Passage to Pontefract (11 page)

‘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 thee

That 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

J
ohn 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.’