door and he called: ‘Enter.’

He was looking out of the window and he did not turn. He found that he was trembling with excitement.

She was standing close behind him. ‘You wished to see me, my lord?’

He swung round and looked at her. He thought: She knows. She is as much aware of this as I. She longs for me as I do for her.

He hesitated. ‘I … have thought a great deal about you, Lady Swynford.’

She did not express surprise. She merely said quietly: ‘Yes, my lord.’

‘I wonder … if you had thought of me.’

‘The father of my charges …’

He took her by the shoulders suddenly. ‘I think,’ he said quietly, ‘you understand.’

She held back her head. He saw the long white throat. He had never seen such white skin. He looked at her ripe lips and then suddenly he had seized her. He heard her laugh softly and there was complete harmony between them.

They lay on his bed. They both seemed bewildered by what had happened and yet each was aware of its inevitability.

He took a lock of her thick reddish hair and twisted it about his fingers. ‘I have thought of you ever since I first saw you,’ he told her. ‘What did you do to me on that first occasion?’

‘I did nothing,’ she answered. ‘I merely was myself and you were yourself … and that was enough for us both.’

‘I have never felt thus before …’

‘Nor I.’

‘There has never been such perfect union … We were as one, Catherine. Did you sense that?’

‘Yes, yes, my lord. I knew it would be so.’

He held her close to him. In that moment of bliss he thought: We must always be together. I would marry her … The thought came quickly: She is the wife of Hugh Swynford … and with it relief. The son of the King could not marry a governess!

He thrust such thoughts from his mind and dwelt on her perfection. Her sensual beauty, that perfect body which responded unfailingly to his own; her soft musical voice; her complete abandonment to the act of love. She was a rare woman. She was his from the moment he had set eyes on her.

She told him now that she must go. She would be missed. She was right of course. What had happened had been so sudden and so overwhelming and for those moments neither of them had thought of anything but the slaking of their passion. There would be prying eyes in the castle. She was a woman with a husband overseas; he was a man who was mourning the death of his wife.‘Alas of death, what aileth theeThat thou would not have taken me …’

Those were the words Chaucer had put into his mouth, and when he had read them he had felt deeply moved; and yet here he was, with Blanche so recently dead, sporting in the very bed which he had shared with her.

But this was Catherine. There was no one like Catherine. He had never experienced anything like this emotion she aroused in him, this heady intoxication which made him oblivious of everything else but his need of her.

‘Tonight,’ he said.

‘I shall come to you,’ she promised.

He had to be satisfied with that and reluctantly he let her slip out of his arms.

When she had gone he lay for a long time thinking of her.

He was all impatience for the night.

They lay beside each other, limp, exhausted by the force of their passion.

He knew so little of her except that she was the most desirable woman in the world. She knew much more about him, naturally. He had wondered about Hugh Swynford and she told him that the marriage had been arranged for her and she had been a reluctant bride. Everyone had told her that she was fortunate to find a titled land-owning husband; she had felt herself less fortunate.

‘He’s an uncouth fellow,’ muttered John. ‘A good soldier but I shudder to think of you together.’

‘As I do.’

‘And there have been others?’

‘No. I left my convent and almost immediately was married. I am not a woman to break my vows … easily.’

He believed her.

‘I would you had never married Swynford,’ he said. ‘I would you had come to me straight from your convent.’

She was silent.

There was a certain pride in her, he knew. She was the daughter of a Flemish knight even though his knighthood had been bestowed on the battlefield and he had died soon after receiving it. Her mother had been a sturdy country woman of Picardy who had brought up her children in a fitting manner; and when Catherine had become an orphan she had received some education at the hands of the nuns of Sheppey.

He wished that she was unmarried; that she was some princess who would be considered a reasonable wife for him. Yes, his feelings were so strong that he could think of marriage. He had never seen Marie again, though he had made sure that she and their daughter were well cared for. In spite of his ambitions he was a man who was capable of love. He had loved Marie; he had revered Blanche; he had thought himself fortunate to possess such a bride. Yet this feeling he had for Catherine Swynford was entirely different. It was wild, passionate, sensuous in the extreme and yet he knew that tender love was stirring in him too.

If she had been some great heiress … Constanza of Castile for instance … what joy that would be.

But she was not. She was merely the wife of that uncouth squire, Hugh Swynford. If she had not been … what temptation she would have put in his way.

That was his feeling for Catherine. When he was with her it overwhelmed him; he would have been ready to offer her anything.

He was surprised to learn that she had had two children by Swynford – Thomas and Blanche.

‘Do you not long for them?’ he wanted to know.

Yes, there were times when she did. But she had the satisfaction of knowing that they were well cared for in the country.

He said no more of them. He feared she might wish to return to them.

‘How grateful I am to your sister Philippa,’ he said. ‘But for her we might never have met. Where is she now?’

‘She is still in the Queen’s household, but she will have to go, of course.’

‘Bring her here. Let her be of our household. Would that please you, Catherine?’

‘It is good of you, my lord.’

‘Philippa did so much for us, we must do something for her.’

He was wondering if he could do something for her children also. He would of course. But he would have to think carefully of that.

‘Catherine,’ he said, ‘I never dreamed there was a woman in the whole world who could please me as you do.’

Chapter IV THE CASTILIAN MARRIAGE

John rode out to Windsor and presented himself to the King.

The sight of his father shocked him. Edward’s character seemed to have changed completely since the death of the Queen. He now had no reason to hide his relationship with Alice Perrers and the signs of debauchery were marked on his face. The blue eyes once so bright were dull and there were deep shadows under them; the strong mouth had slackened.

By God, thought John, he looks what he has become – an old lecher.

Alice sat beside him. It is true then, thought John, she scarcely lets him out of her sight. He is quite unbalanced. He must be to allow a woman like that to share in his councils with his ministers – and all because she insists! How could a man like his father – great Edward, hero of Crécy, sink so low. And all because of this woman!

But although Edward had prided himself on being a faithful husband who deplored promiscuity at his Court there had always been a latent sensuality in him which was straining to emerge. There had been rumours about his efforts to seduce the Countess of Salisbury; it had even been said that he had cast his eyes on Joan of Kent and there was that incident of the garter to suggest it might be true. Now it seemed, that since he had become a widower he had convinced himself that there was no need to conceal this side of his nature and it had broken free of restraint. Alice Perrers no doubt had determined that it should be so.

He bowed to his father, then to Alice.

She inclined her head and smiled at him, almost triumphantly as though to say: I know you don’t think I should be here but here I am and here I stay.

On her finger was a magnificent ruby ring which he recognised as his mother’s. So it had come to that. She was now in possession of the Queen’s jewellery.

She saw his eyes on the ring and she lifted her hand to her face that he might see it better – a triumphant insolent gesture.

‘Welcome, my son,’ said the King. ‘It is a sad return for you to find dear Blanche no more.’

John was aware of Alice’s mocking glance. It was almost as though she knew of his encounter with Catherine.

‘I could not believe it when I heard,’ he said. ‘I was overcome with grief.’

‘She was a fine woman and a good wife to you. I was glad to see you so satisfactorily settled.’

‘It was a fine marriage,’ put in Alice. ‘Look what it brought my lord. It made him the richest man in the kingdom next to you … my King.’

John would have liked to order her out of his presence but the King was smiling fatuously. He patted Alice’s hand.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘a good marriage. It makes it all the more sad that the plague took her. And I hear disturbing news of Edward.’

‘He suffered after Nájara,’ said John. ‘He never seemed to recover his old rude health. Joan cossets him and orders him … and he accepts it.’

‘A man needs a woman to look after him,’ put in Alice, smiling benignly at the King.

‘Alice speaks truth there,’ agreed Edward.

John felt sickened. He could scarcely believe that this was his father. If he must have the woman, let him keep her in the bedchamber. How could he have her here sitting beside him flaunting the Queen’s jewels. He was completely bemused by her. She did what she would with him.

Why? Why? She was a woman of no breeding. Fit only for the beds of serving men. And the King … Great Edward … Oh, it was unbelievable! And yet he recognised that inherent sensuality. Alice had it. Catherine had it. My God, he thought. It makes slaves of us all whoever we be.

‘Edward wants you to go out again,’ went on the King. ‘He says the King of France is bent on a conquest of Aquitaine. He has heard that the Dukes of Anjou and Berry are assembling two armies for the attack. Edward is sick. Joan does not wish him to go to war.’

‘Joan would not be able to prevent him if Aquitaine were attacked.’

‘I know it well. But I want you to go out there, John. I want you to leave as soon as you can muster an army. What can you raise?’

‘I could attempt to get together four hundred men at arms and, say, four thousand archers.’

‘Do it, John. Would to God I could go with you. Affairs in England …’

Alice looked at him and smiled provocatively.

‘You’re a minx,’ said the King.

John turned away impatiently.

‘Have I offended the Duke of Lancaster?’ asked Alice mockingly.

‘Nonsense, my dear. John is delighted with one who is so good to me.’

‘My lord,’ said John, ‘I have much with which to occupy myself if I am to raise this army in good time. I pray you give me leave to go about my business.’

‘Go, John. Go. I expect to hear good news of you.’

As he left Alice’s laughter echoed in his ears.

How could a great man become a slave of his passion? he thought. It made him none the more easy in his mind because he could understand the King’s feeling for his siren.

The Black Prince was at Cognac awaiting John’s arrival. He was coming with a big force. Four hundred men at arms and four thousand archers should give them what they needed.

The Prince was fighting off one of those debilitating attacks of dysentery which were occurring with alarming frequency. Joan had been against his coming. ‘Leave it to others,’ she had said. ‘You have done your part. You have earned a rest.’ He could not heed her though. Battle was in his blood and he could see that if he was not there these possessions in France, so vital to England, could slip away.

The King of France was naturally taking advantage of the situation and must be rejoicing in the disability of the Black Prince.

But John would come with his army and they would stand together. He felt uneasy about John. He had always known of his brother’s ambition. He had now brought with him a commission that such places of Aquitaine which gave their allegiance to the King of England should be received into favour. He, John, would be the arbiter, in the absence of the Black Prince. Was John trying to take over Aquitaine from his brother?

No, it was reasonable enough. Edward was ailing. There were times when even in camp he was too weak to rise from his bed.

He must not be suspicious of his own brother; and yet the anxieties would not be entirely dismissed.

He felt old and ill and disillusioned. His life was battle. He had been bred to it; and since his father had laid claim to the throne of France he had been dedicated to that goal. He himself would one day be King of England and King of France. He must not forget that. And he must make those thrones safe for little Edward.

Thinking of his son gave him heart. As fine a boy as he had ever seen. Joan scolded him and said he spoilt his eldest son. She was always trying to push Richard forward. Richard was a good boy, it seemed, but he was not like his elder brother. Never mind. They would have a scholar in the family. It did not matter as long as they had the kingly Edward as the firstborn.

He was depressed nevertheless. He had heard only recently of the death of Sir John Chandos. Beloved friend of his childhood who had been close to him ever since. Chandos had saved his life at Poitiers and he had been rewarded with the manor of Kirkton in Lincolnshire, but nothing could be an adequate reward for what he had done. Chandos once said that he had the reward which meant most to him – the Prince’s lifelong friendship.

And now Chandos was dead – killed in battle. Edward mourned him deeply and could not forget him. He had died – this good friend – in his service, killed not far from Poitiers and buried at Mortemer.

To lose such a friend left a scar on his memory which would never heal.

And here he was, himself so sick that at times he thought his end was near.

It was a depressing outlook. He could only thank God for the devotion of Joan and the good health of his son.

As he lay in his tent, exhausted by the ride and determined not to take to his litter until it was absolutely necessary, news came to him that Jean de Cros, the Bishop of Limoges whom Edward had regarded as his friend, had surrendered the town to the French.

Limoges! To have let the French in. The man was a traitor. A raging fury possessed the Prince.

‘By God,’ he cried, ‘he shall suffer for this. Traitor that he is. Why should traitors such as this man live while great men like Chandos are cut down in the flower of their manhood?’

Never had any of his men seen him so overcome by fury.

‘Not a moment shall be lost,’ he cried. ‘We shall leave without delay for Limoges.’

Nor did his fury abate as he rode out with John of Gaunt beside him.

‘We shall have the town in a matter of days and then, by God, we shall see what happens to traitors.’

John was amazed by his brother’s fury. Towns had surrendered to the enemy before. Sometimes it was a wise thing to do if it could save bloodshed and destruction, and the Prince, who was not naturally a violent man, should understand this.

But on this occasion his anger persisted and it did not abate. All through the six-day siege he was like a man possessed with one motive in life – revenge on Limoges.

At length, the city could hold out no longer. The moment had come.

The Black Prince, hitherto famous for his chivalry towards a fallen enemy, screamed in his rage: ‘Let no one in that town live. Put them all to the sword.’

‘Women and children, my lord?’

‘All. All!’ screamed the Prince.

‘But, my lord …’

‘By God. Did you not hear me? Do your duty or it will be the worse for you.’

What had happened to this man, this noble Black Prince whose name was associated with all that was glorious in military matters?

He had changed. He was a tyrant. He called for blood. He wanted vengeance. The very name Limoges sent him white with fury.

The Bishop was captured.

‘Bring him to me,’ shouted the Prince. ‘I will show him what happens to traitors.’

His brother was beside him. ‘Edward … I would speak with you alone …’

He turned on John – this brother who had always sought honours, who had married Blanche of Lancaster, inherited her estates and become the richest man in England under the King.

John was humble now … appealing. ‘A word, Edward … just a word.’

They were alone in the tent.

‘Edward,’ said John, ‘we must have a care. This is a man of the Church. We could bring down the wrath of the Pope on us if harm befell him.’

‘You would plead for this traitor!’

‘Traitor he may be, but he is a Bishop. Edward, I beg of you. You have had your revenge on Limoges and I tell you this, it may well be in time that you will regret this act. But for the sake of England and our armies do not harm the Bishop.’

The Prince put his hand to his head. John took him by the arm and made him sit down.

‘You are sick, Edward,’ he said. ‘You are overwrought. I beg of you take care.’

The Prince was silent for a few moments. Then he said: ‘I pass the traitor Bishop over to you.’

John was greatly relieved.

The Bishop was made his prisoner.

The army encamped outside Limoges and the Black Prince stood watching the black smoke of the devastated town rising to the sky. He fancied he could hear the cries of murdered people as his men went from street to street carrying out his orders – not a man, woman or child to remain.

Now that he had shown everyone what it meant to defy the Black Prince, a calm had settled on him.

With it came the terrible realisation that he would hear the cries of the people of Limoges for the rest of his life.

They carried him in his litter. It was useless to attempt to sit his horse. He was sick and he had to face that fact.

They rested awhile at Cognac where he hoped he might recover sufficiently to continue with the army, but it was clear that this was not to be.

There was only one alternative. He must return to Bordeaux.

When he arrived Joan, horrified at his appearance, insisted that he stay in his bed; moreover she sent for the doctors and told them that she wanted to know the truth and why it was that her husband, hitherto so strong, had become a victim to this recurring sickness.

The verdict was that he had endured too many hardships on the battlefield over many years and that he should not return to such conditions until he was completely recovered.

‘My lady,’ they said, ‘he should return to England. There he should retire to the country and live quietly until his health is restored. It is our considered opinion that this is the only way to prevent his illness growing worse.’

That decided Joan. She would hear no protests.

‘My dear,’ said the Prince, ‘what will become of Aquitaine if I go home?’

‘My dear,’ she retorted, ‘you are worth a thousand Aquitaines.’

‘I am not sure that anyone else would agree with that.’

‘I have never greatly cared for the opinions of others. We are going home.’

She was delighted. It was what she had always wanted. She had made the Court of Aquitaine one of the most brilliant in Europe. Wandering musicians had always been well received at the castle; poets flourished there; it was delightful in the evening when the trestle tables had been cleared of food and taken away and songs of love and chivalry were sung.

But alas the Prince was so seldom there – he was always away winning some glorious battle which never seemed to bring the war any nearer to an end. How much better it would have been if he had remained at home.

Joan could have been happy in Bordeaux if it were not for this senseless fighting.

But even though she loved the climate which was softer than that of England and the fertile country with its colourful flowers, she had often felt a longing for her native land, and if she could go home and take her husband and her boys with her and have them completely under her care she would be happy.

Edward’s health was an anxiety but she was convinced that if she could keep him at home and look after him herself and there was no more of this senseless going to war he would become robust again. That would mean more argument of course but she would face that when it came. The important task now was to restore him to health.

So there was the bustle of imminent departure in the castle.

Joan explained to the little boys who were very excited at the prospect of a journey with their parents.

They listened attentively. Edward wanted to know what would happen to his falcon and his horse.

‘My darling,’ said Joan, ‘you will have many falcons and horses in England.’

‘May I take my books?’ asked Richard.

‘We shall see, my love.’

‘Shall we see the King?’ asked Edward.

‘I am sure he will want to see you.’

‘He is our grandfather,’ said Richard.

‘And he has my name,’ added Edward proudly. ‘The King is Edward, my father is Edward and so am I. Edward is a King’s name.’

‘So is Richard, is it not, my lady? There was a King Richard. He was very brave.’

‘There was only one Richard but there have been three Edwards,’ said Edward scornfully, ‘and my father will be the fourth and I the fifth.’

They heard talk these boys, thought Joan uneasily. So young Edward already knew that he was destined for a throne. She would rather he had not heard of this. Edward had said: ‘You want to keep them babies for ever just as you want to keep me under your wing. You’re like a mother hen.’

She supposed she was. Yet she had wanted to marry the heir to the throne – not just because he was the heir, of course; but she had been pleased at the prospect of becoming Queen. Now she was more mature she could visualise the anxieties of kingship. When one was young and inexperienced one thought only of those ceremonial moments when the ruler appeared all powerful, all glorious, but there was another side to the picture.

She said sternly to little Edward: ‘That will not be for many many years.’

‘What shall I be?’ asked Richard.

‘You will be my little son.’

‘He won’t always be your little son,’ Edward pointed out.

‘To me he will,’ said Joan.

She put her arms about him and held him tightly. She felt his thin body and wished he would put on a little more flesh to be more like his robust brother.

Edward started to pull his brother away. He was a little jealous of her preference for Richard although it was clear that he himself was his father’s favourite.

Joan felt Edward’s hands which seemed to her over hot.

She touched his forehead. That was also very hot. There was a flush on the boy’s cheeks too, and she noticed that his eyes seemed unusually bright.

‘Do you feel hot, Edward?’ she asked.

He considered. ‘A little,’ he replied.

She ruffled his hair and laughed at him. She was, as the Prince said, like an old hen with her brood.

She left the boys and went to her husband. He was lying on his bed rather restlessly. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be sleeping.

As she went close to him she heard him murmuring. He was saying something about Limoges.

She sat down by the bed and took his hand.

‘All is well, Edward. I am here. You are in your bed here with me beside you.’

‘Jeanette,’ he said.

‘Your own Jeanette,’ she replied.

‘How long have you been there?’

‘I have just come in to see how you are.’

‘I was dreaming,’ he said, and she felt him shiver.

‘I know. You must forget it. It’s over now.’

‘I cannot think what possessed me. Some devil I think.’

‘It was the fever.’

‘Those people … innocent people … I would have had the Bishop’s head if John had not restrained me.’

‘It is done with, Edward. It is this war that goes on and on. We are all heartily tired of it.’

‘That must not be until we have the crown of France.’

She sighed. ‘Well, you are going to be away from it for a while. We shall rest in peace in Berkhamsted while I nurse you back to health.’

‘I wish I had never gone to Limoges …’

‘Stop thinking of Limoges. It is over now.’

‘Never before in all my life have I done such a thing. It will be remembered against me. I shall never be known for my chivalry again.’

‘You had to take the town. You had to show them. You spared the old Bishop did you not? Enough of Limoges. Let me tell you how excited the children are. Edward wants to see his grandfather.’

‘I am wondering what we shall find at Court. John says that woman openly flaunts her influence over the King.’

‘These tales are always exaggerated.’

‘It is hard to believe that my father could behave thus.’

‘People are always behaving in a way which it is hard to believe, which shows that we don’t know each other very well. Perhaps we don’t know ourselves.’

‘No. Limoges …’

‘Enough of Limoges. I am going to bring the children to see you. Edward wants to know which of the horses and falcons are going with us.’

The Prince smiled.

‘You would like to see them, my love?’ she went on.

He nodded.

‘I will bring them myself.’

When she went to the nurseries she was met by a solemn-faced attendant.

‘The Lord Edward is unwell, my lady,’ she was told. ‘One of the women has gone in search of you. He seems to have a high fever.’

It had happened so suddenly. A few days before he had been full of health and high spirits and now he lay there limp and exhausted by the struggle to stay alive.

The Prince had risen from his bed. He was as one demented. What could have happened? How could God be so cruel as to take this beloved child from him?

Even Joan could not deceive herself or him. He saw the terrible fear in her eyes.

‘There is hope yet,’ said the doctors. But there was no hope.

They sat beside his bed – the Prince on one side, Joan on the other. The child sensed their presence and was comforted by it.

‘Father …’ he whispered.

‘I am here, my son.’

Little Edward smiled, while Joan bent and kissed the hand which lay in hers.

‘You will soon be well, my darling. We shall go to England. There you shall have a new falcon.’

The child smiled slowly.

They continued to sit by his bedside.

The doctors hovered.

‘Is there nothing … nothing to be done?’ demanded the Prince.

The doctors shook their heads sorrowfully.

There was nothing to be done then but to sit there while that young life ebbed away.

The Prince was inconsolable. He paced his bedchamber; he sat on his bed and buried his face in his hands.

‘My son, my son,’ he mourned. ‘How could this be?’

Then in his mind he heard the cries of women and children being put to the sword. Mothers, fathers had lost their children. They had loved them as he had loved Edward and he had destroyed them.

It is retribution, he thought. Oh my God, why did You not guide me? Why did You let me betray my chivalry? The fever was on me … I was a changed man. I know it. You know it … yet You punish me like this.

Joan came to him. ‘It is no use, Edward,’ she said. ‘Nothing we do or say can bring him back.’

‘But why … why …? It seems so senseless.’

‘Many things are senseless in this world, I fear.’

‘This child … I cherished him so.’

‘Too much,’ she said. ‘Too much.’

‘You loved him too.’

‘He was my son. I loved him and his brother. You still have a son, Edward.’

‘I fear for him.’

‘He is strong and healthy.’

‘Edward was stronger and healthier.’

‘Nothing shall happen to Richard.’

‘How can we know what punishment God will mete out to us?’

‘We will have more sons, Edward. As many as your father has.’

‘I am a sick man.’

‘When we are in England you will grow strong again. I promise you, Edward, in England life will be good. We have suffered this terrible tragedy but it is over now. We have our little Richard. We will have more sons. Edward, look forward, my love. Put the past behind you.’

He turned to her and clung to her as though he were a child.

She could offer him some comfort. She was the only one in the world who could.

She made him lie on his bed and later she brought Richard to him.

The little boy looked bewildered. He was only four years old and he could not quite understand what had happened to his brother.

His mother had tried to explain. Edward had gone away. He had gone to Heaven.

‘Am I going too?’ he had wanted to know.

‘Not for years and years.’

‘If Edward goes I want to go.’

‘No, dearest, you are going to stay with me and your father. But you have to learn quickly now. It is different being without a brother.’

He was not altogether displeased. He sensed that Edward’s departure had made him more important. He noticed the change in people’s attitude towards him. He had become of some consequence in a subtle way.

His father was seated on a chair in his bedchamber and he held out his hand when Richard entered.

Richard put his hand in his father’s.

‘You are my heir now, Richard,’ said the Prince. ‘Do you know what that means?’

Richard was not quite sure. He said: ‘It is because Edward has gone to Heaven.’

The Prince was too moved to speak for a moment and so was Joan. She was thinking how young and vulnerable her little son was and of the great weight of responsibility which would be put on his shoulders. She pictured a crown on those fair curls and the thought made her apprehensive. It was because the child was Richard, her youngest. He had always seemed to her frail and delicate and thus vulnerable.

‘Yes,’ said the Prince at length. ‘That is the reason. You will have to learn quickly.’

‘Richard learns very quickly,’ said Joan. ‘His tutor says so.’

‘You are a good boy with your books but now, my son, you must be good at all things. You will have to learn to be brave and daring. You will have to excel at the joust.’

‘That is for later,’ said Joan. ‘Never fear, Richard, you are going to surprise everyone with your skill.’

‘Am I?’ asked Richard.

‘Of course you are, my darling. You have to be to your father all that Edward was.’

‘May God bless you,’ said the Prince.

‘Always,’ added his mother.

Then she took her son by the hand and led him away.

The Prince realised that Joan was right. He must not dwell on the past. He must forget the sack and massacre of Limoges; he must not brood on the fact that he had lost his elder son who had seemed to him a perfect king in the making. He must look to the future. He must plan ahead.

Richard was now the heir to the throne and very special tuition must be given to him. A boy who already at his tender age preferred to pore over books rather than be out in the fresh air practising riding and manly sports needed to be turned in the direction he must go. It was all very well when he was a second son. Book learning was not a bad thing for second sons. They might go into the church. It was always good to have a member of the family in some high office. But all that was changed. Richard was now in the direct line of succession. Providing events took their natural course Richard would one day be King of England.

Two tasks lay ahead. First to train Richard and secondly to go back to England, regain his health and beget more sons.

He sent for two men whom he trusted completely – Sir Guichard d’Angle and Sir Simon Burley.

Guichard d’Angle had the reputation of being a perfect knight. He was skilled in the arts of chivalry. He had won distinction for his military prowess. He would be a perfect tutor for young Richard.

As for Sir Simon Burley he was a man whom the Prince esteemed more than any other since death had deprived him of the friendship of Sir John Chandos. Sir Simon had fought bravely with King Edward in France and in due course had entered the service of the Black Prince. He had been present at Nájara and later he was taken prisoner near Lusignan much to the grief of the Prince who had sought an early opportunity of bringing about an exchange of prisoners when Sir Simon had been returned to his service.

Such tried and trusted servants should always be appreciated by rulers and the Prince had never been one to forget those who served him well.

Simon was an ideal choice, for besides being a great soldier he was also a man of culture, a lover of literature and music.

The Prince explained what he required of these two men.

‘Now that Richard is my heir,’ he said, ‘there must be some change in his education. He must be brought up in such a way that when the time comes he will be prepared to face his responsibilities.’

Sir Guichard said: ‘There are many years before the boy would be called upon to do that.’

‘I hope that may be so,’ said the Prince, ‘for we are going to need time. He is such a child so far and his mother has been over-lenient with him.’

‘He is a bright child, my lord. He loves his books and that never harmed anyone.’

The Prince was pleased. It was like Simon to speak up and say what he meant even though he might be disagreeing with his master.

‘I want him to be learned,’ said the Prince, ‘but outdoor exercise must not be neglected.’

‘It shall be so,’ said Sir Guichard.

‘Thank you, my lords,’ said the Prince. ‘Now we must prepare to leave for England which we shall do within the week.’

The knights bowed and retired.

It was a cold January day when the party set sail for England.

Richard was excited. Sir Simon had explained to him that now that Edward was dead he, Richard, could one day be King of England. There was his grandfather who was the King but a very old man; then there was his father; and after him came Richard himself.

‘It will be many years yet,’ said Simon, ‘but a king is different from other people. He has to learn how to be a king and that is not an easy thing to learn.’

‘How does a king learn to be one?’

‘He must first of all be unselfish.’

‘Is my grandfather unselfish?’

‘Your grandfather always thought first of serving his country. That is why he has been a great king.’

‘Is he not a great king now?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘You said he has been a great king.’

This boy is too sharp, thought Sir Simon.

‘I should have said your grandfather is a great king.’

Richard was satisfied.

‘What shall I have to do?’ he asked.

‘What you are told.’

‘I always had to do that. So what is the difference?’

Sir Simon smiled and came to the conclusion that it was better to let matters take their course.

There lay the cog in the harbour. It was flying the flag which was his father’s. The Black Prince! When he had first heard the name Richard had thought it was something terrifying – like a nightmare, a great dog with slavering jaws trying to get into the nursery, a priest in long dark robes who was trying to catch him to punish him, something shadowy and grotesque … a strange shape that haunted him in dreams and made him cry out so that Edward had said he was a baby. And then the Black Prince turned out to be only his father, who was always kind to him although he loved Edward better. Edward had boasted of it. ‘I am the firstborn. I am the one who is going to be King.’

Perhaps Edward had boasted too much and God was displeased. Richard had gathered that God could rather easily be displeased. In any case Edward had gone to Heaven and Richard had moved up. He was the important one now.

And he was going on that big ship to sail on the sea – as soon as the waves ceased to pound the shore so. He was going to see his grandfather and live in England and be brought up to be a king.

It was an exciting prospect.

He went on board with his mother and father. He noticed that they did not like him to be too far from them; he fancied they were afraid that God might send someone to snatch him away and take him to Heaven to join his brother there.

He wondered vaguely about Heaven. Perhaps he would like to go there and join Edward. Edward had always been boasting about how much cleverer he was than Richard, how he could ride better and jump and run. No, he preferred England to Heaven. He had a notion that he would be far more important in England than he would in Heaven.

It was interesting to be on board. Sir Simon was close to him and he plied him with questions. He wanted to know everything about the ship. Sir Simon always answered his questions. He liked an interest to be taken in everything.

His father and mother went below to lie down, for the sea was wild. The captain said it was going to be a rough journey.

Sir Simon looked at Richard and said: ‘Will you face the elements or would you like to go below and lie down?’

Richard was a little afraid but he felt that he was expected to say that he would remain on deck with Simon so he did so.

It was a terrifying journey. The water washed over the deck. He was wet and cold but Simon remained on deck and so Richard was with him.

‘If your stomach’s strong enough fresh air is the best thing in seas like this,’ Sir Simon told him.

His hand grasped firmly in that of Simon he watched the pounding seas and when they had left the Bay of Biscay behind them and had turned into the English Channel the wild winds abated a little.

‘Here is the coast of England, my lord.’

Richard stared at it. It was very green, he noticed, and there came to him then an overwhelming pride because this was the country his grandfather ruled and his father would rule one day … and far far ahead he himself would reign over it.

They dropped anchor in Southampton Harbour. It was very cold and there was snow on the ground. Even so a crowd of people stood on the shore watching their arrival.

Richard was now beside his mother who was supervising the men who were carrying the litter. That was for his father. The rough sea voyage had not suited him and he was too sick to walk.

He had wanted to but Joan had said he was going to do no such thing. She had made him see that it would not do for the people to see a poor sick man stagger ashore. It was far more fitting that he should be carried in his litter.

‘It is a very cold place,’ said Richard to Simon.

‘That’s because it is winter. You wait until the summer comes, and the spring will soon be here. Then the trees will be covered in buds and the birds go wild with joy. The spring is never anywhere else as it is in England.’

Richard looked up at the dark sky and the royal banners which fluttered rather dismally, damp as they were.

When his father’s litter appeared the people cheered enthusiastically and there were cries of: ‘Long live the Black Prince.’

His father waved his hand in acknowledgement of the cheers.

‘You’ll keep well now you’ve come home, my lord,’ shouted one man. ‘God bless you.’

It was clear that the people here loved his father very much.

Now he came ashore holding his mother’s hand. The people looked at him and then suddenly a loud cheer went up.

‘Long live the little Prince. Long live Richard of Bordeaux.’

His spirits were suddenly lifted. He felt a wave of ecstatic happiness pass over him.

They loved him too. He had never heard anything that thrilled him so much as the cheers of the crowd.

Suddenly he was glad that Edward was in Heaven – for he knew that if Edward had been here he would have been the one they cheered. He was glad that he had come to England. He was glad that one day he would be King of this land. He loved it from that moment because it belonged to him and one day he would be its King.

John of Gaunt watched the cog sail away with an emotion which it was not easy to analyse. The death of his nephew had stunned him almost as much as it had the boy’s parents, but for a different reason.

One of the heirs to the throne had been removed at a sudden stroke. Of course there was another to step into his place – that delicate fair-haired boy who, one imagined, would have been the one to go if any.

It was an exciting prospect which lay now before him. His father was ageing fast and his pursuit of Alice Perrers could not be good for his health; his brother the Black Prince was very sick; then there was this child, Richard of Bordeaux. Lionel had a daughter who had been married to the Earl of March; there would be some who would say she came before John of Gaunt. But a girl …and Richard a child … Sometimes he thought it an exciting prospect; at others it depressed him.

In the meantime here he was in Aquitaine – his brother’s lieutenant. It might well be that his brother would never be well enough to return and his future lay here on the continent.

Often he thought of Catherine. He could send for her, perhaps. But could he? The governess of his children, the wife of one of his squires who was serving now in the army!

Life was full of promise yet it was only promise. He wanted fulfilment.

First he must arrange the funeral of his nephew. Joan had wanted it to take place after they had left partly because she had been eager to get Edward home to England and partly because she feared that to attend it would bring such overpowering grief to the Prince that it would impair his health further.

It was a ceremonial occasion but those who would have felt real grief were no longer there.

No sooner was it over than news was brought to him that Montpoint in Périgord had surrendered to the French. He must therefore set out to regain the place. This occupied him for several weeks and it was not until the end of February that he had regained the town.

When he returned to Bordeaux it was clear to him and to everyone else that his heart was not in the task which had been assigned to him. He was holding Aquitaine for Edward. He wanted to rule in his own right not through another.

His brother, Edmund of Langley, joined him at Bordeaux and there also were Constanza and Isabella, the two daughters of Pedro the Cruel.

The spring had come. The weather was warm and the two brothers rode out to hunt or merely to enjoy the countryside with the two young women.

Constanza was serious minded. Her great object was to break out of exile and regain the crown of Castile which she declared was hers by right.

‘And so it is,’ agreed John, ‘and so should it be yours. This bastard Henry should be deposed and you should be welcomed back.’

‘He will never leave unless he is forced to,’ said Constanza. ‘If only I had the money to raise an army … I think the people would be with me. Surely they would wish to see the legitimate heir on the throne.’

John pondered this. He had been playing with the idea of suggesting to his father and his brother that the Salic law be established in England. It existed in France. That was why Edward was having to fight for the crown. The crown of France came to him through his mother but because of this law he had been set aside. That was what the war was about. John was now thinking of Lionel’s daughter, Philippa, who unless the Salic law was introduced would come after Richard and before him in the claim to the English throne.

He realised that this law would be considered illogical and there was no hope of its being introduced in England when the very recognition of such a law would render null and void Edward’s claim to the throne of France.

So therefore as he saw it there was ageing Edward who could not last more than two or three years at the most; the Black Prince whose recurring sickness suggested he too might not be long for this world; then there was this four-year-old boy, Richard, rather delicate and in any case little more than a baby. Then Philippa, daughter of Lionel, married to the Earl of March who no doubt had his ambitions. These were the ones who stood in line before John of Gaunt.

It could well be that the crown would never come his way. He had never won the popularity the Black Prince had enjoyed. He was not the great warrior that his brother had always been. He was not enamoured of war; he preferred to use the cunning moves of statecraft which were far less costly. The people were foolish; they never understood that such as he was would be so much better for the prosperity of the country than these great warriors whose aim was always to win glory in battle.

His great-grandfather had been a great king but he had wasted men and money in fighting the Scots – and what good had that brought England? His father had been obsessed by the French wars and what good was that bringing England? How much better it would have been to hold what he possessed in France – which needed continual watchfulness to be held – and to forget this wild dream of taking the crown of France. No, John of Gaunt would be a different kind of king if ever that glorious day came.

But how could it …with so many to stand between him and his ambition? The people would never accept him. They would be bemused by the sight of this pretty fair-haired boy or young Philippa – a Queen. They were ridiculously sentimental and they had never really taken to John of Gaunt. For one thing he had not been born in England. His brother Edward was Edward of Woodstock. They called him that sometimes. Edward the Black Prince. A magic name, and they would support his son however young he was. The crown of England seemed a long way from John of Gaunt.

But there was another crown which he might win.

Constanza had shown very clearly that she would be ready to marry the man who would help her win her heritage.

Constanza could make him King of Castile.

He talked the matter over with Edmund.

‘Constanza is determined to regain the crown of Castile,’ he said. ‘Methinks she looks to us, brother.’

‘I am sure she does.’

‘I have been thinking, Edmund, that I should like to be the King of Castile.’

Edmund clasped his brother’s hand.

‘There is nothing that would please me more, brother, than to see you Constanza’s husband. We should be near each other for the rest of our lives, for I have decided I shall marry Isabella.’

‘The younger sister …!’ began John, and Edmund laughed.

‘I am not ambitious as you are, John. I would be quite content to spend the rest of my days in a pleasant Court given over to the enjoyment of living, of which I declare, there is too little in our lives.’

John nodded. Edmund was easy-going, pleasure-loving, Lionel all over again. Good-natured, generous, loving music and poetry, Edmund had no great love of battle. It was unfortunate to be a son of the Plantagenets and to have this kind of temperament because there must always be a certain amount of fighting to be done. Men such as his father would have been horrified if Edmund had told him that he preferred to live quietly in some little Court surrounded by troubadours and poets rather than to fight to enhance the family’s prestige and gain new possessions.

John understood Edmund’s attitude; he did not share it by any means. He wanted the possessions and he would fight for them but he preferred to win them by other means – he would never be a great general like his father and elder brother. The battle for him was the means to an end; he had no joy in it for its own sake as these military heroes had.

‘I have not absolutely decided yet,’ he said. ‘I want to think about it.’

‘But why not, John? Constanza is an attractive woman. Moreover you want to be a king. That’s your chance.’

‘I know,’ said John. He could not explain that he did not want Constanza. He wanted Catherine Swynford. Even Edmund, who would have understood in some measure, would have laughed. Sons of kings did not marry governesses. Besides the woman had a husband already.

I am foolish to think of her, thought John, and yet … The fact was he could not stop thinking of her. He knew that as soon as he returned to England he would seek her out. He would have to be with her. He would not be able to keep his liaison secret from Constanza. How could one plan to marry one woman while one was thinking constantly of another?

What nonsense this was! Of course he must marry Constanza, and when he returned to England this feeling towards Catherine might have changed. It was long since he had seen her. Why was he hesitating? How could he marry Catherine? She had a husband. Could he be like David in placing Uriah the Hittite in the forefront of the battle?

Be reasonable, he admonished himself. Be sensible. Marry Constanza.

He sought her out without delay lest he should change his mind.

‘Constanza,’ he said. ‘If you marry me I will fight to regain your crown.’

Her joy was reflected in her face. She held out her hands and he seized them.

He drew her to him and kissed her.

He felt nothing for her, only a great sickness of heart because she was not Catherine.

It was springtime when the two brothers returned to England with their brides.

John and Constanza went to the Palace of the Savoy, riding through the streets and the people came out to see them.

There were mild cheers for the King and Queen of Castile as they were calling themselves.

Along by the river they rode and into the palace which had delighted John ever since it had come into his possession through his marriage to Blanche. Now he was thinking not so much of the grandeur of that magnificent pile of stones as to what he would find within.

Constanza was amused at his eagerness. She thought it was to see his children. It was not that he would not be delighted to see how they had grown during his absence; but what put that flush in his cheeks and shine in his eyes was the prospect of seeing Catherine again.

In the great hall those who served him in the palace were lined up to greet him and pay homage to the new Duchess of Lancaster who was also the self-styled Queen of Castile; and there were his children. He dared not look just yet at the tall graceful woman who stood holding young Henry’s hand.

Philippa had grown almost beyond recognition. Elizabeth too. And young Henry was a sturdy five-year-old.

John lifted his eyes from the children and looked at Catherine. She smiled serenely.

He felt a great impulse then to take her in his arms, to hold her to him … there before them all. She knew it and her smile was confident. Nothing could change the overwhelming attraction between them. Certainly not this dark-eyed bride from Castile.

‘And how are my son and daughters?’ asked John.

He was not looking at her but at the children but he was seeing her – the soft skin, the thick red hair which sprang so vitally from the smooth white forehead. He knew the texture of that skin and he longed to touch it.

‘We have seen the King,’ said Philippa.

‘Alice Perrers was with him,’ added Elizabeth; she was more outspoken than her sister.

‘Hush,’ said Philippa. ‘We are not supposed to talk of her.’

‘Must you talk of others when your father has just returned? And what has my son to say for himself?’

Henry told his father that he went hunting last week. ‘We caught a fine deer.’

‘Nothing has changed much since I have been away,’ said John. ‘You must meet the new Duchess. Constanza …’

The children were presented to their stepmother. The girls regarded her with suspicion, young Henry with interest.

‘May I present to you, Lady Swynford, their governess?’

Catherine curtseyed and Constanza gave her a cold nod.

Then John with Henry’s hand in his and the girls on the other side of him passed on.

At the earliest possible moment he sent for her.

When she came to his apartments, he was shaking with emotion.

‘I wished to see you, Lady Swynford, to hear from your lips how my children have fared during my absence.’

‘All is well with them, my lord,’ she answered calmly. ‘They are in good health, as you see, and progress at their lessons. Henry’s riding masters will give you a good account of his conduct I am sure …’

He was not listening. He was watching her intently.

‘I have longed to see you,’ he said quietly. ‘You have changed little. It has been so long.’

She lowered her eyes.

‘I must see you … alone … where we can be together.’

She lifted her eyes to his. ‘Is it possible, my lord, now?’

Of course it had been different before. Blanche had been dead. He was a widower then. Now he was just returned with a new bride.

‘I married for state reasons,’ he said. And was amazed at himself. Why should he, the son of the King, explain his reasons to a governess?

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I know it.’

‘You have a husband,’ he said, as though excusing himself for not marrying her. What did she do to him? She made a different man of him. She unnerved him; she bewitched him. He believed that had she been free he would have married her.

If he had what bliss that would have been. No subterfuge, they could have been together night and day.

‘I must see you,’ he said.

‘When, my lord?’

‘You must come to my bedchamber.’

‘And the Duchess?’

‘I know not … but I will arrange something … I must. I yearn for you. I have ever since I left. There is no one like you, Catherine, no one … seeing you again, I know.’

She answered: ‘I know too.’

‘Then we must …’

‘But how, my lord? It will not be easy.’

‘But it must be. It must.’

She was right when she said it was not easy, but he contrived it. He had to. There was a small room in a part of the palace which was infrequently used. They met there.

There was a bed on which they made ecstatic love.

He thought of Constanza and the necessity to get her with child. He wished he had never let his ambition lead him into this marriage. The King of Castile. It was an empty title. It was one which Henry of Trastamare would never allow him to have.

It had been a reckless marriage. He should have remained free.

Suppose he had done so. Suppose Hugh Swynford died … Soldiers did die. They died like flies in hot countries. If it was not in battle it was in the fight with disease. Suppose he had married Catherine. How beautiful she would have looked in the robes of a duchess! How proud he would have been, and all the time they would have been together.

What mad dreams to come to an ambitious man. He could imagine the astonished fury of his father and of Edward. Edmund and Thomas would have been amused, though they did not count.

But he had married Constanza; he had become the King of Castile – and it might be a title that had some meaning some day; and these were wild foolish dreams which came to him only because he was in the thrall of an enchantress.

She was whispering to him now. ‘It will be necessary to be very careful.’

‘Careful. How can I be careful? I betray my feelings for you all the time.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you do.’

‘Then what am I to do?’

‘Go to Castile?’ she suggested.

‘Wherever I go,’ he said, ‘there must you be. I will not be without you so long again.’

And he lay there, knowing that his absence would be noticed; that hers would be too.

Surely it was only necessary to see them together to recognise this flame of passion which seemed as though it would consume them both.

Chapter V THE BLACK PRINCE

The Black Prince came up from Berkhamsted to confer with the King. The Prince’s health had improved a little since his return to England but the periodic bouts of fever remained and when they came they were as debilitating as ever. He would lie in his bed frustrated and bitter. He had never really recovered from the death of his elder son and he worried continuously about Richard’s future.

At this time he was in one of his more healthy bouts and in spite of Joan’s attempts to dissuade him he insisted on going to Windsor.

The sight of the King shocked him as it did each time he saw him. Edward was growing a little more feeble every day, a little more doting on the ubiquitous Alice, and the image of the great King who had won the love and admiration of his people was becoming more and more dimmed.

The Prince thought: If he goes on like this the people will depose him. How much longer will they tolerate Alice Perrers? She behaves as though she is his chief minister and some inspired statesman instead of a rapacious woman, a harpy, just clinging to him for what she can get.

At the moment Aquitaine was the Prince’s concern.

‘I should never have left,’ he said. ‘John has made a great mistake.’

‘Well, he is King of Castile now.’

‘King of Castile,’ said the Prince contemptuously. ‘An empty title! How near is he to ever becoming the true King of Castile? What has this marriage done but brought Henry of Trastamare and the King of France closer together? They are allies now. Far from John’s reigning over Castile we shall find the French taking Poitou and Saintogne.’

‘You take too gloomy a view, my lord,’ said Alice.

The Prince felt ready to explode with fury. He deliberately ignored her and turned to his father. ‘It will be necessary to prepare ourselves. I can assure you that an attack will come before long. The French are not going to lose this advantage. I should have stayed.’

‘You were in no fit state to stay,’ said the King. ‘You are recovering now. You must wait until you are well.’

‘Yes,’ said the Prince bitterly, ‘wait until the French have robbed us of everything we possess. We must act without delay.’

‘The King will not go to France,’ said Alice sharply.

‘That is for the King to decide, Madam,’ retorted the Prince coldly. ‘My lord,’ he continued, turning to the King, ‘this is a matter of great importance. I think we should discuss it in private.’

‘We are in private, Edward,’ said the King.

The Prince raised his eyebrows and looked at Alice.

‘Alice is always with me. She understands what it is all about, do you not, Alice my love?’

‘I understand because it concerns you, my King,’ replied Alice smiling at him.

He is becoming senile, thought the Prince. What is going to happen? The French triumphant; myself sick; John, clever as he is, not a man to lead victorious armies, the King losing his wits and robbed of his strength by a harpy whose only thought is to feather her nest while the old man lives; my son Edward dead and a frail child all I have left! Oh God, what is happening to England? But a few years ago this great country was one of the most powerful in the world, ruled over by an able man. How in a few short years could God bring us so low!

I must regain my health. I must hold the Kingdom together before it is completely lost.

‘Then if we must discuss these matters vital to our country’s survival thus, I will send for John, for he should partake in our discussions.’

‘Yes, do send for John,’ said the King.

‘I hope he is enjoying his marriage,’ put in Alice rather maliciously. ‘Our King of Castile should be rather pleased with himself. There are rumours …’

The Prince gave an abrupt bow to the King and walked out of the chamber. If his father forgot the required etiquette so would he. He would not stand and listen to that low-born creature discuss his brother.

He rode to London and made his way to the Savoy Palace where he knew he would find John.

John was surprised to see him and declared that he was delighted that his health had obviously improved.

‘It is useless to attempt to talk to the King with that woman beside him,’ said the Prince impatiently. ‘I would not have believed this possible if I had not seen it with my own eyes.’

‘She seems to do what she will with him.’

‘The country will be ruined if this goes on. That marriage of yours was not very clever.’

‘I begin to see it now.’

‘What do you suppose the French will do? Make an alliance with Henry of Trastamare obviously. That is clear. You have no chance of winning Castile.’

‘I can see it will be a difficult task.’

‘And you will not achieve it by staying here in England.’

John’s heart sank. He had been foolish. There was no need to have married Constanza. He had allowed himself to believe that there would have been a quick conquest. He might have known that Henry of Trastamare would not be so easily disposed of; and clearly the French would take advantage of the situation. More fighting. More leaving Catherine.

He had been seduced by the glitter of a crown.

The Prince went on: ‘If I but had my strength again! I should never have left Aquitaine. If I had stayed …’

He paused in frustration.

‘What is done is done,’ said John. ‘Let us go on from there.’

‘That makes sense,’ replied the Prince. ‘We must make plans to send out a fleet to Rochelle without delay.’

The Prince’s health seemed to improve as he busied himself with the urgent work of preparing a fleet to sail to France.

He did not intend to go with it. Joan was determined to stop him and with his health in such a precarious state he had to agree that he might be a liability rather than of use.

The Earl of Pembroke should lead the fleet and they would set out as soon as weather permitted for Rochelle. In the meantime the Prince would gather together more men and arms ready to support the landing when it had taken place.

Pembroke set out in June. A few weeks later the disastrous news reached England that the fleet had been intercepted by the Spaniards, and scarcely a ship had been able to limp back to England. So many lives lost, so much treasure squandered!

The Black Prince was in despair. He went to the King and cried: ‘God has deserted us and I am not surprised.’

The King did rouse himself a little, and took his mind from the new jewels he was having made for Alice to think of the implication of this defeat.

‘Would you lose everything we possess in France while you dally with your leman?’ shouted the Prince. ‘I tell you this, my lord, if you persist in your indifference to your crown there will soon be nothing to give your mistress.’

‘You should remember that you speak to your King,’ retorted the King.

‘I remember I speak to my father who was once a great King,’ answered the Black Prince.

The King was shaken. It was true. He thought briefly of the glorious days. This son of his, of whom he had always been so proud and still was, was right of course. There must be a return to the old days of greatness. They were losing France and the Prince was hinting that if they continued thus they could lose England.

He roused himself. Alice’s jewels would have to wait. He would explain to her. She would not want him to lose his crown. He must tell her to try not to anger the Black Prince. She must be reminded that he would be the next King of England.

‘You are right, Edward,’ said the King. ‘We must act promptly. We must muster another fleet. We have to reach Rochelle.’

The Prince clasped his father’s hand.

‘If you can be as you once were, my lord,’ he said, ‘and if I can but keep my health, none will dare come against us.’

A few days later news came that the French had overrun Poitou and Saintogne.

The Black Prince had renewed his energies. He was urging on his father and brothers the need for immediate action. The King himself was aware of the danger and it seemed as though he was returning to his old vigour. Even Alice Perrers could not divert him from the purpose in hand.

But as the preparations went on the Black Prince’s health began to fail again. Joan urged him to take to his bed but he would not listen to her.

‘No, Joan,’ he insisted, ‘this matter is of the utmost urgency. The crown of England itself is in jeopardy. I have to hold it … for Richard.’

Joan knew that it was useless to protest. Frantic with anxiety she watched her husband leave.

‘I shall soon be back again.’

He did come back, sooner than she had expected. The weather was so bad that it was impossible for the ships to land on French soil; and while they were attempting to, the town of Rochelle surrendered. That of Thouars waited in vain for relief but when it failed to come the city gates were thrown open and French invaders moved in.

It was a disastrous defeat. The fleet returned to England having achieved nothing.

The Black Prince was in no state to continue making war. John had been right. He should never have attempted to go. His presence had made no difference because the fleet had been unable to land. All that had happened was that the fever had returned and after every bout he was a little weaker.

Gloom settled over the Court and the country. Alice only could arouse the King from his lethargy. He seemed to be telling himself that he must lose all that he had fought so hard to gain, that God did not favour his claim and had sent Alice to divert him from war and spend his energies in other directions. The Black Prince raged and fumed but he could only do it from a sick bed.

John of Gaunt realised that efforts would have to be made to hold the French possessions and that it would be his lot to try to save them.

Constanza had become pregnant and was pleased about this. She was aware that he had a mistress in the household and that she was the governess to his children by Blanche of Lancaster, but was not really grieved by the discovery, although some of her women thought she should be and should dismiss the brazen red-haired creature. Constanza shrugged her shoulders. She had not married John of Gaunt for love. He had seemed to her the means of winning back for her the throne to which she believed she had a right, and she still did not give up hope of doing so. If he would fight for her crown – and he would if the opportunity arose because it would be his crown too – she would be satisfied.

They had made a show of living together; this child she was to bear was proof of that. She did not object to his having a mistress and Catherine Swynford was a very different kind of woman from Alice Perrers. Catherine had been well brought up in a convent; she had some education; she never attempted to exploit her position. No, Constanza did not greatly object to Catherine Swynford.

It was good to have children, thought John, and he was glad that Constanza was pregnant. His marriage could have been far more inconvenient, and there was always the chance of winning the crown of Castile.

Now of course he would have to return to France as the Black Prince could not go. Nor could the King. So the task would fall to John. He would have to cross those turbulent waters which had proved so recently to be on the side of the enemy. He would have to hold what was left, but for whom … for the King, for the Black Prince, for young Richard?

He did not want to leave England. He hated leaving Catherine for the more they were together, the greater was his need of her.

Then news came to him that among those who had been wounded in the force which had been left to stand against the French was Hugh Swynford. He would tell her the news when she came to his bedchamber. She came to him openly now, for it was impossible to keep their relationship a secret. However much they had tried there were certain to be some who noticed it; and it seemed to them both that it was better to be an open fact than a clandestine one to be whispered about and giggled over in corners.

They both told each other that they were neither of them ashamed. So it was common knowledge throughout the Court that Catherine Swynford was the mistress of John of Gaunt.

Well, the King was sporting with Alice Perrers, but the Black Prince upheld the honour of the family. He was the faithful husband, the hero of the people and he had a son to follow him. Now and then the people had a glimpse of the fair-haired boy who was growing up to be tall and handsome; and when they did they cheered him wildly.

Everything would be all right, said the people, while the Black Prince was with them.

When Catherine was alone with him John immediately told her of the news about Hugh.

‘He is lying sick and in need of nursing close to Bordeaux.’

‘Poor Hugh,’ she said. ‘He will be most unhappy. He is not the sort of man who is blessed with patience. He cannot occupy himself unless it is with horses and fighting.’

‘He is very badly wounded indeed, I believe,’ said John. ‘An idea has come to me. Perhaps you should go out to nurse him.’

‘You … you would send me to him. Does that mean …?’

‘It means that if you were in France, so should I be and the sea would not separate us.’ He had become excited. ‘Listen, my love. I shall have to leave England soon. I have little heart for this coming campaign, but I must go since my father cannot go, nor can my brother. Even he must realise he is too sick for more campaigns. I must leave for France. My spirits would be lifted indeed if when I arrived there I should find you … waiting for me.’

She shared his excitement. She must go. She must nurse Hugh. Often she suffered great remorse on his account. She had something to tell John. She had not wished to mention it until she was sure, but now there could be no doubt.

‘I am going to have your child,’ she said.

A wild joy came over him. It was a delight which he had not felt at the prospect of Constanza’s legitimate child.

‘I am so happy,’ she told him. ‘I had always feared the day would come when you would no longer be with me. I could not hope that you would go on loving me.’

‘You talk nonsense, Catherine, and that is not like you. I shall love you till the day I die.’

‘Perhaps,’ she answered. ‘And I shall have your child. How I shall love it. How I shall cherish it.’

‘I too,’ he replied fervently. ‘Now let us plan. You will go on ahead of me. It is impossible for you to travel with the armies. Oh, my Catherine, this has changed everything. I dreaded journeying to France. Now there is all the difference in the world for when I arrive there I shall find you awaiting me.’

John, assiduous in his care for Catherine, had arranged for her to travel almost royally. She had women to attend her and one of these was a midwife, for John was very anxious, even though it was some months before the child was due, that nothing should go wrong.

Philippa and Elizabeth had been aware that there was some unusual relationship between their father and their governess, and that this gave an importance to Catherine. They were very fond of her; and Elizabeth, who was more precocious although four years younger than her sister, was adept at listening to the gossip of serving men and women. Catherine was a sort of wife of their father she gathered, though not a real one. They had a stepmother, the Queen of Castile, of whom they saw very little; they much preferred Catherine.

And now they heard that she was going away from them. She had a husband it seemed, who was the father of young Thomas and Blanche whom they had seen now and then. And now Catherine was going away and someone else would teach them and be constantly in their company. It was rather mysterious and disturbing. Henry was reduced to tears at the prospect. But nothing they did could keep her; and in due course Catherine was ready to depart.

Now they must say goodbye to their father for he was going away too. He was going to fight the wicked French who would not give their grandfather the crown which really belonged to him.

It was all somewhat mystifying but as the weeks passed they became accustomed to being without Catherine and soon Henry could not remember what she looked like.

It was a long and tortuous journey across France. In the first place it had been necessary to wait for a favourable wind; and then they must be very careful not to venture near those places where there might be danger of meeting the French.

Catherine began to realise that it had not been over zealous of John to send a midwife with them.

She was far gone in pregnancy when they reached Bordeaux and she wondered what she would say to Hugh when she came face to face with him. He might well have heard of her relationship with the Duke of Lancaster in which case he might not be surprised to see her so heavily pregnant.

Poor Hugh! Did he regret their marriage? If he recovered perhaps John would advance him in some way. She would ask him. Not that that would compensate him for the wrong they had done him. It was possible that he had had a few mistresses, for he was not the sort of man to resist the call of the flesh. A sorry business, she thought; and but for the existence of Thomas and Blanche she would have wished the marriage had never taken place. The children always stirred feelings of guilt in her but this wild all-consuming passion between herself and John had been such as to set aside all other considerations.

By the time she reached Bordeaux Hugh was dead, and she could not help feeling relieved, dreading their meeting as she had. His servant told her that he had suffered greatly from his wounds and finally they had become so inflamed that his flesh began to mortify.

He had been buried hastily because of his putrefying flesh and it was feared that her journey had been in vain. Orders had been received from the Duke of Lancaster that her child should be born in Beaufort Castle in Anjou where preparations had been made for her, so there was nothing to do but continue her journey which she did.

She arrived at Beaufort Castle in time for her child to be born.

It was a boy and she called him John after his father.

It was not long after the birth that John came to the castle. His delight in their son was great. A perfect boy, he said. How like her to give him a boy. Constanza’s child was a girl. She had called the child Catherine, which seemed a little ironical since it was the name of her husband’s mistress.

‘It must mean that she does not revile me for taking your love,’ said Catherine.

‘It means that she is quite indifferent to what happens to me … or to you. She wanted me to fight for her crown. She still does and she is hoping that I shall win it for her one day. That is her only concern.’

It was a comfort to Catherine. She had no desire to live in anything but peace with her lover’s wife.

So they were together again if only briefly and they must make the most of the time; he visited her whenever it was possible. It had been a piece of good fortune that had given her a reason for coming to France.

But he must tear himself away from her for he had been appointed Captain General of the armies with three thousand men at arms and eight thousand archers as well as other troops under his command.

It might have been that he was unlucky in war; it might have been that his heart was not in the fight; it was very likely that he longed to be in Beaufort Castle; in any case his campaign was far from successful. He marched through Artois and Champagne to Troyes and into Burgundy and Bourbonnois to the mountains of Auvergne. The winter had come and it was severe; it was hard to find food for the soldiers. He had to keep on the move and at the end of December he arrived at Bordeaux. The campaign had been disastrous. His losses had been great and nothing was achieved.

He was utterly depressed until a messenger came from Beaufort with a letter from Catherine with news of herself and little John. She was pregnant once more and she was longing for the birth of their second child.

How he yearned to be with her. He must see her.

There was nothing to be done, he assured himself, during the winter months. So he rode to Beaufort and he was comforted by her presence; but he could not stay for long and must go back to Bordeaux. He wanted to know immediately when the child was born.

In due course he heard. Another boy. ‘I am naming him Henry,’ she wrote. ‘You have one son Henry but this little one will be Henry Beaufort and I believe you will love him as much as you do his brother.’

He had to see her so once more he made the journey. She had lost none of her attraction and seemed more desirable than ever. She was meant to be a mother. She glowed with health and pride in her two Beaufort boys as she called them. She had never felt like this about Thomas or Blanche Swynford, and although she had been fond of the children, she had been able to leave them to the care of nurses.

‘It is because these boys are your sons,’ she told John. ‘It is because of you that they mean so much to me.’

Reluctantly he tore himself away. The winter was passing and he would have to go into action again. Messengers kept arriving at Bordeaux with impatient messages from the Black Prince who was firmly convinced that if he had been on the scene there would be a different story to tell.

Perhaps that would have been so, thought John. He is a general; he was born to command an army. It is different with me. I believe I was meant to rule but to rule through diplomacy and thoughtful scheming. I would hold my place not with arms but with subtle actions.

A messenger from the Duke of Anjou proposed that his army should meet that of the Duke of Lancaster at Moissac and until that time there should be a truce between them.

To this John agreed with alacrity. A truce would enable him to spend time with Catherine. News came from home that the King was growing almost senile, and it seemed that he could not live very long. The Prince’s health had deteriorated too; before long there must be a new King of England and it would not be an Edward.

A boy of eight or nine! He would need guidance. There would have to be a Regent. A Regent, of course, had the power of a ruler.

If there was to be a king who was a minor the natural regent would be his uncle. John knew that it was imperative for him to be in England.

He talked of this with Catherine. She understood perfectly. She would be ready to leave when he wished to go.

But he wanted her to remain for a while at Beaufort. If the situation was now as he believed it might be, he would have to come out again so he thought it was better for her to remain at Beaufort, particularly as she was once more pregnant. If he were going to stay in England he would send for her; if not he would soon be with her again.

John and his army left for England. He had forgotten his arrangement to meet Anjou at Moissac.

April came. This, said the French, was a breach of faith and there was no reason why they should not march into Aquitaine.

With the exception of Bayonne and Bordeaux the whole of Aquitaine passed into the hands of the French.

The campaign had been an utter disaster.

Catherine gave birth to another boy. This was Thomas. John had two Henrys; she would have two Thomases. The joys of motherhood had settled on her and she intended to make up to Thomas and Blanche Swynford for her neglect of them when she was back in England.

In Beaufort Castle she settled down to wait for the return of John.

There was a growing tension in the streets of London. In the fields beyond Clerkenwell and Holborn, in the meadows of Marylebone and on Hampstead Heath and Tyburn Fields people gathered to listen to those who had made themselves spokesmen for there was not a man or woman who was not aware of the change that was coming.

Within the City walls where merchants and their apprentices shouted the virtues of their wares as they stood beside their stalls in Cheapside under the big signs which proclaimed their trade, there were whispers. Eyes turned towards that Palace of Westminster set among the fields and marshes outside the City and they asked themselves how long the King could last.

And what then? Who would have believed a few years ago that it could have come to this.

They had had a great and glorious King but he had been seduced by a harpy; they had had a Prince who had seemed like a god come down to serve them. And what had happened? He had become a sick man who was clearly fighting now to stave off death.

The heir to the throne was a slender young boy – his father’s son, possessed of the Plantagenet handsome looks but lacking the robustness which was a feature of the race; and overshadowing him was his uncle, John of Gaunt.

John of Gaunt! That was the name which was whispered in the streets and the meadows. ‘He seeks to rule us,’ it was murmured. ‘He is waiting for his brother to die. Then he will attempt to take the crown from little Richard and there will be war.’

John of Gaunt! His very name proclaimed his foreign birth. What had he done? He had conducted an unsuccessful campaign in France which had resulted in great losses and they had paid taxes that this campaign might be carried out.

Rumour had it that he kept his mistress over there. Catherine Swynford, the wife – widow now – of one of his men. They were raising a little family of Beauforts. Three boys and a girl. And his wife the poor Queen of Castile was ignored. He had married her for her crown but before she could gain it it had to be won and they would be expected to pay for his adventures. John of Gaunt was not noted for his generalship. He was not like the hero of Crécy and Poitiers. Oh, what an ill fate for England when the great Black Prince had been stricken with sickness! The only hope for the country was that he would live a little longer, or that the King himself would not die for a while.

But the King had disappointed them. He appeared in public with that harlot Alice Perrers beside him, decked in fine satins and velvets and wearing the royal jewels. Those who remembered good Queen Philippa cursed her. No good could come of a family which flaunted its immorality, openly defying the laws of Holy Church. The King could be forgiven by some. He was old, he was senile, they said; he had once been great and England had loved him. There had rarely been a King who had been so loved as Edward the Third. Yes, they could find it in their hearts to overlook his lapse from virtue. But John of Gaunt, with his harlot Catherine Swynford, no! London did not want this man. They would not tolerate his rule.

He had returned to England after the disastrous campaign and he had been going back and forth to France for the last two years, staying in Ghent and Bruges and attempting to persuade the French to agree to a truce. On his knees almost to the French! They had come a long way from Poitiers when the Black Prince had returned with the King of France as his captive.

Sad days had come to England and at such times it was natural to look for a scapegoat. The people had looked and found one. His name was John of Gaunt.

In his Palace of Berkhamsted the Black Prince was often confined to his chamber and there he fretted about what was happening at Court.

Joan was growing more and more anxious about the state of affairs. Even her optimism was beginning to wane. She could no longer deceive herself that the Prince’s health was improving. As he grew older the attacks were becoming not only more frequent but more virulent. There was one consolation. As time passed Richard was growing older. He was now nine years old; she thanked God that he was clever and had such a good mentor as Sir Simon Burley who was so obviously devoted to him.

The Prince talked to her constantly about the state of the country. His great fear – as hers was too – was what would become of Richard if his grandfather and father were to die and he become King.

‘While I live,’ said the Prince, ‘feeble as I am, I can still look after him.’

‘The people are with you.’

‘Yes, the people have always been faithful. But, Joan, I fear my brother.’

‘John has always been the most ambitious of you all, but I cannot believe he would harm Richard.’

‘He might not try to take his place on the throne. The people would never agree to that and John knows it. What he will seek to do – as he is doing now – is to become my father’s chief adviser. The Parliament consists of those who are working for him; he has agreed to tolerate Alice Perrers, even make a friend of her. My dear Joan, any who can do that is to be suspected.’

‘I know. If only you were well how different everything would be.’

‘Had I been well, Joan, we should never have suffered such losses in France; England would be as strong as she was in my father’s heyday. I must go to Westminster. I cannot lie here and see my brother take over the government of this country.’

She knew it was no use trying to dissuade him.

‘You must wait a few days,’ she insisted, ‘and we will try and get you ready for the ordeal.’

At length he agreed to wait and so determined was he to go that in a few days his health did improve enough for him to make the journey.

Richard was fully aware of the tensions all round him and it was particularly disturbing to know that he was concerned in them. He was very much aware of his father’s anxious eyes which seemed to follow him whenever they were together. The King would make him sit by his chair or by his bed and would talk to him of the responsibilities of kingship.

It was very necessary always to keep the affection of the people. One must never forget that one was a king. Always the dignity of the throne must be preserved. The country must come first; a king must serve it even though it meant hardship and unselfish devotion.

Richard was beginning to think that kings did not have a very good time.

He broached the matter with Sir Simon Burley whom, next to his mother, he loved best in the world.

‘If the life of a king is such a hard one, sacrificing all the time and doing not what he wants but what others want him to do, why do so many people want to be a king?’

‘It is because of power. A king is the head of the state. He has greater power than anyone else …’

Richard’s eyes began to shine with excitement and Simon said quickly: ‘He can lose it quickly if he does not use it wisely.’

‘How will he know what is wisely?’

‘His conscience will tell him and also his ministers.’

‘Is my grandfather wise?’

Simon was silent for a few seconds and he was conscious of Richard’s awareness of the silence, Richard was very sharp. It was a good sign. He was a clever boy. He would make a good king.

‘Your grandfather was the most brilliant monarch in Europe.’

‘Was?’ said Richard quickly. ‘Was, did you say, Simon?’

‘Your grandfather is now an old man. He is surrounded by people who may not be as wise as we could wish.’

‘Like Alice Perrers?’

‘What do you know of her?’

‘I listen, Simon. I always listened. I learn more by listening and piecing the information together. Yes, I learn more that way because when you or my mother or my father tell me what it seems good for me to know, you don’t tell all … and unless I know everything it is not always easy for very often the important bits are those which are left out.’

‘My lord,’ said Simon, ‘I know this. You profit from your books.’

‘I love my books because with them I can do well. I do not love outdoor sports in the same way because there will always be those about me, who without much effort can do better than I. We like that at which we excel.’

‘We do indeed and right glad am I that you learn so quickly.’

Richard was watching his tutor intently. He knew that he was coming to the conclusion that Richard’s tender years should be forgotten. It must be remembered that here was a clever boy who might within a year or so be the King of England.

He said soberly: ‘The kingdom has come to a sorry state. Not so long ago we were progressing to such prosperity as we had not known before but a series of mishaps befell us. The chief of those was the Black Death which carried off more than half of our people. Can you imagine what it was like when this scourge descended on us? There were not enough men left to till the fields; those who could do it demanded such high payment as it was impossible to give. Your grandfather was strong in those days. He set the country working in good order again – but we could never make up for all those we had lost. Then there was the French war – which took our men and our treasure. The people grow restive when taxes are high. They see their hard-earned money going on the battlefields of France. The King has grown old …’

‘And,’ put in Richard, ‘surrounds himself with unwise counsellors.’

‘We must always guard our tongues, my lord.’

‘Never fear, Simon, I shall guard mine until such time as I may safely use it.’

‘Your father who was a great strong man is stricken by illness. The people had looked to him as their next king. There is a great melancholy in the country because of your father’s illness.’

‘He is going to die, Simon.’

Simon did not answer. It was no use offering this bright boy lies.

‘And when he dies and my grandfather dies … I shall be King.’

‘That may well be some years yet. I pray God it will be.’

‘Why, Simon? If my grandfather is surrounded by unwise counsellors it is better for him to die.’

‘You talk too glibly of death, my lord. It is for God to decide.’

‘He decided to send the Black Death so you never know what evil will come through Him.’

‘We must accept what He sends as best for us. He sends great mercy too.’

‘He took my brother Edward. He did that suddenly. They were not expecting Edward to die. If he had not died he would have been the King.’

‘We must accept God’s ways,’ said Simon.

‘It would be better,’ replied Richard, ‘if we could understand them. The people want my father, do they not. Whereever he goes they shout for him. They love him dearly.’

‘He is a great hero … a great Prince.’

‘They like his name. They like Edwards.’

‘There was one Edward they did not like.’

‘Oh yes, my great-grandfather. They hated him and he was an Edward. Perhaps they will not mind a Richard after all.’

‘My lord, my lord, a name is of no importance. When the time comes you will show them that a Richard can be the best King they have ever had.’

The boy stood up suddenly, his eyes shining. ‘I will. Simon, I will.’

‘God bless you,’ murmured Simon.

The Black Prince was carried in his litter from Berkhamsted to London.

When the people heard that he was on his way they thronged the streets to welcome him.

He was glad he was in his litter so that they could not see how swollen his body was with the dropsy which persisted and which had killed his mother. He smiled as he acknowledged their cheers and tried to look as though he were not in pain. Indeed, the exhilaration of their affection for him comforted him so much that he felt better for it.

He first went to the King. A sorry sight. He himself had to be carried in. What have we come to the Prince asked himself. Great Edward and his mighty son, the Black Prince, two decrepit old men, their glory long past. Are these the heroes who made Frenchmen tremble at their approach? If they could see us now, they would snap their fingers at us. They would be very saucy. And they had been. They had shown what they thought of an England which had lost its mighty leaders.

The King’s eyes were full of tears as he beheld his son.

‘I thank God,’ he said, ‘that your mother is not alive to see us thus.’

‘I thank God she is not alive to see who has usurped her place beside you.’

The Prince had always spoken frankly, and what had he to lose now?

‘Alice is my only comfort in these sad days,’ said the King.

‘My lord, when comfort has to be so dearly bought it is oft-times better to do without it.’

The King sighed and looked pathetic. ‘John understands,’ he said. ‘He and Alice are good friends now.’

‘And for a clear reason,’ said the Prince. ‘John it seems would be the friend of the devil if by so doing he could advance his ambition.’

‘My son, let us talk of more pleasant matters.’

‘We must talk of England, my lord. And that I’ll grant you is not the pleasant matter it once was.’

‘The old days … I think of them constantly. Do you know, Edward, sometimes I lie abed and I think I am young again … on the field. I’ll never forget Crécy. Oh what joy you gave me then.’

‘Past glories, my lord. They are behind us. What is to be done now? That is what I have come to ask. There are stories of bribery and corruption throughout the Court. Your leman Alice Perrers has dared to appear on the bench at Westminster and tell the judges how to act, which depends on what bribe she has received from the prisoner or his friends.’

‘Alice is a clever minx,’ said the King fondly.

‘My lord, think back, think to those days when you were a lion among your people. You would never have allowed such anomalies then. For God’s sake, Father, stop it before it is too late!’

‘If you have come here to try to persuade me to give up my only comfort in life you must go away, Edward.’

‘Your comfort! The whole country is appalled by your lechery.’

‘How dare you speak to me thus. I am your King!’

‘I will say what I feel. I am the heir to the throne and I will not see it sent tottering by imbecility and lechery.’

‘You must leave me, Edward. I had thought you had come to comfort me.’

‘There is only one comfort for you … so you have told me. This harlot is the one who knows how to provide it. What a confession for a great King to make! To think that you … you were once held up to me as a shining example of all that was great and noble in kingship … to think that you have come to this!’

The King was in tears. Poor senile old man! And the pain in the Prince’s body was beginning to throb, and torture him unbearably.

‘You must see John,’ muttered the King. ‘He will talk to you.’

The Prince shouted for his servants.

‘Take me to my apartments,’ he said. And he was thinking: No, I will not see John. I will see those who will help me to stifle John’s ambitions.

The Prince summoned Sir Peter de la Mare, the Speaker of the House of Commons, to his apartments in the palace and as soon as he arrived he came immediately to the point.

‘I have travelled from the country at great discomfort,’ said the Prince, ‘because I am suffering much disquiet at the manner in which the affairs of this country are being conducted. I am convinced that there are a few good men who deplore this state of affairs even as I do.’

‘That is so, my lord.’

‘You need not hesitate to speak frankly to me because what you have to say might be disloyal to members of my family,’ went on the Prince. ‘Speak freely. Nothing you say shall be held against you and it would seem to me that on certain matters men such as you think as I do. But let us say this: It grows late but it may not be too late.’

‘Since you ask me, my lord Prince, to speak frankly, so will I do. The country is being ruined and the chief enemy is the King’s mistress. She has introduced bribery and corruption into the Court. She is an evil woman and no good can come to this country while she remains at the King’s side.’

‘And the Duke of Lancaster?’

De la Mare hesitated. It was one thing to speak against the King’s mistress but to speak against his son was quite different.

‘Come,’ said the Prince, ‘I have asked you to speak frankly.’

‘The Duke of Lancaster has become the friend of Alice Perrers, my lord, for the purpose I am sure of gaining influence with the King.’

The Prince nodded. ‘I see that we understand each other. My lord, we must act with speed. Would you be prepared to do so?’

‘With you behind me, my lord, yes, I would.’

‘Then you must move Parliament to act.’

‘That would not be difficult. The country is restive on account of excessive taxation and when it is considered that much of what is taken from them is bestowed on Alice Perrers, they are ready to revolt.’

‘Then go to it!’ said the Prince. ‘I see no reason why Alice Perrers should not be dismissed.’

‘There is Latimer, the King’s Chamberlain. He works closely for your brother. He is also responsible for the growth of bribery about the Court. I fear that nothing much can be done while he holds his position.’

‘Then Latimer must be deprived of his office. Summon the Parliament and attend to these matters.’

‘It means that we are going against John of Gaunt.’

‘It means that you are standing with the Black Prince.’

‘When they know that you are with them, my lord, methinks that will decide them.’

Sir Peter de la Mare left the Prince and went with all haste to his home that he might prepare his speech to the House of Commons.

The Prince lay on his bed. The pain had returned in full force. He was even more tormented by his thoughts.

Conflict in the family. It was always unwise, and now that the country was so weak it was a danger.

He had always known John was ambitious. What did he want?

The crown! Of course he wanted a crown. He had married Constanza of Castile for one and it was hardly likely that he would ever get it. No, his eyes were on the crown of England. And that was going to be planted firmly on the head of little Richard.

Oh God, prayed the Prince, let me live long enough to see my son safely come into his own.

Sir Peter de la Mare’s speech caused an uproar in the House of Commons. He was an eloquent man which was why he had risen to his present post and he was expressing sentiments which were applauded by the majority of them – those who were not the close friends and supporters of John of Gaunt.

The Black Prince was behind them. De la Mare had made that clear. The Prince might be a sick man but he was still a power in the land.

His first attack was on the King’s mistress. He wanted her banished from Court. He knew that the House was with him as regarded this woman; there was one other who must be removed – and indeed perhaps impeached – and that was the King’s Chamberlain who was guilty of bribery among other misfeasances. This brought storms of applause.

The Commons was hopeful. The rot was about to be stopped. They all knew that there was one powerful man who might stand in their way. The Duke of Lancaster. But they had the backing of his elder brother. The Black Prince still lived and from his sick bed he was going to bring the country back to reason and prosperity.

Riding to his Palace of the Savoy, thinking of the welcome that awaited him there, John was a happy man. Catherine was installed as his mistress and the governess of his children. There was a nursery full now. Her own four little Beauforts as she called them – she had a daughter Joan as well as the three boys – the most loved of all the children because they were her own. Then there were Philippa and Elizabeth, Blanche’s girls, and of course young Henry, his heir, and the most important of them all in the eyes of the world of course. Constanza’s girl Catherine was with her mother but Swynford’s son and daughter, Thomas and Blanche, had joined them now because Catherine had wanted them there, which was natural. He could never really like them because they were Swynford’s he supposed, but the boy was bright and handsome and the girl attractive as was to be expected of any child of Catherine’s.

He was more satisfied than he had been for some time. His triumph at home had grown since he had overcome his repugnance for Alice Perrers and had shown the King that he was ready to accept her in exchange for his confidence. From then on it had been easy. He had his friends such as Lord Latimer and other influential men in Parliament. If the King were to die and the Prince with him, and Richard became King, it would be his uncle, John of Gaunt, who would be the real ruler.

Success at home had wiped out the sour taste of defeat abroad. He never wanted to go back to Bordeaux as long as he lived.

No, what he wanted was England. He did not now want the crown of Castile, that glittering bauble which had proved to be so unattainable. He wanted what he always had wanted, the crown of England. And with a young boy on the throne and himself guiding the country’s policy he would be its virtual ruler.

Once the King was dead Alice could be dismissed. That would make everything so much easier. And how long could the King live? How long the Black Prince?

As he approached the Savoy Palace he saw a crowd of men watching him and his party.

He heard the shout: ‘John of Gaunt. Down with John of Gaunt. Edward, the Black Prince for ever. Banish Alice Perrers. Impeach Latimer. God bless the Black Prince.’

He spurred his horse. He hoped none of the mob was armed. He galloped past them towards the palace. They made no attempt to follow.

His elation had completely passed. The Black Prince was not dead by any means. He was making his presence felt. And he had come out into the open as the enemy of Alice Perrers and his brother.

There was nothing to be done. He must accept it. There would be revolution otherwise. He by no means shared his brother’s popularity. The people had always been against him – and particularly the people of London. How he hated them – these merchants who believed because they were rich they had a right to say how the country should be ruled.

‘Down with John of Gaunt.’ Those words were like the tolling of a warning bell.

He knew as he rode into the palace that bad news awaited him.

It seemed that the Parliament had prevailed; the people were with them. They were called the Good Parliament and the reason was that they had succeeded in removing Latimer from office and banished Alice Perrers from the Court.

The King might weep senile tears for Alice. He might mourn the loss of Latimer but even in his feeble state he could sense the mood of the people.

‘What have they done to us, John?’ he mourned. ‘They have taken away our friends.’

Yes, thought John, they have shown us that the Black Prince is still alive and that while he continues to live we must do as the people wish.

‘What shall I do without Alice?’ moaned the King.

John wanted to say: Find another whore. But he restrained himself. His strength lay in placating his father and by the look of the old man it seemed as though he would not be long for this land.

Nor would the Black Prince.

It was a waiting game, but waiting was something which ambitious men had to accept.

After his meeting with de la Mare the Black Prince had gone to the palace of Kennington. It was closer to Westminster than Berkhamsted and he was eager to be as near London as possible.

His efforts had taken great toll of his strength and Joan was beside herself with anxiety. He grew excited as he told her what he had been able to achieve. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I must live long enough to see Richard proclaimed as true heir to the throne.’

‘None could deny that he is.’

‘John is wily. I know not what is in his mind.’

‘Surely he can’t have plans to take the throne, to make that Henry of his Prince of Wales!’

‘I do not know what goes on in his mind. I think what he wants is to rule the country and if he cannot wear a crown while he is doing so he will rule without it.’

‘You mean he would take charge of Richard?’

‘I think that is his idea. Jeanette, you will have to guard our boy.’

‘He is not going to be King for many many years. We shall both be here to train him and guide him.’

‘You were always one to deceive yourself when you felt happier doing so.’

‘I was always one to believe in the good that could come to those who sought it. Remember how I married you.’

‘I shall never forget that, dear Jeanette, nor could I forget the years we have had together. They have been good. They gave us our Richard. Oh my Jeanette, that boy fills my thoughts. To think that one day, ere long I know, a crown will be placed on his golden head.’

She stooped and kissed him. ‘Not for many many years, I promise you.’

He sighed. It was no use trying to convince Jeanette.

He had other work to do. He must keep the Good Parliament in power. He must let all those right-thinking men know that he stood with them.

He sent for William of Wykeham, the Bishop of Winchester, who had risen from comparatively humble beginnings and who had always been a close friend of his. Wykeham was a man come to office through his brilliant mind. The Prince had always respected him and he turned to him now because he wished to muster as many trusted men as he could that he might enlist their help for his son when the time came.

Wykeham swore that he would stand by young Richard.

‘I thank you, my lord Bishop,’ said the Prince. ‘As you see I am in a poor state, I cannot believe that many more weeks are left to me.’

The Bishop did not attempt to deny this. He believed it was true and he deplored the fact that such a great man should be so low in health and spirit. He promised to pray for the Prince and he added that he was sure that such a man as he would be received into Heaven.

The Prince replied: ‘That might have been so. I have served my country and would willingly at any time have given my life for it. There was a time though, when the devil took possession of me. Limoges. I shall never get it out of my mind.’

‘Many of us have one black spot on our souls, my lord. Pray for forgiveness. It may be that in recompense for the good you have done the evil will be forgiven.’

‘I feel that all my prayers must be for my son. He is very young, Lord Bishop. I tremble when I contemplate his youth.’

‘Burley is a good man. His mother is devoted to him. You yourself, my lord, have done him much good. Fear not for your son. The Lord will provide.’

When the Bishop had gone the Prince sank back on his bed exhausted and none of the possets Joan brought him did anything to alleviate his pain.

It was obvious now that the end was near.

‘Jeanette,’ he said, ‘my only love, the time is near now. No, it is no use hiding from the truth. It has come and we must needs face it. Send a message to my father. I would he could be here at my bedside.’

‘I will send to him immediately,’ she said. ‘But it may be he will be too ill to come.’

‘I fancy he will if he can.’

The King made all haste to reach Kennington. This was his beloved son, the child who had brought so much joy to him and Philippa in the early days of their marriage when each had been all that the other had desired. Edward the Black Prince and hero, destined to follow his father, the pride of the nation, now a sick man asking his father to come to his death bed!

What had happened to the world!

How, thought the King, have I offended God?

The tears ran down his sunken cheeks as he knelt by the bed.

The years slipped away and he was there with Philippa – dear good Philippa who had never known how to titillate his senses as Alice did; but Philippa who had been good and steady, had always stood beside him, firmly supporting him, and the people had loved her. A wonderful marriage. Yet he had sullied it. Alice had been there before Philippa had died and Philippa had known it.

Life was cruel. And we hurt most those we love best, thought the King.

And there was Joan standing there, bereft, with the strange blank look in those eyes which had once been so bright and provocative and had sent his heart pounding and wondering … Joan the wife of the Black Prince, royal herself, one of the sprigs from the great Plantagenet tree.

‘Joan,’ murmured the King, ‘so it has come to this …’

Joan nodded, unable to speak.

She was leaning over the bed. She laid her lips on that clammy forehead and gently pushed aside the hair thick still and with a touch of gold in it. ‘My dear love, the King is here.’

Edward opened his eyes. ‘Father …’

The King buried his face in his hands and his body heaved with his sobs.

‘My lord, my lord,’ whispered Joan restrainingly.

‘My son, my son,’ moaned the King.

‘He would speak with you, my lord,’ said Joan. ‘And the time is passing.’

Her voice broke on a sob and she turned away fearful lest the Prince should see her grief.

‘Father, I must speak …’

‘My son, speak. I listen. What you ask of me I will endeavour to do.’

‘Confirm my gifts, pay my debts, Father.’

‘It shall be done, my dear son.’

‘And Richard … my boy Richard. You will protect him. He is young yet. A boy, no more. So young … too young. Father, promise me you will look to him.’

‘I swear it,’ said the King. ‘He shall have my protection. Have no fear, son. Richard will be looked after. I give my word to it.’

‘Jeanette … the boy …’

He was brought in, wide-eyed, pale of skin and very beautiful, such a contrast to the dying man on the bed and the poor broken one who knelt beside it … yet so clearly one of them.

‘Richard, come here.’

Richard came to the bed.

‘My lord, take his hand. Swear to me …’

The King took the boy’s hand and said: ‘I swear to you on my soul that I shall protect this boy. With my life I will protect him. He is my heir. I swear it.’

The Prince nodded, satisfied.

‘Richard,’ said the Prince, ‘do not attempt to take away any of the gifts I have bestowed.’

‘I promise, Father,’ said the boy.

‘You would be cursed if you did so.’

Richard looked bewildered and Joan, laying her hand on his shoulder, drew him away from the bedside.

The King was looking at her anxiously and said: ‘It is time to send for the priest.’

She nodded and taking her son by the hand led him away.

The priest was with the Prince who asked forgiveness of his sins. The word Limoges kept rising to his lips.

And so he died.

The King was bewildered. His son dead and he still living! And his heir a young boy just nine years old!

He gave orders that the Prince should be buried with great ceremony and he was laid to rest in Canterbury Cathedral and above his tomb was hung his surcoat and helmet, his shield and his gauntlet that all might remember that great and glorious warrior who was known as the Black Prince.

Chapter VI RIOT AT THE SAVOY

The death of the Black Prince, although expected, had brought home to men such as Peter de la Mare and William of Wykeham the precarious position in which they had placed themselves. They had succeeded in getting Alice Perrers dismissed from Court; they had put a curb on bribery; but they had only been able to do so because of the Support of the Prince.

Now he was dead and the most powerful man in the country was John of Gaunt – their sworn enemy.

It was Peter de la Mare who decided on prompt action. He pointed out that there was a little time left to them before the Parliament could be dissolved and they must make full use of it.

First, agreed William of Wykeham, they must obtain the King’s permission to add twelve bishops and lords to the Council; and he, William of Wykeham, would be one of them. And secondly and most important they must have Richard of Bordeaux publicly acknowledged as his heir by the King.

When this last matter was laid before the King he declared with tears in his eyes that he had sworn to his son the Black Prince to protect Richard and so would he do. Richard should be publicly acknowledged as the true heir to the throne as he undoubtedly was.

One of the selected members of the Council was Edmund de Mortimer, Earl of March, the husband of Lionel’s daughter Philippa who, since Lionel was older than John of Gaunt, would come before him in the claim to the throne if Richard were to die.

Mortimer and John of Gaunt had been wary of each other for a long time. Mortimer had been behind the Black Prince in his determination to bring about reforms; his old guardian had been William of Wykeham so there was a strong tie between the two of them. Thus when the committee were selected to be close to the King and advise him, Edmund, Earl of March had been a natural choice and he with William Courtenay, Bishop of London, and William of Wykeham were the most influential of them all and every one of them was opposed to John of Gaunt and all he stood for.

The ambitions of John were made very apparent when he sought to introduce a bill to bring in the Salic law, as it was in France. If this were passed it would mean that the throne could not be inherited by a woman and John of Gaunt would come immediately behind Richard of Bordeaux in the succession.

Parliament dismissed the idea without considering it, and John was afraid to press it because of the bearing it had on his father’s claim to the throne of France.

Parliament was dissolved in July – only a few weeks after the death of the Black Prince; and then the might of John of Gaunt was realised.

He had his supporters all over the country. The Londoners might detest him, but it was being said elsewhere that a child could never bring stability to the country; and it was clear that John of Gaunt – now the King’s eldest living son – was going to take over the government. Therefore it was wise to stand well with him. John determined to rid himself of his enemies and the first attack came on Edmund de Mortimer who held the office of Marshal. He was ordered to proceed to Calais, and there report on the defences.

Mortimer knew that this meant he was dismissed from the King’s Council, and he was certain, too, that when he reached Calais it would be easy for him to be killed. The country would not introduce the Salic law; and if he were dead there would be none to support his daughter’s claim to the throne.

No, said Mortimer, I prefer to lay down my staff than my life, and solved the matter by resigning his post as Marshal which was immediately given to Lord Henry Percy, a strong supporter of John of Gaunt.

The next act was to bring a case against William of Wykeham who was accused of governing badly during the term of his Chancellorship, of embezzlement, extorting money and extracting bribes.

‘I can prove all these accusations false,’ he cried to his accusers. ‘I need time.’

‘You did not give Lord Latimer time to prove the charges against him false,’ he was reminded.

John was alert, watching the mood of the people. He realised that he could not go too far with Wykeham and he declared that he should be granted time to prove his case. He was however determined to find Wykeham guilty.

When he came to stand before the Council that judgement might be passed, he was accompanied by William Courtenay, the Bishop of London, which implied that the Church was watching how one of its members was treated.

Wykeham declared that he would take his oath that never had he used funds for his advantage. The Council was not interested in oaths, was the retort, but facts.

John said: ‘This man is guilty. I demand he pay the full penalty.’

Courtenay reminded him that William of Wykeham was a Bishop and therefore he could not be sentenced by a secular Court.

John was furious but he realised he could at this stage do nothing. If he had his way he would curtail the power of the Church considerably.

So the outcome of the trial was that William of Wykeham’s goods should be confiscated to the Crown and the trial would be adjourned to a later date.

With the power of March and Wykeham clipped John was able to take immediate action. De la Mare was made a prisoner and Lord Latimer was released. The people of London discussed this turn of affairs together and de la Mare became a hero. Ballad singers in the streets sang songs about him. A great resentment was growing against John of Gaunt and his friends and this was increased when Alice Perrers was allowed to come back to Court.

The King was overjoyed to see her. He could not thank his dear son John enough for being so careful of his comfort.

There was no doubt that at this time John of Gaunt was the most powerful man in the country. Then the scandal broke.

In the taverns the story was being whispered. It seemed incredible but there were so many who wanted it to be true for if it were John of Gaunt would be disqualified for ever.

Heads were close together; at first it was spoken of in whispers and then people grew bolder. The Londoners had never been noted for their fear of authority and had always regarded themselves outside the laws which must be obeyed by the rest of the country. They said what they thought and nothing was going to stop them.

John was first aware of what was happening when he came riding from Westminster to the Savoy.

‘Bastard!’ The name was flung at him. It was one word which meant so much.

He was soon to discover how much.

The story was that he was not the true son of King Edward and Queen Philippa. There was some mystery about his birth which had come out now through William of Wykeham who had been present at the deathbed of Good Queen Philippa and had it from her dying lips.

It appeared that while she lay in Ghent in child-bed a daughter had been born to the Queen. Now it was well known that the King longed for a son. It was true at this time he already had two, Edward and Lionel; there had been a third, though, little William who had died soon after his birth.

The King was away in the wars and Philippa wanted to surprise him when he returned, so it was with great chagrin that she learned the child she had borne was a girl. She had other girls and the King was devoted to them so this did not seem too great a tragedy. However, as the child lay beside her she slept and overlaid it. The child was suffocated and died.

Terrified of the King’s wrath – for all knew that, great man though he was in those days, he possessed the Plantagenet temper which struck terror into all when it was aroused – she called to her a Flemish woman who had given birth to a healthy boy at the same time as she had had her child.

‘Give me your child,’ the Queen was reputed to have said, ‘and he shall be brought up as the son of a King. He shall be educated, live in luxury and never want.’

This was too much of a temptation for the humble Flemish woman and she gave her child to the Queen – that child was known to the world as John of Gaunt.

And who would believe it? There was a good reason for believing it. The Queen had confessed on her deathbed. In her last moments she had sent for William of Wykeham and told the story to him, with the injunction that he was not to divulge it, unless there was a chance of John of Gaunt’s coming to the throne.

Now the story was being allowed to seep out for John of Gaunt’s ambitions were carrying him very near to the crown.

That the story would not bear scrutiny mattered not. The people wanted to believe it and they were going to. That Philippa already had two healthy sons and would not have been greatly put out by giving birth to another daughter was brushed aside. That the King, loving his sons as he did, was besottedly fond of his daughters, could be forgotten. That Philippa, the most tender of mothers, was hardly likely to overlay a child – in any case it would be the duty of the nurses to take the child when its mother wished to sleep – all this was of no importance.

The people liked the story because it was against John of Gaunt and they were going to believe it.

John was furious. He paced through his apartments and shouted his anger.

Catherine tried to calm him. But he would not listen to her.

‘Wykeham is at the back of this!’ he cried. ‘He wants to destroy me.’

‘It is the most stupid story I ever heard,’ said Catherine.

‘Stupid it undoubtedly is but it has to be disproved. Isolda would have put an end to it. Who would know better than she did? My mother would tell the world what a stupid lie it is. But they are dead … The fabricators of this … of this … outrage know it and that is why they bring the charge.’

‘What of Wykeham? She is supposed to have made her confession to him.’

‘Wykeham is my enemy.’

‘Even so he is a man of the Church. He would not lie merely to harm you.’

John burst out laughing. ‘You know little of the ways of men, Catherine. My enemies would do anything to ruin me.’

Catherine tried to soothe him. She wished as so many others did that the Black Prince had not died. If only he had lived there would not be all this fear and suspicion. It was a great tragedy for England that God had taken the Prince who was the natural heir to the throne and so suited to the role.

John was ambitious, she had always known it. Power was at the very essence of his being. It was one of the attributes which attracted her so vitally. The strength of him – the awareness that this man who was clearly destined for greatness had need of her.

Their children were growing up. She wanted a good future for the little Beauforts. The higher John rose the more bright would be that future. And now there was this cruel scandal. It was obviously lies and yet it was none the less hurtful for that. There were so many who would harm John if they dared.

‘It is clear,’ raged John. ‘This is Wykeham’s revenge on me. How I hate that man. How dare he! Does he think I have no power in this land?’

Catherine said: ‘Have a care, John. It has always been dangerous when the Church and the State are in conflict.’

‘The Church has too much power. One day I shall curb that. There was a man I met in Bruges. A certain John Wycliffe. He was raging against the power of the Church. He wants to curb it. They were saying he was a fanatic. But I am inclined to agree with him.’

‘Has Wykeham publicly declared this story to be true?’

‘Nay. He is too clever for that. He declares that it does not stem from him. He has said nothing. But the story is being bruited around and Wykeham is said to be the one who was at my mother’s bedside when she died.’

‘No one can possibly believe it,’ said Catherine.

‘None with good sense can.’

‘You are so like your father and brothers. None could doubt even by merely glancing at you, that you are a true Plantagenet.’

‘People often believe what they want to believe, Catherine, and, by God, there are many in this land who are trying to pull me down.’

‘Never fear, it will soon be forgotten.’

‘My dearest it will be remembered as long as men continue to hate me. There were rumours about my father and the Black Prince and they were greatly loved.’

‘As you will be.’

He shook his head at her.

‘Love blinds you,’ he said softly. Then his rage was back.

‘Wykeham has given no credence to this story so we hear, but I tell you this, I shall hate Wykeham for as long as I live and I shall have my revenge on him.’

At Kennington Joan was preparing her son for a very important occasion.

‘You understand what this means, Richard?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘The King is going to accept me formally as his heir.’

‘That is right. All the highest in the land will be present. They will all pay homage to you.’

‘Am I as important as that?’

‘It is not you who are so important. It is the Crown. You must always remember that when people bow before you it is to the Crown to which they are paying homage.’

‘Yes, I shall remember,’ said Richard.

His mother kissed him fondly. She was fearful because he was so young; and he needed his father as he had never needed him before.

Sir Simon Burley who was standing by read her thoughts.

‘We’ll pray for him, Simon,’ she said.

Excitement had put colour into Richard’s cheeks. Tall, slender, with his Plantagenet colouring – golden curly hair and bright blue eyes – he was very beautiful.

The people who had lined the road to see him pass were enchanted by his youth and grace.

‘God bless you, Richard of Bordeaux,’ they cried.

He acknowledged their greetings with a modest charm which immediately won their hearts. The Londoners were wildly enthusiastic. Their hatred of John of Gaunt made them love him all the more.

Richard was exultant. This was the prelude to kingship. He thought there was nothing quite so exciting as the sound of the people’s cheers. They expressed their love for him. They wanted him to be their next King.

‘What a beautiful boy!’ said the people. ‘Young and lovely and innocent. There is a King in the making. God bless him.’

It was even more exciting in the House of Commons. All those solemn men – the greatest in the land, and all proclaiming him the true heir to the throne.

That was not all. Afterwards they must go to Westminster where the King was waiting for him.

Richard knelt before his grandfather and the King bade him rise that he might embrace him before the assembled company and let the whole world know that next to himself he, Richard, was the most important in the land.

Now he must sit on the right hand of the King and all his uncles were there and they must do homage to him. Uncle John of Gaunt was affable but his eyes glittered with speculation; he was ingratiating, implying that he would always be there beside him, to help him, to guide, to advise him. He had heard whispers about his uncle John; it was difficult to believe them of this splendid man who assured him of his wish to serve him. With his uncle John were his uncles Edmund and Thomas, and they too assured him of their loyalty and devotion to him. Uncle Edmund was tall and handsome; he had been abroad with John and they were good friends; they had even married sisters. Richard liked Uncle Edmund the best of all the uncles. He smiled so often and there was an air of great kindliness about him. Simon had said he was not an energetic man and thereby implied a criticism. But he was certainly pleasant to be with. Then there was Uncle Thomas, the youngest of the uncles. He was not sure of Uncle Thomas. Simon had been somewhat reticent when his name was mentioned and this Richard construed as meaning that Simon was not quite sure of him either. He did not smile as ingratiatingly as Uncle John did; nor as pleasantly and unconcernedly as Uncle Edmund. But he paid his homage just the same. He was obliged to, for the whole purpose of this occasion was to swear loyalty to the true heir to the throne.

There was one present who interested Richard more than any of the others and that was his cousin Henry, the eldest son of John of Gaunt. This was because Henry was more or less the same age as he was. He himself as a matter of fact was a few months older. He knew this because Henry had been born on the day the battle of Nájara had been won – that battle which his mother had said brought no good to anyone not even Pedro the Cruel who gained his throne through it, because he was soon after done to death as he deserved to be – and it was at that battle, so his mother always declared, that the Prince’s sickness began in earnest.

Richard was somewhat pleased to see that he was much taller than Henry; but in spite of the fact that he did not match up to the Plantagenet stature, Henry was sturdy and well formed; moreover he had inherited the family good looks, though he was slightly darker than most of them. His hair was more russet than gold but he had the Plantagenet features.

He too had been brought to pay homage to the future King.

The two boys regarded each other solemnly. Richard smiled slowly and Henry returned the smile.

John of Gaunt was watching the two boys. Henry knew what was in his father’s mind. He is angry, thought Henry, as he always is, because he is not the heir to the throne.

The King took Richard to sit beside him and showed how eager he was to honour him.

He saw the notorious Alice Perrers. She was sumptuously clad and she was wearing jewels which must be worth a fortune.

She made much of him. She told him he was a beautiful boy and that he should be proud of his grandfather who was a great King.

Richard listened haughtily but he did not turn from Alice because he knew that would have offended his grandfather.

He had heard a great deal about her, for his parents had spoken of her, and so much was her conduct talked of that the servants too discussed her at great length.

Richard had heard her called a harpy and a harlot and that the King was far gone in senility to let her govern him.

I should never allow her to behave like that if I were King, thought Richard.

If I were King! It was an intoxicating thought.

And the knowledge that the old King was going to die soon and the crown would be placed on his own golden head, set him tingling with anticipation.

Of all his enemies John of Gaunt realised that William of Wykeham was the greatest. William it was true had not confirmed the scandal about the Flemish woman’s baby; he had in fact declared that such a story had not started with him. But John would not forgive him. Wykeham’s fortunes had sunk very low now; his possessions had been confiscated but he could not be dismissed and sooner or later some of his Church cronies would rise and make trouble. He was not the sort of man who could be pushed aside and forgotten. The Church for one thing would not allow that.

The Church! A thorn in the side of any monarch … or would-be monarch!

If John ever ruled, one of the first things he would do would be to curb the power of the Church. Some of his ancestors had attempted it, the most outstanding case being that of Henry the Second and Thomas à Becket.

John had been impressed by the reformer John Wycliffe whom he had first met in Bruges. The man was a fanatic and John did not favour men of his kind; but they did share one important point of view: they both deplored the power of the Church, John Wycliffe because as he said there was only one Lord in Chief and that was God. The Pope behaved as though he were God’s Deputy on Earth and in fact a god himself. He possessed too much power and in Wycliffe’s opinion it should be curtailed.

John could agree whole-heartedly with this. He thought that power should be in the hands of the King and that there should be no authority over him. Kings went in fear of excommunication; the Pope had the power to harm them. That should not be.

It was for this reason that John of Gaunt was prepared to defend Wycliffe.

For some time Wycliffe had been fulminating against the Mendicant Friars, and had written a treatise against them. Their chief sin, according to him, was that they granted pardons which had to be bought with gifts to the Church.

‘There is no pardon,’ Wycliffe had thundered, ‘that does not come from God. Spiritual good begins and ends in charity. It may not be bought or sold, as chattering priests would say. He who is rich in charity will be best heard by God be he but a mere shepherd or a worker in the fields. There could be more holiness in such a man than in Mendicant Friars, whose worst abuse is that they pretend to purify those who confess. Will a man shrink from acts of licentiousness and fraud if he believes that soon after, by the aid of a little money bestowed on a friar, an entire absolution of the sin he has committed will be obtained? There is no greater heresy than for a man to believe that he is absolutely resolved from his sins if he gives money. Think not if you give a penny to a pardoner, you will be forgiven for breaking God’s commandments.

‘The indulgences of the Pope, if they are what they are said to be, are a manifest blasphemy. The friars give colour to this blasphemy by saying that Christ is omnipotent and that the Pope is his plenary Vicar, and so possesses in everything, the same power as Christ in his humanity.’

It was inevitable of course that a man who went about giving voice to such opinions should soon be called upon to give an account of himself, and it was shortly after the formal recognition of Richard as the true heir that Wycliffe was cited by William Courtenay, the Bishop of London, to answer respecting his opinions and teachings.

Wycliffe arrived in London to do this and John at once invited him to come to the Savoy Palace.

There he greeted him as a friend and told him that he agreed with his view that there was too much power in the hands of the Church and he, too, would like to see it curtailed.

‘You are to meet the Bishop of London and you should have no fear that you will not be able to withstand his questions. I know him well. He is a man who fears that his own power may shrink. I shall attend the meeting. Lord Percy the Earl Marshal will be present too. We shall show ourselves to be your friends before this Bishop who believes because he is the Bishop of London he has the power of a king.’

Wycliffe answered: ‘I shall not be afraid to answer the questions the Bishop puts to me, my lord. I shall speak my mind and God’s will be done.’

It was a cold February day when the meeting between John Wycliffe and the Bishop of London was to take place. News of the coming confrontation had spread through the City and the people were determined to witness it.

The narrow streets with their gabled houses almost meeting across the narrow road and so shutting out the light of day, were crowded with people making their way to the Cathedral. The Londoners seized on any chance to enliven their days. They would have been on the side of Wycliffe because he was clearly speaking for the people, but his patron it seemed was John of Gaunt, the man for whom they had little love. So their feelings were mixed as they crowded into the Cathedral.

Wycliffe was an impressive figure; he was of more than usual height and was simply clad in a dark robe belted at the waist and hanging to his feet. His flowing beard gave him a venerable air and the people were awed as they watched him.

At his right hand walked John of Gaunt, resplendent as always, in velvet and ermine to proclaim his royalty, a man to catch every eye, a man who must either be loved or hated; and there was no doubt which it was the people felt for him. They whispered together as they watched him. He was the man who was trying to steal the crown from that sweet innocent boy. He was the lecher who flaunted his mistress Catherine Swynford before their eyes, being seen with her on ceremonial occasions so brazenly while he deserted his poor wife whom he had married because she could become Queen of Castile; he was the base-born son of a Flemish woman – a serving wench; her station grew lower and lower as the weeks went by. He was the one who was passing himself off as the King’s son.

They hated John of Gaunt; and it was bewildering that he should be Wycliffe’s champion.

On the other side of Wycliffe was the Earl Marshal, Lord Percy, who had stepped into the role after John of Gaunt had rid himself of the Earl of March, because the wife of the Earl of March was the daughter of Lionel, that son of the King who was older than John of Gaunt and who had unfortunately died in Italy.

So great was the press of people in the Cathedral that Wycliffe with John of Gaunt and Lord Percy on either side of him found it difficult to make his way inside.

Lord Percy gave orders for his men to clear the crowd which they did with a certain amount of roughness. There were cries of protest as people were pushed aside and some fell and cursed the Marshal.

The mood of the people was growing sullen in a way which should have warned John of Gaunt and Percy had they given any thought to the matter.

They had forced their way through and were face to face with those who would hear the case, at the head of whom was William Courtenay, the Bishop of London.

Some might have been intimidated by the sight of John of Gaunt and the Earl Marshal standing on either side of John Wycliffe like guards come to fight his cause – not so William Courtenay. The Bishop was a man of strong principles; his intentions were good; he was kindly by nature; he was eager to do his duty; but there was a certain pride in him and he was very ready to resent what might be construed as a slight. As the fourth son of the Earl of Devon – and his mother was the daughter of the Earl of Hereford – he was highly born and did not intend any should forget it; he had had the inclination to go into the Church and in any case he was a fourth son; and because of his intellectual gifts it seemed very likely that he would rise high in his chosen profession.

The crowd pressed forward from all sides, determined after the rough treatment of the Marshal’s men not to be deprived of their rights. They were sure that it was going to be as good an entertainment as a mummers’ performance.

The Bishop first expressed his displeasure at the signs of rowdiness in his church. The Cathedral was open to all and people came to the holy place for refuge. He did not care to see them roughly treated in the house of God.

‘Had I known, Marshal,’ he said, ‘what masteries you would have brought into the church, I should have stopped you from coming hither.’

Lord Percy was aghast at the rebuke; but John of Gaunt cried angrily: ‘He shall keep such masteries though you say him nay.’

‘We will proceed into the lady chapel,’ said the Bishop ignoring the remark, ‘and there the examination shall proceed.’

The crowd pressed forward. They would not be kept out. Had they heard what their Bishop had said? This was their church and this was their city and they would have none try to take any of their privileges from them.

Percy, smarting from the altercation, looked round the lady chapel and said: ‘Wycliffe, sit down. You have many things to answer, and you need to repose yourself on a soft seat.’

The Bishop replied sharply: ‘It is not the custom for one so cited to be seated during his answers. He must and he shall stand.’

John of Gaunt’s temper burst out. He hated the Bishop; and all he stood for.

He cried in a loud voice so that all the people who were crowding round could hear: ‘Lord Percy’s request is not unreasonable. As for you, my lord Bishop, you have grown so proud and arrogant that I will no longer tolerate such conduct. I will put down the pride, not of you alone, but of all the prelacy in England.’

The Bishop had grown very pale. He replied in a firm voice: ‘Do your worst, sir.’

‘You … and your pride,’ cried the Duke, the Plantagenet temper now unrestrained. ‘You boast about your parentage. Let me tell you, they shall not be able to keep you when you are brought low. They will have enough to do to help themselves.’

‘I understand you not, my lord,’ said the Bishop coldly. ‘My confidence is not in my parents, nor in any man else, but only in God in whom I trust, and by whose assistance I shall be bold enough to speak the truth.’

John of Gaunt turned to the Marshal and said: ‘Rather than bear such things, I will drag this Bishop out of the church by his hair.’

Although he had said this to the Marshal he had spoken loudly enough for the people around him to have heard.

The shout went up. ‘John of Gaunt insults our Bishop. We will not have him dishonoured in his own church.’

They were calling to the people without. ‘Did you hear? John of Gaunt will drag our Bishop from his church by his hair. Come, friends. Stand together. We’ll die rather than submit to tyrants.’

Great was the tumult within and without the church and fearing violence the Bishop said quietly, ‘The people are in an angry mood. Follow me … quickly please. You must leave here at once.’

John of Gaunt, red with fury, hesitated. But he knew the anger of these people, how it quickly became dangerous. They hated him. And the few men they had with them could not stand against the mob.

There was only one thing to do and that was to forget their pride, follow the Bishop and leave the Cathedral by a side door.

After John of Gaunt and Lord Percy had slipped quietly away the people streamed into the streets. Tempers were running high but the Church was not the place in which they could give true vent to their feelings. Moreover, many of them were in agreement with John Wycliffe. For some time now there had been murmurings about the wealth and worldliness of men of the Church and that was the very thing Wycliffe was trying to stop. On the other hand John of Gaunt was hated and he was on the side of Wycliffe. John of Gaunt had threatened to abolish the mayoralty and set up a Captain to govern the City and that Captain would be selected by the Crown. They would never allow that. Moreover he had insulted the Bishop of London and that was tantamount to insulting London.

So they were confused and because of this they were uncertain how to attack.

John went back to the Savoy Palace. Catherine had already heard that there had been trouble in St Paul’s and was very worried.

She was well aware of the mood of the people and she was constantly afraid that they would harm her lover. He laughed at the idea. No one would get the better of him, he promised her.

She said: ‘There has been a mood of discontent in the streets of late.’

She had seen many a sullen look directed at herself when she rode out. She had heard insults. Not that any had dared shout them at her. They had been whispered. But nevertheless their meaning was clear.

She was anxious on account of the children, she said. ‘I should be happier if I took them out of London for a while …’

‘I must be here,’ he told her.

‘I know. Perhaps I will take them out and leave them in the care of their nurses. And come back to you.’

He embraced her suddenly.

‘You are my comfort, Catherine,’ he said.

‘I know – yet I am one of the reasons why people hate you.’

‘They are unreasonable. My father sports with that harlot and yet they forgive him. And you and I … true lovers … are derided.’

‘I count everything worth while,’ she said.

He laughed. ‘I too. You are right. Take the children away … today … do not hesitate. And come back to me, Catherine.’

The very next day he was glad that she had done so. She was clever, his Catherine. Sometimes he thought she understood the people better than he did.

The day following the scene in the Cathedral the streets were full of muttering people. John had gone by barge to the home of Sir John d’Ypres, a London merchant of great wealth who had become a great friend of the King because of his ability in financial matters. He had been knighted some years previously and the King reckoned him to be one of his most loyal subjects. Lord Percy was leaving the Marshalsea to join John at the house of the merchant.

Meanwhile the crowds were congregating in the streets. They had forgotten their doubts about Wycliffe and had concentrated all their venom on John of Gaunt.

One man had climbed a wall and was addressing the people. He could scarcely be heard above the noise.

‘Who is he? A low-born Fleming … put into the Queen’s bed when she overlaid her child. Now he wants to rule this land. Our little Prince Richard is in danger. This Lancaster will stop at nothing. He with his accomplice Percy will have us all in chains.’

Someone shouted: ‘Remember the petition to Parliament to give us a Captain in place of our Mayor.’

‘We’ll never allow it,’ shouted the people.

‘Good friends, you know what this will mean. A creature of Lancaster’s to take over our City. An officer of his choosing. Shall we have that?’

‘Never!’ shouted the people.

‘Then how are we going to stop it?’

‘Death to John of Gaunt,’ was the cry.

‘Percy has a prisoner in the Marshalsea. One of our people.’

‘Then let us get him.’

That was what they needed – a plan of action.

‘To the Marshalsea. We’ll free the prisoner and then we’ll get them. Lancaster … and Percy.’

The crowd rushed to the Marshalsea. Startled servants bolted the doors against them but it did not take the mob long to batter them down.

It was true. There was a prisoner there. They released him and burned the stocks in which he had been held.

‘Find Percy!’ cried the people. They went through the place pulling down doors and walls taking whatever seemed valuable to them. But they could not find Percy.

‘He will be with his crony,’ said one. ‘He’ll be at the Savoy.’

That was the magic word. The Savoy Palace. That was the home of the real enemy.

Soon they were at the gates of the Savoy.

One of Lancaster’s retinue rode up. He was wearing the badge of Lancaster.

‘What do you here?’ he demanded.

‘Do you serve John of Gaunt?’

‘I do.’

Someone shouted: ‘Here’s one of them.’ The knight, a certain Sir John Swynton, was dragged from his horse and the badge torn from his coat.

He was crying: ‘What have I done to offend you?’

‘Leave him,’ shouted someone. ‘He’s not the one we want.’

Sir John was left bleeding on the ground and the mob passed on.

A priest rode up. ‘What is the trouble? Why are you here?’ he asked.

‘We have come for John of Gaunt,’ someone said. ‘We are going to stop his giving us a Captain. We are going to make him release Peter de la Mare.’

‘Peter de la Mare is a traitor,’ said the priest. ‘He should have been hanged long ago.’

There was a shout of rage as the priest was dragged from his horse and the mob fell on him.

Some of them had now succeeded in breaking into the Savoy. They were trying to tear down the place and many were running out with rich treasures.

‘Come out, John of Gaunt,’ they shouted. ‘We want to give you a warm welcome, John of Gaunt.’

One of the Lancaster knights came riding to the Savoy and pulled up in time for, remembering what had happened in St Paul’s the day before and seeing the mob breaking into the Savoy, he realised what this meant. He heard the shouts of ‘Come out, John of Gaunt. We have come for you, John of Gaunt.’ And he knew there was murder in their hearts.

He turned his horse and rode with all speed to the house of Sir John d’Ypres where he knew his master was dining with Lord Percy.

He reached the house. He broke into the hall where they were eating dinner and had just completed the first course.

‘My lord,’ he cried, ‘the mob is shouting for you. They have broken into the Savoy.’

John rose. He immediately saw the danger.

‘They will discover we are here,’ said Percy.

John nodded. ‘We must leave at once.’

‘Where shall you go?’ asked his host.

‘To Kennington,’ he said. ‘My sister-in-law will give us refuge. Come, there is not a moment to lose.’

Mean while William Courtenay, the Bishop of London, had heard the tumult in the streets, and making enquiries learned that the mob was on the march, that they had already gutted the Marshalsea and were now at the Savoy looking for John of Gaunt and their mood was murderous.

There was no time to lose. John of Gaunt was his enemy, but this was no way to deal with him. They would make a martyr of him.

With all haste he rode to the Savoy. Some of the mob were inside the palace. The noise was deafening, and he found it difficult to make himself heard.

Then a cry went up. ‘The Bishop!’ And there was silence.

He addressed them in a voice of thunder.

‘My people. What is this I find? It grieves me. Take heed, I say. I would speak with you. Do you want to bring the wrath of God down on your heads?’

A hushed silence fell on the crowd.

‘This is the season of Lent,’ went on the Bishop. ‘You have killed one of my priests. May God forgive you. This is a time when you should be repenting of your sins. And you add to them. Go home, and entreat God for mercy. You have need of it. This is not the way to right your wrongs.’

He rode through the crowd. There was something noble about him and his clerical vestments lent him a grandeur. He knew that one of them might have raised a hand against him and set the mood of the mob, but he showed no fear.

They were overawed. He was more than a mere man. He was their Bishop.

‘Disperse quietly,’ he said. ‘Go to your homes and pray for forgiveness. Remember this is the season of Lent.’

He watched them.

One by one they went away.

The Bishop had quelled the riot.

Chapter VII THE END OF A REIGN

To return to Kennington after all the pomp and glory of the Court where he was a very important person indeed was somewhat disconcerting for young Richard. The proclamation that he was the King’s heir and the banquet which had followed had given him a taste for such pleasures; and now here he was back under the care of Sir Simon Burley and Sir Guichard d’Angle who, although he was very fond of them both, did treat him as though he were a little boy.

His mother was the same; she was always afraid that something was going to happen to him. His father had always chided her for pampering him. It was different with his half-brothers, Thomas and John Holland. They liked to play rough games and were always trying out practical jokes. He was not always pleased with such horseplay and his mother’s constant hovering to make sure he was not hurt.

It was not that he regretted not indulging in the sports that his elder brothers did, for he was not very interested in them. Besides Thomas and John were years older than he was; and they were wild. They took after their father, their mother said. He was the sort of man who took what he wanted and counted the cost after, whereas Richard’s father had been serious, deeply concerned with doing the right thing.

‘You must be like your father.’ That was what he was constantly told until he grew tired of hearing how wonderful his father had been. The great hero. The Black Prince. The tale of how he had won his spurs at Crécy and how he had brought back the French King after Poitiers were stories which grew a little tiresome, especially when they were always followed by the injunction that he must try to be like his father.

Now his half-brothers were talking about Wycliffe who was being examined by the Bishop of London in St Paul’s. Richard had heard a great deal of talk about this man John Wycliffe. He was one who had very strong views about religion and did not mind giving voice to them.

His mother was inclined to favour the man. She thought the Pope had too much power and Richard was agreeing with her now that he had tasted the sweets of coming kingship. The King was the ruler of the country, said his mother, and there should be none above him but God. The Pope set himself up as God’s Deputy on Earth. God did not need a deputy, said his mother.

Richard was beginning to take an interest in what was going on in the country. After all, soon he would be ruling over it.

‘The old man grows more and more feeble every day,’ said Thomas Holland.

Richard admired Thomas very much. He was always so sure of himself and he had always been particularly friendly with Richard. Thomas was in fact the Earl of Kent, a title he had inherited when his father had died and which had come through his mother. Thomas made no secret of the fact that he could not wait for the old King to die. ‘Then,’ he had whispered to Richard, ‘you will be our King.’

He made it sound very exciting. They would always be good friends, said Thomas.

‘Oh yes,’ Richard had cried. ‘When I am King you shall be beside me.’

‘I’ll keep you to that,’ Thomas replied.

John said he would be there too.

It was comforting to have such brothers.

‘He cannot last much longer,’ said Thomas. ‘Poor Alice, she diverts him too much. She keeps her place by her skills and yet those very skills could hasten him to the grave. What a quandary for Alice.’

Their mother joined them. ‘What is this?’ she asked; she must have caught Alice’s name and she did not like such matters to be discussed before Richard.

‘We were talking of Wycliffe,’ said Thomas with a wink at Richard.

Richard enjoyed being in the conspiracy with this man of the world. It made him feel adult. His mother began to talk of Wycliffe and how interesting it was to listen to the views of thinkers such as he was; and then suddenly they could hear the sounds of shouting coming from the river.

‘Listen,’ said Joan.

They were silent. There it was, growing louder.

‘Something is happening in the City,’ said Thomas. ‘I’ll swear it concerns yesterday’s trouble at Wycliffe’s trial.’

‘The people are in revolt,’ said Joan. She had turned pale. She was afraid of the people when they raised their voices and were in protest. Mobs were terrifying. Even when their causes were just they lost all sense of reason when they were massed together. There could be bloodshed.

She was thankful that Richard was here with her.

They stood by the window watching. Thomas pointed out the thread of smoke which was rising to the sky.

‘They are rioting,’ said Joan. ‘Oh, my God, what does this mean?’

‘It must be something to do with Wycliffe.’

‘The people were for him, I am sure.’

‘Look,’ cried Richard. ‘It is my uncle’s barge.’

It was indeed and in it was John of Gaunt with Lord Percy, the Marshal. The speed with which the barge came along the river indicated that they were in flight.

They all ran out of the palace and down to the river steps.

As John of Gaunt leaped out of the barge, Joan seized his hand and cried: ‘What news? What news?’

‘There is a riot. The people have gone mad.’

‘Against Wycliffe?’

‘Nay. They have nothing against Wycliffe. They are threatening to kill me.’

‘You are safe here,’ said Joan.

How strange, thought Richard, that they should hate this uncle who looked so splendid always in his beautiful clothes. Richard could not help noticing his clothes even at a moment like this. His short tunic of rich velvet, the girdle at his waist in which was a dagger, and a purse of leather most beautifully embossed. The tippets which hung from his sleeves reached to his knees. They were most elegant and it was hard to believe that such grace could have suffered the indignity of flight from the mob.

‘They hate me, Joan,’ said Uncle John. ‘They have made up their minds to hate me. Any crime they can think of they accuse me of. They insist on believing that I am some sort of changeling.’

‘No one of any sense believes such lies,’ said Joan. ‘But you are distraught. Did this begin in the church?’

‘It is that stiff-necked Courtenay. I’ll not forget this.’

He is proud, thought Richard. He hates me to see him thus, in flight from the mob.

‘Let us go in quickly,’ said Joan. She is afraid, thought Richard, that they will seek him here.

If they did come he would go out to meet them. He would say: ‘I am Richard of Bordeaux. I shall be your King. Hear me!’ or something brave like that. And when they saw him all their anger would melt away and they would love him and shout blessings on him.

‘Come along, Richard,’ said his mother.

She always looked to him first and had taken him by the arm. She seemed to forget that he would soon be a king.

Later news was brought to Kennington of how the rioters had gone to the Marshalsea and sacked it. Shortly afterwards came the news that they had marched on the Savoy Palace.

John was horrified, but thankful that Catherine had had the foresight to leave with the children.

It was ironical that William Courtenay should have been the one to stop the mob from doing more damage at the Savoy. He must be grateful to the Bishop but even in the midst of his relief he wished it had been someone else whom he must thank.

It had been an ugly scene though. It showed clearly how the resentment of the people was ready to flow over at the slightest provocation.

Nor did the matter end there. This quarrel between the Duke of Lancaster and the City of London could not be allowed to fester. There must at least be some outward sign of reconciliation. If the matter was not settled in a satisfactory manner it would mean that at any moment another riot such as that just experienced could take place.

Joan anxiously discussed the matter with her brother-in-law. How she needed her strong purposeful honourable husband beside her now! Her fears were all for Richard. He was going to inherit a country not only impoverished by the Black Death and the French wars but torn by internal strife.

‘You could help to bring about a reconciliation,’ said John. ‘The people like you. You are the mother of the heir whom they have taken to their hearts. There must be a meeting between myself and the representatives of the City. I must let them know that I wish to be their friend and they must give an undertaking that there shall be no more wanton destruction as that which has just occurred.’

Joan saw the point of this. She did not like the role assigned to her but she realised it must be played for the sake of Richard.

She sent for Sir Simon Burley whom she trusted more than any and asked him what could be done. He saw the point at once. There must be no more riots. It must be made clear to the citizens of London that no encroachment on their liberties was planned.

‘Simon, you could explain this. Select two of my knights. Go to the Mayor and talk to him. Please do this, for my sake … for Richard’s sake.’

Simon set out for London accompanied by Sir Aubrey de Vere and Sir Lewis Clifford.

He was received graciously but was told that London demanded the release of Peter de la Mare and William of Wykeham. They wanted to hear from the lips of the King and from his only that their conditions were acceptable.

Lancaster went with all speed to Westminster where he found the King even more feeble than when he had last seen him.

‘What is this trouble?’ he asked testily.

John explained.

‘You shouldn’t be bothered with these people, my love,’ said Alice.

‘I will see them for you,’ replied John.

‘You’re my good son,’ said the King. ‘I do not know what I should do without you … and Alice.’

John was content. This John Philipot whom the Londoners had chosen for their spokesman would have a surprise when he found that instead of having an interview with the King he was faced with the Duke of Lancaster.

But John Philipot was not to be brushed aside.

He bowed and said: ‘My lord, I came to see the King. My instructions are that I shall see none other.’

‘The King is too ill to see you. I am acting for the King.’

A cynical smile touched the man’s lips. John of Gaunt was certainly not the man to arrange the settlement of the quarrel between himself and the people of London.

‘Then I will return and we will see what the citizens have to say,’ he replied, and he left.

It soon became clear that the citizens were determined. They would see the King and none other.

It was at times such as this that Edward could arouse himself from the lethargy which had taken possession of him.

For a few hours he was like the old King.

He received Philipot and how different was the man’s attitude towards his King from what it had been to John of Gaunt. He might be the sickly lecher, but he was still the great King under whom the country had grown rich and prosperous, who had brought home booty from France – though never the Crown. He was still Great Edward and even now that could be apparent.

He knew how to disarm Philipot; he knew how to placate the Londoners.

Of course de la Mare should have a fair trial. So also should the Bishop of Winchester. They need have no fear of that. The Mayor to be replaced by a Captain! This might have been suggested in Parliament but they could rest assured that that was something he would never give his consent to.

Philipot was overcome by that Plantagenet charm; that ability of Edward’s to cast aside his royalty at the right moment and talk to a man as his equal.

Philipot assured the King that the riot had been started by a few unruly people. The City could not be blamed for that. There would always be such people.

The King agreed.

‘I have never intended to cancel the City’s liberties,’ he assured Philipot. ‘Indeed it is in my mind to extend them.’

‘My lord King, I assure you that the citizens are your most devoted subjects.’

The King nodded. ‘There is the matter of the Duke of Lancaster,’ went on the King. ‘I think those who started the riot and damaged his property and the Marshalsea should be found and punished.’

That should be done, agreed Philipot, knowing full well that they would never be found, even as the King did.

John was uneasy about the meeting. He would have preferred the King not to have seen Philipot. In any case, no culprits were brought forward and the lampoons about the Duke – chiefly referring to that changeling story – were circulated through the town and even posted up in the streets.

The King must act, said John. The Londoners were flouting him; and when they insulted his son they insulted him.

Once more the King agreed to receive a deputation. This time it was the Mayor and the Sheriffs. He was at Sheen at this time and too ill to travel to Westminster. He was very weak and had to be propped up in a chair; he found it difficult to speak.

The citizens must understand that when they insulted his son, they insulted him, he mumbled.

They would make amends, the Mayor promised the King. They would take a candle bearing the Duke’s arms and place it on the altar of the Virgin; there should be processions and the town crier should summon people to attend. This would show that the City of London and the Duke of Lancaster had buried their quarrel.

But when the ceremony was carried out it was a failure. The people refused to attend.

There was a certain amusement among those who did. Such a ceremony was usually performed in honour of the dead. Was it done subtly to suggest that they hoped Lancaster would soon be among that band?

However the people would not do honour to him.

As for John of Gaunt he saw through the insult and hated those who had arranged it. But he had to assume that the quarrel was over, because it was the only way to call a truce. And a truce there must be. There must be no more rioting. The Savoy had been saved and was hastily being repaired.

It might have been so much worse.

A great ceremony was taking place at Windsor where gathered together were the greatest nobles and all the chivalry of England.

It was to witness the ceremony of the Garter which was to be bestowed on the King’s two grandsons – Richard of Bordeaux and Henry of Bolingbroke.

There were moments when the King’s mind was very lucid and seemed to have reverted to its former shrewdness, and this was one of them.

These two, he told himself, will in time be the two most powerful men in England. Richard the King; Henry his cousin, son of John of Gaunt, who is the richest and most influential man in the country under the King.

Edward wanted to see them together. They were of an age, those two, and grandsons of whom a man could be proud. Richard was the elder by a few months – tall, very handsome, yet slender and delicate looking. He will grow out of that, thought Edward. The people will love him, for they admire a handsome man. And he has gracious manners and is clever with words. And Henry – rather stocky but goodly to look on. Of course the people would not care for the son of John of Gaunt as they did for the son of the Black Prince.

They had always loved Edward. He had that quality which drew people to him; and what a hero! And what a tragedy that he should die and leave this young boy to take his place. They had loved Edward as fiercely as they had hated John.

But these two boys must be friends when they grew up. He wanted that. He would have a talk with them after the ceremony.

There was little time left. Alice tried to persuade him that he was well. She tried to prove it, and he tried to pretend it was so to please her.

That affair in the Cathedral had been alarming. He thanked God Courtenay had intervened and prevented further damage. William of Wykeham was restored to his place. Alice had persuaded him and he had had him recalled. He knew that Alice, the minx, had accepted a big bribe from Wykeham, and that was why she had acted for him. It amused him really. These men of the Church were not above a bit of sly bargaining, so if Wykeham was ready to pay for favours why should people criticise Alice for taking advantage of it!

When the ceremony was over he called the two boys to him and told them that he wanted them always to be good friends.

‘The Garter is the symbol of this illustrious order,’ he told them. ‘It is the Order of Chivalry. Never forget it. Because it has been bestowed on you, you must always be courageous and just and preserve your honour at all times. You understand me?’

They both assured him that they understood.

‘Take each other’s hands. There. Now you are joined in love and friendship. The time will come when I am gone and you, Richard, will wear the crown. Henry, remember, he will be your liege lord. Serve him well. And Richard, this is your good cousin. Your fathers were brothers. Proud Plantagenet blood flows through your veins. Stand together. That is where your strength will lie.’

The King was tired suddenly. But a calm had come to him. He was relieved to talk to the boys, to bring them together.

He had a feeling that he had achieved an important mission.

Now he was tired. He wanted his bed … and Alice.

Edward lay at Sheen Palace. It was hot in the apartment for it was the month of June.

He had known he was growing weaker and in spite of Alice’s assurances that he was getting better every day he knew he was dying.

He was a sick old man. He was in his sixty-fifth year and out of those sixty-five years he had reigned for fifty-one. It was a great record.

Indeed it had been a great reign. It was only the last years that had brought him shame. Philippa had died and left him and without her he was bereft. Although to be truthful he had started with Alice before Philippa died.

Well, so are great men fallen. Their weaknesses catch up with them; and it was strange to contemplate that he, the faithful husband for so long, should have become such a slave to his senses. He knew what Alice wanted; but what a companion she had been! All through his life he had been restraining his impulses and it was only rarely that he had broken free.

Well, now here he was dying … great Edward, no longer great, no longer admired, no longer loved by his people.

Just an old man – a rather loathsome old man, but still the hero of Sluys and Crécy. The shining hero who had set out to win the throne of France and had failed so miserably.

What was he leaving to his grandson? He dared not think. ‘God, save Richard. It is not his fault that he is inheriting a bankrupt kingdom. Oh God, if you had not taken Edward …’

Ah, that was at the heart of the tragedy. Edward had died. If Edward had been in health, he would never have allowed the country to get into this state. There would not have been riots in the streets. There would not have been bribery and corruption in high places. If Edward had been strong and healthy … But God had seen fit to take that bulwark of strength and leave but a frail boy in his place. But he was dying now. This was the end.

There was only one priest by his bedside. He could just see him.

The priest was placing the cross in his hands and he was saying ‘Jesu miserere …’

He kissed the cross.

Then he was lying in his bed and he could see no one.

Slowly life was ebbing away.

Very soon after Alice came to the bedside.

He was gone, this poor doting old man was no more. This was the end of Alice.

She pulled the rings from his fingers, collected what jewels she could and left the palace.