Passage to Pontefract (10 page)

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 bright

Which I have loved with all my might

Is 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 thee

That thou wouldst not have taken me

When that thou took my lady sweet

That was so fair, so fresh, so free

So good that men may well it see

Of 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?’